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  Wet lace.

  Holding a warm, rounded cheek in each hand, he rocked against her, letting her opened thighs and the hot, damp spot between them cradle his aching sex. Then he bent and kissed her nipple, kissing, sucking, before nipping lightly with his teeth, gently tugging.

  A sweet sound escaped her, rough and desperate, reaching out and grabbing him by the throat as he rocked against her again, moving in a tight circle, ripping more of those erotic murmurs from her as her breasts jiggled and made him so hard he was surprised the zipper on his jeans didn’t split. She’d slid her fingers into his hair, doing her best to make him bald before he hit thirty-five as she brought his face back to hers to kiss him, her hips mindlessly thrusting to his.

  More. He needed more. Dragging a hand down her body, he stroked a finger over that black lace, catching the edge, hooking it. Beneath he could feel her rose-petal-soft folds, hot and creamy.

  For him.

  He pressed against her and she writhed against him with an unintelligible whimper. With a matching groan, he rotated his knuckle in a slow circle, ripping another sexy sound from her before dragging the lace aside and drinking in his fill. She was so pretty there, all pink and glistening, her clit pouting for him the way her nipples had. He wanted to taste her, wanted to lick and suck until she screamed his name, wanted to watch her fall over the edge for him.

  Lifting his head, he looked around them to see where he could get them out of plain view—“In the closet.”

  She let out a shaky laugh. “I don’t think—”

  He merely lifted her against him and began to walk.

  “Cooper.” Her voice was grainy, her lips still wet from his, her hands shaking as she pushed his chest so that he stopped, having no choice but to let her legs slowly slide down his until her feet touched the ground.

  “Sorry,” she said, and touched his tight jaw.

  That didn’t bode well for getting behind the shelves and he knew it.

  “I only meant to kiss you—I’m sorry.” Without looking at him, she pulled the red shirt up over her glorious breasts, and if he wasn’t mistaken, shuddered when the material stroked her nipples.

  “Breanne—”

  “Thanks for rescuing me over and over,” she said as she shoved down her skirt.

  “Thanks for rescuing you?” He stared at her. “What the hell is that?”

  “You helped me last night. You unlocked the door for me just now.”

  “Jesus, Breanne. I don’t want to be thanked for those things.”

  “I know,” she said softly, covering her face. “God, don’t you get it? Look at me, I make a living making bad decisions. I don’t want you to be the next one.”

  “Breanne—”

  “Seriously. Not going to do this.” And then she walked away.

  The story of his life.

  “You gave up men,” Breanne muttered to herself as she ran out of the library, body aching, heart skipping around like a jumping bean. God. The man could put her on the edge of an orgasm with just a single look.

  Except nothing about him was simple. Nothing.

  “You gave up men,” she repeated, running blindly. In this hallway, the walls were lined with picturesque scenes of the Sierras in each of the four seasons, revealing a setting so glorious and innocuous that if one hadn’t known exactly how isolating and dangerous winter could be out here, she’d believe she was in a fairy tale.

  Turning a corner, she stopped to catch her breath. Gulping in air like she hadn’t breathed in a week, she realized she’d ended up in a part of the house she hadn’t seen before. She stood in the center of a wide arc that broke off in several directions.

  And she had no idea where she was.

  What a mess she’d made out of this. Hell, what a mess she’d made out of her life, getting dumped again, getting snowed in with no clothes and big spiders and strange characters and a gorgeous, amazing kisser she could really wrap herself around and had—except that she’d given up men.

  She was an idiot.

  Closing her eyes, she shook her head. When her stomach growled, she opened her eyes and drew a deep breath. One step at a time.

  First up—breakfast.

  If she could find it.

  She went on the move again, turning down yet another strange hallway. This one had wood-paneled walls and a carpet runner on hardwood floors. At the end of it she found two doors on the left, two on the right, and a door straight ahead. From one of the left doors came the sound of someone . . . humming?

  Shelly? Relieved, Breanne knocked, thinking this must be where the cook had slept. “Shelly? It’s me.”

  The humming stopped.

  Breanne knocked again but now there was no sound at all coming from inside, nothing, just a charged silence, as if Shelly was on the other side of that door, holding her breath.

  Breanne stared at the door in surprise for a moment, then turned the handle.

  Locked.

  She looked at the door straight ahead. Narrow, and not as glossed or pretty as any of the other doors in the house.

  Not locked.

  When she opened it, she faced a set of wooden stairs that led down into a cellar, dimly lit only from a high, narrow window that led outside.

  A wine cellar. She could see racks and racks of bottles, and smiled grimly. If she didn’t get out of here today, she’d be needing a bottle.

  Or two.

  There was an odd smell here, musty and closed in, but also something more. She moved down the stairs, and then down a row of labels, and because she wasn’t watching her feet, tripped, landing flat on her face, her legs and feet still draped over whatever she’d caught her foot on.

  Which was a crumpled body.

  Thirteen

  Men have it better than women; they’re never required to wear panty hose, and they don’t have PMS. On the other hand, they die earlier.

  —Breanne Mooreland’s journal entry

  Breanne pushed up on her elbows and stared at the body. “Oh, my God! Are you okay?”

  It was a man. He lay flat on his back, arms and legs sprawled, not moving. There was a gash on his forehead, the blood dried.

  Surging up to her knees, she put her hands on his shoulder. “Can you hear me?”

  When he didn’t budge, a very bad feeling snaked through her. The thick, icky air seemed to close in around her as she stared at him, heart pounding in her throat. Who was he? Nicely dressed, he wore dark trousers and a dark, long-sleeved shirt. He was missing a shoe, she thought inanely. “Can you hear me?” she repeated.

  Nothing. Less than nothing. “I was really hoping you’d blink,” she whispered. “Or moan. Anything.”

  He didn’t blink or moan.

  Or anything.

  Oh, God. She got down low and tried to peer into his face. Please be okay, please be okay . . . Could she see a pulse in the base of his neck? As she leaned in, her hand slipped from his shoulder to his chest, which felt . . . stiff.

  She pulled her hand back and stared at him in horror. “Oh, my God. You’re not unconscious. You’re . . .”

  Dead.

  Her entire body went as stiff as his. Her stomach sank, everything sank, weighing her down so she couldn’t seem to move.

  Dead.

  The knowledge sort of seeped into her brain in slow motion, and when it finally landed and was processed, she did what any sensible city girl stuck in the mountains in a snowstorm without luggage, who’d found a naked guy and a dead guy within a few hours of each other, would do.

  She scrunched up her eyes and screamed.

  In what might have been an eternity or only a moment later, footsteps sounded above her. Cooper appeared. “Breanne?” He took the stairs two at a time, those always-aware eyes narrowing in on the body at her feet.

  While Breanne’s eyes narrowed in on the object in Cooper’s hand.

  A gun.

  A gun.

  It was hard to wrap her mind around much in the condition she was in, but facts we