Christy Lockhart - One Snowbound Weekend...

“But—”

His grip tightened. “Do us both a favor. Quit arguing.”

He released her, and the temperature plummeted. The howling wind and driving snow only made it worse.

Shane crossed to the closet and returned with a pair of sweatpants and matching shirt. At least these were familiar.

She grabbed for the hem of her damp sweater, only to wince when her muscles protested.

A pulse ticking in his temple, he offered his help.

“Thanks,” she said.

He eased the sweater over her head, dropping it onto the floor and scooping up the sweatshirt. As he helped her into the soft fleece, his fingers skimmed her bare skin, raising awareness deep inside her.

She glanced at him, and he refused to meet her gaze. He wasn’t looking at her.

Tears stung again, and she tried to blink them back.

“What about your jeans?”

“I can manage.” Better that than having a man touch her who no longer wanted to…

When she stood and fumbled with the zipper’s small tab, he said, “I’ll do it.”

His motions were deft and sure, not that that was a surprise. He’d undressed her dozens of times.

Yet there was something different knowing he was angry, recognizing he didn’t want to be near her, realizing their marriage was no longer the happily-ever-after fairy tale she believed it to be.

He shimmied the damp, stiff denim past her hips and down her thighs. Kneeling, he held the jeans while she stepped out of them.

Breath froze in her lungs.

His gaze swept upward as he looked at her, pausing midway up her body.

He sucked in a shallow breath, his eyes narrowing. Her body quickened in response to his unspoken need.

He touched her, gently.

Then, swearing softly, he dropped his hand, pushed to his feet and grabbed the aspirin he’d carried into the room.

Uncapping the bottle, he shook out two tablets and placed them on the bedside table, alongside a glass of water. “Call me if you need anything.” The door closed behind him with a sharp click.

She needed so much from him—needed to be held, caressed, loved…the very things he wasn’t offering.

Her head thundered. She wanted things back the way they had been before… Before… Before the fight she couldn’t remember.

She’d demanded answers, and Shane had given a few. Maybe he’d been right in guessing she was better off not knowing. His honesty hadn’t solved anything, it had only made it worse.

Finally, the pain ricocheting inside her head won. Angie gave in. Telling herself that maybe her memory would return if she rested, she pulled back the bedspread and crawled beneath the blanket.

She lay down and inhaled Shane’s scent, that of mountain air and citrus spice. Another small thing that was familiar in a world tipped upside down. She found comfort in it.

She gave a soft sigh of relief. He might be angry, but he hadn’t shut her out completely. When he’d taken off her jeans, sensuality had arced between them. That gave her a glimmer of hope.

She’d always been a fighter, and more than once Shane had said he admired that about her. Well, he’d never seen her fight like this before. She wanted Shane’s love back, and she’d do anything to get it.

The only problem was, she didn’t know where to start because the enemy was inside her own head….

She wasn’t the only one with memory problems.

Shane shoved the bottle of aspirin back on the shelf in the kitchen and slammed the cupboard door.

Pivoting, he strode into the living room, Hardhat on his heels.

What the hell was Shane thinking, allowing his gaze to caress her the way his hands once had, forgetting the way she’d callously turned and run from their vows and commitment?

Oh, it was easy to forget, when all he could do was remember the way they’d talk and laugh, the way he shared his darkest secrets with her, her responses, soft and sensual, daring and demanding…her scent, perfume and shampoo mingling with feminine temptation…the feel of her yielding to his desires….

Having her pressed against him transported him back five years to a time he’d believed in love, and more, had actually taken a leap and trusted her with his heart.

Of all people, he should have realized that integrity didn’t exist in the female species. His mother had proved that, and so had Delilah.

He’d decided never to get involved with a woman again. That resolve had lasted until he’d seen Angie at her aunt Emma’s coffee shop. Angie had served him more than a drink—she’d served him sunshine and warmth, all with a bright smile. And the concrete encasing his heart had started to chip away.

He’d thought she was different, and when she’d married him, he’d known she was different.

Two months later, he’d learned his lesson. No woman, not even Angie, had integrity.

Grabbing his coat, he shrugged into it. He’d left the pile of wood outside, and if instinct proved right, it would only be a matter of time before the storm prevented him from going outside at all.

He opened the door and icy wind lashed at him, viciously chewing on his earlobes.

Suited his mood fine.

Hardhat tucked his tail between his legs and slunk back to the hearth. The dog might be a traitor, but he wasn’t dumb.

Needing an outlet for the emotional energy churning in his gut, Shane battled his way to the woodpile, grabbed an armload of split pine and hauled it through the snow.

He opened his eyes wide in the driving wind, trying to vanquish the image of light brown hair and haunted blue eyes. It didn’t help. He couldn’t get rid of her, no matter how hard he tried.

Her arrival on his doorstep—a place not easy to find—brought dozens of questions to mind, mainly, why was she here? Was his home her destination? And if it was, why?

The Dear John letter she’d left behind stated she didn’t want him to seek her out, said she never wanted to see him again, swore she’d never loved him. Their marriage had been a mistake, their love a lie.

His gut twisted as he remembered the pain, the disbelief, the grief that paralyzed.

He still hadn’t wanted to believe it, so he’d traveled to Chicago to seek her out. There, her father had set him straight, saying that Angie had grown up, realized she’d made a mistake in marrying a poor boy and begged her father to come and get her, bailing her out of her mistake.

Shoving aside the intrusive thoughts, Shane struggled back through the front door. He was determined to find out what the hell she wanted with him, what havoc she intended to wreak, and get her back out of his life.

After stacking the first load of wood in the storage closet, he went back for a second, then third, ignoring the soft sounds drifting from the master bathroom.

She was supposed to be asleep. Then again, she’d never been great at following orders, especially his.

By the fourth trip, he’d exhausted himself battling the elements. With the door bolted against the raging fury, her soft sounds became more difficult to ignore.

Water ran. Obviously she was drinking from the same glass he’d used earlier this morning, an intimacy a wife would automatically take.

He swallowed.

She thought they were still married.

He dropped his outer clothes near the door and strode to the fireplace, grabbing the poker and stabbing the embers. Hardhat barked a protest as metal slammed against concrete.

Squatting, Shane reached for a log and tossed it on the grate. It promised to be a long day, even longer evening with his ex-wife tucked between his sheets.

She was the same woman, yet totally different.

Toward evening, he stood in the doorway, his shoulder propped against the jamb, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she slept…on his side of the bed.