Recluse Millionaire, Reluctant Bride

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.

Moments later, Stella set the tray in the hallway and listened.

Whispers of voices filtered up the stairs, and she closed the door. Stepping across to the bed, she bounced on the edge a couple of times and lay down.

Her eyelids felt heavy. She stretched her arms above her head, contemplated the wooden beams of the ceiling and counted backwards from one hundred. By the time she got to one, she closed her eyes. Bliss. The bed was so comfortable and she was so very tired … she mustn’t fall asleep, mustn’t …

The sound of a door slamming echoed through the walls and startled her from her semi-doze. She pushed hair off her face, rubbed her eyes and yawned. A pause, and she slid off the bed. It creaked. She froze. When she didn’t hear anything, she tiptoed to the door and opened it a crack.

The tray was gone and tranquility filled the lodge. She closed the door, leaned her head on the jamb and counted to ten. Twisting around, she hurried to the window and raised the already half open shutter. Pungent forest scents sailed to her. The night was dark as a witch’s cauldron and still as a cat about to pounce. A nervous giggle bounced its way up her throat, and she slammed her hand over her mouth. A moonbeam flitted from behind a cloud, and trees swayed in the breeze, creating ghostly images.

Stella took a deep breath, exhaled, and climbed over the ledge onto the roof. Crouching like a cat burglar, she was ready to jump but changed her mind and crawled forward, peeking over the edge. A drainage pipe swiveled down the side of the building. She grabbed onto it, the metal felt cold and hard beneath her fingers as she inched her way to the ground. Almost there, she missed her footing, swallowed her scream and careened off, landing with a thud. She scrambled to her feet, dusted herself off, thankful that no bones were broken. Bruised, she rubbed her tush.

Night breeze smacked her hot face and pierced through her one layer of clothing, chilling her sweaty skin. She shivered and wrapped her arms about herself. Staring at the trail disappearing into the eerie forest, Stella wondered if she’d made a smart decision.

The tense moment passed, and she chuckled, shaking off the foreboding. Tiptoeing to the garage, she stepped through the half open door and rummaged the shelves for a flashlight. She would return it by mail; she eased her conscience.

Suddenly, lights blazed.

Her heart vaulted into her throat. She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the brightness and someone grabbed her. She screamed.

Chapter 4

“I should’ve known you’d try something foolhardy.”

Stella struggled to pull out of his arms. “Leave me alone, Rogers.” She stomped hard on his foot and he loosened his hold a fraction. In that instant she wrenched free, served him a front kick to the abdomen and dashed from the garage.

“Spitfire.” He tackled her and she tumbled to the ground, breath knocked out of her. Flipping her on her back, he straddled her and pulled her arms over her head, imprisoning them in his grip. “What now, my Karate gal?”

“You infuriating, no good—”

“Didn’t think you’d run from a challenge, Ryan.”

Wriggling beneath him, she kicked her legs in the air and twisted her arms to escape him.

“Thought you were tougher.” Stan leaned closer and looked deep into her eyes, the bristle of his chin a stimulant on her skin. “Hmm, could I have made a mistake … rarely known to happen, but with you—”

“You pompous a—”

He yanked her up so fast, she slammed into his chest, breath bursting out of her. Moonlight cast shadows across his features—his eyes, his cheekbones … his mouth … him.

Dark. Mysterious. Sensual.

He lowered his head, his lips a feather breadth from her own, his breath a warm caress upon her skin. A puff of air caught in her throat. Beneath her hands, his heart pounded to the wild beat of her own.

“Come on.” With his hand firmly on her elbow, he walked her to the house, an impatient rhythm to his stride. “I told you Fred would drive you home tomorrow. Now, go to bed.”

“All right, all right.” She skirted around him into the hallway, the sting of her words scouring her tongue. Anger was directed more at herself than at him, because what he said made sense.

***

Stella fluttered her eyelashes open and squinted at the clock on the wall. Six-thirty a.m. In limbo for a second, she yawned and everything rushed back in her mind. She groaned. Throwing off the covers, she slid out of bed and headed to the window. She peered up at the sky. Sunshine filtered through fluffy clouds.

Relief. No snow.

Forest creatures heralded the beginning of a new day, and nature’s serenity washed over her. She turned away, lifting the flannel nightgown Minni had left for her the night before, over her head.

A scream pierced the air.

She froze in mid-motion, and the nightie fell back in place over her body. The shrill sound penetrated the walls again. She yanked the door open and flew into the hallway, pausing a second to determine its direction.

Muffled weeping.

Stella hurried to a half-open door several yards away and tiptoed inside. Except for a faint nightlight, the drawn drapes shrouded the room.

She blinked to adjust her eyes to the dimness and saw him. The child lay curled beneath the blankets on the bed, his head half buried under the pillow, his sobs echoing around her. She stepped nearer and brushed his shoulder with a gentle hand.

“Mommy.” He hiccupped on a sob and peeked at her from beneath his woolen fortress, his damp lashes fringing his blue eyes.

A hit in the gut. They were the exact replica of the ogre’s.

She swiped her moist palms on her nightgown and sat on the edge of the bed; he fell into her arms. Rocking him into a semi-doze, she was about to tuck him beneath the covers, when the door burst open.

“What’s wrong?” Stan demanded, strain carving his features. “Is he all right?” He fastened the belt around his robe, but the material sagged across his chest, revealing the scatter of gold curls.

“Shh.” Stella placed a forefinger on her lips and tried to ignore her pulse bruising her ribs.

He shook his hair off his brow, his drowsy gaze catching and holding her own. She held his greatest treasure in her arms. Swallowing, she bit her lip and tried to analyze her reaction to him. She couldn’t. At that moment, the child stirred in her arms and put a stop to her troubling thoughts.

“What’s up, sport?” Stan asked.

The boy snuggled closer to Stella.

“I see you’re okay.” He stepped nearer to help put him to bed, and his foot caught on the frayed mat. Toppling off balance, he grabbed for the bedside table, the lamp crashed to the floor and he followed.

Jarred awake, the child gaped at Stella, then at his father sprawled on the carpet. “Let go, witch.” He pummeled her chest with his fists. “Witch!”

Stella let him go. He scrambled from the bed and knelt beside his father, crying.

“I’m all right, Troy.” Stan shuffled to a sitting position and hugged him close. “Poppa’s okay.”

The scene tugged at her heart, and feeling like an intruder, Stella walked for the door.

“Hold it, Ms. Ryan,” Stan said.

Stella paused, every nerve in her body tensing.

“Time you met my son, Troy.” He pushed himself to his feet and whispered to the boy.

“Ho-ow do you do, Ms. Ryan.” Troy drew closer to his father and clutched onto his pyjamas. Slowly, he stretched out his thin hand.

Stella reached out and the moment her fingertips brushed his, he snatched his hand back, hiding it behind his back.

“What’s cracklin’, Troy?” Stella smiled, and squatted to match the child’s height. “Your room’s cool, dude.”

Intrigued, Troy stared at her but remained glued to his father’s side.

Stella patted her hands on her thighs and stood. Her gaze skittered from the son to the father, and settled on him for a heartbeat.

An erratic beat.

A troubled beat.

She glanced down at her bare feet, then wished she hadn’t. A blush warmed her cheeks. That, and the flimsy nightgown she wore made her feel vulnerable.

A distinct disadvantage.

Abruptly, she turned and walked away, the carpet cushioning her footsteps.

“We’ll see you at breakfast, Ms. Ryan,” Stan called after her as she slipped out the door.

An hour later, Stella bounced down the stairs to the dining room. She had to go without makeup, even lipgloss. She’d swept her hair up and fastened it in a ponytail with an elastic she found on the dresser. Unable to bring herself to wear her sweat-stained jogging suit again, she succumbed and slipped on the Karate gui she found on the bed that first day; the whisper of silk, a seductive caress over body. The scarlet shade complimented her fair complexion. She tied the sash around her waist and chuckled. It’d be flashy in a tournament, but so inappropriate for working out. She preferred her well-worn guis and her hard-earned black belt strapped around her waist.

The instant she entered the room, Stella felt like a specimen under a magnifying glass. Both father and son gaped at her. She wiggled her shoulders and stood her ground.

“Perfect timing, Ms. Ryan.” Stan rose from his chair, his gaze strobing over her silk-clad curves. “The uniform fits.”

“Gui,” she corrected, plunking down in the nearest chair.

“Independent to the hilt—” He resumed his seat, his muttered words for her ears alone.

“Have to be,” she fired back, smiling to take the sting from her words with the child still staring at her. “Especially these days” –she paused— “and in these circumstances.”

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