He had learned that her nightgown was ankle-length fleece. It was a practical choice for a cabin in winter. It covered her from her neck to her feet, yet when she moved it gave fascinating outlines of her curves. Sometimes she read when she couldn’t sleep right away. Once she had fallen asleep with a book in her hands and her light had burned until morning.
Remy’s lips twitched. If he stayed here much longer, he would have to add Peeping Tom to his growing list of crimes.
Nevertheless, he had good reason to keep track of Dana’s movements, he told himself. He couldn’t let her discover he was here, and he had to stay alert to any change in her routine that might mean her cousin was returning. So far he’d been lucky, but he couldn’t afford to relax. The longer he remained, the more chance he’d be discovered. He had to risk going into Hainesborough soon. He’d start with his office—there must be something among all the scraps of paper that would back up his alibi.
Leaning forward, Remy cleared the mist from the mirror, then braced his hands on the edge of the sink and scrutinized his image.
This morning’s newscast hadn’t broadcast his picture. Did he dare to hope that meant it would be safe for him to show his face?
Perhaps. Another two or three days would improve his odds. In the meantime he might as well prepare himself.
Twisting his mouth to one side, he picked up the pair of scissors he’d found earlier and began to clip away at his mustache. He used a razor to finish the job, then retrieved the scissors and started on his hair. By the time he was done, the face that stared back at him from the mirror jarred him. His lip looked naked, and his hair looked like the handiwork of a drunken barber.
He grimaced and took another stab at evening up the haircut, but the shorter he cut it, the more his hair curled. It didn’t matter, he decided, as long as he looked different from his mug shot. He swept the hair off the counter and flushed it down the toilet. Next, he replaced the shaving gear and scissors exactly where he had found them. Finally he rolled up the used towel and padded toward the bedroom.
Dana had once offered to lend Remy a pair of her cousin’s boots. What would she think if she knew he had been helping himself to her cousin’s entire wardrobe? Along with Remy’s list of crimes, his list of IOUs was continuing to grow, too. Once this was over, he would have to—
He paused in midstride, certain he had heard something creak. A glance at the clock showed it wasn’t yet noon—he should have several hours yet before Dana made her rounds. Nevertheless, he listened intently.
A sound barely on the threshold of hearing drifted through the silence of the lodge. It was the slam of a door.
Remy mouthed a curse and spun around. He returned to the bathroom to shut off the exhaust fan, then glanced at the suite’s door. Could he risk making a run for it? There was only one staircase to this top floor suite. If whoever was in the lodge came directly upstairs, there was no way he could avoid them.
He quickly surveyed the suite. The open concept design of the living area wouldn’t provide any concealment. The balcony off the bedroom might, but in the buff as he was, he wouldn’t last more than a few minutes outside.
There was the scuff of footsteps outside the door.
Remy sprinted for the bedroom. He scooped the clothes he had picked out earlier off the bed and slipped into the closet. He was just drawing the closet door closed behind him when he saw a flash of red go past the bedroom doorway.
It was Dana. She was early. Was she alone? Remy aligned one eye with the closet opening and strained to listen, but all he could hear was the crash of his pulse in his ears.
He breathed shallowly through his nose, forcing himself to remain motionless. She was talking, but it didn’t mean that she had anyone with her. Over the past few days, he’d noticed that she often talked to herself. He’d never been close enough before to hear what she was saying, though.
“…complete idiot,” Dana mumbled. “Can’t trust a cat.” Her voice grew louder. “Should have gotten over it by now.”
He held his breath as she walked right past the closet.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she said. “If Adelle ever found out she’d have me committed to a—” The rest of her sentence was lost in a blur of muttering. She strode back across the floor.
Remy only had a glimpse of her face, but he saw immediately that something was wrong. Her forehead was furrowed, and her usually generous mouth was drawn into a tight line. Who was Adelle? Her editor? No, Dana had mentioned a sister with that name. Were there family problems?
The front door of the suite slammed.
Remy didn’t move from the closet until he had counted off two full minutes of silence. If Dana followed the pattern of her other visits, she would work her way through the guest rooms on the ground floor now and then do a check of the service areas.
But she had broken the pattern by coming here early. Did it mean that her cousin was returning? Remy hoped that the change in routine had more to do with whatever was troubling her.
Was it her work? She said that she had sought the isolation of the closed resort in order to finish her manuscript in peace, but he thought there was more to her desire for seclusion than that. Once again he wondered what had happened to Dana Whittington. She was such a warm and generous person, and she was so clearly fond of children, it was surprising that she hadn’t wanted to settle down and start a family of her own.
Yet in the five days that Remy had been watching her, no man had come to visit. Did that mean she was unattached? If he had been the man in her life, he sure as hell wouldn’t have left her alone up here for this long. She looked so lonely in that big bed of hers, with the quilts tucked up to her shoulders and her blond hair spread over the pillow. The night she had fallen asleep reading, he’d been tempted to go over there and take the book from her hands and slide beneath those quilts with her. It had been a long time since he’d had a woman in his arms.
Would she smell like flowers all over? Would she taste as sweet as she looked? Would she be as generous in bed as she was everywhere else?
The blood that had been pumping through his muscles settled low in his groin. Remy exhaled hard and glanced down at the physical reaction his thoughts were producing.
They were useless thoughts, and an even more useless reaction, but he had plenty of things to feel guilty about without adding a perfectly normal erection to the list. He was a healthy male and it had been a long time. Even before he’d gone to prison, his sex life had been practically nonexistent. Sylvia had lost interest in sex shortly after Chantal had been born. Sure, she had humored him for a while, feigning interest in order to placate him. During the last year, though, she had stopped pretending. She hadn’t cared about their marriage, their child, their future…
He smiled crookedly as his arousal subsided—thoughts of his late wife were as effective as a cold shower. Considering the circumstances, it was for the best. He had other much more urgent matters to worry about.
Remy dressed swiftly and carried the boots he was using to the door. He could hear Dana clunking around on the first floor—she would be going through the kitchen by now. It was a good thing that he had made it a habit to clean up any traces of his presence each time he used a room. Unless she took an inventory, she would never know the supplies in the freezer were going down.
There was the stamp of booted feet. He guessed the sound was coming from the main entrance. His guess was confirmed seconds later by the solid slam of the front door, followed by a low, rumbling echo.
Remy frowned. Something definitely was bothering her. Normally she was even tempered, as sweet as the flowers she smelled like. The pressure of her book deadline must be getting to her.
The rumbling noise increased in volume, then ended in a loud thump. It seemed to have come from the roof. His frown deepening, Remy went to the side of the window and looked out, waiting to see Dana’s red parka. When she didn’t appear, he edged closer and peered downward, but all he could see was a tumbled p
ile of white.
That’s what the noise must have been, he thought. The snow that had built up during the storm had finally slid off. The steep pitch of the roof had been designed for that purpose. Considering the record amount of snow that had fallen, it was no small weight that had crashed to the ground.
Concerned now, Remy moved right up to the glass. He would be in full view of anyone looking upward, but Dana wasn’t there. He had been certain she had gone outside, so why couldn’t he see her?
He replayed the sequence of sounds in his head. No more than a few seconds had elapsed between the slam of the door and the resulting snowslide. Anyone caught beneath it…
Remy jammed his feet into his boots, grabbed his coat and raced through the empty lodge to the front door. For all he knew, Dana could be standing beneath the porch overhang and be perfectly safe. He didn’t know how he would explain his presence to her if she saw him, but if the sick feeling in his gut was anything to go by, he didn’t think he would see her.
The door was stuck. Remy put his shoulder against it and shoved hard, but it wouldn’t budge. Not wanting to waste more time, he headed out the service entrance and ran around to the front of the lodge.
He saw immediately why the door hadn’t opened. It was blocked by a ten-foot-high pile of snow.
“Dana?” Remy shouted.
There was no movement. No sound. Just a sparkle of snowflakes that trickled from the roof.
“Dana!”
Still nothing.
A truly ruthless man would have saved his own skin rather than risk revealing himself. No one knew he was here. No one else had witnessed this accident. If he left her, that would be one less complication, one less threat to his freedom. There would be no questions he couldn’t answer, no lies to tell. Dana believed she was alone, anyway. If he did nothing, her fate would be the same as if he hadn’t been here.
All he had to do was walk away.
But not for a second did Remy consider any alternative. He thrust his bare hands into the snow and started to dig.
Chapter 5
The face above hers was hazy. The light behind it was too bright. Everything looked white. She winced, squinting her eyes.
“Dana?”
She knew that voice. She wanted to tell him so, but she was having trouble drawing air into her lungs. She wheezed.
There was the brush of fingers against her cheek. “It’s okay, Dana. You’re all right. You’re out now.”
Out? What was he talking about? She lifted her hand to shield her eyes and saw more white on her arm. White? It was snow. Her arm…no, her coat was covered with snow.
She blinked in an effort to adjust her eyes to the brightness. Sunlight reflected from the front windows of the lodge and bounced from an unending mountain of jumbled white.
What she was seeing suddenly clicked into place. Full consciousness flooded over her and her chest heaved. “Oh, my God!” she croaked.
“Shh, it’s okay, Dana,” he repeated, wiping the last of the snow from her face. His touch was achingly tender. “You’re all right now.”
“It fell on top of me,” she said. “I couldn’t get out of the way. I couldn’t move. I…couldn’t breathe.”
“You had passed out when I got to you, but you were still breathing.” His hand settled on her shoulder. “You weren’t out for long.”
They were still in the snow, she realized. And she was lying across his lap, cradled in his arms. She tipped back her head to bring his face into focus.
Was she imagining this? Was she still stuck under that snowpile somewhere and having a hallucination? His image had been in her thoughts so often, for a moment she wondered whether he was really here.
But the arms that held her were warm and strong, and the chest she leaned against was broad and solid. She could see his pulse beat at the side of his neck, and she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face. He was real.
“John,” she whispered.
His lips curved into one of his rare smiles. Yet something was different. Wrong. Where was his lush, sexy mustache? What had happened to his long hair? It had been lopped off into short layers that curled haphazardly over his head. He no longer looked like his photo—
The air that she’d managed to draw into her lungs rushed out as if she’d been struck.
No, he wasn’t John. He was Remy Leverette.
Oh, God. He wasn’t out West or up North or out of the country; he was here. Right here.
“I’d better get you back to your cabin,” he said, shifting his grip. He tightened his arms around her and rose to his feet.
Dana squirmed, bringing her hands to his chest to push herself away.
John staggered but didn’t release her. “Dana, relax. You’re safe now.”
Safe? She was being carried by an escaped felon. A murderer. A man who had stabbed his wife, and who had hidden a knife under her couch….
But this murderer had just dug her out of the snow. If he hadn’t been there, she would have suffocated. It happened to children when snow tunnels collapsed. It happened to skiers in avalanches, and it could have happened to her…if it hadn’t been for John.
No, not John. Remy was his name. She would do best to think of him that way.
She went still. “You saved my life.”
He resettled her more comfortably in his arms and started down the path to the cabin. “Then I guess we’re even.”
Dana didn’t know what to think. If he was Remy Leverette, convicted wife killer and desperate prison escapee, why had he helped her? Why not simply let her die? He had to know she would turn him in….
Or did he? She had automatically called him John. He had smiled when he’d heard her use that name. Could he believe she didn’t know who he really was?
And was that why he felt he could risk exposing himself to save her?
She grabbed the front of his coat to keep steady as he strode forward. He walked easily, despite the slippery footing and the weight he was carrying. The strength that she had suspected while she’d watched him recover from the cold was evident in every move he made.
Oh, God. What was she going to do? She was no match for him physically. It would be futile to struggle. And even if she managed to get out of his grasp, she would never be able to outrun him. It probably would be wiser not to confront him. As long as he didn’t know that she knew he was Remy Leverette, then he would have no reason to harm her, right?
They reached her cabin before she could form a plan. He carried her inside and kicked the door shut behind him.
She glanced at the telephone. She didn’t dare use it now. She would have to wait until she was alone.
Remy walked as far as the couch, then leaned over and laid her on the cushions. He tugged off her boots and tossed them aside. “How are you feeling? Do you hurt anywhere?”
If she was hurting, it wasn’t anywhere physical. Her emotions were another matter. “I’m all right.”
“You must be cold.” He brushed some snow off her jeans, the warmth of his hand going right through the denim. He unzipped her coat. “Let me help you out of those wet clothes.”
The situation was familiar, only this time the roles were reversed. A memory of the way she had undressed him flashed into her mind. The sculpted arms, the broad chest with the feathery black hair, the slim hips, the long legs. He’d been so large, so muscled, so…male.
Her pulse thudded as he eased the sides of her coat apart. What was the matter with her? Did she need to remind herself of what a fool she had been? She had trusted him, liked him…and had been completely duped by him.
Wriggling away from his touch, she sat up and drew her arms out of her sleeves herself. “Only my coat’s wet. I can get it off myself,” she snapped, dropping the garment on the floor.
At her sharp tone, he shot her an assessing look.
She forced herself to move more slowly as she leaned back against the arm of the couch. Letting him think she was worse off than she was might prove to be
an advantage. “I guess I’m still shaken up a bit.”
“Anyone would be.” He took the wool throw from the back of the couch and tucked it carefully around her legs. “Take it easy. I’ll fix you something hot to drink.”
Evidently Morty had heard the familiar voice. He padded in from the kitchen and started twining himself around Remy’s ankles.
Remy stooped to run his palm over the cat’s arched back, his touch as gentle as ever.
Damn him, Dana thought. He was making fools of them both. Why did he have to come back? Why hadn’t he just kept on going all the way to Alaska? “What are you doing here, John?” she burst out.
He straightened up. A look of wariness flickered in his eyes as he regarded her in silence.
She pasted on a smile. If she didn’t curb her temper, he might realize that she knew the truth. Her only chance was to bluff him until she could get help.
Think, she ordered herself. How would she have behaved if she hadn’t known John was Remy?
How? She probably would have been twining herself around him as pathetically as Morty.
What are you doing here, John?
Remy knew he had to come up with something. Fast.
At least she had called him “John.” He hadn’t expected that. It had been five days since he’d left her—could she really have kept away from the news all this time? Did she truly not know who he was?
Perhaps it was possible. He knew she hadn’t turned on a television while she’d made her rounds of the lodge, and she didn’t have one in this cabin. She hadn’t taken a trip into town or had any visitors, so she couldn’t have seen a newspaper. Even if she had heard a radio newscast of the prison break, she wouldn’t have any way of knowing they were talking about him. He still had a chance to keep one step ahead of the law, as long as he could spin a feasible story.
Yet somehow his brain couldn’t produce an available lie. He’d spent so many days watching her from a distance that her proximity was muddling his reason.
Fugitive Hearts Page 7