He rolled so he faced the sky, even though the move caused his aching head to twist and twirl like the white flakes that had eased up a little. “Are you all right?” His brain soaked up the soft, feminine murmur, so different from the violent attack he’d been expecting. At once his muscles surrendered, the tension melting like the snowflakes beneath him. Pale, blurry features and an abundance of bright blonde hair leaned over him, and his mind flashed back to the last thing he’d seen before the bastard had landed his sucker punch. Miss Priss, the woman whose only wardrobe seemed to consist of ladylike sweater sets and skirts with the occasional dress pants thrown in, stood on her back porch. A robe draped her delicate shoulders like a shiny jacket, but the front had been whipped open by the wind to reveal the valley between her breasts, the creamy skin of her stomach, and a tiny pair of panties whose color he couldn’t determine in the darkness.
