Beauty's Kiss(3)

For a long moment Jane said nothing, and then she sighed heavily. “So what do I tell Troy?”

Taylor rolled her eyes. “To be a man and go find his own damn date.”





Troy Sheenan was glad to be on the ground, even if he was arriving in the middle of a blizzard. He was a seasoned traveler, accustomed to jetting back and forth between Montana and California to oversee the renovations at the Graff Hotel during the last couple of years, but tonight’s flight was rough. Seriously rough. Three endless, unrelenting hours of turbulence that kept him buckled into his leather seat, as the pilots of his private jet searched in vain for some smoother air.

They didn’t find it.

But at least he and his crew were safely on the ground and he was free to move, his long strides carrying him swiftly across the snowy tarmac to the Executive terminal.

His rental car, a big black four wheel drive SUV with snow tires, was waiting for him outside the executive terminal, the key already in the ignition, the interior still warm. The paperwork had been handled earlier by Troy’s assistant before he left San Francisco which meant he was free to go.

Troy tossed his bags into the back, and slid behind the steering wheel, noting that the snow flurries were coming down thicker and faster. In good weather it was at least a fifty five minute drive to Sheenan Ranch. And it wasn’t good weather. He wasn’t even sure if Dillon would have been able to get their private drive plowed, which meant he might be four wheeling it. Or stuck.

Any other night he’d just stay at the hotel. He had his own private suite on the fourth floor of the historic hotel, and the suite was always kept ready for him, but if Dad was doing as badly as Dillon said, Troy wanted to get to the ranch tonight and sit with him. Troy hadn’t been there when his mom died, and he was damn well not going to be MIA when Dad passed.





The snow was really coming down now.

Taylor sat ramrod straight in the driver’s seat, her hands set precisely at ten and one on the steering wheel, her heart pounding harder than she liked.

She wasn’t scared.

She’d driven through worse.

And the road seemed fine, not too icy. She just had to keep an eye on her speed and pay attention.

And yes, it was getting harder and harder to see the hood of her car, never mind the road, but she was a Montana girl. She had a good car, a reliable car, and her Subaru could handle the icy roads just fine.

The car would be fine, and she’d be fine, she silently insisted, even as she regretted that she hadn’t stopped in Bozeman when she had the chance.

She should have not pushed it. She should have played it safe. But Taylor had thought that maybe the flurries would lighten. She’d thought perhaps once she hit the highway the storm would ease.

She’d thought wrong and now she was driving through a blinding sheet of white, having to pretend her pulse wasn’t racing and her hands weren’t damp against the steering wheel.

Fifteen more miles, she told herself, checking the windshield wiper speed again. But they were already on their fastest setting and unable to clear her windshield quickly enough.

She couldn’t see.

It’s okay.

She hated this.

You’re halfway home.

Her eyes burned as she fought panic. She wanted to pull over, get off the road but this was a mountain pass and it’d be suicide to pull over here. Another motorist or trucker could lose control and take her out.

No choice but to keep going. No choice but to finish what she’d started.

And so she sat tall and held her breath and focused very hard on the glow of white where the car headlights shone through the swirling flurries of snow, unable to reach as far as the yellow reflectors on the side of the road. Taylor only knew for sure where she was when she drove over one of the bumps.

Too far right. She was practically on the shoulder. Not good.

She corrected, steering a little more to the left, frowning hard, trying to see the road, knowing it curved somewhere near here, a fairly sharp curve which wasn’t a problem during the day but could be treacherous at night. She was concentrating very hard on staying off the reflector bumps and in the middle of her lane when suddenly red brake lights glowed in front of her.

She hadn’t even known a car was in front of her and Taylor slammed on her brakes to avoid rear ending it, which put her in a skid on the ice.

Braking hard on ice was the absolute wrong thing to do. She was supposed to pump the brakes, supposed to keep the brakes from locking. Too late.

Her tires spun, and her car spun, and she went careening off the shoulder before slamming violently into the metal side guard.

Her airbag deployed, the impact knocking the air from her.

Taylor knew she’d stopped moving when everything grew still and quiet. She sat for a moment, dazed, barely able to see over the airbag.