He was tall and toughly built, wearing a shabby, unzipped mountain parka over a faded black T-shirt and jeans. In one large, capable hand he carried a fishing rod and a string of slick bass, the latter dangling from his grip. With the other hand he extended the cigarette, but he might as well have been pointing a lethal weapon at her. His menacing body language said as much.
His face was arresting—sharply cut around the jaw and cheekbones, with the rest of his features blunt. A few steely-gray hairs to the left of his widow’s peak blended into the remainder of his thick, somewhat shaggy dark hair, combining with the lines in his face to allow Liza to guess his age somewhere just shy of forty. He was probably ten or twelve years her senior.
It was his voice rather than his appearance that most commanded Liza’s attention, however. It began as a powerful rumble deep in his chest and finished in a controlled, deceptively quiet growl. It was the voice of a man who’d never need to shout to make his point.
He said “I don’t like your cigarettes in my grass, honey. In fact, I don’t like you here at all, so turn your fancy car around and get the hell out, all right?”
“Your grass?”
“I’m in no mood for conversation this morning, so—”
“Neither am I, honey,” Liza snapped. “But I’d like an explanation just the same. Who are you? Does my grandfather know you’re trespassing up here?”
“Grandfather,” he repeated, and something dawned in his hooded, black eyes—something akin to recognition as he looked into her face for the first time. His eyes were very dark and full of shadows, quirking at the corners as he studied her standing there in the first break of sunlight.
“I see,” he said, dropping the cigarette onto the gravel and grinding it out with the heel of his boot. “I suppose you’re Liza.”
That surprised the heck out of her, but Liza put up a brave front just the same. “How do you know my name?”
“Educated guess,” he replied, meeting her gaze again with a penetrating, sidelong look. “Your grandfather talks about you. Liza’s the reckless one. The black sheep. The pain in the ass with the smart mouth.”
“Well,” she said tartly, “it’s nice to know I’m remembered kindly in my old hometown. What else do you know about me?”
He seemed for a moment on the verge of telling her, but something held him back. He leaned his fishing rod against the passenger door of the T-bird and dug into his jeans pocket for a handkerchief. Handing it to her, he said instead, “Your lip’s bleeding.”
He was very tall, Liza realized in that instant. Several inches more than six feet, and his body was whip thin beneath his loose jacket. His clothes were worn, and his boots were caked with trail mud. His hands, she noticed as she accepted the frayed handkerchief, were also dirty. From fishing, probably.
Watching her dab her lip, he said, “I also know you’ve made a lot of people miserable in this town.”
“Me? Do I look like the kind of girl who would make anyone miserable?”
He took the question as an invitation to examine Liza more carefully. With a glance that wasn’t especially flattering, he studied her stretchy minidress—skintight and black, her bare legs and the fuchsia-colored spike heels she wore just to make a statement. It was the kind of outfit that made Liza feel good in the city—sexy and exciting. She was a young woman on her way up—a woman with style and ambition. At the moment, though, she was damn cold. She could feel goose bumps on her arms, and if that weren’t enough to cast her in a vulnerable state, she realized her nipples were rock hard.
“You look like a tramp,” he said when he’d finished his inspection.
“What are you? The local fashion expert?”
He shrugged. “It looks like you’re going to a costume party, that’s all.”
“At this time of day?”
He gave her a thin, unamused grin. “From what I hear, you’d go to a party at the drop of a hat. That getup is sure to win first prize, if you ask me.”
“Well, I didn’t ask, buster. Just who the hell are you, anyway? What gives you the right to—”
“I’m Cliff Forrester,” he said. “The lodge caretaker.”
“Obviously, you’ve been doing a great job,” she cracked, indicating the time-damaged facade of the lodge with an exasperated wave of his handkerchief. “Besides the fish, exactly what are you supposed to be taking care of?”
“That’s between me and your grandfather,” he retorted, dropping his voice into the rumbling register again. “Are you hurt?” he asked then. “Besides the lip, I mean?”
Liza examined his handkerchief and saw a dime-sized splotch of dark blood staining the frayed linen. “I’m okay, I guess. Except for this. Am I going to need stitches, do you think?”
With one hand, he reached out and roughly grasped Liza’s chin. As if catching himself, he was gentler as he slid his fingertips along her jaw and tilted her head higher, stepping close to have a look.
At that instant, a feeble ray of sunshine pierced the tree branches overhead, and Liza closed her eyes against the sharpness of the light. In a heartbeat, a funny feeling stole over her. Standing there with his callused hand cupping her face, she realized she could hear Cliff Forrester breathing, and the warmth of his lithe body seemed to pull her like a magnet. Though a whole world pulsed around them, Liza felt as if the universe had narrowed to only two people.
She peeped one eye open to look at him again. For an older guy, he wasn’t bad to look at. Just too damn serious. In her mind’s eye, she tried to conjure up a mental image of how he might appear with a genuine smile on his face. Or how his laugh might sound. But Cliff Forrester didn’t seem the kind of man who did a lot of laughing. A tightness in his face told Liza he hadn’t lived an amusing life. The years had been hard on him. Maybe harder than Liza could imagine.
He could dish out abuse, though, and Liza almost smiled at the thought. She wasn’t afraid of him, of course. Liza Baron wasn’t afraid of anything. But she felt uneasy in his presence just the same. As if unworthy.
“Nope,” he said, releasing her as casually as he’d touched her. “No stitches. At least, I don’t think so. What’s wrong? Are you cold?”
She had begun to shiver. Liza told herself it was her abbreviated dress that wasn’t up to the challenge of a Wisconsin morning, but another thought flitted through her mind: perhaps Cliff Forrester had the power to make her shiver, too.
Abruptly, she said, “Nothing’s the matter. I’m leaving, anyway, and the car heater’s still working. Could I trouble you to help me with the car? Or must you hurry back to your caretaking duties?”
“I have a few minutes,” he said, ignoring the taunt in her question.
“What’s this tree doing here in the first place? Isn’t it your job to clear it away? Somebody could get hurt running into it.”
“Nobody ever comes up here.”
“What
