"Last round," Rick Matheson called out.
"It's early yet," one of the regulars said. "You don't usually close until twelve on Saturday night."
"Yeah," Rick agreed, "but delay much longer and you'll have to stay until the spring thaw to get home. Have you checked the snow depth in the last hour?"
The dozen people who lingered in the bar turned their eyes from the glowing logs in the fireplace to the wall of windows on the west side of the resort's main building. Snow fell in thick flakes, swirling at times into ghostly whirlwinds stirred by an unseen hand.
"It's too cold to go home," one of the patrons complained on a rueful note.
"Well, the black bear that holes up in a cave on the other side of the mountain might like company," Rick suggested.
That brought a murmur of laughter. One couple rose, paid their bill, bundled up, and bravely headed out. The rest of the customers followed with good-humored grumbling about Mother Nature and her wiles.
Since most of them were staying at the resort, they walked the short distances to their cabins, thus Rick didn't have to worry about them driving. The two couples who left in vehicles were locals and knew how to handle the road conditions.
This was the worst February in fifty years in southern Oregon. According to the weather forecasters, five times as much snow as the monthly average had already fallen and they were only halfway through the month. Usually snow was great for the winter sports at the resort he had started developing ten years ago, but enough was enough.
He yawned and stretched, then filled a bucket with hot water and a splash of bleach. After wiping down the counters and tables he'd sent the other staff home at nine as the storm continued to pile snow over the mountainous landscape he did a quick swipe over the floor with the vacuum. A wry grin tweaked the corners of his mouth at how domesticated he'd become in his old age.
He'd turned thirty-two a month ago.
Leaving the night-lights on behind the old-fashioned oak bar, he started toward the lobby to lock up, then paused by the windows to gaze at the landscape.
The sight never failed to soothe his soul.
The Victorian-type lamps he'd put in for streetlights formed glowing spheres in the snow, welcome beacons against the fury of the weather. The lamps outlined the circular drive that enclosed the swimming pool, picnic tables, and playground in the center of the resort. Rental cabins were located on winding drives on the north side of the drive. The lodge, which housed the tavern, a gift shop, and a grocery on the first floor, and his living quarters on the top one, was on the southern perimeter of the drive.
His own little place in the sun or storm, as the case might be, he mused ruefully. The resort represented his dream and his livelihood, not to mention fourteen years of hard work. His grandfather had owned the land. Rick had developed it, saving every cent he could by working high-paying construction jobs in the San Francisco Bay area the first four years.
He started to turn from the window when he spotted movement outside. To his amazement, a lone figure, looking like Frosty the Snowman, struggled against the wind, heading toward the lodge.
It could be one of the cabin guests out for a carton of milk. City slickers did things like that. Shaking his head at the foibles of humankind, he went through the lobby to the entrance chamber with its two sets of doors that helped insulate the lodge from the cold and opened the outer door for the idiot who had ventured out at this hour.
"Thanks," a feminine voice said. "I wasn't sure if you were open."
"Technically, I'm not. It's kind of raw to be out for a stroll," he advised. "Do you need something from the store?"
"Not exactly," she said, stamping the snow from her mukluks before entering the building.
Rick pulled the door securely closed behind her, turned the dead bolt, then opened the door into the central lobby. The warmth was a relief from the intense cold. "It must be ten below zero with the windchill factor. What can I do for you?" he asked, turning to his unexpected guest.
"I hope you can give me a room for the night." She unsnapped the fastening beneath her chin and tossed the deep hood off. Snow flew out in an arc. "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm making a mess."
He took a deep breath and recovered his voice enough to murmur, "It doesn't matter."
She glanced at him with a faint smile, then froze. Shock swept over her face, mirroring exactly what he felt. "Rick?" she questioned in a strangled tone.
"Yeah," he said. "I'm surprised, too."
"What are you doing here?"
Her words tore at a wound that was still raw, he admitted, although it had been ten years since he'd last seen her...since he, dreamer and fool that he once had been, had asked her to marry him and been soundly rejected.
He'd lived through it.
"Wrong question," he said. "What are you doing out in the middle of a blizzard, Whitney?"
She pressed her lips together, distress evident in her eyes, which were as big and brown and gorgeous as ever. She looked down as if embarrassed. "I need a place for the night."
He glanced toward the trail where she'd appeared. It led to the cabins. "Why?"
She gave a ghost of a smile as she gazed around the lobby. "Bad timing. They closed I-5 over the pass into California fifteen minutes before we arrived. All the motels in town were full. We were directed here and got the last cabin." She gestured behind her in the direction she'd come.
So far, her explanation made only half sense. The pass usually closed during blizzards, but the rest of her statement was confusing. "If you have a cabin, what are you doing wandering around in the snow at this hour?"
Before answering, she removed her dripping parka and shook back a long mane of brown-black hair. It still lay in thick waves to her waist.
His insides clenched. Once he'd liked to gather it in his hands and nuzzle his face in the silky mass while they made love. Once.
Ten years ago, he'd been the poor boy who had dared to date a princess. Her family had made it clear he wasn't worthy. In the end, she'd believed them. Okay, okay, he snarled at the memory. Get over it.
"Well?" he demanded, irritated with himself for remembering, and with her for being the cause of old hurts and humiliations.
She hung the parka on a coat hook attached to the wall, then sighed as she turned back to him. "A friend and I, along with another couple, were returning from a skiing trip when we got caught by the storm. We were lucky to get the last cabin available in the whole area. I thought it would be okay to share a bedroom since there were twin beds and I...I trusted Dan to be a gentleman."
Rick snorted. "I suppose he had other ideas."
Distress flashed through her eyes again, then she nodded in a dispirited manner not at all like the woman he remembered from their passionate, tumultuous youth. So? A person changed in ten years, he reminded himself.
She looked at the doors opening off the lobby. There were three one leading to the general store, one to the gift shop, and the other to the tavern. The hallway led to the stairs.
"Is there somewhere I could sleep? I don't need a bed. A bench or a couple of chairs will do."
When she smiled, he realized she was close to tears but trying not to show it. He rammed his hands in his pockets and gritted his teeth, but it did no good. He fought a need to take her into his arms and make everything right for her.
Rick the kindhearted, he mocked himself silently. He'd never been able to pass by a hurt or stray animal without stopping and taking it home.
This was only for one night, he reminded himself grimly. "I have a spare room at my place upstairs. You're welcome to use it."
"You?" she said, then seemed to realize her surprised tone was an insult in itself, as if she couldn't believe he lived there. She looked around again. "Do you, uh, manage the lodge or something?"
"Or something," he said laconically. "This way."
He finished his rounds, making sure the doors were locked, the night-lights and burglar alarms were working, and all was generally well in his little kingdom. Leading the way upstairs, he guided her to his living quarters, which took up the whole of the second story and had a panoramic view of the land from every direction.
She stopped at a triple-paned, insulated window that looked down on the central park area. "Lovely," she murmured in a tone he couldn't quite interpret.
For a moment, she seemed remote and sad, like a princess in a fairy tale who was locked in an enchanted tower from which there was no escape. At one time, he'd thought he was the handsome prince meant to rescue her from her life of boredom and luxury. Ha-ha.
"This way," he said. He opened the door to the guest bedroom. "You can sleep here. There's a bath attached. Towels are in the cabinet."
Her smile washed over him like sunshine coming through a cloud. "Thanks for rescuing me," she said softly before going inside and closing the door.
He stood in the hall, his thoughts as obscure as the landscape in the storm. "Yeah, right," he finally muttered sardonically and went to his own room.
Memories of soft skin, satin-smooth and hot with passion as she pressed against him, invaded his thoughts and his dreams when finally he slept. He woke to more snow and a disturbing question running through his mind like an endless tape.
How long does it take to get over your first love?
The storm eased during the wee hours of the morning, then resumed with renewed fury as the darkness lightened to day. After tossing restlessly in confused, erotic dreams, Rick finally got out of bed at six, dressed in comfortable old cords and a plaid shirt over a green turtleneck, then padded into the kitchen in thick socks to put on a pot of coffee. There were no sounds from the guest room. He wondered if she'd had the same heated dreams he'd had.
After listening to the weather and road reports, he sighed. Whit wasn't going to be very happy to hear the news.
Leaving the television on the weather channel, he called the foreman in charge of outside activities. Everything was going okay no equipment failures and so far the electricity was still working. The generators had been checked out just in case and were also in working order.
"Good job," he said, then checked with the lodge manager.
"Chuck and Margot won't make it," Clare reported. "The county roads won't be cleared today due to the avalanche at the pass on the main road. Every piece of equipment is needed there."
Rick muttered an oath after hanging up. Things were worse than he'd thought. Without help in the tavern, he'd have to handle it or close down.
"The weather looks worse than it was last night," a voice said behind him. "Is the road open yet?"
He glanced at his guest. He hadn't paid a lot of attention to her outfit last night, but this morning he got the full impact. She wore black knit slacks that faithfully followed the long, smooth curves of her legs. Her top was black with red roses entwined over thin gold stripes. Her earrings were gold rosettes. A matching rosette dangled from a gold chain between her breasts.
As always, she looked like a cool million.
For a moment, he recalled that she could flame brilliantly in certain circumstances. When they'd made love, she'd been all sweet fire in his arms
He cut off that memory as the blood surged hotly through his body and perspiration broke out in a light sheen on his forehead. "Coffee?"
"Please."
She came over to the counter that divided the kitchen from the living room. He was at once aware of her. "You still take it with milk and one sugar?"
"Yes, the same as you."
They used to think that was a special bond that they took their coffee the same way. They'd often shared a mug, snug in bed on a rainy Sunday morning in San Francisco. They'd met, the princess and the laborer, when he'd built a gazebo at her family home.
Again he had to stamp out the memory as a wave of need rushed over him like lava from a restless volcano. Maybe he needed to work outside today. The intense cold should put a damper on his libido.
"Did you hear the road report?" she asked, gazing out at the snow.
"Yeah." He told her about the avalanche. "It will take a day or two to dig out, according to how bad it was."
"A day or two," she said in obvious alarm. "I have to be back at work tomorrow."
He shrugged. "You won't make it."
While she chewed on that news, he prepared breakfast. Glancing at her slender form she was thinner than she used to be he cooked eight slices of bacon in the microwave, then fried up some eggs. The toast popped up. "Get that, will you?" he said. "Butter's in the door of the fridge."
She buttered the toast, found plates and put them on the counter so he could dish up the eggs. In a few minutes they were seated at the table, the storm forming a fascinating backdrop to the silent meal.
"Is your boss a tyrant?" he asked, her subtle air of quiet desperation finally getting to him.
"No, but he expects the staff to be on time."
"What type of work do you do?"
"Executive assistant in a law firm. I manage the office staff and typing pool and generally keep things running smoothly for the senior partners."
Rick frowned. "I thought you were going to be a famous lawyer and argue for justice before the Supreme Court."
"Well, the best-laid plans and all that."
Her smile tweaked a soft spot inside him. Something was wrong here. She was...different. That was the best description he could come up with. Once he'd thought she was like a magic spring, bubbling up from the earth, bringing the gentlest laughter and joy to his life.
"Your apartment is pretty impressive," she said, her tone lightly teasing. "What do you do to command such luxury?"
"Everything. I own the place."
He enjoyed watching the shock cross her expressive face. It was quickly replaced with wry humor.
"The worm has truly turned," she said and laughed softly, but with an undercurrent of irony he'd never before noticed in her. "I congratulate you on your success. You said you'd make it, and you did."
She laughed again, a sound as soft as a baby's gurgle. In the dark, with their heads close together, he'd loved that sound and the intimacy of it, as if they shared the most wonderful secrets.
He'd asked her to believe in him and his dream, to work with him to make it come true. Yeah, he knew about plans and all.
With a resigned sigh, he realized it was harder to suppress some memories than others. He still recalled her father throwing him out of the house and giving orders to the servants that he wasn't to be admitted ever again.
But there had been other moments, too, when things were so right between them it had seemed a miracle.
"I wonder if there's anything I can do to help the road department with the avalanche," he murmured.
"So you can get rid of me," she concluded.
"It was you who was determined to get rid of me at one time," he reminded her, then didn't know why he did. Bringing up their mutual past wasn't wise.
"It wasn't as you thought," she said. "I didn't say goodbye forever."
"Yeah? Sounded that way to me."
"You were listening to my father, not to me. I did want to finish school, but I thought you would wait for me. Silly, huh?"
He felt an ache inside, for things lost and for things misunderstood. "So we were both young and foolish."
Their eyes met and oddly they both laughed. The moment was tender and nostalgic.
Maturity had its rewards, he reflected. "So let's forgive and forget?"
"Deal."
She held out a hand. They shook on it. He ignored the sparks that shot up his arm.
Rick made the rounds of the operations at the resort. In every case, the workers who lived in town, mostly college students who helped out part-time, hadn't made it. That was to be expected. The resort was as effectively cut off from the rest of civilization as it would have been in the days of the Wild West.
The gift shop wasn't open, but the grocery was. Rick smiled and waved at the local woman who'd braved the snow, then went back to checking the supplies. Downstairs, in the walk-out basement, Rick went into the office, checked for phone messages and email, then finished some paperwork. He called the wholesale grocer. Their supplies wouldn't get through in the foreseeable future. Nothing was moving along the northwestern coast from Canada to California during this storm.
Hearing a male voice, he left his office for the one down the hall next to the ski rental, locker room, and vending machine areas.
"Good morning. There'll be no skiing today," the ski manager told him when he entered. "Too windy. Too much snow. I've alerted the guys to be on the lookout for hotdoggers."
Rick nodded absently. There were always a few diehards who wanted to dare the elements, so the ski patrol had to stay on guard for those who would try to sneak to the top of the trail and ski down anyway.
"I'll check the water tank, then be in the tavern for the rest of the day," he said when they finished discussing the storm and its effect on the bottom line. He headed for the stairs.
Before going outside, he needed to tell his guest where he was, in case she had a question. At his door, he hesitated, reluctant to go in. Grimacing at this cowardly display she was just a woman he unlocked the door and went in, half expecting her to be gone.
The television was still on. Whitney stood by the window. She turned when he came into the room. "I've been watching all the activity," she said. "You and your crew have been busy."
"A blizzard makes for a lot of work in some ways, less in others." He helped himself to a mug of coffee.
"I wanted to thank you for putting me up last night. I was the proverbial orphan in the storm."
"No problem."
She checked her watch. "It's almost eight. I need to go. My friends should be up by now. They'll be wondering what became of me."
"What cabin are you in?"
"302."
"That's on the last lane and downhill from here. I'll take you on a snowmobile. You'll never make it back with your luggage."
"You're sure we can't make it to San Francisco?"
"Not today. No one will get in or out in this weather. Nor tomorrow," he added truthfully. "The county road that connects us to town is far down on the list of priorities for plowing. You'll have to stay here...or at the cabin."
She crossed her arms and paced in front of the bank of windows, a beautiful, agitated princess who obviously was anxious to be on her way.
Leaning against the counter, he waited for her to come to some conclusion either to return to the guy she'd run from last night or to stay in his guest room until the roads were open. "Looks like you're between a rock and a hard place," he said sardonically when she remained stubbornly silent. "You'll have to choose between me and the other guy."
He clamped his teeth shut but it was too late to take the words back. Once, he'd demanded she choose between him and her family. He'd lost that one.
Which was probably a good thing. Those first years trying to make this place pay off had been pretty lean ones. He'd worked twenty hours a day at times, doing nearly everything himself.
"I'd like to stay here. If you don't mind," she quickly added.
"I don't. I need to check the water tank. We'll do that on the way to collect your stuff."
Downstairs, he helped her into the parka, then led her down the hall and the steps to the basement. At his office, he slipped into a warm coat, a beaver-felt Stetson and thick gloves. "You got gloves?"
"No, I left them at the cabin."
He tossed her a spare pair and led the way to the snowmobiles neatly lined up in the equipment garage. "The workhorses of the resort," he told her. "We couldn't make it in the winter without them."
He chose one with a metal basket hitched to it, then with her seated behind him snug against his back, he headed out into the snow, which was falling lightly at the moment.
A few minutes later, winding their way up the mountain toward the water tank, he felt the familiar exhilaration of challenging nature in her own element. When they reached the cleared area surrounding the tank, he hated to stop. He killed the engine and went to the shed.
"Come on," he said. "This will take a few minutes. You'll freeze out here in the wind."
The water level wasn't low enough to trigger the pump so he manually flipped it on. In this weather, it was better to be safe than sorry, if possible. He wanted the tank topped off. Gravity supplied the pressure to distribute it to the lodge and cabins.
Their breath hung in the air as they waited for the tank to fill. It took about fifteen minutes. He was aware of her standing silently beside him, her alert gaze taking in the generator and pump.
"Looks as if you're prepared for anything," she said.
Not for the one woman from my past who could still invade my dreams and make me unsure of my place in the world. He didn't say that. "We try to be self-sufficient in the basics."
"I'm impressed." Her smile was sincere.
He gave her a hard stare. "There was a time when you weren't," he reminded her. "I recall a time when you decided my prospects for the future weren't too good."
She held his gaze. "I've been a fool more than once in my life," she said softly, with no heat at all.
Her lack of a defense unnerved him. He'd expected a hot retort. She simply gave him one of those older-but-wiser smiles and turned back to watch the gauge on the tank reach the top. He recalled they had a truce about the past.
He flicked off the pump and compressor. "Let's go," he said gruffly, feeling he'd acted mean-spirited and she'd repaid him by turning the other cheek.
In another minute they were on their way down the winding trail. Again he felt the stirring inside as they braved the storm. The sensation increased when he felt her arms creep around his waist at a rough place on the trail.
Glancing around, he found her mouth only an inch from his as she peered over his shoulder. An intense urge to kiss her nearly overcame his better judgment. He consigned the stupid idea to oblivion.
About halfway down the mountain, she put her mouth almost against his ear and asked if he would mind stopping. He let off the gas. The snowmobile came to a halt.
"I wanted to hear the silence," she said, moving away from his back.
He turned off the engine. The soft whistle of the wind, combined with the rustle of falling snow, made a gentle sound.
"I remember the first time you took me for a hike. It was across the Golden Gate Bridge, over in the Marin Headlands. For a while we were the only ones on the trail. It was as if the world belonged to us. There were no traffic sounds, no human voices, no dogs barking. Only us. And the sea hawks."
Yearning, poker-hot and hurting, speared into his chest. He wished he could go back to those days when he'd thought the world was shaped by his hands and life was his to command...and this woman was his to hold forever.
"That was long ago," he said harshly, "and we were young."
He fired up the engine and drove to the cabin area, his emotions resolutely under lock and key.
"Whitney Andrews, where have you been? We were worried sick," Ruthie said, opening the door to her knock.
Whitney peered past her friend at the two men seated at the table. Travis, Ruthie's fiancι, gave her a noncommittal smile. Dan, an attorney and son of her boss at the law firm, glared. She lifted her chin, sure she was wearing her "stubborn look," as her mother termed it. However, no one had a right to demand sexual favors in return for a skiing trip she hadn't been sure about going on in the first place.
Another lesson in life follow your instincts.
So why had she agreed to the ill-fated trip? Ruthie, her longtime friend, had been elated at the prospect. The other couple had been included because Dan knew she wouldn't accept otherwise. Dan was a good business contact for Travis and his newly launched accounting firm. So that was one reason.
For another, she had to admit she'd been tired. A long weekend at a mountain lodge, being waited on by others, had sounded like paradise. And it would have been fine if she had had her own bedroom as Dan had promised. She'd discovered too late that he had other things in mind. She hadn't wanted to be a prude and insist that she and Ruthie share one of the two bedrooms at the cabin.
A mistake, that.
She sighed quietly, feeling weariness all the way to her bones. There was one other reason she'd agreed to the minivacation, she admitted. Loneliness. Pure, unadulterated loneliness. But there were worse things, like loss of trust in a fellow human.
Her eyes were drawn to Rick. He'd been very careful of her privacy last night...once he got over the shock of discovering who she was.
"I stayed at the lodge," she said, managing a smile. "I'm fine." She stepped inside the warm, luxurious cabin. Rick followed and closed the door.
Ruthie looked from one to the other. "Who's he?"
"An old friend," Rick answered before Whitney could. "We're here to collect Whitney's luggage."
That brought Dan to his feet. "What the hell does that mean?"
"It means she's staying at my place until the storm is over and the road is clear," Rick said casually. "Get your stuff," he said to her, his manner relaxed, in control.
She felt better at once. He'd always made her feel more confident in the world and in herself. She'd thought it was part of being in love and seeing the world through rose-colored glasses, as her family had told her. But now she realized it was Rick and his attitude as if he believed totally in her ability to make decisions and take charge of her own life and affairs.
Smiling at Ruthie and Travis, she ignored Dan while she went into the bedroom, quickly packed up her toiletry case and, taking it and her suitcase, returned to the living room. "I'm ready."
Rick took the suitcase from her.
"You'll stay here," Dan said with a snarl.
The tension shot up. Whitney saw Ruthie's worried glance to her fiancι. Travis rose as if preparing to intervene while Dan took a menacing step closer to Rick. Rick grinned, standing his ground, challenging the other man to take his best shot. She'd never known him to back down, not from her family or anyone. It was only when she'd said that maybe they shouldn't see each other for a while that he'd left her home. She'd never seen him again until last night.
"I'm leaving," she said firmly, placing her hand on Rick's arm. "Pick me up at the lodge when the roads open and we can get on our way again." She looked at Travis, who nodded. They were traveling in his car. Had it been up to Dan, she was sure he would have left without her.
"Don't expect to work at the firm when you get back to San Francisco," he now said as she reached for the doorknob.
Studying him, she wondered how she could ever have thought he was someone she could have possibly cared for. If adversity brought out one's true colors, then Dan's were those of a petty tyrant, she was discovering.
"Your father will decide that," she said, worry running through her even as she faced the son calmly.
"You bet he will," Dan informed her.
"A gentleman and a scholar," Rick murmured, opening the door and ushering her outside. He stored her case on the metal basket used to haul injured skiers off the slopes.
She managed to return his wry smile. "I think he's more bluster than bite."
A sigh came from deep inside her as Rick headed the snowmobile up the lane to the lodge. Their tracks were the only ones visible in the snow. She truly felt like an orphan of the storm.
Without thinking, she slipped her arms around Rick and rested her head against his back. He was a couple of inches fewer than six feet, but he exuded strength. At the present, he was her bulwark against the inclement weather. She wouldn't ask anything more from him, but it was nice to rest here for the moment, safe and snug against his broad back.
At the lodge, he carried her suitcase to his quarters and the bedroom he'd graciously let her use.
"Thank you," she said, "for your kindness and generosity "
Suddenly she was face-to-face with Rick, his face mere inches from hers as he clasped her parka by the collar.
"Look here," he told her in a low growl. "The truth is I'm no different from your friend at the cabin. I want to make love to you, too, so I'd advise you to not let your guard down." He let her go and stalked off.
She stood there, shaken to the core by his declaration, but oddly, not at all uneasy at his warning. She touched her lips, which still burned from the way he'd looked at her mouth, as if he'd devour her in an instant.
Long ago, he'd looked at her that way. It had been thrilling and a little frightening to have someone want her that much, she admitted with the maturity of ten years behind her. His determination, the intensity of his dreams for them, his acknowledgment of the work involved to secure their future all had combined with her family's arguments to convince her to stay in the safe bosom of her home and finish her schooling.
Soft laughter escaped her at the irony of life as she closed the door and gazed out the window at the snow.
Her father had died of a heart attack at his office in the bank his great-grandfather had started. She and her mother had discovered they were riddled with debt. It had taken all the insurance money to get them free and clear.
Dropping out after her first year of law school, Whitney had taken a job as a researcher in a law firm to put food on the table and pay the taxes on the house her mother couldn't bear to leave.
So she'd worked hard, faced an uncertain future, and now had nothing. Rick had worked hard, faced an uncertain future, and now had everything he'd ever dreamed of.
Life could have been worse, she decided with fatalistic amusement. She could have married someone like Dan.
Customers were waiting at the tavern door when Rick arrived. "Got anything to eat?" one of the guests from last night called out, entering the room when he did.
"Not a thing," Rick said. He prepared coffee in the huge urn behind the bar, then turned his attention to the fireplace. From last night's embers, he soon coaxed a blaze that drew several people to the closest tables.
"Is there going to be anything to eat?" the persistent customer asked plaintively.
Rick smiled in sympathy. "I can rustle up some toast and eggs, but that's it. My staff can't get here due to the road conditions. So don't expect service as usual."
"Right, just asking. Toast and eggs will do."
"Would you like a cup of coffee while you wait?" a feminine voice inquired.
Rick, heading for the adjoining kitchen, spun around. Whitney walked behind the counter, found an apron and put it on over her slacks. "Is the coffee ready?" She picked up a mug and stood beside him.
"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded.
"Helping out? Working for my room and board?" She slipped an order pad and pen into an apron pocket.
He hadn't counted on this. "I don't need any help."
"I think you do." Without so much as a "by your leave," she filled the mug and served the grateful customer. "Go ahead with the toast and eggs," she told him, then turned back to the other guy. "You want bacon or sausage with that order?"
"Uh, sausage would be great."
"An order of sausage," she called out, writing on the order pad. "How do you want your eggs?"
"Over medium." The man grinned happily.
Whitney sashayed back to Rick, smartly tore off the ticket and handed it to him.
"I'll do the toast," she volunteered, going into the galley, Rick hot on her heels.
"Look, you don't have to do this," Rick began.
She found bread and put two pieces in the toaster. "I know. I want to. It'll make the time go faster."
"Yeah, right," he muttered, already so aware of her he could explode on the spot and not be surprised by the act.
He threw sausage links on the grill and set out a cardboard tray of eggs.
Whitney went back into the tavern, the breeze from her passage sweeping over his back. A shudder rippled from his neck to his toes.
That set the tone for the whole morning. She smiled and wiped tables and explained the lack of help to people who drifted up from the cabins to browse around the lodge. She found playing cards under the counter and soon there were tables of bridge and pinochle and canasta going. No matter what he said, she wouldn't leave and rarely took a needed break.
Working by his side, she helped prepare sandwiches for the cardplayers who seemed to have settled in for the day. Shortly after lunch, she decided they should prepare for the supper crowd.
"What crowd?" he muttered, but his remark was lost in the laughter coming from the dozen people gathered around the tables. "What supper? When did you learn how to cook?"
Taking a plastic bucket, she went into the pantry and returned with it filled with potatoes. "My mother is a wonderful cook. Really," she said at his skeptical snort. "I'm a whiz at potato soup. Also, I saw some Italian sausage in the fridge. I'll do Mother's special sausage chili. They'll be wanting an early supper." She nodded toward the gamesters in the tavern.
Reaching around him for a knife in the rack, her breast brushed against his arm. They froze for an instant, then she leaped away like a gazelle in the path of a lion. "Sorry," she said, not looking at him.
His arm burned where she'd touched him. His insides ached with newly aroused hunger. He handed her the knife and stomped into the other room to check if the fire needed more logs, then he put on another urn of coffee, made an Irish coffee and two hot buttered rum drinks, then wiped down the bar because he needed something to do with his shaking hands.
Twenty minutes later, delicious smells were coming from the open pass-through between the bar and the galley.
"Say, Rick, is that something cooking?" Thomas Beech, the customer who now considered himself a lifelong friend, called to him.
The other cardplayers looked at him expectantly.
Rick nodded. "Potato soup and spicy chili."
"And fresh bread to go with them," Whitney said, joining him behind the bar.
She smelled of Italian spices, the fresh onions she'd chopped, and her own unique blend of cologne and baby powder.
He inhaled slowly, carefully, catching her scent like a stag sniffing the breeze for his mate. He was slow-roasted by needs he couldn't describe.
"I found bread mix and put a batch in the oven," she said, smiling up at him the way she used to when they were years younger and thought they were madly in love.
He swallowed. "Thanks for your help today. Everyone's happy. You've been a real hit."
A pretty flush lit her cheeks. Her brown eyes glowed as if a lantern had been turned on inside her. He became aware of the warmth emanating from her curvy body, then of her hip lightly touching his, then her shoulder resting against his chest. He moved one foot and her thigh was meshed with his.
"Whit," he said and heard the drop of his voice to a sexy depth, the husky evidence of hardness that was taking shape at a lower point in his body.
"We always played well together as a team," she murmured. "I never knew it could carry over into work."
"My parents worked together on their farm." He stopped, recalling life on the farm the hard work, very little money, but a lot of laughter and sometimes tears. He'd thought it would be that way for the two of them, only he'd planned on making a lot of money.
That was part of the future plans. Right now, he was still in the hard work phase of his career, but, he added with the optimism that had kept him going for years, he at least had his nose above water.
If she'd come with him ten years ago, would life have been easier? Or would it have been a big mistake? Like other couples he knew, would they have been divorced by now, their love destroyed by too much worry and too little bliss?
Perhaps there had never been a time for the two of them, he added truthfully. The pain of her rejection cooled the heat in his blood.
"Of all the gin joints in all the world, why did you have to pick this one?" he said for her ears only, recalling lines to that effect from Casablanca. Bogie had captured the exact way he felt at this moment.
"Luck?" she suggested, speaking as softly. "Or fate?"
Whitney was tired, but it was a good kind of tired. It was probably silly, but she felt she'd contributed to the success of the day . Okay, the soup and chili had been huge hits. Also the bread.
"Ten o'clock," Rick called out. "Time to face the cold, cruel world. Last one out is a rotten egg."
There were good-natured groans from the customers, some of whom had spent the entire day in the tavern. Word of food and games must have spread throughout the rental guests, she surmised. By midafternoon, the place had been full. It had stayed that way the rest of the day.
Several people had brought their own games, then had left them in case others wanted to play chess or checkers or put a jigsaw puzzle together. Rick had cleared a display shelf to hold the stuff. All in all, it had been a fun day.
She cleared the last tables, then prepared a fresh bucket of hot water and bleach. While Rick vacuumed the carpet in the tavern, then mopped the kitchen, she wiped down the tables.
"You don't have to do that," he said, his arm brushing hers as they passed. "Sorry," he murmured.
Her skin burned where they touched. The space between the bar and the counter, the distance between the tables, the narrow galley of the kitchen, all had grown smaller as the day progressed. It seemed she couldn't turn without bumping into Rick. "Excuse me," she'd said a hundred times.
It had been the same with him. "Sorry," he'd muttered, his mouth grim with the effort of getting around her without some part of him touching some part of her.
It had been impossible. Their bodies had magically acquired some magnetic substance that pulled them together again and again. Her breasts, arms, and thighs had tingled at each accidental touch. Her skin had never been so sensitive. She'd felt the slightest vibration of the air as he'd moved about the tavern. They'd worked perfectly together, almost without words. It had been strange and wonderful and exciting.
"Finished?"
She glanced his way in time to see him push a lock of dark hair off his forehead. He looked angry. There was a moodiness in his light gray eyes as he watched her empty the bucket and wring out the towel. He'd withdrawn more and more as the day had worn on. Now he was almost as remote as the day she'd last seen him, the day she'd told him she couldn't marry him, not right then.
He'd walked away without a second glance.
Later she'd found out her father had told the servants to refuse his calls, but by then it hadn't mattered. Her father had died, and her mother had needed her.
She sighed.
"Tired?" he asked.
"And then some." She laughed.
He flipped out the overhead lights, then made the rounds, locking doors and checking equipment. She followed behind him, noting his care and diligence even though he, too, must have been just as exhausted.
Once in his quarters, he seemed to debate something with himself, then he gave her another dark glance from his silvery eyes. "Did you bring a bathing suit?"
The question surprised her. "Yes."
"There's a hot tub." He gestured vaguely over his shoulder. "It'll take the kinks out."
"That sounds heavenly." She hurried to her room and changed to her one-piece suit, then put her hair up on top of her head to keep it out of the way. It came to her that she hadn't the least qualm about soaking in the spa with him.
Trust, she thought. He was the one person in the entire world that she would pick to be stranded with on a deserted island. He would know how to build a shelter. He would show her how to find food and prepare it. Even in the most primitive setting, she knew instinctively that they would work together, as easily as they had done that day.
And he would never demand anything that she didn't want to give.
She paused at the door, wondering at her musings. Rick would never ask anything of her again. She knew that. While he wouldn't hold a grudge or seek revenge, neither would he trust absolutely in their love and future as he once had.
Oddly, she felt that loss clear down to her soul, more acutely now than when he'd left at her request all those years ago. Then she'd been too young, too confused by their consuming passion, to appreciate all the qualities that she now recognized in him. He had matured into a fine man, steadfast and capable...a dreamer who had never lost sight of his dreams.
No regrets, she reminded herself. That was another lesson she'd learned. It didn't pay to look back and pine for what might have been. Her dreams had not been meant to be. That was that. She had to focus on her future, not her past.
Rick was waiting when she opened her door. He was already in swim trunks and had a towel draped around his neck. He tossed one to her. "This way," he said.
The hot tub was in a glass-enclosed patio with a myriad of plants around its perimeter. Soft lights glowed among the tropical foliage. Beyond the windows, she could see the Victorian streetlamps. The snow had stopped and the world was a soft blanket of white against a black sky.
It came to her that she had perhaps acted hastily in accepting the offer to soak out her fatigue. They were alone, and she felt her own loneliness as a tangible thing, an aching hunger that stretched her self-control. She wanted to be held...by him. She wanted intimacy...with him, the one man who had ever claimed her heart.
Oh, don't, she pleaded with that young and foolish part of her heart that, she realized, had never quite died. Don't yearn. Don't hope. Don't dream.
Taking a deep breath, she put all that silly passionate intensity behind her. She was ten years older and an eternity wiser....
He held out a hand to steady her as she stepped into the swirling water. She lost her balance for a moment and leaned against him. Or maybe it was deliberate. She wasn't sure, but she let herself feel his strength, let herself need him, just a little, just for a moment.
But then she couldn't move away. She was caught in a trap of her own making as remembered bliss surged through her. It had been so long, so very long, since she'd felt this way. This was Rick, her first love...her first lover....
The weariness washed right out of her body, making her feel lighter than air. If he weren't holding her, she would have floated to the ceiling. She looked into his eyes and couldn't look away.
"Rick?" she said, questioning him, questioning herself.
His breath caught harshly. "What are we doing?" he said in a husky whisper.
She saw the wariness in his eyes, the terrible awareness of time and fate and needs long denied. All the things she felt.
Her hard-gained maturity went up in smoke. "The inevitable, I think."
She thought she smiled, but she wasn't sure. She wasn't sure of anything but the moment and him and the need that drove all else from her mind.
Rick wasn't sure who was trembling the most. He was almost afraid to breathe, afraid she'd disappear as she had in all the dreams he'd ever had about her.
"I've never forgotten this," he whispered, running his hands over her back, "the feel of you, warm and soft."
"Yes. I've dreamed of "
"Of what? This?" he asked when she stopped as if uncertain about speaking her thoughts aloud. He stroked down her spine, her hips, and thighs and back along her sides.
"Yes. Oh, yes."
He felt a desperate need to seize the moment, to claim her for all time. Knowing the impossibility of that, he'd take what he could get. Time fell away, and he was ten years younger, filled with confidence again, sure that their futures were one.
Don't be foolish, some wary part of him warned.
Lifting her in his arms, he found the molded seat in the swirling waters. There he wrapped her close, the tactile sensations almost more than a mere man could stand. She was the standard against which all other women in his life were judged. They had all fallen short. Now he knew why. She was perfection in his arms, her lithe body made for his.
"Whit," he said and heard the desperation, the yearning that had never quite faded into the nostalgia of the past.
He would take the passion, but that was all. He could handle that. He didn't need anything else from her, not a thing, only this. Closing his eyes, he let his hands explore her thoroughly, remembering her through touch alone. For this moment, he was content.
Whitney couldn't bear it another moment. She took his face between her hands and sought his mouth, as needy as a desert nomad upon finding an oasis. Their lips met, and all the bliss she'd ever known with him came back to her in a tidal wave of need and longing.
"Too long. It's been eons too long," Rick murmured, touching her legs, the indentation of her waist, the swell of her breasts beneath the churning bubbles.
"A lifetime," she agreed, sweetly aggressive in her passion, her hands as wild on him as his were on her.
He peeled the strap of her bathing suit down her shoulder, first one, then the other. Then her breasts were free, and he could touch them, cup them, and feel their weight in his palm. A groan tore out of him as hunger painted a red haze over his mind.
Whitney thought she might scream at any moment as the turbulent sensations built higher and higher until she could hardly hold them in. When kisses were no longer enough, she moved from him and pushed the floral printed suit over her hips, then kicked it away.
Finding the ties to his suit, she unfastened them. She found it almost amusing that she could be so demanding, that she felt free to express her needs with this man...this one man and no other. It had always been this way with him.
Gone was the shyness of inexperience that had made her hesitant in her early passion. She was no longer afraid to touch, to demand, to seek his passion in response to her own.
"I was almost afraid of this," she murmured. "All those years ago. The passion I felt for you. I thought I would be absorbed by it...until I disappeared."
"It was fierce," he agreed. "I couldn't be near you and not touch. It was like today, as if our bodies knew this was coming, that it was only a matter of time...hours, then minutes, then seconds...."
"Yes. That's how I felt, too." It didn't even seem strange to her that they felt this way after all the time that had passed since they last kissed.
Their eyes met. Neither looked away as he quickly shed the trunks. It wasn't until they kissed again that she closed her eyes and sighed as skin touched skin, chest and stomach and thighs, when he guided her to straddle his lap.
His hands such gentle hands! lifted her breasts clear of the water. She could scarcely catch her breath as he kissed and fondled the sensitive tips.
"Enough," he finally murmured.
Rick caught her hands, then rose from the tub, taking her with him. Carefully he dried every alluring curve, then quickly whisked a towel over himself. Tossing the terry cloth on the floor, he carried her to his room and laid her on the cover.
"Hmm, soft," she murmured, rubbing her hands over the fake fur comforter.
"A gift from my sister," he told her with a wry grin. His reward was a smile that warmed his heart.
"She has excellent taste."
Still smiling, she rubbed a hand over his chest, something she'd done years ago. Exploring him, she'd once called it, leaving fires burning wherever she touched, setting new ones until he flamed all over, down to the very depths of his being.
"Whit," he said, and then was unable to express all the things that needed saying, that he felt should be said.
She laid a finger over his lips. "Don't." She shook her head, her brown-black hair shifting against the pillow. "No questions. No past. Just us. And now."
"Maybe that was the mistake we made all those years ago," he continued doggedly. "Maybe we should have talked more during all those wild passionate moments we shared."
She shook her head again. "There's a time for all things, and maybe we'll talk later. But not now. Please, not now."
He nodded, then began his own exploration, touching her in all the ways he remembered until they both panted with need. The time came when they could no longer bear to be apart. He fumbled for protection in the bedside drawer.
Whitney, her hands trembling ever so slightly, took the condom and finished the preparation. "Now," she said, sure of herself and this moment for the first time in a long, long time, maybe for the first time in ten years.
With the gentlest movements, they merged into one.
Wonder filled her as they moved together, finding the right rhythm, the ebb and flow of their passion, the tenderness that was somehow part of it. Most wonderful of all, they both knew it was there.
"Whit," he whispered, an edge of desperation in his voice as the hunger built to a crescendo.
She gazed into his eyes until she could bear the beauty of the moment no longer. Letting her lashes fall like a curtain between them, she wrestled with words that couldn't be said and emotions that couldn't be shared. Instead she gave her hands free rein to touch him in all the ways she once had.
Too soon the time came when she could only cling helplessly to his beautiful masculine form as ecstasy swept them both into its own storm. Afterward, there was the glow and the peace as they lay snug in each other's arms.
Closing off all thought, she drifted in the enchanted sea of contentment. "Why is this always so wonderful between us?"
He smiled, just a tiny curving of the corners of his mouth. "Because we're good together. A cosmic fit."
She laughed softly, almost sure he was right. She yawned and nestled close, one arm and leg languidly resting on him. For this moment, she realized, she was happy...or almost so, if she ignored the tiny black dot of despair for what had been lost so long ago.
Rick watched Whitney as she slept in his bed. He liked the way she looked there, snug and tousled. He set the mugs of chocolate on the table and waited, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth.
As long as he didn't think, he was happy. If he did any serious thinking, he'd have to acknowledge she'd be gone soon. The roads would be clear by noon, according to the weather and road report.
She woke as she always did, fully alert and cheerful, her eyes popping open with surprising quickness. "Hi," she said. "I smell chocolate."
He handed her a mug and sat on the edge of the bed. Taking the other mug, he drank, looking into her eyes as he did.
Bunching the pillows behind her, she sipped the hot treat, a smile hovering on her mouth the way it did on his. Unable to resist, he leaned forward and kissed the line of whipped cream from her upper lip.
She sighed in a contented way before taking another drink. "We have work to do. Soup. Chili. I thought I'd try my hand at apple strudel today."
He smiled and listened to her plan the day, her manner earnest and involved, as if she had a stake in the running of the place. He simply wanted to enjoy it.
The room filled with light.
"Oh, the sun is out," she said, surprise lighting her whole face. Her eyes clouded. "Is it clearing?"
"Yes." He broke the news to her. "The road report says all roads should be plowed by noon or early afternoon at the latest. Your friends are probably champing at the bit to leave."
"Yes." She swung her legs from under the covers. "In that case, we'd better get busy."
Before he quite knew how it happened, they were in the galley. He filled the coffee urn and got it to brewing while she filled the orange juice dispenser. Then she called out the ingredients she needed and he found them in the pantry or on the shelves. While she prepared strudel from applesauce, he peeled a mountain of potatoes and carrots and onions for stew. By eleven, everything was ready.
There was already a crowd in the tavern, swilling coffee and playing cards or concentrating on the pieces of a winter scene in a jigsaw puzzle.
"Man, oh, man," Thomas groaned, stuffing his mouth with strudel. "Better than Mother ever made. Save me a piece for later."
"Too late," Rick informed him. "It's all gone."
Whitney called out from the kitchen, "I just put another one in to bake."
Thomas looked as if he'd died and gone to heaven.
The door swung open and three people entered. Rick had been expecting them. Whit's friends settled on bar stools.
"What can I get for you?" Rick asked.
"Coffee," all three of them chorused.
He served the coffee, then stuck his head in the kitchen. "Whit, your friends are here."
She nodded and dried her hands, then joined him behind the massive oak bar. "Good morning," she said. "Are you ready to leave?"
There was a brief pause, then her girlfriend nodded. "As soon as this road opens in about an hour, we'll be off."
"I suppose I'd better get packed," Whitney said with a slight frown.
Rick thought of the awkward drive back to San Francisco with the boss's son. He thought of all the reasons she should stay, but knew they were selfish ones on his part. "I'll drive you home," he volunteered. He couldn't read anything into the smile she gave him as she shook her head.
"Take your time about returning," the boyfriend said. "I spoke to my father this morning. He agrees it's better if you look for work elsewhere. Let him know where to send your severance pay."
"I will," Whitney said with the greatest calm.
Ruthie gave Dan a withering stare. "You can find your own way back. Whit rides with us."
"Like hell," he began.
Whitney raised a hand, stopping the developing quarrel. "It's okay. Really. I'm quite happy here." She glanced at Rick. "If that's okay with you?"
"Sure," he muttered, not at all sure about what was happening.
"Whit?" Ruthie said, sounding as confused as he was.
A hope, foolish and forlorn, stirred in him. He stepped closer to Whit, to give her moral support or whatever she needed from him.
"Yes," she said, "I'm sure." She gave him a solemn smile. "I'm staying right here for as long as Rick needs me."
His heart lurched, then pounded drunkenly. Her eyes were telling him something. He swallowed the knot of emotion that clogged his throat.
Ruthie and Travis nodded and rose. Dan looked from Whit to Rick and back. "Felines always land on their feet, I've heard. Looks as if you've hit pay dirt here."
Rick started to say something, but Whitney stopped him with a hand on his sleeve. He stood still, anger boiling in him until they left. A buzzer sounded.
"Oh, the strudel," she said and dashed away.
He absently checked the coffee urn. He wasn't sure where he stood in the scheme of things. A hand touched his arm. Ruthie let go when he turned around.
"I know who you are," she said. "Take care of her. She needs someone she can depend on, someone with strength and integrity. Especially integrity."
He nodded.
"Her father died of a heart attack at the bank. He'd 'borrowed' several thousands of dollars. Whitney made sure they paid back every cent. She supported her mom by working two jobs. Mrs. Andrews insisted at the time she couldn't leave the family mansion or she'd simply die. Last summer her mom met a man on a cruise. They married, sold the house, and moved to his condo in San Diego. Whitney had to move to an apartment. Did you know any of this?"
"No."
"Whitney works at the law firm during the week. Before her mom married again, she also worked in a restaurant as a waitress on weekends."
Rick nodded as the rest of the puzzle that was Whitney clicked into place. He met Ruthie's earnest gaze. "I'm glad she has you for a friend," he said softly. "I'll be good to her." It was a promise.
Ruthie leaned over the bar and kissed his cheek. "I'll be back to check."
He laughed. "You can have the best cabin for your honeymoon if you want it."
After watching Ruthie leave, he went into the kitchen. Whitney was slicing strudel and putting the pieces on cake plates. He took the knife out of her hand and laid it aside.
"I want you to stay," he said. "For good."
She didn't pretend to misunderstand. "Because you feel sorry for me?" she asked, her manner lightly amused, her beautiful eyes wary.
He hated it that she'd been hurt. "No, because I don't want to live without you. I couldn't take another ten years like the last ones."
That got her attention.
"I got it figured out," he said. "We can be engaged for three months, or six...whatever makes you comfortable. Then if it's what we want, we can be married."
She tilted her head slightly as if thinking about it.
He hurried on, his thoughts coming faster and clearer. "You can finish your law degree. There's a college in Ashland. Also, no sex," he told her, although not without a pang of regret. Last night had been the best, but he had to think of her, give her some time and breathing space and all that. "I won't pressure you on that, so you don't have to worry."
The corners of her mouth twitched. She put a hand over her mouth, but a giggle escaped her. Then another.
"It was just a thought," he said stiffly.
She burst into soft laughter. Her eyes glowed like dark, mysterious lanterns.
"What?" he finally demanded, annoyed that his ideas were so hilarious, that he felt as uncertain as a boy with his first love. But then, he recalled, she was his first love. His only love. He smiled as faith returned.
She leaned against him and stretched up close to his ear. "My darling," she whispered, "I'm not sure I can go for another ten hours without making love with you, much less months."
He caught her against him, love and passion and delight and desire and happiness, all mixed up inside him.
"Whit, I love you," he said. That summed it up nicely.
"I think this may be the beginning of a beautiful friendship," she said, her smile so tender it melted his heart. "And a beautiful love affair."
And because it felt so right, he kissed her.
From the tavern came the sound of applause. He and Whit looked around. The customers were watching them through the pass-through, big grins on their strudel-happy faces.
He grinned, too. Then, because it felt really, really right, he kissed her again.
The End