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“I’m talking about your real name—Juliet Radcliffe. If you were trying to hide, Ridgeville wasn’t the smartest spot to choose.”
“I’m not hiding.” She looked across him at the girl still standing with her arms out, ready to catch him if he fell. Or maybe tackle him if he attacked. “Sarah, go check on the girls. If the food is ready, you all should eat.”
“But—”
A lift of the headmistress’s right eyebrow stifled the protest and Sarah disappeared behind the curving staircase.
Chris waited until the woman turned back to him. “Girls? I don’t remember any other girls.”
“This is a school,” she said, letting her effort to stay patient show. “There are students here.”
He shrugged, which was a mistake. Pain narrowed the world to whirling white dots in front of his eyes. He didn’t know if he’d be sick or pass out. Maybe throw up, then pass out.
Her hand closed around the elbow of his good arm. “Look, we can settle identities later. You need medical attention. I’ll drive you—”
His laugh set off another spasm of anguish. “You’re not driving anywhere,” he said, when he could stop gasping. “The roads are slicker than a skating rink.”
“Is it really that bad?”
Chris snorted. “How do you think I got in this shape?” She just stared at him, a bemused look on her face. “My bike slid out from under me down on the highway, that’s how. I landed at your front gate, with the Harley wrapped around a nearby tree.”
“You walked up here from the highway? After an accident?” Now both her hands gripped his arm, the only warm spot on his entire body. He could almost see the wheels in her head turning, preparing to deal with the situation. “We’ve got to get you taken care of. What can we do about your shoulder?”
He wasn’t surprised at the question—Juliet would know he’d been dealing with this issue since he was fifteen. “Just take hold of my wrist. Come on,” he said when she hesitated. “You’ve done this before.”
She shook her head, but moved her hands to his left wrist. “You have me confused with someone else.”
“Not likely.” He forced his numb fingers to wrap around her wrist, linking them together. “Bend the arm to my waist. Right angle.” He couldn’t stop the hiss as she followed directions. “Okay. Hold tight, now. Brace yourself for a jerk.”
“I believe we’ve already met,” she murmured.
Chris felt his lips twitch with the urge to grin in response. But in the next moment the slight curve of her full lips straightened.
“Are you sure this will work?”
“Hell, no.” Chris took a breath, turned his head, then used his legs to drag all of his weight to the left. His shoulder muscles screamed, he groaned…and the ball of his shoulder slipped back into the socket.
“Ahhh.” He couldn’t hold back the sigh of relief. “That’s better.”
Still cradling his hand and wrist, she gazed at him. “You’re okay?”
“If you don’t count the crashing headache, plus a full load of cuts and bruises, I’m great.”
“You do have blood on your face.” She reached a hand toward his cheek. “Where did it—”
But Chris pulled away before her fingertips made contact, taking a long step backward and putting as much distance between them as he could manage. “I’ll take inventory later. Did you say something about food?”
She looked stunned for a second, but then nodded. “Yes. You can get cleaned up in the staff restroom, and then we’ll get dinner. Just soup and grilled cheese sandwiches,” she said over her shoulder, heading in the same direction the girl, Sarah, had gone. “I hope that’s okay.”
“I’ll be happier if you have a beer to go with it.” Though Chris had never been inside Hawkridge Manor, what he’d seen so far lived up to the stories he’d heard. The marble floor and mahogany paneling of the two-story entry hall rivaled some palaces he’d photographed in other countries.
“Here’s the restroom.” The headmistress stopped beside a cherry paneled door with the appropriate gender sign. “The kitchen is on the right, three doors down. Join us when you’re ready.”
She continued in that direction, but stopped when he said, “Does that mean no beer?”
Without looking back, she said, “Strong coffee is the best I can do.”
Chris pushed the bathroom door open with his good shoulder. “Without beer,” he mourned, “this will be a bitch of a storm.”
The restroom behind the old-fashioned door was modern and convenient, but the surroundings did nothing to make him feel better. Indigo-colored bruises from his helmet had started showing up on his cheeks and chin, along with a cut on his right jaw that had bled like crazy until his circulation slowed with the cold.
Still, he’d survived, which he wouldn’t have bet on at the time. One of those tree trunks had come damn close to his head.
His leather jacket was a total loss—ripped at both shoulder seams, with the finish on the back sanded off by the asphalt pavement. He eased it off his shoulders and let it fall down his arms straight into the trash can.
The sweater he’d worn inside the jacket was still in good shape, but the collar of the shirt underneath had been soaked with blood, so he stripped to the waist. Pain from his dislocated shoulder stabbed at him with every move, and tomorrow it would spread across his chest and back, he knew. A glance at the mirror showed him the bruises outlining his ribs, not to mention the outlines of the ribs themselves. The months in Africa had been pretty rough. His shoulders had gotten bony, and his jeans hung loose on his hips. He’d really been looking forward to that meat loaf with Charlie tonight.
Not bothering to stifle his groans, Chris pulled the sweater back over his head, then wet his fingers and ran them through his hair to tame it. The ruined chaps had protected his jeans from major damage, except for being wet to the knees with snowmelt. He thought he looked decent enough for a sandwich with a bunch of schoolkids.
After food and some of that strong coffee, though, he planned to corner Juliet Radcliffe and drag the truth out of her. He would find out what was behind this stupid innocent act of hers if it took all night.
More important, he’d find out why she’d disappeared. And why she’d let him spend the last twelve years believing he’d killed her.
JAYNE ENTERED THE STAFF kitchen to find her seven students staring at a stack of charcoal bricks in place of the sandwiches.
Monique threw her hands in the air. “I can’t cook. And I shouldn’t have to. Meals are part of the deal here, right?” She stalked to the couch and plopped down, with her arms folded high across her chest and the bright beads on her many black braids clicking as they bounced. “I’m not gonna starve, either. Somebody had better make me something to eat.”
Jayne nodded. “That’s fine. You don’t have to cook. You can work with the cleanup crew after every meal.”
“No way.” Her skin, usually a soft shade of creamed coffee, darkened with an angry flush.
“Those are the rules,” Sarah said, without prompting from Jayne. “Staying at school over winter break means helping out with the chores. I’m not cooking extra food for somebody who won’t do her share.” She looked around at the other girls, who were nodding in response.
But Monique didn’t give in. “I don’t care. I’ll just go into town with that dude when he leaves.”
“I’m not leaving anytime soon,” a masculine voice answered. “You’ll get pretty hungry.”
The eight of them gasped in unison at the intrusion, then turned to see Chris Hammond leaning against the frame of the kitchen door.
“My bike is wrapped around a tree down by the road,” he continued. “And the snow’s a good six inches deep by now, with no sign of stopping.” He walked to the table and pulled out the chair on the end. “Ladies, I hope you don’t mind if I sit down. It’s been a long afternoon.”
Without waiting for their agreement, he lowered himself into the chair. From the way his face whitened as he bent his legs, Jayne guessed he’d suffered more than a dislocated shoulder in the crash. He needed food and warm liquids.
“Good point,” she said briskly, moving to pour a mug of coffee. “Girls, this is Mr. Hammond, our guest.” Each of the girls introduced herself in turn. “Since no one is going anywhere tonight, let’s give the grilled cheese sandwiches another try. How’s the soup coming?” She glanced into the pot, then at the knobs of the stove. “Turn up the heat, get it almost to a boil,” she told Selena. “Beth, set the table with plates and bowls. Yolanda can figure out what everyone wants to drink.”
Jayne put the coffee down beside the intruder’s left hand. “Sugar and cream?”
He shook his head and brought the mug to his lips, then managed to sigh as he swallowed. “That’s good,” he murmured. “Thanks.”
“Let me know when you want a refill.” She left him alone as she supervised the dinner preparations, making sure the sandwiches emerged from the pan unscorched, the soup didn’t boil over and there were napkins on the table. Making sure, as well, that she didn’t stare at him, didn’t notice—again—the sharp blue of his eyes under thick, spiky lashes, or his sensuous lower lip, or the breadth of his shoulders.
Where in the world was her mind wandering, in the midst of all these teenaged girls? Maybe adolescent angst was contagious.
With golden sandwiches piled high on a plate and chicken noodle soup ladled into nine bowls, Jayne told the girls to sit down and eat. When the flurry of movement subsided, two empty places remained—one beside Chris Hammond and the other at the far end, facing him. Over on the couch, Monique still pouted. So Jayne had the choice of sitting next to him or facing him as if they were parents on either end of the family table.
Avoiding the domestic image, she sat down in the chair at his left hand. She could pour more coffee that way, and monitor his conversation with the girls.
After all, what kind of man did they have stranded with them tonight? He might be a pedophile, for all she knew. He’d stalked her all over Ridgeville just yesterday. And he’d said—she’d blocked the memory in the urgency of the moment—he’d said he’d come to find out why she was lying about her name and about not knowing him. The very idea meant he was delusional, at least. He’d clearly mistaken her for someone else. At the worst, he might actually be mentally unstable.
But she couldn’t have left him out in the snow, injured and bleeding, even if she’d had a choice. Which she hadn’t, because he’d fallen in the door without waiting for permission. Was he dangerous? Would she and the girls all be murdered in their beds?
“What are you worrying about?”
She snapped her head around to look at him. “I—I’m not worrying. Just eating.”
Chris Hammond gave a lopsided smile. “Except you haven’t picked up your spoon or taken a sandwich. You’re staring off into space with that little crease between your eyebrows you always get when you’re worried. And you’re wringing your hands in your lap.”
Jayne immediately relaxed her fingers. “I was just thinking about the storm.” The flush from that lie crept up her neck under her turtleneck shirt. “Do you know how much snow they’re predicting?”
He took a crunching bite of his sandwich and swallowed. “My granddad was predicting a blizzard as I left this afternoon. Maybe I should have believed him.”
“Is he a weather forecaster?”
“Just an old mountaineer.” Chris Hammond turned his head to lock his gaze with hers. “As you should remember.”
Her denial was overwhelmed by Yolanda’s shout from the other end of the table. “Hey, Ms. Thomas, can we go sledding after dinner?”
A chorus of cheers greeted the question.
“In the dark? Absolutely not.” Jayne shook her head. “You can play in the snow tomorrow.”
“There are lights all around outside,” Yolanda pointed out. “It’s practically daylight out there.”
“Yeah, those lights shine in my window every night.” Monique had finally allowed hunger to win, and had taken her place at the table. “I should know.”
“The best sledding hill doesn’t have lights,” Jayne told them. “There’s a little bowl on the other side of the woods, off the hiking path to Hawk’s Ridge. We call it The Nest. Girls usually try to see who can go down one side the fastest and then come up the other side the farthest.” She shrugged. “Of course, if you’d rather settle for the tame little bumps around here instead of spending several hours in The Nest, that’s up to you.”
“Masterful strategy,” the man beside her murmured.
The girls around the table debated for a few seconds. “The Nest sounds cool,” Yolanda announced. “How early can we leave?”
“How early do you plan to get up?” Jayne pushed back her chair and stood. “While you’re deciding, let’s get the kitchen cleaned up. Dishes to the sink, paper to the trash and the leftovers in the fridge. Monique, you’re washing.”
“I know, I know.” Rolling her eyes, the girl went to the sink and began running water. “Get over here and help me, Haley. You didn’t do much with dinner, either.”
“I opened the soup cans,” Haley protested. But she found a dish towel and prepared to dry the wet dishes.
“Wipe the table down,” Jayne reminded them, “while I—”
A big fist closed around her upper arm. Chris Hammond had gotten to his feet. “I need to talk to you.” His set face matched the steel in his tone…and his grip. “Now.”
Sarah came up on Jayne’s other side. “Ms. Thomas? Are you okay?”
“I’m not going to murder or rape her,” Chris Hammond said irritably.
Pale blond hair and light blue eyes might give the impression that Sarah would be timid, but she didn’t flinch in the face of Chris Hammond’s temper. Jayne put her free hand on the girl’s arm. “I’m fine. There’s something Mr. Hammond and I need to get straightened out. I’ll show him where he can sleep tonight and be back here in a few minutes.”
As she stepped past him, the grip on her arm fell away. Jayne walked down the hallway to the private door of her office without looking back, certain he would follow. She motioned him inside, then shut the door and leaned back against it, refusing to let him believe she was scared of being alone with him.
Although, in truth, she was terrified.
“All right, Mr. Hammond, you’ve got what you want—complete privacy with no possible intervention from the police, the girls or anyone else. What in the world do you have to say to me?”
Chapter Three
Chris took his time examining the office. More wood paneling and a wall of bookshelves surrounded a huge desk with brass handles. Leather armchairs and a brocade sofa faced each other on an Oriental carpet. Original oil paintings and velvet drapes at the windows bespoke money and prestige.
“Very nice,” he said crisply, turning to face the headmistress again. “Looks like a cushy job. One you wouldn’t want to lose.”
“Yes.” She didn’t dress to impress, which suggested she was very comfortable with the power she held. Posed with her shoulders against the door, wearing navy blue slacks and white sneakers, a navy sweater and white turtleneck, she looked casual and confident. But he could sense the tension in her body.
“Is that the reason you won’t tell the truth?”
“What truth? What could I possibly be lying about?”
Chris set his jaw. “Your name, for starters. Not Jayne Thomas, but Juliet Radcliffe.”
“I have never heard that name before in my life. And it certainly isn’t mine. You have me confused with someone else.”
He sat on the edge of the big desk. “So where do you come from?”
Her shoulders relaxed a fraction. “About fifty miles south. My grandmother lived near Nantahala. She raised me.”
“Not your parents?”
“Our house burned down when I was seven. They were killed trying to bring out my little brother.”
“That’s quite a tragedy.”
She gave him a dirty look. “Don’t be so sympathetic.”
“Sorry. But I don’t understand why you would make up a background like that when you’ve got a legitimate past to call on. With me.”
She took a step forward. “You have to believe me. I’ve never heard of Juliet Radcliffe.” Her voice had softened, lowered, as if she were pacifying a wild animal. “You and I met for the first time yesterday.”
“Charlie says different.”
“Charlie?” She stared at him with a puzzled look. “Your grandfather? How would he know?”
