As her eyes adjusted to the bright hallway light, Abby froze - but not from the cold. Oh, no. This was not what she had expected, not at all. In a desperate attempt to reassure herself she would be perfectly safe working alone with a strange man out here in the wilds, she'd spent the car journey creating an image in her mind's eye of what her new boss would be like. That image was of someone much older, much stuffier. Casey had led her to believe he was a loner, some sort of unsociable hermit hunched over his writing all day. A widower, she'd said, implying someone middle-aged or even elderly. Someone harmless.
Jack Blane was anything but. He couldn't be more than mid-thirties. Stubble shadowed his face — too immersed in his writing to care about shaving, she supposed. Light brown hair, a hint of steel-grey streaks here and there. Ice-blue eyes.
The thought of ice brought Abby sharply back to the fact she could no longer feel her feet. She shivered again.
"Quick, let me take your coat." Reaching for it, he helped peel the sopping garment from her while Abby unwound her scarf and plucked off her hat, shaking out a riot of shoulder-length auburn curls. When she swung around to face him, he was staring at her.
Abby frowned. "Is anything wrong?"
"Er — no." He shook his head in emphasis. "No, not at all. I'll put the kettle on and get you a hot drink to warm you up. Come on through." And he strode off down the hall in an easy lope.
Numb from the cold and dazed by his strange welcome, Abby damped down the resentment she felt. Of course he was at ease, she told herself. He was, after all, warm and dry in his own home and he was the one who had initiated this whole situation. She, on the other hand, had had it thrust upon her so abruptly she'd hardly had time to reconcile herself to her fate: driven in appalling conditions, fallen flat on her back, made to wait out on the steps for far too long, and exposed to wet and cold. It was hardly surprising if she felt a little out of sorts.
Crossly, she pulled off her boots and trotted down the hall after him. He shoved open a door and ushered her through, then strode to the sink to fill the kettle. Abby glanced around her. Judging from the outside and the age of the building, the house must have originally been poky and dark and very much at home in a gothic novel, but it had obviously been renovated. The downstairs had been knocked through, and the large wood and granite kitchen she was standing in was bright and spacious, big enough to hold a large scrubbed pine table, a smaller work table and a slouchy couch. An archway led through to what appeared to be a lounge.
"Wow!" she declared. "This is gorgeous!"
"I'm glad you like it," he said. "Tea? Coffee?"
"Tea, please." Abby plopped herself on a chair at the table, watching as he moved around the kitchen. Wow came into her head again, only this time not in reference to the renovations. Jack Blane was something else. At least six feet tall, broad shoulders in a chunky, grey cable knit sweater tapering to faded jeans and leather work boots. Completely unaware, she suspected, of his own magnetism. He placed a steaming mug in front of her, and she wrapped her fingers around it until they burned with rediscovered feeling.
"Better?" he asked.
"Yes, much, thanks." She wiggled her fingers to prove the point.
"I'm sorry I didn't hear you right away. You must have been out there for ages to get so covered in snow."
Abby rolled her eyes in embarrassment. "It wasn't all your fault," she admitted. "I fell on the way from the car."
His brows immediately knitted together in concern. "Are you hurt?"
She rubbed tentatively at her bruised back. "Nothing a warm bath won't fix."
And now the thought was in her brain, Abby couldn't dislodge it. Something to eat. A warm bath. She didn't want to be rude — they'd only just met, after all — but as she glanced at the window where the snow continued to fall outside, she knew she couldn't leave it too long before she insisted on setting out for her accommodation.
He was staring at her in that odd manner again, and Abby felt concerned at his lack of concentration, but then she gave a mental shrug. Maybe it was a 'writer thing.' He probably did it all the time.
"Is everything alright, Mr Blane?" she asked him.
He jolted. "Fine, thanks. And please, call me Jack." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, I'm being terribly rude. You must be exhausted, and hungry to boot."
Abby smiled, relieved he understood her need to get going, and drained her mug. She stood, ready to leave.
"I am, actually," she said, then nodded at the window. "I think I need to get a move on before it gets any worse, if that's alright with you."
Jack gave her a puzzled frown as he stood too. "Get a move on?"
Abby pointed at the snow again for emphasis. "My accommodation," she explained. "I hope it's not too far away?"
Jack's eyes widened, and he slowly shook his head. "Not too far at all. Follow me." He led the way into the hall, leaving her to trot after him, but as she started to pull on her boots, he said, "There won't be any need for those," and started up the stairs.
Abby stared after him, confused and bordering on dismayed. He'd already vanished, and she had no choice but to go on up after him. He waited at the top of the stairs. As she appeared, he opened the nearest door and gestured into the room.
"I don't understand," Abby said hesitantly,
