Fugitive Hearts. Ingrid Weaver

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СКАЧАТЬ to waste time searching for tools, so he took a butcher knife from the cutlery drawer, pried open the back of the kitchen radio and disabled it.

      A check of the phone revealed there was still no dial tone. He couldn’t gamble on the lines remaining down for much longer. He improved his odds by severing the input wire from the receiver, a sloppy but effective way to ensure it would remain out of order. He hesitated over the CD player, not wanting to do more damage to Dana’s property than he needed to. In the end he merely cut the connection to the antenna—he knew without that, the set wouldn’t be able to pick up a signal this far north.

      A door creaked open behind him. “Oh! I didn’t expect to see you awake already.”

      Remy straightened up from the CD player and turned around, using his motion to conceal the knife behind his back.

      Dana stood in the doorway of her bedroom, her arms filled with a stack of loose papers and what appeared to be a large sketchbook. A bulky sweater came to the top of her thighs, obscuring much of her figure, but the black leggings she wore revealed long, slender legs. And despite himself, Remy felt his pulse move into a slow, steady throb.

      He must have been in worse shape last night than he had thought. When he had looked at Dana then, he had only seen a threat. Now he was aware of much, much more.

      Her hair wasn’t merely blond. It was warm gold, somewhere between the color of wheat in August and aspen leaves in October. It tumbled around her face to brush her shoulders in sensuous waves. Her eyes weren’t merely blue. They were pure cerulean and stunning enough to steal his breath.

      And somehow, she looked familiar. He had the feeling he had seen her face before…

      No, that wasn’t possible. If he’d met her, he would have remembered. Any man would.

      What had happened to Dana Whittington? Why would a beautiful woman with such a gentle touch choose to live by herself up here in the middle of nowhere?

      Not that it should matter to him, he reminded himself. How she looked, who she was, made no difference. One more day, that’s all he wanted. By then he should be able to move on. “Good morning,” he said finally.

      “How are you feeling, John?” she asked.

      “Better, thanks.”

      “I can see that,” she said, placing the papers and sketchbook on the drafting table. “I’m so glad.”

      She wasn’t lying, he realized. She really was pleased that he was recovering.

      No, she was pleased that John Becker with the fancy coat and the fat appointment book was recovering. Remy tightened his grip on the butcher knife. “I didn’t get the chance to thank you last night,” he said, taking a step backward. He had to find someplace to ditch this knife before she saw it—things would be far easier if he could avoid a confrontation.

      “No thanks are necessary, John. Up here, everyone looks out for their neighbors.”

      God, he hoped not. That’s all he needed, some nosy neighbor showing up to check on her. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Dana. I’ll be gone as soon as—” His words ended on a sharp curse. Instead of the hardwood floor, his foot came down on something soft. There was a sudden, high-pitched screech.

      Damn! He’d forgotten about that cat. It had been following him around since he’d gotten up.

      “Morty!” Dana cried, racing forward in a futile attempt to reach her pet.

      Remy shifted quickly to avoid bringing his full weight down on the cat. Morty streaked away unharmed in a blur of orange while Remy staggered sideways, off balance and unable to catch himself without revealing the knife.

      “Oh, no!” Dana exclaimed. She was by his side in an instant, sliding her arm around his waist and propping her shoulder under his arm. It was a position that was becoming much too familiar…and more comfortable than he would have liked.

      She still smelled like lilies, he thought, feeling her hair brush his cheek. And she had a surprising amount of strength in her slender frame. He deliberately swayed against her as she helped him over to the couch. Allowing her to believe he was worse off than he actually was might help to lower her guard, and that could prove to be an advantage. He collapsed onto the cushions more heavily than necessary.

      Her cheeks pinkened with her efforts as she disentangled herself from him and straightened up. A memory from the night before flashed into his mind. She had flushed like that when they had tumbled onto the couch together and she had ended up sprawled over his bare chest.

      Was she blushing because of him? How long had it been since he’d known any woman who was innocent enough to blush? “Sorry,” he murmured. “I’m not usually this clumsy.”

      “You need to take it easy. You probably shouldn’t be up yet.”

      “No, I’m okay.”

      “I wish I could talk to a doctor. I’ll try phoning—”

      “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 СКАЧАТЬ