Three Men and a Woman: Indiana (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) Read online

  As early as August, he’d known the track they were on. He was defensive captain, and he above all would do nothing that would cause the team to stutter the littlest bit on that track. He hadn’t been on skis, or his motorcycle, he hadn’t even run off-road since preseason.

  But he had the ring now. The season was over, the hoopla was dying down, and he’d gone with his heart, his yearning for the simple peace of virgin snow, silent forest, dead calm.

  He wasn’t racing to the bottom, no. He’d been taking his time, schussing to a quiet stop every little bit to savor the stillness, the beauty. There’d been no recklessness, just the surprise of a thick branch, deep enough under the snow to be invisible, but not so far under that it didn’t catch his ski tip and send him over.

  Now he was a bit wrecked, sliding carefully along on his right ski and using his left one as a kind of crutch. He’d broken one of his poles in half and used it to splint the knee, binding it with the long-sleeved silk tee that had been his skin layer. He’d used his second layer—a team shirt—to wrap it up and pack it with snow.

  He’d gotten himself down the steepest part of the mountain with only one more low-speed fall. Now he was in a kind of high valley and could slide along slowly, wobbling, though with pretty good control. It wasn’t even chilly yet, but the sun was behind the mountain now, and cold and dark would follow. The snow had stopped falling and the sky was clear—it would be gorgeous with stars, but a cloud cover would have kept him warmer. More snow would probably come later. That had happened each of the last three nights since he’d been up here. A skier’s delight.

  But there were bound to be folks living up this mountain, and he’d find them soon enough. If worse came to worst, he’d limp his way down to the valley floor. He was pretty sure he’d get to the highway eventually. He wouldn’t starve before that happened. And, even bare-chested under his jacket, he was warm enough, given the hard work of his awkward locomotion. He wasn’t going to freeze, either.

  So, no worries. Just keep moving forward through adversity, which had pretty much been the theme of his life. When he stopped for the next rest, he pulled the hood of his jacket up over his ski cap, tucking his blond, Viking braids inside. He knew to keep his head warm. He was a Swede, born and bred, despite the near-twenty years he’d spent in the U.S. No way was he going to be defeated by a little snow and cold.

  It was the pause, though, which brought rescue. That moment of catching his breath, regrouping, and looking around him. The first stars were out and, his thought at first glance, the moon.

  But it wasn’t the moon. It was a light on in a cabin, way up in the trees along a bit of a ridge. He was below it, almost past it already. He’d have to climb to get there, but that was no problem. Going up was safer than going down.

  So he worked his way up. The cabin was nice, settled in a small clearing, with natural wood shingles and a lot of glass. It had a small second floor, where the lights were on, that no doubt had a spectacular view in all directions. A small deck jutted out up there, in addition to the wraparound down below that no doubt got a lot of use in three seasons. Or maybe even four, he thought, as he climbed up and spotted a built-in fire pit at the far end. He propped his skis at the bottom of the steps, next to a two-car garage, but kept his pole to use as a crutch. He flipped it over, his hand at the basket so he didn’t poke dents into the wood decking.

  The front door was spectacular, varnished wood with beveled glass in the door, the sidelights, and the arched transom overhead. In keeping with the rest of the house, the entry provided an abundance of natural lighting for the interior. He pounded on the door twice and waited a bit before lights came on downstairs and he saw movement through the glass.

  Nice movement. He took her to be a man, initially, when he first saw her coming down the stairs, because she was tall. But when she came enough into the light that he got a good look, he could see she was nicely curved and all female. She moved gracefully, athletically, and he liked her already.

  He stood at one of the sidelights so she had to see him. No denying he was a big guy, and, if she was alone in there, she’d be smart to use some caution. So he waited while she moved to the side and flicked on the porch lights, then stepped back, lifted his hands in a pose-no-threat way, and let her get a good look. He could see her gaze travel down the length of him, taking in the bulk of the field dressing at his knee. She took her time about it, but, finally, a good, long evaluation of his eyes seemed to turn the tide in his favor.

  She opened the door a bit but kept her body blocking it. That might work for her in most circumstances, but he pushed people around for a living. People a lot bigger than she was.

  He liked her even better for it, though—standing there like she wasn’t going to be intimidated. He liked the soft blond hair, too, falling in curls a bit past her shoulders. And the pretty blue eyes.

  Her ancestors could have come from the next fjord over. A few generations back, she’d have been the target of his raiding party. He’d have gone for her first and then the goats or whatever.

  He nodded once, keeping his hands up. “I’ve had a little trouble.”

  “Fall off the trail, did you?”

  “Ja,” he said. He started it with a y-sound, like his father and grandfather before him, mean, drunk sons of bitches that they were. When he let the Swedish into his voice these days, it was deliberate, but he’d noticed American women seemed to find it disarming.

  And this was a certain case for disarmament.

  “Deliberately, though,” he pointed out, because he didn’t want to seem a total fool. “It was just too…beautiful. Tempting.” The fact that his gaze traveled along her long, lovely body as he spoke wasn’t all artifice.

  She nodded, leaning her shoulder into the door a bit, still not stepping back. Not opening either door or arms in welcome.

  “But I did take a spill. Injured my knee.” He gestured to the obvious. “I could use a little help.”

  She was checking out his eyes again, but he couldn’t help her. A guy his size had a hard job of looking harmless.

  “We could pretend you’re not alone up here. You could say your husband is a big guy like me, just upstairs watching TV, but he’ll come if you call.”

  She smiled a little and finally stepped back. “Sure,” she said. “Come in. Hank won’t mind.”

  He nodded his thanks, but didn’t move yet. “My name’s Sigge.”

  That made her smile more, as it often did. “Indy.”

  “Glad to meet you, Indy.”

  * * * *

  She gestured him in again and, finally, he moved. Before he stepped through the door, though, he leaned his ski-pole crutch at the entry and bent over to the big, bulky wrap of his knee. “I’ve got snow in here,” he said. “I don’t want to bring it in, make a mess in your house.”

  His improvised icepack was a big, long-sleeved T-shirt that he’d filled with snow. He unwrapped it, dumped it to the side, and brushed off the excess snow from his leg. He had one more layer of wrapping over his ski pants, holding in place the splint he’d made from his second, sacrificed ski pole. When he straightened and stepped forward, he moved with a hard limp. He came in just far enough that she could close the door at his back.

  He was still in his ski boots, which made his movement even more awkward. But he bent easily, lithe despite his injury, to unbuckle them—Heads, they were, likely high-end. Red, to match his jacket.

  He could unfasten them, but he couldn’t lift out of them, not with the splint on his left leg and unable able to bear much weight there.

  “I’ll help,” Indy said, going to one knee on the entry rug.

  “Thanks,” he answered, leaning back against the door.

  He held his left leg out stiff, and she worked that boot off first and set it aside. He rested his wool-stockinged foot on the floor and pressed the upside-down ski pole hard into the rug, putting a lot of his weight there. With support from the door at his back, he managed to lift his right
foot long enough for her to tug the boot off.

  “Good,” he said, as soon as he got his weight back on his right leg. “Thank you.”

  She stood again, aware of the difference in their heights, not a thing she was used to. The house had an open floor plan built around the central staircase, a kitchen with a little guest suite behind on one side, and walls of windows to the south and west for the dining and living rooms. A big leather couch faced the windows, and she gestured him in that direction. He nodded and hobbled over. She got there ahead of him, piling a couple pillows on the center cushion, a place for him to prop his leg.

  “Let me take your jacket.”

  He looked at her for a long moment. “Is today your birthday?” Bemused, Indy shook her head and raised an eyebrow.

  He seemed uncomfortable for the first time and lifted one shoulder. “I just don’t want you to think this is a setup. I mean, if you have the sort of friends who might send you a stripper. Because…”

  Yeah, he could pass for one. Those gorgeous Viking braids, pretty face, and hot body. Add a couple strategic bits of fur… Still, she wasn’t really following. “Because?”

  He tilted his head. “The shirts I had on under this jacket are out on your front porch and wrapped around my knee.”

  “Ah.” Well, it was almost her birthday.

  “Just sayin’,” he added with a bit of a teasing grin.

  “Guess I can handle it,” she said. But while he started unzipping, she turned away. It was probably better not to watch the show. She went to light the gas fireplace and then pulled a wool throw from her favorite easy chair.

  When she brought it back to him, she gave in to a pleasured, mental sigh. The guy’s muscles had muscles. And that smooth, golden Nordic skin, stretched tightly over them. A career on an exotic dance stage was definitely a possibility.

  “Here,” she said, and he took the hunter-green plaid and wrapped it around his shoulders.

  “Thanks.”

  She gestured to his knee. “Not broken, do you think?”

  “Nah,” he said. “Just a sprain, I figure. It swelled up fast. Not the ACL, I hope.”

  Indy had years of playing volleyball, so she knew exactly what he meant. “Ice, then, elevation and ibuprofen.” She risked another look up to those sweet blue eyes, actually a lot like her own. “Shall we take the splint off now that you can rest it?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I think.”

  That was an American yeah, she thought. Not the charming Swedish deal. Maybe he thought he already had her charmed. And he’d be right.

  She went to one knee again to untie the wrap. Even through the ski pants she could see a lot of swelling, despite his having iced it. She was also very aware of his maleness and their relative positioning, with her on her knees and him towering above her.

  What a day it had been for hot-looking übermales.

  She had to work to meet his gaze when she stood again. “So…you got anything on under the ski pants?”

  His eyes glimmered with humor as he delayed his answer, obviously enjoying a small tease. “I got plenty going on under the ski pants.”

  “Not my question,” she pointed out. “Maybe I should go get my big husband to help.”

  He shook his head slightly, a small curve to his lips. “Let’s not bother Hank. I’ve got jeans on.”

  He did. Nice, soft, snug ones, she learned. He unfastened his outer layer, shoved them down a bit, and then sat so she could tug them off. She helped him lift his left leg as he swung around and propped it on the pillows.

  With the swelling around his knee, the jeans were very, very snug in that area. She motioned to it and then probed gently with her fingers. “Do you think the jeans should come off, too?”

  “Nah,” he said again, and she could hear the Swedish there. “They’re kind of acting like a pressure wrap. More ice would be good, though, if we could manage it. And, like you said, ibuprofen. If you have it.” He took her hand and held it. “I’m sorry to be such an imposition.”

  She nodded and stepped back, taking her hand with her. “No worries.”

  The snow had probably worked great, but she kept a couple soft cold-packs in her freezer. She went to the kitchen and, while she was at it, she pulled out a container of tortilla soup that she made by the big pot and then froze in single servings. She reconsidered, brought out a second container, and put them both in the microwave to heat.

  She filled a glass with water and went back to Sigge—cute name to match the cute guy. She handed him the packs and set the glass on the table next to him. “I’ve got an elastic bandage,” she said, and headed upstairs—up to her bedroom with its full bath and no husband—for the wrap and her bottle of ibuprofen.

  He had the ice packs around his knee when she got back and held it up while she fastened the elastic around all of it.

  “You’re good at this,” he said. “Like you have some experience.”

  “I played a lot of volleyball,” she answered. “Had a little ACL trouble, myself.”

  He nodded. “Yeah.” Then he smiled a little, watching her. “Girls.”

  It was true. The ACL was the bane of female athletes. “We can’t all be big, hulking guys.”

  “A happy fact.”

  She smiled at him even as she had a little chat with herself about resisting his charm and opened the ibuprofen bottle. “How many?”

  “Four,” he said, and he went on when she raised a brow. “Big, hulking guy.”

  “Fine,” she said, and handed them over and then the water. He emptied the glass. He’d no doubt been working hard, hobbling down the mountain after his accident. “I’ve got some food heating. You shouldn’t take that much on an empty stomach.”

  He nodded. “Plus, I’m hungry. So, again…thanks. Really.”

  “Sure,” she said and escaped back to the kitchen.

  She grated cheddar while the soup finished heating, mixed it all together in a big serving bowl, piled on some sour cream, and topped it with a good handful of tortilla chips. She placed the bowl on a serving tray, added a spoon and cloth napkin, and carried it out to him.

  He sat up and nudged back against the big sofa arm before he took the tray with another thanks.

  “More water?” she asked. “I don’t have beer. If you want alcohol, I’ve got wine…”

  He shook his head as she trailed off. “Nah, thanks, though. More water would be good, please. Quite a bit more.”

  She nodded, filled his glass again, waited while he drained it, and then brought him one more refill. After that, she was out of stuff to do, so she picked up another throw—the girlie chenille one—wrapped herself in it, nudged her chair around a bit so it faced him better, and sat.

  He was eating with unabashed appetite. “This is delicious.” He took a couple more spoonfuls. “I don’t get it. You’re gorgeous, you play volleyball and would look great doing it in a bikini, and you can cook. Why isn’t there a husband upstairs?”

  “The soup could be from a can. And you don’t know there isn’t.” She didn’t mention that she had played in a bikini. Professionally, if not wildly successfully.

  He stopped eating long enough to look intently at her. “It’s not, and I do.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “There’s an ex, if that helps.”

  “It does,” he said, going back to eating. “As long as he’s not upstairs.”

  She smiled.

  “Have you eaten?” he asked, holding his spoon out like he was offering to share.

  “I did earlier,” she said.

  She left him to finish his meal and did a little pickup. She draped his ski jacket and pants over chairbacks in the dining room to let them dry. She took the silk tee he’d used as a wrap and then fetched the other shirt from the porch. In the laundry room, she swatted the snow out of it and was entirely unsurprised to find it was a team shirt for the Super Bowl winners.

  It was just that kind of day.

  She checked the instruction label for the sil
k and put both shirts in the washer on a light cycle.

  When she got back to the living room, Sigge had finished with his tray and set it on the coffee table. He’d slid down, with just his head and shoulders propped against the couch side. She sat in her chair and he turned a bit on his side so he faced her better.

  “You live up here all alone?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I love it here.”

  “It is amazing countryside.”

  “It reminds you of home? Sweden?”

  “Ja,” he said with a smile. “Though it’s not really home, anymore, and not all happy memories either. I left there before I even finished high school. But…why are you alone here?”

  Indy lifted a shoulder. “I grew up in a crowd…and not happy memories there either.” Squeezed into the middle of five stair-step kids, with a single mom who’d had all she could do to keep a roof over their heads and pasta-heavy casseroles on the table. Volleyball had been her ticket out, a relief to her and the entire family. “I like the quiet here.”

  He nodded like he understood and didn’t press further. “What’s Indy short for?”

  “Indiana.”

  His smile brought a sexy dimple to his cheek. “What’s your last name?”

  She tossed her head a bit and rolled her eyes. “Take a guess.”

  “Jones?” he laughed. “Really?”

  “Can’t help it,” she told him. “I was born in Indiana, and my dad was a fan.” She’d been the only one of the kids born there. Her older brother was lucky not to be named Florida or maybe Daytona. Her sister was, in fact, Carolina, as the family had been in Charlotte that year while her father trained for the Coca-Cola 600. But after the Indy a year later, her dad hadn’t bothered to hang around for the naming of her younger siblings, Jeanette and Freddy.

  “That’s a hoot.”

  Indy smiled, enjoying his delight. She hadn’t always been entertained by her father’s sense of humor. So much about him just wasn’t funny.

  A little moment of quiet was interrupted by a faint ringtone.

  “Ah,” Sigge said. “My phone is in my jacket.”