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  When they stood in front of the closed cellar door, Breanne shuddered at the thought of Edward in there. Alone.

  Dead.

  The two doors on the right were open. In the first bedroom was a neatly made bed, a dresser, and a pair of strappy high heels on the floor—Lariana’s. The second room had the same dresser, an unmade bed, and no personal effects.

  Across the hall, the first bedroom looked untouched. The second . . . locked. This was the one from which Breanne had heard humming. There was no sound behind that door now, and no one answered their knock.

  Cooper looked intrigued. “Wonder why that one is locked and not the others?”

  Breanne thought about every cop show she’d ever seen and imagined him kicking down the door and drawing his gun to search the place. “Should we break in?” she whispered when he didn’t move.

  “No.”

  “Then let’s get out of here.” She glanced at the cellar door, glad when Cooper led her back down the hall.

  Back in the foyer, there was a glow from the fireplace across the way, and Breanne breathed a sigh of relief. “I know you’re probably used to this tense, overwhelming stress,” she said, “but I’m not.”

  “I never get used to the stress.”

  When their gazes met, she could see that was true. He’d seen a lot, done a lot, and it got to him. He wasn’t invincible, wasn’t immune to the fear; reaching out, she took his hand.

  He squeezed hers. “I know how we’re going to get out of here tomorrow. Want to see?”

  “Are you kidding? Yes.”

  He turned and shined his flashlight around the foyer. The daylight had gone completely now, and from the long windows on either side of the front door came only an inky blackness, a fact that had Breanne’s stomach tumbling hard.

  Another long night . . .

  Then she saw it, the door behind the reception desk that she’d never noticed before. Cooper opened it, and flashed the light inside.

  It was a huge garage. They stepped in and Cooper shut the door behind them. Breanne couldn’t see much beyond a cavernous, dark, drywalled room, three garage doors, and several vehicles. She could smell oil, faint gasoline, and tires. Then Cooper held up the flashlight, highlighting the clean concrete floor, on which sat a Toyota truck, an SUV, and . . .

  A trailer, with two snowmobiles on it.

  Cooper walked toward them, stroking his hand along the hull of one. “They don’t have any gas—I already checked. My guess is that it’s early enough in the season that no one’s used them yet. The engines look good, though.”

  She smiled. “What does a vice cop from San Francisco know about snowmobiles?”

  He flicked open the hood of the first snowmobile and peered inside. “I know a little about mechanics.”

  The man fascinated her, no getting around that. He seemed such a contradiction, and she wanted to know more. “From what?”

  “It goes back to that wild kid thing. I used to take everything apart.” He fiddled with something in the open compartment. “It sort of stuck with me.”

  “What do you take apart now?”

  “Cars sometimes. I rebuild them for fun. Or I used to. Haven’t had time in a while.”

  “Because of your cop work?”

  He shrugged, but she knew that was probably true. He’d worked so long and hard, he’d burned out. He’d probably desperately needed this week, and she’d wanted him to leave. She hated the selfishness of that. “I’m sorry.”

  Lifting his head, he looked at her. “For what?”

  “For your time here being ruined. For me, for—”

  He smiled at her. “I’m not complaining.”

  “Are you going to go back to being a cop?”

  That got her another shrug.

  “You know, you really talk waaay too much,” she teased lightly.

  His eyes lit with humor but he didn’t respond to the bait as she would have. Instead he went back to looking in the engine compartment.

  “How come you don’t talk about yourself?”

  “I’m just not into dwelling.”

  A throwaway comment, but she could read between the lines, and could well imagine how it’d been for him and his brother without a mom. With a tough-ass dad. With no softness.

  And yet he’d taken any helplessness and channeled it into something worthwhile. He’d become a cop, of all things, a vice cop, where he’d seen things that she couldn’t even imagine.

  Maybe he was on to something. Maybe not dwelling was the secret to surviving not only this madness, but life in general. For instance, if she didn’t dwell on her family and friends’ reactions to what had happened to her yesterday, then she couldn’t be mortified. If she didn’t dwell on being left at the altar three times, she wouldn’t have to have that no-more-men rule.

  Dangerous thoughts here in the middle of nowhere, with no electricity and nothing to do but look at him.

  And holy smokes, was he something to look at! He’d shoved up his sleeves now and was doing something there beneath the hood, and looking sexy as hell while he was at it.

  She wondered at this insatiable attraction she had for him. Was it the sexy clothes she wore making her feel so . . . horny?

  No.

  Was it merely because she’d told herself she could have him?

  No.

  Was it because he was strong and smart and didn’t seem to care what anyone thought of him? That he had no problem showing whatever he felt, whether it be frustration at their situation, hunger for her body, or a shimmering anger at the sight of a dead man?

  Or how about the way he’d protected her without question, putting her safety ahead of his at all times?

  Oh, yeah.

  And damn if that utter selflessness of his wasn’t the biggest aphrodisiac she’d ever experienced. It made her want to do things to him, things that involved a lot less clothing than they had on. She wanted to see him, lost in the throes of passion, vulnerable and open, and when she had him like that, she wanted to take care of him in a way she suspected he didn’t often let anyone do. “Aren’t the snowmobiles useless to us without gasoline?”

  “Yep.” Turning, he walked to a large wall shelving unit, randomly opening one, then going very still. “Shit,” he said softly.

  “What—” She broke off when she saw what he saw.

  A shoe.

  The matching shoe to the one Edward wore, just set innocuously on a shelf all by itself. “Oh, no.”

  Cooper stared at it, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “I’m not happy about this.”

  Neither was she. Her heart had leapt into her throat.

  “Jesus,” he muttered. “The whole fucking house is a crime scene.”

  She put a hand on his tense spine, felt the heat and strength there. “Cooper? I really, really want out of here.”

  “Tomorrow,” he said tightly, and opened another cabinet. “Bingo,” he said at the sight of the cans of gasoline. “Without power, we’ll have to open the garage doors manually, and that’s not going to be easy—I’ve tried. They’re heavy from the large snowdrift that’s probably up against it.”

  “We can shovel—”

  That got a smile.

  “What?”

  “I’m seeing you shoveling in that shirt and skirt. With those knives tucked into your boots.” His expression heated. “Nice picture, actually.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” he said huskily, looking at her, really looking at her, as if he could see inside and hear her thoughts, which were pretty much going down a path to dangerous waters.

  “This is crazy,” she whispered, and backed up a step. She lifted her hand to swipe her damp forehead and nearly poked out her own eye with the knives. “This whole thing is crazy. The wedding, the storm, this house—the dead body.”

  His smile faded. “I know.”

  “I’m just so damned jumpy. And we both know I hate trusting you, but the truth is . . . I guess I do. A little, anyway.”