Gripping his gym bag in one hand and his laptop case in the other, Ryan Monroe walked up the narrow dirt path to the cabin he'd be calling home for the next two weeks.  He looked around and shook his head.
     Man, talk about being out in the middle of nowhere.  Nothing here but a bunch of trees turned brilliant with early fall colors, and an eerie lack of noise except for the pine needles and leaves crunching beneath his Italian loafers.   His nose twitched as he breathed in a pungent, damp, earthy scent he could only describe as "foresty."  Definitely not like what he was used to in Boston.  Maybe coming to this desolated spot wasn't such a smart idea--
     He sliced off his niggling doubts.  Sure, it was quiet and peaceful here--that was the whole point.
     Craning his neck, he caught a glimpse of the shimmering lake between the trees.  The sun was just setting, and bright orange and gold ribbons flitted over the water.  Clouds, however, loomed over the mountains, and he congratulated himself on arriving at his destination before the forecasted rainshower broke loose.
     Struggling to withdraw the key from the pocket of his khaki Dockers, he surveyed the cabin with an architectural eye.  Clean lines, two chimneys, sturdy construction.   His buddy Dave had purchased the place last year as a weekend getaway, but with Dave away on his honeymoon, he'd been happy to loan the place to Ryan. Dave had assured him that in spite of the rustic setting, he'd enjoy every comfort.
     And God knows he needed it.  Needed the time and relaxation not only to physically remove himself from the recent upheavals in his personal life, but for his work.  The opportunity to design an estate for one of the world's most eccentric and reclusive authors came along once in a lifetime--and he wasn't about to blow it.  But with his creativity hitting a brick wall, drastic measures were needed.  Hopefully this complete change of scenery would open his mind and focus his thoughts in new directions.
     Yup, there was no havoc here.  Just him.  And all this peace, fresh air, and quiet.  Good-bye city-induced stress, hello idea-inspiring…desolation.
     Juggling his cases, he slipped the key from his pocket and opened the door to paradise.
     Or maybe not.
     The gym bag slipped from his fingers and slapped against the wood floor--or was that his jaw hitting the ground?
     Every comfort?  For whom--a person accustomed to living in a cave?
     The large, rectangular-shaped room was completely empty.  Not a sign of the cozy armchairs, or overstuffed sofa Dave had raved about.  No welcoming logs set in the grate, no homey doo-dads decorating the mantle.  Nothing but a few clumps of dust and several pine needles scattered across the dark oak floor.
     In a daze, he turned and looked at what he supposed was the eat-in kitchen, but it was hard to tell since there was no table or chairs.  The green tiled countertops were completely bare, and based on what he'd seen so far, he guessed the stained oak cupboards were in the same condition.
     Lowering his laptop to the bare floor, he raked his hand through his hair.  This was definitely the right cabin.  Dave had written out detailed directions and the key fit the lock.  What the hell could have happened?  Had the place been robbed?  Maybe, but according to Dave, there wasn't anything worth stealing--no VCR, or stereo, and the t.v. had been an old portable.  And after living with Dave for four years during college, Ryan knew his best friend's decorating taste.  He couldn't imagine anyone wanting to steal Dave's beat-up sofa and garage-sale chairs.
     Huffing out a frustrated breath, Ryan looked up and noticed that one item remained.  A huge moose head hung at a drunken angle on the far wall, its horns adorned with something.  Ryan walked slowly across the room, fighting off the uneasy sensation that the moose's glass-eyed gaze followed his every move.  Animal heads hanging on the walls.  Sheesh.  Give him a city landscape any day.
     Standing in front of the mounted head, he peered upward and realized that the something hanging from its horns was a wisp of fabric.  A wisp of fabric that looked suspiciously like a pair of panties.  Black, lacy panties.
     Great.  Several local colleges were within easy driving distance.  Probably a bunch of college kids had staged a frat party/panty raid here and had carted off the furniture.  A mental image of muscular fraternity boys, hoisting Dave's sofa and chairs and parading them out of the cabin and into their cars filled his mind.
     Clearly a trip back to town was going to be necessary, a prospect that filled him with annoyance.  The nearest town was a good twenty miles away, and the first fifteen of that consisted of nothing more than a wide dirt path that had already no doubt done considerable damage to his Lexus's suspension.  He didn't even want to contemplate the possible scratches marring the car's glossy black paint.  He'd brought along enough food to last him for the duration of his stay, but he certainly hadn't brought any chairs, blankets or pillows.
     Blankets and pillows.  Jeez, was there even a bed here to use them on, or was that gone, too?   He dragged his hands down his face and shook his head.  While he hadn't expected the cabin to be a suite at the Ritz, he definitely hadn't planned on two weeks of what was rapidly promising to be something along the lines of survivalist training.
     But returning to his condo was simply not an option--not if he hoped to get any work done.  Marcie and her belongings had all but taken over his home and he still hadn't completely exorcised his ex-girlfriend's presence from the rooms.  And reminders of ex-girlfriends were not conducive to a healthy work environment. With only two weeks to design the house of his life and his creative heartbeat flat-lined, he desperately needed  unencumbered, distraction-free time.
     Maybe he'd be better off just checking into a hotel, but damn it, he hated hotels.  He spent so much time in them as it was, and they were full of distractions--noise, restaurants, bars, clubs...people.  He really needed this time alone to focus on his project.  Perhaps the rest of the cabin wasn't so bad.  And bare.
     Determined to find out, Ryan turned to stride down the hallway he assumed led to the bedrooms.  Before he'd even taken a step, the most God-awful groaning he'd ever heard in his life came from behind one of the closed doors off the hall.
     His entire body froze, except the hairs on the back of his neck.  They stood straight up.  The muffled sound echoed again.  What the hell was that?  It didn't sound human.  It sounded like some poor creature in horrible pain.  Hopefully it was a relatively small creature and not a large, hungry bear who liked to snack on architects.
     Another inhuman moan came from down the hall.
     So much for quiet, stress-free country life.
     Moving cautiously across the room, he looked around for a possible weapon and spied a plastic fork in the sink.  It wasn't much, but these were desperate times.  A further look yielded a woman's spiky-heeled shoe propped in the corner.  Probably belonged to Dave's bride, Carmen.  He briefly considered grabbing the panties, but decided they wouldn't do him much good.  What was he going to do--strangle a bear with them?  Gripping his make-shift weapons, Ryan crept down the hall.
     When he reached the first door, he flattened himself against the wall and drew a deep, steadying breath.  Damn it, what did he know about wild animals?  Did he look like he belonged hosting a show entitled "Creatures of the Wild and Their Habitats?"  No.  The closest he'd ever come to large, man-eating beasts was at the zoo, and his last trip there had been way back in tenth grade on a science/zoology field trip.  And even then he'd been more focused on Shari Watson's short skirt and long legs than lions and tigers.
     And bears.
     Oh my.
     Sweat popped out on his forehead.  Jeez, did bears make those awful groaning noises?  He blew out a long breath.  All right.  Maybe he wasn't a forest ranger, but he certainly knew what to do if there was a bear in that room.
     Remain calm, and don't panic.
     Then slam the door and run like hell.
     After offering up a quick prayer to whichever saint or angel was in charge of looking after about-to-become-hors d'oeuvres-architects, he gently pushed open the door.  Peering around the corner, he saw no one, but noted that the bedroom--which at least had furniture in it--was a complete shambles.  Every dresser drawer yawned open, decorated with an assortment of T-shirts he surmised belonged to Dave hanging over the edges.  The sheets and bedspread were pulled off the twin bed, and pillow feathers covered every surface, including a pile of clothes in the corner.
     Frustration welled up inside him.  Damn it, if college kids had indeed done this and he caught them, he was going to make the pranksters clean up this mess.  Of course, if the culprit was a crazed cabin-dwelling architect-eating bear, Ryan figured he'd cut the bear a break and clean up the mess himself.  But if it was anyone else, he was going to make them set this place back to rights.  And he had the plastic fork and high-heeled shoe to make them do it.
     He suspected that the half-opened door in the corner led to a bathroom and possibly hid his culprit.  Tightening his grip on the fork and shoe, he crept closer.
     Through the ajar door he caught sight of a towel rack.  Yup, it was a bathroom all right.  He paused when he heard a ripping sound.  Uh oh.  Ripping and groaning?  Was there more than one thief or whatever lurking in there?  The ripping sound continued. Deciding the element of surprise was his best bet, he approached the door on silent feet. Yes, definitely the best thief was a surprised thief.  Same thing applied to bears.
     Probably.
     He slowly pushed the door open several more inches and peeked around it, ready to heave the shoe.  And for the second time in minutes his jaw dropped.
     The bathroom looked like junior high school students had toilet papered it.  Long streamers of white toilet tissue littered the floor and hung from the towel rack and curtain rod. The medicine cabinet gaped open.  An assortment of medicine bottles and tubes lay on their sides, most having spilled over onto the white marble vanity.  And the destructive culprit sat in the porcelain sink.
     A small, fuzzy brown raccoon.
     Its body not much bigger than a football, the raccoon nestled in the bathroom sink, tearing pages from a magazine, a long ribbon of toilet paper draped about its body like an old-fashioned feather boa.  Ryan stared, dumbfounded, as the animal tore out a glossy page and tossed it.  It see-sawed back and forth in the air then glided to a halt at Ryan's feet.  Glancing down, he read the bold, black headline:  Put More Sizzle in Your Kiss:  Mastering Man-Melting Mouth-to-Mouth Techniques.
     A glugging sound came from the sink and Ryan's gaze snapped back to the raccoon who was now drinking from a plastic bottle.  Ryan peered at the label.  Maalox.
     The furry animal caught sight of him and slowly lowered the bottle from its mouth.  Clutching the Maalox container between its tiny paws, the raccoon stared at him through small, bright, curious eyes, then twitched its whiskers.
     Ryan huffed out a relieved breath.  There was no reason to be nervous about a raccoon.  Was there?  Nah.  Especially a raccoon who appeared to be smiling at him.
     Or was it just showing its teeth?  It's rabid, sharp, make-you-bleed-to-death-if-it-bites-you teeth.  He knew zip about raccoons--except that they apparently liked to read women's magazines and swill antacid.
     The raccoon flicked its bushy tail.  With remarkable dexterity, the animal set the Maalox bottle on the vanity, then agilely jumped to the floor and dashed through the doorway into the hall.  Ryan wasn't sure where the creature was going, but he had bigger problems at the moment.  Like that God-awful groaning, which--
     Suddenly stopped.
     His gaze was drawn to a half-open door in the corner.  Another sound filled the air, coming from beyond that door.  Running water.  Like the shower was on.
     Shower?  Could that awful noise have been caused by the shower pipes?  Possibly.  The plumbing in his old apartment had moaned and groaned like someone with a semi-truck rolling over their toe.
     Hmmm.  This put a whole new complexion on things.  He didn't know much about bears, but he doubted they took showers.  So that meant he was either dealing with a human--probably the thief who'd made off with Dave's stuff, or the damn smartest bear in the world.
     Neither thought was particularly comforting.
     Maybe the raccoon had turned on the shower?  No, Ryan decided.  The animal hadn't been wet, and as agile as he appeared, it didn't seem likely the beast could have turned on the water and gotten away dry.
     Moving cautiously, Ryan crept closer to the ajar door until a vinyl shower curtain came into view.  The tub obviously was fitted against the right side wall.  A towel rack with two neatly folded white towels hung on the left wall of the narrow room.  The toilet faced him.
     Billows of steam rose from the top of the curtain and Ryan sniffed the moist air.  A hint of citrusy spice.  Very...un-bearlike.  That was good.  Possibly thief-like, however.  That was bad.
     At that instant, the groaning started up again, nearly stopping his heart.  Another sound joined the groaning--a sound Ryan immediately recognized as human.
     Unless a bear could whistle a classic Rolling Stones' tune.
     While he didn't have to face a bear, a relief to be sure, he was faced with the unpleasant prospect of dealing with the person most likely responsible for the cabin's condition.  It struck him odd that a thief would take the time to shower, but hey, at least the guy wouldn't be able to conceal a weapon.  And while he wasn't Muhammad Ali, Ryan was confident he stood a pretty good chance against whoever was in the shower.  Most likely it was just some hungover college kid he could reason with and convince to bring back Dave's stuff and clean up the mess.
     Yup, most likely.
     The shower abruptly stopped, and the groaning noise faded to silence, confirming that the pipes were probably the source.  The whistling also tapered off, replaced by soft, melodic humming.  He frowned.  Wait a second.  That didn't sound like a guy.  It sounded like a--
     The curtain was pushed aside with a metal scrape of rings against the pole.  A long, slim, unmistakably feminine leg stepped sideways from the tub.  A matching leg appeared, and he found himself staring at what had to be the finest backside in the free world.
     Holy naked lady, Batman.
     She stood with her back to him, which was just as well because he suspected his eyeballs had sprung two feet out of his head.  She pulled a towel from the rack and used it to vigorously rub her long, dark hair that in spite of being flattened from the shower, still showed signs of curling.
     He tried, really tried to look away, but, well, she had appeared so suddenly.  And her ass was so...fine.  It was as if his gaze was crazy-glued to her butt.
     She bent over from the waist, drying her legs with the towel, affording him an X-rated view that made him forget how to breathe.  In with the good air, out with the bad air.  Wow.  This girl could start a fire in a fish tank.  Every cell in his body tensed until he couldn't move a muscle.
     Maybe his muscles were frozen in place, but there was nothing wrong with his vision.  Hey, if she was the thief who'd emptied the place of all its belongings, he'd need to give a detailed description of her to the cops, wouldn't he?  His gaze slid over her.  Not a single identifying scar or tattoo anywhere. Only lots of creamy, moist, soft-looking, incredible smelling flesh.  Long, long legs, slim ankles, narrow feet with nails painted flamingo pink.
     His stupefied brain cells roused themselves and tapped on his forehead.  Helloooo...earth to Ryan, you're staring at a naked stranger who is most likely a thief.  And even if she isn't, she doesn't know you're looking at her.  That borders on being a pervert.
     He jolted back to reality.  Damn!  He wasn't a pervert.  He was just...surprised.  He hadn't had time to...react.  But now that his mind was once again functioning, sort of, he needed to stop looking at, okay--ogling--all that gorgeous, creamy, damp, female flesh.  And he would have stopped, except at that instant she wrapped the towel around herself and turned around.
     A breath he hadn't even realized he held whooshed from his lungs like a popped balloon.
     Her hair stuck up in odd punk-rocker type spikes from the towel-drying.  Big blue eyes stared at him.  She looked like a sea goddess, rising from a billowing mist of steam.
     And boy, could she scream.