A Husband In Her Stocking

The result was intimately devastating.

Cropped hair now contained a hint of curl, a wayward lock falling across his forehead. Kyle shoved it back, then bent to remove his riding boots. To distract herself from the sight of him in tight, damp black jeans, she mopped water and ice with a towel.

Within a minute, he stood there, a large man in the kitchen that suddenly seemed small. “We can light a fire,” she said, then wondered why her voice contained a hoarse scratch. Meghan cleared her throat and added, “To help you dry off... warm up.”

He followed her into the living room. She realized no man, other than her father, had ever been in her house.

She reached for a log, only to have it slide from her grip. Meghan swore as a splinter sank into her fingertip.

Before she could extract the piece of wood, Kyle was at her side. He took her hand and stole her breath. With gentleness that belied his size, he cradled her hand in his much colder one, yet it was anything but a chill that seeped into her.

In fact, the oozing sensation that spilled through her surprised her with its welcoming warmth.

Kyle raised his palm slightly to see the sliver better, then closed the splinter between thumb and forefinger.

“Damn,” he muttered, not able to grasp the small fragment well enough to pull it out. “Let me try again.”

The feel of his blunted nail on her skin sent a shiver racing toward her toes.

“That hurt?”

He glanced up from what he was doing, meeting her gaze. She clearly saw his expression and read concern in the way his eyebrows drew together. “No,” she whispered.

“Give me a sec, I’ll get it out of there.”

Kyle looked away, breaking the spellbinding hold he had over her. Meghan blinked, suddenly glad she hadn’t sent him away.

“Got it.”

She gasped when he pulled out the tiny piece of wood.

“Okay?”

The momentary pain receded. “Thank you.”

“It’s the least I could do for the woman who saved me from freezing to death.” He smiled then, the act transforming his features. He no longer seemed frightening or overwhelming.

Scratch that, she realized. Kyle Murdock was definitely overwhelming. Thinking he wasn’t would only be pure illusion.

He released her, and the air no longer seemed as warm.

“I’ll light the fire,” Kyle said.

She seized the offer. “And I’ll make coffee.”

“That’d be great.”

She headed for the kitchen.

“Ma’am?”

Meghan paused, the sound of his baritone sending skitters across her senses.

“Thank you.”

She escaped.

In the kitchen again, Meghan leaned against the counter, allowing the breath she’d been holding to rush out. Her finger throbbed as she recalled the feel of him. His touch had been warm, even though it shouldn’t have been—not when he was so cold.

Motions automatic, she dumped the dregs of the coffee she’d made this morning and rinsed the pot. As the caffeine-rich water gurgled into the carafe, Meghan moved to the stove, trying to block out the image of Kyle Murdock that filled her mind’s eye.

She failed.

He was completely unlike her ex-husband, Jack, different from any of the men she socialized with. Kyle was rough around the edges, potent and sexy.

Not the kind of man she thought she wanted.

In an attempt to stay busy, she grabbed a spoon to stir the stew on the stove. Meghan grimaced. She’d gotten so carried away sculpting the final batch of angels that dinner had started to burn, sticking to the bottom of the pan.

Her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she’d eaten nothing all day except a bowl of cereal before the sun poked past the horizon.

Then a second, more intrusive thought rocked her: When she ate, Kyle Murdock would be sitting at the small table with her.

Her shoulders sagged. This situation was getting more and more complicated by the minute.

The faint scent of sulphur wafted on the air, and she heard the crackle of wood.

Kyle Murdock was making himself at home in her house.

The splashing noise from the coffeemaker diminished, and the bread-making machine, bought as an indulgence during a lonely Thanksgiving weekend, beeped three times, indicating it was done.

Snowflake pawed at the dog food he’d proudly pulled from the cupboard, telling Meghan in no uncertain terms that he was hungry, too.

After obligingly dumping moist food in a bowl adorned with Snowflake’s name, Meghan started to stack the metal cans again, making a mental note to buy a latch for the cupboard door. Snowflake had made his favorite pastime—eating—into an annoying habit.

“Anything I can do to help?”

The sound of Kyle’s rich baritone made Meghan jump. How on earth had he approached without her hearing?

She didn’t look at him; instead, she picked up a metal can and added it to the pile. “Everything’s under control.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” she lied.

He crouched next to her, muscular thigh pressed against her own, softer one. Strange sensations startled her.

Without a word, Kyle straightened the haphazard stack she’d made, then reached for the final can.