My life is a B horror movie,
Lindsay thought despairingly.
I won't be surprised if there's a hook hanging off the door handle, ripped from a wandering serial killer's wrist.
The internal mockery cheered her a bit as she tried the ignition again. Click. The rental's engine didn't even try to turn over, and she sighed, scowling at the steering wheel. Outside, it was dark as pitch, rain lashing at the windshield, flashes of lightning and rolls of thunder adding to the cliché. She'd been making good time, too, considering the weather and her total unfamiliarity of the countryside. She had pulled over to check her map, a little nervous about the narrow highway that seemed to stretch on forever. Wanting reassurance that she hadn't made a wrong turn twenty miles back, she had discerned she was on the right road and had just set the map aside when the car simply died. Ten minutes of patient attempts to restart the stubborn Chevy that she just knew was laughing at her somewhere in its metal depths, she admitted defeat.
"Stupid car," she growled, smacking the steering column with enough force to sting her hand. "You couldn't break down somewhere near a town? The rental agency had better compensate me."
She groped for her cell phone, fishing it out of a side pocket of her purse. Thumbing a random button, she scowled again when it registered there were no bars. Great. Stuck in the middle of nowhere, no cell reception, dead car for company. All she needed now was a maniac in a hockey mask to tap on her window. She was too angry to feel scared, and pitied any psychotic that crossed her path at the moment.
Lindsay peered out the driver's window, hoping to catch a glimpse of a light that might mean there was a house or cabin nearby. From what little she'd been told of the area, she knew that private cottages dotted the wooded mountainside, mostly belonging to wealthy big-city professionals looking to get away from urban noise for a couple of weeks. She imagined that minus the ear-splitting thunder crashing every few minutes, it would be peaceful out here. It would be a perfect place to work, if she could find one to rent in her price range. Her career as a writer was taking off now, having published two novels and several short stories in prominent magazines, but while it supported her well enough, buying a pricey mountain cabin was still out of reach. Just renting would be a stretch.
Her thoughts buzzing around her head, Lindsay stilled as she spied a possible light through the rain and dark. The electrical systems in the car were as dead as the engine, so she couldn't roll down the window; instead, she opened the door and levered herself to peer over the doorframe. Blinking the rain out of her eyes, she could just make out what appeared to be a lit window about a quarter mile away. She quickly popped back into the Malibu, slamming the door against the weather. Grabbing her laptop case, overnight duffle, and purse, then tucking her cell away and slipping the map into a side pocket, she took a deep breath.
"If whoever's in that cabin is a homicidal maniac lying in wait for stranded strangers, it's
your
fault I'm dead," she informed the Chevy. "But at least I'll be dry when he dissects me."
On that cheery note, Lindsay braced herself and stepped out into the storm.
Michael had been peacefully sipping a beer and listening to nature's symphony for over an hour, not even pretending to be working anymore. He longed to be out in the woods, smelling the damp earth where the trees grew so thick that the rain only drizzled through. The full moon beckoned, even hidden behind storm clouds. It wasn't the storm that kept him indoors, though – a little rain never bothered him. No, it was something in the air that made his nose twitch and stay put. Something was coming, and he wanted to be ready for it.
When the door banged, he jumped up to answer, only faintly surprised that someone was wandering the hills in this weather. His welcoming smile froze a little when he caught sight of the bedraggled woman on his porch. It wasn't her appearance – even soaked to the skin, wet hair plastered to her head and cheeks, makeup smudged and nose red she was remarkably lovely. It was her scent that went straight to his head, making it buzz as if he'd drank a six pack, instead of the single Blue Moon sitting on his coffee table. Rain and earth clung to her, which was expected, but under that she was vanilla and musk and warm bread fresh from the oven, with a tangy spice that hinted of a passionate nature. He resisted leaning closer to breathe her in, covering his sudden reaction with a hesitant smile. Before he could form any coherent greeting, she spoke.
"Hi," she stared up at him, tilting her head to meet his eyes. Hers were green, he noticed, and approximately a foot below his. He estimated she was just over five feet tall. Just the right height to tuck under his arm, the perfect snuggling size. She'd fit in his lap with room to spare, leaving space for hands to wander over that small lush figure. He was so busy trying not look like he was staring and listening to his overactive imagination and just
breathing
her that he almost missed what she was saying. "Sorry to bother you, but my car broke down. Do you have a phone? Cell reception is crap out here."
"Help yourself," Michael stepped aside and ushered her in. "It's probably out though. Where's your car?"
"About a quarter mile that way," she waved over her shoulder. "I pulled off to check my map and it just died."
"Well, if you don't mind waiting 'til morning, I can probably fix it for you," Michael offered. It was the last thing he wanted at the moment. He took another discreet sniff and felt tingly all over.
"Could you?" she looked at him hopefully, and he cursed himself silently. "That would be great!"
Way to go, Mike,
he thought gloomily.
You had to tell her you're a gear head?
He watched while she kicked her muddy boots off and squelched her way to the single telephone on the kitchen wall. His clapboard cabin was mostly one large living/dining/kitchenette, with the couch and a battered leather armchair sectioning off the living area. She looked around, taking in the fire in the grate before lifting the receiver and scowling. Sighing, she hung up.
"No dial tone," she said, shrugging.
"Usually goes out during storms," Michael said cheerfully.
"Great." She looked more resigned than upset.
Michael tried not to smile too widely. "Let me get you a towel. Or better yet, the bathroom's that way and there's a robe hanging on the door. You're soaked," he added, stating the obvious. "Can't have you dying of pneumonia." He waved at the narrow hall that led to the bedroom, tiny linen closet, and three-quarter bathroom.
"Thanks, but I've got spare clothes," she said, hefting the duffle slung over her chest. She set her briefcase down on the two-seater dinette table. It was dry; she must have huddled it under her trench coat.
Michael called after her as she picked her way to the bathroom, "Can I get you a beer? Some tea?"
"Tea would be wonderful, thank you," she said as the door swung shut.
He couldn't blame her for not wanting to drink with a total stranger, but he still felt a stab of disappointment. He never got drunk; his metabolism was too fast. But he had a feeling she – whatever her name was – would be adorable with a couple of beers in her. Not to mention receptive. Total unworthy thought, and he knew it. Unrepentant in his own mind, he busied himself putting the kettle on and locating teabags. His sister left a box a couple weeks ago, where was it? Ah, there....fishing behind cans of tuna and beans, he snagged the Lipton's, hoping for a miracle. She smelled too good for him to behave long.
Lindsay dug in her duffle, only to remember she hadn't repacked it at her last stop. Toiletries were there, comb, hairbrush, hairdryer, curling iron, but just a change of underwear and an oversized t-shirt she used as a nightie as far as clothes went. The night was just getting better by the minute.
"Better than nothing," she grumbled to herself, catching sight of her face in the postage-stamp mirror. Her makeup was a total loss, and she sighed.
The cabin's owner seemed harmless enough, perfectly happy to have a soggy stranger dropped on his doorstep. Lindsay realized now she hadn't even asked his name.
