jerked and released her. Marisa pushed past him, going down on her knees beside the small, towheaded boy in rumpled Snoopy sweats and droopy socks. She gathered the child into her arms and pressed her flushed cheek against his, reciting a soothing litany. “Nicky, I’m sorry! Did I wake you up? Everything’s all right, honey.”
Wide-eyed with amazement, Nicky looked Mac over from head to heels. “Mommy, you found a cowboy!”
Mac couldn’t prevent a snort. He’d been called a lot of things, but this was a new one. “Sorry, pal. I’m a city boy from New Jersey.”
“You got boots.” Nicky’s tone was accusatory.
Mac glanced down at his old Ropers. “Yeah, well, fat lot of good they did me—my toes are frozen.”
“No more than you deserve for poking your nose in where it’s not wanted.” Marisa scooped up Nicky and held him protectively, as fierce as a lioness defending her cub. “It’s cold, Nicky. You have to get back under the covers.”
As if in response to her words, a huge shudder shook Mac. “Jeez, you’re right. It’s as cold as the devil in here. Why haven’t you got a fire going?”
She didn’t answer, but her expression was mutinous. After carrying the youngster back into the den, she settled him into a nest of blankets on the sofa. Bringing up the rear, Mac noticed the pile of spent matches and scorched kindling in the fireplace, and he laughed again.
“I see your trouble. Good thing I showed up, huh, Marisa? From the looks of things, you could use some help.”
“Not yours.” Her tone was scathing.
“As they say, ‘beggars can’t be choosers,’ princess.”
She cast him a resentful look over her shoulder. “Don’t call me that!”
Shrugging, Mac sat down on the edge of the stone hearth to tug off his boots and peel off his icy socks. “There’s another one about ‘if the shoe fits...’”
Nicky watched the exchange with sleepy-eyed interest. “What’s the cowboy’s name, Mommy?”
“Judas,” she said. “Now go back to sleep.”
“Funny name for a cowboy,” Nicky mumbled, rubbing his eyes.
Mac’s jaw clamped in annoyance. Fatigue and cold had made his muscles ache and his temper short. He tried to massage life back into his numb feet. “The name’s Mac, kid. Your mother’s been reading too many bad TV scripts.”
“You call him Mr. Mahoney, Nicky. He’s a reporter who’s always had a way with words—as long as it’s a cliché or a cut.”
Mac blew out an exasperated breath. “Look, dammit, we can keep this up all night, or we can call a truce and make the best of it.”
“Suits me, since I have nothing I want to say to you. And I’ll thank you to watch your language around my son!” Nicky was curled into a ball and already snoozing again, so Marisa tucked the blankets around him, then went to the hearth and struck one match, then another. The kindling caught but died out immediately. “Damn.”
“Watch your language,” Mac mimicked, reaching for the box of matches. “Let me do that.”
“I can take care of it!” She held on to her end of the matchbox in a small tug-of-war.
Mac lifted an eyebrow. “And I can see how well you’ve done so far.” He saw anger play across her expressive features and pointed a warning finger at her straight nose. “Look, I’m tired, cold and hungry. You take another swing at me and I won’t be responsible for what happens.”
Evidently she believed him. She released the matchbox. “Fine. Go ahead. But I’d like to remind you that your circumstances are all your own doing. No one invited you here.”
Busy rearranging logs and crumpling newspaper, Mac smiled dryly. “I’ve never let a little thing like that stop me before.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
She stared at the tiny flame that flickered, caught and began to grow under the stack of logs. Mac observed the dark smudges of fatigue—or stress—beneath her eyes. He steeled himself not to feel any sympathy. “How long has the power been off?”
“Since about noon. The phones are out and the generator won’t work, either.”
“No wonder it’s so cold in here.” He propped one bare foot on the hearth, toasting his sole before the fire’s growing warmth. “When did you get here?”
“A couple of days ago.”
“Must have been a hard trip, just the two of you.”
She snapped her gaze from the fire’s mesmerizing dance. “What is this, an interrogation?”
“Good grief, you’re one suspicious female. Forget it!”
Frowning, she leaned her hands against the mantel, her knuckles white. “Forget you’re the one who’s unleashed a pack of lies about my husband and my son and just forced me to spread out the welcome mat for you? Not bloody likely, Mahoney! I’d love nothing better than to see the back of you right this moment.”
“Tough talk, babe. But I know you’re too softhearted to send me packing in the middle of a blizzard.” He gave her a wolfish grin. “Not that I’d go.”
She smiled back, too sweetly. “I wouldn’t force a rabid dog out in weather like this, but you’re another matter. So keep your distance and don’t press your luck. And first thing in the morning, you’re out of here, understood?”
“Sure.” His assurance was meaningless.
He knew it.
She knew it.
Still, the tension in her shoulders seemed to ease a bit. Maybe she believed him. And maybe she was lying to herself the way she’d once lied to him. It would be interesting to find out.
Marisa moved away from the fire. “I’m bunking with Nicky. Find yourself a place to bed down and stay out of my way.”
“I’m just beginning to defrost. I’ll stay by the fire.” He pushed a pair of overstuffed chairs together at the end of the sofa.
Marisa seemed ready to protest, but then her mouth compressed in annoyed resignation. “I’ll find some extra blankets.”
Mac pushed her to see what would happen. “And a sandwich? And some dry socks?”
She rounded on him angrily. Her eyes moved from his bare feet, up the long length of denim-covered legs to the mocking expression on his face. Whatever she saw made her swallow. “I’ll see what I can do.”
The corner of his mouth lifted at her concession. “Thank you.”
She brushed her hand over her sleeping son’s fair head, flicking Mac a suspicious look. Apparently deciding Nicky wouldn’t come to any harm in
