help Frank with the new garage. We’ll drive up Friday. If we get the early ferry, we should be there just after lunch.”
Four days. Hannah tried to run her hand through her hair. It stuck in the knots, and she winced at the sharp pain the movement delivered to her ribs. She had just four days to sort things out.
When Rex opened the door, she was lying back on the white pillows, claimed once again by the healing hands of sleep. A tumble of knotted gold fell about her shoulders. She looked so pale, so fragile in his bulky sweats. There were bruised purple smudges under her eyes, her lips were dry and cracked.
He felt the rage simmer again as he looked upon her. He clenched his fists. He had a violent urge to avenge this act. He wanted to hurt whoever did this to her. He filled his lungs slowly, taking back control. Allowing emotions like that to fester only clouded judgment. Then you made mistakes.
He walked over to her bedside and pulled a comforter over her. And he bent, brushing her cool forehead with his lips.
Pensive, Rex walked over to the French doors, fingering the book of matches in his pocket. He looked out at the slopes, the sleeping snow guns. He knew that in another month or two, when the temperatures dipped to freezing in the valley, those guns would fire up, suck water from the river and blow a fine haze of sharp white crystals into the sky. They would fall onto the slopes, man-made snow helping nature along in the rush to dress the slopes for winter.
He wondered about Hannah. He knew the intimate corners of her body but he knew so little about her, really. Why had she come here to White River? Why had she quit the job she was so passionate about? Did she ski? What did she look like with a veil of fine white crystals, sitting like little diamonds in the gold of her hair? The image swam into his brain—Hannah, like a snow bride. He crushed it. The mere concept was outrageous. Where in hell had that come from? He had to get this job done and get the hell out of this place.
The matches. He pulled the book out and read the hotel name again, Fireside Lodge. Rex had found the book of matches on the loamy soil where Hannah had been pulled from the river. He had checked while she slept. CIA agent Ken Mitchell, under the alias Mark Bamfield, was registered as a guest at the Fireside Lodge.
The woman was still alive. It could end up costing them everything. He gingerly fingered the fresh suture along the top of his cheekbone. The local was starting to wear off, his cheek starting to throb. They were both in the way, Logan and McGuire. That had to be rectified before the conference.
He gently massaged his leg, wincing at the pain radiating out from his knee. They had until Friday—only four days. That was when the buyers would start to arrive.
Chapter 7
H annah was sleeping. Rex wasn’t. Couldn’t. He’d tried, lying there in the next room with the connecting door open, listening to the soft rhythm of her breathing.
It hadn’t worked.
He’d come, instead, to look for Mitchell at the Fireside Lodge after bribing the front desk clerk at the White River Presidential to call him on his cell should anyone come looking for him or a Hannah McGuire.
Rex shifted slightly in the brown leather chair. It was almost midnight and still no sign of Mitchell.
He had intended to surprise the CIA agent in his hotel room while he slept. Picking the lock was a cinch, but the room was empty. Nothing in it to give him away, either. All Rex found was a scrap of paper with Hannah’s address scribbled in pencil. Under it was the name Grady Fisher and another White River address. Who was Grady Fisher and how was he connected? That would be the next step. Find Fisher.
The flames in the monstrous circular stone fireplace crackled in spite of the fact it was late August. The nights in these mountains were cool and the flames friendly, especially at this hour. The fireplace dominated the lobby. Rex had chosen his seat for its
Four days. Hannah tried to run her hand through her hair. It stuck in the knots, and she winced at the sharp pain the movement delivered to her ribs. She had just four days to sort things out.
When Rex opened the door, she was lying back on the white pillows, claimed once again by the healing hands of sleep. A tumble of knotted gold fell about her shoulders. She looked so pale, so fragile in his bulky sweats. There were bruised purple smudges under her eyes, her lips were dry and cracked.
He felt the rage simmer again as he looked upon her. He clenched his fists. He had a violent urge to avenge this act. He wanted to hurt whoever did this to her. He filled his lungs slowly, taking back control. Allowing emotions like that to fester only clouded judgment. Then you made mistakes.
He walked over to her bedside and pulled a comforter over her. And he bent, brushing her cool forehead with his lips.
Pensive, Rex walked over to the French doors, fingering the book of matches in his pocket. He looked out at the slopes, the sleeping snow guns. He knew that in another month or two, when the temperatures dipped to freezing in the valley, those guns would fire up, suck water from the river and blow a fine haze of sharp white crystals into the sky. They would fall onto the slopes, man-made snow helping nature along in the rush to dress the slopes for winter.
He wondered about Hannah. He knew the intimate corners of her body but he knew so little about her, really. Why had she come here to White River? Why had she quit the job she was so passionate about? Did she ski? What did she look like with a veil of fine white crystals, sitting like little diamonds in the gold of her hair? The image swam into his brain—Hannah, like a snow bride. He crushed it. The mere concept was outrageous. Where in hell had that come from? He had to get this job done and get the hell out of this place.
The matches. He pulled the book out and read the hotel name again, Fireside Lodge. Rex had found the book of matches on the loamy soil where Hannah had been pulled from the river. He had checked while she slept. CIA agent Ken Mitchell, under the alias Mark Bamfield, was registered as a guest at the Fireside Lodge.
The woman was still alive. It could end up costing them everything. He gingerly fingered the fresh suture along the top of his cheekbone. The local was starting to wear off, his cheek starting to throb. They were both in the way, Logan and McGuire. That had to be rectified before the conference.
He gently massaged his leg, wincing at the pain radiating out from his knee. They had until Friday—only four days. That was when the buyers would start to arrive.
Chapter 7
H annah was sleeping. Rex wasn’t. Couldn’t. He’d tried, lying there in the next room with the connecting door open, listening to the soft rhythm of her breathing.
It hadn’t worked.
He’d come, instead, to look for Mitchell at the Fireside Lodge after bribing the front desk clerk at the White River Presidential to call him on his cell should anyone come looking for him or a Hannah McGuire.
Rex shifted slightly in the brown leather chair. It was almost midnight and still no sign of Mitchell.
He had intended to surprise the CIA agent in his hotel room while he slept. Picking the lock was a cinch, but the room was empty. Nothing in it to give him away, either. All Rex found was a scrap of paper with Hannah’s address scribbled in pencil. Under it was the name Grady Fisher and another White River address. Who was Grady Fisher and how was he connected? That would be the next step. Find Fisher.
The flames in the monstrous circular stone fireplace crackled in spite of the fact it was late August. The nights in these mountains were cool and the flames friendly, especially at this hour. The fireplace dominated the lobby. Rex had chosen his seat for its
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