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  want any of the extras, okay? We have massages and a few other spa treatments available. How about some mud therapy?”

  Breanne could never relax through anything like that, not under these circumstances. “Maybe some other time.”

  “Aromatherapy? We use oils—it’s lovely, really. Or you can swim in the indoor pool by candlelight. Oh! I could make you a lobster picnic when the electricity comes back on. And if you want me to book you for a helicopter tour when we get the phones back, or anything else like that, just let me know. For now I’ve got candles going in the dining room so it isn’t dark there. There’s food, too.”

  Breanne’s stomach growled.

  “See? You’re hungry. Come.”

  “Will Edward be there?”

  “Um . . .” Shelly fingered the mug. “I don’t know.”

  At some point Breanne had begun to warm up, except for her bare feet. If she wanted food—which she absolutely did—she had no choice but to slip back into her high-heeled, wet boots. Ugh. “How come I didn’t see any of you when I first got here?”

  “Sorry about that. But food will help take the edge off your travels. Then, in the light of day, everything will be okay.”

  The travels had been the least of Breanne’s worries. She would happily take yet another horrendous flight, seated between a dozen stinky fishermen this time, if only she could erase the entire day from existence. But there was no magic genie in sight, and Shelly held the doors open, gesturing Breanne out first.

  She peered into the dark, dark hallway and swallowed hard.

  “Come on,” Shelly coaxed. “I met the other guest on the stairs and redirected him. Cooper, right? He’s there already.” Shelly said this as if his presence should entice her.

  Instead her stomach took a little dip, though truthfully it might not have been fear but an unwelcome sizzle of excitement.

  “He’s waiting for you,” Shelly said.

  “Oh, goody.”

  “Have you spoken to him? He’s really nice.”

  “I’ve given up men for Lent.”

  “Are you Catholic?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “It was a joke. A bad one, sorry. Truthfully, I’ve discovered I have questionable taste in the male species, and I’m taking a break until I better hone my judgment.”

  “Well, that’s a shame. He’s cute.”

  Cute? Puppies were cute. Babies were cute.

  But big, bad, sexy Cooper Scott was not. In fact, he was the furthest thing from cute she’d ever seen.

  Which didn’t explain that sizzle of excitement one little bit.

  Six

  When life throws you a bucket of shit, duck.

  —Breanne Mooreland’s journal entry

  Cooper sat in the vast formal dining room, at a table longer than his entire condo. He looked out floor-to-ceiling windows that revealed a black, endless night filled with the glow of white snow.

  A small pixie of a blond woman named Shelly had seated him, after appearing out of nowhere when he’d been heading toward the stairs. Dante had lit the myriad white candles along the window ledges that she busily set out. She was pretty, with a sweet, giving, almost naive smile, and yet nothing within him revved like it had when he’d been sparring with Breanne.

  As irrational as it seemed, given that she was the opposite of every fantasy he’d ever had, he was insanely fascinated by the irritating yet sexy-as-hell woman.

  Maybe it’d been the way she’d looked at his naked body. Or how she’d reacted to the vibrator: like a starving student and a scared Bambi-in-the-headlights, all at the same time. Now all he wanted was to get her to look at him like that again.

  Because that was an unsettling thought, he concentrated on Shelly, who was neat and tidy, cute, and smelled like onions and seasoning. She had his mouth watering at the promise of something good to eat.

  While he waited, the snow kept falling in long lines of white that were mesmerizing. He’d been told by Shelly that in good weather, he’d be able to see all the way to the far shores of Lake Sunshine, though tonight he couldn’t even see the dock that was supposedly only twenty yards from the house.

  Nothing but snow and more snow, and he figured one thing was certain: the skiing would be out of this world. Assuming it stopped coming down long enough to clear the roads so he could get to the lifts.

  He knew if Breanne had her way, he’d be leaving at dawn, but that wasn’t going to happen. But then again, neither was her honeymoon, so she could just relax. This place was plenty big enough for the both of them.

  He heard a click-click-clicking, and knew the sound. It came from a pair of ridiculously high-heeled boots, squeaking from all the water they’d absorbed.

  Breanne.

  A/K/A Princess.

  And though he knew exactly what she looked like—good Christ, the thought of her with her pants around her ankles and those barely there panties giving her a world-class wedgie would most definitely highlight his fantasies for the rest of his life—when she entered the room, she stole his breath.

  Her hair had dried in long waves around her face. Her makeup, if she’d ever worn any, was gone. And though she walked like a princess, she still wore his sweats. A princess in sweats and fancy, expensive boots, with her chin up, only the clasping of her hands giving her away.

  “You’re squeaking,” he said.

  She sent him a cool gaze, then looked around, taking in the exquisite ceiling molding and incredible casement bay windows. “I’m also underdressed for this room.”

  “Oh, no,” Shelly said, coming in behind her. “No one has to dress for dinner. This isn’t an inn—it’s your private house for the week. You dress as you want.”

  “Not exactly private,” Breanne noted dryly, her gaze cutting to Cooper. “But it’s a good thing about the dress code, because my luggage is gone.”

  “Oh, dear. You have had a rough day,” Shelly said in sympathy.

  Cooper wasn’t sorry. He had hopeful visions of her having to go all week in only her underwear—

  “How about I see what I can round up for you in the morning?” Shelly offered, crushing Cooper’s dream as she left them alone.

  Breanne stood just inside the room, seeming as if she’d run if she only had somewhere to go. At the very least she was going to sit in the chair farthest from him, which was approximately miles down the room. To avoid that, he rose and pulled out the chair right next to him.

  Breanne hesitated, but then came close, until once again he could see the wild, almost frantic beat of her pulse at the base of her neck.

  “You still afraid?” he asked.

  “Of course not.”

  “Cold?”

  “Haven’t we already had this conversation? No.”

  “Then . . .” He lifted his hand and stroked his thumb over her throat. He wasn’t really sure why, except the strangest thing had happened when he’d touched her before. He’d felt a spark, from deep inside where he hadn’t felt anything in too goddamn long. And he wanted another.

  And another.

  His brother had been fussing over him for months to get the hell out, take a leave, relax, just be, before he landed in the psych ward. Cooper had finally caved and gotten the hell out.

  He’d quit.

  And he still hadn’t felt any better. Hadn’t felt anything.

  Until tonight.

  Breanne encircled her fingers around his wrist and that inner spark leapt to flame. “Cooper.”

  “Breanne.” Don’t shove me away. God, don’t.

  Shockingly enough, she didn’t, and for a long moment they stood just like that, eyes locked, her fingers over his.

  “You keep touching me,” she whispered.

  He knew it. He had her soft skin imprinted on his brain already.

  “If you keep it up, I’m going to—”

  “What?”

  Still looking into his eyes, she chewed on her bottom lip. “Something.”

  “Anything you want,” he murmu