Fugitive Hearts. Ingrid WeaverЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 at a closed resort in the winter flipping out and using an ax? That character’s name was John, too, wasn’t it? But that man had been the caretaker, not an unexpected guest, right? Maybe this weather was going to make her flip out.
The kettle whistled beside her. Dana jumped, then shook her hair back from her face and forced herself to laugh. She was letting her imagination get the better of her, that’s all. So what if both the telephone and the radio were out? Being cut off from civilization had never bothered her before. That’s why she had come here, wasn’t it?
Of course, she hadn’t planned on having company. Especially someone who looked like John Becker.
On the other hand he didn’t really look like a John Becker. He looked more like a Tex or a Rocko or maybe even a dark-haired, brown-eyed Sundance Kid….
“Idiot,” she muttered to herself. She measured out the tea and poured the boiling water into the pot. So far today John had been a quiet and unobtrusive guest. He hadn’t made one move that could be interpreted as remotely threatening. She should stop obsessing over his appearance. He hadn’t been able to shave, so he couldn’t help it that the black beard stubble only made him look harder, almost…dangerous. He was frustrated over being stuck here by the storm, so it was only natural that there would be a troubled—at times desperate—gleam in his gaze.
And there was nothing suspicious about the way he was spending so much time dozing on the couch. He had been through a terrible ordeal—it was a miracle he hadn’t lost any fingers or toes to frostbite. He needed rest to allow his body to recover. It was unkind of her to suspect that he was faking the extent of his weakness to avoid conversation. Just because he looked powerful didn’t mean that he was. Not at the moment, anyway.
She was simply too accustomed to being alone. Maybe that’s why she was feeling this constant awareness of his presence.
Or maybe the awareness was due to the fact that she had seen him without his clothes.
Dana pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and stifled a groan. There was no denying he was a good-looking man. All that luscious dark hair, that bad-boy mustache, those chiseled features and that magnificent, powerful body….
Talk about a distraction. She hadn’t gotten more than twenty minutes work done all day.
How could she be leery of him one minute and fascinated by him the next? This wasn’t like her. It must be due to the isolation or the low barometric pressure in the weather system or maybe the phase of the moon. Right. She simply had to get ahold of herself. This would all be over in a few hours, or another day at the most.
Then everything would get back to normal. She would send the latest stray she had acquired on his way and she would be alone again, just the way she wanted.
He was awake when she returned to the main room. Firelight danced over the harsh planes of his face as he stared at the flames on the hearth. As usual, Morty was ensconced on his lap, purring like a train as John’s long fingers moved lightly over the cat’s fur.
“He seems to have adopted you,” she said, carrying her mug of tea to her drafting table. “Do you have a cat?”
John turned his head to look at her. “No.”
She noticed that the troubled gleam was back in his eyes. Well, why shouldn’t he be troubled? Anyone in his situation would be. “You must like animals, though. Morty doesn’t normally take to strangers.”
John stroked behind Morty’s ears. The cat closed his eyes and drew his head back into his neck in bliss. “Yeah, I like animals,” John murmured.
“Then you probably have some kind of pet at home, right?”
His fingers stilled. A closed look came over his face. “The place I’ve been staying doesn’t allow pets.”
“That’s a shame. I’m lucky my landlord doesn’t mind Morty. He’s such terrific company.”
“With all the wildlife in the area, I wouldn’t have thought the resort owner would kick up a fuss over one cat.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean here at Half Moon. I meant my apartment in the city.”
“I see.”
“You live in Toronto, too, right? In the Beaches?”
“Yes,” he answered.
“Your address was written under your name in your day planner,” she explained, even though he hadn’t asked.
“Uh-huh.”
As conversations went, it wasn’t exactly sparkling, but it was better than silence for keeping her imagination under control. She plunged ahead. “The Beaches is a lovely neighborhood. Have you been there long?”
“No.” He frowned. “If you have an apartment in Toronto, what are you doing up here? The place looks closed for the winter.”
“It is. I needed somewhere quiet to work, so I convinced Derek to let me stay here at the resort as the caretaker. With no TV or newspaper delivery or Internet hookup to distract me, this cabin is perfect.”
“Derek?”
“My cousin, Derek Johansen. He took over Half Moon Bay when my uncle passed away two years ago, and he hasn’t had any time off until now. Considering the weather, he sure picked the right month to visit his mother in Florida.”
“This