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He watched her long-legged stride carry her across the lobby to the rear entrance. At the office she’d always worn suits with tailored jackets and short skirts that showed off a pair of world-class legs. He missed looking at her legs, though her pert backside in the tight jeans made a worthwhile show.
He grinned at his unruly thoughts and the stirring low in his groin. It occurred to him, with some discomfort, that he hadn’t harbored lustful thoughts in a long time. Despite being only thirty-five years old he lived like a prissy old man. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done anything even resembling fun. Between Caulfield’s demands and taking care of Jamie he didn’t have much of a life at all.
He downed the remains of his coffee in one long smooth swallow and rose to follow her.
As soon as he stepped outside, icy air slapped his face. Gooseflesh rose on his arms and back, itching against his woollen shirt. Noting the speed with which Frankie traveled the gravel path to the Honeymoon Hideaway, he decided to forgo running upstairs for a coat.
The path between the hideaway and the lodge was well tended and well lit. In the predawn darkness, the trees along the path formed a black, blank wall. He caught up to Frankie at the fountain between the four honeymoon cabins. Drained for winter, the fountain glistened under a dusting of snow. Each cabin was angled so its entrance had privacy from the others. Pinkish lights glowed next to the doorways, but all the cabin interiors were dark.
Frankie tossed him a look askance. “I’m surprised they don’t have you sleeping in front of the door.”
He realized her dilemma: she didn’t know which of the cabins housed her sister. He shoved his cold hands in his pockets. “I’ve thought about it, Miss Forrest. If you want to wake up your sister I won’t stop you. That is, if you can assure me you aren’t carrying a weapon.”
The pinkish light agreed with her, turning her eyes large and dark and softening the lines of her face. She looked like a creature stepped from the forest who would soon disappear back into the trees. “I don’t have a weapon.”
“I better frisk you to make sure.”
She put up her fists. “Touch me and die, McKennon.”
Dying might be a fair price to pay to find out what she had underneath her clothes. Cold seeped through his jeans. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to muster some heat. “I’m kidding. Go ahead.”
Even in the darkness, he saw her thoughtful frown. “Uh, maybe I shouldn’t startle Julius. Why don’t you knock for me so he knows it’s okay.”
She was good, he thought admiringly. “You won’t startle him. He sleeps heavy. You won’t even wake him up.”
She threw up her hands and huffed loudly. White plumes marked her breath. “Which cabin are they in?”
“You don’t know?”
She growled. He bit back a laugh.
“I don’t and you do. So tell me.”
He thought his natural bent toward devilment had died with Nina, but orneriness flexed its rusty wings. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll tell you. But, you have to kiss me first.” That he said such a thing aloud shocked him. He swallowed laughter.
“That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!”
He shrugged. “You’ve got a twenty-five-percent chance of choosing the right cabin on the first shot. Or, you can go back to the lodge and see if the night clerk will give you the cabin number. Or, you can wait until your sister is awake.” He smiled. “Or, you can kiss me.” She wouldn’t, he knew, but he liked the flashing fire seeming to shoot from her every pore. Any second now she’d get the joke and laugh. Making her laugh seemed a small step toward easing some of the pain he’d inadvertently caused her.
Glaring daggers in his direction, she took a step toward the nearest cabin. Years of training had taught him to control his body language. If she hoped for a clue she wouldn’t get it from him. She abruptly switched direction. He tensed instinctively, prepared for battle. She grabbed the front of his shirt in both hands, jerked him forward and kissed him fully on the mouth.
Chapter Three
Frankie meant to give McKennon a noisy smack on the lips. Then she would shove him and hope he slipped on the icy gravel and fell on his butt so he would end up looking like the big jerk he actually was. Then she’d laugh in his face and prove his idiotic kidding around had absolutely no effect on her whatsoever.
That’s what she’d meant—
Electricity sparked from his lips to hers, melding her to his heat. He wrapped both arms around her shoulders and hugged her to his chest. Breath deserted her; thought deserted her. She clung to his shirtfront as if she drowned and only he could save her. Mingled aromas of soap and shaving cream and healthy male swirled through her brain like an intoxicating drug. He smelled so good. His lips were so supple, so warm. When he slid a hand through her hair and grasped the back of her head in a possessive hold, she became lost in the erotic feeling of his fingers against her scalp.
This kiss superseded all other kisses in her life. She’d kissed him a thousand times in her dreams, but this was better. McKennon touched her soul. She parted her lips and greedily accepted the thrust of his tongue. Noises slipped away one by one, the rustle of her jacket, their boots crunching gravel, the faraway whisper of a breeze through the pines, until all she could hear was her pounding heart. She kissed and kissed him, tasting, testing, no longer present, but lost in her dreams, submersed in the solidity of his big body, entrapped and enthralled by the power of his embrace.
When he broke the kiss, a cry rose in her throat. A cry of protest, of yearning. Her eyelids flew open, and she stared into his eyes. They were black, fathomless, smoldering. His hot breath fanned her cheeks.
Dizzy now, she tried hard to muster outrage. Unable to do that, she settled for indignation, but even that wan emotion failed her.
He slid his hand from beneath her hair. Released from his hold, if not from his spell, she dropped her hands from his shirt. In her head she saw herself flinging her hair in a haughty gesture and sniffing in disgust; she swiped her mouth; she laughed in his face.
In her head.
In reality she backed a step and lowered her face. Her cheeks burned, but she shivered inside the parka. A single kiss had never set her on fire before. She’d never lost her head like that. Bemused and troubled, she peered warily at him.
“Cabin B,” he said, and pointed. His voice sounded suspiciously gruff.
Oh, yeah, Penny, she thought. She took a step in the direction he indicated and paused. She half expected him to take her arm, to stop her and kiss her again. He jammed his hands in his jeans pockets and hunched his shoulders. Annoyance tweaked her.
Resisting the urge to look over her shoulder at him, she strode determinedly to Cabin B. She knocked softly on the door, then listened. She raised her hand to knock again, but hesitated. All night long she’d rehearsed conversations with her sister. Angry words, loving words, forgiving words and spiteful words. She doubted now that anything she said could change the situation.
Forget speeches and arguments, then. She would assure Penny that no matter what happened they were still sisters, but she’d never be able to accept Julius. Then she’d say goodbye.
She knocked a rapid tatoo Penny should recognize from the countless mornings Frankie had awakened her to get ready for school. After a few seconds she knocked again. The knocks echoed behind her in a fading swirl.
“No answer?” McKennon asked.
His nearness startled her. She hadn’t heard his approach.
“Something’s wrong,” Frankie said. She knocked harder. Her cold knuckles ached with every blow.
“She’s probably been up most of the night.”
She flinched. No way, no how, did she want a picture in her head of her baby sister and that creep Julius having sex. “She’s a college student. Or was. She doesn’t need sleep. There’s something wrong.”
He lifted his gaze to the star-studded sky. “Even if I could open the door, which I can’t, I wouldn’t. Let them sleep.”
“She has to talk to me.” She pounded on the door with her fist, ignoring McKennon’s whispered warnings about disturbing the other guests. She grabbed the doorknob. It turned easily, startling her. “The door’s unlocked.”
McKennon glided up the steps on silent feet.
She pushed the door open. Thin pink-tinged light formed a rectangle on the floor. The rest of the interior was pitch-black. And quiet.
Too quiet. Every nerve in her body went on alert. The atmosphere stifled her with its tomblike silence.
“Penny?” she called softly. “It’s me, Penny. Hello?”
“Step back,” McKennon whispered in her ear. He found a switch and flipped it. A wall-mounted lamp filled the cabin interior with a golden glow.
Frankie blinked, momentarily blinded. As soon as her eyes adjusted she saw the bed. The king-size four-poster bed practically filled the room. The posters looked like Roman columns carved with twining leaves. A canopy frame made of wrought iron echoed the leafy bower theme. Julius lay squarely in the center of the bed. A thick comforter was drawn to his chin. His mouth gaped and his eyes were open. Creepy claws skittered up and down her spine.
Not right, not right, this is bad, this is very bad, intuition screamed in her head. “Penny?” Moving only her eyes, she searched for her sister. “Penny!”
“Don’t move,” McKennon said. “Don’t touch anything.” He hurried to the bed and leaned over Julius.
This is not happening, Frankie thought, watching the big man press two fingers beneath the bridegroom’s jaw. A weary-sounding curse husked from McKennon’s mouth, and she knew. Julius Bannerman was dead.
Frankie clamped her arms over her chest. She planted her feet at a stubborn angle and glared at her brother-in-law. She willed him to rise, to speak, to breathe. The creepy claws ran races along her spine. “What is wrong with him, McKennon?”
He dragged a hand over the back of his neck, and his eyebrows nearly touched in the middle. “Dead.”
“He isn’t dead,” she insisted. “He’s faking it. Shake him. Give him CPR. Do something.”
McKennon tossed her a gee-you’re-dumb look. “Raising the dead isn’t in my job description.”
She strode to the opposite side of the bed. Julius’s face was a peculiar mottled gray color. Dried saliva crusted on the corners of his mouth. His eyes were as dull as dirty china. Stomach churning, she poked Julius’s cheek. His skin felt like wax and she jerked her hand back and scrubbed it on her parka.
“Leave him alone. I told you not to touch anything. Especially him.”
She held up her hands, showing empty palms. “Okay, okay. Where’s my sister?” She sidled away from the corpse. “Penny? Penny!” Ignoring McKennon’s orders to stop, she jerked open a closet door. Penny’s bridal gown hung from the rod with the skirt and train stuffed into the closet like a massive wad of cotton candy. But no Penny. Fighting down panic, Frankie rushed for the bathroom.
McKennon snagged her parka hood, jerking her backward. She gagged and stumbled. He wrapped his arms around her body and held her still. “Stop, or I will throw you out. This is possibly a crime scene. You cannot touch anything.”
Her heart tripped painfully, making breathing a chore. Blood rushing in her ears made thinking difficult.
“Take a deep breath,” he soothed. He rocked her gently, back and forth. “Calm down. We’ll find Penny. She’s okay. Settle down.”
“I am okay now,” she muttered.
He maneuvered her about to face him. Like a stiff doll, she allowed the manhandling. She knew him well enough to know that if he said he’d throw her out of the cabin, then he would do so.
“Stay right here. I will check the bathroom. Do not move.”
He entered the bathroom. His broad shoulders filled the doorway. Frankie could almost see the tension vibrating from his body. She finally found something that rattled him—and she didn’t like it one little bit.
“She isn’t here,” he announced. He unhooked a slim cellular telephone from the holster affixed to his belt.
Frankie’s gaze fell on an envelope propped against a lamp on the bedside table. “Julius Bannerman” was written on the front in bold, block lettering. She snatched up the envelope and tore off the end before he could stop her.
“I told you not to touch anything!”
She hunched protectively over the envelope. She shook out the paper inside. She fumbled the folded paper open. “It might tell me where Penny went.”
“That does it, you’re out.”
It said: “Dear Mr. Bannerman, we have your wife—”
Frankie gasped. McKennon grabbed the paper from her hand, but she had seen that first horrible sentence. “She’s been kidnapped!”
“Don’t jump to con—” His mouth clamped shut and his eyebrows rose. Eyes wide, he stared at the note. “Ah, hell.”
Strength drained from Frankie’s knees; her heart constricted in her chest. “You liar,” she growled. “You said she wasn’t in danger. Now she’s gone.”
“Be quiet.” Some of the color faded from his cheeks, leaving him gray. He rattled the sheet of paper.
Thin, college-ruled notebook paper, she noticed, the same kind she used at home because it was cheap and hole-punched. It heartened her. Surely real kidnappers would use twenty-pound bond or newsprint covered in letters clipped from magazines, not common, loose-leaf notebook paper. Her throat felt full of cement and she swallowed hard. “What does it say?”
He cleared his throat and read:
“Dear Mr. Bannerman,
We have your wife. This is nothing personal, we have no hard feelings toward you personally. This is strictly business. We know you are a good person and your wife is a good person. We will not hurt anybody as long as you do exactly what we say. All we want is money. You and your family are very rich and will not miss the paltry amount we demand. We demand three million dollars for the return of your beautiful wife. You and your family have forty-eight hours to raise the money. We are not unreasonable people. As long as you give us the money, we will not harm your wife. Do not call the police. We will know if you do. If you call the police, we will have no choice except to kill your wife. We do not want to do that. Do not leave Elk River Resort. We will know if you do. We will contact you in forty-eight hours to instruct you about where and how to give us the money. As soon as we have the money, we will give you your wife. Do not act stupid in any way. We mean everything we say.
McKennon exhaled heavily. “That’s it.”
She blinked stupidly at Julius’s body. He looked like a little kid tucked in snug and cozy for the night. “If they don’t want to hurt anybody why did they kill him?”
“An accident?” he offered. Head cocked, he studied Julius. “Stay,” he warned her and began to prowl the room. He searched, his eyes quick and alert as a cat’s, but touched nothing. He leaned over a small wastebasket next to the wet bar. “Here we go.”
Holding her elbows with her hands, in order to resist touching anything, Frankie peered inside the wastebasket. It contained several empty minibottles of scotch, foil candy wrappers and two syringes.
“Looks like they came prepared,” he said. “One for Julius, one for Penny.”
“Some preparation,” she muttered. “The idiots OD’d him.” A horrifying thought occurred to her. “You don’t think they overdosed Penny, too?”
He shook his head in firm denial. “She’s young and strong. She hasn’t been wrecking her health with bad living for the past thirty years, either. I doubt very much they meant to kill him.” He held the note out to Frankie. “Are you one hundred percent positive this isn’t Penny’s handwriting?”
Offended by his implication, she bristled. “Watch it.”
“If she and Julius were partying with drugs and she got scared—”
“Even if she weren’t as straight-up as they come, she’s vain about her body. She doesn’t eat sugar or red meat or drink liquor. She certainly won’t risk fooling around with drugs. Besides, if Julius conked out she’d call for help. She wouldn’t write a stupid note!”
He patiently held out the paper.
To prove her point she perused the handwriting. Her analytical mind kicked in. The block printing was even and smooth, and the note contained no misspellings or cross outs. She focused on the letters K, M and N. Penny always added feminine little curlicues, even while printing. The letters were light textured, but soldiers-at-attention straight.
She noticed the writing nearly hugged the pale blue line of the right margin, indicating a personality that clung to the past and security. The left margin wavered, swooping in and out, almost hesitant in contrast to the rigidly upright lettering. A criminal who feared taking chances?
“Penny definitely did not write this.” She wanted to jump on the bed, jerk Julius upright and scream in his face. She jammed her hands into her pockets. Threads snapped.
McKennon placed the note on the bed, face-up. He brought out his telephone again.
“Who are you calling?”
“The police.”
“Like hell you are!”
“This is a murder, accidental or not. We can’t keep it quiet.”
“Oh, yes we can!” She hurried to the control panel for the heat inside the cabin. She turned the switch to Off. “It’s like fifteen degrees out there. We open the windows, keep him cold. He’ll be okay.” She struggled with a wooden window sash.
