Her Last Chance

A tingle of awareness immediately buzzed through his nerve endings and over his hand. Chase grimaced, and grasped the leather handles a little tighter, dismissing the sensation. Residual effect from last week, when that blasted Peggy Sue caught his hand against the manger, he told himself.

“Thank you,” Mallory said politely, stepping aside, then following him up the wide grass walkway.

Silently, he forged straight ahead. The heels of his boots made a hollow sound on each of the four steps. He jerked opened the front door and, with an elbow, propped it open.

Appearing not to notice his bad humor, Mallory stopped inside the great room, her sandals pivoting on the wide knotty-pine floorboards. “Oh, my…” She glanced up at the exposed redwood beams, then down to the fieldstone fireplace. “This is so cozy.”

Chase sent her a scathing look. “Yeah, just like your typical little hunting lodge, I suppose.”

The comment was apparently not lost on his guest.

“Narwhalians see no value in hunting for pleasure,” she replied evenly. “We are known the world over for exquisite animals, for fine horses and stables. But legend has it that our small island became invincible when a peasant, at great risk, freed a starving unicorn from its cruel master, giving the animal back his wild heart. Because of his kindness, the peasant came to know years of comfort and good health. His children, chaste and pure of heart, befriended the unicorn and came to know prosperity. For generations, people have honored his gesture. I honor it, too.”

Chase stared at her, wondering if she was putting him on. She didn’t retract a word. Not one. She simply met his gaze.

“Legends…I see,” he said uncomfortably, but not seeing at all. “Ah…well, beggin’ your pardon, ma’am. My misunderstandin’ about Narwhal and all.”

Determined to change the subject, Chase moved ahead of her and into the room. He kicked down a corner of the black-and-russet Navajo rug. The room was scattered with them. Leather furnishings, a sofa and several chairs, were arranged in front of the fireplace.

Mallory trailed a hand over the rustic willow and reed high back chairs and matching table. “Your local artisans do incredible work,” she murmured.

Chase brushed off the comment. “I got it from the local discount store. If you look, you’ll probably find a gold foil Made in China sticker.”

Mallory lifted her eyes, her gaze narrowing. “You do have a lovely home, Chase, no matter how you put it together.”

Her grace and tact made him feel like a heel. It wasn’t hard to explain why he felt so prickly around her, but he had to put a stop to the defensive reactions and the sharp dismissals. Since Sharon—and particularly Skylar—he’d been edgy, and short with people who didn’t deserve it. “Thanks,” he said finally. “The old ranch house, the one I grew up in, burned to the ground about ten years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. That must have been dreadful.”

He lifted a shoulder. “We’re strong. A little like the phoenix rising from the ashes.”

Mallory brightened, her features animated, her eyes dancing with recognition. “I know that story,” she said, “and I love it.”

In spite of himself, he grinned, setting the suitcases down. “You know a lot of them. Legends about Narwhal, the Phoenix…”

“I’ve always been fascinated with legends and lore. I’ve found there’s a bit of truth in many of them. Particularly for those who believe.”

The sincerity of her gaze intrigued him. “And you believe?”

The corners of her lips lifted. “My country is steeped in legends. Stories are handed down from generation to generation, and it has been that way for hundreds of years. I believe the storytellers were the wisest, and they have knowledge to share, if we choose to listen.”

Chase stared at her, fully aware she had not answered his question. “Well…as for our little phoenix…we were able to rebuild the house the way we wanted.” He gestured to the huge picture windows and the vista of foothills beyond. “Before, that view was hidden by a coat closet, a washroom and a two-car garage.”

She smiled, inclining her head. “Ah, that was also the way of our forefathers. Function, not beauty.”

Beauty. With Mallory the word took on new meaning. Chase shifted, trying not to stare into the baby-blue depths of her eyes, trying not to acknowledge the sexy, come-hither waves of her hair.

“The Chevalles have a home on the ocean like that,” she continued. “At night, the fog rolls in, and it’s cold and drafty and miserable. I hate staying there. I like warm, cozy things around me.”

The craziest feeling shot through Chase’s arms, as if they were incredibly empty. He imagined wrapping his arms around the woman standing next to him, giving her that warm, cozy feeling. Sharing it. In that same instant, it occurred to him that they’d be good together. Very, very good together. He hastily reached down and snatched up the suitcases, before any more goofy thoughts made Swiss cheese of his sanity. He hadn’t been with a woman for more than two years, and the end of that relationship had been filled with misgivings and regret. He wasn’t going that way ever again. “The guest room is nothing fancy,” he said, leading the way to the stairs, “but—”

“Don’t.” She laid a hand on his arm, stopping him. “You keep saying that. ‘It’s nothing fancy.’ I didn’t come out here to be entertained, or to be impressed by you or your home. I came because I knew there was something special to be found. I’m not intending to stay, Chase. More than anything, I want to get home, to my father.”

The room Chase offered her was charming and rustic. Mallory carefully eased her suitcase onto the brilliant hues of a ruby-and-rust quilt. It covered the four-poster bed, the bed frame made of weathered lodgepole pine. She turned to place her cosmetic bag beside the oil lamp on the old-fashioned highboy, then paused to straighten the crocheted doily beneath it.

Chase still stood in the doorway. “If there’s anything else you need…” he trailed off. “Towels, soap…”

She shook her head and turned back to the suitcase.

“Extra blankets are in the hall closet.”

“Thank you.” She snapped the latch on her suitcase and threw open the lid. Her nightgown was on top, and she pulled it out, tossing the silk negligee onto the pillow. The spaghetti straps clung to the quilted shams, but the ivory silk slithered down the side of the bed, as if she’d issued an invitation.

Mallory was so anxious to dig out her boots that she never gave it a second thought—until she saw Chase staring at it. The gown was out of place and she knew it.

“I should have brought flannel, yes?”

He blinked, as if disturbed from his reverie.

“It’s cold out here at night, I suppose,” she said.

“Cold?” He looked confused. “No, not necessarily. Not in June.”

“Well, the way you were looking…at my nightwear…” she continued, lifting an innocent shoulder.

Chase cleared his throat and pulled himself off the door frame. “This is cowboy country, Mallory. We don’t see many of them things hanging on the line out here.”

Pursing her lips, she frowned. “The line? I don’t understand.”

“The clothesline. Outside, drying on the clothesline,” he explained. “We do wash and wear. Denim or dress shirts, it doesn’t matter. It all goes in the laundry and out on the line.”

“I see. Then I shall remember not to make that mistake,” she said lightly, smiling at him. “Perhaps I could hang my things in your shower instead? I wouldn’t want to offend anyone.”

“Yeah. Okay, I guess.” Inside, Chase winced. “How about if I go fix us a bite to eat, and then we start looking at stock? You want to go home, and I don’t want to keep you any longer than necessary.” He glanced back at her open suitcase, where scraps of silk and satin seemed to bubble out over the top. “I keep you too long, and you may go cluttering up my bath with all those skimpy little…” Feeling like a fool, he let the sentence drift, fully aware he was too embarrassed to say the word panties in front of some highfalutin socialite.

Mallory pulled out a stack of knit tops, balancing them on the palm of her hand. “Don’t worry. I always travel light. I can’t possibly smother you in lingerie.”

Chase swallowed. Hard. His lips clamped together, and he tipped his head, backing from the door.

Mallory watched him leave, and the oddest awareness coursed through her, curling down into her middle and beyond.

It was disturbing to know that the man’s bedroom would be only two doors down, and that they’d share the same bath. While she didn’t expect the degree of privacy she had grown up with in Narwhal, the intimacy, the nearness of the ranch house disturbed her.

No. Chase Wells disturbed her. He had from the moment her gaze fell on him.

There was no logical explanation for her feelings. None. She’d dealt with men every day of her life, but she’d never let herself get too close to any of them. Her father had raised her after her mother had died of pneumonia at an early age, and she’d grown up around the men he’d surrounded himself with. Her background in history and international law often put her in challenging situations with businessmen who contracted with her father’s shipping company. Yet none of them fascinated—or provoked feelings in her—like this brief encounter with Chase Wells had.

Chase Wells was the proverbial man’s man, with shoulders as wide as wood and a stance that was daring, and devil-may-care. He had the most reckless, engaging smile, and dark, brooding eyes. His gray gaze could be as seductive as smoke or as striking as silver.