Financial advisor Kit Poindexter has been trained to recognize only monetary success. She needs a million dollars to rescue her late father’s near-bankrupt company. A real estate deal for her new employer in Tucson, Arizona might get her there. Although he rescues her from a sudden blizzard in the White Mountains, gorgeous hunk Bret McClintock creates an unwelcome distraction. Although a very tempting one for no nonsense Kit.
Then she learns he’s not the blue collar guy she’d assumed but a professor at the university with a PhD, studying Native Americans on the land her employer hopes to acquire for a foreign investor to develop into a pricey resort. Suddenly Kit’s clear-cut goals tumble into a heap of jackstraws -- from which she cannot extract even one without the whole stack collapsing. Instead of a winning deal she is about to lose everything, both old goals and new.
Kit came awake slowly, loathe to leave the warmth of sleep, the comfort of a pleasant dream in which she snuggled in the arms of a man, the perfect man she'd never had time to look for. His masculine strength and heat surrounded her, protective yet not restricting ... She jerked upright, shoving aside the restraining flap of a down-filled sleeping bag in the process.
"What the hell's wrong? You're letting the warmth out. Get back here before we both freeze."
The surly words were not part of her dream. This voice didn't murmur sweet assurances or tender phrases of tribute, but it was a masculine voice with a pleasant western drawl. Panic briefly arrested, Kit turned, peering down at her companion by the uncertain light of smoldering logs, flickering dimly in the massive fireplace to her right.
"Where am I and why am I in my underwear? What are you doing in my bed with me?"
"This is my bedding, Boston. My grandpa gave me this sleeping bag in 1988 when I joined the Boy Scouts."
Kit refused to be mollified. She wanted to hit something, to jump up and get the blazes out of here, to scream for help -- none of which were feasible. From the looks of things, she was totally alone with this stranger in a place she'd never seen before. She wanted answers and she wanted them five minutes ago. "Who are you and how did I get here?"
"My name is Bret and I carried you in here. Now lie down and pull up the damned bag, okay? You aren't in any danger except from the cold."
Kit still couldn't make out the man's face, but his voice sounded gruff, unfriendly.
He probably isn't bent on rape, or he would already have done it. Anyway, I'm getting cold again -- fast. She scooted into the warm cocoon of the bag, drawing the edge up over her bare shoulders. She didn't want to touch him, but she had to until she turned on her side and scrunched away as far as she could. Then she touched the zipper, which felt like a long narrow ice-cube.
"So you say you rescued me?
"You got stuck in the snow yesterday evening, remember? I came along and brought you here, to this cabin. You were getting hypothermic so I did the best I could -- rolled out this sleeping bag and got in with you. Works best if everyone's nude, but I figured I could leave our skivvies on."
"Oh God." Kit remembered, all right. She almost wished she hadn't. She didn't want to think about how he undressed her while she was unconscious. All she needed to do was figure out how to extract herself from the current situation and get to the lodge. "Has the snow stopped yet?"
"I doubt it. Storms like this usually lasts at least twenty-four hours. I don't intend to look either, because that would mean opening the door and letting more cold in. But I'd better put some more wood on the fire." As he spoke, he began to move, wiggling backwards until he could sit up without dislodging the bag from around Kit's shoulders.
Even in the dim firelight, she saw his chest was bare. He scooted a little farther. She knew she should look away, but she couldn't. He wore briefs, and that's what they were, brief. A very minimal patch of navy blue in the strategic area, nothing more. Oh for goodness sakes! Cowboys and outdoorsmen are supposed to wear woolly red union suits that cover them from neck to ankles, not some thong, like a dancer in a male strip club.
