Suzannah Davis - A Christmas Cowboy

“Watch your language,” Mac mimicked, reaching for the box of matches. “Let me do that.”

“I can take care of it!” She held on to her end of the matchbox in a small tug-of-war.

Mac lifted an eyebrow. “And I can see how well you’ve done so far.” He saw anger play across her expressive features and pointed a warning finger at her straight nose. “Look, I’m tired, cold and hungry. You take another swing at me and I won’t be responsible for what happens.”

Evidently she believed him. She released the matchbox. “Fine. Go ahead. But I’d like to remind you that your circumstances are all your own doing. No one invited you here.”

Busy rearranging logs and crumpling newspaper, Mac smiled dryly. “I’ve never let a little thing like that stop me before.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

She stared at the tiny flame that flickered, caught and began to grow under the stack of logs. Mac observed the dark smudges of fatigue—or stress—beneath her eyes. He steeled himself not to feel any sympathy. “How long has the power been off?”

“Since about noon. The phones are out and the generator won’t work, either.”

“No wonder it’s so cold in here.” He propped one bare foot on the hearth, toasting his sole before the fire’s growing warmth. “When did you get here?”

“A couple of days ago.”

“Must have been a hard trip, just the two of you.”

She snapped her gaze from the fire’s mesmerizing dance. “What is this, an interrogation?”

“Good grief, you’re one suspicious female. Forget it!”

Frowning, she leaned her hands against the mantel, her knuckles white. “Forget you’re the one who’s unleashed a pack of lies about my husband and my son and just forced me to spread out the welcome mat for you? Not bloody likely, Mahoney! I’d love nothing better than to see the back of you right this moment.”

“Tough talk, babe. But I know you’re too softhearted to send me packing in the middle of a blizzard.” He gave her a wolfish grin. “Not that I’d go.”

She smiled back, too sweetly. “I wouldn’t force a rabid dog out in weather like this, but you’re another matter. So keep your distance and don’t press your luck. And first thing in the morning, you’re out of here, understood?”

“Sure.” His assurance was meaningless.

He knew it.

She knew it.

Still, the tension in her shoulders seemed to ease a bit. Maybe she believed him. And maybe she was lying to herself the way she’d once lied to him. It would be interesting to find out.

Marisa moved away from the fire. “I’m bunking with Nicky. Find yourself a place to bed down and stay out of my way.”

“I’m just beginning to defrost. I’ll stay by the fire.” He pushed a pair of overstuffed chairs together at the end of the sofa.

Marisa seemed ready to protest, but then her mouth compressed in annoyed resignation. “I’ll find some extra blankets.”

Mac pushed her to see what would happen. “And a sandwich? And some dry socks?”

She rounded on him angrily. Her eyes moved from his bare feet, up the long length of denim-covered legs to the mocking expression on his face. Whatever she saw made her swallow. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The corner of his mouth lifted at her concession. “Thank you.”

She brushed her hand over her sleeping son’s fair head, flicking Mac a suspicious look. Apparently deciding Nicky wouldn’t come to any harm in Mac’s presence for the moment, she picked up the lantern and left the room.

Mac’s smile faded, and he let out an unsteady breath.

From the way his gut twisted just looking at her, he was still just as foolishly susceptible to Marisa Rourke as a mature thirty-year-old woman as he’d been to the lovely journalism student he’d known ten years ago. Lucky for him that now she’d declared all-out war between them.

Not that he blamed her. He hadn’t exactly been comfortable with the way Jackie Horton had blindsided her on the television talk show. But Jackie and Mac’s longtime producer, Tom Powell, had insisted on pinning the actress down under a cross fire of startling accusations.

“An elite baby mill...”

“Police today arrested exclusive Bel Air physician, Dr. Franco Morris...”

“Marisa, isn’t it true that you and your late husband, Victor Latimore, used Dr. Morris to acquire your own baby?”

“We have copies of Dr. Morris’s records, verifying names, dates and fees...”

“It’s a lie! You’ll hear from my attorney!” she shouted.

Mac grimaced at the memory. But it had to be done, for impact value, Tom had said. To pull the viewing public into the story, raise an outcry, close the baby mill. And Mac had agreed. Dr. Franco Morris had been preying on innocents long enough. Bottom line was, as always, get the job done.

Mac shrugged and began to unbutton his damp shirt. Every detail he unearthed was another step closer to putting the dirty doctor behind bars permanently. The involvement of a celebrity of Marisa’s stature—Mac’s mouth tightened in disdain at the application of such a term to a soap opera star—would insure that the black-market-baby investigation got the media attention it deserved. And, of course, there was the matter of that contract....

Heck, he wasn’t unsympathetic! The kid was cute enough, and Marisa’s maternal affection appeared genuine. Like it or not, however, Marisa Rourke Latimore had to accept responsibility for her and her dead husband’s actions. And Mac should have his butt kicked for not anticipating that at the first hint of confrontation Marisa would tuck in her pretty tail and head for the hills—literally. Actions had consequences. How the hell did she think she could run away from this mess?

After spreading out his shirt on the stone hearth to dry, Mac stared into the now-blazing fire, his hands resting on the snap of his denims. He’d tackled plenty of tough assignments all over the globe—hostage crises, earthquakes, revolutions—but he knew that this one could be more than he’d bargained for, especially if he let old memories get in the way of the truth. His instincts told him those old memories were far from dead for Marisa, too. Mac hadn’t missed the way her mouth trembled when he touched her. The chemistry was still there, despite everything.

Not that he wanted to fan the ashes of a dead love affair into life again. He’d learned the hard way what he could count on, what he couldn’t. Still, in Mac’s book, Marisa owed him. A period of enforced isolation with an old lover hadn’t been in his game plan when he’d discovered her involvement in the Morris story, but he was human enough to take advantage of the present situation. He would enjoy seeing that she finally paid—at least in some small measure—for the way she’d betrayed him so long ago.

His smile returned at the prospect. He unfastened his jeans, then slid out of them and draped them over a chair back. They began to steam almost immediately. Clad in long-sleeved thermal undershirt and long johns, he rested both hands on the mantel, letting the waves of heat soak into him. The frantic detective work and two-day drive in stinking weather, not to mention that mile hike uphill in a snowstorm, were catching up with him, and the warmth was making him drowsy.

“Here, this is the only thing I could—” Behind him, Marisa’s words broke off with a small gasp of outrage.

Mac straightened, stretched and gave her a lazy glance over his shoulder. “Get a grip, princess. You’ve seen me in my skivvies before.”

“Not an experience I wanted to repeat,” she snapped. Face flaming, she dropped blankets, a rolled-up pair of wool socks and a paper plate holding a ham sandwich into a pile beside the chairs he’d chosen. “But I suppose your behaving with the least bit of common decency is too much to expect.”