Once and Always Read online

  “Nope.” She went straight into the kitchen and rummaged in the cupboard for the store-brand coffee Dyadya insisted was just the same as any name brand. He was utterly wrong, but she’d learned to live with bland coffee when she visited. At least it would be hot. And caffeinated.

  She needed her brain working with Sam in the house.

  “Your heat’s out.” His voice was closer and she saw out of the corner of her eye that he was lounging in the kitchen doorway. Despite the cold he’d half-unzipped his navy parka, revealing a light blue chamois shirt, the top button undone. She could see the base of his neck, looking strong and kind of like it wanted to be licked.

  Not that she was looking.

  Memories of last night’s debacle on the dance floor came flooding back. In the light of morning some of her life choices were glaringly poor.

  Which didn’t stop her from clenching with desire.

  Caffeine.

  “Uh-huh,” she muttered in reply as she filled the glass carafe from the sink, studiously keeping her eyes on her hands. He wasn’t near her, but she still felt crowded in the galley kitchen, his big body barring the way out.

  He sighed. “Know where George is?”

  “Nope.”

  “Know when he’ll be back?”

  “Nope.” She concentrated very carefully on measuring coffee. After she’d returned from town last night she’d found Dyadya waiting up for her. He’d plied her with hot borscht and assured her once again that the weather would be better in the morning, they could make plans, go together, it would all be fine, and probably there had only been a very small mix-up. The diamonds? Oh no, he doubted very much that they were stolen.

  Lying old coot. Where the hell was he?

  Sam shifted and she was aware of every single molecule of air separating their bodies. “May. Was your uncle here last night?”

  “Yes.” Maisa’s hand trembled just a bit. Ground coffee dusted the counter.

  She ignored it as she ignored the man standing beside her. She could hear him breathing, slow and even. Patient and waiting. There wasn’t any reason for him to stay now. He’d come for George, apparently, not her, and George wasn’t here.

  And she was being a bitch.

  For a moment she wondered if he was going to finally break. If her hostility and one-word answers would drive him over the edge into walking out and leaving her.

  Giving her up.

  But he merely took a deep breath, his broad chest expanding, and let it out slowly. She’d never seen Sam West lose it—not even on that night. He used his cool, his ease, like other men used the threat of physical power: as a stone wall to keep everyone off. He was contained, controlled, but not tightly wound. The opposite, in fact. He was so loose-limbed, so damned relaxed, you might be fooled into thinking he hadn’t a care in the world. That he himself didn’t care.

  Except she knew better. Once or twice—and last night—she’d thought she’d seen the ragged edges of his control. She’d always had the suspicion that Sam kept his deeper emotions well hidden precisely because they were so strong. Maybe even volatile. She shivered a little, and almost dropped the blanket at the thought—that under all that damned cool, there was a heaving miasma of white-hot heat.

  That thought really, really shouldn’t have made her mouth go dry.

  Maisa slammed the basket in the coffeemaker harder than necessary and hit the On button.

  Damn Sam West and her own libido anyway.

  The coffeemaker sat there, mute and with no green light.

  She turned the power button off and back on again. Nothing happened.

  “Your electricity’s out,” Sam drawled, oblivious to rejection, hatred, and something very like fear. “I told George he ought to get a backup generator.”

  She looked at him finally. He’d opened the refrigerator door and was peering into the dark interior.

  She felt really, really frustrated. “Well, shit.”

  He shut the fridge door. “You’d better come to my cabin.”

  “No.” She pouted at the dead coffeemaker. “Dyadya can deal with the stupid electricity when he returns. I’ll be fine until then.”

  “It’s freezing in here, May.”

  “I can build a fire in the fireplace.”

  “You’ll suffocate yourself if you do,” he said, the gentleness in his voice making her want to throw something. “That chimney hasn’t been used for years. Doubt it’ll draw—it’s probably blocked with bird nests and such.”

  “I can…” Her forehead wrinkled as she thought, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Her toes were beginning to ache from the cold linoleum. “I can put on my coat.”

  He chuckled, his breath blowing across the fine hairs at her nape, and she realized that he’d snuck up on her while she wasn’t looking, her defenses down because of frozen toes and lack of caffeine.

  “May,” he whispered, too close and too kind, “I came over because the storm dumped about a foot of snow last night and more’s coming today. You’re not going to get anyone out to fix your power today—or even tomorrow. You’ll be frozen before George comes back from wherever he ran off to. Come home with me.”

  “No.”

  His mouth tightened and she held her breath, wondering if this was finally it. Would he let it out, all those feelings he kept inside? She had to be driving him to the very edge of his control.

  But he just reached out with one hand. She watched it approach and saw it: a tiny tremor, a small crack in his enormous defenses, and something in her crowed in triumph.

  He brushed a strand of hair off her forehead and she felt that minuscule tremor—the only physical symptom of what she was doing to him. “You’re coming with me, May. I’m not letting you stay here out of stubborn fear.”

  That made her chin jerk, dislodging his fingers from her face. She glared. “I’m not afraid.”

  He leaned close and his mouth was no longer kind or gentle. “You’re shit-scared out of your skin, sweetheart.”

  “I—” She had a comeback, a really nasty one, too, but she was having trouble remembering it.

  And then he stepped even closer, the slick material of his parka brushing up against the fuzz of the blanket she clutched over her heart. “You want me to prove it to you?”

  No. Oh, no, she didn’t want that, thank you. Except… maybe she really did.

  Her glare was made less effective by the sudden shiver that wracked her body. Still, she gave it her best. “I can’t just leave.”

  His smile was slow and nearly sweet. Nearly being the operative word. “I’ve got coffee.”

  Chapter Ten

  Sam watched as May’s face scrunched into a scowl at the mention of coffee. She turned and shot a glare of pure spite at the dead coffeemaker. Probably there was something very wrong with him that the look made his cock twitch.

  “Dyadya expects me to be here,” she said, her voice almost a growl, which only interested his dick more. “What if he comes back and finds me gone?”

  Sam shrugged. He had her now, he knew. It was just a matter of letting her pride find a way to give in. “So write a note.”

  Her eyes slid away for a second. “I doubt he’ll be very long. I won’t freeze waiting for him.”

  “It’s fifteen below, last I looked,” he said with a hard smile. God, did she argue with everyone like this or just him? “Without heat, this cabin’ll get very cold very fast. George has never upgraded the insulation and the windows are single-paned. I’m giving you fifteen minutes and then I’m just putting you over my shoulder.”

  He was kind of hoping that she’d resist some more.

  She huffed. “Fine. Just let me get dressed.”

  He allowed his eyes to trail down her blanketed form to her small, reddened toes flexing on the worn linoleum floor. She’d painted her toenails black. They were awful cute. “Sure. Fifteen minutes.”

  When he looked up he caught it: the slight softening of her shoulders, the heat in her dark eye
s, a tiny tremble to the fingers clutching the blanket. May wanted him just as badly as he wanted her, and they both knew it.

  In the next moment she blinked and it was gone. She shot a glower over her shoulder for good measure before marching out of the kitchen, back straight, slim shoulders level. The red blanket swished behind her. She stopped by the couch and the blanket slid away from one thigh.

  “Do you mind?”

  He glanced up to find her glaring over her shoulder at him. Probably best to let her think she was still in charge.

  Sam shrugged and turned his back to the open doorway. George’s kitchen was tiny. The tin cabinets were white enameled, the counters so old they were edged in chrome, tiny green squiggles wriggling over the lighter green background. The coffeemaker stood forlornly in a corner and the walls were bare, not even a calendar to add a touch of decoration.

  Behind him, May cursed softly and something rustled.

  He shifted, his shoulders bunching as he fought the urge to look.

  More rustling.

  This shouldn’t be turning him on.

  “Okay.”

  He pivoted at the word to see May, dressed and with her parka and beret on, the handle of her black suitcase clutched in one hand, the smaller case in the other.

  He nodded. “Ready?”

  She rolled her eyes and stomped to the door. “You know you can just drop me off at the motel.”

  “Filled up yesterday,” he lied without remorse.

  She shot him a suspicious look. “Maybe someone checked out today.”

  “Doubt it.” He gave her a friendly smile as he opened the door. “Roads are pretty much shut down.”

  “Then how’re we going to get to your cabin?”

  “Same way I got here.” He nodded at his red Chevy extended-cab Silverado. It was outfitted with a power snow blade across the front.

  “Of course you have a snow plow on your truck,” she said, as if it were an outlandish toy instead of damn near a necessity in a Minnesota winter.

  “Comes in handy,” he replied, grabbing her suitcase out of her hand before she could try to haul it into the truck by herself.

  Her eyes widened at his movement and she clutched the remaining case to her chest.

  He snorted. Damn woman couldn’t even let him load her suitcase without a fuss.

  A shovel-wide path had been cleared through the snow to the drive, probably by George. Sam led the way down the front walk, ignoring the muttering behind him. He put the suitcase behind the driver’s seat and climbed in, leaning over to unlock the passenger door. Any other woman he’d’ve offered to help into the high seat, but May needed to think this was all her idea when she got into his truck.

  He started the engine to get the heat going but waited as she settled herself and buckled in, the smaller, square case on her lap. Then he glanced over his shoulder and backed from the drive. “You left a note?”

  “I said I would,” she muttered like a little kid.

  “Good.” He put the truck in drive and lowered the plow blade, rumbling down the road. She was soft and warm and here beside him, and he was beginning to think that if he just kept her by his side they could work this out. “Got any idea where George might’ve gone?”

  She didn’t answer at once, and for a moment he thought she might’ve not heard him. Then he glanced out of the corner of his eye and saw she had her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

  She seemed to notice his gaze at the same time, letting go of her lip. “No. I have no idea why he took off.”

  He nodded, tapping a forefinger against the steering wheel. She was probably lying. Disappointing, sure, but he didn’t take it too personal. May was the kind of secretive woman who lied as a matter of habit.

  Which kind of made sense if her uncle really was hiding from the Russian mob.

  But she hadn’t seemed to recognize Kasyanov yesterday. Sam frowned, stopping carefully at the stop sign before 52. He lifted the blade and then turned onto the highway.

  It was deserted.

  Had May known Kasyanov and hidden it from him—or was Kasyanov’s arrival accidental?

  “You know, I’ve never seen anyone else visit Old George.”

  She stiffened at that comment, as though he’d poked into something private instead of making an offhand observation. The woman’s fences were built in odd, unexpected places.

  “So?”

  He kept his eyes on the road this time, not wanting to spook her. “So, I dunno. Are you his only relative?”

  “No.”

  He waited.

  She blew out an exasperated breath. “There’s my mom. You know that.”

  “Actually, I didn’t,” he said quietly. “You’ve never talked about your family before.”

  She shrugged. “There’s not much to talk about. It’s just my mom and me and Dyadya.”

  “She’s his sister?”

  “Niece.” May wrinkled her nose. “My grandmother was Dyadya’s sister. She died before I was born, though. Back in Russia.”

  She darted a suspicious look at him as if she’d said too much. Truth was, she’d never mentioned her Russian heritage, even though Old George had a strong enough accent Sam’d have to be an idiot not to guess. Not to mention the tattoos.

  He didn’t know whether to be amused or insulted.

  “Uh-huh.” He signaled and turned into the back lane that led to his cabin. “Your mom lives in Minnesota?”

  “Yes. In Saint Paul.”

  A real bit of information. He carefully kept himself from smiling. “How come she doesn’t come up to see George?”

  She sighed, rubbing a hand against the black jeans she wore. He remembered that glimpse of pink panty he’s seen when she’d first opened the door to the cabin, the smooth, soft length of thigh. He’d never seen her in anything but black. Even that night her lingerie had been black. Was her bra pink as well? Was she even wearing a bra?

  He reached over to turn down the heat.

  “They don’t really get along,” May said. “Mama argues with him when they get together. Then Dyadya gets sarcastic, she gets weepy, and it kind of goes downhill from there.”

  He nodded. “And he never goes to visit her, does he? He never travels at all.”

  She blinked and straightened and he knew at once that he’d made an error.

  “Why’re you asking so many questions about my uncle?”

  “Because he’s your uncle, May. Because I’m interested in you. Everything about you.”

  Her eyes widened. What? This was news to her? “You shouldn’t be.”

  “Yeah.” He snorted, looking back at the road. “That’s what everyone tells me.”

  He expected a sharp reply. A slice from that blade she called a tongue. But her side of the truck remained quiet.

  “So…” He took a deep breath. “You seeing anyone?”

  “What?” He wasn’t looking, but he felt her whiplash turn toward him. “No! Why would you think—?”

  “You’ve never said.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then: “I haven’t seen anybody since last August.”

  “Good.” Something in his chest loosened. He chanced a glance at her. She was scowling, biting her lip like a little girl. “Before that?”

  She shrugged one shoulder. “It’s been a while. There was a guy in college. We saw each other for a bit after we both graduated, but then he moved to Washington for a job.”

  “State or D.C.?”

  “State.” She blew out an exasperated breath. “What can that possibly matter?”

  “Everything,” he said quietly. “I said I wanted to know everything about you and I meant everything.”

  He could feel her staring at him. “Why? What have I ever done to attract you, Sam?”

  “Breathe,” he said, and it was true. “First time I saw you, simmering because I’d pulled you over for speeding, I wanted you. Then you began telling me all the ways I was wrong and how I ought to do my job.” He shrugged. �
��I wanted to grab you and kiss you and make all those clever arguments completely fly out of your mind.”

  “That’s…” He glanced over to see her face had reddened with a blush. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Yeah, it kind of is, isn’t it?” He signaled and turned into his lane. “But it’s the truth. And I gotta tell you, it’s only got worse since.”

  “So if I stop arguing with you, you’ll stop chasing me, right?” Was that a touch of sadness in her voice?

  “Hate to disappoint you,” he drawled, “but no. You stop arguing and we’ll finally be able to get going.”

  Sam turned into his drive, bumping down the winding stretch to his lake cabin. He pulled to a stop and switched off the truck.

  He looked at her, the scrunch of his parka on the seat loud in the silence. She was staring straight ahead, a little thoughtful wrinkle between her brows. “Here we are.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Maisa stared out the windshield of the big red pickup and realized that she’d never seen Sam’s house. That one night last August they’d spent in her motel room at the Coot Lake Inn—he’d never taken her here before. Maisa winced, amending the thought: she’d never let him take her here. It seemed a bit obscene somehow—that she’d had the man’s tongue in her mouth, his penis inside of her, but until this very moment, she’d had no idea where he lived. She really didn’t know Sam West at all.

  That… that was an oddly disturbing thought. She was used to him chasing her, used to his cowboy hat and electric blue eyes. She felt as if, somehow, inside her, she did know him, but the reality was right in front of her. She didn’t. And she never would if she kept pushing him away.

  Well, that was what she wanted, wasn’t it? He wasn’t for her—she’d already decided that. It’d been a logical, considered decision, and if it gave her a twinge of regret, or of… loneliness… just thinking about it, well she should just ignore it.

  Maisa frowned fiercely. Now was not the time to start doing an in-depth analysis of her life choices.

  “Coming?” Sam was already out the driver’s side door and reaching back for the suitcase.