She trudged through piles of seaweed—hating the smell and unsightly mess it made as the storms churned it up on the beach—and made her way around a cluster of boulders where she spied a stack of wood. Far enough from the tidewater, it would have had more time to dry.

Skirting around to the other side, she figured the timber would be the driest there. But what she saw next made her gasp and her heart nearly quit beating.

The body of a veritable Greek god lay naked on his stomach, his skin, slightly blue, stretched over tightly toned muscles, his dark, wet hair draped across his face, his eyes sealed shut.

Not dead. Please, don’t be dead.

Chapter 2

BEFORE TESS A REACHED THE MAN LYING DEATHLY STILL on the beach, certain he was dead, she thought one of his fingers twitched. Her heart went into overdrive.

Not dead. Ohmigod. He’s alive. Maybe.

She rushed forward and pulled him onto his back. Big. Naked. Blue—she reminded herself. And badly battered—his face, body, limbs.

She yanked off her glove and held his wrist. No pulse that she could feel, although her blood was running so fast, she figured it overrode feeling his pulse, if he had one. Not breathing, she didn’t think, because her warm breath was turning into puffs of smoke in the chilly air and there was none escaping his parted lips, full and sensual, but purple.

“Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?” She jerked her glove on, and then fumbled to remove her parka. Covering his torso with her heavy white coat, she tried to remember her CPR training. “Fifteen pumps to the chest. Breathe two times into his mouth. Then repeat. No, clear his passageway first.”

With hands trembling, she crouched next to his head. His wet hair dragged the sandy beach, his eyelids sealed shut. She tilted his head back and made sure nothing obstructed his airway. Moving back to his torso, she pushed the coat lower to expose his chest—muscled, sculpted, dark curly hair trailing down to her parka, speckled with sand, the best shape she’d ever seen a man in close up—which meant he was too hardy to die on her. She prayed.

She pressed her gloved hands together against his hard chest and began compressions. Counting under her breath, she hoped to God he didn’t die on her. If the wind and cold weren’t bad enough, sleet began sliding down in gray sheets, crackling and covering everything in a slick icy sheen, plastering her turtleneck and jeans against her frigid skin. She worked harder, faster.

The blood pounded in her ears, blocking the sound of the wind and sleet and waves.

“Fifteen!” she shouted, and then moved closer to his head, yanked off her glove, and felt for any sign of a pulse in his neck.

No pulse, or so faint she couldn’t feel it. And no breath. He wasn’t breathing.

Her heart in her throat, she pinched his nose shut and leaned down to cover his mouth with hers. Before she could blow air into his lungs, his eyes popped open. Amber, intense, feral. Her mouth gaped.

With a titan grasp, he grabbed her wrists, flipped her onto her back and straddled her, the parka wedged between them as the weight of his body restrained her.

“No!” she screeched, right before he kissed her— pressed his frozen lips against hers, his mouth firm, wanting, pressuring with uncontrollable need—like a man used to dominating—sending her senses reeling.

Instantly, the cold left her, his body heating every inch of her to the core, her heart pounding. And in that moment, she wanted him—as insane as the notion was.

He lifted his mouth from hers and glowered at her for a second, his eyes smoky with desire. Speechless, she stared back at his chiseled face, the grim set of his lips, his dark silky hair curling down, dripping water on her cheeks. Then his fathomless, darkened eyes drifted closed and his tight grip loosened on her wrists.

“No!” she shouted, right before he collapsed on top of her in a faint, his dead weight pinning her to the beach.

“Hey!” she yelled, her hands on his shoulders, shaking him. “Wake up!” She couldn’t budge the muscled hunk, but if she didn’t revive him and get him to some place warm, he would die for sure. “Hey! Wake… up!” She pushed and shoved, trying to roll him off her. But he was too heavy—solid muscle and bone.

“Get… off… me!”

He moaned and lifted his head, his glazed eyes staring at her, his beautiful white teeth clenched in a grimace, but he didn’t seem to comprehend.

“Can you move? I’ll… I’ll take you up to my house and call for help.”

For the longest time—although it probably was no more than a second or two, but with the way his heavy body pressed against hers, it seemed like an eternity—he watched her.

Then he groaned and rolled off her onto his back. She hurried to recover him with the parka, yanked off her knit cap, and stretched it over his head. More heat was lost through the head than any other body part, she recalled hearing from a survival show. Odd the things that would come to mind in the middle of a crisis.

He observed her as the sleet continued to pelt them—an expression without feeling, icy cold like the storm, a face devoid of fear, unlike the way hers probably looked.

“Okay, listen… we’re both going to catch our deaths here on the beach in this weather. We need to get you up to the house. Can you move?” She pulled on her glove.

His gaze drifted to her soaking wet turtleneck. But otherwise he didn’t move or speak. Tugging at him, she finally managed to help him sit. She slipped behind him, wrapped her arms around his chest with her body hugging his, braced with her knees, and tried to pull him up. She couldn’t budge him.

“You’ve got to help.” Her voice exasperated—not with him, but with herself—her frosty breath curled around his ear.

He finally leaned forward, pressed his hands against the sand, pushed himself up, and moaned. The sound of his pain streaked through her like a warning. He was in bad shape and could still die if she didn’t move fast enough, didn’t do the right things.

As soon as he stood, he grabbed hold of her shoulder and swayed.

Her heart lurching, she seized his free arm. He leaned hard against her, ready to collapse, and a new thrill of panic swept her. If he pulled her down with him, she’d be where she was before, trying to lift the veritable muscled mountain off the beach.

She hung her parka over his broad shoulders and wrapped her arm around his trim waist. “Okay, it’s not too far to climb.”

Although it was, considering the injured man’s shaky condition.

They stumbled up the rough path, and she glanced down at his poor feet, taking a beating on the icy rocks. Every step could be his last, she worried, while he clung to her as if his life depended on it.

Which it probably did.

When they reached the short path to her back door, she intended to rush him inside, call for help, get him warm—not necessarily in that order—but instead, she froze in place several feet away from the edge of the small brick patio.

The back door was standing wide open, the wind banging it against the house.

“I locked it,” she said under her breath. “I know I locked it.”

Despite the overwhelming panic that filled her, she had to get the injured man into the protective shelter of the house. With trepidation, she walked him the rest of the way, and once inside, she led him through the kitchen. No sign of an intruder. But her spine remained stiff with tension.

The injured man lifted his nose and smelled. He tilted his head to the side as if he was listening for the same thing she was—sounds of the housebreaker.

She hurried the man to the velour sofa where he collapsed in a ragged heap, his expression slightly dazed. She had to get him warmed up. But she had to make sure no danger could threaten them inside the house. Glancing toward the hall and the three bedrooms, she listened. No sound of anyone rummaging through any of the rooms.

Sleet continued to pour on the roof, the sound a loud roar, which could hide the presence of someone moving around inside. She grabbed the wool afghan at the end of the couch and covered the injured man’s lap, the parka still draped across his shoulders and pink ski cap stretched tight on his head.

“I’ll turn on the heat and get some more blankets for you,” she said to him, without taking her eyes off the hallway to the bedrooms.

First, she was calling 911 and getting a knife for protection. She patted his shoulder. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

She didn’t wait for his response. Instead, she hastened to the kitchen, yanked open a drawer, and pulled out her largest carving knife, although it was about as dull as her butter knives. Too bad she couldn’t get to her gun. With weapon in hand, she grabbed her phone, punched in 9–1–1, and lifted the receiver to her ear. No signal. She tried again. Same thing. Hell, what else could go wrong?

Shivering in her wet, icy clothes, she shut and locked the back door. When she turned, she gulped back a scream. The battered man was standing in her kitchen, looking even bigger, taller, nude again, and still blue. He moved as silently as the cat she had once shared the house with until it took off for parts unknown.

“My god, you need to rest on the couch and… and I’ll turn the heat on and…”

His indomitable gaze lowered to the knife in her hand.

Mouth dry, her heartbeat quickened. “I… someone broke into my house. I think.”

Without a word, he stalked off, his step more sure, although he had to be in terrible pain, as bruised and beaten as he was. She followed him, her gaze shifting to his butt, firm, muscled perfection with every step he took. He glanced over his shoulder with a glower, but when he caught her checking out his derrière, his mouth curved up a hint.

Her cheeks on fire, she raised her brows and stood taller.

Realizing he couldn’t dissuade her from following him, he grunted and moved forward, checking out her brother’s room first. The navy velvet curtains flopped in the breeze, framing the shattered window. She sucked in the chilled air and stared at the jagged window, now a gaping hole into the black void outside. A shudder shook her to the center of her being. He could return anytime.