Fugitive Hearts

“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.