Snow Angel

By Kate Angell

Snowed under in Chicago, free-spirit Jamie Ames is trapped in Dutton's department store on Christmas Eve when a blizzard hits and the lights go out. She finds herself face to face with a handsome retail heir and her host for a snowbound night.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kate Angell
• Release date: Dec 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463158340

Kate Angell

National best-selling author Kate Angell lives in beautiful Naples on the Gulf of Mexico, Florida. She's an avid reader, sports enthusiast, and animal lover. She's best known for her Richmond Rogues baseball series.

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SNOW ANGEL

by

KATE ANGELL

Snow Angel

Copyright © 2019 KATE ANGELL

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Please purchase only authorized editions of this work, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Snow Angel was edited by Peter Senftleben, PES Editorial.

Cover Artwork by Jax Cassidy at Jaxadora Design.

SNOW ANGEL

Snowed under in Chicago, free-spirit Jamie Ames is trapped in Dutton's department store on Christmas Eve when a blizzard hits and the lights go out. She finds herself face to face with a handsome retail heir and her host for a snowbound night.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PROLOGUE

Frost Ridge Lodge

Aspen, Colorado

Three years ago

The steam rising from the cedar hot tub was pure foreplay. The vapors thickened on the cold night air. The condensation tickled the couple’s exposed skin, while jets teased their buttocks.

Jamie sat on the circular bench, her body liquid. Her head rested on the rim, her eyelids heavy, her lips parted. The water bubbled, ebbed, and bared her left breast, her nipple hard and peaked as she focused on the naked man across from her.

She knew him only as Matt. They’d yet to share last names. He was a ski stud and hot tub god. A man so cut he could have been a sculpture. Broad chest, buff abs. Smattering of chest hair. Her fingers itched to touch him. She licked her lips, imagined tracing the faded tan line on his groin with her tongue.

His gaze was hooded as he stretched his arms along the edges of the hot tub and grinned lazily at her. He had a sexy cool smile. Could he read her mind? Her desire to taste him? It appeared he had.

Any regrets? he asked.

Not a one, she said. Matt was pure female arousal. He touched her with his eyes and made her skin tingle.

I’m glad you’re here.

So am I. Steam moistened her lips as she released a soft sigh. She closed her eyes and let her thoughts drift back to the moment they’d met. This holiday would stay with her forever. . .

The mountain. The man. Matt had courted her on the slopes for three days. He’d given her chase, racing her down the advanced trails, pushing her performance. She’d initially laughed at their competition. In due course, it turned serious. She skied with the speed and purpose of outrunning an avalanche. She had won. Her heart raced as much for her victory as over the man’s intense pursuit.

At the end of the first and second days, he gave her a slow smile, nothing more. He left her with an off-handed salute at the base of the mountain. Alone.

He’d spiked her interest. She wanted to meet him. On Christmas Eve, he introduced himself as Matt. He had her at "nice huck."

She’d shown off for him that afternoon. Pulling out all the stops. Halfway down Widow Maker’s Run, she threw herself off the cliff’s edge and caught big air, a thrilling stunt by an advanced skier.

She’d impressed him alright.

He’d invited her for a drink.

Late afternoon shadows had nudged them to the valet ski check service where they handed off their gear. Then they entered the lodge bar, the Thirsty Moose. She’d ordered hot buttered rum and he sipped two fingers of scotch. Her drink had been served in a green mug rimmed with holly berries. A scripted Merry Christmas wrapped Matt’s tumbler. Happy Hour drew snow bunnies, ski bums, and serious skiers ready to party.

A DJ Santa spun tunes. Jingle Bells had made Jamie smile. She shared a bit of her past, but she didn’t know him well enough to fully open up. I’ve worked at ski resorts since I was sixteen, she told him as they settled on their bar stools and shed their ski jackets. "I was once assigned sleigh rides during Christmas week. I harnessed big Belgium draft horses to a Santa-style sleigh with a curly red dash. The route crossed a covered bridge then ran alongside a brook on a winding, wooded trail. It was a slow plodding ride. I wore three thick layers of clothing to stay warm.

Families were fun, she added. I handed out wool blankets, a thermos of hot chocolate, and gingerbread cookies. She scrunched her nose. Couples were another matter. They’d slide beneath the tartan plaids and once we got deep into the forest, the sleigh would start to rock. My job description didn’t include listening to all that giggling and panting. I learned to wear ear muffs.

Matt chuckled, husky, vibrant, and richly male. That gives a whole new meaning to dashing through the snow.

She nodded. An eye-opening job that paid well.

We never know what life has in store for us.

Jamie grew thoughtful. My oldest sister would disagree. Jackie’s a chirologist.

He raised a knowledgeable brow. She reads palms.

Jackie believes your life is printed on your palm. She’s quite intuitive and can assess a person’s life history and predict his or her future. She taught me the basics.

She’d waited for him to roll his eyes. He surprised her by turning over his right hand. Interesting. Read me, sweetheart.

She’d traced the line that curved above his thumb, leading downward toward his wrist. You have a long life line, she said, liking the warm feel of his skin against her fingertips. He had a man’s hand, wide, strong, and lightly callused. You’re a bit of a daredevil, but you could live to be one hundred. You work hard, but play harder.

He nodded. True. Not bad.

She continued running her fingertip across the top of his palm, just below his fingers, a sensual slide. His palm grew slightly damp. She was making him sweat. A curved heart line indicates you’re romantic.

I do candy, flowers, jewelry, and prolonged foreplay.

Her stomach fluttered over foreplay. She could imagine his hands sliding down her body, dipping between her thighs, then inching their way upward. Her breath stuck in her throat. She shifted on the bar stool, aroused by this man.

The fate line runs from the bottom of your palm near the wrist, up through the center, toward the middle finger, she went on to say. You have a star at the top of your fate line, which means good fortune and great success. Abundance and wealth.

She stroked the side of his hand. The short, single marriage line beneath your little finger shows one walk down the aisle. No divorce.

He linked his fingers with hers, and her pulse skipped. My parents have been married for forty years. They still act like newlyweds.

Jamie smiled, but said nothing. She seldom discussed her single mom. Margo, as her mother preferred to be called, didn’t do mother-daughter. Margo liked to be one of the girls. She refused to grow up or grow old. Jamie had often felt that she and her two sisters had raised their only parent.

A sip of her buttered rum, and she turned the conversation to skiing, to the hazards of off-piste and the adrenaline rush of conquering the slopes. Your winter playground of choice? she asked.

Stowe, he answered. I like Vermont. I stay at the Red Fox Country Inn and cross-country ski from the back door to the base of Mt. Mainsfield. The Stoweked Grille has the tastiest seafood stew in New England. How about you?

Solitude Resort near Salt Lake City, she said. No lift lines, crowded runs, or overtracked snow. The best chicken and chorizo chili in Utah is served at Wiley Coyote, a local mountain pub.

The bar crowd had begun singing Christmas carols at the top of their lungs. The noise was deafening. Jamie leaned closer