Samantha Hunter - Hers for the Holidays

“What did Kyle mean about someone causing you trouble?”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Kyle has an active imagination.”

“I don’t think so. What’s been going on?”

“I’m serious. Don’t go playing bodyguard on me, Ely. Nothing is going on.”

They stood, closer now, facing off, and Ely was getting tired of the verbal thrust and parry. He had to curl his fingers in to stop from touching her. Or shaking her. She was stubborn and seemed set against giving in. Or just intent to give him a hard time.

It wasn’t enough to make him want to let her off the hook. If she was in trouble, he wanted to know.

“I won’t leave until I know for sure, Lydia,” he said calmly and saw anger flicker in the depths of her eyes. It traveled down to her cheeks and blossomed there. When she licked her lips before speaking, his response was sharp and true, like a shot of adrenaline through his system.

“Fine, whatever,” she said, throwing her hands up and walking into the kitchen. He took a deep breath and followed.

She paused at the entry, taking in the room. “Thanks for cleaning up—you didn’t need to do all that.” She sounded surprised.

“I didn’t mind. It looked personal, if you want my opinion. Strangers might steal something, or look for valuables, but this was more like someone wants to scare you. Or send a message. So again, who would do this? Or at least, why?”

“Maybe it was those guys from earlier who followed me back here,” she said as she grabbed a teakettle from the stove.

Ely shook his head. “No one followed you back. I made sure.”

“How could you? Where is your truck?” she said, yet again avoiding his question.

“Down the road, in a ditch.”

“I didn’t see you following me,” she said, frowning.

“I’m really good at it.”

She paused. “You won’t be able to get to it now. The snow’s coming down too hard. There are two extra rooms upstairs, or you can have the couch.”

She came to the table with two glasses of hot, black tea, setting one down in front of him. Ely didn’t really care for tea, but he picked it up and took a sip anyway. Glancing down at the expanse of her ankle exposed when she crossed one leg over the other, he was distracted by both the fuzzy pink slippers that she wore and the tattooed vine that wound around her ankle and calf. He knew that it continued up the length of her smooth thigh, providing a path to the sweetest bit of sin he’d ever known.

“It’s not as bad as I thought. Whoever it was didn’t break any of the important stuff,” she said.

“Important stuff?”

“Yeah, like those yellowware bowls on the counter—they are probably close to one hundred years old. Or the antique glass in that cupboard. Those were my mother’s favorites, all Depression-Era, some very valuable. They ripped some random stuff out of the cupboards, the dinner plates we always use, even the dirty ones in the sink. Nothing valuable. Strange, but lucky, I guess.”

“They just wanted to make noise, shake you up.”

“Well, they succeeded, at least for a minute or two,” she said, blowing out a breath. “But I think you and Kyle are wrong. It was probably just teens out looking for a rush.”

“In this storm? In the middle of the week, way out here? The house has been empty for weeks, and just now they decide to come in and trash it?” Ely argued. “People know you are here—it’s a small town. I assume word spreads fast. So, what kind of trouble are you in?” he asked, cutting to the chase.

Lydia leveled a cool stare back at him.

“I don’t need to be rescued, Ely. Thanks, anyway.”

Ely set his cup down. He could be stubborn, too.

“Well, if someone is bothering you, this time they came inside your house, Lydia, while you were at home, sleeping. That’s not harmless teenage harassment, or some kind of coincidence. It means they’re willing to escalate the situation if you don’t do something to stop it.”

“I am going to do something about it. I’m going to leave, as soon as I can,” she said calmly, shaking her head as she indirectly admitted to him that there had been a problem.

Her hands betrayed her cool tone; they trembled slightly when she picked up her tea. She wasn’t as indifferent as she was pretending to be.

“You might as well hit the sack so you can get up early and have Kyle pull your truck out, so you can leave.”

Ely nearly smiled at her bluntness.

“Not until I know you’re okay. Tessa would have my head. Maybe I should stay here until you go back to Philly. Keep an eye on things.”

She stood, looking almost as panicked as she had earlier.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“I’m technically still on vacation, and it’s a nice town. I’ve never been to Montana. Seems like as nice a place to spend Christmas as anywhere.”

“Why are you doing this? Just leave me alone,” she said tightly. “I don’t know if you have some fantasy about saving me, or thinking we’re going to continue what we had that night, but we’re not. It was a one-night thing, Ely, that’s it.”

Before she could turn away from him, pushing him away, he spun her around to face him. She was under a lot of stress at the moment, taking a lot of emotional hits at once. Ely knew that people reacted to grief differently, and Lydia apparently didn’t like accepting help from anyone under the best of circumstances, let alone in situations that made her especially vulnerable.

“It’s not about that. I know exactly what that was, don’t worry. You need someone, whether you’re too pigheaded to know it or not.”

“Well, I don’t need you,” she said, pushing away from him.

Her words hit him hard. “Really?”

The next thing he knew, he was kissing her.

She tasted so good, he lost himself almost immediately. At first she didn’t kiss him back, her hands planted against his chest. If she had resisted for one more second, he would have stopped.

But she didn’t. In the next minute her arms slid upward and she wound herself around him like the tattooed vine that wrapped itself around her exquisite body. She opened to him, letting him in.

Letting him close in this way, if not any other.

He’d take it. Her arms were tight around his neck as he plunged deeper, tasted more.

Lydia dug her nails into his shoulders, moaning against him, and Ely didn’t know anything else, only that it felt damned good.

* * *

APPARENTLY, ELY didn’t care for her brush-off. When he’d crowded her up against the counter, Lydia tried to push him back, but the minute her hands landed on his chest, her traitorous fingers had curled into the material of his damp shirt. He’d looked at her so strangely before he’d kissed her, his expression a mix of emotions she couldn’t identify as she wrestled with her own. He hadn’t liked her saying that she didn’t need him. Frustration, certainly. Stubbornness, and maybe even a slight hint of hurt.

He parted her lips wide with his own, giving her little choice in the matter as his tongue sliding over hers, tempting—no, daring—her to come out and play. Lydia reacted from sheer need and adrenaline, all of the desperate wanting she’d ignored for two months surging into the kiss as she dug her fingers into his hair, giving as good as she got. She might not need him, but she needed this—this blinding passion, the heat that erased everything but the kiss. Mouths mating violently, the intensity burned a clean path through her heart, leaving only Ely and her desire for him in its wake.

Desire, she could deal with. Desire was easy and uncomplicated.

He pulled back, only to bury his face at her throat, proceeding to drive her crazy with his tongue and teeth on her skin, his hands traveling under her shirt, closing over her breasts with a moan. She pressed into his touch, urging him on.