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  Even if based on her past history she highly doubted it.

  Even if before this her sexual experiences had never even come close to what they’d shared last night.

  Even if she felt repelled by the mere thought of being with anyone but John.

  She shook off her misgivings, reminding herself that the only thing that was one-hundred-percent certain was she couldn’t stay here. Because if it was hard to leave him after just one night, what would it be like after two, three or four? If she felt this sort of connection to him in the wake of a few hours spent sharing the sheets, how would it feel to get acquainted to the point where they actually made love?

  It didn’t bear thinking about it.

  So she wouldn’t. That at least—refusing to dwell on what was beyond her reach and getting on with her life because she had no other choice—was something with which she had experience.

  She forced open her eyes, then blinked as she saw with more than a little fascination that the part of Taggart that had initially inspired her soul-searching was now more impressive than it had been before.

  Her pulse quickened. Easing her head back, she shifted her focus to his face—and found herself staring straight into his limpid, jade-colored eyes. To her surprised relief, they were still clouded with sleep.

  She took the opportunity to study their owner. Without his usual guarded expression, he looked younger, she decided. Younger, more approachable—but not a jot less masculine. From his rumpled hair to the beard shadowing his cheeks to the hard play of muscle that flexed with his every breath, he was the embodiment of all things male. Just looking at him made her feel quivery inside. “Hey,” she said softly.

  His heavy-lidded gaze flicked from her eyes to her mouth, lingered for the space of a heartbeat, then came back up. “Hey yourself.”

  His voice was morning-husky and tickled deliciously along her nerve endings. With a little jolt, she realized she no longer felt any fear when she looked at him. Oh, he was still a formidable opponent, and the knowledge that he was the one who’d be after her in the near future was scary without a doubt.

  But when it came to the man himself…He’d more than watched out for her in the past hours, displaying a gruff gentleness, a near-tenderness, that was a direct contradiction to his tough outer shell.

  Even though she knew she shouldn’t, she surrendered to temptation. She leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his hot skin, slowly stringing kisses from his collarbone to feast on the pulse of his smooth, strong throat.

  His skin smelled faintly musky and made her senses swim. By the time she finally lifted her head, she realized with a mixture of amusement and despair that her hands were shaking.

  Good job, Genevieve. Why don’t you make this even harder by torturing yourself with fresh reminders of what you’re about to walk away from?

  She blew out a breath, trying to resurrect her composure, then blew it out again in a little gasp as Taggart cupped the back of her head. “John—”

  In one fluid movement he slid lower and silenced her by closing his mouth over hers.

  She told herself it was just a kiss. Men and women all over the world kissed every day. Lips met and clung. Teeth nipped plump flesh, mouths parted, tongues tangled lazily, then thrust and retreated, kindling inner fires and evoking images of another type of invasion….

  Her body flushed as want became need, making her ache for his possession. She tore her mouth away from his. “No. Don’t. We can’t.”

  He jerked back. “What’s the matter?”

  Her heart stuttered and her courage faltered as she saw the very real concern on his face. In that moment she wanted nothing more than to turn back the clock, resume their embrace, follow it to its natural conclusion. “I…That is—” She swallowed. “How’s your head?” What on earth was she doing? Could she possibly make a worse hash of this?

  He now appeared not simply wide awake, but unmistakably wary, as well. “It’s okay.”

  “Good. That’s good.”

  “It is, huh?” His eyes narrowed and every vestige of warmth slowly drained from his face. “Maybe you better tell me what’s going on.”

  Clutching the sheet to her breasts like a shield, she shifted away from him and sat up, hating that she was about to end their fragile truce and make him angry.

  She forced herself to meet his gaze squarely anyway. “Under the circumstances, it wouldn’t be right for me—for us—I just can’t take advantage of you this way. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  His eyebrows winged up and something—disbelief, dismay?—flashed across his face, then was gone behind that controlled facade. He sat up, dragging the chain with him, and for a second his attention fixed on something beyond her before once more settling over her like an enfolding cloak.

  He propped himself against the headboard and considered her, seemingly unaffected by both the cold and his own nudity. “Define circumstances,” he said finally, after what felt like an eternity.

  “Well…you’re my prisoner.” She made no attempt to evade him as he reached out with his free hand and skimmed his fingers down her arm. “You need to know, you have the right to know—” surely her next words would set him off “—that since you’re so clearly okay, I plan to leave. Today.” While I still can.

  “Huh.” Measuring his words, he slowly stroked his thumb over the pulse now pounding in her wrist. “And that’s why we’re sitting here talking instead of—”

  “Yes.” Perplexed and more than a little unnerved by his reaction—or lack of one—she fought to keep her voice steady. “I’m leaving, John. And nothing you say or do is going to stop me.” She flicked her gaze to the warm weight of his hand, then back to his face and lifted her chin. “I mean, obviously you can delay me for a while but you can’t keep me by your side indefinitely. Sooner or later you’re going to get hungry or sleepy or have to answer the call of nature and that’ll be the end of it.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. I wish—” She started to say she wished she could stay, then caught herself. Not only wasn’t it strictly true, but it wouldn’t change anything and he probably wouldn’t believe her anyway. “Well, never mind that. No matter what I wish, I have to do what’s best for Seth.”

  “And you actually believe defying the court, taking the law into your own hands, is it?”

  “Yes. No.” She raked a hand through her hair. “I don’t know. But until something changes or I come up with a better solution, it’s all I have.”

  Again, for a moment that stretched interminably, he simply stared at her. Finally, he gave a slight shrug. “Yeah, well, then I don’t imagine you’re going to like what I’m about to say. Because you’re not going anywhere, Genevieve. Not today. Probably not tomorrow. Maybe not even the day after that.”

  Her stomach hollowed. Not certain if it was because he was finally being unreasonable after she’d done her best to be honest—or the deplorable flutter of excitement she felt at the idea of being trapped in bed with him a little while longer—she did her best to ignore it. “Who’s going to stop me, John? You?”

  Again he glanced toward the far side the room, then deliberately released his hold on her and folded his arms behind his neck, ignoring the heavy chain as if it weighed nothing. “Nope.” He inclined his head. “That.”

  Exasperated, she twisted around—and felt her stomach plummet.

  Because beyond the windows, the world had been transformed into a sea of white. Snow fell in swirling, relentless sheets that choked the air, reducing visibility to zero as it blanketed everything in sight.

  And try as she might, Genevieve couldn’t see a single sign that it might let up anytime soon.

  Seven

  “S o how come this place doesn’t have a woodstove?”

  Seated at the kitchen table, Genevieve gave a start of surprise. Except for a few unavoidable utterances of “yes,” “no” and “thanks,” it was the first time Taggart had spoken to her since she’d climbed out of bed, dra
gged on her sleep shirt and trudged to the windows to stare forlornly out at the snow more than nine hours ago.

  In the interim, they’d both washed and dressed, shared a trio of meals and not much else.

  Deliberately rattling the chain that still tethered him, he’d made the bed, brooded, exercised, stared at the ceiling, paced, brooded some more.

  She’d reorganized the kitchen, hauled firewood, read an entire mystery cover to cover, hauled more wood and wondered how long it would be before the power, which had begun to flicker at midmorning, went out for good.

  She’d gotten the answer an hour after dusk, she thought, glancing at the oil lamp providing her with light, one of three currently staving off the darkness. At least they had plenty of kerosene, a generous supply of food and enough heat from the fireplace to keep them alive, if not exactly toasty.

  “There used to be a stove,” she told him. “When my uncle was alive.” Frowning in concentration at the piece of paper before her, she tucked one side of the blanket covering her legs a little tighter.

  “So what happened?”

  She felt the weight of his gaze like a touch. Reluctantly, she stilled her pen and glanced over at him.

  And wished instantly she hadn’t.

  Half an hour earlier he’d embarked on his second exercise routine of the day, doing several hundred each of sit-ups, push-ups, ab crunches and the like at a bruising pace. One that would have put her in the hospital for sure, but had left him barely winded.

  Now he sat sprawled on the floor, stripped down to his jeans, back propped against the bed, one long leg cocked. The ends of his cropped, inky hair were damp from exertion, the perfect frame for his compelling face with its straight nose, strong cheekbones and hard mouth. Sweat sheened his shoulders as well, gleamed on the hard planes of his chest and the sinewy ripples of his abdomen, while the lamplight tinted his skin to toasted gold.

  Need punched low and deep, making her breath catch and squeeze in her lungs. Appalled, annoyed, she sat up a little straighter in the chair. What was it about him that stripped away her usual defenses? What dark magic did he possess that made her burn to scrub her palms against the muscle bulging in his arms, to rub her cheek against his chest, to sample the salt on his skin with her tongue?

  She didn’t have a clue, so she jerked her gaze away, returning it to the papers spread out on the tabletop.

  “After my uncle died—” come on, come on, get a grip “—this place became a summer vacation rental. Apparently fireplaces are sexy and woodstoves aren’t, and the agency that manages things didn’t feel there was room for both. Luckily they allowed for a heat insert along with the glass doors; otherwise we’d be freezing our fannies off for sure.”

  “Huh.”

  She held her breath. When he didn’t say anything more, she relaxed just a fraction and picked up her pen, hoping he couldn’t see the tremor shaking her fingers, praying he’d leave her in peace.

  “What are you writing, anyway?”

  Darn it. For a man who hadn’t shown an inclination toward conversation for most of time that she’d known him, he was certainly chatty all of a sudden. Maybe if she pretended to be too absorbed to hear him—

  “A book? Your memoirs? Genevieve’s Life on the Run?”

  Her mouth tightened. “A letter.”

  “To your brother?”

  “No. A detective agency. In Denver.”

  “Why?”

  “Because eventually somebody is actually going to listen to me and take a hard look at Seth’s case.”

  He was silent just long enough for her to start to hope he’d taken the hint. And then—

  “So you’re…what? Contacting private investigators, asking them to take up your case?” His voice held a hint of incredulity he made no attempt to camouflage.

  It was like a sharp jab at a raw wound. Her head came up. “I’m writing everybody. I have been for months. Police. Politicians. Attorneys. I’d write Oprah herself if I thought she could help.”

  “Is that what you meant this morning about waiting for something to change before you’ll consider turning yourself in?”

  She nodded. Although she didn’t recall saying the words, she’d said a number of things earlier that day she hadn’t exactly planned. “Yes. I suppose it is.”

  He pursed his lips. “And if someone does take that hard look?”

  “Then they’ll have to at least consider what I already know. That Seth’s telling the truth. He isn’t the one who killed Jimmy.”

  He started to shake his head. “Damn it, Genevieve—”

  “Don’t,” she said sharply, coming to her feet. She was tired, cold and off balance from what they’d shared. Not to mention overwhelmed by her own unfamiliar emotions, and in no mood to be lectured, particularly by him. “You don’t know anything about it.”

  He surged upright as well. “I know enough to be damn skeptical about your brother’s version of events. He had means, motive and opportunity, and there’s nothing in the police report to support his claim that he saw a stranger fleeing the scene. Which, just so we’re clear, is a really lame defense, as anybody who’s ever seen The Fugitive knows.”

  Ignoring the gibe, she stared at him in surprise. “You read the police report?”

  “I do my homework. When it comes to finding people, Steele Security has a firm policy about not taking on ambiguous cases. We do the best we can to make sure we’re not tracking down innocents and returning them to the bad guys.”

  “If you read the police report,” she persisted, kicking the blanket out of her way as she came around the table to meet him face-to-face, “you know the gun was Jimmy’s, not Seth’s.”

  “So? Your brother knew where it was kept, had easy access and out of the three people at the scene—you, him and the victim—he was the only one with powder residue on his hands.”

  “That’s because he took a shot at the real killer—”

  “Yeah, right. Come on, Genevieve, you’re smarter than that. Forget the one-armed man and focus on the gun. For your brother’s version of events to work, James Dunn would’ve had to bring it with him to your house and conveniently surprise an intruder who felt compelled to confront him, wrest away the gun and shoot to kill. It makes no sense. There’s no gain, no motive and absolutely no evidence—not a hair, not a single fingerprint—to support it.

  “Seth, on the other hand, had a damn good reason for what he did. The money from Dunn’s life insurance was just enough to save his precious ski shop. But he had to move fast since Dunn had come back from vacation with the news he’d met someone and they were getting married. Soon. At which time he no doubt intended to change his will and everything else, making his new wife his beneficiary.”

  “Are you finished?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  Words crowded her mouth, clamoring to be given a voice. She had at least a dozen things she wanted to say, a dozen facts she wanted to share, a dozen arguments she could make as to why he was wrong.

  Yet staring at him, taking in the stubborn set of his jaw, she realized she didn’t think she could stand it if he refused to listen. The only thing that would be worse was if he did agree to hear her out and then, like everyone else, flatly rejected the possibility that Seth might be innocent.

  It would be a major blow. More, she thought, than she could handle.

  She tried to tell herself she was being dramatic. That it was her exhaustion speaking, that she was having some sort of unprecedented overreaction to the events of the past forty-eight hours.

  Yet she still couldn’t risk it. At this moment in time, defying logic, defeating common sense, he mattered to her, and that was all there was to it.

  “Well that makes two of us.” Coming to a sudden decision, she turned on her heel, marched into the kitchen and blew out the lantern glowing on the counter. Swiveling, she backtracked to the table, jammed her nearly finished letter into the correspondence folder and snatched up the blanket.

  “Wha
t the hell are you doing?”

  “Going to bed.”

  “Now? We’re not done—”

  “I am. It’s been a long day and I’m tired. I don’t want to deal with this—” with you “—now.” Her movements stiff with suppressed emotion, she leaned forward to snuff out the second lamp.

  “Just leave it, all right?” Taggart said sharply.

  Surprised at the vehemence in his voice, she jerked away. “Sure. Whatever.” Unable to help herself, she turned to look at him, but his expression was closed, his gaze shuttered.

  And just like that, the memory of how safe she’d felt in his arms the previous night came rushing back. Before she could get a grip, her lips trembled.

  His mouth tightened. “Damn it, Genevieve—”

  “Let it go, John. Please.” Walking to the couch, she quickly peeled off her jeans and one of the two sweaters she had on over a thermal shirt. Then she extinguished the lantern on the end table, climbed into her sleeping bag and dragged it and the blanket up to her ears. “Just…let it go.”

  Closing her eyes, she curled up and prayed for the oblivion of sleep.

  Taggart stared at the shadows cast by the glow of the lamplight as they danced gently on the ceiling above his head.

  Outside, the wind still surged and gusted, but it had settled down from a constant howl to a whispered growl. Inside there was only silence, except for the occasional crackle of the fire and the soft ebb and flow of Genevieve’s breathing.

  Taggart’s mind, however, was anything but quiet.

  Thoughts clashed and emotions rumbled, twisting, tangling and battling for recognition as he tried to sort out what it was he was feeling. Yet when he boiled everything down to the basic facts, he found himself pretty much where he’d been for most of the day.

  Genevieve found him sexually appealing. That he at least understood, since he felt the same for her.

  It was the rest of it that kept hanging him up.

  She believed he had “rights” that obliged her to be honest. She worried about being fair to him. She’d even insisted on forgoing pleasure because—he blew out a pent-up breath—she didn’t want to take advantage of him.