“Can you see the town from where you are?” he asks.
I turn slowly, scanning. Just sky, forest, road, and a break in the trees, but no lights of the town. “Nope.”
“What can you see?”
I step closer to the edge of the trees, pulling my thickly felted peacoat tighter, my breaths icy on my tongue and puffing out in front of me. I squint through the narrow trunks, the spindly leafless branches.
“Through the trees...there’s a valley.” I squint, looking down at dry slopes of red earth dotted with half-dead scrub and a dark chunk of rocky slope with what looks like the remnants of a pretty big building in front of it. “And what looks like some old, damaged abandoned place. Ruins?”
“Paradise Hotel. Gotcha. Direction?” he barks.
That I can answer a bit more confidently, looking up and scanning the sky. The North Star twinkles just bright past the building clouds that are gathering way too fast for my liking. But it’s still there, brilliant and white against the deep blue.
“East,” I say.
“Any other nearby landmarks?”
I rack my brain, trying to remember the things I’d passed by in the shadows. “Yeah, think I passed a hunting shack on the side of the road, about a mile and a half back?”
“I know where you are.” I can hear rapid movement both on the radio and over the phone, and on the line he goes a little distant with a murmur. “Take over, Mario. I’m heading out.”
Then his voice growls stronger again, aimed at me. “Stay put, lady. I’m coming. Keep your distance from the vehicle in case a gas line catches.”
I nod as if he can see me.
Then curse myself for being an idiot.
I bite my lip, stuffing the hand not holding my cell into my pocket, curling it together for warmth. I hadn’t brought gloves since I hadn’t expected to be outside. “Blake? That’s your name, right?”
There’s a pause, then an oddly quiet, “...Yep. How’d you know?”
I smile faintly. “I was listening to you on the radio before my van went boom. I just...I think it’s going to start snowing soon.”
Another long silence passes before his crisp tone gentles. His voice is so expressive, and I get why anyone in town would tune in to listen to him. It’s like he can lead you with his voice, this slow, rolling cadence of baritone roughness that wraps you up like velvet and carries you in and out of whatever feeling infuses those rich words.
I’m a music nerd; it’s in my bones.
And his voice is like music, even when he says something as simple as, “What’s your name?”
“Peace,” I answer. “Peace Rabe.”
He lets out a soft, husky laugh, and something tightens in my chest. “Rabe? Like a rabe of broccoli?”
“Don’t,” I groan around a laugh. “I had to deal with that in high school.”
“Okay, Little Miss Broccoli. I won’t.”
“You just did.”
“Maybe,” he says, and my gut clutches up at the soft edge in that single word, almost like a sigh. “But you’re not worrying about the snow anymore, are ya?” He stops, then adds gently, “You’re gonna be okay, Peace. I’m on the way.”
“Okay, Blake,” I answer, and even though I’m so cold my toes feel like frozen nubs, I’m freaky warm all over, too. “I’ll be waiting.”
The line goes dead.
I pull the phone back and stare at the screen, running my tongue over my teeth, pulling my collar up around my mouth and nose to trap in the warmth of my breath.
My chest’s all fluttery as I listen to the last murmur of Blake’s voice on the radio. He says something unintelligible before he fades out. The other man’s voice takes over, laughing.
I guess help’s on the way.
And I shouldn’t be hoping the man coming to rescue me is as intense as that rolling, lyrical, perfect lion voice.
Oh, God.
So he’s not just intense.
He’s...
No.
Nope.
Nada.
I totally shouldn’t be staring at the tall man climbing out of the fire truck the way I am. Not when I’m so cold I feel like I must be blue from head to toe, and it’s starting to make me feel sick to my stomach.
Maybe I’m just light-headed from impending hypothermia.
I think I could live with that excuse for this indecent freaking gawking.
It must be the real reason why I can’t take my eyes off Blake as he and two other men swing down from the fire truck with lithe, easy movements, strength in every line of them, their fire-retardant coveralls sitting on their frames with rakish ease, outlining their every movement.
I don’t know how I’m sure the man with the dark rusty-brown hair must be Blake.
One of them, handsome with a thick head of black Grecian curls, seems far too young to go with that voice. The other guy, sandy-haired and serious-looking and old enough to be my dad, just...doesn’t fit.
But the tall man with the thick, gruff beard and the streaks of silver in his hair, with the blue eyes so dark they make the night look bright, with the brisk moves and the quiet confidence in every step...
That’s got to be him.
That’s so Blake.
He’s out here with his coveralls rolled down around his waist and tied, his tight black t-shirt straining against his chest, his biceps bulging in hard knots. He roars something to his men.
They swing into action—hauling the heavy hose down from the side of the truck like it weighs nothing, turning the watery blast on the hood of my van. I guess it’s a good thing it’s a small fire. That heavy jet of hissing water has to come out of the truck’s reserves instead of a hydrant, but honestly I’m not thinking about logistics right now.
I’m listening to Blake’s voice—calm, commanding, rough—as he directs his men to douse my poor rickety van until the fire simmers down into damp smoke, and sad, quiet metal.
It’s almost like I’m not even here.
He’s so focused on what he’s doing. Exactly why I nearly jump out of my skin when he turns his head.
And those dark-blue eyes lock right on, capturing me in their hold like beaming spotlights.
The red and gold flashing emergency lights of the truck play over his profile, highlighting how weathered his tanned skin is.
Lines of age and maybe frowns, maybe laughter, trace wild history around his mouth, his eyes. He’s got cheekbones for days, a mouth like a cruel kiss, and his pulse ticks in stark highlight against his strong, firm throat as the light glides over him.
Oh. My. God.
He’s grimmer than I expected.
Harder.
An absolute stone of a man.
That softness I’d heard in his voice isn’t there in his face. Almost like his body’s a granite vault for holding the gentleness hidden away inside.
Why, Blake? I can’t help wondering.
But I think I get a little hint of an answer as he turns, striding toward me.
He moves like a man who knows how powerful he is.
Slow and controlled, smooth ripples of chiseled musculature trailing down from broad shoulders, over the sweat-darkened pull of pecs against his clinging black shirt. The tight line of his abs and narrow hips switch in a rhythm that’s as sensuous as a hunting panther’s slink.