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“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.”
