Читать книгу Fugitive Hearts - Ingrid Weaver - Страница 10

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.”