Paternity Unknown. Jean Barrett

frown deepened, as though he regretted a careless admission.

      “Whatever it was,” he continued, trying to sort it out, “I’m missing something. I still don’t know just how I ended up here and who I have to thank for—”

      He broke off, looking around again, as if searching for his rescuer.

      “No, there is no one else,” she said.

      He swung his attention back to her. “Are you telling me—”

      “That it was me who brought you here, yes.” She went on to inform him how she had spotted his headlights, traveled to the scene on her snowmobile and transported him back to the cabin.

      “I’ll be damned.” He stared at her in wonder. “Nothing ordinary about you, is there, Lauren McCrea?”

      She could see admiration in his gaze. It was silly of her to experience a sudden rush of warm pleasure. She tried to deny it with a shrug. “There’s nothing extraordinary about doing what you have to do.”

      “Yeah,” he said soberly. He stroked the stubble on his jaw and looked thoughtful. “You report the accident?”

      Lauren shook her head, not liking to admit it but knowing he had to be told. “The telephone is out. The power, too.”

      “And the roads?”

      “There’s no way to get through, and no knowing when everything will get back to normal.”

      “You telling me we’re stuck here?”

      “Until the plows are able to open the roads, and as bad as this storm is… Look, I’m sorry. You must be anxious to let family or friends know what happened and where you are, but I’m afraid that isn’t—”

      “Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter.”

      Odd. She would have thought it mattered a great deal. Before she could pursue his lack of concern in that direction, he pushed aside the blankets and got to his feet.

      “What are you doing? You should be resting.”

      “Right now, I need something…uh, more.”

      “Oh,” she said, understanding.

      “Uh-huh, a bathroom.”

      “Through there.” She pointed in the direction of the hall that connected with the bedrooms and the bath. “But I don’t know how smart this is.”

      He looked down at her from his six-foot height, a grin on his wide mouth. “You offering to go along and help, Lauren?”

      The grin was slow, unexpected and decidedly sexy. It also left her flustered. He took pity on her.

      “Relax. This body of mine may be suffering a few aches, but not enough to keep it down.” He eyed his travel bag where she had left it on the floor. “It could do with a cleanup, though. But I don’t suppose without power…”

      “There’s running water,” she assured him. “I have a generator for the pump, but it’s too small to operate the water heater.”

      “I’ve had cold showers before.”

      There was no note of humor in his tone, as if the subject of cold showers raised some grim memory. Scooping up his travel bag, he headed for the bathroom, leaving her mystified.

      But not for long. The temperature in the room had dropped, reminding her that the fires needed her attention. She could hear the shower going in the bathroom as she busied herself fueling the stove and the fireplace. She thought about him, hoping he was all right in there.

      There was something else she thought about, as well. Ethan Brand seemed to be a man with secrets. He had been vague about several things, reluctant to—what? Trust her?

      And had she imagined it, or had he been relieved to learn she’d been unable to report his accident? If that were true, it didn’t make sense. Unless—

      Will you just listen to yourself?

      She was getting all worked up without cause. All right, so she was trapped here with a stranger. But that didn’t mean he was in any way dangerous just because he chose to keep his affairs private.

      Except there was one little thing that genuinely bothered her. Ethan Brand was far too potent for comfort with those breath-robbing eyes and that provocative grin. And with this intimacy that had been forced on them….

      SHE HAD COFFEE finished on the stove and eggs ready to go into the frying pan when he emerged from the bathroom. The stubble was gone from his jaw, which meant he had managed to shave. He had also changed into a fresh shirt, its cuffs rolled back on his forearms.

      “What’s the weather doing?” he asked, placing his travel bag on the floor again. “The bathroom window was too frosted for me to tell.”

      “Still coming down hard, I’m afraid. How do you like your eggs?”

      He didn’t answer her. In the act of reaching for his wallet on the table, he had discovered the clipping and the map where she had left them next to the lamp. He picked them up and gazed at her questioningly.

      “They fell out of your coat pocket,” she said, explaining why they were there.

      Except for the snapping of a log in the fireplace, there was a long silence in the room. He moved toward her where she stood by the stove, the map and the clipping still in his hand.

      “Did you read it?” he asked, referring to the clipping.

      There was no accusation in his tone, nothing menacing in his eyes. No reason for her to feel uneasy, but she did, as if he had caught her prying.

      “I glanced at it,” she admitted.

      “And?”

      “Nothing. It’s none of my business.” He was so close now that she could detect the clean scent of him after his shower. It was unsettling.

      “But it must have left you wondering just who you’ve taken into your home. Whether you could be at risk having me here.”

      “Am I?”

      She thought he might explain then about Hilary Johnson, about what exactly the woman had witnessed and why he needed to reach Elkton. Maybe even tell her he was a kind of investigator on a sensitive mission. Something like that. But he had no explanation for her.

      “No, you’re not,” he said. “But if you want to throw me out in the snow, I’ll understand. Would you like me to leave?”

      “Don’t be ridiculous. Where do you think you could possibly go in this storm?”

      “All right, but I don’t want you to be afraid of me. I promise you, Lauren, that I’m not dangerous.”

      She looked into those pure, blue-green eyes, and she believed him. Maybe she was a fool, but whatever trouble shadowed him, she sensed an innate decency in this man. He wouldn’t hurt her.

      “So, how do you like your eggs?”

      “Surprise me. I’m not fussy. What can I do to help?”

      “You can sit down at the table. If you won’t stay in bed, then at least get off your feet.”

      Her concern apparently amused him. He wore that treacherous grin again. But he obeyed her, swinging around one of the captain’s chairs and placing himself on it.

      “How is the head wound doing?” she wanted to know as she went to work scrambling eggs.

      “A little sore, that’s all.”

      She poured coffee into a mug and brought it to him. “I’m not sure I shouldn’t have covered it with a bandage. For all I know, it ought to have had stitches. Do you have a headache? Any dizziness?”

      “Lauren?”

      “What? Do you need milk? Sugar?”