To Tempt the Wolf

Chapter 2

BEFORE TESS A REACHED THE MAN LYING DEATHLY STILL on the beach, certain he was dead, she thought one of his fingers twitched. Her heart went into overdrive.

Not dead. Ohmigod. He's alive. Maybe.

She rushed forward and pulled him onto his back. Big. Naked. Blue--she reminded herself. And badly battered--his face, body, limbs.

She yanked off her glove and held his wrist. No pulse that she could feel, although her blood was running so fast, she figured it overrode feeling his pulse, if he had one. Not breathing, she didn't think, because her warm breath was turning into puffs of smoke in the chilly air and there was none escaping his parted lips, full and sensual, but purple.

"Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?" She jerked her glove on, and then fumbled to remove her parka. Covering his torso with her heavy white coat, she tried to remember her CPR training. "Fifteen pumps to the chest. Breathe two times into his mouth. Then repeat. No, clear his passageway first."

With hands trembling, she crouched next to his head. His wet hair dragged the sandy beach, his eyelids sealed shut. She tilted his head back and made sure nothing obstructed his airway. Moving back to his torso, she pushed the coat lower to expose his chest--muscled, sculpted, dark curly hair trailing down to her parka, speckled with sand, the best shape she'd ever seen a man in close up--which meant he was too hardy to die on her. She prayed.

She pressed her gloved hands together against his hard chest and began compressions. Counting under her breath, she hoped to God he didn't die on her. If the wind and cold weren't bad enough, sleet began sliding down in gray sheets, crackling and covering everything in a slick icy sheen, plastering her turtleneck and jeans against her frigid skin. She worked harder, faster.

The blood pounded in her ears, blocking the sound of the wind and sleet and waves.

"Fifteen!" she shouted, and then moved closer to his head, yanked off her glove, and felt for any sign of a pulse in his neck.

No pulse, or so faint she couldn't feel it. And no breath. He wasn't breathing.

Her heart in her throat, she pinched his nose shut and leaned down to cover his mouth with hers. Before she could blow air into his lungs, his eyes popped open. Amber, intense, feral. Her mouth gaped.

With a titan grasp, he grabbed her wrists, flipped her onto her back and straddled her, the parka wedged between them as the weight of his body restrained her.

"No!" she screeched, right before he kissed her-- pressed his frozen lips against hers, his mouth firm, wanting, pressuring with uncontrollable need--like a man used to dominating--sending her senses reeling.

Instantly, the cold left her, his body heating every inch of her to the core, her heart pounding. And in that moment, she wanted him--as insane as the notion was.

He lifted his mouth from hers and glowered at her for a second, his eyes smoky with desire. Speechless, she stared back at his chiseled face, the grim set of his lips, his dark silky hair curling down, dripping water on her cheeks. Then his fathomless, darkened eyes drifted closed and his tight grip loosened on her wrists.

"No!" she shouted, right before he collapsed on top of her in a faint, his dead weight pinning her to the beach.

"Hey!" she yelled, her hands on his shoulders, shaking him. "Wake up!" She couldn't budge the muscled hunk, but if she didn't revive him and get him to some place warm, he would die for sure. "Hey! Wake... up!" She pushed and shoved, trying to roll him off her. But he was too heavy--solid muscle and bone.

"Get... off... me!"

He moaned and lifted his head, his glazed eyes staring at her, his beautiful white teeth clenched in a grimace, but he didn't seem to comprehend.

"Can you move? I'll... I'll take you up to my house and call for help."

For the longest time--although it probably was no more than a second or two, but with the way his heavy body pressed against hers, it seemed like an eternity--he watched her.

Then he groaned and rolled off her onto his back. She hurried to recover him with the parka, yanked off her knit cap, and stretched it over his head. More heat was lost through the head than any other body part, she recalled hearing from a survival show. Odd the things that would come to mind in the middle of a crisis.

He observed her as the sleet continued to pelt them--an expression without feeling, icy cold like the storm, a face devoid of fear, unlike the way hers probably looked.

"Okay, listen... we're both going to catch our deaths here on the beach in this weather. We need to get you up to the house. Can you move?" She pulled on her glove.

His gaze drifted to her soaking wet turtleneck. But otherwise he didn't move or speak. Tugging at him, she finally managed to help him sit. She slipped behind him, wrapped her arms around his chest with her body hugging his, braced with her knees, and tried to pull him up. She couldn't budge him.

"You've got to help." Her voice exasperated--not with him, but with herself--her frosty breath curled around his ear.

He finally leaned forward, pressed his hands against the sand, pushed himself up, and moaned. The sound of his pain streaked through her like a warning. He was in bad shape and could still die if she didn't move fast enough, didn't do the right things.

As soon as he stood, he grabbed hold of her shoulder and swayed.

Her heart lurching, she seized his free arm. He leaned hard against her, ready to collapse, and a new thrill of panic swept her. If he pulled her down with him, she'd be where she was before, trying to lift the veritable muscled mountain off the beach.

She hung her parka over his broad shoulders and wrapped her arm around his trim waist. "Okay, it's not too far to climb."

Although it was, considering the injured man's shaky condition.

They stumbled up the rough path, and she glanced down at his poor feet, taking a beating on the icy rocks. Every step could be his last, she worried, while he clung to her as if his life depended on it.

Which it probably did.

When they reached the short path to her back door, she intended to rush him inside, call for help, get him warm--not necessarily in that order--but instead, she froze in place several feet away from the edge of the small brick patio.

The back door was standing wide open, the wind banging it against the house.

"I locked it," she said under her breath. "I know I locked it."

Despite the overwhelming panic that filled her, she had to get the injured man into the protective shelter of the house. With trepidation, she walked him the rest of the way, and once inside, she led him through the kitchen. No sign of an intruder. But her spine remained stiff with tension.

The injured man lifted his nose and smelled. He tilted his head to the side as if he was listening for the same thing she was--sounds of the housebreaker.

She hurried the man to the velour sofa where he collapsed in a ragged heap, his expression slightly dazed. She had to get him warmed up. But she had to make sure no danger could threaten them inside the house. Glancing toward the hall and the three bedrooms, she listened. No sound of anyone rummaging through any of the rooms.

Sleet continued to pour on the roof, the sound a loud roar, which could hide the presence of someone moving around inside. She grabbed the wool afghan at the end of the couch and covered the injured man's lap, the parka still draped across his shoulders and pink ski cap stretched tight on his head.

"I'll turn on the heat and get some more blankets for you," she said to him, without taking her eyes off the hallway to the bedrooms.

First, she was calling 911 and getting a knife for protection. She patted his shoulder. "Stay here. I'll be right back."

She didn't wait for his response. Instead, she hastened to the kitchen, yanked open a drawer, and pulled out her largest carving knife, although it was about as dull as her butter knives. Too bad she couldn't get to her gun. With weapon in hand, she grabbed her phone, punched in 9-1-1, and lifted the receiver to her ear. No signal. She tried again. Same thing. Hell, what else could go wrong?

Shivering in her wet, icy clothes, she shut and locked the back door. When she turned, she gulped back a scream. The battered man was standing in her kitchen, looking even bigger, taller, nude again, and still blue. He moved as silently as the cat she had once shared the house with until it took off for parts unknown.

"My god, you need to rest on the couch and... and I'll turn the heat on and..."

His indomitable gaze lowered to the knife in her hand.

Mouth dry, her heartbeat quickened. "I... someone broke into my house. I think."

Without a word, he stalked off, his step more sure, although he had to be in terrible pain, as bruised and beaten as he was. She followed him, her gaze shifting to his butt, firm, muscled perfection with every step he took. He glanced over his shoulder with a glower, but when he caught her checking out his derriere, his mouth curved up a hint.

Her cheeks on fire, she raised her brows and stood taller.

Realizing he couldn't dissuade her from following him, he grunted and moved forward, checking out her brother's room first. The navy velvet curtains flopped in the breeze, framing the shattered window. She sucked in the chilled air and stared at the jagged window, now a gaping hole into the black void outside. A shudder shook her to the center of her being. He could return anytime.

She examined the carpet closer. No glass, which meant the intruder had broken it from the inside, not outside to get in. This further meant he must have entered through the back door and hadn't escaped that way like she was beginning to think.

The injured man crossed the floor to the window, peered into the dark, standing in the icy breeze as if he was made of pure marble and the cold couldn't touch him. Then he turned, shaking his head slightly.

Her gaze dropped from his furrowed brows, narrowed eyes, and the set of his grim mouth to his ruggedly sculpted abs, and then lower to the dark patch of curly hair at the apex of his sturdy thighs and his incredible... size.

Her eyes shot up. He was injured, for heaven's sakes, and probably suffering from frostbite and a concussion. Yet, she swore lust clouded his eyes.

Ha! More likely the onset of pneumonia.

"Let me, uhm, get you some of my brother's clothes."

She hurried into the closet, grabbed Michael's fleece-lined navy sweats and a pair of his sneakers, and exited. The man was gone. She glanced at the wind and sleet coming into the room, wetting the beige carpeting. Wishing she could tack something up in the meantime, she knew they didn't have a shred of canvas. Although even if she did, it wouldn't prevent the intruder from coming back in that way.

Clutching her brother's things to her chest with one arm, the knife readied in her free fist, she rushed into the hall and nearly collided with the naked man. A gasp slipped from her lips before she could hide her unsettled reaction.

"You're going to hurt yourself with that." His words sounded husky and wearied. His colorless lips lifted slightly. "Or me."

The way he said, "Or me," sounded suspiciously like he didn't believe she could hurt him. As wired as she was, her hands trembled with the notion she might have accidentally stabbed him.

His icy hand touched hers, almost reverently. Was he worried she was scared to be unarmed? She was more fearful that she might have caused him further injury.

Despite how cold they both were, his flesh sent a volley of warmth sliding through her, his eyes never straying from hers. Heat, passion, and a knowing look as though he could read the way she was feeling showed in the glint of his amber eyes. And then he slipped the knife from her grasp, his fingers leaving hers and the cold returned.

He had to be chilled to the marrow of his bones. She was and she wasn't even nude in the icebox of a house, although wearing wet clothes had to come in a close second for making a body cold under these inhospitable conditions.

"No one in any of the rooms," he assured her, his voice cloaked in darkness, his gaze steady, penetrating.

Something unspoken tied them together, although she couldn't sense what. The way he considered her as if she was important to him somehow--not as his savior exactly, but more like his... captive, his prey.

Before her frozen mind made anything stranger of her reaction toward him, she shoved the sweats at his chest. "Here, get dressed and I'll--"

"Turn on the heat?" He cocked an arrogant brow, his lips neutral.

One of her medieval romance novels could have featured him as a brooding, striking--albeit a bit battered--hero. Or the villain. What did she know about him, after all?

"I would have already," she said, storming back down the hall, "if an intruder hadn't been in the--"

"The electricity isn't working."

She stopped, turned, and stared at him. It would be dark soon. And even colder. Hell, she hadn't even gotten one load of firewood from the beach yet.

Now, she was stuck in the middle of the ice storm with no electricity and no phone... with a total hunk of a stranger still standing in her hallway naked.

The man slipped her brother's sweatpants on, but the corded muscles of his chest were exposed, his skin tan, no longer blue, but bruised and cut. He yanked the sweatshirt over his head. "I checked the heater while you were getting the knife. Light switches, too. There's no electricity." He pulled on the pair of sneakers.

"Then I need to gather wood for the fire." Tessa shuddered involuntarily, both from the cold and her wet clothes. But also from the fact she would have to trek back down the hill alone when the prowler might still be out there hidden in the woods, watching, waiting.

The injured man swept his hair back away from his chiseled face, the planes edged in marble. "You need to slip into something dry. I'll get the firewood."

"But you... you were half dead."

"I heal quickly."

"Good." Her voice conveyed she wasn't convinced.

No one could heal that quickly--probably trying to sound macho to appease her. She took a deep settling breath and watched him deposit the knife on the tiled kitchen counter with a clunk. His hands were big and rough. Not an artist's hands like her brother's, but strong enough to pin her to the beach, not allowing her an inch to struggle. An annoying sliver of eroticism stoked a fire deep inside her, just thinking about the way his body had pressed against hers. He'd been delirious, for heaven's sakes, and didn't even realize what he had done.

"I'm going with you, just in case you begin to feel badly. You probably suffered from a concussion and should go to the hospital. But the road will be too icy and--"

He pulled the back door open.

"Wait! Let me get my parka, and I'll get Michael's field jacket for you."

She rushed into the living room, grabbed her coat from the couch, and pulled it over her wet clothes. The turtleneck and jeans clung to her skin like pieces of cloth soaked in ice water, and again she shivered. She would have changed clothes if he had given her a couple of minutes. But if they didn't get wood in a hurry, it would be soaking wet. Forget a warm fire then.

After retrieving her brother's jacket from the hall closet, she joined the stranger in the kitchen.

"I'm Tessa Anderson, by the way, and you are?"

His forehead wrinkled slightly and his jaw tightened. "Hunter's the name, although... I can't seem to remember anything else. My tumble in the ocean probably had something to do with it."

"You don't remember a last name?" Her skin prickled with fresh unease. A naked stranger without a last name washed up on her beach and no way to get outside help in the event he was unsafe--

"I'm sure it'll come to me after a while." He threw on the jacket and headed outside.

"Wait! Gloves!"

But he was already halfway down the trail. She grabbed a pair of her brother's fur-lined leather gloves from the hall closet and rushed after Hunter. As much as she didn't want to admit it, she was more afraid of staying alone in the unsecured house, than with chasing after a stranger. Even so, she sensed the driving power inside him, the danger inherent, something about him that made her think of--she wasn't sure.

"Wait! Here are Michael's gloves!"

Moving too fast on the icy ground, she slipped. Her heart tumbled and she threw her hands out to brace her fall on the rocky path. If Hunter hadn't leapt forward and caught her wrist, pulling her into his hard embrace, she would have landed on her face.

Heat suffused every pore, and the stranger showed more than a spark of interest. His gaze smoldered with passion as he looked into her eyes, lower... to her lips.

Her chest pressed against his, his heart beat as fast as hers, maybe faster, and for an instant, he didn't seem to want to let go, his arms holding her tight, lots closer and longer than necessary. More than that--he acted like he wanted to kiss her again. Although she knew the first time had to have been a mistake--a deliriously, delicious mistake. And for an instant, she envisioned the kiss. Possessive, demanding, and oh so hot. And she, too shocked to respond, but wondering if she had, how would he have reacted?

His gaze drew back to hers. His whiskey-colored eyes--like the wolf's.

A strange awareness crept through her--like she was looking into the eyes of a predator. But then he averted his attention and released her. "The path's icy."

"Right." As if she wasn't aware of the obvious. But that wasn't half as dangerous as what had just occurred between them.

So what had occurred between them?

Trying to keep up, she hurried down the path after him.

She didn't know him. He didn't know her. Hell, he didn't even know himself. Yet there was something about him that was driving her crazy. Almost like animal magnetism. Which really was nuts. She didn't believe in primitive sexual attraction, although her brother had always teased her that she would know when she finally met the right man--a sexual draw so compelling would exist between them, she wouldn't be able to resist.

That would be the day.

"You should have stayed behind." The stranger's gruff voice snapped her right out of her sexual fantasies.

He slipped Michael's gloves on and continued down the path to the woodpile where she had first found him.

A thank you would have sufficed, she grumbled silently to herself.

Even though he appeared to be all right now, his jaw tightened when he leaned down and lifted an armload of wood, and again when he straightened his back. As injured as he was, she wished he hadn't had to help. Gathering up as much timber as she would have in three trips, he returned to the path leading up to the house.

A little ways up the hill, he stopped, cast a glance over his shoulder, his dark brows pinched together, his eyes watchful while he waited for her.

She stumbled up the path with an armload of timber, miniscule compared to the load he was carrying.

He grumbled, "I told you that you should have stayed in the house."

"Yeah, well, we need all the firewood we can get if we're going to be stuck here without electricity. Besides, I do this all the time without anyone's help."

Although that had been the case only since her brother had been incarcerated. Otherwise, he had always been the one to get the firewood and do the other more manly chores around the place. At the thought she might not see him here again for a good long while, her eyes filled with tears and she sniffled.

But she wasn't going to sit in the house, worrying whether the stranger might reinjure himself on another trip to the beach or back alone. So he was stuck with her, whether he liked it or not. Besides, staying there and worrying about the intruder's return wasn't an option either.

He shook his head, yet the corners of his mouth turned slightly upward.

He walked the rest of the way to the house, moving slower this time, as if making sure she didn't slip again or fall too far behind. At least that's what she assumed. Unless he just hurt so much, walking was difficult.

They headed inside and he set his firewood on the rack. Taking the wood from her arms, he stacked it with the rest. Then like a good Boy Scout, despite looking too roguish to be one, he set up a perfect fire. Slowly, the flames began to crackle and throw off a curl of heat.

Crouching in front of the fireplace, he frowned up at her, his darkening gaze drifting again to her turtleneck. "Why don't you get into something dry."

"I'll be fine." She couldn't admit she was afraid to be by herself.

"Your clothes are soaking wet. You're shivering. The house is freezing. You're not fine. Lock the bedroom door, if you're afraid."

She clenched her teeth. She wasn't afraid of the veritable god. Well, maybe a little. She yanked off her wet gloves and parka, tossed them on the coffee table so they'd dry by the fire, and then returned to the bedroom and locked the door--as a precaution. She tried the phone; still no dial tone. She glanced at her bedside table. The gun.

She jerked the drawer open. Her heart skipped a beat. No gun.

Blind rage filled her. Feeling violated, she collapsed on the edge of the bed. If someone used the gun to commit a crime, the police would trace it straight to her. Not to mention she couldn't count on it for protection now.

How had the man known where to find it? What else had he taken? Nothing looked like it was out of place.

Focus-- get warm and dry before pneumonia sets in. Shaking violently from the cold, she stood, peeled off her wet clothes, and dumped them on the floor.

She shoved on a pair of emerald fleece sweats, matching heavy-duty socks, and her fur-lined boots. Feeling a little warmer, she hurried down the hall and dumped her wet clothes in the dryer, her thoughts centered on the naked man.

Did he really have amnesia? Or was it just a ploy to keep his identity a secret? He seemed so dangerous, maybe because he was so powerfully built. Her brother and the men she had dated were scrawny compared to this guy.

She twisted the dryer dial to turn it on high. No response. Damn, no electricity.

Grumbling, she yanked her wet things out of the dryer and hung them in the shower to drip dry. But then a dark thought crossed her mind. What if the ice storm hadn't knocked out the electricity? What if the intruder had done something to it?

She hurried to the coat closet to check the circuit breaker, glanced in the direction of the living room and noticed the fire had caught hold, its golden flames throwing off some heat. But Hunter was gone. Her heart fluttered with fresh apprehension.

She rushed to the back door and saw him trudging up the hill with another armload of firewood as big as the first. Curbing her annoyance that he would sneak out and chance injuring himself further without her being there to rescue him, she glowered.

Even her brother couldn't carry that much, certainly not if he had had been injured like this man. He reminded her of a Highland warrior, his brow creased with determination, his face dark and brooding, his body hard and ready to win any battle no matter how much his enemy had beaten him beforehand. A kilt was all he needed to complete the look. A kilt, and nothing else.

He caught her eye and offered her a hint of a smile. Hell, she'd been ogling the poor man--again.

"Do you have anything in the house to eat?"

Walking past her while she locked the door, he smelled like the sea, pines, wind, rainwater, and a rugged outdoorsman. If they could bottle his scent, the cologne would drive women crazy. With a clunk, he deposited the wood neatly with the rest, shaking her loose from her insane thoughts.

"Uhm, let me check one thing." She returned to the coat closet and pulled the door open. She yanked on the light switch pull and then shook her head when the bulb didn't come on. When would she get it through her brain there was no electricity?

Before she could get the flashlight, he placed another log on the fire and said, "I already checked the circuit breaker."

He was way ahead of her. "You think the ice storm has brought down the lines?"

"Since your unwelcome houseguest didn't mess with the circuit breaker, that's what I assume."

She took a settling breath. If the intruder had shut off her electricity, it probably would mean he'd return. Hopefully, this meant he'd only come for the gun. Unless he realized she was alone and would return later to steal more. The newspaper had covered the press on her brother's story for weeks. Everyone knew she was by herself now. Instantly re-chilled, she rubbed her arms and returned to the kitchen.

"I have a rack that we can put over the fire and grill some steaks," she offered.

"Rare." He walked into the kitchen, sure of himself, no hint that he'd been mostly dead a half hour ago.

Her brother's sweats would never look the same. Whereas they hung off her brother's slim frame, they hugged this guy's muscled body.

She tried to get her mind off the man's physique and concentrate on dinner. She had never attempted cooking anything in her fireplace. Would it work? Or be a total disaster?

"Garlic? Lemon and pepper seasoning?" Wishing it was at least defrosted, she pulled the meat out of the freezer.

"However you prepare it is fine with me. As long as it's rare."

"What do you think happened to you?" She handed him the rack for the fireplace.

"Not sure. My skin feels tight, like I soaked for hours in a tub of salt water, so I imagine I took a swim in the ocean."

"Did you want a shower?"

"Would you have enough hot water?"

"Probably not."

She seasoned the steaks and carried them into the living room. "I've got candles and flashlights in one of the kitchen drawers, if you want to get them for later."

It wouldn't be dark for another hour or so, but if the electricity didn't come back on, she wanted to be prepared before nightfall.

"I'll watch the steaks."

"All right. Medium. That's the way I like mine."

She returned to the kitchen and rummaged through the drawers, looking for the emergency candles.

"Is anything missing from your house?" he asked.

She headed back into the living room with an armful of lighting paraphernalia.

A shadow of dark stubble covered his square jaw, and his eyes looked haunted. No wonder, after all he had been through. His coffee-colored hair hung to his shoulders and dripped water. She needed to get him a towel.

"He stole my gun." She set two flashlights, two camp lanterns, and four candles on the coffee table.

The man's eyes widened. "You know how to shoot?"

"Of course. I have a concealed weapon license. Someone broke into our house a couple of times before because we're so isolated."

He flipped the steaks. "Where's your brother?"

Tears cascaded down her cheeks before she could stop them. "He went to prison for a murder he didn't commit." She grabbed a tissue from a box on the coffee table. Almost empty. Again.

Hunter studied her for a moment before saying anything. A hint of compassion showed in his eyes. For her? Or her brother? Or was she hallucinating?

"Have any proof?" He flipped a steak onto a plate. Barely cooked.

"No. He didn't do it. And I'll find the killer if I have to. Michael's girlfriend was seeing someone behind his back. What if he was the one who killed her? Usually the murderer knows the victim."

Hunter looked like he didn't believe her.

She cast him an annoyed look. After she saved his naked butt, the least he could do was pretend he believed her.

"I've got some rolls and canned asparagus we can eat cold."

She stalked down the hall to the guest bathroom, grabbed a fresh bath towel from the linen closet, and returned to the living room. "Here, to dry your hair."

He had a plate in one hand and was turning her steak with the other. She hesitated. If he'd been a friend, she would have offered to dry his hair. But he wasn't. Still, the house was cold, except for the part of their bodies directly exposed to the fire, and...

He tilted his head back and looked up at her, his mouth curving slightly upward. "Maybe you can towel-dry it. Icy drops of water keep rolling down my neck."

Rife with indecision, she stood next to him. The fire flickered light off his eyes, like a wolfish predator, tempting her to draw closer into his web of seduction. What was there about him that turned her insides into mush? No man had ever made her feel that way with just a look.

The thought of drying his hair seemed so... intimate.

Taking a deep breath, she moved closer, leaning over him, sliding the fluffy towel over larger clumps of his dark hair, trying to dry it quickly. To not get caught up in the feel of him, the way his body's heat reached out to her, the way he smelled so masculine, so intriguing. But then she separated his hair into smaller sections and wrung the shiny strands as dry as she could to prevent his getting chilled. He leaned his back against her legs, relaxing his posture, and she couldn't help wanting to melt against him, too.

He looked up at her, his expression half gratitude, the other half pure tantalization, his eyes clouded with desire. She cleared her throat, switched her attention to his damp hair again, and massaged his scalp.

"Hmm, your hair is a little wet, too," he said under his breath, his rigid body relaxing as he set the plate down and reached up and touched a wet curl dangling over her shoulder.

She swore the heat from his touch could dry her hair in a flash.

"Thanks, Tessa. That feels much better. Got another towel?"

"Uh, you're welcome." She touched her sagging bun, damp trails of curls trickling down her turtleneck. "I'm okay."

"Bring me a dry towel."

How could he sound so sexy when he commanded her to do his bidding? If it had been anyone else, she would have stood her ground. Her hair wasn't that wet; she was fine. But she headed for the bathroom and hung up the wet towel in the shower and grabbed a dry one.

On the way back to the living room, she dropped the towel on the leather footstool. "I'll get the rolls, first."

"I can warm them." He poked at her steak again.

"So... how do you think you ended up taking a swim in the Pacific in the middle of winter?" she asked from the kitchen.

With the package of rolls in hand, she returned to the fire and handed them to him.

"Haven't a clue."

"Without any clothes?" Her cheeks heated, just thinking about how he'd looked in the raw--male perfection, buff muscles, dark curling hair trailing down his chest, tantalizingly seductive, his stomach flat and his butt--which she would die to have--toned and provocative.

His mouth curved up slightly.

Even though he said he didn't remember anything, she had the distinct impression he knew more than he was letting on. But then again, what did she know about amnesia cases? Nothing, except about some isolated cases she'd read in the news.

"Who was seeing your brother's girlfriend?" He turned the rolls.

"Michael didn't know. And the police couldn't locate him."

Hunter gave her a skeptical look and served up her steak and the rolls.

"My brother couldn't catch her with him, but he knew she was seeing someone else." She took a deep breath. "I'll get the asparagus."

After she returned and served up the asparagus, but before he began to eat his meal, he scooted behind her while she sat cross-legged in front of the fireplace, as if they had known each other forever. His legs stretched out beyond hers way too intimately, caging her in, and yet to be able to keep her arms from being pinned, she rested her elbows on his knees. She had never known anyone she could get this close to so quickly and feel just right.

He removed the pins from her hair, gently, careful not to pull it.

"Your dinner will get cold," she admonished, feeling out of her element. No man had ever let her hair down and the experience was just as beguiling as the rest of his moves. "And if nothing else, you need a good hot meal after the ordeal you've been through."

"I'm feeling pretty hot." His deep baritone voice penetrated her defenses, offering protection and silky seduction. Warmed by the fire, his chest pressed against her back. "How about you?"

Sizzling, as in having one of those hot flashes her mother always talked about. But it had nothing to do with the fire, and all to do with the Greek god warming her backside.

He stroked Tessa's hair with tender caresses, and she suddenly wasn't hungry. Instead, she wanted to turn around and kiss him. She was pretty sure his kisses could melt the polar ice caps the way he looked at her and touched her, heating her from the top of her damp head to her boot-covered toes. The way his first kiss had done.

Despite the circumstances that brought them together, she felt a sense of relief that he was here. Well, more than a sense of relief. Here, she could have been sitting in the chilly house alone, without any electricity, still trying to get a fire going, worried that whoever broke into the house was lurking outside. She would never have imagined cooking a meal over the fire either, even though Michael had done so outside a number of times while she'd watched. If she'd been on her own, she probably would have fixed a tuna fish sandwich and sat in the cold, eating it while a flashlight illuminated the place, poking into the dark with a faint light, the rest in shadows. Worrying that the intruder would return.

Hunter stroked her hair some more with the towel, then leaned over and kissed the back of her head, his groin pressed hard against her backside. He was totally aroused and she was getting herself into hot water. What if the guy was married? He didn't remember anything about his past. He wasn't wearing a ring, but maybe in his occupation, he couldn't. Or maybe he was the kind of man who refused to wear a ring, because it stifled his sex life. Like her father.

"Thanks so much for drying my hair." Her tone was formal, an attempt at keeping her distance.

"A natural redhead." He combed his fingers through the strands, inspecting it as if he had never seen anything quite like it, caressing, awed.

And for a minute in time, she felt adored, when no one had ever treated her that way. But then she shuttered her heart, reminding herself it could all be a show. He might be a womanizer extraordinaire and it was his nature to beguile women with his irresistible magnetism.

He moved his long legs and rose.

Instantly, the heat his body had generated faded from hers and the loss of their touching affected her profoundly, when her mind told her she shouldn't feel a thing. But with her brother gone, the house so empty-- hell, what was she telling herself? Hunter was the first man who'd made her feel like a real woman ever. It had nothing to do with her brother or an empty house and all to do with an empty life. The only thing that kept her busy was taking care of her brother, and photographing anything and everything for a living.

One look at Hunter and the lustful expression in his gaze, and she knew he wanted her. Or at least he was fully aroused and needed release. She figured any woman who was readily available would do.

He lifted a brow and she wondered what he was reading in her expression. Skepticism? Interest? He would be right on both accounts.

He gave her a small smile, then grabbed his plate and sat next to her in front of the fire, his knee touching hers. Did he practice seduction? Or did it just come naturally?

"You could hire a detective to look into your brother's situation."

"I have. He charged me lots and didn't find anything."

Hunter nodded.

"Michael's innocent," she said, her voice harsher than she intended.

He didn't respond one way or another, and she knew there was no sense in trying to convince another disbeliever. He devoured his steak as if he hadn't eaten in ages, but worked slower on the rolls and asparagus, and then gulped down two glasses of milk. When he snagged another roll, she studied his face again. She swore when she first saw them, the bruises were dark purple and cuts were deep and bloody in places. But now they looked like they were fading.

"Does your head hurt? Or anywhere else? I don't have anything really strong but I've got headache and backache medicines."

"No, I'm feeling better already."

Now it was her turn to look at him unbelievingly. "Why would you have been swimming in the ocean? You must have some idea."

"Two possibilities. I was pushed or I jumped off one of the cliffs up the coast. Probably drifted to your beach."

Pushed? She couldn't imagine him being the type to jump.

First, she'd put out the word she was going to locate Bethany's killer, now an intended murder victim was staying with her? Bad things come in threes, her grandmother had always said. Michael was found guilty, the electricity was off during an ice storm, and she found a near dead guy on the beach. Oh, and a guy had broken into her home and stolen her gun. That was four in her book. Now was past time for something good to happen.

"You don't remember anything? Except that you like your steak rare?"

He smiled a hair. "I guess that's instinctual."

"Well, it's a good thing you didn't lose all your memory, including how to walk or talk like some do in really bad amnesia cases. Do you at least remember where you live?"

"No." He finished another roll and sat back against the leather footstool, his knees bent, his legs spread, his posture openly sexual, stating he was available if she was, while he studied her with that intense way of his as though he could look into her soul. "So what were you and your brother doing living way out here?"

"Our grandparents gifted us the house when they died. I'm a professional photographer." She motioned to the wall opposite the fireplace where around thirty framed photos picturing wildlife, both flora and fauna hung. "And my brother is an artist. He loves to paint the Oregon Coast in all its moods. His work is now in several galleries across the country. You might have seen a couple of his paintings in the hallway and in the dining room."

"Both of you are very talented. I love the way you capture nature in all its beauty." He observed her photos from where he sat, but the light was fading too much for him to see them well.

Maybe he had gotten a closer look at them earlier when she was changing.

"The way the light plays off the storm-driven waves. The deer eating undisturbed in the sun-mottled forest. Even the seals basking on the rocks near the caves below the cliffs. As if you were an unobtrusive observer preserving nature at its best with one click of the camera," Hunter said, motioning to them.

She could tell he wasn't just making small talk, that their work really touched him, which confirmed what she had assumed about him--he was a rugged outdoorsman. Probably a hunter. She didn't see him as the fisherman type.

Yet something else flickered in his expression. A darkness, or concern. She wasn't sure what.

"What are you going to do now that your brother is gone?"

"Find a way to get him out of prison. I have to discover who Bethany Wade was seeing behind Michael's back. I really believe he's the clue to this."

"If you're right in thinking someone had anything to do with her death, it's too dangerous for you to look into."

What other choice did she have? Not that she would personally chase after a killer. That would be way too risky. She'd hire a good detective who could discover the truth.

"I'm not giving up."

Hunter folded his arms across his chest and speared her a look that said he would have his way or else. "Here's the deal. I need to find out what happened to me. If someone pushed me off a cliff, I don't want whoever did it to know I'm still alive, yet. So I need a nice out-of-the-way place to stay. You require some protection. Michael's window is broken and needs to be repaired. And if you think you locked the back door, then someone used a key to get in. You'll need your locks changed, and I can assist you. In the meantime, I'll snoop into Bethany Wade's death."

Tessa's mouth gaped.

He added, "For room and board."

"But if you can't be seen, how can you investigate?"

"I'll manage."

Again, she had the feeling he knew more about himself than he was letting on. He sounded like he was an undercover operative used to slipping in and out of dangerous situations, unseen and unheard. He certainly was built like a man who physically trained all the time. Plus, he exhibited an unswerving confidence, bordering on out-and-out male arrogance, as she assumed someone in the Special Forces or Rangers would act.

"All right. You can sleep in the spare bedroom."

"I'll sleep wherever you bed down for the night."

That left unbidden thoughts of rugged sex with a mountain man blazing across her brain. She clamped her mouth shut, blinked, and managed to reopen her mouth and say, "Pardon me?"