He didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t press him for an explanation. She sensed that he wouldn’t appreciate any probing in that direction.
Madeline helped herself to applesauce, trying to decide whether Mitch was just a private man by nature or whether he was hiding something. And if he did have secrets, ought she to be worried about that? After all, it was a little odd that a man of his robust age—somewhere in his early thirties, she guessed—should be living a solitary existence in this remote place.
On the other hand, Neil trusted him and she trusted Neil. Which brought her back to the subject that she judged was a safe one.
“It’s a long way from San Francisco to Milwaukee,” she said. “What brought Neil here?”
He didn’t answer her for a moment, and then he apparently decided there was no reason why she shouldn’t know. “Neil lost his wife last spring after a long battle with cancer. It was pretty hard on him.”
The loss of a loved one. Madeline certainly had no trouble relating to that kind of anguish. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t know.”
“He can deal with it now, thanks to his daughter and her family. They live in Milwaukee. That’s why Neil eventually moved here, to be close to them.”
“And you helped him through that bad time, too, when you were both in San Francisco, didn’t you. He said as much on the drive out here, although I didn’t understand then what he was referring to.”
Mitch didn’t deny it.
And you ended up here yourself, Madeline thought, not daring to ask him why he also was so far from San Francisco, but wondering just the same. Had Neil somehow brought Mitch to Wisconsin, just as Neil’s existence here had brought her? No, that wasn’t right. It was guilt that had finally summoned her to a Milwaukee police station. The need to make a bad thing right. Because no matter how she had struggled to silence it, and wherever she had tried to hide from it in those long weeks on the road, the voice of her conscience had given her no peace.
Madeline was suddenly aware that Mitch was no longer eating. When she looked up from her own plate, it was to find those blue eyes fastened on her again. Intense, unreadable. But there was something now in that steady gaze that she did understand. Something that was both hot and potent, robbing her of her breath. Smoldering desire.
It had all the impact of a searing physical contact, and in a kind of panic she tore her gaze away from his and cast it about the kitchen in an effort to distract herself.
“What are you looking for?” he asked.
“There aren’t any,” she suddenly said.
“Any what?”
“Christmas decorations. Not a single one.”
It was one thing not to have a wreath on the door or a tree in the window, but a house deserved some acknowledgment of the holiday season. Except, this house hadn’t so much as a homely poinsettia in it, she thought sadly. Why? Because even a plant, in its need for water, demanded commitment? Was that why he kept no animals for company, either?
“No, there aren’t,” he said simply and without emotion. As if he were curtly telling her that he preferred his self-imposed exile to be without any attachment whatsoever, thank you.
Madeline was sorry about that. She had always tried to make Christmas special for Adam and her, filling their apartment with every ornament imaginable. Maybe it had been her way of expressing the importance of everything they’d been for each other.
And this year? This year, it seemed, she would be spending Christmas in a sterile farmhouse with a mystifying, disconnected stranger—one who was barely civil to her while managing at the same time to disturb her senses on every level.
Just what, Madeline wondered, had she let herself in for?
DAMN NEIL for saddling him with her.
Mitch, stirring restlessly in his bed, wasn’t able to sleep. He was too aware of the woman in the room just across the hall. Madeline Raeburn, with her tantalizing red hair and full mouth. He could still see her across the table from him, unconsciously playing with that distinctive enameled pendant resting above a pair of full breasts.
Dinner had been difficult, a really strained affair. She had been understandably curious about him. There had been all those questions, which, out of necessity, he had either avoided or answered vaguely. And all the while he had longed to blast her with the truth. Yeah, there aren’t any damn Christmas decorations. That’s because I’m not here to celebrate. I’m here because I’m supposed to be healing. That’s why Neil dragged me to this place. Because he thought I needed to get far away from San Francisco. Because I was so haunted by losing Julie that I was an emotional wreck, no longer able to function. A real hoot, huh?
That’s what he would have told Madeline Raeburn, and it would have satisfied him to watch the shocked expression on that bewitching face of hers. Then he would have followed it up by attacking her with a barrage of his own questions.
Why did you urge a vulnerable girl like Julie to get involved in a place like the Phoenix and with people like Griff Matisse and his kind?
What really happened that night, and why did you stand by and let it happen? And why did you keep your mouth shut afterward?
Why are you willing to talk now? Did your lover betray you, find someone else? That why?
Angry questions he hadn’t dared to ask. And the worst of it, the absolute worst, was his realization that he could hang on to his torment and his memories, but he could no longer hang on to the woman they stood for. Julie’s image was beginning to blur, beginning to slip away from him. And that worried him. It didn’t seem right, somehow—felt like a betrayal of his grief for her.
Bad enough, but to have Madeline Raeburn in this house, to find himself actually aroused by her siren sexiness made him livid. Hell, he could feel himself thickening every time she came close to him. And, fair or not, he blamed her for that, too.
Barriers. That’s what he had needed. He had to keep throwing up barriers against his desire for her. He had to tell himself over and over that she was here for protection, nothing else. Had to keep reminding himself of the kind of woman she was and that she’d been that bastard Griff Matisse’s girl.
Even with these resolutions, sleep eluded him. It was long after midnight before Mitch finally drifted off. His restless night cost him in the morning. He slept late, and when he finally woke, it was to a clear sky with the sun already well above the hills.
He was aware of the silence in the house as he showered and dressed. He wondered if his guest was still in bed, but when he left his room to check on her, her door was open and her bed neatly made. There was no sign of her inside.
Mitch wasn’t worried. He’d made certain last night that all the windows and outside doors were secure. He had also elicited a promise from her that she wouldn’t try to go anywhere without him. He imagined she was in the kitchen, sitting over a mug of coffee.
“Hey, are you down there?” he shouted from the head of the stairs, feeling a little foolish.
He didn’t feel foolish when there was no answer. Mitch began to experience the first stirrings of alarm.
