Relative Strangers (3 page)

“Mom,” he said gently, “will you promise to let me handle this sort of thing from now on? You’re a great manager for the restaurant and a terrific hostess, but now that Pop’s out of commission, why don’t I take charge of the bookings?”

“You’ve already got too many things on your plate,” she pointed out. “What we really need is someone on staff to do nothing but scout new business.”

“We can’t afford that.”

“We can’t afford not to come up with some new ideas, good ones, and soon.”

“At least next time you get a great idea, put me in the picture before you commit the hotel. Please?”

“Of course, my dear. In fact I’d intended to talk to you today about something. I want to explore the possibility of hiring a publicist.”

“Where did that notion come from?”

“One of our guests does public relations work for a living. I saw her business card when she registered. It’s that nice Corrie Ballantyne. You remember? That quiet, pretty woman. Why don’t I invite her to have Christmas dinner with us tonight in the main dining room? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind talking shop.”

“And that’s the only thing you have planned?” Lucas didn’t bother to conceal his skepticism.

“Why, dear, whatever else could there be?” She blinked up at him in a feigned confusion that wouldn’t have fooled a child.

“Give it up, Mom. Besides, I don’t have time to have dinner with Ms. Ballantyne today. Neither do you.” She served as hostess in the main dining room during midday and evening meals.

“Today is well planned,” she answered. “No one needs supervision.”

Lucas wasn’t so sure of that, but he didn’t argue with his mother. “Well, then, why don’t you take some time off and spend it with Pop?”

“Because your father is going to be here again, when he wakes up. You and Corrie could join us for dinner and we could—”

“No, Mom.”

“At least promise me that you’ll take a little time for yourself today. You’ve been working entirely too hard. Leave the hotel and do something relaxing.” When he started to protest, she added the one argument he couldn’t counter. “You know what all work and no play did to your father.”

Lucas considered her request. He could catch up on paperwork as easily at home as in his office at the hotel. He was about to say so when a sound made him look up.

Corrie Ballantyne was descending the grand staircase at the far end of the lobby. She looked as appealing in sunlight as she had in the glow of the fire. Too attractive by far. Getting out of the hotel for a while suddenly seemed like a wise idea.

* * * *

The Sinclair House brochure boasted of extensive cross-country ski trails, the first of which traversed what in warmer seasons was a golf course. At ten o’clock on Christmas morning, having made dutiful, strained phone calls to her father and each of her brothers, Corrie set out across the fairway.

She was looking forward to her first opportunity in years to ski without a horde of nieces and nephews along. For once, she would not end up buried in the snow by Maurice, her brother’s overly friendly Saint Bernard.

Crisp, cold air, the hint of a freshening breeze, and bright sunlight combined to cheer and invigorate her. Rachel’s gift had been designed for cross-country wear, lightweight and ventilated to make the best use of the heat her exercise would generate. It had a hood concealed inside the collar, but that was more to protect against wind than cold. After the first mile Corrie removed a pair of fluffy black earmuffs from one deep pocket and slipped them on to guard against frostbite.

The opportunity to catch her breath was welcome too. She stayed put for a few minutes, surveying her surroundings. Off in the distance some tasteless developer had scarred the landscape with four large bright yellow clapboard condominiums. She turned her back on the horrors of modern housing and took a trail that led into the woods. The unspoiled beauty of forest and mountain was in front of her then.

She could no longer see the hotel, either, although she knew it was just off to her right. She suspected some sort of access road was nearby, but it too was masked by trees. Close to civilization, she still had the sensation that she was all alone in the wild, which was exactly the illusion she’d been seeking when she’d set out.

As she glided through acres of white birch and evergreen, she caught glimpses of other skiers from time to time, but they did not intrude on her solitude.

In another half hour she was ready to call it a day. It had been some ten months since she’d last been on skis, and although she was hardly running to flab, neither had she kept up any regular form of exercise. When an A-frame-style log cabin came into sight, she was very glad to see it.

According to the map of cross-country trails she had picked up back at the hotel, this was not one of the public buildings. There were several of those scattered about, including an emergency first-aid center. This particular structure, however, had been included on the map only to mark the point where the trail turned back toward the hotel.

Corrie had traveled in a circle. Another few minutes and she’d be able to put her feet up in front of a roaring fire and order a hot buttered rum. That thought brought a smile to her face. She’d never tried the drink and suspected it would taste greasy, but she had just enough energy left over from the skiing to feel daring. First, of course, she had to reach the Sinclair House.

Intending to massage her poor, overworked calf muscles before she continued her journey, Corrie bent down. She had no warning whatsoever before she felt a stunning blow to the side of her head. Pinwheels of pain and light danced in front of her eyes, spawning a kaleidoscope of colors. With a sick sense of being caught in a vivid, Technicolor nightmare, she felt herself fall.

She was vaguely aware of striking the ground with one outthrust arm before she came to rest facedown in the cold, powdery snow. Then the world around her dissolved to black.

* * * *

“What the hell is she playing at?”

Lucas stared at the crumpled form for a full thirty seconds before he decided there was a good chance something really was wrong with her. He was perhaps a hundred yards away, close enough to see her fall without being certain what caused it.

He’d been watching the slender, bright pink figure, distracted from his work by some sixth sense as soon as she skied into the clearing that passed by his windows. There was no doubt in his mind as to her identity. There could hardly be two parkas in that particular gaudy color among the current guests at the hotel.

His computer screen glowed at him, the cursor blinking, then began to roll to indicate he’d stayed in one place too long. With a series of quick, impatient jabs at the keyboard, he saved the file he’d been working on and logged off. Keeping his gaze on the motionless blob of pink, he slid his stocking feet into low boots and laced them with deft fingers.

She’d been headed back to the hotel. It had been obvious to him in the few minutes he’d watched her that she was tired from a long morning on the trails. Her speed had been slow and then, inexplicably, she’d stopped.

For a long moment she’d stood there, looking around. Then she’d stared straight at his cabin. Brow furrowing, Lucas snagged a down jacket from one of the pegs near the door. She’d seemed to stare right at him. Then she’d turned away. Then she’d fallen to the ground like a wounded dove.

Even if she did know where he lived, why would she think he’d be home in the middle of the day? And how could she have known he’d be watching? The angle of the sun made it unlikely she could see him through the window.

His suspicion that his mother was continuing to play matchmaker didn’t account for everything, though Lord knew she’d launched more complicated schemes in the past. Joyce always had good intentions, but he cringed when he remembered some of the things she’d tried.

On the other hand, if he was honest with himself, he’d have to laugh at the idea that she’d been able to convince Corrie Ballantyne to come after him on skis. What conceit! Corrie had told him plainly enough the night before that she wasn’t interested.

She could have tripped and hit her head. So what if there was precious little to trip on out there? He couldn’t discount the possibility. Heart attack? Not unheard of, though she seemed too young for it. At a guess she was in her late twenties or early thirties.

When he reached the door he hesitated, debating whether to phone for an ambulance before he went out. He’d feel like a fool if she’d just fainted, and a worse one if she really was putting on an act for his benefit. Disgusted with his waffling, Lucas slammed the door behind him with such force that aftershocks reverberated in the crisp mountain air.

By the time he had his jacket zipped he’d crossed the driveway and reached the utility shed. It took only seconds to slip on and buckle the snowshoes he kept there. If she needed medical attention, he could carry her back to the cabin, then drive her to the hospital. That would be faster than waiting for the local paramedics.

With smooth, practiced strides, he crossed the snow. The closer he got, the more concerned he grew. It wasn’t even possible to tell if she was still breathing until he was right next to her. The gentle rise and fall of her torso reassured him, but his relief was short-lived. A slowly spreading stain had already turned a portion of her gaudy pink collar bright red with blood.

* * * *

Disoriented, Corrie surfaced through a steady roaring inside her head, convinced her face was being licked by a large dog with a wet terry-cloth tongue.

She thought it must be a Saint Bernard. Logical, really, since the breed had once been used to rescue lost skiers. Then she remembered Maurice. Certain her entire family was about to descend on her en masse, she kept her eyes firmly closed. Maybe if she didn’t look, they wouldn’t be there.

The faint aroma of soap teased her nostrils, mixed with a second scent she could not quite identify. For some reason that elusive odor filled her with an irrational fear. Her eyelids fluttered upward at last, as she sought the source.

The world was a bit fuzzy, but she could make out a decidedly masculine hand holding a wet brown washcloth. It was descending toward her face. Eyes widening in panic, she attempted to jerk away, but one edge of the damp material caught her on the side of the head. The mild blow unleashed a jagged shard of pain.

Out of some primal instinct for survival, irrational but overwhelming, Corrie ignored the fire streaking across her forehead and fought for her freedom. She flailed wildly at both the man and his washrag, but only succeeded in increasing her own agony.

“Settle down or I’ll sit on you.”

Large hands caught her wrists as the man tried to immobilize her. Confused and frightened, Corrie ignored his deep-voiced command and continued to squirm until, as if to carry out his threat, he slid closer. She could feel the solid pressure of his hip against her ribs. She was flat on her back on a sofa, she realized, and nearly helpless against this stranger’s greater strength.

Frantic, she tried again to writhe away from him, but the attempt only made him tighten his grip. Their locked hands ended up right on top of her breasts. It made no difference that jacket, sweater, and camisole prevented his flesh from touching her skin. Terror of another kind blossomed.

“Let me go,” she whimpered.

She squeezed her eyes shut again as she went perfectly still. Her head throbbed unmercifully. She didn’t know where she was or who it was who held her so tightly.

“I won’t hurt you, Corrie,” her captor said.

The voice sounded irritated and exasperated, but neither dangerous nor threatening. It was rather a deep, soothing rumble . . . and tantalizingly familiar.

“I was trying to keep you from hurting yourself,” it continued. “If you’ll stay quiet, I’ll let go of you.”

She took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and looked up at Lucas Sinclair. Her vision had cleared, and his efforts to restrain her had brought his face close to her own. She recognized that line of cheek and jaw at once, and if she’d needed any further confirmation, there was the dimple.

“Let me go,” she whispered.

Hazel eyes flecked with green narrowed. He released her hands but didn’t move away. No longer soothing, his next words sounded clipped, as if he was barely able to control the urge to shout at her.

“I’d advise you not to try to move your head just yet.”

Gingerly, she lifted one hand to touch the spot on her right temple where the throbbing was centered. With hesitant fingertips she probed a surface sticky with fresh blood.

Blood. That was the smell she had been trying to identify. An involuntary shudder vibrated through her.

The skin had been creased and torn, but she quickly ascertained that the wound was not particularly deep. The moisture on her face was only soapy water. Lucas Sinclair had washed most of the blood away.

Head wounds bled a lot. Corrie remembered reading that somewhere. Her parka was probably ruined, not to mention Lucas Sinclair’s sofa.

“Where are my earmuffs?” she demanded in a petulant tone.

Even as she spoke, she realized it had not been the most sensible question to ask. Typical, though. When she’d been in the third grade and had her tonsils out, the first thing she’d wanted to know when she woke up was what day it was. She’d been afraid that, like Rip van Winkle, she’d slept for years rather than mere hours.

“Earmuffs?” Lucas sounded incredulous as he repeated the word. “You’re worried about your earmuffs?”

“They were new.” She was still poking at the wound on her head. “Black. Fluffy. I’m very fond of them.”

“Stop that.” He pulled her hand away from the gash. “You’ll only start the wound bleeding again.”

He guided her hand downward until her arm was stretched out along the length of her body. He had to inch away from her to make room for it.

“Your earmuffs are undoubtedly out there in the snow, along with your skis and poles. I was concerned about getting you inside, not with picking up your gear.”

“What happened to me?” Belatedly, the proper question to ask in this situation had surfaced. At first it was met with silence. “Well?”