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the war and chaos in their country had prevented them from seeing it through.
    That night, as Jace fed the news to the networks, he had been completely poised—his face, his voice, devoid of the emotions churning inside him. He was, as always, the complete professional. Looking back on it he realized he’d never permitted himself to givevoice to his grief, choosing instead to push himself to work even harder, to block the feelings.
    It was only one of the hundreds of instances in which he’d suppressed his emotions on the job. It was the only way he knew how to survive. But he was only now beginning to realize what a terrible price he’d paid for his stoicism. Though he still couldn’t bring himself to speak of them, the scenes of all that carnage haunted him. And something as simple as an attack by a hungry hawk could bring the memories flooding back, casting a pall on the day.
    He ran a hand through his hair and realized he was sweating. He hadn’t really left any of it behind. He’d brought it all home with him. And he feared it might remain with him for a lifetime.
    By the time Jace returned to the cabin, Ciara had added a fresh log to the fire and had set her boots nearby to dry.
    As he placed the carton of milk on the counter, she noticed that he had carefully composed his features. But, though he was no longer frowning, there was no warmth in his eyes. Whatever memories he carried, they hadn’t been resolved, she thought. They’d merely been tucked away.
    Like her, he’d come here to be alone—to think, to bleed, to resolve. And then, hopefully, to move on. But like her, he was forced to snatch what little time he could find alone, to do just that. She wished, for both their sakes, that the snow would melt quickly,so that each of them could find the solitude they sought.
    Jace stepped outside and retrieved the rusty generator that he’d hauled from the shed.
    “You have a choice to go with the hot chocolate—” she poured milk into a pan and set it over the fire “—plain toast or cinnamon toast.”
    “That’s it? No sandwiches? No soup?” He closed the cabin door and slipped out of his parka and boots.
    Ciara grinned. “You can have whatever you’d like. As for me, I wouldn’t want to spoil my appetite for that fabulous dinner you’re going to make.”
    “You’re not going to let me forget about that, are you?” He spread newspapers over the floor, then knelt and began disassembling the motor.
    “Not a chance.” She set bread over the coals, turning it often until it was evenly browned on both sides. “After all, it isn’t every day I have a reporter willing to feed me.”
    He glanced over, enjoying the way her hair had escaped from the ponytail to dip provocatively over one eye. “Oh, I bet there are plenty of reporters willing to take you to dinner.”
    “Sure. And they’re all after something. A scoop about a fling with my leading man. A feud with my director. A catfight with some other actress.”
    He couldn’t resist saying, “Not to mention those reporters who would just like to get you into bed.”
    Instead of disagreeing, she surprised him by nodding. “That too. So they can brag about it the nextday. You wouldn’t believe how many sharks there are out there who feed on celebrities.”
    At the tone of her voice he looked up. “Sounds like you’ve been bitten a time or two.”
    “Oh, yeah. I’ve been bitten. But I’ll never give them the satisfaction of seeing me bleed.”
    “So you came up here to bleed in private.”
    “Yeah.” She thought about it a minute. “I guess I did.” She looked over. “How about you? Any blood left in those veins?”
    “Very little. I practically bled to death before I made it here.”
    She was surprised, and more than a little touched, by his admission. It had to be difficult for a very private man like Jace Lockhart, who wasn’t accustomed to sharing much of his life with others.
    “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?”
    He