Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Iam either very lucky or very crazy, Caroline thought, shivering in her coat. Just thirty seconds exposed to the swirling freezing hell out there and it felt as if she’d spent the winter camping in the Antarctic. She was chilled to her bones.
Lucky or crazy? Which was it?
She’d been heartsick four days ago when old Mr. and Mrs. Kipping had come down to breakfast to announce that we’re so sorry honey, but we’re moving out.
They were supposed to stay until May, until renovation work on their home was completed.
But Mr. Kipping had lost several chapters of his biography of Alexander Hamilton to a short circuit somewhere in the house and, the crowning blow, Mrs. Kipping had contracted bronchitis because of the frequent break-downs of the boiler.
There was no money at all to pay an electrician to test the wiring to find the source of the short circuit and Caroline could probably fly to the moon more easily than she could afford a new boiler.
She’d still be paying off debts when she was eighty. If she lived that long. So far, her family’s batting average in terms of long life expectancy wasn’t too encouraging.
Mrs. Kipping had been in tears at the thought of leaving and it had taken all of Caroline’s self-control not to break into tears herself.
The Kippings were a lovely couple and had been with her for almost a year.
They’d been delightful company and had provided enormous comfort to her during Toby’s last days.
Caroline didn’t know how she could have faced coming home to an empty house from the hospital. And after Toby’s funeral… she shivered.
In the beginning, the Kippings often remarked that they could never remodel their home into anything as beautiful as Greenbriar.
That was before the lost files, the constant cold showers and waking up to ice in the bathroom sink.
Caroline knew that Mr. and Mrs Kipping were very fond of her and loved her cooking and that it was only Mrs. Kipping’s bout of bronchitis that forced their decision.
Anna Kipping was fragile and Marcus, her husband, was afraid of losing her.
Still, he’d had tears in his eyes at leaving, too.
Finding a new boarder on Christmas Eve in this terrible weather was like a wonderful miracle.
Not to mention the biggie—not being alone on Christmas day. The day she’d lost her parents to a hideous car accident. The day Toby was so injured he never walked again. It had taken him six pain-filled years to die.
So that was the lucky theory.
Then, of course, there was the crazy theory, which was probably the correct one. She was probably crazy to accept a man who looked as dangerous as Jack Prescott into her home and, as if that wasn’t enough, handing him the keys to her car half an hour after meeting him.
Marcus and Anna Kipping had been the safest people on the face of earth—two darlings in their late sixties whose worst vices were Double Chocolate Fudge ice cream and an unholy passion for Gilbert & Sullivan. Marcus could recite the lyrics to H.M.S. Pinafore at the drop of a hat.
Jack Prescott, on the other hand, looked anything but safe.
She’d felt her heart speed up as they talked, ridiculous as that sounded.
And oddly enough, she hadn’t really been able to pinpoint its cause.
Yes, he looked almost scary, but that wasn’t the whole story.
Caroline survived her tough life by not lying to herself, ever.
Even when it would be nice to spin pretty stories about things, she prided herself on looking at the unvarnished truth.
He was rough-looking, tall with the kind of muscles you can’t buy in a gym and an air of rocklike toughness.
He was also attractive as hell, which was something she’d never encountered in her boarders. Frightening, but sexy. So there might be a third theory to add to the lucky or crazy explanations—sudden hormonal overload.
Not that he’d done anything to make her uncomfortable, other than being so frighteningly large and…and dangerous-looking.
The exact opposite of Marcus Kipping, with his predilection for cardigans encasing sloped shoulders and thin arms. Jack Prescott’s massive musculature was visible through a shirt and a jacket.
If she had the sense God gave a duck, she should have said no to him.
No to him as a boarder and certainly no to handing over the car keys to a perfect stranger.
Who knew who he was? Maybe he was a serial killer or …
or a war veteran suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder and who would one day soon crack and climb a tower and start sniping at passers-by.
Maybe one day they’d find her lifeless body in a pool of blood or he’d make off with what very little family silver remained.
No one took in a boarder without references. Mr. and Mrs. Kipping had been recommended by the head of her bank and had known her parents.
Who knew Jack Prescott?
But his deep voice had been so calm, that big body so still. And the look of grief that had crossed his face when he spoke of his father’s death… that had been real, and deep. Caroline recognized true grief—she was the world’s greatest expert.
He looked scruffy and tired, as if he’d been traveling for a long time.
His jacket was way too light for the freezing temperature outside and his clothes were rumpled, as if he’d slept in them.
His boots were old and worn. Somewhere deep inside her, in the place where Caroline never lied to herself, she recognized that those old boots had been the last straw.
They were the boots of a man down on his luck.
Caroline knew all about being down on your luck.
There was something about the man, too. Something almost… familiar. Which only reinforced the crazy theory, because of course she’d never set eyes on him before in her life. She’d never even set eyes on someone like him before.
None of the men she knew had hands that large and that strong, or shoulders that broad. None of the men she knew moved with an athletic grace and tensely coiled energy, like a blaze that was temporarily banked but could flare into life at any moment.
Not in the military any more, he’d said, but he still had a military bearing—square-shouldered, ramrod-straight back, great economy of movement.
And saying ma’am all the time. It was sweet, but not exactly the favored mode of address of men talking to women in the 21st century.
Obviously, living with a Colonel father had rubbed off on him.
The man she knew best was Sanders McCullen and he was as far from Jack Prescott as it was possible to be. Sanders was tall, though not as tall as Jack, blond, classically handsome and impossibly elegant.
If Caroline had only half the money Sanders spent each month on clothes, her financial worries would be over.
Of course her financial problems could be over tomorrow, Sanders made that clear enough, particularly now that poor Toby was gone.
If she married Sanders and became Mrs. McCullen, life would go back to what it had been before her parents died. Safe, secure, comfortably wealthy.
On bad days, like this one, with the Kippings gone, the possibility of coming home to a freezing house that would stay freezing until Monday afternoon because the Jerk was the only person on earth who could coax her boiler back to temporary life and he didn’t make house calls on holidays, a Christmas Eve with no sales at all, the prospect of being alone on Christmas day, of all the days in the year—well, on days like this, the thought of marrying Sanders made a lot of sense.
Except, of course, for the minor fact that her skin crawled at the thought of kissing him, let alone sleeping with him again, which just went to show that she was crazy. Half the women in town wanted to sleep with Sanders.
And now, in a bid to shore up the crazy theory, she’d just given a man she didn’t know her car keys. The only things she knew about Jack Prescott were that he was a stranger in town and he had very little money. Knowing that, what did she do? She handed him the keys, politely, because he’d asked.
How smart was that?
If he stole her car, how could she get home? She’d be stranded here until the weather cleared, with only the weeks-old yogurt, diet Coke and wizened apple in her small fridge for food. There was no way a taxi would come out in this weather—
A sharp rap on the window made her jump.
A second later, Jack Prescott was back in the room, covered in snow.
His long black hair was dusted with white.
Even his black eyelashes had turned white.
He gave no sign of being cold, however. He gave no sign of even being uncomfortable.
He looked exactly as he had before—tough and self-contained.
“Here.” He held out the keys. “I’ve got the car parked right outside.” He was so close Caroline had to tip her head back to meet his eyes. “It’s hell out there so we’ll have to hurry. Are you warm enough in that coat?”
That was rich, coming from someone wearing a leather jacket. “Yes, I’ll be fine.” She shifted her heavy briefcase from one hand to another, surprised when he simply took it from her. He was already carrying his own duffel bag and a suitcase. “That’s okay,” she protested. “I can carry that.”
He didn’t even answer. “Do you need to engage the security system before we go out?”
Security system. Right. Uh huh. As if she had $6,000 to spare for a security system to stave off wild-eyed thieves just slavering to rob her complete collection of Jane Austins and all her Nora Roberts.
“No. I—uh, I just lock the door.” She held up the Yale key. “It’s got a deadbolt, though.”
He just looked at her, dark eyes fathomless, then nodded as he took the key. “Okay. I’ll lock up. If you’ve got gloves, put them on. I left the engine running, so the car is warm. Let’s make it quick.”
He seemed to have just … assumed command. The Army and that Colonel father had really imprinted him.