The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa JacksonЧитать онлайн книгу.
off the exposed beams of the high ceiling overhead. Her pulse raced as if she’d just finished a biathlon.
She swallowed back her fear, her mind racing.
From the next room, she heard the scrape of wood—a chair leg against the stone floor?
Her heart nearly stopped.
She saw a shadow in the space beneath the doorway, a quick movement as someone passed between a light source and the threshold.
Oh God, was he coming into the room?
You have no reason to distrust him. He saved you from certain death, didn’t he?
Yeah, but he didn’t get me to a hospital, or call the police or fire rescue. He brought me, unconscious, here. Alone. And I’m damned helpless.
For the time being all she could do was feign sleep and try to figure out if she should trust him.
Or if she shouldn’t.
She didn’t move a muscle as the door creaked open. Though her eyes were closed, she felt him walk into the room, come close to the bed and stare down at her.
Take even, slow breaths.
Relax your muscles.
Don’t clench your fist.
You can move…people move in their sleep…just don’t overdo it.
He seemed to stand over her for hours, when, in reality, it was probably less than two minutes. She kept her eyes shut, not risking a peek beneath her lashes.
Eventually he moved on, his footsteps fading, and then she heard the door of her room’s woodstove rattle and open. She imagined that he was picking up short chunks of wood and stuffing them into the fire.
She couldn’t resist, inching her eyelids up just a fraction.
It was shadowy in the room, and as he kneeled in front of the fire, his body was in silhouette. She couldn’t see much, just got impressions, but yes, he was definitely male. Wide shoulders in some kind of dark sweater, hair that was either dark as coffee or black, enough to curl slightly over the turtleneck and dark pants.
The fire crackled loudly, hungrily devouring the new fuel, flaring behind him as he turned to one side, his face in quick profile as he reached for another length of wood. She caught a razor-sharp image of a strong jaw, long nose, deep-set eyes and thick eyebrows before she let her lids close completely.
She heard him stuff the chunk of mossy oak into the firebox and she hazarded another look, seeing that his sweater had ridden up above the waistline of his pants. No thermal undershirt was visible, just a crescent-shaped slice of firm flesh, taut skin over hard back muscles, as if he worked out all the time.
“Like what you see?” he asked, not turning around, his voice nearly echoing in the room.
She almost started. Oh damn! She let her eyes close and didn’t move.
“I could say something like, ‘Why don’t you take a picture? It’ll last longer.’ But that seems a little sophomoric, don’t you think?”
She didn’t respond, but heard him brush his hands together, as if ridding them of wood dust or slivers. He was probably getting to his feet again.
He walked closer to the bed.
God help me.
“I know you’re awake.” He was standing over her again and she felt his gaze rake over her, studying her. “Jillian?” he said a little more softly and she died a thousand deaths. He knew who she was. Of course he did. He had all of her belongings—her purse, her laptop, her cell phone, probably the registration of the car.
With all the restraint she could muster, she attempted to remain impassive, no twitch of nervous muscles showing, no signs of tension in her relaxed body.
“Jillian? Hey.” He touched her then, warm fingers resting on her shoulder.
She wanted to scream.
“We need to talk. You and I, we’re stuck here for a while, at least until the storm passes, and I need to know that you’re all right. You need to eat and drink…. Jillian? Can you hear me?”
She kept slowly breathing.
“I know you can hear me, and to prove it, I could tickle the bottoms of your feet.”
Dear God, no! He wouldn’t! She was so sensitive to tickling. Maybe he was one of those fetish freaks. Weren’t a lot of serial killers into all kinds of weird, macabre collections or rituals?
She tried to be rational. After all, he’d done nothing but be kind to her.
So far.
“Jillian, please. We don’t have time for games. If I’m going to get you out of here, I’m going to need your help.”
If?
Jillian’s heart went into overdrive at the many connotations of that one little word. Oh Lord, her pulse was beating so wildly he could probably see it. What did he mean by if? Not if, but when. When he was going to get her out of here. Surely that’s what he meant.
“So you might want to quit playin’ possum.” He took his hand away, and she wanted to let out a long, relieved sigh, but didn’t.
She knew he was just looking for a reaction, some indication that she could hear him.
“You know, Jillian—”
Jillian. As if he knew her. As if they were friends, for God’s sake.
Well, come on, do you expect him to refer to you as Ms. Rivers? Being that you’re trapped alone with him in a snowstorm, you’re going to get up on formality? Come on, Jillian. Get real!
She felt violated, as if her own life had been torn apart and studied.
“—you and I, we’ve got a lot to do. If the storm breaks in a few days like the weather service predicts, then we’ve got to figure out how to get you out of here before the next one hits.”
He waited a few seconds, the weight of his gaze heavy on her, before saying, “Okay, do whatever it is you have to do, but I imagine that ankle of yours isn’t feeling all that great. I don’t think it’s broken, but from the looks of it, it’s sprained big-time. There are some pills here, in the bottle. Ibuprofen. You might want to take a few.”
Then he walked out of the room and softly closed the door separating this room from the rest of the cabin. At least he was allowing her some privacy.
Or himself. Maybe he doesn’t want you to see what he’s doing, rather than the other way around.
She slowly counted to a hundred. Then two hundred.
Afterwards, her heart still beating crazily, she opened an eye. Just a crack. To make sure he hadn’t faked her out. But she was alone. Thank God.
The fire was blazing and she wondered at his kindness. Was he truly a Good Samaritan, or just faking her out, trying to gain her trust?
Why?
To what end?
If he was going to hurt you, he would have done it by now. Right? You’re not restrained, are you?
Well, not unless being hobbled by an injured ankle and trapped by a blizzard counted.
Could she trust him? Hell no! At least not yet. There was a killer on the loose in the wilds of Montana, she did know that much.
Don’t panic. Stay calm.
But her throat was dry with dread.
What were the chances that she’d met up with him?
One in a million?
No way could she be that unlucky. No way!
Or was she kidding herself?
Chapter Nine