Suzannah Davis - A Christmas Cowboy

Her lip curled, showing clearly what she thought of the quality of his mercy. “What are you doing here?”

“Better question, what are you?”

“I—” Her lashes lowered. “Vacationing.”

“Huh. More like running away. Again.” His mouth twisted in contempt. He released her and stepped back to strip out of his wet coat. “That’s always been your answer to everything, hasn’t it, Marisa?”

Her expression wavered.

Guilty, Mac thought. She’s guilty as hell.

He cast a glance at the shadowy interior of the lodge—heavy wood-and-stone construction, oversize furnishings, the requisite Indian blankets and antler trophies strategically positioned on the log walls. The masculine environment was at odds with Marisa’s slender femininity.

“So this is where you disappeared to ten years ago. Quite an interesting choice of refuge for a poor little rich girl, isn’t it?”

Her chin came up. “Save your insults, Mahoney. You don’t know anything about me—you never did! How did you find me?”

“Just played a hunch. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out you’d seek sanctuary at your Uncle Paul’s.”

“You didn’t figure it out before.”

His look was steady. “I didn’t try.” God, the satisfaction of saying that! After all these years with the acid eating away at his gut, to be able to tell her that her leaving him hadn’t meant a thing, that he’d picked up his life and gone on without missing a beat. If it were only true...

Mac tossed his parka and his soaked gloves aside, then massaged the tender lump swelling on his shoulder beneath his thermal underwear and plaid flannel shirt.

“Did Paul come with you?” he asked abruptly. As he recalled, Paul Willis was a garrulous old codger, a longtime travel writer who’d been a favorite friend of Marisa’s, as well as her godfather, during her teen years, when her well-to-do yachting parents had been out gallivanting around the world.

“He’s in India.”

“Too bad. I would have enjoyed seeing him again.”

Rubbing her bruised wrist, she gave him a hostile glare. “Cut the small talk. What do you really want?”

“Answers.”

“Crawl back under your rock, Mahoney. I don’t owe you anything.”

“Wrong. The way I see it, I’ve got ten years’ worth of explanations coming to me. I’ll settle for some straight talk about this Dr. Morris situation.”

“There is no ‘situation,’ except in your feeble brain!” she hissed.

“Let’s get one thing clear. You aren’t cheating me out of an ending this time around.”

Her gaze turned wary. “What do you mean?”

“I’m offering you a chance to tell your side of the story. Why else would I have tracked you to the back of beyond? A good journalist never lets a scoop slip out of his hands if he can help it, right?” His grin was cocky. “Besides, this black-market-baby story is just what I need to clinch a big contract with Independent News Network. So there’s no way in hell I’m going to let you blow my chances by disappearing on me again.”

“That’s what this vendetta is all about? About you? You son of a—” With an inarticulate cry of outrage, she launched herself at him again, fingers curled into punishing claws.

Mac grunted, fending her off, and finally grabbed her wrists and twisted them behind her back so that she arched against him. “My God! What’s the matter with you, woman?”

Panting, impotent, held fast against his bulk, she glared her hatred. “You have to ask? Using an innocent child for your own ends. You insensitive, selfish clod! Why can’t you leave us alone?”

Mac tightened his hold, looking down into her eyes. “Because I always finish what I start, Marisa. Or have you forgotten?”

“Go to hell!”

He laughed. “Sorry, no can do. In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve got ourselves a prime piece of the Polar Express roaring down outside. No one’s going anywhere anytime soon, not unless they’ve got suicide in mind. I guess you’re stuck with me.”

“What? No!” Panic flickered in her eyes.

“What’s the problem?” Holding both her wrists in one hand, he brushed his knuckles down her cheek. “As I recall, we once loved being alone together.”

She choked. “You—”

He caught her chin in the crook of his hand, forcing her face up to his. His mouth hovered over hers, tantalizing, insulting. “Maybe you’ve forgotten other things, too, princess. Like how you used to sigh and moan in my arms. Like how we felt when we were a part of each other.”

She trembled against him, color rolling over her cheekbones, the pulse at her temple throbbing. “Mac, no...”

“I haven’t forgotten, Marisa.” He bent closer, his eyes hooded. “I haven’t.”

“Mommy?”

Mac jerked and released her. Marisa pushed past him, going down on her knees beside the small, towheaded boy in rumpled Snoopy sweats and droopy socks. She gathered the child into her arms and pressed her flushed cheek against his, reciting a soothing litany. “Nicky, I’m sorry! Did I wake you up? Everything’s all right, honey.”

Wide-eyed with amazement, Nicky looked Mac over from head to heels. “Mommy, you found a cowboy!”

Mac couldn’t prevent a snort. He’d been called a lot of things, but this was a new one. “Sorry, pal. I’m a city boy from New Jersey.”

“You got boots.” Nicky’s tone was accusatory.

Mac glanced down at his old Ropers. “Yeah, well, fat lot of good they did me—my toes are frozen.”

“No more than you deserve for poking your nose in where it’s not wanted.” Marisa scooped up Nicky and held him protectively, as fierce as a lioness defending her cub. “It’s cold, Nicky. You have to get back under the covers.”

As if in response to her words, a huge shudder shook Mac. “Jeez, you’re right. It’s as cold as the devil in here. Why haven’t you got a fire going?”

She didn’t answer, but her expression was mutinous. After carrying the youngster back into the den, she settled him into a nest of blankets on the sofa. Bringing up the rear, Mac noticed the pile of spent matches and scorched kindling in the fireplace, and he laughed again.

“I see your trouble. Good thing I showed up, huh, Marisa? From the looks of things, you could use some help.”

“Not yours. ” Her tone was scathing.

“As they say, ‘beggars can’t be choosers,’ princess.”

She cast him a resentful look over her shoulder. “Don’t call me that!”

Shrugging, Mac sat down on the edge of the stone hearth to tug off his boots and peel off his icy socks. “There’s another one about ‘if the shoe fits...’”

Nicky watched the exchange with sleepy-eyed interest. “What’s the cowboy’s name, Mommy?”

“Judas,” she said. “Now go back to sleep.”

“Funny name for a cowboy,” Nicky mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

Mac’s jaw clamped in annoyance. Fatigue and cold had made his muscles ache and his temper short. He tried to massage life back into his numb feet. “The name’s Mac, kid. Your mother’s been reading too many bad TV scripts.”

“You call him Mr. Mahoney, Nicky. He’s a reporter who’s always had a way with words—as long as it’s a cliché or a cut.”

Mac blew out an exasperated breath. “Look, dammit, we can keep this up all night, or we can call a truce and make the best of it.”

“Suits me, since I have nothing I want to say to you. And I’ll thank you to watch your language around my son!” Nicky was curled into a ball and already snoozing again, so Marisa tucked the blankets around him, then went to the hearth and struck one match, then another. The kindling caught but died out immediately. “Damn.”