The Winter Bride

Angie stared at him. His black hair was tousled. His bow-tie was missing and his shirt partially unbuttoned, revealing a disturbing triangle of brown skin and the start of the riot of dark, curling hair that she knew covered his pectoral muscles. Embarrassed by that knowledge and the memory, Angie momentarily shut her eyes. But still she saw Leo standing there, strong jawline blue-shadowed with the same early-morning stubble which had once felt so interestingly, arousingly rough against her softer, smoother skin.

Inside her own head, she shrieked at her treacherous subconscious to leave her alone and stop throwing up things she didn’t want to remember—most particularly when it was obvious that Leo had recently vacated some other woman’s bed. As that conviction assailed her, a searing spasm of hot jealousy and resentment shot through Angie, leaving her deeply shaken.

‘Were you looking for money?’

Her dazed and troubled eyes flew wide. ‘M-money?’ she stammered blankly.

Leo gave her a grim smile. ‘Somehow I don’t think you have graduated to safe-cracking yet.’

As Angie grasped his meaning, pain and anger combined in the bitter look she threw at him. ‘Damn you to hell, Leo. I wouldn’t steal from you!’ she flung at him, and turned strickenly away, devastated by the extent of his distrust.