Detour Read online

  TEMPTING FATE: Holiday Fantasies

  THANKSGIVING

  Detour

  by

  Kay Wilde

  (c) copyright November 2003, Kay Wilde

  Cover art by Eliza Black

  New Concepts Publishing

  5202 Humphreys Rd.

  Lake Park, GA 31636

  www.newconceptspublishing.com

  “This is not good,” Kayla Reed muttered aloud as she switched the windshield wipers from low to medium.

  She had originally turned down her friend Paula’s invitation to spend an old fashioned Thanksgiving with a group of friends in the mountains near Gatlinburg, Tennessee. Until then, Kayla hadn’t realized how upset her daughter, Kellie, had been by the prospect of spending Thanksgiving with her father and leaving her mother to spend the holiday alone. Unwilling to put a damper on the holiday for her daughter, Kayla buckled under Kellie’s less than subtle steamroller tactics and had called Paula back and accepted the invitation. In doing so, Kayla was surprised to discover she was actually looking forward to the trip. She was aware that since her divorce she had gone into emotional hibernation, devoting herself totally to her work and to her daughter. A daughter who would be leaving home next fall to attend an out of state university.

  Making this trip had seemed like a positive decision on her part, the first step toward the life she needed to get. She’d driven three hours without mishap, until she came up on a rockslide, which had closed the highway and forced her to take a detour. She was now somewhere in the Smoky Mountains; exactly where, she didn’t have a clue. On her right was a wall of jagged granite or limestone, or what ever the hell it was made of. On her left was a flimsy guardrail, which served as the only barrier between her vehicle and a steep, deep ravine. Up ahead and behind through the rear view mirror all she could see were mountains.

  Now she had the snow to contend with. A snow predicted by the weather man before she left home to amount to nothing more that light flurries which were not expected to reach this area until sometime late tomorrow, Thanksgiving Day.

  The engine of her compact car began to groan in protest as it began to climb another steep rise, forcing Kayla to shift into second gear.

  All of a sudden spending Thanksgiving alone with a good book and a turkey TV dinner didn’t sound so bad.

  As she crested the rise, she was greeted by a yellow, diamond shaped sign warning of a steep drop then a series of hair-pin curves. “Oh shit,” Kayla gasped as the bottom dropped from her stomach and she began the inevitable roller coaster descent. It took all of Kayla’s questionable skill and concentration to successfully navigate her way down the treacherous terrain, which was rapidly becoming ice covered and even more hazardous.

  At last reaching a relatively flat stretch of road, she applied her brakes and shifted into neutral. Probably not the smartest move, but considering that she hadn’t seen another vehicle in over half an hour it was a risk she was willing to take. She literally had to pry her hands from the white knuckled grip they had on the steering wheel. Her hand trembled as she reached for the knobs of her radio. Again her efforts were rewarded by the same static she had encountered when it first started to snow and she attempted to get a weather report. In her opinion, radio reception in the mountains was, at best, lousy.

  “Calm down and think,” she told herself. It didn’t take a genius to know she had to get off the road and soon. The windshield wipers were no longer doing the job on medium, forcing her to switch them to high. Under normal circumstances she would just keep driving, knowing she would eventually reach some form of civilization -- a spot on a map from which to get her bearings. These were not normal circumstances.

  To make a bad situation even worse, her car was starting to sound strange. Taking a deep calming breath, she then exhaled slowly. “Just get me somewhere safe and we can both rest for a while,” Kayla said as she reached over to pat the dashboard, as if her words of encouragement could coax the necessary mileage from the vehicle.

  One more steep climb, one more hair raising descent and fifteen minutes later driving at a snail’s pace on the slick road, Kayla was nearly at the end of her rope. And then she saw it. A lane curved up the side of the mountain. Unless she was hallucinating, there was a light about halfway up.

  The flurries predicted by the weatherman had escalated into a full-blown blizzard. Seeing no other option Kayla turned off the road and began to drive slowly, once again, up the side of a mountain.

  “It would be just my luck to find a shack occupied by a gang of banjo playing moonshiners,” she muttered. Kayla had learned some time ago that one of the side effects of divorce and spending so much time alone was talking to yourself. It was a side effect, which hadn’t concerned her unduly ... until she started losing arguments.

  * * * *

  “You sound frustrated and cranky.”

  “Your mastery in the art of understatement never ceases to amaze me, Frank,” Morgan Warner muttered into his cell phone. His retort was rewarded by a chuckle from his agent on the other end of the line.

  “Let me guess. You’re hung up on the sex scene?”

  “They’re not my strong suit,” Morgan admitted as he raked his fingers through his hair. Again his response elicited a chuckle from the other end.

  “Not on paper maybe,” Frank agreed. “Must be some form of karmic justice for all the broken hearts you’ve left in your wake.”

  Morgan chose not to dignify Frank’s comment with some lame excuse for his chosen lifestyle. At this point in his career, his writing was the only demanding mistress he could afford. He’d learned that lesson the hard way, during his marriage to a high maintenance female who liked spending the money his books brought in but not the time he spent writing them. Sheila could not comprehend that the words didn’t just appear on the paper all by themselves. In truth, after the fact, Morgan admitted he’d been more committed to his career than he was to his wife. Now, he deliberately confined his sexual activities to brief encounters with women who knew the score up front -- to sexually uninhibited women who were satisfied with hot, passionate sex with no demands or commitments expected from either side.

  “You still there?” Frank’s disembodied voice sounding in his ear interrupted his thoughts.

  “Yeah, I’m here,” Morgan replied.

  “Take a break, Morgan. Relax and enjoy the holiday,” his agent encouraged. “You’ve been hitting it hard for months. The first six chapters are great and the new book is ahead of schedule. Is your brother and his family still flying in for Thanksgiving?”

  “We’ve been hit by a freak snowstorm. I phoned him just before you called and told him not to risk it,” Morgan answered. “They’re staying in Boston and going to Kathy’s parents instead.”

  “Take a break anyway,” Frank suggested. “Go into town. Find some woman and get laid. It’s probably what you need to take the edge off. Some hands-on research, so to speak.”

  Morgan was in the glass-enclosed porch, the only spot in the cabin where he could get decent reception on his cell phone. Beyond the three glass walls, all he could see was a blanket of white. Instead of letting up, the snowstorm appeared to be reaching blizzard proportions.

  “Yeah, right. Considering the weather, getting into town isn’t an option,” Morgan informed his agent. “The closest I’m likely to get to relief tonight is the hot tub and my own right hand.”

  Frank’s outburst of laughter forced Morgan to pull the phone away from his ear. “Then I suggest you utilize that fertile imagination of yours and fantasize big time.”

  “Gee thanks,” Morgan snapped.

  “Seriously, Morgan, give yourself a break. The scene you’re struggling with will come together. It always does.”

  “You make it sound so easy. You should t
ry it.”

  “No thanks, pal. That’s why I’m the agent and you’re the writer who makes the big bucks. I...”

  Sudden static drowned out the rest of Frank’s words and then the line went dead. Weather conditions being as they were, Morgan was surprised the connection lasted as long as it had. He pressed the end button, put the cell phone on the end table beside the natural wicker sofa and turned back to the bank of windows to stare out at the falling, blowing snow.

  Frank, who was usually right on target with his advice, couldn’t have been more off the mark with this one. Relieving his sexual tension in the bed of a warm, willing, experienced female wouldn’t give Morgan what he needed this time.

  This book was different. The connection between his hero and the heroine went deeper than it had in the other books in his Blind Justice series. This heroine was different. She was Morgan’s fantasy woman: a beautiful, intelligent, mature woman who had never experienced true passion with a man. He often fantasized about what he would do with and to such a woman as he helped her discover the uninhibited, sensual side of her nature.

  “Damn,” Morgan hissed through clenched teeth. He raked his fingers through his hair with one hand while the other hand readjusted the uncomfortable tightness at the front of his jeans.

  It was so vivid in his mind. Why was he finding it so difficult to put the words on paper? Because in his other books the prerequisite sex scenes were brief, lukewarm romps with no genuine connection between the characters involved, that’s why. Because as a writer if he was going to be true to the story he’d created, to the characters, and to the readers, this could be no quick case of wham, bam, thank you ma’am. He’d be exposing his own fantasy to the eyes of others in explicit, drawn out detail.

  * * * *

  The visibility was so poor that Kayla nearly reached her beacon of light before she realized that instead of the mere shack she’d have settled for, her safe haven appeared to be a charming log home. “They could be successful banjo playing moonshiners.”

  It was at that point her car coughed, sputtered, wheezed, and then died.

  Always being somewhat reserved, Kayla didn’t feel at all comfortable with the prospect of presenting herself at the door of perfect strangers. Whether she liked it or not, present circumstances dictated that she had no choice in the matter.

  The house didn’t look too far away, but she was definitely not dressed for frolicking in the snow. If she’d expected to be caught in a blizzard, she’d never have left home in the first place. She’d worn a short, hoodless parka, which thankfully had gloves in the pocket. Her hair, cut in a jaw length bob, her jeans, and her Nikes offered little protection against the elements. Kayla also knew she could stall no longer. The interior of her car, which had been comfortably warm moments ago, was already getting cold.

  “Here goes nothing,” she said as she set the emergency brake, turned off the ignition, and then dropped the keys into her handbag. Bundling up as best she could, she stepped from the car into a pelting ice and snow mixture accompanied by a biting cold wind.

  Kayla quickly realized in these conditions, appearances could be deceptive and the house wasn’t as close as she had originally thought. By the time she reached the shelter of the beamed front porch, Kayla barely had the energy to reach up and rap at the door with the suspended brass knocker. Her feet and her ears had gone from tingling to numb and she was shivering uncontrollably.

  “Please, please, let someone answer the door,” she prayed.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the door opened and Kayla found herself staring up at the most incredibly handsome man she had ever seen. A barefoot, bare chested, handsome man wearing nothing but a pair of faded, thigh hugging, blue jeans. At a guess Kayla would put his age somewhere near her own, maybe a little older. His thick dark hair, graying slightly at the temples looked slightly rumpled as if he’d just run his fingers through it. His jawline was darkened by razor stubble as if he hadn’t taken the time to shave today. Through the eyes of a photographer, which Kayla happened to be, the man was a photogenic composite of all things ruggedly masculine and blatantly sexual. For barely an instant, she almost forgot how cold she was.

  “Oh my God,” she groaned inwardly. She opened her mouth to offer an explanation for her intrusion but her teeth were chattering so badly, all that came out was incoherent gibberish.

  “Warm first, explanations later,” he insisted, immediately taking charge as he pulled her inside and closed the door with his bare foot. “Are you alone? Is there anyone else out there somewhere?”

  “N n n no, j j j just me,” Kayla managed to get out.

  So fast it took her breath away, Kayla found herself lifted off her feet as if she weighed no more than a child. She was so relieved to be inside, out of the cold, she allowed herself the luxury of relaxing against the comforting strength of his muscular, hair roughened chest as he carried her from the foyer into a cozy great room and sat her upon a marshmallow soft leather sofa in front of a blazing fire. When he went to his knees in front of her, it didn’t occur to Kayla to protest as he pulled the gloves from her hands, unzipped her coat and pealed it from her shivering body.

  “Good Lord, you’re nearly frozen.” His lips were set in a grim line and a muscle twitched in his taut set jaw as he went to work on the laces of her shoes. After he removed her shoes and socks, he began rubbing and massaging her bare feet to stimulate circulation.

  The warmth of his strong hands on her cold feet felt like heaven. She felt chilled to the bone, yet watching the muscles ripple in his arms and chest as he knelt before her, Kayla began to feel warm in places which had been inactive too long. So long, in fact, she had begun to wonder if those places still worked.

  She couldn’t help it. She was a living, breathing, red blooded woman who hadn’t felt the touch of a man’s hands for over four years and her body was reacting on pure instinct. He looked up and she found herself trapped by his intense blue gaze. Had she ever seen eyes so blue?

  “The jeans have to go,” he insisted.

  “I...” Kayla began.

  “Now is not the time for modesty, lady. We have to get you warm.” He gripped her hands as he rose to his feet and pulled her up with him. “Can you do it, or do you need my help?” His expression made it perfectly clear he expected no protest.

  He was right. Her jeans were soaked well past the knees. If she hoped to get warm, they had to go. She also knew wet jeans were not easy to get off. “Maybe your wife...” she began.

  “Sorry, sweetheart. It’s just you and me,” he answered before she could complete the sentence.

  They were here alone, in the middle of nowhere, in a blizzard. She knew she should probably feel uncomfortable with the situation, but instead, found herself immensely pleased by the prospect. Even excited.

  “I’ll do it myself,” she insisted, pleased that her teeth had stopped chattering and she was no longer stuttering. He released her hands so she could remove her jeans as instructed. Her numb limbs refused to hold her and she would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her around the waist.

  With a muttered curse his free hand went to her waist, released her belt, unsnapped her jeans, then his fingers found the tab of her zipper. “I’m Morgan,” he introduced himself accompanied by the rasp of her zipper.

  She swallowed. “Kayla,” was all she was capable of saying. She was a forty-year-old woman who had been married over twenty years to the only man she had ever kissed, much less anything else. Now here she was with a total stranger about to remove her jeans. A gorgeous total stranger with a to-die-for body.

  “Can you stand on your own for a moment while I…?”

  Kayla nodded her head to the affirmative, then made a determined effort to stiffen her weak knees. His thumbs slid into the waistband of her jeans and he began pushing them downward. Kayla’s breath caught in her lungs and she forgot how to exhale. All she could think of at that moment was to try to remember which underwear she had on.

 
; Since the divorce, for their comfort and lack of a panty line, more often than not she had taken to wearing what her daughter referred to as old woman’s panties. And why not? There had been no man in her life she wanted to impress. Then she remembered and mentally whispered, “Thank you, God.” For reasons she couldn’t begin to explain, today she had slipped into her black satin and lace bikini panties and matching bra.

  Kayla heard his swift intake of breath as her jeans slid past her hips. He paused for barely an instant before continuing to push them down her thighs. Her legs gave out and he didn’t attempt to stop her as she dropped back onto the sofa. As he set about the task of separating Kayla from her jeans, she noticed that he carefully avoided making eye contact.

  Was it possible that this handsome man was as affected by their encounter as she was? Of course he wasn’t, she told herself. She was a forty year-old-woman, when a man like him could have his pick of beautiful, firm, younger women.

  With a final tug, he freed Kayla from the cold, wet, denim. Then his warm hands were on her cold calves. The contrast between warm and cold made her flesh feel scorched by his touch. Her eyes closed and a soft gasp slipped past her parted lips before she could stop it. There was a subtle yet unmistakable change in his touch.

  Kayla’s eyes snapped opened. Their eyes met.

  “This is insane,” he muttered under his breath as if he were chastising himself. His words were softly spoken but not so low Kayla couldn’t make them out. Morgan rose quickly to his feet and stood staring down at her as if he were trying to decide what he was going to do with her.

  Her gaze rose up to meet his but stalled midway, at the unmistakable erection straining the front of his jeans.

  Morgan grabbed a soft fleece throw from the back of the sofa, draped it across her bare legs then told her, “Stay put.” He left her staring into the fire attempting to sort out a complex jumble of thoughts, emotions and sensations.