didn’t matter. She’d know it when she saw it.
Just as she always knew what it wasn’t when she saw it.
It wasn’t flying cargo planes—or jumping out of them. It wasn’t ballet, and it wasn’t touring with a rock band. It wasn’t driving a truck, and it wasn’t writing haiku.
Not everyone, at twenty-three, could be so specific about where his ambitions didn’t lie, Sunny reminded herself as she spun the Land Rover to a halt in front of the cabin. Using the process of elimination, she should be well on her way to fame and success in another ten or twenty years.
Fingers drumming against the steering wheel, she studied the cabin. It was squat, and just homely enough not to be ugly. An old rocker stood on the porch that skirted the front. It had sat there year after year, summer and winter, for as long as she could remember. There was, she discovered, something comforting in continuity.
And yet with the comfort came a restlessness for the new, for the untouched and the unseen.
With a sigh, she sat back, ignoring the cold. What was it that she wanted that wasn’t here, in this place? Or in any place she’d been? Still, when it had come time to question, when it had come time to think, she had come back here, to the cabin.
She had been born in it, had spent the first few years of her life inside it and running through the surrounding forest. Perhaps that was why she had come back when her life had seemed so pointless. Just to recapture some of that simplicity.
She loved it, really. Oh, not with the passion her sister, Libby, did. Not with the deep-rooted sentiment of their parents. But fondly, the way children often feel about an old, eccentric aunt.
Sunny couldn’t imagine living there again, the way Libby and her new husband were. Day after day, night after night, without seeing another soul. Perhaps Sunny’s roots were in the forest, but her heart belonged to the city, with its bright lights and its possibilities.
Just a vacation, she told herself, pulling off her woolen hat and running impatient fingers through her short hair. She was entitled to one. After all, she’d entered college at the tender age of sixteen. Too bright for her own good, her father had said more than once. After graduating just before her twentieth birthday, she had plunged into endeavor after endeavor, never finding satisfaction.
She tended to be good at whatever she did. Perhaps that was why she’d taken lessons in everything from tap dancing to tole painting. But being good at something didn’t make it the right something. So she moved on, perennially restless, feeling perennially guilty for leaving things half-done.
Now it was time to settle down. So she had come here, to think, to decide, to consider. That was all. It wasn’t as if she were hiding—just because she’d lost her last job. No, her last two jobs, she told herself viciously.
In any case, she had enough money to hold her for the rest of the winter—particularly since there was no place to spend any around here. If she went with her instincts and caught the next plane to Portland or Seattle—or anywhere something was happening—she’d be flat broke in a week. And she’d be damned if she’d go crawling back to her indulgent and exasperated parents.
“You said you were going to stay,” she muttered as she pushed the door of the car open. “And you’re going to stay until you figure out where Sunny Stone fits.”
Hauling out the two bags of groceries she’d just purchased in town, she trudged through the snow. At the very least, she thought, a couple of months in the cabin would prove her self-sufficiency. If she didn’t die of boredom first.
Inside, she glanced toward the fire first, satisfied that it was still burning well. Those few years in the Girl Scouts hadn’t been wasted. She dumped both bags on the kitchen counter. She knew Libby would have immediately set about putting everything in its place. Sunny figured it was a waste of time to store something when you were only going to have to get it out again sooner or later.
With the same disregard, she tossed her coat over the back of a chair, then kicked her boots into a corner. Digging a candy bar out of a bag, she unwrapped it and wandered back into the living room. What she needed was a long afternoon of research. Lately she’d been toying with the idea of going back to school and trying for a law degree. The idea of arguing for a living had a certain appeal. Along with her clothes, her camera, her sketch pad, her tape recorder and her dance shoes she had packed two boxes of books on an assortment of professions.
During her first week in the cabin she had researched and discarded screenwriting as too unstable, medicine as too terrifying and running a retro clothing store as too trendy.
But law had possibilities. She could see herself as either the cold, hard-edged D.A. or the dedicated, overworked public defender.
It was worth looking into, she decided as she mounted the stairs. And the sooner she had her focus the sooner she could get back to where there was something more exciting to do than watch the melting snow run off the gutters.
The candy bar was halfway to her mouth when she stepped into the doorway and saw him. He was standing by the bed—her bed—obviously engrossed in the fashion magazine she’d tossed on the floor the night before. It was in his hands now, and his fingers seemed to stroke the glossy paper as if it were some exotic fabric.
Though his back was to her, she could see that he was tall. He had two or three inches on her willowy five- ten. His dark hair was long enough to fall over the collar of the sweater he wore, and it looked as if he’d ridden fast in an open car. Hardly daring to breathe, she took his measure.
If he was a wayward hiker, he was dressed neatly, and sparely. The jeans showed no signs of wear. The boots he wore were unmarked, expensive and, unless she missed her guess, custom-made. No, she didn’t think he was a hiker, even a foolish one who would challenge the winter mountains.
He had a lean build, though she couldn’t be sure what the baggy sweater hid in the way of muscle. If he was a thief, he was a stupid one, passing the time with a magazine rather than bundling up what passed for valuables in the cabin.
Her gaze shot over to the dresser and her jewelry case. Her collection wasn’t extensive, but each piece had been selected with care and a disregard for expense. And it was hers, just as the cabin was hers, just as the room he’d invaded was hers.
Furious, she dropped the candy and snatched up the closest weapon, an empty pop bottle and, brandishing it, lunged forward.
Jacob heard the movement. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a red blur. Instinct had him turning, shifting, just as the bottle whizzed by his head and smashed against the nightstand. Glass exploded with a sound like a shot.
“What the—”
Before he could utter another word, his foot was kicked out from under him and he found himself flipped neatly and sprawled on his back. He stared up at a tall, slender woman with a shiny crop of blond hair and molten gray eyes. She was crouched, arms bent, hands flexed in an ancient fighting stance.
“Don’t even think about it,” she warned, in a voice as smoky as her eyes. “I don’t want to have to hurt you, so get up slow. Then get yourself downstairs and out. You’ve got thirty seconds.”
Keeping his eyes on hers, he braced himself on one elbow. When dealing with a member of a primitive culture it was wise to go slowly. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me, pal. I’m a fourth-degree black belt. Mess with me and I’ll crush your skull like a walnut.”
She smiled when she said it. Otherwise he might have offered her excuses and explanations then and there. But she smiled, and a challenge was a challenge.
Without a word, he sprang up to land lightly on the balls of his feet in a stance that mirrored hers. He saw surprise in her eyes—not panic, surprise. He blocked her first blow, but he still felt it reverberate from his forearm to his shoulder. He shifted enough to prevent a well-aimed kick from connecting with his chin.
She was fast, he noted, fast and agile. He parried her offensive moves, staying on the defensive as he judged her. Fearless, he thought with pure admiration. A warrior in a world that still required them. And if Jacob had a weakness he would admit to, it was the love of a good fight.
He didn’t toy with her. If he did, he knew, he’d end up on the floor with her foot on his throat. The kick that shot past his guard and into his rib cage was proof of that. It was an even match, he decided after five sweaty minutes, except for the fact that he had the advantage in reach and weight.
Deciding to put both to use, he feinted, blocked, then caught her in a throw that sent her flying onto the bed. Before she could recover, he spread himself over her, cautiously gripping her wrists over her head.
