Gray, Ginna (10 page)

One corner of his mouth quirked. Whatever else she was, the woman
was no classless bimbo. Even under these primitive conditions she had the
elegance and impeccable manners of a well-bred eighteenth-century lady. That
she had even contemplated bashing a skillet over his head was downright
comical.

The hint of a smile disappeared from Sam's face. Carlo had an
old-world attitude about women. In his mind, they were either saints or
sinners. Lauren was exactly the type that he might admire and put on a
pedestal. Especially if her claim of being a musical genius was true. The
mobster was fanatical about classical music.

But when it came to having an ornament on his arm or doing the
horizontal mambo, old Carlo went for flash every time.

Sam scowled, not liking the direction his thoughts were taking
him. He wasn't sure he believed any of her story. She could have made the whole
thing up just to save face. Yet her bearing, the way she talked, those
exquisite manners—everything about her— screamed class and privilege. Maybe she
was just some spoiled high society debutante who had rebelled, and now she
didn't want her family to find out that she'd sunk so low.

The theory was a stretch and it didn't quite set comfortably, but
Sam ignored the pricks of doubt and continued his work. After a moment he
glanced at the door again, then pushed back the knitted inner cuff of his parka
and checked his wristwatch. Where was she? Dammit, she'd had more than enough
time. Was she just standing around out there in a snit, freezing her ass off
just to get back at him?

He'd give her thirty seconds. If she wasn't back by then he'd go
find her. Hell, it wouldn't surprise him if the fool woman hadn't gotten the
guide rope tangled in the underbrush and tied herself up.

He started to climb to his feet but sank back down when Lauren
shifted the door from the outside and squeezed in through the gap. Snow clung
to her from head to toe, making her look like a ghostly aberration. The flakes
mounded on her shoulders and the top of her hood, and ice crystals clung to the
fur ruff around her face and on her pants up to her knees. A layer of
compressed snow and ice made the soles of her boots three inches thicker.

Lauren replaced the door and braced it with the log then turned
and stamped her feet and brushed at her parka and pants. When done, she placed
the skillet, mounded high with snow, on the hearth, stripped off her gloves and
held her hands out to the fire. All without so much as glancing Sam's way.

"While you're there, throw a couple of handfuls of beans into
that water to soak. We'll cook them for dinner later."

He still didn't look up, but in his peripheral vision he saw her
stiffen and glare at him. Nevertheless, after a brief hesitation she stomped
over to the pack, withdrew the small burlap bag of dried beans and did what
he'd told her.

Sam kept his gaze on the fill-line he was weaving around and
across the snowshoe frame.

When he reached a stopping point he put the work aside and rose. Using
one of the knives, he cut a one-inch strip off the length of the ground sheet
along one side then cut the strip into four equal pieces. He wound one piece
through one of the snowshoes then put his foot on top and laced it over the
toe, heel and ankle of his boot.

"That storm doesn't show any sign of letting up and we're
running low on firewood," he announced as he worked. "I'm going to
gather more while it's still light out."

"I'll go with you."

Sam stopped and looked at her. "What?"

"I can help," she asserted.

"You?"

Her chin tilted up in what he was coming to think of as her royal
battle mode. "I may not be much of a cook, but I've got two arms. I can
carry firewood. There's no reason why you should have to do all the work."

"You're serious?"

"Yes. We're in this together. I want to do my part."

He started to tell her to forget it, but the proud tilt of her
head made him hesitate. He stared at her, torn, knowing that she would probably
be more of a nuisance than a help. But pride was something Sam understood.

"All right, but I want you to wear the snowshoes. You need to
practice walking in them anyway, and this is as good a time as any." As he
spoke he began unlacing the shoe he had just strapped on.

"But what about you? There's only one completed pair."

"I'll manage. It's important that you get the hang of this
now. As soon as this storm blows over, we're outta here. So come here and put
your feet on these."

While he laced up the makeshift snowshoes Lauren leaned over him
and watched his every move as though memorizing just how it was done.

When done, Sam rose. "Now hold on a sec." He stepped
over to the pack and pulled out a small coil of nylon cord. "Come here, so
I can tie you to me."

Lauren lifted one foot high to step forward, then quickly put it
down again and gave him a wide-eyed look. "What did you say?"

"Relax, will you. I'm not into bondage. This is just a safety
precaution."

He tied the cord around his waist then stepped close to Lauren.
Bending over to secure the other end through the metal ring on one of her
zippered pockets, he heard her sharp intake of breath and felt her stiffen. He
glanced at her face and his fingers stilled.

Their faces were mere inches apart. She was pale from the extreme
cold, the tip of her nose, cheeks and chin slightly chafed and red, but not
even that could really mar the porcelain-like texture of her skin. He was close
enough to see the long sweep of each individual auburn eyelash, the spokes of
variegated green that rayed out from her pupils. Close enough to catch her
womanly scent. A pulse beat wildly beneath her left ear and her breathing was
so shallow it was barely discernible.

Slowly his gaze ran over her face. A slight tremble vibrated her
body, but other than that she stood absolutely motionless, her eyes wide and
slightly out of focus, like a deer caught in headlights. Sam realized that she
was experiencing the same sharp pull of attraction he'd been feeling ever since
he'd first set eyes on her—probably for the first time, if the stunned look on
her face was anything to go by.

Sam resented the feelings she aroused in him, but he was human,
and the discovery that the attraction wasn't one-sided sent a surge of
satisfaction through him.

His gaze found hers, and for a few taut seconds neither could move
nor look away. Awareness sizzled between them like heat lightning. A gust of
wind briefly lifted the brush over the hole in the roof and a small flurry of
snowflakes fluttered down between them. Neither noticed.

Sam's gaze dropped to her slightly parted lips, lingered, then
returned once again to the madly throbbing pulse by her ear. The urge to place
his lips against that tiny flutter, to taste her, was so strong it pulled at
him like a powerful magnet. Mesmerized, he gazed at that delicate skin, and as
his eyelids grew heavy he angled his head and leaned toward her.

Whether it was the infinitesimal widening of her eyes or the loud
pop the fire made just at that moment that broke the spell, Sam neither knew
nor cared. He was just grateful for the return of his senses.

Jerking back, he bent once again to the business of tying the cord
to her parka.

"It's too easy to get disoriented in a storm like this
one," he said in a brusk voice. "If you were to wander more than six
feet from me you'd be lost, so I'm going to put you on a tether."

"I—" Lauren's voice broke, and she stopped to clear her
throat. "I see. But, uh...but what about you?" she stammered.
"You could get lost just as easily."

Sam breathed a sigh of relief that she had also chosen to pretend
those sizzling few seconds had never happened.

"Not quite. I have a good sense of direction. Maybe that's
because I'm half Indian. Also my dad took me hunting from the time I was a kid
and taught me about the wilderness."

"You're part Native American? Really?" She cocked her
head to one side and looked at him as though he were a fascinating new species.
"I've never known anyone before who had Native American blood. What
tribe?"

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, half expecting to
see contempt or disdain. Or worse, patronizing acceptance. God knew he been
exposed to it all. Even in their present, so-called enlightened world, there
were still many who referred to him as a half-breed. At times, he suspected
that his own father thought of him that way.

Lauren's guileless green eyes, however, held only amazement and a
sort of childlike curiosity.

"My mother was Navajo," he said in a curt voice. He gave
the knot a hard yank, straightened and shifted the door aside and strode out
into the blizzard.

"Wait! Wait!" Lauren hurried after him, high-stepping in
the awkward snowshoes. It was that or be jerked off her feet.

Over the next two hours they worked steadily and talked little. It
was so cold, merely breathing was difficult. Sam plowed through the deep snow,
seemingly oblivious to the bitter cold and the blinding swirl all around them,
moving from tree to tree, chopping off small to medium-size limbs. Lauren
clomped behind him with her head down, panting and shivering. She felt as
though she had two boats strapped to her feet. Just staying upright took most
of her concentration.

While Sam chopped at the trees with the small ax from the survival
pack, Lauren stacked the branches into a pile, along with all the deadwood she
could find. More than once, she was grateful that he had tied her to him. The
tether was only about six yards long, but whenever she roamed more than a few
feet away from Sam she lost sight of him.

Periodically, before moving on to another group of trees, they
stopped and carried the wood they'd already gathered back to the cabin. Each
pile required several trips, and by the time Sam decreed that they had enough
Lauren was half-frozen and so exhausted from struggling with the awkward
snowshoes and toting wood she could barely put one foot in front of the other.

Once back inside the cabin she slapped the snow off her parka and
pants and collapsed onto the sleeping bag.

"Before you get too comfortable, hand over those snowshoes. I
need them."

Lauren opened one eye and looked at him. "You're going back
out? I thought you said we had enough wood."

"We do. I'm going to check the snares. With any luck, we'll
have fresh meat for dinner."

She sighed and started to struggle to her feet. "I'll go with
you and help."

"That's not necessary."

"No, I want to do my share."

"I appreciate that, but you don't have to help with
everything. Besides, with the snowshoes I can make faster time. I'll be back in
an hour or so."

Lauren opened her mouth to argue, but he stopped her with a raised
hand.

"Look, if it'll make you feel better, I'll let you cook
whatever we've caught."

He grinned at her horrified expression—actually grinned at her—a genuine,
hold nothing back, dazzling grin that transformed his craggy face into a rugged
handsomeness that shocked Lauren and made her heart give a little thump. His
teeth were a startling white in his dark, beard-stubbled face, and the corners
of his dark eyes actually crinkled.

"Don't worry, I'll show you how. There's nothing to it. You
can start by moving those beans onto the coals so they can boil."

"I...um...okay." Feeling as though she'd just received a
dizzying punch, she ducked her head and went to work untying the bindings on
the snowshoes.

For several minutes after Sam had slipped back outside, Lauren sat
staring at the door. Dear Lord. What was the matter with her? For two years,
ever since Collin deserted her, she hadn't so much as looked at a man with
anything but casual indifference. She simply hadn't been interested. She had
learned her lesson there, thank you very much.

Now, twice in the span of a couple of hours she'd experienced a
jolt like she'd been struck by lightning. All because of Sam.
Sam, for
heaven's sake!
A hard-nosed, suspicious man who didn't even like her!

Well, it just wouldn't do. Even if she were interested in a romantic
relationship—which she most definitely was not—it wouldn't be with this man.

It was the stress, she told herself. This nightmare situation they
were in. She had read recently that people under duress acted and reacted in
ways they never would dream of doing normally. That had to be it. The harrowing
events of the last few days must have left her with something akin to battle
fatigue.

Wound too tight to rest, as she had intended to do, Lauren added
wood to the fire and repositioned the pot of beans, then turned to the most
familiar and comforting thing in her life.

Though there was no piano handy, she could still practice. It
occurred to her as she settled back down on the sleeping bag and pulled a
good-size chunk of wood in front of her that she hadn't played a note in almost
two days. That had to be a record. In the past, even when she'd had a cold or
the flu or some childhood disease, she had played at least a few hours each
day.

Which just showed how out of kilter her life had become.

Sitting cross-legged, Lauren placed her spread fingertips on the
log, closed her eyes...and began playing. One piece blended into another, then
another, as her fingers danced over the log, sometimes with slow, fluid grace,
sometimes in a frenzy of power and emotion. All the while the stirring notes
played inside her head.

When Lauren played the piano, even when only in her mind, she
became so immersed in the music that she lost all sense of time and place and
circumstance. She had no idea that Sam had returned until he spoke.

"What the devil are you doing?"

She jumped and her eyes popped open. "Sam! You're back
already?"

"Already? It's dark out. I've been gone almost an hour longer
than I expected. I hurried back because I thought you might be getting worried
again. Instead I find you...what the hell
were
you doing?"

A self-conscious grimace twisted her mouth. "Piano practice.
Oh, don't look at me like that. I'm not crazy. It's called visualization. I
close my eyes and imagine that I'm sitting at a Steinway."

"If you say so."

"No, really. I can feel the keys under my fingers and hear
the music in my mind. In the past, whenever we flew from one concert date to
another, I often did it."

"That must've been entertaining for your fellow
passengers."

"You needn't be so snide. It
does
work. It's not as
good as actual practice, I'll admit, but it's better than nothing. Daily
practice is important to a pianist, but since the accident it's become
essential for me. Otherwise my hand would be even stiffer than it already is,
and I wouldn't be able to play at all."

He stared at her for a long time, his harsh face impassive.
"And that's important to you? Being able to play? Even though your concert
career is over?"

"Of course. I can't imagine not being able to play. I don't
think I'd want to live if I couldn't play at all."

He continued to stare at her for so long that she began to feel
uncomfortable. Finally he nodded and stepped around her and placed something on
the hearth. "We're in luck. We had a catch in two of the snares."

"What is that?" she asked, wrinkling her nose.

"Snowshoe hares. I dressed them outside before I came in.
We'll roast them over the fire tonight and I'll hang one in the corner to
freeze for later."

"Hares? You
mean...bunny rabbits?
Oh, I couldn't eat a
bunny. I couldn't possibly. I'll just eat something from the pack."

"You'll eat the hare, and no arguing about it. We need to
conserve our food supply. Besides, snowshoe hare is a good source of protein
and fat, and you're going to need plenty of both for energy when we're on the
move. As it is, you're so thin you don't have any reserves. Now come here and
I'll show you how to roast it."

Reluctantly Lauren did as she was told. She winced and tried not
to gag as she watched him remove his gloves and skewer the carcasses onto a
stout limb about an inch and a half in diameter. He then wedged the end of a
forked branch into a crack in the hearth floor and braced the skewer in the V
notch.

Lauren jolted when he stripped off her glove and wrapped her hand
around the branch, but if he noticed it didn't show. "Hold the hare just
above the flames and turn it slowly, like so," he explained, demonstrating
with his hand over hers. "All you have to do is keep it moving. Got
it?"

"Um..." She felt as though her brain had short-circuited.
Acutely aware of that large hand clamped over hers, she had difficulty focusing
on his words. "I...uh...yes, I...I think so."

"Good. Just keep doing that until I tell you to stop."

For the next hour, while Lauren slowly turned the carcass over the
fire, Sam worked on the last snow-shoe. She tried to appear indifferent and not
to look his way, but over and over her gaze was drawn to him, especially to his
hands.

Funny, she hadn't noticed before how beautiful they were. Probably
because he wore heavy gloves most of the time. They both did. His palms were
broad, his fingers long and blunt with short, clean nails, and they moved with
incredible grace and sureness as he wove the fill-line back and forth across
the frame in a diamond pattern.

Was it the intimacy of their situation that made her so aware of
him? Lauren wondered. After all, they were stranded here on this mountain alone
together for who knew how long. Previously, the only man with whom she'd ever
shared a bed or spent so much time alone had been Collin.

Peeking at him out of the corner of her eye, it occurred to Lauren
that Sam Rawlins and Collin were about as different as any two men could
possibly be.

Blond and blue-eyed, her former fiancé was shorter than average
height and slight of build. Sam's Native American heritage was evident in his
blue-black hair and dark coloring, and he had a tall, muscular build without an
ounce of fat on him.

The differences went deeper than mere looks and physique, she
realized. Since Collin had been trained by her father, Lauren supposed that he
was an adequate business manager, although she had no way of knowing that for
certain. In social settings and the elite world of classical music his charm,
wit and sophistication served him well, but in this situation she knew that he
would be useless—less than useless, really. Not only would Collin not have a
clue of what to do, he "gave" orders; he did not "do." A
snap of the fingers or a call to a service or the hotel concierge brought
someone to perform menial tasks.

Sam, on the other hand, had knowledge and experience and did not
hesitate to roll up his sleeves and do what had to be done.

He was hard and distant and sometimes curt, but he was also
strong, skillful, knowledgeable and absolutely reliable.

Lauren wasn't sure she even liked him, but with somewhat of a
shock, it occurred to her that she trusted him. If fate had seen fit to land
her in this horrendous predicament she was just glad it was with Sam Rawlins.

The man could probably not only survive, but thrive, if he were
stranded on a desert island with nothing more than a string, a safety pin and a
stick of chewing gum.

By the time Sam pronounced the meat done, the delicious aroma had
overcome any qualms Lauren had about eating hare and set her stomach to
growling. Sam divvied up the food and they ate sitting cross-legged in front of
the fire without speaking.

For the longest time, the only sounds were the scrape of utensils
against metal plates, the incessant howling of the wind and the crackle of the
fire.

Maybe it was stretched nerves or boredom, or maybe just plain
curiosity, or maybe it was because in her world, when people ate together they
exchanged pleasant dinner conversation. Whatever, Lauren could not bear the
silence a moment longer.

"You said that you used to camp in this area. Does that mean
you grew up around here?" she asked out of the blue.

Sam seemed surprised—whether by the question, or merely that she
had spoken, Lauren couldn't tell. After studying her for a moment he finished
chewing, swallowed and cut another chunk of meat. "West of here. On a
ranch near Monticello."

"Monticello? That's in...?"

"Utah."

"Then we've left the state?"

"No, we're still in Colorado."

Lauren watched him and waited, growing annoyed. She had opened the
conversation, hadn't she? The least he could do was keep it going. Sam,
however, merely scooped up another bite of food and chewed in silence.

Her mouth set. Okay, fine. She'd do this the hard way. "Tell
me about your parents."

This time his head came up sharply, his dark eyes narrow and
suspicious. "Why should I?"

His biting tone startled a laugh from Lauren. "You don't have
to act as though I'm trying to worm state secrets out of you. I'm just curious,
that's all. And I thought it might fill the time, maybe help us get better
acquainted. Anyway, it's only fair. You know all about me, so now it's my tarn
to learn about you."

"There's a difference. I'm FBI and you're a civilian and part
of a criminal investigation."

"Oh, for heaven's sake! I'm the
witness,
not the
accused. You seem to keep forgetting that. Anyway, I'm sick to death of all
this stony silence. I know you don't have a very high opinion of me, and to be
honest, I'm not overly fond of you, either. But since we're stuck with each
other can't we call a truce for a while and just talk like regular human
beings? Is that too much to ask?"

For her trouble she received another of those piercing looks. He
lowered his gaze and took another bite. She had about decided he wasn't going
to answer when he surprised her by saying, "What do you want to
know?"