A Killer Christmas Read online

  She’d taken her sweet time answering the door, but now that he was inside, she moved at the speed of light and hadn’t yet paused to take a breath. Which suited Joe just fine. He was a man of action and few words.

  His hostess was still talking as she forged ahead toward the kitchen. He took advantage of her turned back to toe the riser of the third step of the wide, curved staircase. A concealed door popped open showing the hidden space. Empty. Damn.

  Joe flipped it back into place with his foot. His ex-wife had a strong aversion to guns. Still, that wasn't the only place to find weapons in the house. Unless Denise had found every hidey hole and cleared them all out. A possibility with two small kids around.

  "I turned every fireplace on. With these ceilings, the heat just sits there, thirty feet up where it does no good at all. The fans up there don't work without the power. The heat will eventually sink down enough that I don't have to bundle up to my frozen eyebrows while I'm w—“ She stopped, turned and looked at him. “You don't care, do you?"

  Since she appeared not to expect an answer, he stayed silent. The house was blessedly warm and smelled mouthwatering. The scent of Christmas was everywhere, but that wasn’t the fragrance making him salivate.

  She smelled as clean and fresh as. . .he frowned as he followed her into the kitchen. Some kind of. . .fruit? Yeah. Pears or something. Fresh and clean and – Jesus, he was losing it- juicy.

  Joe found himself wanting to taste her skin to see if she tasted of pears or cinnamon and cream.

  The farmhouse style kitchen, a professional chef's dream, was cluttered with a mess of used bowls, beaters, spoons and trays of baked cookies. A basket of knitting- fluffy eye-popping pink yarn, stuck with three bright blue knitting needles, took up the seat of one barstool at the expansive granite center island. A bright yellow extreme weather coat was flung over the back of another. A dozen clear plastic tubs containing Christmas decorations were piled neatly on the kitchen table and banquette seats across the room

  Organized chaos.

  Taking one of the dozens of Christmas mugs off the drying rack beside the sink, she ignored the ridiculously expensive and far too complicated built-in chrome coffee making system and headed to the steaming coffee pot on the gas stove. "It took me days to learn what all those buttons were for before the power went out. It couldn’t make better coffee than doing it on the stove, right?”

  She carried the full mug of steaming coffee back to the center island where another half-filled mug sat beside a baking sheet of hot-from-the-oven cookies. Removing his gloves and stuffing them in a pocket, Joe puled off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. Watching Miss Metcalf raised his body temperature several degrees above normal in no time.

  She handed him the mug. "Black, I bet."

  The most bizarre current of electricity passed from her fingers to his, shooting directly to his groin. At the spark, her eyes widened in surprise. She jerked her hand away. It sure as hell shocked the hell out of him, and he almost dropped the mug.

  Joe tightened his fingers around the heat of the Christmas mug that still had a $3.99 price sticker from Ross stuck on the side. He peeled it off and stuck it on Denise’s expensive, sludge green and black granite countertop. Denise did not shop at discount stores. Never had. The Christmas mugs must’ve been bought by Kendall for the weekend.

  “Sorry about the sticker, I missed that one.” She frowned as if leaving a price sticker on a Santa mug was a criminal offense. "That’s what I thought," she said.

  He hadn’t opened his mouth. He presumed she was still discussing his coffee choice. "Yeah. Thanks. Where-"

  "Is the family?" she finished for him.

  Them, too. But he’d been referring to the cops.

  "I don't actually know them. Never met them, but if this gorgeous home is any reflection, they seem like lovely people. Apparently, she and her husband took the kids over to her mother in San Francisco for the week to finish their Christmas shopping. They’ll be back tomorrow morning. Although with this storm, I have to wonder if that will even be possible."

  She shrugged. "I guess they'll decide tomorrow. It’s been insane here trying to get ready for the party on Saturday, and all the houseguests, etcetera, etcetera without any help. You know how it is." She laughed, a bright, robust laugh that did ridiculous things to Joe’s stomach before moving lower.

  She sat her quite delectable ass half on, half off a stool, then, without looking away from his face, picked up the spatula to slide cookies from the sheet onto a plate painted with some sort of large brown, one-eyed Christmas animal. The artistic work of Joe's godson, Christopher Cameron, aged five at the time.

  Her hands were pale and slender, her nails short and painted a glossy Christmas red, as were her toes. Sexy. What wasn’t sexy were the defensive scars marring her smooth skin. The obscene long-ago healed wounds were thin and silvery. There were dozens of them. On the back of her hands, on her palms, on her fingers and on her wrists. Joe sucked back a black rage that surprised the crap out of him.

  He didn't get emotionally involved when on an op. But this wasn't an op. Still, he was here in a professional capacity and shouldn't feel anything at all toward the woman he was here to protect. She was a job. A non-paying, favor to a friend, one at that. Still, empathy, sympathy and a giant dose of admiration surged through him.

  "Help yourself," she told him, pushing the plate an inch closer to his hand. "I just wanted a break from going up and down the ladder, and honestly? I needed a sugar hit. So cookies, because the appliances are gas."

  He’d thought if the cops couldn’t get to the ranch, he’d at least have Denise’s husband here as back up. He and Adam had been in T-FLAC boot camp together after the Marines, and Joe trusted his friend at his back. He shouldn’t have trusted his friend with his wife, but that was old news and water under the bridge. He didn't prod that memory like an aching tooth. He and Denise made better friends than lovers, and Adam had waited until after their divorce before making his move.

  Adam had thrown in the counterterrorist towel when Denise said I do and now reveled in being a rancher. Joe valued their friendship. Hell, he was godfather to both their kids, artist Christopher, now six, and four-year-old hellion, and already a heartbreaker, Samantha.

  Joe had built the house eleven years ago in the middle of prime ranch land, a great retreat for his downtime - except that he never had any downtime. Denise had ended up out here, way the hell and gone away from civilization, pretty much alone. He was a T-FLAC operative, and the giant ranch house had been constructed like Fort Knox, with enough arms and ammo inside and out to fend off a damned Mongol horde.

  He'd built it with worst-case scenario in mind. An operative could never be too careful. He'd installed dozens of concealed spaces to hide weapons, and knew how to quickly access them. If the couple hadn't ferreted them out and disposed of his arsenal of weapons between his visits.

  He'd sold the house and half the surrounding cattle ranch to Adam after the divorce seven years ago. They were all friends, as well as business partners. For them it worked.

  "Are you alone?" he asked, straining to hear any noise to indicate someone was either upstairs or in any of the other rooms downstairs. She'd claimed she'd done all the work herself, but that could mean someone's lazy ass was elsewhere in the house. All he heard was her sudden indrawn breath over the soft singing of Christmas carols from the emergency, battery operated, radio on the counter.

  "Nope. Some of the guests arrived before the storm," Kendall said, a little more cautious now. "The guys are upstairs," she told him without a blink. She might as well have added, "Cleaning their guns."

  Since she’d let him in instead of one of the local cops he’d spoken to en route, Joe now knew damn well she was alone. Fuck it to hell. So, they hadn’t been able to make it through before the worst of the storm hit. Which meant he and Kendall were alone in the house with a killer on the loose. Clearly, she wasn’t aware that Treadwell had escaped. If she was, s
he sure as shit wouldn't have opened the door. Still, she had that little peashooter.

  He was fortunate she hadn't shot him first and asked for ID later.

  If the cops couldn’t get to the ranch, nobody could, not with the snow storm raging. But dollars to donuts Treadwell was out there. Somewhere. Storm or no storm. Joe figured they had maybe twelve hours before the situation turned to shit.

  The fact that Kendall was trying to bluff him into believing she wasn’t alone - now- when he was already inside and close enough to kill her, made Joe’s blood boil. Not only wasn’t she supposed to be alone. She should be far, far away in an undisclosed location, under a damned alias.

  Curling an arm about her waist in an unconsciously protective gesture, she held the mug to her mouth, watching him over the rim.

  Joe was mesmerized by large sparkling hazel eyes staring at him unblinkingly. Her lips were a pale pink. He wondered if her nipples were the same rosy color. Jesus. He brought his erotic thoughts back in line.

  She sipped coffee. "I can’t tell you how great it is that you agreed to do this on such short notice, Don. Really. Thank you. My guy backed out at the last-"

  She jumped when the oven timer let loose its alarm in a strangely karmic way as he corrected mildly, "Joe."

  Her brow wrinkled briefly. "Exactly," she raised her voice over the sound of the buzzer. "Snow was one of Preston’s reasons for not coming. But still, you'd think he’d know how to drive in a little snow, wouldn’t you?"

  She slid off the stool, slapped a hand on the buzzer, and grabbed a pair of oven gloves. Every vestige of saliva in Joe’s mouth turned to dust as she bent over. Her heart-shaped ass, painted by black, skintight leggings, almost stopped his heart

  Hellsfuckinbells. Closing the oven door, she straightened. "Still another couple of minutes. Not that we get much snow in Seattle- but still, Preston’s originally from New York, so you’d think-You don’t care, right?" She grinned. "Anyhoo- his rental car went into a ditch on the way in from the airport last Tuesday. Poor guy ended up breaking his wrist. And while I feel his pain, I really do, it doesn’t help me with all the stuff I have to do around here.

  Honestly, when you weren't here by eight, I figured the snow storm had kept you home. And since my phone wasn't working, I knew you couldn't reach me to let me know. No problem. I feel terrible that you came out in this.” She gave him an earnest look. “It's dangerous out there, in this weather, especially at night."

  She clearly had no idea just how bad the storm was.

  "Obviously it's taken you hours to travel ten miles. I feel awful. But since you're here- The costume is on the chair over there if you want to try it on?" She indicated a red velvet suit trimmed in white fur hung over a nearby bar stool.

  "Not only would I prefer not wandering around with a pillow strapped around me for the duration, but I’ll be too busy bossing around the catering people on Saturday night and won’t have time to do that and be Santa, now will I?"

  The buzzer beeped again, and she turned, then bent down to open the oven door giving Joe another unimpeded view of her shapely ass. He couldn’t- not even in his wildest imagination, which he didn’t have- envision this woman dressed in a Santa suit.

  "You’d dress up as Santa?" Now a Santa suit rented from Victoria's Secret he could imagine without any problem at all.

  Throwing him a look over her shoulder, she scrunched up her face adorably. "Well, yes. If you hadn’t saved my bacon. I would have," she said it quite cheerfully, as she pulled out two baking sheets of golden-brown cookies. The fragrance of hot cookies, cinnamon, and sweet-scented steam filled the kitchen.

  "I really appreciate that you’re willing to come to my rescue like this at a moment’s notice so I don’t have to. Help yourself to those over near you. These will be too hot."

  Hot. Definitely hot.

  TWO

  He was gorgeous in a rugged, outdoorsy, manly man way that had Kendall’s pulse points racing. His shoulders looked a mile wide in his heavy, black, shearling coat, the collar flipped up around his strong, tanned throat, and fastened there with a black metal buckle. Six foot, plus, dark hair that could do with a trim. Her fingers itched to comb through the shiny strands. His shadow beard was sexy and his clear, true blue, eyes made it appear he had X-ray vision.

  He was all things delicious, and she couldn’t have him for a hundred reasons. Top of the list, he was married.

  Kendall curled her fingers into her palm to prevent herself from reaching over to stroke him. He looked to be in his early thirties, which was surprising because his wife, Tonya, must be close to sixty. Considering the age of the sons, second husband, obviously. Hell, more power to her. Lucky her. He had sex appeal in spades. Kendall certainly wasn’t immune.

  And maybe that was why, as her body started remembering what it felt like to get pleasure not pain from a man’s touch, she allowed herself a moment’s fantasy. Insta-lust felt great.

  Except. . .

  She was delusional. Sexy and married, and in the freaking middle of nowhere. Without outside communication. This man could just as easily kill her as give her a great orgasm.

  "How did you get here?" A prickle of sweat beaded around her hairline as she suddenly eyed him with suspicion, heart racing. The past is the past. Not every man is going to hurt me. "I don't see a snowmobile out there."

  Don’t get all freaking paranoid for God’s sake.

  Now that she thought about it - she hadn’t seen or heard a blasted thing other than the wind tossing things about on the porch. The snowstorm had intensified while she was putting the first batch of cookies in the oven, the wind was wildly whipping the trees and shrubs, and the world beyond the lights of the house was dark. The house was in the middle of hundreds of acres of ranch land. No nearby neighbors to just drop in – or to have help her when the lights had gone out.

  She hadn't slept well in over a year, and she'd finally given up last night. She'd been up since five, wide awake, and filled with energy ready to tackle her piece de resistance, the giant tree in the living room. That energy had flagged hours ago, and barely half-way through decorating the tree, after multiple up and downs on the tall stepladder. After sixteen hours she was about to go up to bed, hopefully tired enough to sleep, which she'd planned to do after the last batch of cookies came out of the oven.

  When she’d heard the pounding on the front door, she'd been scared half to death. Then she remembered she had no need anymore. Still. . .

  She frowned. "Did Tonya drop you off?" Tonya Sanders was Don's wife. She and her sons had been here last week helping her with some of the decorating in the house after her assistant had returned to Seattle last week.

  And she was babbling.

  The guy – the very walking definition of the strong silent and sinful type - made her incredibly self-conscious as he watched her from steady blue eyes as she moved from oven to counter.

  The ridiculously large Country French kitchen seemed to shrink with him in it. The sheer size of him suddenly made her nervous as hell. He was intimidating. She was beginning to doubt he’d fit into the rented Santa suit she’d brought with her, but she appreciated that he’d come over to at least try it on. Especially in this awful weather.

  Which begged the question; why fight this seriously dangerous weather to try on a Santa suit at almost ten at night to help out a complete stranger?

  None of which mattered at this point, she acknowledged. She doubted she’d need a Santa since according to the latest weather forecast, this storm would be with them for several days. Poor client. Denise had been so psyched for this party, but Kendall doubted any of the guests would be able to make it to the ranch now. Nor would the host and hostess.

  Still, it was nice to have a bit of company after spending the past week and a half talking to herself. She wished he'd brought his wife, but she didn't blame the woman for staying in on a night like this. Was she supposed to send him back into this storm, or offer him a room here until
morning? She absolutely did not want to share the house- even one of this size- with a strange man.

  Even if the company in question sat still, he looked like a large wild beast in a too small cage, giving off waves of leashed energy. And Lord, he was huge. Kendall wasn’t used to a man towering over her. But Donald Sanders did, by a good four or five inches.

  Just looking at the man made her breath catch, and her heart race pleasantly. She was almost preternaturally aware of him. Of the length of his dark lashes shadowing those cool blue eyes. Of the small pale scar beside his lower lip, almost buried in the crease of his unsmiling mouth. Of the way his large, tanned hand cradled the red coffee mug.

  She had a vivid, Technicolor image of that large hand cradling her breast, and felt her nipples harden and her knees go weak.

  Whew! The guy was potent.

  Kendall’s physical awareness of another woman’s husband filled the kitchen like a living entity, making her feel a little guilty. But, hey. What was the harm? It wasn’t as though she’d act on the attraction she felt. It was a bit like craving a large slice of Black Forest cake when one was on a strict diet. Just because she wasn’t going to eat it didn’t mean she didn’t want it.

  Except she’d never experienced this sensation in her stomach over a piece of chocolate cake. This was more like the dangerous excitement she’d felt as a kid, standing on tiptoe on the highest diving board. Looking down at that water miles below. Too scared to jump.

  He undid the buckle at his throat. "I came by chopper."

  His deep voice poured through her like hot buttered rum. He put the Christmas mug down, and shrugged out of the heavy coat, revealing an off-white wool Aran fisherman's sweater and black insulated pants. Taking off the thick coat didn’t make him look any smaller, or any less intimidating. In fact, it was just the opposite. He looked even more impressive.