Thank God the doorbell had gone off like an alarm clock and she woke up to reality and realized how strange, how dangerous, her situation was. And he was wild, not listening to her protests, immovable though she was fighting against him with all of her strength. All his blood had drained from his brain and was residing in his erection—his damned impressive erection. Had she really made a grab for it? Crap. That wasn't like her.
The memory of tracing the hard, thick outline under the fine wool of his pants made her go all spacey and fuzzy in the head again. She really needed to go running. When she came out of her trance, she grimaced, remembering his cry of pain as he fell to his knees. Sorry, stalker man.
Alex sat on his suitcase, just up the road in the neighbor's front yard, snow collecting in his hair and on his shoulders. Cold couldn't harm him, but that didn't mean he liked it. He craved heat. Helena's vanilla-scented heat. A police cruiser passed a light over him, but they didn't see him. There were ways of sitting so as to make yourself…unremarkable.
A big man came to Helena's house carrying pizza. An equally big dog bounded out of his car with him, so he probably wasn't the delivery guy. Clever of Helena to bring another dog on the scene…and just who was that man?
The surge of jealousy surprised him. It was ridiculous. Helena didn't have a man. First off, she was his and no other's. That was metaphysical fact. And more practically, her kiss was too hungry and her bathrobe too frumpy for her to have a lover. Most likely this man belonged to the girlfriend who had rushed in earlier. Rushed to the aid of poor, helpless Helena.
Alex rolled his eyes at the idea. Maybe she'd injured her knee on his balls.
If he wanted to be spectacularly unethical he could have her tonight. It was almost tempting, but he figured mind control was no way to start a lifelong relationship based on trust and mutual understanding.
He'd fucked this up. Big time.
Alex raked his fingers through his hair, combing out the snow. By rights he should be making love to Helena for the second or third time by now. He should already have discovered what made her wiggle, what made her scream. She was responsive enough on the porch—just before she turned into a hellcat. He'd never had a woman turn on him like that. Then again, he'd never been so out of control. The chemistry between them was dangerously hot. He'd gone too far, too fast, and now his punishment was to sit outside her house doing his Frosty the Snowman imitation.
Friggin' fantastic.
It already hurt to be apart from her. He wondered how much of that was real, and how much was in his head.
A tow truck dragged away his car, but it would trace to a pseudonym and a dead end. While he waited for the cops to settle down, he found the number of a local cab company and confirmed his reservation at the Hyatt. At least the night would be a long one. That was his favorite thing about winter.
Thunk, thunk, crack.
The noise was faint, but persistent. Helena lifted her head. She was sleeping in her big chair. Peter and Lacey slept on the couch. The noise had not disturbed them or the dogs, who were both curled up like sweet rolls next to the fireplace. The clock on the DVD player said 2:07.
Thunk, thunk, crack.
It wasn't coming from inside the house. It wasn't the sound of a madman knocking down the door or forcing the window, either. Wrapping her blanket around her shoulders, she padded to the kitchen window. Because the house was built on a slope, the window sat high above the backyard, giving her a good view of the ground.
And yep, there was her stalker, splitting wood. The bright half moon made the scene look like a black and white movie. The wet wood was black. The snow was stark white. His clothing black. The snow shadows grey. His axe silver. Or her axe, rather.
She was impressed that he knew how to split wood. Not everyone did anymore. He worked with a graceful ease that was almost hypnotic to watch. The split wood piled up fast. His heavy overcoat was gone and he was working with bare hands in shirtsleeves dusted with snow. At two o'clock in the morning. In January. He was crazy as a loon and tragically, disgustingly handsome. Even from the kitchen window she could see his strong profile, his dramatic coloring. He paused to brush the snow out of his curls, then swung the axe again.
Helena did think about calling the police. She thought about it the entire time she watched him, fingering the card they'd given her. She also thought about waking her friends and siccing Newland on him. But she did none of these things. Instead she watched him split every log in the pile, and watched as he began to stack it outside her back door.
Brave because she was out of reach, she opened the window. He stopped in his tracks, his arms full of wood, and looked straight up at her. The outside air hit her face, sharp as a slap, and her nose began to run. She wished she could see his eyes, but he was too far away and his brow shadowed them. His eyebrows she could read, though, and those shot up, waiting for her to speak.
"You shouldn't be here," she hissed, making pathetic shooing gestures toward the road. "Go away and don't come back again. The police are coming."
"If that's true, why warn me?" His voice drifted up to sit in her ear, as if he stood just beside her.
Why, why, why…because I'm as crazy as you? "Because it's not your fault that you're insane. I don't really want you to go to jail." Though she spoke in a whisper, she knew he heard her just fine, judging by the amused expression on his face. "Just go stalk someone else. Oh, no, I don't mean that. Don't stalk anybody. Find a new hobby. Golf is obsessive, I understand. Go."
A dimple flashed in one cheek as he grinned. "I'd do almost anything for you, Helena, but please don't ask me to take up golf." He went to add the wood in his arms to the stack against the back of the house, and she could no longer see his face. "You see, Helena, you are my hobby from now on, or better, my vocation."
He had a slight accent, a New York accent perhaps. Funny vowels. He looked like a New Yorker too, with his pale skin and city clothes. Empty armed, he returned to stand beneath her window.
She said, "Now see, that kind of talk is just plain creepy."
He shoved his hands in his pants pockets and cocked his head at her. This close she could see the long, sweeping curve of his upper lip and the stubble that shadowed his sharp jawline.
"Do you believe in fate or free will?"
"Free will, of course."
"Ah, see, that's the difference between us. I believe in fate. I believe we are meant to be together. It doesn't make me crazy."
Helena didn't know what to say to that. Her ears stung from the cold and she trembled all over. She wasn't so sure that was due to cold.
"Come down, and we'll talk."
"Yeah, just you, me and the axe."
He chuckled, a warm sound. "You can hold the axe."
It wouldn't protect me from you.
"Thanks for splitting my wood."
He shrugged and snow fell off his shoulders. "I like to do it."
"Now please, go away forever."
That made him grin. "I'll be out here when you change your mind."
Helena imagined waking up the next morning to find him frozen to her woodpile. A stalker-sicle. "That's it. I'm really going to call the cops."
"No you won't. Don't worry about me." With that he went back for another armload of wood.
She closed the window and returned to her chair. No, she wouldn't call the cops. It seemed futile—he'd just stroll away like he had before, then come back. He was out there because he expected that she'd fall prey to his irresistibleness and let him pick up where he left off. He was sorely mistaken.