Snow Bound Read online

  SNOW BOUND

  BY DANI WADE

  Copyright 2012 Katherine Worsham

  KINDLE EDITION

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover Art Design by Scott Carpenter

  Editing by Ella Sheridan

  Formatting by Hot Damn Designs

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  About the Book

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  About the Author

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated with my abundant love and appreciation to my twin sister. Your encouragement and belief in me has made all the difference in my life’s journey. I couldn’t

  have done this without you.

  About the Book

  The last thing Damon West wants is a trip to his bookish neighbor’s house in the midst of the worst snowstorm Cadence, TN, has seen in a decade. Still, his military instincts warn him that Miss Priss could use a little help. His arrival is met with an attack by an unknown assailant and the sight of Miss Priss in a sexy wisp of nothing-much, confidently wielding a double-barreled shotgun.

  Tori Anderson carefully portrays herself as a responsible bookstore owner and capable young woman to anyone willing to look twice. But two men grappling in her backyard called for speed more than decorum. That’s how the guy she’d been secretly lusting after since he’d bought the house next door sees her in a silky robe and panties—with nothing in between. Damon’s sudden interest thrills her, but she can’t help worrying about the unknown threat scared off by her shotgun blast.

  Trapped in her house, snow blocking the roads and no way to reach the outside world, Tori finally has the chance to indulge her wildest fantasies. But she isn’t sure which is more daunting—the abusive boyfriend back to punish her for helping convict him of murder or her desire to have more than one night with the town’s most unavailable bachelor.

  .

  Chapter One

  With a sudden snap, the room went dark.

  The transition from softly lit home office to the pitch-black that can only occur living in the back of beyond took a little adjustment for Damon, but before his eyes cleared of squiggles and colored lights, he had his oversized flashlight palmed and on. Like his eyes, he let the rest of his body adjust to the new circumstances, which he’d been anticipating since heavy snow started coming down a couple of hours ago.

  Now instead of the croon of Toby Keith, he was left with utter stillness and the sound of the wind rushing against the eaves outside. The kick of his heartbeat after the surprise had automatically slowed, just as he’d done all the years he’d served his country in combat situations that required steady hands and complete focus.

  Though a strong snowstorm in the middle of February might not be a big deal for most parts of the country, the southern Tennessee valley was looking at complete and total shutdown for the next few days if they received the five inches the weatherman had been predicting since the day before. People here simply weren’t equipped or experienced with this kind of weather, which led to scary driving scenarios and a mad rush on the local Piggly Wiggly. Luckily Damon had managed to grab enough beer and chips to get him through, despite the little white-haired lady that had stared him down over the last bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos. Like a true Texas gentleman, he’d conceded and settled for Cool Ranch instead.

  With a chuckle over the memory, he flicked on the flashlight and made his way across the landing to his bedroom. No more work tonight. Though he had a small generator for emergencies, he didn’t want to waste any more gas than he had to since there was no telling how long it would take the county to restore power this far from town. At the best of times it could be a day. If half the town was snowed bound until roads could be cleared, well, a week was the least he could hope for.

  He pulled out some heavier socks and a pair of loose sweatpants to add to his current cotton pajama pants and long-sleeved T-shirt. No sense freezing. He already had the kerosene heater filled and waiting in the corner. This room was ideal to close up and heat for the night. Too bad he didn’t have something more feminine to keep him warm instead. A twinge of regret surfaced. He could have swung by Rebel’s, the local honky-tonk, and found a willing armful to pass the time with, but he’d opted for winter-weather preparations instead.

  Damn shame.

  His eyes beginning to adjust, he switched off the flashlight and laid it on the bed so he could dress. Yep, he was all set, if not working or watching television didn’t bore him out of his skull before too long. Good thing he had the latest thriller on his bedside, not to mention that software programming manual he needed to study for his computer repair and security business.

  With a lazy stride to the window, he flicked the blinds apart just a touch and stared at the white sheeting outside. The snow came down in large, glob-like clusters, racing to the ground as if weighted. He stared for long moments, absently rubbing his palm in a circle on his chest, trying to reconcile the sight with the fluffy, featherlight snowflakes he’d seen over the years. Yep, this was gonna be a doozy.

  Squinting in an attempt to see clearer through the darkness and little white bombs, he studied the distance between his yard and his neighbor’s place. Unsure at first, his brain finally registered the sweep of light in the backyard, near the tree line of the woods that covered most of the property surrounding them. A flashlight beam probably, since the illumination was low to the ground, obviously portable, and concentrated in a straight line. Not a particularly powerful one, like his Maglite.

  Now what was Miss Priss up to?

  The light was pretty far away from the farmhouse she lived in—by herself, the last he’d heard. Had she forgotten to store wood on the back porch for the fireplace? Hell. Looked like he’d be making a trip over there in this god-awful weather. As much as he’d like her to learn a lesson by having to deal with it herself, his mama would be sorely pissed if she were still alive.

  Thoughts of his mother and Miss Priss together hit a bit too close to home. Both southern. Both sporting the innocent and vulnerable look. His sorrow over the pain his mother had endured throughout his childhood bloomed in his chest. Luckily his bastard of a father had died soon enough to give her a few years of peace before losing her battle with breast cancer.

  Exchanging the sweatpants for jeans and adding his work boots, Damon headed downstairs to top off with his heavy coat. Miss Priss was one woman he’d avoided since the first time he’d met her. He could spot the type a mile away—manicured nails, skirts and sweater sets, never a blonde hair out of place. She had the fragile bone structure of a Southern Belle and the perfect facade of a beauty queen. When one of the guys in town mentioned she’d been head of the cheerleading squad in high school, Damon hadn’t been a bit surprised. But all that femininity usually went hand in hand with neediness. And he needed a helpless woman calling him at all hours like he needed another bullet wound in his body.

  He much preferred the hardier, earthier stock that hung out at Benji’s on a Friday night. Sexy in a straightforward—okay, blatant—way and sturdy enough for him to ride all night. Not about to take crap from any man. No strings attached. Just the way he liked it.


  Nope. Miss Priss was not his type. It didn’t matter that those eyes were bluer than blue and that mouth was made to wrap around his— He shook his head. Nope. Not for him. He might muss her hair if he got too raunchy with her, he thought with a grin, only to have it snatched away as he stepped out the back door.

  The sting of freezing air and wet snowflakes, in contrast to the warmth of the house, took his breath. He didn’t bother with the flashlight. The land between the houses rolled gently but was clear of trees and brush. With a coating of snow already crunching under his feet and white clouds of it surrounding him, what little light there was reflected exponentially. He’d spent enough time on covert ops to make his way without wasting battery life, so his strides were smooth and purposed, eating up the distance despite the less than ideal weather conditions.

  The bitter cold had him breathing heavier by the time he breached the yard area, and he noted a soft glow that was probably candlelight in the upper window on this side. Miss Priss’s bedroom? That thought prompted a spark of heat he firmly squashed, since this was one woman whose bedroom he would never let himself visit.

  Pausing near the edge of the covered porch, he surveyed the darkness, trying to separate the swirl of the snowflakes on the air with human movement. Not detecting anything, he moved farther across the crackling surface away from the house, this time focusing on the ground in search of footprints that might have survived the rapid downfall. The muscles along the back of his neck tensed, sensing something wasn’t right in the empty space, when just minutes before he’d seen a flashlight. With a last glance he turned toward the house, deciding he’d check in and see if Miss Priss had somehow managed to hightail it back inside since he’d stood at his bedroom window.

  A heavy weight slammed into his back, carrying him forward to stumble against the edge of the porch. “Holy shit.” Damon’s body dived straight into combat mode, falling into the patterns from his military days. The weight on his back lifted and he recognized the movements as a large man.

  Unwilling to remain trapped between his attacker and the porch, he kicked out with his steel-toed boots, catching the man along the front of his shin. A low cry echoed in the stillness around them, punctuating the heaving of breath from their lungs. The other man’s pain gave Damon a moment’s grace, and he twisted, nailing the bastard in the shoulder with his elbow.

  During active duty Damon’s buddies had learned not to spar with him throughout training. He might look like a good ole boy in his jeans and cowboy boots, and talk with a southern drawl as slow as syrup, but he was a mean SOB in hand-to-hand and quick, no doubt about it.

  He struck fast now, pushing his attacker back with a series of rapid blows to his head and chest. Force and momentum propelled them out into the swirling snow. The other man recovered from his surprise, returning Damon’s punches with some of his own—hard, quick jabs that spoke of street-fighting experience. Despite Damon’s slight height advantage, they proved an even match on the sloping ground. Soon Damon’s arms ached from deflecting blows and he was wishing to hell he’d grabbed his gun on the way out of the house.

  His wish came true when the loud report of a shotgun shattered the desperate struggle. Damon got one quick look at the avenging angel in satin on the back porch before a hard blow to his temple turned out the lights.

  Chapter Two

  Damon’s awareness returned in a rush, bringing the sting of snow on the skin of his cheek where it lay against the ground. He rolled so he faced the sky, even though the move caused his aching head to twist and twirl like the white flakes that had eased up a little.

  “Are you all right?”

  His brain soaked up the soft, feminine murmur, so different from the violent attack he’d been expecting. At once his muscles surrendered, the tension melting like the snowflakes beneath him. Pale, blurry features and an abundance of bright blonde hair leaned over him, and his mind flashed back to the last thing he’d seen before the bastard had landed his sucker punch.

  Miss Priss, the woman whose only wardrobe seemed to consist of ladylike sweater sets and skirts with the occasional dress pants thrown in, stood on her back porch. A robe draped her delicate shoulders like a shiny jacket, but the front had been whipped open by the wind to reveal the valley between her breasts, the creamy skin of her stomach, and a tiny pair of panties whose color he couldn’t determine in the darkness. But all that surprising sexiness contrasted with the double-barrel shotgun resting so comfortably in her delicate fingers.

  Holy shit! Miss Priss was packin’ with nothing lackin’. On both fronts.

  “Where’d he go?”

  “I’m not sure,” Tori said, her voice solid though he couldn’t make out her lips clearly. “When he started toward me, I cocked old Betsy again and he took off for the woods. Guess he didn’t think he could stand up against a shotgun.”

  “Old Betsy?”

  Her laugh danced like the snow on the wind. “Yep. That’s what my daddy always called her.”

  He could lay there all night listening to her talk in her languid southern accent, but his ass was going numb. Concentrating on his arms instead of his pounding head, he pushed up from the ground and managed to get his feet underneath him. On the periphery of his awareness were gentle hands that offered more moral than physical support. Turning to get a good look at her, he was appalled to find her dressed just like he remembered—bare feet digging into the crunchy grass while the silvery material of her robe soaked up moisture in a spreading dark stain.

  He pushed the weakness aside, gaining his feet and gathering strength by the minute. At least he liked to think so until a few steps made the world tilt like a carnival ride. Her warm body snuggled against his right side, her hand drawing his arm around her shoulders. “Let me help you,” she said.

  “Darlin’, you aren’t big enough to play crutch to a fella like me.”

  To his surprise she didn’t fall into the helpless “little ole me” routine he expected. “Just hush and let’s get into the house.” If he hadn’t been working to stay upright, he’d have been struggling not to get hard. Between the gun and the sex-kitten look, she was blowing all his expectations tonight.

  They managed all right crossing a few feet of yard, though he did his best not to lean on her more than it took to keep his balance oriented. That lasted until they reached the steps leading to the porch. The first was manageable, but the minute her foot hit the second, it slipped out from under her. His reactions were too slow to keep her from going down, and she twisted before slamming into the edge of the porch with a sharp cry. A wince slipped out in sympathy, but the echo of noise reminded him that they might not be alone. Inside the house was the safest place for them.

  Suck it up. The grating voice of Damon’s long hated drill-sergeant rang in his mind, the one that often returned when he least wanted to hear it. He steeled himself for pain and swung her body into his arms, his work boots transporting them safely up the icy steps and in the back door. The heat of the enclosed space thawed his cheeks first, then his ears. He’d lost his hat somewhere. Shivers worked their way down his spine as cold water from his hair dripped beneath the collar of his coat.

  Without thought to the polished wood floors, he tromped through the dark of the spacious kitchen to the living room beyond, groaning in appreciation of the rolling flames in the fireplace. He lay his burden on the overstuffed burgundy sofa, then stepped back to look down at her small body against the surrounding darkness.

  A mental flash of his mother, curled on the sofa after his father had hit her, flickered in his mind’s eye. But he reached for reality, letting the heat, the faint scent of cinnamon, and the vibrant colors pull him back from the nightmares. The shotgun still clasped in Tori’s hand contrasted harshly with all her delicate beauty. Reaching out, he wrapped his hand around the grip and used gentle pressure to ease it from her. She didn’t protest.

  Warmth penetrated his muscles, which were rapidly loosening now that he’d secured the weap
on. He found himself looking down at the woman laid out before him, and his body jolted. Somehow his male brain had equated those sophisticated-lady clothes she wore with shapeless and saggy, like she had something to hide. Yeah, right. Only if she was hiding the most valuable treasure God ever gave Cadence, Tennessee.

  The damp silk robe hid no part of her body from him. At less than five-and-a-half feet, she was perfection in miniature. Her skin was pale and creamy but with an undertone that hinted at an ability to tan. The part of material down the front, aided by her position on her side, allowed him to glimpse the inner curve of one nicely rounded breast, her softly rounded stomach, and muscled inner thigh. But the thin covering skimmed over a tiny waist and the voluptuous hips beneath it and—lordy, lordy, one more inch and he’d get a full view of Miss Priss’s surprisingly delectable ass. This little lady was far from bland; her curves, without the covering of civility, urged him to taste, then taste again.

  A sudden movement of her hands pulled the robe together, jerky and swift as if she’d just realized how much skin was on display, snapping his attention back to where it should be. The wide, startled look in her bright blue eyes and the darkening flush spreading down her cheeks to her neck told him she wasn’t used to being ogled. Just as he wasn’t used to ogling—her, at least. Miss Tori Anderson.

  As tremors raced down her limbs, he wrenched his mind out of his pants and back to the situation at hand. But she beat him to it, trying to rise from the couch. “Where are you going?” he asked, reaching out to resettle her, his hands chilled by the wet satin.

  Thick lashes swept down over her blue irises. “I need to get dressed.”

  “Dressed. Right.” This time he moved to help her up until he noted the sharp inhale of her breath and the quick shift of her body to the right. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”