She risked a glimpse at the window where she’d seen Quinn. Nothing. Was he still recording? Did he have Cruz with him? Other agents?
Ignoring Paul’s demand that she join him, she forged on. “They’ve attempted to kill me at least three times. The bomb that destroyed the Rêve, was that you or the Colombians?”
He yanked a chair from under the table and sat, pulling her between his knees. His fingers dug painfully into her hips. “You have me to thank for that, intended for your P.I. boyfriend. My man got a little carried away with the explosives and the timer, however.” He made a clucking sound with his tongue. “A real shame about the Rêve. A great boat. Better than the one I have now. Ah, well.”
He stood with her firmly in his grasp. “My skis are out in the other locker. You’ll have to leave everything here. There’s no more time.”
“But my animals—”
“Think, Claire,” he said impatiently, pulling gloves from a pocket. “We’re on skis. They remain here.”
If she could open the back door, Quinn might have a chance at Paul. “At least allow me to let Alley inside. She’ll freeze.”
“No.” His voice was firm, unwavering. “That damn dog tried to take a chunk out of me once before. It stays outside.”
So Alley had done her guard duty, after all. Good girl, Alley! “You were the one who snooped around the house.”
His smile chilled her. “I had to check on my sweet goddess, didn’t I? Had to see if you were still faithful. I saw him kissing you, holding you. Don’t think I didn’t know. Lucky for that muscle-bound guy you ditched him. A second time I wouldn’t have missed.”
Squeezing her jaw with his right hand, he pulled her close and lowered his thin-lipped mouth to hers. He ground himself against her with such force she whimpered in pain. He tasted bitter and cold, like his ambition and his life. She willed away tears.
Abruptly, he dropped a gentler kiss on her stinging lips, then shoved her ahead of him. “Enough delay. Let’s go. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if that’s what it takes to persuade you to accompany me.”
Claire opened her mouth to protest further, but closed it again when she saw what he held in one gloved hand.
The Beretta.
The black muzzle of the automatic pistol was pointed directly at her.
Chapter 14
Michael clicked off the mini tape recorder and stashed it in his pocket. He slid along the cabin wall away from the window, then slipped downhill into the woods. From there, he had a clear view of the front door.
True to his reputation as the Invisible Man, Cruz was nowhere to be seen. Trusting his partner, Michael gave the agreed-upon hand signal, They’re coming out, before he crouched in the shrubbery. The snow-draped evergreens provided adequate cover for him in his winter camouflage.
If Santerre behaved as expected, he’d take Claire across the ski runs to his pickup at the ski lodge. Michael and Cruz would follow to an access road beyond the Cougar trail where more DEA agents waited. Surrounded, Santerre would have to give up.
But what if Santerre went another way? What if something had happened to Cruz? What if— Hell, he had to stop this second-guessing. It would make him crazy. He was already soaked with sweat and ready to chew nails from fear for Claire’s safety. He had to block his emotions, do his job.
It would work. It had to. Claire would be safe. At that prayerful thought, he willed his shoulders to relax and his gut to unknot. When the cabin door opened, the knots only tightened.
From cover, Michael watched tensely as first Claire and then Santerre left the cabin. His nostrils picked up the scent of wood smoke from nearby cabins, and his ears, the chatter of chickadees. All his senses kicked into hyper, but his nerves felt sandpaper raw.
Damn, if he could just march out and plow his fist into the slimeball’s pretty face.
Claire wore her sexy sunset-pink-and-orange ski suit. A bright splash that would be easy to trail. Head high and mouth defiantly taut, she fumbled with the ski locker. Delay tactics to give Michael an opening.
Atta girl. Hang in there. Rescue will come.
He clenched and unclenched his fists with impatience. He’d have to wait, as would she.
Donning her skis, Claire glanced around surreptitiously, as if searching for rescue.
Hold on, babe. Don’t make the son of a bitch suspicious.
Smiling like a lizard at its next meal, Santerre kept a close eye on his captive. He slipped his ski fastenings onto his boots and then motioned to Claire to move out.
“Wait, Paul. Why skis? Why don’t we take my car?” Claire said, her voice high-pitched with desperation.
“Raoul and his pals, darling. They might spot us driving down the mountain. Going across the slopes is safer. I doubt those Colombian goons know one end of a ski from the other.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Now, get moving.”
The two skiers glided across Cougar, Claire in front. The lift continued to ferry other more cheerful skiers up the mountain, but no one swished down Cougar to block their way. Santerre seemed oblivious to the watchers in the adjacent woods.
“Quinn.”
At the whisper of his name, Michael spun around, rifle at the ready. Cruz stood no more than an arm’s length behind him. He knew it was Cruz, but he was jumping out of his skin with nerves. Exhaling a white-plumed breath of relief, Michael marveled at his partner’s stealth, even with the cumbersome complication of snowshoes.
Michael lowered his gun and gestured to Cruz that they should leave their wooded cover.
Weapons in hand, the two agents ran to the corner of the cabin nearest the slope. Michael peered around the corner, Cruz behind him.
The ski resort’s terrain map was branded on his brain. Cougar, a double-black-diamond trail, pitched downward at, in some parts, a sheer fifty-degree angle. Trees and boulders lined both sides, and scattered hillocks heightened the challenge. To a downhill skier, it appeared a nearly vertical obstacle course. Even with the eight feet of snow cover, a parachute might come in handy.
Squinting, Michael focused on their quarry ahead. Using an uphill-climbing stride, Claire and Santerre trekked across the slope, which was the width of a football field. Claire appeared to have difficulty with the short push-and-glide technique.
Michael knew her expertise in skiing. Another delaying tactic. At her pluck, his heart gave an extra thump. He swallowed down the constriction in his throat.
“Wait until they’re halfway before we follow,” Cruz advised.
Michael jerked a nod. On snowshoes they might have difficulty keeping up. That worry gnawed at him with sharp teeth. Santerre wouldn’t get away, couldn’t get away. The other agents were waiting to apprehend him. Still, Michael didn’t want Claire out of his sight.
When Santerre and Claire neared the crest, he said, “Let’s go.”
They rushed onto the slope as Paul urged Claire down the other side. Snowshoes crunching into the icy surface, Michael and Cruz strode quickly across.
“Hold it right there.” On the crown of the slope, Paul Santerre stood facing them.
Michael dropped to his belly. He pointed his rifle at Santerre’s chest. Damn, Cruz had been right to suggest they wait until their quarry was halfway down the other side. Santerre had heard them and turned around.
At the same time, Cruz hit the snow and, kicking off his snowshoes, rolled away to the side into a similar position. He cocked and aimed his nine-millimeter.
Santerre pulled Claire to his left side with a tight grip on her upper arm. She fought to escape, but he maneuvered them both sideways.
Michael’s heart plummeted. Cleverly, the man placed Claire between them. The slime, he would sacrifice her to save himself. Michael watched him through his scope. Saw the fever in his cold blue eyes, the desperation.
Icy fear corkscrewed through Michael’s gut. Was the son of a bitch greedy and obsessive, or was he crazy? How far would he go?
Michael would take no chances with Claire’s life.
/> “Federal agents, Santerre,” he called out, his voice hoarse with tension. “You can’t get away. Let the woman go, and you won’t get hurt.”
“How gullible do you think I am?” Santerre spread his lips in a cold lizard smile. “Quite the opposite. If I keep my beautiful wife with me, I won’t get hurt. Now, drop your guns and get out of here.”
“Don’t do it, Michael,” Claire shouted. “He has a pistol.”
Michael hadn’t seen it earlier, but no surprise. The pistol was how Santerre forced Claire to accompany him. The gun created little danger for the agents. But to Claire…
“So the P.I. lover is really DEA,” Santerre said. “How convenient. She’s mine, and don’t forget it.” From an inside parka pocket, he withdrew the pistol. The missing Beretta. He pointed it vaguely at the snowy ground.
Maintaining his position and his aim, Michael said, “You might as well give up, Santerre. Federal agents are waiting wherever you turn on this mountain. Take the weapon slowly by the barrel and toss it away. Don’t make your situation any worse. Let the woman come to me.”
“Never.” He yanked her closer and planted a smacking kiss on her temple. Claire winced and closed her eyes. “She remembers my warning on the phone. Perhaps she told you. You can’t have her.”
As he’d suspected, Santerre had been the phone stalker. One more nail in his coffin.
Fury burned in Michael’s soul, forging white-hot hate into a deadly calm. He would do what he was trained to do. He could do it. He raised the gun barrel and squinted into the scope. The crosshairs hovered over Santerre’s evil heart.
Come on, Claire, move! Six inches to the right, and I’ll have him.
Even though she didn’t love the guy, she might hate the one who killed him. To save her, it was a chance he’d take.
He would take down the freaking bastard. No qualms. No hesitation. No nerves. And this time he wouldn’t miss. Sweat slid like teardrops down his cheeks.
“Quinn, you can’t shoot,” Cruz said in an urgent tone. “This is the trail listed as high-avalanche risk at the lodge. The Cougar trail.”
“Hah, avalanche danger!” Ski pole swinging wildly, Santerre waved the pistol like a flag. “How fitting!”
Michael choked back burning rage at his forced impotence. Not knowing what else to do, he lowered his rifle barrel and snicked on the safety. He didn’t dare shoot, but he didn’t trust that damn son of a bitch not to.
Santerre tucked away the pistol and released Claire. He lifted his right ski and angled it out in the first move of a step turn. “Come, my goddess, these gentlemen won’t stop us.”
When he lifted his left ski to complete the turn, Claire struck out her right ski in a firm kick.
In the tangle that ensued, Santerre lost control. Waving his poles like conductor’s batons, he staggered and then pitched heavily onto his side. “No!”
Heart thumping painfully, Michael gaped with admiration as Claire regained control of her skis. Wasting no time, she kick-turned to the left and pushed off toward him in a powerful start worthy of an Olympic medalist.
“Hurry, Claire,” he yelled, getting to his feet. He beckoned emphatically and started toward her.
She swished across the snowfield in long, fluid strides. “Michael, get down! The…pistol!” she shouted.
He plowed on toward her, his snowshoe-clad feet seemingly mired in quicksand, slogging in slow motion. Maybe two targets would confuse the bastard.
She neared a point halfway from the crest, about twenty-five yards, planting her poles and gliding strongly.
Santerre clambered to his knees. He drew out the Beretta and clicked off the safety.
Michael stared as helplessly as if at a movie scene. “You crazy son of a bitch, you can’t shoot her. She’s your wife. You love her,” he yelled. “Avalanche, remember?”
“You fools, you think I used this puny weapon? To start an avalanche, you have to fire heavy rounds directly into the snow.” With both hands, he raised the deadly pistol at his fleeing wife’s back.
Safety off, Michael aimed the SAR-8 at Santerre.
Claire skied straight into his line of fire.
“Claire! Get down! Now!”
With a single negative head shake, she pushed on.
Santerre pulled the trigger. The Beretta emitted an innocuous pop, like a branch snapping from the cold.
Claire recoiled, her arms flopping like a marionette’s. She swayed on her skis, but remained erect. She dropped one pole.
On his feet, Santerre emitted a snarl of frustration. He raised the Beretta again, aiming it toward his wife.
A bullet exploded from Michael’s rifle. The sharp report echoed from tree line to tree line. Without needing to check the outcome, he dropped the weapon and bolted toward Claire.
She lay crumpled in a heap. A new crimson streak stained the right shoulder of her bright ski suit.
He revved to a sprint, but the snowshoes slowed it to a waddle. “Claire, I’m coming!”
Right arm dangling uselessly, Claire struggled to her knees. Blood dripped from her finger onto the pristine snow. She leaned heavily on a ski pole. “I can…make it.”
Clutching his belly, Santerre pushed off shakily to continue his escape. Ten yards farther, he toppled to the snow. He lay motionless.
“Forget him,” Cruz yelled. “Our guys will get him later.”
At last, Michael reached her. He looked in horror at Claire’s shoulder, where the bloodstain blossomed across the bright fabric. So much blood. With shaky fingers, he unzipped the parka to examine the wound.
The shot appeared to have gone cleanly through the fleshy part. His heart still raced, but he suppressed the paralyzing fear. It could be worse. Much worse.
He slid one arm around her to support her lolling head. “Take it easy. We’ll get you out of here pronto.”
“M-Michael, did…you hear…in the cabin?” she murmured, slipping into unconsciousness.
“Hush, babe. Yes, I have him on tape. It’s over now. You’re safe. You’ll be all right.” He dragged the scarf from his neck and tied it over the wound. They’d get her to a hospital right away.
She’d recover, and his jinx was broken. He made the crucial shot.
Yes, she’d be all right, but would he? He’d fulfilled his mission to flush out the damn drug-dealing swine only to find he’d fallen in love with a courageous, beautiful widow who wasn’t a widow after all.
Until now. And how would she feel about that? About him?
A barrage of gunfire exploded above on the mountain. Assault rifles. The DEA team? Raoul and his men?
When the echoes died away, an eerie silence blanketed the mountain.
Icy dread clogged Michael’s throat. Hurriedly, he unsnapped Claire’s skis from her boots and lifted her limp form into his arms.
Uphill a deep rumble shook the mountain, an angry, awakening giant hungry for human flesh.
“Get the hell out of there, Quinn.” With the rifle on his shoulder, Cruz waved from the slope’s wooded edge, twenty yards away. “Avalanche!”
Fate had forced him to fire a gun again to save her, and by heaven, Michael would beat this damn snow monster, too.
With every ounce of his formidable strength, he ran toward the trees. Above him, a thundering alabaster cloud roared toward them. Surrounded by a chalk-white curtain, ice-and-snow boulders as hard as granite charged downward.
He hit the edge and raced into the heavy tree cover with Claire cradled in his arms.
Behind them, the fifty-foot wall of snow and ice crashed down the steep slope.
Late one afternoon a week later, Claire stood in her office and contemplated the contract from the auction company. When the house was sold, she would sell the rest of Paul’s extravagant trinkets. The profits would go into the charity fund she’d established. Living in the mountain cabin, she’d need only her personal belongings, the computer and her research materials.
She twisted to drop the contract on her desk. At
the movement, sharp pain shot through her injured shoulder. Still weak from trauma and loss of blood, Claire adjusted her sling and sank onto her desk chair.
For a minute, she concentrated on the shoulder pain, analyzed it, savored it. The physical discomfort held at bay the more wrenching emotional agony and sense of loss.
Michael. She hadn’t seen him since he rescued her from the mountain. The other agents who came to question her would say only that he was busy.
It was over. He’d moved on with his life, and so would she. Now that she knew true, honest, abiding love, her empty future loomed bleaker than before. Only one small hope, one glimmer of the future kept her going. Exhaling slowly, she pressed her left hand to her abdomen.
The doorbell jarred her from her reverie. Fatigued to the bone, she forced herself to slog to the hallway.
From the kitchen, Alley and Spook dashed to greet the visitor. Alley uttered happy yips, not her usual warning barks.
Michael. Square-shouldered and square-jawed, he stood granite still, filling the doorway. A new red scar, from their Cliff Road misadventure, marred his broad forehead. His eyes surveyed her painstakingly from head to toe.
Her heart thrummed under his heated gaze. Chin up, she struggled not to glance down at herself to see if she’d spilled soup on her burgundy slacks or left open a zipper. “Quinn, what are you doing here?”
“Out of mourning at last, I see,” he said. “Now that he’s truly dead.” Without invitation, he strolled inside.
She closed the door behind him. “Is that why you’ve come? To assure me of that fact?”
“Partly.” He removed his parka and draped it on the hall tree. In his black slacks and crewneck sweater he looked dangerous and very, very sexy. “A crew reached the body yesterday. He’s dead, all right.”
A sigh escaped her lips. “I’ll admit it’s a relief. Mon Dieu, I imagined he would return to torment me again.”
He knelt, responding to the insistent yipping and mewing at his feet. Alley wriggled ecstatically at his gentle ministrations, and Spook rubbed enthusiastically against his corduroy trousers. Michael hoisted the kitten in one hand and stood. “I’ll explain the rest, if you like.”
Dangerous Attraction Page 21