Snowbound Cinderella. Ruth Ryan Langan

in the instant when the bomb had struck. And the sound of her screams, echoing through his mind, as she’d been torn from his arms. And the shattered body he’d had to identify at the makeshift morgue.

      Even in sleep there was no release. The sights, the sounds, the horror of it all stalked him nightly, leaving him dreading a return to his bed.

      It had been Brad Thompson, the overseas director of news at the network, who had first broached the subject of a leave of absence. At first Jace had resisted, believing that hard work was the cure. He’d plunged himself into even more work than before. He accepted endless assignments that nobody else wanted to cover, in far-flung towns and villages in eastern Europe. He’d slept in run-down hostels and flea-bitten inns, chasing stories of hatred and bombing and terrorism, of neighbor attacking neighbor, village against village, until, eventually, he’d begun to think there was nothing good or decent left in the world. The news events he found himself covering had begun to seem like one big nightmare, playing over and over.

      He’d eventually become convinced that what he needed was a complete change of scenery, if he was ever going to put the past behind him and get on with his life.

      This offer seemed heaven-sent. When his sister, Mary Ellen, had suggested it, Jace had leapt at the chance. What he wanted, even more than to be surrounded by loving family, was solitude. Some time to heal the scars, both physically and emotionally. Then, and only then, would he be ready to be around people again.

      He rubbed absently at his leg, as if to erase the pain that had become his constant companion. The surgeon had said it should mend in time. But Jace suspected that the shadow of pain would linger for a lifetime. Like the scar that marred his right cheek. Like the memory of Ireina. Even the lightest touch, or the slightest thought, reminded him that both his scars and his memories were still tender. And if he probed too deeply, he’d expose a nerve.

      He spotted the little country church by the side of the road. Lights from inside flooded through the stained-glass windows like a beacon in the storm. If the driving should become impossible, he decided, he’d return here and seek sanctuary.

      He turned the wheel, swinging off the main road and onto a dirt lane that led to the cabin. The lane was overgrown with tall trees, their branches quickly becoming heavy with snow. The steeper the climb, the more treacherous the road became, until at last, after several twists and turns, it seemed impossible to go on. The car swerved and nearly went off the road before the tires gripped and the Jeep darted ahead, coming to a stop inches from the cabin.

      Jace felt a sense of relief that he’d finally reached his destination. Another hour and even the main roads would be impassable.

      He switched off the engine and sat a moment, staring at the darkened log cabin. It was little more than a blur against the curtain of falling snow. The original cabin had been one large room, with a small galley kitchen and a loft that served as a bedroom. That would have been more than enough for his needs. But in recent years a master suite had been added, with a king-size bed and walk-in closet, as well as a bathroom containing both a shower and a hot tub. He intended to put it all to good use, especially the hot tub. It might be exactly what his injuries required to heal. If not, at least he would have the healing power of solitude.

      With a sigh he forced himself into action, catching up his duffel bag and tossing the strap of his carryall over his shoulder before stepping out into the snowdrifts. He tramped up the wide wooden steps, grateful that the porch running the length of the cabin shielded him from the swirling snow—snow laced with ice that was beginning to sting like shrapnel. This simple spring storm had quickly become a full-blown blizzard.

      He juggled the duffel and carryall while he fumbled with the key. When he’d managed to open the door, he stepped into the darkness and nudged the door shut with his hip.

      “You move a muscle and you’re dead.” The woman’s voice sounded a little too breathy. But whether from fear or anger, Jace couldn’t determine. He froze as he felt the muzzle of the rifle jammed against his ribs. In the same instant, a blinding beam from a flashlight flooded his eyes.

      His voice was low with fury. “Who the hell are you?”

      “I’ll ask the questions, buster. And you’d better have some very good answers, or you’ll answer to this rifle.”

      She took a step closer, and as his eyes adjusted to the light, he realized she was a wild-eyed, gorgeous blonde, wearing nothing more than sexy underwear. “Now who are you, and what are you doing here in the middle of nowhere?”

      His words were tight, angry. “My name is Jace Lockhart. My sister Mary Ellen Fortune owns this cabin.”

      His answer was greeted with stunned silence.

      Jace took no more than a moment to figure the odds before he swung his duffel bag, knocking the rifle from the woman’s hands. As it clattered to the floor he tossed aside his carryall and in one quick motion wrapped his arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides. The flashlight dropped from her fingers and the light flickered for a moment, then the cabin was plunged into darkness.

      His voice was a rasp of fury against her temple. “Now I’ll ask the questions. And I’d better like your answers. Who the hell are you?”

      “My name is… Ciara.”

      The way she hesitated, he figured she was probably making this up as she went along. “Okay, Ciara, or whatever your name is. What are you doing in my family cabin?”

      “I’m…” Her voice faltered and she had to swallow several times before she found the courage to speak. “I’m a friend of Eden Fortune.”

      “Eden? My niece?”

      “Yes. She told me the cabin would be empty. Isolated and…private. She never said a word about you.”

      His tone grew thoughtful. “She wouldn’t have known. Until now, I’ve been out of the country. And I swore my sister to secrecy about my return.”

      Jace felt heat building inside him, and blamed it on the rifle. Having the business end of a gun pointed at the heart tended to make a man sweat. Still, it didn’t help to have a living, breathing, half-naked Barbie doll pressing against him. It had been the better part of a year since he’d held a woman, but his body, it seemed, hadn’t forgotten the proper responses.

      He released her and in one fluid movement bent and retrieved the rifle and flashlight. When he switched on the beam he saw the way her eyes widened, and could read the fear in them.

      “Don’t worry. I’m not going to shoot you. Unless you decide to come at me with another weapon. Then you’ll just have to accept the consequences.”

      “I don’t want any trouble.” She lifted a hand to shield her eyes. “I thought…I thought you were here because you’d found out that I was hidi—that I was here.” She cursed herself for her lapse. But he seemed too angry to notice.

      “Then you can relax. The only reason I’m here is to be alone.” He slowly circled the room with the light until he located a lamp on a nearby end table. He stepped over his luggage and switched it on, flooding the cabin with lamplight.

      Now he could see the rugged, oversize furniture grouped around a magnificent stone fireplace that soared all the way to the high-beamed ceiling.

      “That’s better.” He turned in time to see the young woman glance down at herself with dismay. When she looked up, he was boldly staring. He didn’t bother to look away.

      She had a fantastic body, displayed in the most provocative manner possible. He looked her down, then up, from those long, long legs, to the lavender lace thong. His throat went dry and he forced his gaze upward. Her waist was so small he was certain his hands could easily span it. The bra was nothing more than two tiny bits of lavender lace, revealing more than they covered. And what they revealed was a body that would make any man’s pulse go haywire. Then there was the face. Lovely enough to grace magazine covers. Full, pouty lips, at the moment turned down into a frown. High cheekbones that a model would kill for. A small perfect nose, and arched