“Don't you remember me, Mr. Douglas? You came here to see me.” He examined her face. A little too long. Her black hair was a snarled mass around her shoulders.
“Honey, I'm sure I would remember someone who looked like you.”
She made a face at him.
“If you're not trying to kidnap me, why did you hit me on the head? And where are the kids?”
He wasn't making any sense. Uh-oh. Maybe she had conked him too hard. “Kids?” she asked tentatively.
“Yeah, the kids. I brought them their Christmas gifts just like your friend asked.”
“I don't think so. You came here to see me.”
He stopped rubbing the back of his head to stare at her, disbelieving. None of this made any sense. Which meant he was either concussed or he was dealing with a… He didn't want to think of the possibility. “I did?”
She nodded. The bump on his head was probably making him foggy. “I'm a writer,” she proudly informed him.
Hunter closed his eyes and groaned. Better he was concussed. He had to be cursed. He was certainly in the wrong place.
“Look, I don't know how this happened but I ran over Santa Claus last night and—”
May snorted. “Did you skin him before or after you ‘bagged’ him?” She let her gaze travel insultingly up and down his body, letting him know her opinion of his attire.
Hunter tried to explain. “He made me deliver some gifts for him to the children, so I had to—”
She held up her hand. “Please. Don't embarrass yourself further.”
He opened his mouth to respond; she cut him off.
“The point is, Mr. Douglas, you've wasted your time. I'm perfectly happy with my present publisher. I'm really sorry about the bump on your head, but what did you expect? Sneaking up on a writer in the Maine woods was not very smart. I can't imagine you've had much success with the technique.”
He stared at her dumbfounded. “Do you actually believe I—”
“After all, this is my retreat, my ashram… ” She stopped speaking because his eyes had suddenly thinned into two silver slits.
“What did you say?” His voice had gone dangerously soft.
“Um, never mind.” May ran her fingers through her tangled hair.
“Who the hell are you?”
“You know—” she began.
“Humor me.”
“May Forrester. Well, that's the name you would know me by.”
The name did not register. “Sorry,” he said with a shrug.
Hunter threw off the quilt, attempting to stand. The room swirled around him, and he grabbed at the bedpost to steady himself.
“Hey, go easy!” May reached over to steady him. “You've had quite a bang on your head.”
He opened one eye and glared at her. “Just what did you hit me with?”
May swallowed guiltily. Not that she believed his fumbling explanation. For what other reason would he be here? “A piece of firewood,” she admitted quietly.
“Mmm. Pine or oak?”
“Oak,” she mumbled.
He rubbed his throbbing temples. “I thought so.”
“Look, I'll go make us some coffee. Maybe that will help your headache. It's not as if we can go anywhere.” She gestured to the windows.
He looked at her, then let his gaze travel to the windows. Snow was blowing against the glass. He crossed the room in three strides to see what was going on out there.
The view was not encouraging. It was a real “nor'easter.” Already drifts were over four feet high and rising.
He turned back to her, an expression akin to horror on his handsome face. “Are you telling me I'm snowbound in a cabin with a… a… writer?”
Like she was a leper or something! May crossed her arms. “As if you didn't plan this! You knew very well what you were doing. I'm not happy about it, but since I'm stuck with you for the time being, I suppose I'll have to make the best of it.” With that she turned and headed for the small kitchenette.
It was starting already. He had no idea what she was talking about. And why should he? She was one of those. There was no sense trying to reason with her; this he knew from experience. A writer. His left eye twitched.
He suddenly remembered something. Where was the dog?
Had he somehow dropped him on the porch before she whacked him? Oh, no. The little fella never would have made it through the storm last night. “Benny!”
Sick to his stomach, Hunter ran to the front door, only to stop short when she called over her shoulder, “If you mean this adorable puppy here, he's all right. In fact, he's still burrowed under my coat. But I warn you, he won't help your cause.”
Hunter let out a sigh of relief. If anything had happened to the little guy…
He shivered, suddenly realizing how cold it was in here. Now that he was up and walking, every part of his body fairly screamed in soreness. Strange, but he felt as though he had been rolled across a rough floor all night, then left to stiffen on it.
“Why is it so cold in here?” he called out in the direction of the kitchenette.
“Electricity went out last night. The cabin's heated by electric baseboard, and even when it is working it's none too hot in here. How do you like your coffee?”
“Black.” He walked over to the firewood piled by the fireplace. “Is this all the firewood you have?” There was concern in his voice.
“No, there's plenty of cut wood in the cellar.”
“I hope it's enough so we don't freeze to death.”
May ignored the “we”. “There is a generator down there, but I haven't had a chance to look at it yet.” She walked into the room and handed him a mug of coffee. He sipped the brew gratefully, letting the steam hit his face.
“I'll have a look at it when I finish my coffee. Phone out, too?”
“There is no phone.”
He stared at her incredulously. “You came out here by yourself, a woman alone, to a secluded place that has no access to a telephone? What if there was an emergency?”
The formulaic expression he wore was one she was becoming familiar with; it said, “writer = alien species.”
“I never thought of that— I just wanted some solitude.” She gave him a pointed look. “So I could write. I told you, this was to be my ashram.”
He shuddered, holding up his palm. “Please, not before breakfast.”
What was that supposed to mean? May wasn't sure she liked C. Hunter Douglas.
“I have a cell phone in my car. It'll need a charge, but it should be fine.”
“And how do you propose to get this cell phone? Have you looked outside lately?”
“As soon as it stops snowing, I'll make my way to the car.”
May calmly took a sip of coffee. Typical New York businessman! Ignoring the small matter of four-foot drifts, hurricane-strength winds, and white-out conditions. If she didn't know better, she would have taken him for an agent.
“And where exactly is this car of yours parked?” she asked calmly.
He rubbed his ear. “About three hundred yards down the road.”
“Uh-huh.” She took another sip of coffee. “I have news for you, Attila, I managed to get a station on my iPod Nano last night for all of fifteen minutes, but I did hear words to the effect of ‘storm of the century,’ ninety-mile-per-hour winds, and something in the range of three and a half feet of snow.”
Hunter was surprised. “This wasn't predicted.”
“They never are. Apparently this baby went out to sea, picked up a ton of moisture, and headed back inland. The weathermen were going bonkers, from what I heard.”
He ran his hand distractedly through his hair. “Dammit! I need to get out of here today. I have to get to Sri Lanka!”
May eyed him strangely. “Uh-huh. Are you sure you're feeling all right? How many fingers do I have up?” May wasn't holding any fingers up.
“Don't be cute. Since it seems we're both stuck here for the time being, how are we set for supplies???
?
There was that “we” business again. “There's plenty to eat. More than enough for two.” For the amount of time he would be here. Wisely, May kept that thought to herself.
Apparently C. Hunter Douglas wasn't going to take her estimation of the subject; he stormed off to the cubicle kitchen and began slamming cabinet doors open and shut. “Where are your food supplies? All I see here is this bag of apples.”
“Try the refrigerator.”
He opened up the fridge and found a box of Cheerios and a carton of Half-and-Half. He frowned. “Why do you have Cheerios in the refrigerator?”
“Just in case.” This was relayed with the utmost seriousness.
Coming from New York City, Hunter understood. One could never be too careful until one checked out the premises. Uninvited surprises rustling over the breakfast cereal had a tendency to remove one's appetite.
He opened the freezer.
A row of Tiny Cuisine boxes greeted him.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Great. Diet food.
“There's not enough here for one person to eat. Tell me this is not all the food you have here.”
“Okay, I won't.”
May reached past him, opening the refrigerator to remove the box of cereal. Getting a small bowl for Benny, she poured the dachshund a bowl, moistening it with a little water and a drop of Half-and-Half. The dog eagerly began consuming, his small tail wagging happily.
“We probably should save the cereal for him.”
That left the diet food. Hunter grimaced; his stomach was already growling. He grabbed an apple off the counter. “I'll go check out that generator. See what you can pick up on your radio.”
May crossed her arms over her chest. Why do men feel they can barge in anywhere and start giving orders? As if she would pay heed to a man talking to her in a red velvet suit! “Excuse me, but there's something you seem to have forgotten.”
Hunter paused at the head of the cellar stairs. “What's that?”
“This is my rental cabin— you are the intruder.”
He raised one eyebrow. “Meaning?”
“Meaning I'll give the orders around here.”
He exhaled. “I see.” He leaned against the door jamb and, imitating her, crossed his arms over his chest.
May had to admit that, of the two of them, he probably looked the more authoritative.
“And what, pray tell, are your ‘orders’?”
She notched her chin challengingly in the air. “I'll go check the generator and you listen to the radio.” She wanted to slap her own face. Why had she said that? She really did not want to go in that creepy cellar. She tried to look brave.
Hunter grinned slowly. It was clear the woman did not want to go down there. She was rather cute… If only she weren't one of them. “Okay, green eyes, I'll check the generator while you listen to the radio.”
“Right.” She nodded briskly as if that were what she had actually said.
He whistled all the way down the stairs.
Which made May realize that C. Hunter Douglas was going to prove to be the irritating type.
Chapter Nine
It had taken him a couple of hours, but C. Hunter Douglas had gotten the old generator working, which moved him up considerably in May's estimation.
He had also managed to drag up the cumbersome radio from the cellar, placing it on the countertop in the kitchen. He had worked on the radio as well, with some rusty tools he had found down there.
May was impressed. She had figured him for a man who never saw the outside walls of an office and therefore assumed he would have no mechanical ability.
When she jokingly told him this, he smiled faintly. “I sometimes suffer from insomnia and often turn on a do-it-yourself cable station in the middle of the night, hoping it will knock me out. It hasn't cured my insomnia, but I have learned how to plant an asparagus bed, put up dry wall, wire an enclosed porch, decorate with style on a shoestring, and cook a Cornish game hen.”
He paused, then added, “I hate Cornish game hens. They look like diminutive pigeons.”
May chuckled, the word “diminutive” reminding her that they hadn't eaten the Tiny Cuisine yet. She offered to heat up their meals in the small microwave she had brought with her.
Hunter continued to fiddle with the radio. They both were surprised when a burst of static blasted the kitchen.
“It's working!” May beamed at him.
Douglas wore the expression most men wore when they'd managed to repair something. It was a look of demure caveman cockiness. May had often considered the look just short of a gorilla beating its chest.
Women never displayed that look when they did something considered traditionally “female”! Like managing to feed a family of five on a blue-collar budget. Now, there was an accomplishment!
She could just imagine a woman taking her masterpiece of a tuna casserole out of the oven, placing it on the table, only to throw back her shoulders and beat her chest with her fists while letting out a victorious Tarzan yell.
Her humorous fantasy was interrupted by a now familiar male voice angrily yelling into the radio receiver.
“What do you mean, a week? I can't stay here that long! I'm a publisher!”
Apparently Douglas had reached the sheriff's office in town.
The radio crackled and a tired-sounding voice responded, “Look pal, haven't you been listening to me? It's still snowing out there! And it's going to be snowing for the next two days. The whole Northeast has been paralyzed by this storm. We can't even keep up with the emergencies.”
“This is an emergency! I have to get a manuscript!” Douglas started ranting about a million dollars and Sri Lanka, and May was sure the guy on the other end had chalked him up as New York City looney-tunes.
“Hey! Hey!” the guy was getting really irritated. “You have shelter and food and you're in no immediate danger— that's all I care about. I know where you are. In order to get you out of there, we're going to need some heavy equipment which I can't supply right now. I've got people in desperate situations all over the county. The roads are impassable. So you can just sit tight and wait.” The man ended the transmission.
May banged Hunter's tray of food on the table.
“Congratulations, Mr. Congeniality. We should be dug out of here by next spring!”
Hunter roughly pulled his chair out, seating himself. “It wasn't my fault! He… ” His gaze went to the food in front of him. A spoonful of rice. Two half-dollar-size slices of turkey swimming in a cup of brown water meant to be gravy. “Where's the rest of this?”
Even though she secretly agreed with him, had even been planning on getting some real food, there was no way she was going to admit the deficiencies of the meal to him. Better he think she was a woman with an agenda who stuck to her plans! Otherwise there would be no end to the complaining.
“That's it,” she loftily informed him, making her voice sound slightly disdainful as if there were nothing lacking in her choice of fare. “And since it looks like we're going to be stuck here together for a week, we have to go easy on this stuff.”
She licked the edge of her fork. “Eat up.”
She remembered a cartoon in which Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, and Goofy all sat down at an elegantly dressed table, complete with overhanging chandelier. Unfortunately, they had nothing to eat except one bean, which Mickey made a great show of slicing into see-thru-thin slices, placing one slice on each plate. Donald Duck watched Mickey silently, his temper slowly reaching the boiling point until suddenly he erupted. Pulling the feathers out of his head, he squawked his head off as he swung upside down from the chandelier.
C. Hunter Douglas had that same look on his face right now.
So she was surprised when, after he clenched and unclenched his fists several times, he quietly picked up his fork.
He took a bite of rice. “Not only is there nothing to eat here, but it tastes lousy.”
May shrugged off the critique. “Dieter
s can't be choosers.”
Hunter's silver gaze skimmed her figure. “Why are you dieting? You look fine to me.”
She put down her fork in exasperation. “I have a deadline!”
Hunter stared at her unblinking for several moments. “And A is to B as C is to… ?”
“Oh, you wouldn't understand.”
“Try me.” He swallowed both slices of turkey in one gulp.
“It's sort of all tied in with a sense of accomplishment.”
Hunter gestured at her with his fork. “It shouldn't be. I have never understood why women feel they have to starve themselves scrawny to feel good about themselves.”
“I hardly starve myself, as you can see!”
Hunter's eyes twinkled. “Which makes it all the more confusing as to why you only brought these minuscule dinners with you.”
Her cheeks flamed. She thought he might be insulting her but she wasn't sure. “Are you saying what I think you're saying?”
He smiled, revealing two curved dimples. “No, I am not.” He let his gaze travel over her again, lingering on her rounded hips and full breasts. She really was a lovely woman. Now that his head wasn't pounding so bad, he was beginning to see some advantage to his situation.
“Just the opposite,” he murmured.
Now she did blush. May reached for a glass of water rather shakily. He had better behave himself or he was going to get locked in the fruit cellar with Norman Bates's mother.
Hunter tossed his plastic dinner tray onto the floor for Benny, who gratefully licked up the soupy gravy.
“That won't upset his stomach, will it?”
“Nah. Dogs can eat anything.”
“Are you sure? I now he's your dog, but—”
“He's not my dog. He was one of the gifts I—”
“Uh-huh. And how did you know I would even want a dog?”
Hunter sighed. There was no sense trying to explain that to her again. He stood, grabbing two apples off the table. “I'm going to scoop out a place for our friend here. I'm sure he needs to go. The back stoop isn't too bad because of the overhang; it'll have to do. C'mon, Benny.” The dachshund trotted after Douglas, something akin to hero worship in his eyes.