Christine Pacheco - A Husband In Her Stocking

Still, she knew not just any voice would work on her senses the way Kyle Murdock’s did. No...there was something special about his. Low, deep, masculine, but with a cadence that spoke of education and reassurance, despite his attire.

She shouldn’t trust him.

Was too smart to trust him.

“Mr. Murdock—”

“Kyle,” he corrected her softly, sensually.

“Kyle,” she repeated, the harshness of the single syllable swirling in her mind. “You appear to be stranded here.”

“I’ll walk to town.”

“It’s three miles.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Even though he tried to hide it, she saw his involuntary wince and noticed the way a solitary snowflake melted into the clear-night darkness of his thick hair. The leather gloves he wore were damp and stiff. And the man was already half-frozen.

If anything happened to him, Meghan would never forgive herself. That would be a greater sin than hospitality—even with the risks. Besides, she did have the gun, even if she couldn’t imagine using it on him.

He didn’t need to know that, though.

She swallowed, trying to moisten her mouth. “Please...stay.”

“I appreciate the offer, Ms....”

He had intentionally trailed off, trying to get her to supply her name. For some reason, she steadfastly held on to that information, as if it offered protection.

“Mr. Murdock—Kyle,” she amended when he opened his mouth to speak again. “There’s apparently a blizzard out there. In whiteout conditions, you can’t see a hundred feet in front of you. You’d be lucky not to get lost, even luckier to make it back to town.”

She lowered her voice, trying to keep her tone reasonable. “Jefferson doesn’t have a hotel, and Kenosha Pass is probably closed.”

She swallowed, waiting for him to frame his response. Meghan forced herself to unknot the hand at her side, realizing the action had radiated tension up her arm and across her shoulder.

His response didn’t matter to her. He was a grown man. If he wanted to battle the elements like the warrior he appeared to be, it was none of her concern.

At least, that’s what she tried telling herself.

In honesty, she wanted him to stay.

Pretending his decision meant little or nothing to her, Meghan looked into his compelling eyes. Mouth dry as clay baked in the summer sun, she said, “You can hang your coat on the peg.”

He appraised her for a few seconds, each moment seeming to grow and stretch with tension. Finally, he gave a slight nod.

Her offer had been accepted. For better or worse.

She offered a quick prayer that it was for the better.

The sound of a metal snap surrendering under his grip riveted her interest. A second snap released, then the drag of a zipper filled the kitchen.

The sound reminded her of sex.

Within seconds, he’d shucked the jacket. A crimsoncolored flannel shirt snuggled against his shoulders, conforming as if made exclusively for him. The top button hung open. She wildly wondered what resided beneath.

Kyle was big, well muscled, all male. And she was stuck with him under her roof until the storm blew over. That could take twenty minutes, twenty-four hours or several days. She gulped. “I’ll get you a towel,” she said, desperate to get away.

Meghan went through the living room and down the hall, grabbing two towels from the linen closet. She stalled on her return, leaning against a wall. A long-denied part of her was well aware of his masculinity, along with its not-so-subtle effects on her.

Kyle Murdock bothered her.

Still, she saw that snow was steadily melting from his boots, making a mess on the worn tile flooring. Taking a deep breath, she shoved away from the wall and crossed back to the kitchen.

Kyle’s large coat hung from a peg next to hers, leather contrasting with down, black contrasting with pale pink, masculine contrasting with feminine.

“Thanks,” he said, reaching for a towel and scrubbing at his hair.

The result was intimately devastating.

Cropped hair now contained a hint of curl, a wayward lock falling across his forehead. Kyle shoved it back, then bent to remove his riding boots. To distract herself from the sight of him in tight, damp black jeans, she mopped water and ice with a towel.

Within a minute, he stood there, a large man in the kitchen that suddenly seemed small. “We can light a fire,” she said, then wondered why her voice contained a hoarse scratch. Meghan cleared her throat and added, “To help you dry off... warm up.”

He followed her into the living room. She realized no man, other than her father, had ever been in her house.

She reached for a log, only to have it slide from her grip. Meghan swore as a splinter sank into her fingertip.

Before she could extract the piece of wood, Kyle was at her side. He took her hand and stole her breath. With gentleness that belied his size, he cradled her hand in his much colder one, yet it was anything but a chill that seeped into her.

In fact, the oozing sensation that spilled through her surprised her with its welcoming warmth.

Kyle raised his palm slightly to see the sliver better, then closed the splinter between thumb and forefinger.

“Damn,” he muttered, not able to grasp the small fragment well enough to pull it out. “Let me try again.”

The feel of his blunted nail on her skin sent a shiver racing toward her toes.

“That hurt?”

He glanced up from what he was doing, meeting her gaze. She clearly saw his expression and read concern in the way his eyebrows drew together. “No,” she whispered.

“Give me a sec, I’ll get it out of there.”

Kyle looked away, breaking the spellbinding hold he had over her. Meghan blinked, suddenly glad she hadn’t sent him away.

“Got it.”

She gasped when he pulled out the tiny piece of wood.

“Okay?”

The momentary pain receded. “Thank you.”

“It’s the least I could do for the woman who saved me from freezing to death.” He smiled then, the act transforming his features. He no longer seemed frightening or overwhelming.

Scratch that, she realized. Kyle Murdock was definitely overwhelming. Thinking he wasn’t would only be pure illusion.

He released her, and the air no longer seemed as warm.

“I’ll light the fire,” Kyle said.

She seized the offer. “And I’ll make coffee.”

“That’d be great.”

She headed for the kitchen.

“Ma’am?”

Meghan paused, the sound of his baritone sending skitters across her senses.

“Thank you.”

She escaped.

In the kitchen again, Meghan leaned against the counter, allowing the breath she’d been holding to rush out. Her finger throbbed as she recalled the feel of him. His touch had been warm, even though it shouldn’t have been—not when he was so cold.

Motions automatic, she dumped the dregs of the coffee she’d made this morning and rinsed the pot. As the caffeine-rich water gurgled into the carafe, Meghan moved to the stove, trying to block out the image of Kyle Murdock that filled her mind’s eye.

She failed.

He was completely unlike her ex-husband, Jack, different from any of the men she socialized with. Kyle was rough around the edges, potent and sexy.

Not the kind of man she thought she wanted.

In an attempt to stay busy, she grabbed a spoon to stir the stew on the stove. Meghan grimaced. She’d gotten so carried away sculpting the final batch of angels that dinner had started to burn, sticking to the bottom of the pan.

Her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she’d eaten nothing all day except a bowl of cereal before the sun poked past the horizon.

Then a second, more intrusive thought rocked her: When she ate, Kyle Murdock would be sitting at the small table with her.