It was a struggle to zip her jeans over the bulky underwear she'd put on, and once she did get the zipper up, the jeans were so tight she couldn't bend her knees, but Julie scarcely noticed the inconvenience. Her mind was on the best way to deceive Zachary Benedict into relaxing his guard long enough for her to escape and, if she had to leave on foot, to trick him somehow into not coming after her until she had an excellent head start. For that reason, she delayed putting on the snowsuit for the time being. At present, it seemed far wiser to make him think she was simply going outdoors for a few minutes to get some air.
Fixing a polite, impersonal expression on her face, Julie tugged the bottom of her own sweater and jacket over her hips, hoping he wouldn't notice that her legs looked—and moved—liked a pair of stiff, overstuffed sausages, then she opened the door and stepped into the living room.
Her eyes went automatically to the sofa by the fire where she expected to see him. Instead he was across the room, staring out the windows at the falling snow, his back turned to her, his hands shoved deep into his pants pockets. Delaying the moment when she would have to face him for the first time since last night, she watched him lift his hand. As he absently rubbed the muscles at the back of his neck, her treacherous mind suddenly recalled how skillfully those long fingers had caressed her breasts and the exquisite pleasure he had made her feel. It occurred to her at that moment that he actually deserved some credit for showing a certain amount of restraint and decency last night. He had been as physically aroused as she, she remembered, feeling her face grow warm at the vivid memory of his rigid erection pressing against her.
She had aroused him and then inadvertently insulted and angered him, and yet he hadn't tried to resort to rape…
He turned his head slightly and she saw the stern pride stamped on that rough-hewn profile, the mobile mouth that had kissed her with such soul-destroying passion. Surely a man who was capable of so much tenderness and restraint even in the throes of passion, and when he hadn't been near a woman in five years, couldn't really be a murderer…
Julie gave herself an angry mental shake! She was being an utter fool again—standing there, feeling sorry for the villain, romanticizing him, simply because he was tall, handsome, and incredibly sexy and because she was an idiot—a spineless idiot who was disgustingly and helplessly attracted to him! "Excuse me," she said briskly, raising her voice to be heard above the radio.
He twisted around, his gaze narrowing on her outdoor clothing. "Where do you think you're going?"
"You said," Julie replied, matching his clipped tone perfectly, "that I could have the run of the house and grounds. I'm going crazy being stuck indoors. I intend to go outside for some fresh air."
"It's freezing out there."
Realizing he was on the verge of refusing, she switched quickly to a calm, logical approach. "As you pointed out, I'd die of exposure if I tried to escape on foot. I just need some exercise and fresh air. All I want to do is explore the yard a little and—" she faltered, then inspiration struck and she tried to inject a childlike eagerness in her voice as she finished, "I want to build a snowman! Please don't say I can't," she cajoled, "I haven't seen this much snow since I moved to Texas as a little girl."
He wasn't impressed and he wasn't friendly. "Suit yourself, but stay where I can see you from these windows."
"Yes, warden!" Julie snapped back, instantly angered by his high-handedness. "But may I be allowed to vanish from view now and then—just to gather up branches and things I need?"
Instead of answering, he lifted his brows and regarded her in cold silence.
Julie decided to take his silence for assent, even though she knew it wasn't intended as anything of the sort. She had made up her mind to get away from him, and to accomplish that urgent goal, she was prepared to stoop to almost anything, including pandering and placating. "I used to give my snowmen carrot noses," she told him, and with an ability at acting and subterfuge heretofore unnoticed, she smiled a little as she added, "I'll look in the refrigerator to see what we have."
The refrigerator was beside a drawer that she'd noticed last night contained some oddly shaped keys to unknown locks. With her left hand, Julie opened the refrigerator, and with her right, she silently pulled the drawer open, her fingers groping for the flat metal keys she'd seen. "No carrots," she said over her shoulder, glancing up at him with another artificial smile, then she snuck a quick look in the drawer. She saw one of the keys and picked it up, but she knew there had been more than just this one. She saw them then—three other keys peeking out from under some spatulas and mixing spoons. With her eyes on the contents of the refrigerator, she managed to pick up another one of them, but her shaking hand and long fingernails made it impossibly awkward to pick up the other two, particularly without looking. Just when she nearly had one of them, she heard him move, and when she looked up, he was stalking straight toward her. She yanked her hand out of the drawer and closed it, two keys pressed in her palm, her voice shaking with nerves. "Wh-what do you want?"
"Something to eat, why?"
"I just wondered, that's all." She scooted past him as he rounded the counter. "Help yourself."
He paused, his gaze following her as she walked stiffly over to the closet. "What's wrong with your legs?"
Julie's mouth went dry. "Nothing. I mean—I found a pair of long johns in a drawer and put them on under my jeans, so I could stay warmer when I'm outside."
"Stay close to the house," he warned. "Don't make me come looking for you."
"I will," she lied, already opening the door of the hall closet where she'd seen some ski hats and gloves belonging to the owner of house. "What do you think I should use for his eyes and nose?" she asked, prattling about the details of her project in hopes of boring him into letting his guard down.
"I don't know and, to be perfectly honest, I don't give a damn."
Affecting a look of guileless enthusiasm, she looked over her shoulder as she pawed through the boots in the closet. "Snowmen are very important artistic projects in some cultures," she informed him, unconsciously affecting the same tone she used when she addressed her third-grade students. "Did you know that?"
"No."
"They take a great deal of forethought," she added ingenuously.
Instead of replying, he studied her in speculative silence for a moment then he rudely turned his back on her and returned to the kitchen.