A Christmas Seduction. Daire St. Denis

Chapter 13

       Chapter 14

       Chapter 15

       Chapter 16

       Chapter 17

       Chapter 18

       Chapter 19

       Extract

       Copyright

       1

      A tip to travelers: always be prepared. No matter where you’re going, carry an emergency kit with food, water, matches and other essentials...like a bathing suit.

      Jo Duval

      JO DUVAL’S PHONE BEEPED—again—but she ignored it. She was too busy navigating the lonely, snow-covered road from Half Moon Creek to the Silver Tree Guest Ranch. Growing up in Chicago, she was no stranger to winter driving, except for the fact that it was so blasted dark out here in the Montana boonies. Plus, she was all alone. It was just her and Michael Bublé, singing about chestnuts roasting on an open fire. No one knew where she was—her family, anyway—and her flight had been changed at the last minute, so she was arriving a day early. She’d called and left a message at the ranch, so presumably the hosts would be expecting her.

      She hoped.

      Despite the heat pouring out of the vents in the rented Jeep, she shivered.

      What if she got lost on these back roads? Or stranded?

      Her mind wandered to a scenario where she was driving a mountain pass—which she wasn’t—and her Jeep skidded toward the guard rail, bumping against it so that she was face-to-face with the cliff and yawning abyss below. In her mind, she wrenched the steering wheel and at the last second, the Jeep swerved, spinning in the middle of the road and ending up in a snowbank on the other side. She’d have to spend the night in the vehicle. She mentally went through the contents of her handbag. What would serve in an emergency situation? She had two candy bars—okay, one and a half—a box of Tic Tacs and...

      She reached for the can of soda in her cup holder, picked it up and gave it a gentle shake.

      A sip of soda.

      Things were not looking good. Did she have matches?

      “I should really keep some, just in case,” she muttered to herself.

      Her phone beeped.

      “I hear you. I hear you.”

      The light snow that had been falling suddenly intensified, so Jo turned on her wiper blades, though they didn’t help much. The radio crackled, like it was snowing in there as well, and she turned it off.

      “Sorry, Mr. Bublé.”

      Visibility was limited to about ten yards in front of the vehicle, and the way the snow came at the windshield was hypnotic, like she was in the cockpit of a spaceship driving at warp speed.

      “Ground control to Major Tom,” she sang softly.

      She glanced at the clock.

      It was only six thirty? How could that be? It felt so much later. The guy at the gas station in Half Moon Creek told her it was a thirty-minute drive out to the ranch. That was almost an hour ago. Felt like two. Leaning forward, she peered ahead, hoping to catch a glimpse of...something. A sign? A building?

      Lights?

      Yes, those were lights up ahead.

      Thank God.

      The headlights lit on a large sign—Silver Tree Guest Ranch. A few minutes after turning down the lane, Jo could make out the buildings: a barn, an enormous log home and other structures, all defined by white Christmas lights. With the snow accumulating on the trees and the buildings, and the shimmering lights peeking through the piles, it was like she’d walked onto a photo shoot for a Christmas card. She parked beneath a sign that read Visitor Parking, got out—phone in hand—and took a couple of pictures.

      “Too dark,” she muttered before making adjustments on the camera app in an attempt to capture the festive atmosphere of the place.

      She held the phone in front of her and...heard barking.

      Shit!

      Three wolf-like creatures came bounding at her from the other side of the lodge. Jo dropped her phone and dove for the door of the Jeep. Her foot slipped and she careened off the side of the vehicle, landing flat on her butt in a pile of snow just as the beasts sprang at her, barking and yipping, about to maul her to death.

      “Digger, down! Come.”

      With hands raised to protect her face, Jo felt the hot breath from the animals’ snarling muzzles before they retreated, making whining sounds as they went.

      “You okay?”

      She lowered her hands to find a mountain of a man standing over her. He just went up and up. When he extended his hand, she flinched before realizing he was there to help.

      “Come on. I got you.”

      Hesitantly, she took his hand, and in one swift movement, he hauled her to her feet. Unfortunately, her boots were not made for ice and her feet flew right out from beneath her again. With the man’s hand still grasped tightly in hers, this time when she fell she pulled the stranger right down on top of her.

      “Oomph.” She sucked in a deep breath. The man’s scent filled her lungs: cedar, smoke and something sweet. Licorice?

      Practically nose to nose with him, she gazed into the stranger’s eyes, noticing how they crinkled at the corners. Nice. For some reason her gaze dropped to his mouth. Full lips tilted up at the edges, and the longer she stared, the broader the smile grew.

      She cleared her throat. “Would you mind getting off of me?”

      “Apologies, miss.” He chuckled.

      She felt the rumbling of his laugh all the way through her winter parka. Jo did not share in his amusement. Embarrassment, on the other hand? Oh, yes. She felt that acutely.

      The man eased off her and clambered to his feet. Once upright, he held his hand out for her again, making a show of bracing his legs this time. “Easy, now. I’d hate to crush you for a second time in less than five minutes of knowing you.”

      She batted his hand away. “I’m fine.” Getting to her feet on her own was a necessity in circumstances such as this. She pushed herself up and dusted herself off, all the while eyeing the formidable canines who sat a few yards away, salivating and watching her with interest.

      Like she was supper.

      “You’re a guest, I take it?”

      “Yes.” Never taking her eyes off the dogs, she edged toward the back of the Jeep.

      “You’re early.”

      “I am. I called ahead.” She hazarded a quick glance at the man. “Are you Dillon Cross?”

      “Nope. I’m Thad. The hand.”

      The hand? Was that a joke—at her expense—about the way he’d offered his hand to help her? She