Primary Suspect. Susan Peterson

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СКАЧАТЬ She ignored the pain and the voice that warned her to go back for her mittens. She needed to check on the skier.

      Across the road, the skier climbed to his feet and leaned over to brush the snow off his pants with brisk, efficient sweeps of his gloved hands. A sense of relief flooded her. He didn’t look injured. He moved with the fluid motion of a natural athlete.

      Kylie gingerly trekked across the slippery road, watching as the man bent down to examine the broken section of his ski. It had snapped directly behind the binding. He wouldn’t be using that particular pair of skis anytime soon. She hoped she had enough money in her bank account to replace them.

      He straightened up and a pair startling blue eyes, direct and unflinching, focused on her.

      Kylie’s heart sank. There was no missing the smear of blood seeping from a jagged cut on his left cheek. The fall had injured him. Not only was she going to have to pay for his skis, but she was also going to be paying medical bills.

      He reached up and pulled off his ski hat. “Are you nuts?” he shouted over the howling wind. “Where the hell was the fire?”

      The force of his anger made Kylie’s stomach tighten. The man was royally ticked. Not that she blamed him. She’d almost killed the guy.

      “I’m sorry,” she said, skidding to a stop next to him. “It was totally my fault. I didn’t see you until it was too late.”

      “Nothing like stating the obvious.” Sarcasm dripped from every word.

      “I didn’t think anyone would be out on a night like this.”

      He lifted a ski pole to point to a sign. “Are you blind? Didn’t you see the signs warning you that there was a ski crossing up ahead? You’re supposed to slow down when going through this section of the road.”

      Confused, Kylie glanced at the sign. It did indeed warn drivers of a Ski Xing. She’d forgotten about the trail, failed to see the signs as she focused on trying to keep the car on the road. How could she have missed them?

      “Look, I’m really sorry. I—I take complete responsibility.”

      “Sorry doesn’t cut it, lady.”

      “It—it was an accident. I was concentrating on getting around the curve.”

      “You were going entirely too fast for the road conditions.”

      She shifted uncomfortably. Okay, she was willing to admit she’d been going too fast. But what the hell was he thinking skiing at night, dressed all in black and during a freakin’ blizzard?

      She bit back the rush of words that threatened to spill out. Deep breath. No need to make matters worse. If there was one thing Kylie knew she was good at, it was taking the blame and smoothing things over in tense situations. She was a master at it.

      “Are you sure you’re all right?” She pointed to his cheek. “It looks as though you cut yourself pretty badly. You might need stitches.”

      He reached up and casually brushed aside the trickle of blood seeping down his lean cheek. “It’s a scratch. I’m fine.”

      He bent down and unclasped the toe binding of his other ski, the close-fitting cling of his nylon ski pants stretching nicely over his muscular form. Kylie worked to keep her gaze off his physique and on his face. Now was definitely not the time to be lurking on some hot guy’s body. Not after she’d almost turned him into roadkill.

      “My skis are shot. You’ll have to give me a lift back to the lodge.”

      Kylie nodded and rushed over to help him, slipping and almost colliding with him. He reached out and grabbed her elbow, effortlessly keeping her from taking a tumble. She could feel the heat and strength of his grip sink down through the thick lining of her coat and singe her raw nerve endings.

      “Sorry, it’s more slippery than I thought.”

      “All the more reason not to barrel down a road with little regard for what might be around the next curve.”

      His tone was clipped, impatient. He was not in a forgiving mood. The possibility of a lawsuit loomed in the back of Kylie’s mind.

      Lord, could her luck get any worse? She considered sitting down in the middle of the road and crying. With a whopping tuition bill due in January, she was fairly certain things couldn’t get much bleaker.

      But she quickly brushed aside the thought. She was made of tougher stuff than that. She could handle this.

      Clenching her fists, she studied the man’s face. He looked familiar. Something about the classic lines of his angular face, the strong Roman nose and dark eyebrows over bluish-gray eyes, struck a cord in her. She knew him from somewhere, but for the life of her she couldn’t place him.

      She stuck out a hand. “I’m Kylie McKee.”

      He ignored her hand and swung his skis over one broad shoulder. “Michael Emerson.”

      Damn! Of course, she knew him. How could she have not realized? He wasn’t just Michael Emerson, he was Michael Thomas Emerson, III. His ancestors were founding members of Cloudspin Lodge.

      In fact, if memory served her right, he was the current president of the lodge’s board of directors. She choked back her dismay.

      She could only hope he hadn’t recognized her name or remembered that he actually knew her. If he did remember, Kylie knew that meant she’d have to deal with the memory of their last meeting—the night things had gone horribly wrong. The night her life had changed forever.

      His life, too, no doubt.

      As if on cue a frown popped up between his brows. “McKee? You wouldn’t by any chance be related to Daniel McKee, would you? His daughter perhaps?”

      Kylie nodded, resigning herself to the inevitable. But instead of questions, the fierceness in his eyes softened just a tad. “I was sorry to hear about your father’s passing.”

      “Thank you.”

      “He’ll be missed. He was a good man.”

      Sadness clouded Kylie’s throat, preventing her from speaking. She managed a small nod.

      “You’ve changed some since I saw you last.”

      She nodded again but kept silent.

      What was one supposed to say to a comment like that? Of course she had changed. She’d been thirteen the last time she’d seen Michael Emerson. Thirteen and banished to a private school at her father’s insistence. It had been a well-meaning attempt on her father’s part to get her away from the lodge and the influence of its wealthy patrons and their out-of-control offspring.

      Her father had always believed that the guests at Cloudspin were morally corrupt, people who had more money and time than they knew what to do with. How many times had he lectured her over dinner about idle hands are the Devil’s tool. And in the end, her father had been proven right. There was no getting around the fact that Andrea Greenley’s death had proved that.

      In any case, her father’s decision to send her away СКАЧАТЬ