Recluse Millionaire, Reluctant Bride

Definitely.

“Doesn’t look like snow to me, not by a long shot,” she said again.

“At least not for another couple of months.”

“We like to be prepared in case it’s early this year.” He hauled himself off the sofa and reached out for the blanket and pillow.

She clutched them tighter, like a protective device. “What about trekking to the limo and driving from there?”

“Not in this darkness, unless it’s an absolute emergency,” he said, tone flat. “Dangerous, especially if you’re not familiar with the trail.”

“To me, this is an emergency.”

“Not enough to risk a broken leg in a pot hole. Be serious, Ms. Ryan.” He raised a brow. “What’s one more day going to matter? You could leave early tomorrow without risk.”

What he said made sense, but she didn’t have to like it. She certainly didn’t want to stay shacked up with him, miles from anywhere. It was time to be proactive, and get her own ticket outa this sticky mess.

“You’re invited for dinner. Minni’ll—”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Fine.”

His indifference infuriated … then she glanced down at the bedding in her hands. Odd, she hadn’t had them when she first lay down by the fireside.

She frowned, and an image pushed its way to the forefront of her mind. Somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, she’d felt a gentle hand lift her head and slip the pillow beneath…cover her with the blanket. She thought she’d been dreaming but—

“Did … uh … you bring the blanket?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t want you catching cold.”

“Thank—”

“A sick Karate coach wouldn’t do me any good,” he said, cutting off her polite remark with his callous words.

Jerk. She threw the blanket at him.

He caught it. “Your hand must be okay.”

The pillow followed. He ducked and it sailed over his head, landing on the sofa behind him.

“Mad about something, Ryan?” He rubbed his earring with his thumb, his face the picture of innocence. “I was only thinking of your well-being.”

“Don’t do me any favors, Rogers,” she snapped. “And to think that I’d begun—” She skidded to a halt.

“You were saying,” he prompted, amusement twitching the corner of his mouth.

“None of your business.” She turned her back to him and stared at the fire in the grate.

A few flickers struggled to survive. Overly confined, flames couldn’t breathe, fizzled out. She was starting to feel like that and she resented it.

Controlled wildfire could sweep across … clear … a new beginning. He’d done that for her four years ago, when he financed her dojo; she would not let him take that away from her.

Pressure seemed to be building around him, and she pitied the person who got caught in its explosive wake. A showing was sure to be in the cards … and she’d bet, soon. She’d skip out long before then and not get trapped in the crossfire.

Her temples throbbed. She’d almost believed the story about his son. Wha-a-at? She hadn’t seen a child around. And the burning question—where was the wife?

“If you change your mind, dinner is at eight. Be prompt.” The deep timbre of his voice skewered her thoughts aside, and she glanced over her shoulder to see the door closing behind him. Immediately, his arm shot around the jamb. He flicked on the light switch, withdrew and was gone.

Stella blinked from the sudden glare and sank on the couch. Hugging the pillow, she laid her head upon it—too bad she’d missed her target … him. He rattled her, stirring feelings inside her that were yet unclear. She wanted to dismiss the emotion together with the man who lit the fuse. She laughed, a humorless sound. That would be impossible. One couldn’t disregard a man like Stan Rogers, not with his magnetism, his potent sexuality. Hate him, yes, ignore him, never.

***

Stella declined dinner and paced the floor of her room, plotting her course of action. In a few hours, everyone would be asleep. Except her.

In the meantime, she had to contend with hunger pangs pummeling her stomach. Eight hours had passed since lunch, and the mouth-watering aromas drifting upstairs from the kitchen didn’t help matters. She leafed through a magazine, realized it was upside down and slapped it back on the stack. She sighed, and flicked on the TV, changed her mind and flicked it off. She had to concentrate … focus. Her mind veered to the bearded man and a million questions flittered through her mind.

A sudden knock on the door made her jump and she turned, alert.

Minni opened the door and stepped inside, balancing a tray in her hands.

“Oh, Minni, you’re a lifesaver.” Stella seized the tray laden with food before it toppled to the floor.

“’Twas Mr. Rogers’ idea.” She winked and smoothed her hands over her apron. “He thought ye might be hungry by now. Said ye could pout all ye want, but eat something ye must.”

Stella snatched a cheese sandwich and bit into it with gusto, barely hearing her gentle reprimand. Almost choking on the piece, she forced it down and grabbed the glass of milk.

“Mmm, this is absolutely delicious,” she mumbled between mouthfuls, rolling her eyes. “Thanks, Min.”

“Not at all, Miss,” Minni replied. “’Tis a pleasure to have a fresh young face around here for a change. We don’t get many visitors up here.”

“I’m not surprised.” What with the ogre ordering everyone around. “It’s so far away,” she added, dabbing her mouth with a napkin.

“Not at all,” Minni said. “This being one of the lower peaks of the Coast Range” –she paused and calculated— “wedged between Grouse and Whistler, it’s about an hour from the main road to Vancouver.”

Bingo.

Stella drained the glass and set it back on the tray. The hike to the road would take about half an hour. If she managed to make it that far and was lucky to catch a bus on its last run, she’d be snoozing in her own bed by midnight. It was risky, but she was determined to try.

“Minni, do you mind if I ask you something?” Stella reached for an apple and buffed it to a shine across her sleeve. “Where’s the boy and his mom?”

“Mrs. Rogers doesn’t live here.” Minni straightened her apron and fidgeted with the ruffled edges. “As for the boy, he’s—”

At that moment, Stan bellowed from below and the woman started, breaking off mid-sentence. Stella could have screamed.

“Goodnight, lass.” Minni hurried out, mumbling about grocery lists to discuss before retiring for the night.

Drat the man! Stella bit into the apple, imagining it was a part of his anatomy she dug her teeth into. Juice dribbled down her chin. She flicked it off with her fingers, licked them clean and tasted sweet tartness.