The Cabin
EVEN THOUGH SONIA felt awake, she knew she couldn’t be.
She was ultra-warm and it felt like she was lying on one of those down mattress top thingies and Sonia didn’t have one of those down mattress top thingies. But she was going to get one, it felt lush.
She also felt like she had a soft, fluffy, but snugly down comforter covering her as well as the softest sheets in the history of mankind shrouding her. Sonia owned a quilt, not a comforter, and her sheets were soft, but not this soft.
And lastly, she wasn’t holding her stuffed wolf close to her chest and Sonia never slept without her stuffed wolf, much to the chagrin of the very few lovers she’d had in her life.
She opened her eyes to assess her dream state and found she was definitely dreaming.
This she knew because she saw from her vantage point of head on a fluffy down pillow (also not hers) that she was in her family’s cabin, and as that cabin had been burnt to a cinder years and years ago, she had to be dreaming.
This was proved irrevocably when she heard a door open.
She tensed as she listened to booted footsteps hitting the floor. And she stared, not moving, as she watched an unbelievably tall man walk into the room.
All she saw was his back, but she also saw that his hair was dark, thick, and overlong. He was wearing one of those quilted flannel shirts, his was a brown, gray, and yellow plaid on a cream background. With this, he had on jeans and boots. She could see the tight bulky muscle of his thigh through his jeans when he crouched by the fireplace and quietly arranged some logs with gloved hands on top of an already big pile there.
“I know you’re awake,” his deep voice sounded and she blinked.
She knew that voice and its strange accent. Not American, not Scottish, not English, not French, a beautiful mixture of all of them.
Her handsome wolf.
Yes, definitely dreaming.
But this one was new.
She’d never had it in her cabin before. It was always either in her bedroom or some dream room lit by firelight, a room she’d never been in but sensed, strangely, was home.
And it had never been this vivid.
She dreamed vivid dreams her whole life. It was another gift she had that she knew others didn’t. Her dreams weren’t weird or disjointed. They were clear, they told stories, and she always remembered every second.
She liked this new dream.
“No, I’m not,” she told his back as he laid down the last log. “I’m dreaming.”
He rose, turned, and she sucked in dream breath.
God, he was handsome.
She loved every plane and angle on his face, and there were lots of them and there was lots to love. He was, put simply, beautiful.
Dark eyebrows, sky-blue eyes, strong jaw, interesting nose, full bottom lip.
He could, she noted with surprise, use a shave. He’d never been stubbly in any of her other dreams. With the thick, dark growth on his face, he looked like he hadn’t shaved in days.
She’d never been one for facial hair, but on him she liked it.
She tore her eyes from his face and noticed he had on a dark gray thermal henley under the flannel.
And he had on a great black belt with a heavy buckle.
His outdoorsy outfit, not usually Sonia’s thing, was delicious, especially on that big, muscular, broad-shouldered, slim-hipped, long-legged body.
Hell, if he was real and lived in a real cabin in the mountains and one woman caught sight of him, it would be all over. Word would get out and women would be crawling all over this place like ants on the remains of a melted fallen snow cone.
He was watching her inquiringly, so she got up on an elbow and called softly, “Why are you all the way over there, my handsome wolf?”
At her words, his brows drew together and it was a decidedly ominous look.
Sonia stared at him.
He’d never looked even close to ominous in any of her other dreams.
“What did you just say?” he asked, his voice strangely low and not-so-strangely (given the look) ominous.
She decided to go with it. He was always somewhat teasing and often even playful in her dreams.
“You heard me, wolf.”
He pulled off his gloves and dropped them on a chair as he strode toward her.
Sonia watched him.
His grace was astonishing. He’d always been close to her bed when she dreamed of him. She’d only ever felt him join her there. She’d never seen him move.
He looked good when he moved.
Boy, she loved this new dream.
He stopped to tower over the bed and she dropped to her back to look up at him.
“I’m liking this dream,” she informed him on a grin.
He sat beside her on the bed, his brows still drawn.
“Sonia, you aren’t dreaming,” he told her.
She put her hand to his forearm and tugged it toward her while saying through her grin, “Right.”
He leaned forward so both of his hands were in the bed at her sides and replied gently, “Right, little one. You’re awake, this isn’t a dream.” His blue eyes moved over her face before he asked, “Do you feel okay?”
“I feel great,” she answered. Though she had to admit, even though it was weird in a dream, that her head hurt a little and she felt kind of groggy, like she’d slept a bit too long.
His hand came up and he placed it at the side of her head. It was so big it nearly covered the entire area.
His thumb smoothed over her eyebrow but his eyes never left hers.
“You called me ‘wolf,’” he stated softly.
She didn’t reply. She sat up, dislodging his hand, her body getting closer to his, her face getting closer to his. His body, she felt, went solid, but she ignored that too and placed her hand on the side of his face.
“I get to do the touching,” she told him, as if he didn’t know.
She touched his face in her dream.
Always.
She did it again, fingertips in his thick hair, thumb gliding along his brow, down across his sharp cheekbone, then over his full lower lip.
“Sonia.” His mouth moved against her thumb. She lifted her gaze from his lips to his eyes, which were searching but had not gone tawny (alas). “Does this mean you feel it?”
She nodded.
Oh, she felt it all right. She always felt it in her dream.
And she hoped this dream, which was not only sharper, clearer, and more vivid than any of her other dreams, but was also lasting a lot longer, would not end in her reaching toward the nightstand.
He smiled.
She sucked in breath.
God, she loved, loved, loved his smile.
“You feel it,” he murmured, his deep voice deeper, so much so it was almost a physical thing, and he looked really, really, really pleased about something.
It was a good look.
And the depth of his voice was an excellent depth.
She got closer and placed her hands on his broad shoulders, put her mouth to his, and, her eyes never leaving his own, demanded, “Are you going to kiss me, wolf, or what?”
She watched with great anticipation as the tiger’s eye shot from his pupils and erased the blue of the iris.
She’d never seen the gold obliterate the blue so fast.
But she knew what that meant.
Then his arm sliced around her, his hips and legs shifted, and his heat and colossal weight were pinning her to the bed.
Finally!
Then something weird happened.
He didn’t tease her.
He didn’t let her wrap her limbs around him.
He didn’t wait for her invitation.
He slanted his head and he kissed her.
Ho.
Lee.
Cow!
Sonia absolutely loved this dream!
Her mouth opened under his and that was it.
Explosion.
Not gentle.
Huge.
And consuming.
She was wrong. He didn’t need just to be there for her to be ready for him.
His kiss, his unbelievably amazing kiss, sent her from aroused at his presence to burning for his invasion.
She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him back, hoping to all that was holy that he felt the same beautiful explosion.
He had to, for the minute her tongue sparred with his, his growl filled her mouth and was so intense it traveled down her throat.
That felt even better.
She arched against him and moaned right back.
His arms circled her and he rolled, taking her with him, her on top, his hands going into her hair at the sides of her head, holding it away from their faces, but there was so much of it, it tumbled down all around them.
And he kept kissing her and Sonia hoped this dream and his kiss never ended.
Ever.
His knee came up, her legs parted, one thigh falling between his, and his cocked leg landed tight against the heat of her.
Sonia’s head jerked back, her mouth slowly opening in a silent moan as she felt it. The tight, hard muscle pressing powerfully against her most sensitive part.
Good goodness, she nearly came.
Just with that.
She heard another growl, it seemed far away (but was very close), and he rolled again, this time into her. She took that opportunity to kiss him again and slide herself against his hard jeans-clad thigh.
Shivers of fire shafted through her and she clutched onto his shirt like she was never letting go.
His arms tightened around her but his mouth tore from hers and he growled, “Fucking hell, baby doll.”
“Don’t stop,” she begged, her voice sounding desperate because she was desperate. The dream could end at any minute. Her hand went into his hair to force his lips back to hers. “Please, don’t stop or the dream will end.”
She felt his body still and her insistent hand in his hair was getting her nowhere.
She opened her eyes and saw he was watching her.
“Don’t stop,” she pleaded.
“Sonia—”
The hand not at his head roamed, down, down, to drift over his behind. “I don’t want the dream to—”
She didn’t finish speaking because she heard a cell phone ringing just as she felt it vibrate against her hand.
Dreams didn’t have phones ringing.
Or, they did, but only to wake you up.
She waited.
It kept ringing.
It kept vibrating.
Sunlight, his warm hard body, his tight strong arms, his heavy weight, and that damn phone vibrating against her hand all intruded.
She wasn’t dreaming.
Sonia’s eyes, still locked with his, widened.
Memories flooded.
The intruders the night before.
Then he was there.
Then, her puppy.
No, that couldn’t be right. She was hallucinating.
But something had happened because he was right there.
How could she forget last night?
With a fearful noise escaping her throat, violently, she tore from his arms and jumped from the bed.
Stopping several feet away, she whirled to stare at him.
Her dream man.
Now up on a forearm watching her closely from a bed in her parents’ cabin.
“This isn’t a dream,” she whispered.
But . . .
It had to be. This wasn’t possible.
“Come here, baby doll,” he murmured gently.
He called her “baby doll.”
She closed her eyes. Then she opened them.
“This isn’t a dream,” she repeated, wanting him to tell her it was.
But he didn’t. He moved and her arm darted up, palm out, but the rest of her body grew paralyzed with fear.
At this reaction, he stopped but her head jerked around.
This was her parents’ cabin. She knew it.
But it was different.
The kitchen was newer, grander. It had a huge KitchenAid refrigerator and range. The countertops were nicer. The cabinets were better.
Her head jerked the other way.
There was still a big, inviting, deep-seated couch in front of a coffee table, which sat in front of a roaring fire. The couch was still flanked by comfortable club chairs. There was a large sheepskin hide tossed casually over the corner of the sofa. The rug all the furniture sat on was vast, thick, inviting you to bed down on it with a pillow, a book, and a nice comfy blanket.
But the furniture was different, newer, fluffier, sturdier, more rustic. They veritably screamed, “Take a load off and stay awhile.”
Her head swung forward and she saw the enormous sleigh bed. Bigger, wider, longer, covered in a downy comforter, at the foot was a mohair throw.
Regardless of the changes, it was her parents’ cabin.
How could this be?
Her handsome wolf.
Her cabin?
She looked back at him.
“This can’t be,” she whispered. “Gregor told me the cabin burned down years ago.”
His face changed the second she uttered Gregor’s name but Sonia was too busy registering the fact that she’d clearly gone insane to let the frightening look that crossed his face penetrate.
“It didn’t burn down, little one,” he said softly, recapturing her complete attention as he moved from the bed.
The instant he did she backed up two steps.
He stopped, standing at its side.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
He replied immediately, “Callum.”
Callum.
Vaguely, she thought that was an interesting name. Equally distractedly, she thought it suited him.
She looked down and saw she had on the same cotton nightdress she’d donned the night before.
The memories hit her again, ugly memories, terrifying ones, and she took another step back as her head snapped up.
“They were going to hurt me,” she told him.
He started walking toward her as he assured, “They won’t hurt you.”
She continued to retreat but he didn’t stop this time.
Her hand, with its palm still facing him, had started trembling.
“They were going to hurt me,” she repeated.
“They won’t hurt you,” he also repeated, but his voice was less gentle. In fact, it was not gentle at all. It was reassuringly firm.
His legs were longer (far longer) and he got close quickly.
She felt the logs of the cabin wall against her shoulders and stopped because she had nowhere else to go.
Then she felt his hard chest hit her hand and her hand slid up as he got even closer until he stopped, not an inch away.
She tilted her head far back and looked up at him. She felt her lips tremble and it mortified her.
She tried to stop their movement and couldn’t, so through them she whispered, “Did you rescue me?”
His hands came up and she tensed but he placed them on the logs on either side of her head. He leaned down so they were face to face, so close, she could feel his breath on her skin.
“Sonia, no one will ever hurt you. Not when you’re with me.”
She felt a different kind of tremble slide through her body.
Because his voice wasn’t firm when he said that.
His deep rich voice was rock-solid. Like those words weren’t just words, they were a sacred vow.
“I don’t understand what’s going on,” she whispered and her tense body grew tight as his head got closer but veered to the side.
Then he did something bizarre.
And, she had to admit, it was strikingly beautiful in its tenderness.
With his temple, he nuzzled her own then down her cheek, to her jaw, up again, and into her hair.
He stopped nuzzling her with his temple, but, lips to her ear, he said gently, “Get showered and dressed, baby doll. I’ll finish with the wood. We’ll have breakfast. Then I’ll explain everything.”
Sonia stood, shoulder blades against the logs of her family’s long-thought-lost-but-always-beloved cabin, her used-to-be most favorite place in the world, with the heat of her dream man’s body hitting her own, her fingers curled on the solid, very real muscle of his shoulder, his stubbled cheek against hers, his lips at her ear, his glorious voice calling her his “baby doll.”
And she could do nothing but nod.
Sonia’s senses returned somewhat to normal when Callum stepped away from her but took her hand and led her to a plethora of shopping bags that were lined against the opposite wall.
He did a sweep and nabbed the handles all in one huge fist, even though there were ten of them, some of them large. This proved her theory correct that he had every centimeter of his body under control and was stronger than an ox because she knew no man or woman (even expert shoppers) who could do that the way he did . . . effortlessly.
He carried the bags to the bathroom while never letting go of her hand.
He stopped her inside and dropped the bags by the wall.
Sonia stared at the bags idiotically, noting they nearly took up the remainder of space that Sonia and Callum weren’t occupying.
“Everything you need will be in these bags,” he announced, regaining her attention, and she watched him cock his head to the bathroom counter, “or those.”
She looked to the counter to see three more bags there, but those were smaller.
She glanced back at Callum and nodded.
“When you’re finished, if I’m not in the house, I’ll be out back,” he went on.
She nodded again.
“You’ll need to make breakfast, little one. I’ll be a while. The kitchen’s stocked. Eggs, toast, bacon,” he carried on and this last sounded like a gentle order.
She was still too deep in all the weirdness that was surrounding her to do anything but nod to that too.
With that, he left the bathroom, quietly closing the door behind him.
Incidentally, her parents’ rustic bathroom had been significantly updated. It still appeared rustic but it had a claw-footed tub that could easily seat two. The tub had an elaborate spout and spray system and a shower. The basin was finished with a fabulous concrete countertop that worked really well with the log walls and wood floor. Not to mention thick-pile rugs, fluffy, soft towels, and a big mirror over the basin with a great light fixture above it.
It wasn’t until after she’d discovered the three bags on the countertop had her favorite shampoo, conditioner, bath wash, lotion, and perfume as well her brand of razor and a variety of her cosmetics with the exact right shades and included brushes.
It wasn’t until after she’d perused what was in the ten shopping bags and found a variety of girlie outdoor gear. Corduroys, jeans, belts, long-sleeved thermals, long-sleeved tees, henleys, sweaters, fleeces, poofy vests, and thick socks that were all in her exact sizes. But not her colors. She usually wore white, black, gray, or silver. There was none of that and, of course, she never wore outdoor gear and hadn’t in thirty-one years.
It wasn’t until after she’d found sexy, lacy, satiny, silky lingerie for sleeping in and even sexier lacy, satiny, silky underwear for wearing (and not a piece of it her usual classic, but utilitarian, undergarments) were also in the bags.
It wasn’t until after she’d lotioned, spritzed perfume, gunked smoothing elixir into her hair, and put on a light coat of makeup.
It was when she was blow drying her hair with a blow dryer she found in the cabinet. She was doing it while standing in front of the mirror in a demi bra made of pale green-yellow silk topped with beige lace and matching Brazilian cut panties. Neither of which she’d even glance at in a store, but, she had to admit, they were beautiful and made her feel a little bit saucy.
It was then that her mind shuffled logically through last night and this morning and everything that had happened.
Last night, while she was innocently sleeping (for all they knew), men invaded her house.
They grabbed her, scared her nearly to death, and discussed raping her.
Then Callum came in and, obviously, saved the day.
However, afterward, he did not phone the police.
She did not wake up in a hospital bed or shaken by a uniformed officer.
Most importantly, she was not introduced by a proper authority to Callum as the man who just happened to be walking past her house and heard her scream (which, she also noted, she never screamed, so how on earth had he known to come in at all!). Therefore, upon hearing her scream, he gallantly burst forth to wrest her from the clutches of evil.
This morning, when she’d woken thinking she was in a dream, he had not informed her firmly that she was not, indeed, dreaming. And Callum, she also noted, could be very firm.
Instead, he’d not acted like a gentleman and he’d taken advantage of her obvious confusion and vulnerability and kissed her and other things as well.
Now she found out that he knew her preferences for toiletries and her size.
He’d been prepared for this.
Very prepared.
She knew why and she thought it was a cruel cosmic joke that the man outside splitting logs (she could hear the axe and the logs dropping into the snow), looked like her dream man.
It was a sadistic maneuver for that jerk to bring her here.
She’d figured that out too.
Because Gregor, for some demented reason, had systematically removed every hint of her mother and father and the life she had with them. Except her stuffed wolf and the Christmas decorations, but only because she’d thrown an almighty six-year-old fit.
He’d obviously gotten rid of the cabin too and didn’t have the courage to tell her he’d sold it.
After she got away from Callum, she was finally going to demand some answers from Gregor. Then she was going to tell his son Yuri once and for all that she was not going to sleep with him and definitely not going to marry him. Last, she was never speaking to another man again until the day . . . she . . . died!
Except, of course, Gregor, after she forgave him because, even though he was remote, she still loved him.
And, obviously, Yuri, after she forgave him too, because, even though she knew he thought differently, she’d always thought of him kind of like a brother and she loved him too.
She put on a pair of fawn-colored low-rider cords which she was not going to think were cute (even though they were). She added a brown leather belt with daisies stamped into the leather which was something else that she determined was not cute (even though it was). Then she donned a bright pink, long-sleeved henley that had a ribbon with flowers sewn down the buttoned slit at the collar which didn’t fit her like it was made for her, wasn’t surprisingly the perfect color for her, and didn’t make her look really good even though she’d never have guessed it (even though it did all that).
She also tugged on a pair of thick socks that were not warm and snugly (even though they were).
She found there were no shoes but she didn’t need shoes.
Yet.
She walked out of the bathroom and grabbed the bags (taking three trips) and carted them back into the big room.
She made the bed (angrily) as she heard Callum chop, chop, chopping outside. Sometimes, she’d hear him stop and approach the house and she’d get tense, but he did it only to stack the logs on the back porch because he never came inside.
She found coffee, poured herself a cup, and yanked open the refrigerator to find Callum had stocked it only with full-fat milk.
Of course.
He knew her clothing size but he didn’t know she religiously had to drink skim in order to fit in it.
Jerk!
She made breakfast for the both of them and surprisingly she heard the back door open the minute she was done.
She heard his boots on the floor as she was busily taking the plates from warming in the oven.
He stopped at the mouth of the u-shaped kitchen.
She didn’t turn. If she did, she might throw something at him.
Or cry.
Or both.
“Sonia?” he called.
“Yep,” she said, flipping the oven closed with her foot and still not looking at him.
“You okay?” he asked, sounding concerned.
Jerk!
“Much better,” she replied, busily loading food on their plates. “Breakfast is ready.”
“I know.”
That got a reaction.
She turned to look at him and was reminded of the gargantuan joke the cosmos was playing on her because he was way, way, way too darned handsome.
She buried that thought and asked, “How did you know?”
“Smelled it. Heard it,” he replied and turned while finishing, “I’ll be there after I wash up.”
Since he was turning, he didn’t see her mouth had dropped open.
Okay, she was cooking bacon. You could smell bacon from a mile away.
But he heard it?
How?
She, of course, could hear the final preparations of breakfast.
But him?
No way.
She watched him disappear into the bathroom as she felt a shiver run up her spine and decided to bury that too.
He couldn’t know of her gifts so he could pretend to have ones as well. Even Gregor and Yuri didn’t know. Sure, she’d often messed up around them. Still, they’d never cottoned on.
She’d found placemats and napkins, and by the time he was done in the bathroom, she was putting his plate on a mat on the bar that separated the kitchen from the living room.
He slid on the stool and looked down at his plate.
As usual, Sonia stood at the kitchen counter across from him (the last part not as usual, obviously) and ate while contemplating how she was going to get out of this mess.
Would it take a million dollars?
Two?
Three?
What would he accept to give up his game?
“What’s this?” Callum asked, his voice tight in a way that sounded like he was restraining some impulse, and when she looked at him, his face was carefully blank.
“Eggs, bacon, and toast,” she answered.
He looked back down at his plate.
Sonia continued eating.
“I recognize the toast,” he commented with forced politeness and she looked up again to see he was holding a piece of toast between a very attractive thumb and forefinger. “Is there butter?”
“Butter is fat,” Sonia replied and took a bite of her dry toast.
Callum watched her chew like it was fascinating in a watching-the-devastation-of-an-earthquake-in-slow-motion-on-TV kind of way.
“What’d you do to the bacon?” Callum inquired after she swallowed.
“I cut off the fat,” she informed him. “The meat is good. Protein. The fat is bad.”
His brows went up and he went on, his voice no longer polite but coated in disbelief, “You cut the fat off bacon?”
“Yep.”
He looked down at his plate. “The eggs are white.”
“That’s because I threw away the yolks. They’re filled with cholesterol.”
She trained her eyes on her plate and kept eating, but she lifted her head when she heard him move.
She watched with surprise and not a small amount of annoyance as he rounded the counter, went straight to the trash bin, and dumped everything on his plate inside it.
Then she watched with even sharper surprise and an ungodly amount of annoyance when he walked to her, grabbed her plate out from under her, pulled the remnants of toast right out of her fingers, and dumped that in the bin too.
Sonia stood staring at him wordlessly as he opened the fridge, nabbed the bacon, dumped a huge lump of it into the skillet, and turned on the burner. After that, he gently moved her away from the range and grabbed the box of eggs she’d left on the counter.
As he started cracking eggs into a bowl, she spluttered, “You just . . . you just . . . just . . . threw away my food.”
“That wasn’t food,” he replied.
“It was breakfast,” she shot back.
“It wasn’t that either.”
“Callum—”
He turned to her as the bacon started sizzling and advanced, quickly. She retreated, not quickly enough. Her hips hit the counter and he closed in.
His hands on the counter on either side of her, he leaned down so they were face to face. “You’re too skinny. You need to eat. Not egg whites, not dry toast, and not fatless bacon.”
He thought she was too skinny?
Was he blind?
Sonia couldn’t move, but even so, her mouth dropped open.
He ignored her astonished look and kept talking. “No more of that shit, Sonia. Not for me and not for you either.”
“Are you . . . ?” she paused, not thinking she could say it, then she said it, “Telling me what to eat?”
“Damn right,” he replied, not having any problem saying what he had to say.
He pushed away from the counter and turned back to the range.
She watched in growing horror as he cooked breakfast all in one skillet.
He didn’t not only not cut the fat off the bacon and separate the yolks, he didn’t drain the bacon grease before he dumped the eight (yes, eight!) scrambled eggs into the skillet with it. Not done, he also chucked a handful (and his hand, as Sonia had noted on several occasions, was large) of pre-grated cheddar cheese on the lot and sprinkled it all with garlic salt.
Further, he slathered the toast in so much butter it was the added stroke on top of the heart attack that was the egg-bacon-cheese mess.
He served this all up on the plates, got himself a fresh cup of coffee, poured a warm up in hers, dashed it with not a splash of milk but a glug, and handed both plate and mug to her.
Then he picked up his own plate, rested a hip against the counter, leveled his blue eyes on her, and ordered, “Eat.”
She looked at her plate.
She had to admit, it looked really good.
And it smelled fantastic.
She looked at him.
“I can’t eat this.”
“Eat,” he repeated.
“This is . . . I can’t—”
“Sonia,” he said her name slowly in a way that denoted strained patience. “You can eat it or I’ll feed it to you.”
She felt her eyes grow wide before she asked, “You’re joking, right?”
He shook his head.
She looked at the plate.
He was, essentially, a kidnapper.
He was, she guessed, going to hold her for ransom if he didn’t charm her (in other words, con her) out of millions of dollars.
He had been, thus far, pretty nice, even though he was a jerk.
But, she shouldn’t push it.
Sonia picked up her fork and she ate.
And, while doing so, she told herself it didn’t taste unbelievably great (even though it did).