Fugitive Hearts
Ingrid Weaver
The man who staggered through the night to collapse at Dana Whittington's secluded cottage was mysterious - and more than a little dangerous. And yet, as she tenderly cared for him, she felt an aching passion growing within her - a passion that was not shaken even by the shattering news that he was a fugitive from justice…. She could not, would not, believe that Remy Leverette was a murderer.There was too much good shining through in this man, who swore he had fled prison only to protect his beloved daughter. And whatever the danger, Dana could not betray him - or a love she knew would never set her free….
“Don’t you ever get lonely, Dana?” Remy murmured, curling a lock of her hair around his index finger and bringing it to his lips.
She didn’t like where the conversation was heading. How much honesty did she want to allow herself? Yes, she got lonely. Damn right she got lonely. Why else would she be lying here beside a convicted killer, wishing she could believe this whole crazy charade they were playing?
“Dana?”
“Sometimes,” she admitted.
“I think the nights are the worst,” he said. “Don’t you wish you had someone beside you then, to talk to?” He stroked her cheek with the ends of her hair. “Or just to hold in the dark?”
She moistened her lips. “Sometimes.”
He leaned closer.
Was he going to kiss her? What would she do if he did? How could she stand it if he didn’t…?
Dear Reader,
There’s so much great reading in store for you this month that it’s hard to know where to begin, but I’ll start with bestselling author and reader favorite Fiona Brand. She’s back with another of her irresistible Alpha heroes in Marrying McCabe. There’s something about those Aussie men that a reader just can’t resist—and heroine Roma Lombard is in the same boat when she meets Ben McCabe. He’s got trouble—and passion—written all over him.
Our FIRSTBORN SONS continuity continues with Born To Protect, by Virginia Kantra. Follow ex-Navy SEAL Jack Dalton to Montana, where his princess (and I mean that literally) awaits. A new book by Ingrid Weaver is always a treat, so save some reading time for Fugitive Hearts, a perfect mix of suspense and romance. Round out the month with new novels by Linda Castillo, who offers A Hero To Hold (and trust me, you’ll definitely want to hold this guy!); Barbara Ankrum, who proves the truth of her title, This Perfect Stranger; and Vickie Taylor, with The Renegade Steals a Lady (and also, I promise, your heart).
And if that weren’t enough excitement for one month, don’t forget to enter our Silhouette Makes You a Star contest. Details are in every book.
Enjoy!
Leslie J. Wainger
Executive Senior Editor
Fugitive Hearts
Ingrid Weaver
To Katie O’Toole,
Realtor Extraordinaire,
Forty-seven acres of thanks!
INGRID WEAVER
admits to being a compulsive reader who loves a book that can make her cry. A former teacher, now a homemaker and mother, she delights in creating stories that reflect the wonder and adventure of falling in love. When she isn’t writing or reading, she enjoys old Star Trek reruns, going on sweater-knitting binges, taking long walks with her husband and waking up early to canoe after camera-shy loons.
Ingrid is the recipient of the Romance Writers of America’s RITA Award for Best Romantic Suspense Novel for her book, On the Way to a Wedding…
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Chapter 1
At first Dana didn’t realize the lump on her doorstep was human.
She assumed the snow that had been piling up on the roof of the caretaker’s cabin all day must have slid off, a mini avalanche triggered by the wind. Or else the storm had swirled the snow into a freak drift. If the wood box beside the fireplace hadn’t been getting empty, she would have waited until the morning to dig herself out, but she didn’t want to risk having Morty catch another chill at his age. So instead of going back inside when she saw her way was blocked by the lump, Dana plunged ahead.
The snow wasn’t the powdery mass she had expected. Her left boot came down on something firm and rounded. And the snowdrift groaned.
Dana shrieked and jumped backward, windmilling her arms to keep her balance. Her elbow smacked into the door frame. Her flashlight flew from her grasp and hit the underside of the eaves. With a tinkle of breaking glass, the beam winked out.
“Oh, my God!” She fell to her knees and reached in front of her. “Who’s there? Are you hurt?”
Nothing. No more groans, no sound at all apart from the hiss of the wind and the pounding of her own pulse in her ears. In the dim glow from the window there was no trace of movement.
Dana inched forward, thrusting her arms into the tracks she had made. Immediately her hand connected with the form she had stepped on. She pulled her hand back and removed her mitten with her teeth, then extended her fingers. She touched fabric and pressed harder, running her fingertips along what it took her only a split second to realize was…an arm.
She put her mitten back on and started to dig, scooping the snow away as quickly as she could. “Hang on,” she said. “Hang on, I’ll help you.”
It seemed to take forever, but it couldn’t have been more than a minute later that Dana uncovered a figure that was definitely human. And, judging by the size, undoubtedly male. Wrapped in an overcoat, curled into a fetal position, the stranger remained silent and ominously motionless, except for the shivering that shook his large frame.
Stories her grandfather had told her in her childhood, tales of unwary trappers who had frozen to death mere yards from shelter in storms like this, popped unbidden into her head. Half Moon Bay Resort was only three hours north of Toronto, but it was like a different world up here—just last year there had been those snowmobilers who had gotten lost in a blizzard and hadn’t been found until the spring thaw….
“Oh, God,” she muttered. “Don’t die, mister. You can’t die.”
Scrambling to her feet, she reached behind her to open the door. The wind shoved it inward, smacking it against the wall in a vicious gust. Snow streamed giddily over the threshold as Dana turned back to grasp the stranger under the arms.
Her boots slipped on the ice that coated the doorstep, sending her back to her knees. Her hands rapidly grew too numb to maintain a grip on the limp form. In desperation, she hooked her arm around the stranger’s neck and dragged the dead weight backward like a swimmer, crawling and sliding until his body cleared the threshold. Unable to do more, she shoved his long, denim-clad legs to the side so that she could swing the door closed.
In the sudden stillness after the storm was shut out, Dana’s rasping breaths seemed unnaturally loud. The fire on the hearth crackled, the clock on the mantel ticked and the snow hissed distantly against the windows. Everything was just as she’d left it mere minutes ago. Cozy and quiet, exactly as she wanted it.
Except for the body on her floor.
No, not a dead body kind of body. He had groaned, and he was still shivering enough to knock puffs of snow onto the floor around him, so he couldn’t be dead.
Yet.
Dana toed off her boots and ran for the phone. Snatching up the receiver, she dialed 911. Surely the emergency services would still be working, despite the storm. And even if the ambulance couldn’t get here immediately, at least she could talk to a doctor and find out what to do….
It took her a moment to realize the call wasn’t going through. Nothing was. The line was dead.
“Oh, no.” She jiggled the button. She dialed again. She checked to make sure the phone was plugged into the jack. Still nothing. The storm must have knocked out the phone lines.
Now what? They were miles from the highway. The resort pickup truck was four-wheel drive and might have had a chance with the snow, but it was standard transmission, and she didn’t know how to handle a stick shift. And until the snowplow cleared the roads, there was no way she could risk driving her car anywhere. Not that she’d be capable of loading someone this man’s size into her subcompact by herself even if the roads were clear.
Panic that she hadn’t had the time to feel before now knotted her stomach as she went back to the stranger’s side. At least she had assumed this was a stranger. No one she knew had been planning to make the trip up here—her family knew better than to disturb her when she was on a deadline. That’s why she had come here in the first place, wasn’t it? For peace and quiet and a complete lack of distractions.
Distractions? she thought wildly, feeling a bubble of hysteria tickle her throat. Hoo, boy, when it came to distractions, this one was a doozy.
Taking a deep breath to regain her control, Dana tore off her coat, then peered at the man’s face. Snow clung in a wet shroud to his hair and had solidified into beads of ice on his eyebrows. His hawk-sharp nose, his prominent cheekbones, his square jaw all looked as if they could have been carved from a glacier. Beneath the frost-tipped edges of his mustache, his lips were blue.
Dana’s stomach did a quick lurch. She was right. He was a stranger. She had never seen this man’s face before. If she had, she definitely would have remembered.
“Mister?” she said. She gently shook his shoulder. “Hey, mister, can you hear me?”
No reply. But she hadn’t really expected one. If her clumsy efforts to get him into the cabin hadn’t roused him, it was doubtful her voice would.
She glanced at the coat he wore. It was long and navy-blue, made of wool that was fashionable but not very practical in weather like this, even with the collar turned up to shield his neck. His leather gloves wouldn’t provide much protection from the cold, either. Nor would his jeans or his sneakers.
Why would anyone set off through a snowstorm with no hat or boots? What kind of man wore jeans and sneakers with an expensive overcoat and kidskin gloves?
And what on earth did it matter? Whoever he was, whatever he was, he had to get warmed up. Now. She didn’t need a doctor or a paramedic to tell her that much.
Dana dropped to her knees at his side and tugged off his gloves, grimacing at the coldness of his hands. She spared a few seconds to breathe on them, chafing each one in turn between her palms before she turned to his other clothes.
Getting his damp coat off was a challenge. He was a tall man, and despite the complete laxness of his limbs, he was rock solid and outweighed her by at least eighty pounds. By the time she managed to extract his arms from his sleeves, she realized she would have no hope of getting him to the couch or the bed. Leaving him lying on his coat, she grasped his ankles and dragged him closer to the fireplace.
When she saw the dying blaze on the hearth she remembered why she had ventured outside in the first place.
“Oh, great,” she muttered. She threw on the last of the wood, then sprinted to her bedroom and returned with an armful of blankets.
Was his shivering getting worse? Yes, it was, she realized. Taking off his coat was a good start, but she still needed to get him out of his wet clothes, or whatever body heat he still retained would drain away. She dumped the blankets on the floor and pulled off his shoes and socks, then looked at his jeans. The denim was thick, but it was as encrusted with snow as his overcoat. There was no way around it, the jeans would have to come off.
To her credit, Dana didn’t hesitate. Much. This was no time to worry about proprieties. Under the circumstances she had no choice. Kneeling at his side, she unfastened the stud at the waistband of his jeans. When she grasped the tab of the zipper, she paused to glance at his face.
“Mister?” she said loudly. “Can you hear me?”
The snow and ice crystals that frosted his hair and mustache were beginning to thaw, revealing their color to be as dark as the charred logs in the fireplace. Water drops trickled over the ridge of his jaw, down his neck and into the collar of the blue chambray shirt he wore. Apart from his shivering, he still didn’t move.
“Sorry,” she continued, lowering the zipper. “But I have to do this. For your own good.” She slipped her fingers under his waistband and tried to tug the jeans down. Her knuckles rubbed over his hipbones, and she was startled by the warmth she felt…both the warmth of his skin and the warmth of the ridiculous blush that sprang to her cheeks.
But she wouldn’t permit herself to be embarrassed, not even when the jeans slid neatly past the top of his plain white briefs and bunched just inches from the junction of his legs, refusing to slide any lower. Dana studiously ignored the large, masculine bulge that had stopped the descent of the denim. She struggled unsuccessfully to ease the garment down for another awkward, blush-inducing minute.
“This isn’t working,” she muttered. “Maybe it isn’t really necessary.” But she knew it was. The melting snow was already seeping through the denim in dark patches of dampness.
Finally she got to her feet and straddled his legs, gaining enough leverage to yank his jeans the rest of the way off. She tossed them aside and went to work on his shirt. She didn’t want to think about the silky black hair that feathered his chest and trailed down his flat abdomen, or the muscles that ridged his arms. She couldn’t regard him as a man, not at a time like this.
But he was too large and heavy to be anything else. It took all her strength to roll him off his shirt and coat and onto the thick quilt she positioned beside him. By the time she had tucked the last blanket carefully around his shoulders, she was out of breath. “There,” she said. “That’s the best I can do. I just hope it’s enough to keep you going until I can get help.”
She eyed the telephone, then went over to give it another try. Still no dial tone, not that she had really expected the line to get repaired so soon. She probably should have taken her sister’s advice and purchased a cell phone as a backup for her stay here. At least the resort’s electricity had a backup generator, so she wouldn’t have to worry about being without power.
But she hadn’t been expecting a situation like this to occur. How could anyone? When she had talked her cousin into letting her stay at Half Moon Bay, finding a frozen stranger on her doorstep hadn’t been among the possibilities they had discussed. The resort was closed for the winter. The only problems she was likely to face in her role as caretaker were leaky pipes or too much snow on the roof.
“Mrrrow?”
At the indignant sound, Dana turned toward the kitchen.
Morty padded through the doorway, evidently fresh from his nap in the laundry basket. He yawned, extending his front legs in a bowing stretch, then arched forward and delicately shook out his back paws. His ears swiveled as he regarded the heap of blankets on the floor.
“No, you can’t use them,” Dana said.
Ignoring her warning, Morty picked his way past the puddles of melting snow and went to investigate. He sniffed lightly at the stranger’s face, jumping backward to avoid a droplet of ice water that was dislodged by the man’s shivering.
“Good point,” Dana said. She retrieved a towel from the bathroom and squatted down to pat the man’s face dry. The snow and ice that had clung to his hair had all melted now. His hair wasn’t black as she had first thought but a deep, rich brown. It was long enough for the ends to brush his shoulders and curl against the sides of his neck. His mustache was thick and extended past the edges of his mouth, giving him the appearance of an old-fashioned desperado.
Dana paused. Desperado? Where had that thought come from? Sure, he was big and well muscled, and his hair was a touch too long, and his mustache looked like something out of an old Western, but he was unconscious and helpless on her floor. He was as far from dangerous as anyone could get.
On the other hand, she was three miles from her nearest neighbor, cut off from the outside world by a blizzard, completely alone with a very large, strange man. Maybe she should have thought about that before she dragged him inside the cabin…
No, that was ridiculous, she told herself, dabbing at his wet hair. What did she think, that ax murderers made a habit of wandering around in snowstorms and this one just happened to choose her doorstep to collapse on? He was probably some poor soul who had gone off the road in the snow. Appearances weren’t always a reliable gauge of character.
Take Morty. When she had found him huddled in that alley behind her apartment building, he’d looked like a ragged toy that someone had knocked the stuffing out of. All he had needed was a bath, food and some affection and he’d turned out to be a wonderful companion.
Of course, she wasn’t comparing this situation to taking in a stray cat. And she wasn’t looking for a companion. Besides, this man was probably in need of a lot more than just a bath, food and affection.
Dana wished she knew more about first aid. So far all she had done for him, getting him out of the cold and warming him up, was simply common sense. What if she was missing something important, something vital? It could be hours before she could get him medical help. What if his unconsciousness was due to more than the cold?
She pushed aside his hair to lay her fingertips over the thin skin at the side of his neck. In spite of his continued shivering, she found the throb of his pulse. To her relief, it was strong and steady. She ran her hands carefully over his head, sliding her fingers into his thick hair to check his scalp for lumps or gashes, but found none. She hadn’t noticed any injuries when she had removed his clothes, but she lifted the blanket and looked, just to be sure.
There didn’t appear to be anything wrong with his body. In fact, he was about as close to perfect looking as a man could get.
She quickly replaced the blankets and sat back on her heels. All right, now what? she asked herself for the second time.
Morty, evidently finished with his investigation of the stranger and satisfied that all was in order, leaped onto the blanket that covered the man’s chest and curled up in a contented half circle.
Dana stared, her mouth going slack. Like most cats, Morty usually showed a regal disdain for strangers. Even if they coaxed him with food, he seldom approached. “Morty,” she said. “Get off there.”
He regarded her through half-closed eyes and didn’t budge.
“Morty, he probably has enough trouble breathing without you sitting on his chest,” she said, giving the cat a gentle shove. “Go back to the laundry basket.”
Morty dug his claws into the blanket.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Dana muttered, making a grab for the cat. She picked him up, detached his claws from the blanket and set him back on the floor.
His tail raised in offended feline dignity, Morty stalked over to plunk down at the man’s feet.
Dana shook her head, bemused. “Okay, you can stay there,” she said. “The extra heat will probably do him good.”
A violent spasm shook the man’s frame. His teeth began to chatter.
Not knowing what else to do, Dana reached beneath the blanket and caught one of his hands. It dwarfed hers as she pressed it between her palms. For the first time, she noticed the lumpy outline of calluses at the base of his fingers.
Evidently he worked with his hands. That detail made sense, considering his muscled arms. But if he did manual labor for a living, why was he wearing kid gloves and an expensive coat that would have been more suited to an accountant?
And why would anyone head up the road to the resort in a blizzard in the first place?
Speculation was pointless, Dana thought, pushing the questions to the back of her mind. He was alive; that was the most important thing. “Hang on,” she said, squeezing his fingers. “You’re safe now. Everything’s going to be fine.”
You’re safe now. Everything’s going to be fine.
Remy heard the voice from a long way off. It pounded at the ice that encased his brain, chipping away at the weakness that held his body.
You’re safe now.
Was it true? No, not yet. He couldn’t afford to rest. He had to keep moving. He couldn’t let them find him.
But where was he? Why was he so cold? What was that clattering noise?
He forced his senses back to awareness. Pain shot up his arms from his fingertips, as if someone held a blowtorch to his frozen flesh.
Frozen. Cold. Images kaleidoscoped through his head. The storm, the snow. The fading light.
The resort. The cabin. Had he reached it?
He caught the aroma of woodsmoke. It mixed with the tang of wet wool and old wood and…lilies.
Lilies?
Someone was holding his hand. That’s where the heat was coming from. Not a blowtorch. Fingers. Small fingers. But they hurt like hell. He tried to move away.
The fingers squeezed. “Mister?”
The voice was soft and female, like the hands that held his. But he could barely hear it over the clattering noise that filled his head. He clenched his teeth and the clattering stopped.
“Hello? Mister, can you hear me?”
Remy heard the woman’s voice draw closer, and the scent of flowers grew stronger.
Something bumped his feet. Agony stabbed into his frozen toes. He tried to shift away, but his limbs felt bound, held down. Panic tripped his pulse. They must have found him after all. The safety was an illusion. He couldn’t trust it. He couldn’t trust anyone.
The woman released his hand. Fingertips feathered over his forehead before her palm settled warmly against the side of his face. “Hello?” She patted his cheek. “Hello?”
Remy struggled to open his eyes but his eyelashes seemed stuck together. He held his breath and tried again. He managed to crack his eyelids apart just enough to glimpse a face.
She was leaning over him, her hair falling in a blond curtain across her cheekbones. Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth and her pale eyebrows angled together in concern. She looked worried. She looked innocent.
And she wasn’t wearing a uniform.
His pulse steadied. Gradually his surroundings started to solidify. He realized he was lying on his back, on the floor. There was a quiet crackling nearby, like a fire. Blankets weighed down his legs, not shackles. There was a flash of orange fur by his feet, and a marmalade cat raised its head to stare at him.
Remy closed his eyes and feigned unconsciousness, buying time to assess his situation.
It was okay. This couldn’t be a hospital. It couldn’t be a police station. They didn’t have cats there.
So Sibley hadn’t found him. There was still hope. All he needed was a chance to rest, to regain his strength. Then he’d figure out what to do.
Chantal.
The name echoed through his mind like the clang of a locking door. Had he heard it? Spoken it? The last time he had seen her he hadn’t been able to speak at all. His throat had been swelled shut with the sob he had been determined not to let her hear.
Was she warm? Was she safe? Was she happy?
Did she believe what they said about him?
His pulse tripped with helpless, frustrated anger. It was a familiar feeling. For seven months he had lived and breathed it.
He couldn’t waste time resting. He had to keep moving. He had to find the key that would end the nightmare.
Would he ever see her again? Would he feel the sunshine of her laughter and hear the lilting music in her voice when she called him Daddy?
She would turn five next month. Five. And she was being raised by people who called him a murderer.
No, he thought. No! He wouldn’t give up. He couldn’t. Not until Chantal knew the truth.
Chapter 2
“John? Mr. Becker? Can you hear me?”
Remy floated back to awareness with a confused jerk. When had he drifted off again? How long had he been out? And who the hell was Becker?
“I’m just going outside to get some more firewood, Mr. Becker. The storm isn’t letting up, and it’s going to be a long night.”
Gentle fingers brushed across his forehead, accompanied by the scent of lilies. There was the rustle of clothing and the rasp of a zipper. Remy squinted one eye just enough to see the blond woman pull the hood of a red parka over her head and move away. A door creaked, a blast of frigid air whistled inside for an instant, then the latch clicked shut. Remy waited another few seconds, listening to be sure he was alone before he opened his eyes fully.
Whitewashed beams crossed the ceiling above him, mottled with flickering shadows. A plaid couch with wooden arms loomed above him on his right, and to his left a fire burned low behind a mesh screen.
Right. The resort, the storm. It didn’t take as long for his brain to click into gear this time. Good. That must mean his strength was returning. Remy stretched his arms, then his legs, one at a time. Aches and stiffness but no real damage, from what he could tell. He tried to flex his fingers. Pain, swift and white-hot, knifed through his joints from the thawing flesh. He took shallow, panting breaths until the pain eased, then cautiously lifted his head.
The room was large, taking up the entire front half of the cabin. Along with the couch, there were two overstuffed easy chairs, footstools, bookshelves and a table with a tilted top and a stool. It was a drafting table, Remy realized. Did it belong to the woman who smelled like flowers? Who was she? And what was she doing out here by herself?
Didn’t matter, he told himself immediately. Whoever she was, she was one person too many. He never would have come here if he’d known the place was occupied. She was a complication he hadn’t anticipated. He had to leave, he thought, pushing himself up on his elbows.
The room went gray and tilted. Remy waited until it righted itself again, then straightened his arms and levered himself into a sitting position.
A shudder shook his frame as the air hit his bare skin. He glanced down, puzzled, and noticed that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Using the heels of his hands, he clasped the edge of the blanket that had fallen to his lap and pulled it to his shoulders. That was when he realized he wasn’t wearing any pants.
“What the—” Wincing at the rawness of his throat, he swallowed carefully. He spotted his shirt draped over a wooden rack near the fireplace, along with his jeans. Another shudder rattled through him, and he had to clamp his jaw shut to keep his teeth from clacking.
Damn, he was cold, so cold. But he had to get dressed. He had to leave. He hung on to that thought as he bent his knees and tried to stand up.
The floor was hardwood, he learned. It rushed upward and slammed into the side of his face.
A marmalade cat padded daintily into his field of vision. “Mrrowww?”
Remy glared at the cat as he regathered his strength, then rolled to his back and gingerly assessed the additional damage. Everything throbbed now, and he tasted blood. He mouthed a string of silent curses as he wiped the blood from his lip. Taking care to move more slowly, he sat up again.
The cat sat back on its haunches and curled its tail around its feet. Its ears pricked forward as it studied him.
Remy ignored the animal’s scrutiny and focused on the clothes on the wooden rack. They were wet. That must be why the woman had stripped them off him. He shuddered again as he realized how completely vulnerable he had been while he had been unconscious. He hadn’t even been aware that a strange woman had taken off his clothes and wrapped him in blankets.
He should be grateful. Whoever she was, she had undoubtedly saved his life.
But she could just as easily have ended it.
He had to leave. He couldn’t count on the charity of a stranger. He knew better than to trust anyone. During the past year, people he had believed to be his friends had turned their backs on him.
He hooked his elbow over the arm of the couch and tried once more to get to his feet. This time, he was able to lurch as far as the fireplace before his legs gave out. The blanket he’d draped around his shoulders tangled around his ankles and he crashed into the rack with his clothes. The thin wooden slats snapped, collapsing under his weight into a tangle of splinters and soggy denim.
Remy took a precious minute to catch his breath, then got to his hands and knees. Lifting his head, he looked at the snow that still swirled outside the window.
He couldn’t make it across the room; there was no way in hell he could make it across another ten miles of countryside in wet clothes. That would be suicide.
But he was risking far worse if he remained here. That blond woman who smelled like lilies had helped him, but the help would end when she discovered who he was. She would call the authorities. He couldn’t let her do that.
Frantically he surveyed the room once more. There on a low table under the window was a telephone. It was an old, black rotary dial set. He had to disable it.
He shook his feet clear of the blanket. Bracing his back against the wall, hanging on to the stones at the edge of the fireplace, he managed to get himself upright.
There was the stamp of feet outside the cabin. Seconds later the door swung open on a blast of cold air.
Remy pushed off from the wall and staggered toward the phone.
“What… Oh, my God! Mr. Becker!”
At the woman’s voice, Remy tried to move faster. If he could grab the wire and rip it from the connection—
“John, wait,” she cried. She dropped an armload of firewood onto the floor. Tossing aside her mittens as she ran, she reached his side before he made it to the phone. “Here,” she said, slipping her arms around his waist. “Let me help you.”
Only two more steps and he would be there, Remy thought. But before he could lift his foot again, his knees gave out.
“Oomph,” the woman grunted. She swayed, propping her shoulder under his arm to hold him upright. Stumbling, she steered him toward the couch.
Remy didn’t have the strength to fight her. He bit back a moan as he fell backward onto the plaid cushions.
The woman landed on top of him, her face pressed into his chest. She pushed off quickly and got back to her feet, then retrieved the blankets he had scattered and covered him up once more. “Don’t move, John,” she said. “Please. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
“Who…” He swallowed hard and tried again. “Who?”
“My name is Dana,” she said, tucking a quilt around his legs. She took off her coat and paused to look at him. “Dana Whittington.”
She had misunderstood his question, Remy thought. He had been trying to ask who John Becker was.
“You’re in my cabin,” she continued. “At Half Moon Bay. I found you outside.” She brushed his forehead with her fingertips. “How are you feeling?”
The last time she had touched him, her fingers had burned. They didn’t anymore. They were gentle, and they felt good. Her cheeks were flushed, her forehead furrowed. No suspicion clouded her blue eyes, only innocent concern.
Remy scowled. No matter how innocent she looked, or how good her touch felt, this woman, Dana, was a threat. “’M ’kay,” he said. He tried to swallow and started to cough.
“Let me get you something to drink,” she said immediately. She hurried through a doorway that led to a kitchen. “Stay there,” she called over her shoulder.
Remy shivered and eyed the distance to the phone. Before he could think about trying for it again, Dana returned. She propped a pillow under his back to help him sit up and brought a steaming mug to his lips.
He hated feeling helpless. He hated being fussed over, but Remy knew that for the moment he had no choice—he couldn’t even hold the mug himself. He took a mouthful of what she offered, endeavoring not to gag as some kind of grassy-tasting liquid slid down his throat.
She smiled encouragingly. “Better?”
He made a noncommittal grunt. “Thanks.”
She stroked his forehead again, then rested her hand on his shoulder. She left it there as his body shook with another round of chills. “You’re still cold.”
“Not…as…bad,” he said through chattering teeth.
“Hang on. I’ll put more wood on the fire.” She set the mug on the table beside him and went over to where she had dropped the firewood. “I was going out for wood when I found you,” she said as she stoked the blaze on the hearth. “You looked half-frozen.”
“My…car went…off the road,” he improvised. He coughed again to give himself time to think. “I got lost. Walking for hours. Lucky…I ended up here.”
“Ah. I knew it had to be something like that.” She came back to his side and pulled up a footstool to sit down. “I tried calling for an ambulance, but the lines are down. The storm’s getting worse, so it’s probably going to be a while longer before I can get you a doctor.”
“I don’t need—” Her words suddenly registered. “The lines?” he asked.
“The storm knocked out the phone service. I’m sure they’ll fix it as soon as the snow lets up.” She glanced toward the telephone, then back at his face. “I’m sorry. It happens up here from time to time.”
If his lip wasn’t stinging and his teeth weren’t starting to chatter again, he could have smiled. As it was, all he could do was let out a relieved breath. The phone was dead. She wouldn’t be calling anyone. All right. He could stay here a few more hours, maybe even another day. That would buy him some time for his body to recover.
“I guess you were trying to call someone when I came in,” she continued. She held the mug up to his lips for another drink. “I know you must have people who are worried about you, John. I’m sorry I don’t have a cell phone or anything.”
Better and better, he thought. He took a second swallow of the hot liquid. It tasted like hay, but it was helping to warm him up. “You called me John.”
“I hope you don’t mind. When I was hanging up your coat, I found your day planner in the pocket,” she said. “Your name was inside the front cover.”
His coat? Remy felt a stab of confusion before he remembered. Of course. She meant the coat he’d stolen from the truck stop. It had been two sizes too small, and he had barely been able to squeeze his hands into the gloves that had been in the side pockets, but he hadn’t been in the position to be choosy. The coat had kept him alive, and the gloves had probably kept him from losing his fingers to frostbite. When this was all over, he’d have to mail everything back to this John Becker, wherever he was.
When this was all over? Remy curled onto his side as a renewed wave of weakness surged through him. No, it was far from being over. He had too much to do before he was finished and a long, long way yet to go.
Dana put the cup of camomile tea on the side table and smoothed the blankets over John’s shoulder. His knees were drawn up as if to hold in the heat of his body. His eyes had closed ten minutes ago. Thankfully, this time it seemed more like sleep than unconsciousness. His breathing was deep and even, and his shivering wasn’t as violent. She hoped that meant he was recovering.
Considering his condition when she found him, he must have a formidable reserve of strength. Just look at the way he had tried to walk when he had barely been capable of standing. The poor man. Judging by the power that was evident in those muscles that ridged his arms and shoulders, he likely wasn’t accustomed to being helpless. She had felt the quivering tension in his body when he had collapsed, and she had seen the frustration in his gaze. It must be horrible to be incapacitated like that and at the mercy of a stranger.
A gust of wind shook the cabin, and Dana glanced at the window. Until the storm eased, they were trapped here. Alone. Together.
John wasn’t the only one at the mercy of a stranger.
She felt a tickle of uneasiness as she watched the snow. Now that it seemed safe to assume John wasn’t about to succumb to hypothermia, she should be pleased. The evidence of his strength should come as a relief, not as a cause for misgivings.
She returned her gaze to her guest, noting how he filled the couch. She’d known he was a large man when she’d wrestled him out of his clothes, but she hadn’t felt the full impact of his height until she had seen him upright…and practically naked. Although he’d been staggering on his feet, he’d nevertheless been an awesome sight, all taut skin and firm muscle. He had to be two, maybe three inches over six feet. That made him a full head taller than her. Still, his height shouldn’t make her nervous, either. He was the same size as her cousin Derek, and Derek Johansen was as gentle as a lamb.
Tucking her hair behind her ears impatiently, Dana got to her feet and went over to untangle John’s wet clothes from the broken drying rack. All right, under other circumstances she would be right to worry about being trapped alone with a very large, strange man, but it was too late to change her mind about taking him in now, not that she’d ever really had a choice. She’d always been a sucker for strays, no matter what size or species they happened to be.
Besides, as long as he remained in his present condition, there was no reason for her to be nervous. It was absurd to think, even for a moment, that John could be some kind of, well, ax murderer.
According to the well-worn agenda book he kept in his overcoat, John Becker was the head salesman for an industrial fasteners company. His home address was in Toronto—he had undoubtedly been trying to make it home before the storm closed the roads. That would explain what he had been doing on the highway. He probably had a wife and children waiting anxiously for his arrival.
Yes, of course. He must have a family. His not wearing a wedding band didn’t mean anything. Neither did his mustachioed-desperado appearance. Why else would someone be anxious enough to risk traveling in this weather, if not for the sake of one’s family?
In that respect, John was luckier than she was. Dana had no one to go home to. She had no child who would press her nose to the windowpane and peer through the snow in hopes of seeing a familiar car pull into the driveway. Apart from Morty, Dana was responsible for no one.
But there had been a time when she had dreamed of having more….
Yes, well, life moved on. She might not have a child, but she had her work. And because of her work, she touched the lives of thousands of children.
She added another few logs to the fire and finished tidying the main room, then gathered her papers from the drawing table and carried them into her bedroom. She was about to close her door when a flash of movement from the couch caught her eye. Despite her efforts to reason away her misgivings, she couldn’t help the nervous little jump of her pulse as she gripped the door frame and looked over her shoulder.
John hadn’t moved from where she’d left him. The blanket that stretched over his shoulders rippled as he shivered. He curled up more tightly. A lock of dark hair flopped over his forehead, softening the harsh planes of his face. It made him look vulnerable, almost…boyish.
There was another blur of motion near his feet. Morty, looking very smug, picked his way across the blanket and nestled into the crook of John’s knees.
Dana turned back to her room. If John Becker had Morty’s seal of approval, her qualms about his character had to be misplaced.
It was hard to tell when the night ended and day began. Beyond the white drift that piled against the window, the snow swirled as if from an endless gray tunnel. Between gusts, Remy glimpsed the shadows of other cabins and the hulking outline of the resort’s main lodge, but he didn’t see any lights. There was no sign of anyone else. The place was deserted.
Well, almost deserted.
He should have realized there would be a caretaker. Too bad about the woman. If not for Dana Whittington, this place would have been perfect. Half Moon Bay Resort was isolated enough to provide concealment, yet close enough to the small town of Hainesborough to allow him access to what he needed. That’s why he’d decided to head up here when he’d gotten out. He could have holed up comfortably in one of the outlying cabins. It had been fifteen years since he’d been at the resort, but he remembered every detail of the layout.
After all, he’d helped to build it.
He’d been eighteen and full of hope and ambition when he’d arrived here the last time. He’d seen the construction job as his ticket to the future, the first step toward his dream of making something of himself. He was fresh from the juvenile detention center, and he’d wanted to prove that the people of Hainesborough were wrong, that he was nothing like his old man, that he wasn’t the boy they thought he was.
Ironic, wasn’t it? He had come full circle. He was once more at Half Moon Bay, once more hoping to prove everyone wrong.
Only now the stakes were a hell of a lot higher.
Drawing in a steadying breath, Remy looked away from the window and turned his attention back to buttoning his shirt. His fingers still felt like slabs of wood, aching and unmanageable. He tried to make a fist. Pain screamed through his joints, but it wasn’t as bad as it had been the night before. Ignoring the discomfort, reining in his impatience for his weakness, he curled his fingers into his palms until he had worked out the stiffness. Not 100 percent, but it would do. Clumsily he pushed most of his buttons through the holes, fastened the stud on his jeans, then braced his hands on his knees and stood.
So far this morning he hadn’t fallen down, but he still wasn’t steady on his feet. If he could hole up here until tomorrow, he would stand a better chance of finding some other base to operate from. In the meantime he had to make sure Dana kept on believing he was just some hapless traveler who had arrived here by chance.
He staggered to the wall where the overcoat he had stolen hung from a peg. The day planner Dana had mentioned finding was in the left pocket. Remy forced his aching fingers into motion once more and flipped through the pages, scanning for any clues to the identity he was temporarily assuming. There wasn’t much personal information. Too bad Becker hadn’t kept his wallet in his overcoat—
Remy drew in his breath. He still wasn’t thinking straight. If there had been a wallet, there would have been identification. Photo identification. If Dana had seen it, his game would have been up before he’d regained consciousness.
He shoved the notebook back into the pocket where he’d found it, then looked at the closed bedroom door. He paused to listen for any hint of movement from within, but there was none. With one hand on the wall for support, he moved around the cabin, taking stock of anything else that might present a risk.
There was no television that he could see, but there was a CD player with a radio in the living room and a battery-powered radio in the kitchen. He didn’t want to waste time searching for tools, so he took a butcher knife from the cutlery drawer, pried open the back of the kitchen radio and disabled it.
A check of the phone revealed there was still no dial tone. He couldn’t gamble on the lines remaining down for much longer. He improved his odds by severing the input wire from the receiver, a sloppy but effective way to ensure it would remain out of order. He hesitated over the CD player, not wanting to do more damage to Dana’s property than he needed to. In the end he merely cut the connection to the antenna—he knew without that, the set wouldn’t be able to pick up a signal this far north.
A door creaked open behind him. “Oh! I didn’t expect to see you awake already.”
Remy straightened up from the CD player and turned around, using his motion to conceal the knife behind his back.
Dana stood in the doorway of her bedroom, her arms filled with a stack of loose papers and what appeared to be a large sketchbook. A bulky sweater came to the top of her thighs, obscuring much of her figure, but the black leggings she wore revealed long, slender legs. And despite himself, Remy felt his pulse move into a slow, steady throb.
He must have been in worse shape last night than he had thought. When he had looked at Dana then, he had only seen a threat. Now he was aware of much, much more.
Her hair wasn’t merely blond. It was warm gold, somewhere between the color of wheat in August and aspen leaves in October. It tumbled around her face to brush her shoulders in sensuous waves. Her eyes weren’t merely blue. They were pure cerulean and stunning enough to steal his breath.
And somehow, she looked familiar. He had the feeling he had seen her face before…
No, that wasn’t possible. If he’d met her, he would have remembered. Any man would.
What had happened to Dana Whittington? Why would a beautiful woman with such a gentle touch choose to live by herself up here in the middle of nowhere?
Not that it should matter to him, he reminded himself. How she looked, who she was, made no difference. One more day, that’s all he wanted. By then he should be able to move on. “Good morning,” he said finally.
“How are you feeling, John?” she asked.
“Better, thanks.”
“I can see that,” she said, placing the papers and sketchbook on the drafting table. “I’m so glad.”
She wasn’t lying, he realized. She really was pleased that he was recovering.
No, she was pleased that John Becker with the fancy coat and the fat appointment book was recovering. Remy tightened his grip on the butcher knife. “I didn’t get the chance to thank you last night,” he said, taking a step backward. He had to find someplace to ditch this knife before she saw it—things would be far easier if he could avoid a confrontation.
“No thanks are necessary, John. Up here, everyone looks out for their neighbors.”
God, he hoped not. That’s all he needed, some nosy neighbor showing up to check on her. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Dana. I’ll be gone as soon as—” His words ended on a sharp curse. Instead of the hardwood floor, his foot came down on something soft. There was a sudden, high-pitched screech.
Damn! He’d forgotten about that cat. It had been following him around since he’d gotten up.
“Morty!” Dana cried, racing forward in a futile attempt to reach her pet.
Remy shifted quickly to avoid bringing his full weight down on the cat. Morty streaked away unharmed in a blur of orange while Remy staggered sideways, off balance and unable to catch himself without revealing the knife.
“Oh, no!” Dana exclaimed. She was by his side in an instant, sliding her arm around his waist and propping her shoulder under his arm. It was a position that was becoming much too familiar…and more comfortable than he would have liked.
She still smelled like lilies, he thought, feeling her hair brush his cheek. And she had a surprising amount of strength in her slender frame. He deliberately swayed against her as she helped him over to the couch. Allowing her to believe he was worse off than he actually was might help to lower her guard, and that could prove to be an advantage. He collapsed onto the cushions more heavily than necessary.
Her cheeks pinkened with her efforts as she disentangled herself from him and straightened up. A memory from the night before flashed into his mind. She had flushed like that when they had tumbled onto the couch together and she had ended up sprawled over his bare chest.
Was she blushing because of him? How long had it been since he’d known any woman who was innocent enough to blush? “Sorry,” he murmured. “I’m not usually this clumsy.”
“You need to take it easy. You probably shouldn’t be up yet.”
“No, I’m okay.”
“I wish I could talk to a doctor. I’ll try phoning—”
“The line’s still out. I checked.”
She hesitated, then went over to lift the receiver herself.
So she didn’t quite trust him yet, Remy thought. Part of him was pleased that she wasn’t completely naive, despite those innocent blushes. Living up here on her own like this, she was right to be cautious about strangers. After all, the stranger could turn out to be…someone like him.
Hell, what was he thinking? He should be concerned about Chantal’s welfare—and his own—not this woman’s. “I figured the snow would have stopped by now.”
She glanced at the window, grimacing as she saw the height of the snowdrift. “I’ve never seen it this bad before. I’m not sure I’d be able to get my car through that snow, or even get it out of the garage.”
“If you point me in the direction of the highway, I could try to hitch a ride,” he said.
She shook her head quickly. “No, John. It’s two miles away and you’re in no shape to be on your feet.”
“But—”
“I know you must be anxious to get home, but it would be crazy to go anywhere on foot in this weather, even if you were fully recovered.”
He moved his lips into what he hoped would appear to be a grateful smile. “Thanks, Dana.”
The flush on her cheeks deepened as she looked at his mouth. “I’ll check the weather forecast,” she said. “Maybe we can get some idea how much longer the storm will last.”
Remy tried to ignore the whisper of guilt he felt as he watched her futile attempts to get a signal on each of the radios in turn. Instead, he took advantage of the moment her back was turned and slid the knife out of sight under the couch.
Chapter 3
It was the weather, Dana told herself, feeling yet another shiver tiptoe down her spine. The eerie grayness of the swirling snow outside the window and the moaning of the wind around the eaves as the afternoon wore on were like elements out of some horror film. Come to think of it, wasn’t there a Stephen King movie about a man at a closed resort in the winter flipping out and using an ax? That character’s name was John, too, wasn’t it? But that man had been the caretaker, not an unexpected guest, right? Maybe this weather was going to make her flip out.
The kettle whistled beside her. Dana jumped, then shook her hair back from her face and forced herself to laugh. She was letting her imagination get the better of her, that’s all. So what if both the telephone and the radio were out? Being cut off from civilization had never bothered her before. That’s why she had come here, wasn’t it?
Of course, she hadn’t planned on having company. Especially someone who looked like John Becker.
On the other hand he didn’t really look like a John Becker. He looked more like a Tex or a Rocko or maybe even a dark-haired, brown-eyed Sundance Kid….
“Idiot,” she muttered to herself. She measured out the tea and poured the boiling water into the pot. So far today John had been a quiet and unobtrusive guest. He hadn’t made one move that could be interpreted as remotely threatening. She should stop obsessing over his appearance. He hadn’t been able to shave, so he couldn’t help it that the black beard stubble only made him look harder, almost…dangerous. He was frustrated over being stuck here by the storm, so it was only natural that there would be a troubled—at times desperate—gleam in his gaze.
And there was nothing suspicious about the way he was spending so much time dozing on the couch. He had been through a terrible ordeal—it was a miracle he hadn’t lost any fingers or toes to frostbite. He needed rest to allow his body to recover. It was unkind of her to suspect that he was faking the extent of his weakness to avoid conversation. Just because he looked powerful didn’t mean that he was. Not at the moment, anyway.
She was simply too accustomed to being alone. Maybe that’s why she was feeling this constant awareness of his presence.
Or maybe the awareness was due to the fact that she had seen him without his clothes.
Dana pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and stifled a groan. There was no denying he was a good-looking man. All that luscious dark hair, that bad-boy mustache, those chiseled features and that magnificent, powerful body….
Talk about a distraction. She hadn’t gotten more than twenty minutes work done all day.
How could she be leery of him one minute and fascinated by him the next? This wasn’t like her. It must be due to the isolation or the low barometric pressure in the weather system or maybe the phase of the moon. Right. She simply had to get ahold of herself. This would all be over in a few hours, or another day at the most.
Then everything would get back to normal. She would send the latest stray she had acquired on his way and she would be alone again, just the way she wanted.
He was awake when she returned to the main room. Firelight danced over the harsh planes of his face as he stared at the flames on the hearth. As usual, Morty was ensconced on his lap, purring like a train as John’s long fingers moved lightly over the cat’s fur.
“He seems to have adopted you,” she said, carrying her mug of tea to her drafting table. “Do you have a cat?”
John turned his head to look at her. “No.”
She noticed that the troubled gleam was back in his eyes. Well, why shouldn’t he be troubled? Anyone in his situation would be. “You must like animals, though. Morty doesn’t normally take to strangers.”
John stroked behind Morty’s ears. The cat closed his eyes and drew his head back into his neck in bliss. “Yeah, I like animals,” John murmured.
“Then you probably have some kind of pet at home, right?”
His fingers stilled. A closed look came over his face. “The place I’ve been staying doesn’t allow pets.”
“That’s a shame. I’m lucky my landlord doesn’t mind Morty. He’s such terrific company.”
“With all the wildlife in the area, I wouldn’t have thought the resort owner would kick up a fuss over one cat.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean here at Half Moon. I meant my apartment in the city.”
“I see.”
“You live in Toronto, too, right? In the Beaches?”
“Yes,” he answered.
“Your address was written under your name in your day planner,” she explained, even though he hadn’t asked.
“Uh-huh.”
As conversations went, it wasn’t exactly sparkling, but it was better than silence for keeping her imagination under control. She plunged ahead. “The Beaches is a lovely neighborhood. Have you been there long?”
“No.” He frowned. “If you have an apartment in Toronto, what are you doing up here? The place looks closed for the winter.”
“It is. I needed somewhere quiet to work, so I convinced Derek to let me stay here at the resort as the caretaker. With no TV or newspaper delivery or Internet hookup to distract me, this cabin is perfect.”
“Derek?”
“My cousin, Derek Johansen. He took over Half Moon Bay when my uncle passed away two years ago, and he hasn’t had any time off until now. Considering the weather, he sure picked the right month to visit his mother in Florida.”
“This storm might extend his vacation. Pearson Airport would be closed.”
She hesitated. Should she tell John that Derek had left only a week ago? Would it be wise to let this stranger know that she wasn’t expecting her cousin to return until next month?
Oh, come on, she thought. John was simply trying to make conversation, something she should be pleased about. “Derek wouldn’t let a little detail like a raging blizzard interfere with his plans. He loves this place.”
He nodded, and the stubborn lock of hair that she had noticed before flopped endearingly over his forehead.
“I do, too,” she continued, as if to make up for her evasive reply. “In exchange for free rent, all I have to do is make sure the pipes don’t freeze in the main lodge and keep the snow from collapsing the roof, which isn’t much trouble since the roof was designed to be steep enough for the snow to slide off.”
“Yeah, I know—” there was a split-second pause “—I noticed that.” His gaze moved over the room, then settled on her desk. “What kind of work do you do, Dana?”
“I’m an author.”
His eyebrows rose.
She picked up the page she had been working on—or trying to work on—and held it for him to see. “I write children’s books. I illustrate them, too. This is for my current project.”
His gaze sharpened as he focused on her unfinished drawing. He leaned forward, his expression lighting up with interest. It was the first sign of animation he had shown all day. “That looks like…”
“Morty,” she finished for him. “He earns his keep by serving as my model. I’m trying to deduct the cost of his cat food from my income tax, but so far I haven’t had any luck.”
He transferred the cat from his lap to the couch beside him and rose to his feet. Moving carefully, his steps still wobbly, he crossed the floor to take the drawing from her hand. “Morty. Is that short for Mortimer?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, it is. How did you guess?”
He was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was laced with humor. “It wasn’t a guess. That cat has to be Mortimer Q. Morganbrood.”
She started in surprise. “You recognize him?”
He grinned. “Hell, yes, I recognize him. My daughter’s crazy about that cat.”
Had she thought his rebellious hair was endearing? That was before she had seen his grin. It was as sudden and unexpected as a burst of sunlight from a storm cloud. And it zinged right through her caution to twang something in Dana’s heart. “You have a daughter?”
He hesitated. His grin wavered, then softened to a smile as he sighed. “Chantal,” he said finally. “She’s almost five, and she has every one of the Mortimer books.”
Dana forced herself to look away from his way-too-appealing mouth so she could concentrate on what he was saying. He looked like a different man when he smiled. She had the feeling he didn’t do it often. “Really?”
“Really,” he confirmed. “Starting with Mortimer Ropes the Moon.” He tilted his head. “Dana. You’re D. J. Whittington?”
“Yes. Janelle’s my middle name.”
“Funny. I had thought you looked familiar, and now I see why. But the photo on your books doesn’t do you justice.”
She had heard that before. She knew the photo wasn’t flattering, but her sister had taken it, and she hadn’t wanted to hurt her feelings by asking for another. “My, uh, hair was shorter then.”
“Even if I hadn’t seen your photo, I should have recognized your name.”
“It’s not all that well-known.”
“In our house it is.” He studied the drawing again. “You said this is your current project. Is it for a new book?”
“Yes. Mortimer and the Pirate Mice. It’s scheduled to be published this summer.”
“That will make Chantal happy.”
“I hope so.” She made a wry face. “Assuming, of course, I get the thing done.”
“Are you having problems?”
“No, just the usual. I procrastinate until I’m so close to my deadline that I have no choice but to work.”
“Now I understand why you wanted to hole up here where there aren’t any distractions. You’re trying to finish your book.”
“Exactly. It’s my own private isolation chamber.”
“This is unbelievable,” he said. “I read a lot of stories to my daughter, but yours are her favorites.”
“Thank you.”
“They’re my favorites, too. They haven’t put me to sleep yet.”
She laughed. “Good. I try to keep in mind the adults who will be doing the reading.”
“It shows.”
Usually, she could take praise in stride as matter-of-factly as she took criticism, yet John’s compliments were igniting a warm glow in her cheeks. Or was it his nearness that was responsible? “You said that Chantal is almost five?” she asked, steering the subject away from herself. “What’s she like?”
“Sweet when she wants to be, impulsive sometimes and smart as a whip.” His voice rang with the unmistakable pride of a doting father. “Her laugh can make a stone smile.”
Dana didn’t doubt that. The mere mention of his daughter had caused a remarkable transformation in John. “She sounds adorable.”
“Do you have any kids?”
She wouldn’t think about the pain that stabbed through her at his question. She should be used to it by now. “No, I don’t have any of my own, but I love all my young fans. I’m a real pushover when it comes to children.”
“That shows in your stories, too.”
“Well, thank you again.”
“D. J. Whittington and Mortimer,” he mused. “I can just imagine the look on Chantal’s face when I tell her that I met both of you…” His words trailed off. Gradually his smile faded. “Damn,” he muttered, putting the drawing back on the table.
The switch in his mood was as definite as a light going out. He was once more the intense, brooding stranger.
Yet the uneasiness Dana had been feeling on and off all day was gone. Morty had been a better judge of character than she had thought. Any man who was familiar with the Mortimer books, and who was so obviously devoted to his daughter, couldn’t be bad. Impulsively Dana reached out to touch his hand. “You’re worried about her, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll be back home soon.”
He glanced at her fingers where she touched him. “I intend to be.”
“Maybe they’ve fixed the phone line by now. You could try again.”
“It’s still dead. I just checked.”
“I’m sure she’s fine. Your wife would be taking good care of her.”
“My wife—” He stepped back, breaking her contact with his hand. “Chantal’s mother…passed away.”
This time the twang in her heart was deeper. Pieces of his behavior that had bothered her fell into place. He was a widower, a single father. Was it any wonder he was so anxious about being stuck here by the storm? Or that he preferred silence to conversation? What if his reserve was simply his method of handling pain? He might very well still be mourning his wife. “Oh, I’m sorry, John. That must have been so difficult for both of you.”
“Yes.” Remy moved to the window, bracing one hand against the frame as he stared into the snow. “It was.”
Difficult? he thought. That didn’t come close to describing it. His wife’s death had been a nightmare.
He closed his eyes, trying to block out the image, but it was no use. It had played over in his head so many times, it had worn a path in his brain.
The scene flashed full-blown into his head. Sylvia was sprawled on the bedroom carpet. At first he’d thought she had been drinking and had passed out again. He’d smelled the brandy. But then he’d seen that her eyes were open. And he’d detected another smell, a bitter, coppery tang that rose from her red blouse…
He had shouted her name and dropped to his knees. She had still been warm. He’d called 911. He’d done CPR. He hadn’t even noticed the blood that slicked his hands and spattered his shirt.
Thank God Chantal hadn’t been there. The number of times Sylvia had left their daughter with her parents while she indulged herself had been another source of arguments between them, but on that day he had been grateful for her selfishness.
His hand curled into a fist against the window frame. Sylvia had had her faults—he’d known that when he’d married her—but she had been the mother of his child. He had loved her once. When had it gone wrong? What could he have done differently?
There was a featherlight touch on his shoulder. “John, you shouldn’t be on your feet.”
He opened his eyes and looked at Dana. The grisly image of his wife’s death faded. Instead, he saw a blond angel and caught the scent of flowers. “I’m okay.”
“I’m sorry for upsetting you. If there’s anything I can do…”
For the first time he saw that the caution was gone from Dana’s gaze. In its place was compassion.
Did she trust him now? He hadn’t meant to tell her about Chantal. He’d done his best not to get personal. The less involved he got with Dana, the fewer complications when he left.
But the drawing she’d shown him had taken him off guard. When he’d seen the cat with the distinctive, impish face, he hadn’t been able to stop the leap of pleasure he’d felt. Although it had been a rough sketch, the fluid lines that characterized D. J. Whittington’s work were unmistakable. Her illustrations were as full of life and laughter as her stories. After the bleak existence he’d been living, the sight of that drawing had transported him back to a better time, a happier time, and he’d spoken before he’d thought.
Chantal would be thrilled if she knew that he was face-to-face with her favorite author. She would be tickled pink to discover he had held the real live Mortimer Q. Morganbrood on his lap.
But how could he tell her? Would he ever get the chance?
And now that he knew who his beautiful rescuer really was, how could he continue to lie?
Damn it, Dana didn’t deserve this. No one did. What kind of man was he turning into? He should end this now, turn himself in before he hurt anyone else.
But then he thought of Chantal with Sylvia’s parents. Would they be reading her favorite books to her at bedtime, or would they be filling her head with stories about her evil daddy? Would the children in the town point at her and call her names? Would she grow up the way he had, always trying to prove everyone wrong to atone for a father’s sins?
He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the drafty window. He couldn’t afford the luxury of a conscience. He’d use whatever—and whoever—he could in order to see this through. Another day to recover his strength, a head start on his pursuers, that’s what he needed from Dana. And if playing on her sympathy would serve his purpose, then that’s what he would do.
“Thanks, Dana. You’re right, I shouldn’t be on my feet.”
She smiled without hesitation. Fitting herself against his side, she drew his arm over her shoulder and turned him around. “Come on, then. I’ll help you back to the couch.”
After the perpetual dusk of the previous day’s storm, the sunrise seemed overly bright. It glared from the fresh snow that covered the frozen lake, it ignited the tops of the pines. It jabbed through the frost on the windows like a searchlight. It also silhouetted John’s broad shoulders and found gleaming chestnut highlights in his hair.
With another day’s worth of beard, he appeared rougher than ever, yet when Dana looked at him now, she saw the echo of his smile as he’d talked about his daughter. His features no longer seemed harsh to her, and his strength no longer seemed threatening.
Was she nuts? Was her self-imposed isolation sending her round the bend? Why else was she sorry to see the sunshine?
John wasn’t some stray she could take in and coddle. He had a life to get back to. So did she. The sooner they got this over with, the better, right?
He raked his hair off his forehead and turned away from the window. “I have to get going.”
“Are you sure you’re up to it?”
“I’m fine.”
And he was, she knew. His movements were smoother today, and he was much steadier on his feet. “The road is about two miles south,” she said. “Just keep the lake on your left and follow the lane.”
John leaned down to run his palm along Morty’s back as the cat threaded himself around his ankles. “Now that the weather has cleared, I shouldn’t get lost again.”
“You don’t have to walk. The snowplow should swing through in a few hours,” she said, watching his large hand move along Morty’s fur. How could he have once made her nervous? For a physically powerful man, he was incredibly gentle. “Once the lane’s plowed, I could drive you to your car. Or you could wait until the phones are back up and call for a tow truck.”
He gave Morty one last caress and straightened. “Thanks, but I can’t stay any longer. Once I get to the highway, I’ll hitch a ride to the nearest gas station and get a tow from there.”
“I understand.” She smiled. “If I had a child like Chantal, I’d be anxious to get home to her, too.”
“She’s the reason for everything I’m doing,” he said.
The vehemence in his voice startled her. It shouldn’t have, though. Throughout yesterday evening, he hadn’t wanted to talk about his job or his home, but his daughter was one topic he didn’t mind sharing. Dana had no doubt whatsoever that he loved his child fiercely.
Was that why she found him so attractive?
There, she’d admitted it. Yes, she found him more than attractive. His outlaw good looks alone would have caught the notice of any red-blooded woman, but it was the sensitive—and vulnerable—man inside that really appealed to her.
Here was a man who knew what love and commitment were, she thought. He wouldn’t disappear when the going got rough, the way Hank had. John would be willing to go to any lengths for those he loved….
She jerked her thoughts back from that useless direction. Her imagination was getting the better of her again. How could she think she could know a man after only a day in his company? She had spent four years with Hank, and she’d been wrong about him, hadn’t she? Why would her judgment be any better now?
John picked up his shoes from in front of the hearth and carried them to the door.
“Wait,” she said. “You can’t go like that.”
He paused. “What?”
“The snow’s too deep for sneakers.” She hurried over to take her coat from its peg. “I can get a pair of my cousin’s boots from the lodge. He’s about your size—”
“Dana…”
“It wouldn’t be any trouble. I have to go over there later, anyway, to check the heat since I skipped yesterday.”
“Dana, no,” he said. “You’ve done more than enough.”
“But those running shoes aren’t meant for conditions like these.”
He shoved his feet into the sneakers. “They got me here, they’ll get me back to the road.”
“At least let me give you a hat.” She hung her coat up and stretched to take a knitted cap and a pair of padded snowmobile mitts from the shelf above the pegs. “Here, you can use these, too.”
John shrugged into his overcoat. “I can’t take those, Dana. I don’t know when I can return them.”
She held them out. “It doesn’t matter. I trust you, John.”
Something flickered in his expression. Beneath the bristling black beard stubble, his jaw flexed. He fastened his coat, then took the hat from her and put it on. He tucked the mittens under his arm. “Thank you. For everything.”
“I only did what anyone would.”
“No, Dana,” he said quietly. “There aren’t many people who would be so kind to a stranger.”
“You’ve been good company. Besides, I always welcome an excuse to put off working for a little while longer,” she said. “No self-discipline, you see. I don’t know how I ever get a book done.”
“We all have to do things we don’t want to sometimes.”
“Hah. I see you know about editors.”
Her weak attempt to lighten the mood didn’t work. He regarded her in silence for a moment, then extended his hand. “Goodbye, Dana.”
She slipped her hand into his…and her breath hitched.
She had touched his bare skin before—heck, she had seen practically every square inch of skin he had—but this was different. She was aware of the firm warmth of his palm, the subtle swell of his calluses, the strength that pulsed beneath the surface of the polite gesture. And she was very, very aware of how close they were standing.
Oh, for heaven’s sake, she told herself. It was only a handshake. “Goodbye, John.”
“Take care of yourself.”
“You, too.” She swallowed, trying to keep her voice normal. “And say hello to Chantal from me.”
A muscle twitched in his cheek. “I will.”
Without thinking, she lifted her free hand to his face, pressing her fingertips to the tense knot in his jaw.
His gaze met hers, his dark eyes swirling with expressions she couldn’t name. “Dana.”
The way he said her name warmed her right through to her toes. This was too fast, she thought. Circumstances had thrust them together. They were like strangers on a train, two ships that passed in the night, all the old tired clichés. They would probably never meet again.
So she couldn’t really be considering kissing him goodbye, could she?
He tilted his head, leaning into the gentle caress of her palm.
Yes, she could. That’s exactly what she was considering. What did it matter how they had met or how long they had known each other? Maybe she had made the same kind of instinctive judgment as Morty. She tipped up her chin and focused on the lips beneath John’s desperado mustache.
A log popped in the fireplace. In the silence that had fallen between them, it sounded like a gunshot. John jerked back. “Dana, I’m sorry.”
“Mmm?”
“I’ve got to go.” He dropped her hand and turned away to open the door.
“John…”
Cold air surged over the threshold. He pushed his way through the snow that had drifted over the yard, carving a knee-deep path in the blanket of white. He stopped when he reached the beginning of the lane and turned to look over his shoulder.
Dana waved, then stepped back inside and swung the door shut. Biting her lip, she let her forehead thud against the wooden panels.
Oh, God. What had she been thinking? She had almost made a complete fool of herself.
Must be lack of sleep or barometric pressure or phases of the moon or…
Or maybe she had been living on her own too long. It had been two years since Hank had left. Maybe that’s why she was ready to throw herself at the first man who happened by.
But it wasn’t just any man. It was John Becker, with his haunted eyes and his endearing, rebellious hair and his tender smile and his love for his child…
“You’re pathetic,” she muttered to herself. “Right round the bend. First you’re worried because you’re trapped here with him, then you’re upset because he leaves.”
Morty meowed and sat on her foot.
“It was my imagination, that’s all,” she said to the cat. “All this creative energy floating around, ready to make up stories. I should put it to work, that’s what I should do. That’s what I’m being paid for, right?”
But instead of heading for her drawing table, she went to the window and watched until John was out of sight.
The rest of the day was a total loss. Dana did everything she could think of to get her mind back on her work. She put on her most comfortable sweater. She made endless pots of camomile tea. She organized her papers and sharpened all her pencils, but the drawing that took shape wasn’t a marmalade cat and pirate mice. It was a man’s face.
“Argh!” Dana tossed her pencil on the floor and tunneled her fingers into her hair. It was more of a doodle than a drawing, only a few vague lines, but the long hair, the mustache, those dark, haunted eyes were unmistakable.
“This is pointless,” she muttered. She needed some fresh air, she decided, going over to put on her coat. It was high time to switch into her role of caretaker, anyway.
She had almost cleared a path to the main lodge when she heard the clinking rumble of the snowplow. She leaned on her shovel and waved a greeting.
The driver turned around in the parking lot and lowered his window. “Everything okay here, Miss Whittington?” he called.
“Just fine, thanks, Mr. Duff,” she shouted over the noise of the engine. “That was some storm.”
“Forty centimeters. We been doing double shifts for three days and still aren’t finished.”
“Did you see a car in the ditch?” she asked.
“More like a few dozen. The roads are a mess with all the wrecks.”
“Any cars in the ditch near here?”
“Nope. Lucky, eh?” The engine revved loudly as the driver put it back in gear.
Dana smiled. John must have managed to get his car out and get home after all. “Thanks for swinging by,” she called.
The driver touched his hand to his hat in salute. “No problem. Take ’er easy.”
Dana waved and turned back to her shoveling. By the time she had cleared the front entrance to the lodge, she was out of breath and in need of a shower. She took the keys from her pocket and opened the front door.
A puff of warm air greeted her, along with the ringing of a phone. It had been so long since she’d heard the sound, it startled her. She stamped the snow off her boots and crossed the floor to the registration desk. “Hello, Half Moon Bay Resort,” she answered.
“Dana! Are you all right?”
It was her sister, and she sounded on the verge of panic. “Hello, Adelle,” Dana said. “I’m fine, how are you? Is everything okay?”
Adelle ignored the question and rushed on. “Why haven’t you been answering the phone? I’ve been worried sick.”
“The lines were down because of the storm.”
“That’s what the phone company said, but they claimed the problem was fixed last night.”
It couldn’t have been, Dana thought. She had checked an hour ago and there hadn’t been any dial tone.
“I’ve been trying the number at the cabin all day,” Adelle continued. “When you didn’t answer, I started leaving messages on the lodge number.”
Dana glanced at the answering machine behind the desk. Sure enough, the red light indicating recorded messages was blinking furiously. Why would the phone in the cabin still be out if the one here was working? They both branched from the same line, didn’t they? “Adelle, relax,” she said. “It was probably just some glitch at the switching station or something like that. You know how things are up north.”
“Yes, I do. Which is why I wish you’d come back to the city.”
“I will come back. As soon as I finish my book.”
“What if the power had gone off? What if you had run out of food?”
“There’s a back-up generator for the power, and there’s enough food in the lodge freezers to keep me going through ten books.”
Adelle paused, as if searching for something else to focus her worry on. “You sound out of breath. What’s wrong?”
“I’ve been shoveling snow.” Dana sighed and transferred the phone to her other ear as she slipped her arms out of her coat. She grasped the front of her sweater and flapped it away from her body to let in some cooling air. “It’s wonderful exercise.”
“That’s what health clubs are for.” Adelle huffed. “And doesn’t that skinflint Derek have a snowblower?”
“Yes, he does, but it broke down last week. I really don’t mind, Adelle. It helps take my mind off…things.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Positive. I’m sorry you were so alarmed. Is everything okay with you?”
“Sure, everything’s fine.”
“Did you get much snow down there?”
“I’ll say! We got so much the mayor declared a state of emergency and called in the army.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Haven’t you seen the news?”
“I don’t have a TV in the cabin, remember? And the radios there decided to break down yesterday.”
“Then you’ll have to catch a newscast, now that you’re at the lodge. The blizzard shattered all the snowfall records from here to Montreal.”
Dana toed off her boots and hitched herself up to sit on the desk. “Wow. If it was that bad in the city, no wonder you were so worried about me.”
“You’re not the only one in the family with an imagination. Remember those stories grandpa used to tell us about trappers in the old days?”
“Vividly.”
“When you didn’t answer your phone today, I was picturing you lost out in the snow somewhere and slowly freezing into a lump of ice.”
“Mmm.”
“Don’t say I’m overreacting. It could happen.”
“Oh, I know. It almost did.”
“Dana! You said—”
“Not to me, Adelle. Two nights ago I found a man on my doorstep. He was practically frozen.”
“What!”
Briefly Dana told her sister about John Becker.
“Oh…my…God,” Adelle said.
“He’s okay now. He left first thing this morning.”
“Oh…my…God! I can’t believe you took a complete stranger into your home. Haven’t you heard the news?”
“No. I told you, the radios—”
“Two days ago there was a prison break at the Kingston Penitentiary,” Adelle said, her voice rising again. “Three of the convicts are still at large.”
“Kingston’s a long way from here. And those guys would head for the city or the border. They’d be crazy to head for the bush, especially in the winter.”
“So? They might be crazy. What if this John Becker was one of those escaped prisoners?”
It was hard for Dana to believe that her thoughts had once gone along those same lines. Was it only yesterday that her visitor had made her nervous, with his height and his desperado aura?
But that was before she had seen the naked love in his eyes as he’d talked about his child. “That’s impossible,” she said. “John’s no criminal. Morty adored him.”
“As if a cat can judge someone’s character.”
“Morty hated Hank,” she pointed out.
“Hank was an idiot. But, Dana, this isn’t funny. That man could have been anyone.”
“Well, he wasn’t. He’s a salesman whose car went off the road in the storm when he was trying to get home to his daughter. And he’s one of the sweetest, gentlest men I’ve ever met,” she said firmly.
Dana wasn’t sure whether she had placated her sister by the time Adelle got off the phone. One thing was for certain. If she’d shoveled her way to the lodge in order to get her mind off John, it hadn’t worked.
She went to the floor-to-ceiling window that dominated the south wall of the lounge. From this vantage point, she could see the entire resort complex, from the caretaker’s cabin to the boathouse that was nestled by the shore. It all looked so peaceful now. The frozen lake glittered like powdered diamonds in an unbroken expanse of white. Melting snow winked golden from the tips of the pine boughs. It was hard to believe a vicious storm had raged through here less than twenty-four hours ago.
As a matter of fact, it was hard to believe anything that had happened. Fresh drifts had obliterated any tracks John may have made on his way to the cabin, and the snowplow had cleared away the tracks he had made when he had left. Had she really saved a man from freezing to death? Had he been as drop-dead gorgeous as she remembered, or had the whole incident been twisted by her lonely imagination?
“Get a grip,” she muttered to herself. Of course it had happened. Even her imagination couldn’t have conjured up someone like John Becker. Instead of wondering about him, why didn’t she just give him a call and check to make sure he had reached home safely? That would be the decent thing to do, wouldn’t it? And it would prove her sister’s ridiculous suspicions were wrong. Maybe then she would be able to get her mind back on her work.
She returned to the front desk and retrieved the Toronto telephone directory from one of the shelves. There were half a dozen John Beckers, but she couldn’t remember the exact address she had read in John’s day planner. She chose a street that seemed familiar, then, before she could give herself time to reconsider, she picked up the receiver and dialed.
The voice that answered was that of a stranger. Assuming she must have been mistaken about John’s address, Dana tried the next John Becker. She went through all six, then started on the listings for J. Becker, but still no success. Maybe her John had an unlisted number.
Her John? She closed the phone book and sighed. No, he wasn’t hers. This was pathetic. Why was she doing this? If he had wanted to extend their relationship, he could have called her, couldn’t he?
But he didn’t know her number at the cabin, did he? Unless he had already tried to contact her through the lodge…
Quickly Dana pressed the button on the answering machine to play the messages. One was from Derek, giving her his schedule for the week, one was from the local marina to say that the new snowmobile Derek had ordered was in, and the rest were from Adelle. Nothing from John.
Could he have been delayed getting home? If the storm had been as bad as Adelle had said, the highways north of Toronto would be terrible. They might even be closed. She glanced at the clock on the wall and saw that it was four sharp. The headline news channel would be starting its report.
Dana returned to the lounge and clicked on the television there. The storm and its aftermath was the number-one story. She gasped at the footage of the ravaged city—entire streets were still blocked as the public works department tried to cope with the mountains of snow. Emergency services were overloaded, and a plea was going out to the public to check on their neighbors.
Slumping down on the couch, Dana muted the sound. Perhaps it was lucky that John had ended up at her cabin. If he hadn’t gone off the road when he had, he might not have made it back to the city, anyway. At least here he’d been safe.
A face flashed on the screen, and Dana’s heart thumped. The picture was stark black-and-white, but she recognized it instantly. Long dark hair, outlaw mustache, harsh features… It was John! Oh, God. Had he been in an accident? Fumbling for the remote, she turned the sound back on.
“…still at large.”
She frowned, certain she must have heard wrong.
“The other two prisoners were apprehended without incident this morning in Montreal,” the announcer continued. “Police are asking for the public’s help in locating Remy Leverette. He is thirty-three years old, stands six feet three inches, weighs two hundred pounds and has dark-brown hair and a mustache. If you have any knowledge of his whereabouts, please contact the authorities immediately.”
It was a mistake, Dana thought, staring at John’s face. Somehow the TV station had gotten the pictures mixed up. Or maybe it was a bad photograph. The photo on her book covers didn’t look anything like her. Maybe the camera had made this Leverette person look like John.
But even as she scrambled for explanations, she knew it was no use. The truth was there in the numbers that were held in front of his chest. It was a mug shot, and there was no denying that it was John. The camera had even captured the desperate edge to his haunting gaze.
“…exercise extreme caution,” the newscaster droned on. “Leverette has served four months of a life sentence…”
A life sentence? But how could that be possible? The gentle, quiet man who had shared her cabin couldn’t have hurt anyone, could he? And if he had, it must have been an accident, or self-defense, or…
The excuses she had been grasping scattered like snowflakes on the wind with the announcer’s next words.
“In the trial that shocked the quiet town of Hainesborough last year, Remy Leverette was convicted for the brutal stabbing death of his wife.”
Chapter 4
Dana crossed her arms tightly and rubbed her palms over her sleeves. Once the sun had gone down, the temperature had plummeted. She had heaped more wood on the fire and had plugged in the electric heater, but it hadn’t helped. The cold she felt went through to her bones.
It didn’t have much to do with the temperature, though. This cold was harder to shake off because it came from within.
How could she have been so wrong? she thought, for what had to be the hundredth time. How could he have deceived her so thoroughly? And how could she have wanted to kiss him…
Damn it all, after two years of keeping to herself, of avoiding the possibility of any kind of relationship with a man, why did she have to choose now to lower her defenses? And why choose him?
He could have killed her while she’d slept. He could have done anything he’d wanted to her, and she wouldn’t have been able to stop him. No, she would have let him. Welcomed him.
He must have pegged her for a soft touch the minute he’d seen her. He knew about her books and decided to play on her ego. That wouldn’t have been hard to do—all writers were eager for even a crumb of praise. It had all been an act, a lie.
There had been so many inconsistencies, but she hadn’t wanted to see them. The expensive coat he had worn didn’t match his plain chambray shirt and jeans. The salesman’s agenda book in his pocket didn’t go with the workman’s calluses on his palms. The look in his eyes wasn’t haunted, it was hunted.
She swallowed hard to get rid of the lump that rose in her throat. What a fool she had been. About everything. And God help her, the worst of it was that even now she didn’t want to believe she could have been that wrong about John.
No, not John. Remy Leverette. Escaped prisoner. Convicted wife killer.
The sudden knock on the cabin door made her jump.
“Miss Whittington? It’s Constable Savard.”
Dana recognized the gravelly voice of the provincial police officer who had arrived twenty minutes ago. She hurried over to unbolt the door. “Did you find anything?”
“No, ma’am.” He knocked the snow off his boots on the doorstep and stepped inside. With his gray eyebrows and round, ruddy cheeks, he looked more like a kindly farmer than a policeman. “I’ve been all around the lodge buildings,” he said, pulling off his gloves and stuffing them in the side pockets of his jacket. “If anyone had been there, I would have seen his tracks. The snow hadn’t been disturbed.”
“I told you, he wasn’t at the lodge, he was here at the cabin.”
“I didn’t see any tracks here, either.”
“That’s because I shoveled the snow after he left. The plow went through, too.”
“Ah. Did anyone else see this person?”
“Well, no. And he said his name was John Becker.”
“Yes, I made a note of that. Did you call anyone, ask for help?”
“The phone lines were down. And the phone in this cabin wasn’t working. I think—” She paused, but then decided she might as well tell him her suspicions. “I think he did something to it. I replaced it with one from the lodge and that one’s working fine.”
“I see. Do you live here year round, Miss Whittington?”
“No, I’m acting as caretaker while my cousin’s in Florida. I needed someplace quiet to complete my book.”
“You’re a writer?”
“Yes. I write and illustrate children’s books.”
He pulled a small notebook from inside his jacket and scribbled a few words. “So you make up stories for a living.”
She frowned at his tone. “You sound as if you don’t believe me.”
A flat voice crackled from the radio that was clipped to Constable Savard’s belt. He retrieved it and said a few words, his cheeks flexing with a suppressed yawn. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean any offense, but between the traffic accidents from this storm and the sightings of the fugitive it’s been a long day.”
“Sightings? You mean he’s been seen somewhere else, too?”
Savard nodded. “Since the picture hit the news two days ago, I’ve heard he’s been spotted everywhere from Kapuskasing to Kenora.”
“Wait, I can prove he was here. I have a picture of him.”
“Why would you take his picture?”
“It’s not a photograph,” she said, going to her desk to retrieve the doodle she had made. “It’s a sketch.”
He studied the paper briefly, then handed it back to her. “It looks kind of like the picture on the news, all right.” He jotted something else in his notebook and slipped it back inside his coat, then withdrew a card and handed it to her. “Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Whittington. We’ll be in touch. If you remember anything more, please call this number. That’s for Detective Charles Sibley. He dealt with Leverette before.”
“That’s it? You’re not going to post someone here in case he comes back?”
“Did this person threaten you?”
Dana shook her head. The only thing that had been in danger from John had been her heart. “No, he didn’t make any threats.”
“We’ll investigate this report as thoroughly as possible, ma’am,” Savard said, his voice rough with weariness as he pulled his gloves back on. “But rest assured that if the person you claim to have seen really was Leverette, he’d probably be halfway to Calgary by now.”
The diner next to the gas station had been doing a brisk business right up until dusk. Located just before the turnoff to Hainesborough, it was on the main route between Toronto and the Trans-Canada Highway. It was a good place for snowplow drivers to stop and fill their thermoses with coffee and grab a few doughnuts, or for travelers who’d had to postpone their trips because of the storm to rest long enough to wolf down hamburgers or sandwiches before they got back on the road, trying to make up for lost time.
But now the crowd was thinning out. With nightfall, most people had already reached their destinations. The bell over the door remained silent, and the buzz of conversation had been replaced by the drone of a small television behind the counter.
Remy knew he could allow himself another five minutes tops before he would have to move on. Although his stomach was growling audibly, the coins he’d found on the floor of the phone booth wouldn’t stretch to buy him dinner. He would have preferred to stay here long enough for his feet to warm up past the numb stage, but the waitress had been by twice already, eyeing the coffee he’d been nursing, and he didn’t want to risk becoming conspicuous.
His immediate problem was where to go once he left the diner. Because of Dana, he couldn’t use Half Moon Bay as a base to work from, so his first priority was to find somewhere else to stay. But where? No one could survive in the bush at this time of year, and he sure didn’t have the means to pay for a motel. He had no friends he could count on—the events of the past year had proven that much. If he was lucky he might stumble over a cottage in the area that was empty for the winter…as long as his feet didn’t freeze solid while he was wandering around the bush looking.
It appeared as if he had to risk going into Hainesborough earlier than he would have wanted. Hopefully, the news of the breakout would have died down by now. He could find shelter in his office or in the construction trailer in the yard. It had been two days, and the Kingston pen was hundreds of miles from here. Besides, no one would expect to see him—escaped felons generally knew better than to return to the scene of the crime, right?
Wherever he ended up, he couldn’t count on luck being with him this time. He’d probably used up a lifetime’s quota of luck getting this far. Being in the exercise yard just as the leading edge of the storm had disrupted the power to the electric fence had been a fluke. A one-in-a-million opportunity. Two men had gone over the wall before Remy had fully understood what was happening.
The decision to follow them had been instinctive. After being a law-abiding citizen for his entire adult life, he had escaped custody without a qualm or a backward glance. Odd, how easily the old skills had come back to him. He wasn’t as agile as he’d been as a juvenile, but he’d known how to avoid detection by sticking to the alleys and back roads. He’d ditched the prison issue jacket and stolen that poor sap Becker’s overcoat. He’d hitched a ride with an out-of-province trucker. Then he’d lied to the innocent woman who had saved his life.
Damn, he’d already been through this in his mind, he thought, scowling into his cold coffee. He’d do whatever it took. He wasn’t going to leave a legacy of shame for his daughter. Somehow he was going to find a way to prove his innocence.
He lifted the mug to his lips and drained the last of his coffee, then counted out enough coins to cover it. He slid to the edge of the bench and glanced around the diner, preparing to leave when his gaze was caught by the face on the TV screen.
It was his mug shot.
The shock of seeing himself like that kept him motionless for a vital second before his pulse tripped into over-drive. Hunching his shoulders, Remy ducked his head, as if concentrating on fastening the buttons on his coat while he watched the screen out of the corner of his eye.
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