Snowball's Chance (2 page)

“I came by chopper.” His deep voice poured through her like hot buttered rum. He put the Christmas mug down and shrugged out of the heavy coat, revealing a thick off-white wool turtleneck and jeans. Taking off the thick coat didn't make him look any smaller, or any less intimidating. He was still a bear of a man. Masculine in an intriguing way that made Kendall's heart do a little hop, skip, and jump. He looked as solid as a rock, with no appearance of body fat and an impressive physique. Her mouth went dry, and she busied herself with the cookies.

She hadn't felt anything other than fear in so long, it felt wonderful to feel this tug of attraction. Better because she knew there was nothing she could do about it. It just was.

“Set down a half-mile from here,” he continued. “Parked back behind the barn.” He tossed the coat onto a bar stool beside him.

The scent of him—clean male skin, cold night air, a hint of leather—aroused all her senses with an urgency that surprised her. Perhaps her reaction to him was due to his size, Kendall thought. The man looked as though he could wrestle a grizzly bear. Being tall herself, it was intriguing to meet a good-looking guy who was big enough to make her feel petite.

And they'd been in the middle of a conversation. “You came by helicopter—from next door?” She knew Montana was huge. But people actually
flew
from ranch to ranch?

The corner of his mouth kicked up in a half smile.
Whoa. Down girl.
That small smile was so potent, she wondered what it would be like full strength. Judging from her accelerated heartbeat it was probably a good thing that he'd be leaving soon. To go home to his
wife.

“‘Next door' is more than twenty miles away,” he pointed out, biting into a cookie. “But I didn't—”

The phone rang. Thank goodness. It was working again. It had been out for what seemed like forever, and she'd left her cell phone up at her cottage. As much as she'd like to have made some personal calls, she had no intention of braving this weather to retrieve her own phone.

Kendall held up a hand to stop him as she picked up the receiver. “Cameron residence.” As she listened every vestige of warmth she'd felt seconds before drained right out of her, as did most of the blood in her head. “I know. It's been out since this morning. I'm sorry to hear that,” she said flatly into the phone as she watched him pick up the mugs she'd bought to brighten up the dark tones of the kitchen. “No, absolutely. I quite under—” The phone went dead. “—stand.”

Her heart was beating fast again. But this time it had nothing to do with the proximity of a sexy-looking man. She turned away as she returned the receiver carefully to the instrument on the wall. At the same time she lifted the front of her sweater and surreptitiously withdrew the small LadySmith handgun tucked against her skin.

Given the man's appearance she hadn't mistaken him for a house cat. But she hadn't pegged him as a predatory tiger either. More fool her.

“You're the best so far, ya know that?”
She could almost hear Dwight Treadwell's mild voice echoing like a never forgotten nightmare in the here and now. Obscene in this Christmas-scented kitchen a thousand miles away and a dozen months later. Goosebumps rose on her skin.
“Defiant little bitch, ain't ya? You're scared as shit, but your eyes say go to hell. This is gonna be fun. F. U. N.”

Treadwell chipped at the Formica tabletop with the tip of what he'd told her was his second favorite knife. There was nothing but mild interest in his eyes as he observed her.

There was no more room for terror in her mind. It was filled to capacity. It felt like forever since he'd grabbed her at the grocery store and forced her, struggling, into the trunk of his car. Had no one noticed him kidnapping her? Had no one heard her screams before he'd knocked her out?

She'd woken to find herself naked, cut out of her clothes, and him standing, smiling, over her, a large, curved knife in his hand. It was already covered with her blood. She screamed—

Kendall turned around to face the man in
this
kitchen. She knew the six-inch-long gun only weighed about twenty ounces, but it felt as heavy as lead in her hand. “Oh no you don't,” she snapped as he started to rise. “You stay right where you are. Keep your hands where I can see them.” She motioned at him with the barrel.

“You're not Donald Sanders. So just who the hell
are
you?”

K
endall thanked God she wasn't paralyzed be her fear. She'd learned, during her months of therapy, that action cured fear, and inaction created terror. Been there, done that, had the scars to prove it.

She curled her naked body protectively over her bare legs. Her skin was already slippery with her own blood where he'd repeatedly played with her. Short cuts. Long cuts. Shallow. Deep. They all gave Dwight Gus Tread-well pleasure. Each slice made her flinch and cry out. And each flinch caused the bicycle chain he'd used to tether her to the wall to rattle. She could tell that he was growing bored with this. He was going to kill her. Soon.

She shook herself mentally. Back to
now.
This guy didn't have to do anything to appear intimidating. He just
was.
Her stomach did flip-flops, and her heart pounded as she trained the gun dead center on his chest. Big or not, a bullet would make a large hole in him. Her hand had a fine tremor she didn't care if he noticed. She didn't give a damn if he knew he scared her either. He'd know that even a bad shot from this close would kill him.

Watching him, the scar on Kendall's throat seemed to burn, and she struggled to find a balance between the knowledge that she was the one with the gun, and the memory of what a determined, violent man could do.

“Kendall.” He said her name softly as he crouched in front of her, stabbing the point of his knife into the floor between her pale, curled toes so he could free his hands to reach for a large roll of canvas. Treadwell wasn't a big man, he didn't look like a monster. He had a soft fleshy face and light brown hair. He looked like a teacher. Or a priest. But oh God, he knew how to inflict the most exquisitely painful kind of torture….

This man was
big.
And scary-looking, now that she came to think about it. She realized too late that this was a man who could use his body as a weapon. Big. Strong. Fast.

She didn't have enough air in her lungs to blow out a birthday candle right now.
Don't show fear. Don't show fear. Don't show fear.
The mental mantra worked fairly well as she tightened her grip on the gun, refusing to blink.

She'd bought the gun after the attack fifteen months ago. She'd wanted a bigger one—a cannon. But found she couldn't hold the weight and settled for the .22. And even though she'd gone through months of rigorous training, she'd hoped never to have to do what she was doing now. Pointing the gun at a human target. But palpable fear made her ready and more than willing to pull the trigger.

“Well?” She spread her feet a little for better balance and adjusted her left hand to cup her right. “Who are you and what do you want?” She'd been expecting the neighbor's husband. He hadn't corrected her—

The Marlboro Man narrowed his eyes. “Prepared to shoot to kill?” His voice was deep and reverberated through her.

“Not just yet,” Kendall said through her teeth. “But
hell
yes. I repeat: Who are you, and what are you doing here?” She still didn't bat an eyelid, and now the gun didn't waver in her hands, but her accelerated, sickeningly erratic heartbeats danced behind her eyeballs.

Was he her worst fear? The realization of her nightmares?

God. She'd thought the terror was behind her. What a fool she was to open the door like that. Especially when she was here alone. But damn it, Dwight Gus Treadwell was in jail where he belonged. He'd never get out. And in her own defense, the law of averages wouldn't send her another attacker. Especially not all the way out here in the wilds of Montana, for God's sake.

So much for the law of averages.

The question was: Run or shoot?

She debated a fraction of a second too long.

One second he was sitting at the counter; the next her wrist stung as he moved across the tiled floor, brought the side of his hand down, and yanked the gun from her nerveless fingers.

He turned the barrel to point at the middle of her forehead. The small gun looked ridiculous in his big hand. Ridiculous, but just as lethal as if he'd been holding a machine gun. He was close enough that any one of the five bullets in the chamber would kill her. Dead was dead.

She felt the blast furnace heat of his body, he was that close. His breath smelled of coffee, his eyes were ice cold, his hand dead steady. A shudder of fear rippled down her spine and settled in her stomach.

She had a fleeting thought. At least this would be quick.

She made a small, guttural sound as Dwight revealed an array of sharp, shiny objects inside the unrolled canvas. She shook hard enough that her teeth chattered. Tears, snot, and blood mingled wetly on her face as, completely mesmerized by terror, she watched him slip the first of seven instruments from their custom-made slots. He held up the thin, pointy ice pick for her to see.

Blubbering like a baby, she shrank back against the dirty paneling of the trailer. “Why are you do-doing this to me?”

Treadwell's mouth twitched, the closest he came to a smile. “Because, pretty girl, I can.”

If it was a choice between being shot or toyed with for hours at knife point, she'd choose to be shot.

As yet she wasn't having to make that choice. There was a third option. Run like hell. She locked her eyes with his and waited the three terrifying years it took for the first second to pass. The fear crouched in her chest, making it impossible to breathe. Soon he wouldn't have to fire the gun, she'd simply die from lack of oxygen.

“You should've shot me at the front door, Miss Metcalf. You didn't ask for ID, or anything else.”

What kind of killer lectures you on safety procedures? she wondered silently. Through the fog of panic, she opted for another strategy. Keep him talking. She figured if he was talking, he wasn't shooting her. If he wasn't shooting her, she had a chance of escaping.

“Give me my gun back. I can rectify that mistake in a flash.”

She flinched when he drew her long hair away from her neck with the cold steel barrel of her own gun. If his eyes had been chilly seconds ago, when he saw the still livid scar on her throat they went Arctic. “Son of a bitch.”

The scar was red and ugly. But she was alive. While he looked his fill, Kendall brought her knee up in a lightningswift move perfected in her self-defense classes.

She was quick, but he was a split second quicker. Her knee struck him in the balls, but he shifted just in time to prevent full impact. His shout of pain and his instinctive half crouch gave her just enough time to make a run for it. His hand shot out to grab her arm in passing, but she was too scared, too determined to let that happen. Again.

She flew.

She knew the enormous house pretty well. He didn't. She bolted past him as he gasped for air. Past the counter where their bright red mugs and the coffeepot still sat. Through the dining nook. Through the great room with its thirty-five-foot-high limestone fireplace, soaring cedar trusses, and thirty-foot-tall, half-decorated Christmas tree.

Kendall's bare feet slapped the polished hardwood floors as she ran.
Notagainnotagainnotagain.
She skirted the trio of heavy leather sofas, skidded around two tall ficus trees in their giant terra-cotta pots, almost careened into the ladder she'd left beside the Christmas tree, and hurdled like an Olympian over the last few half-filled boxes of Denise's Christmas ornaments waiting to go up. Although she might not have been as well trained as an athlete, she was a hell of a lot more motivated.

The massive, open-riser cedar staircase rose in front of her. There were eight bedrooms up there. All of them with solid-core doors, and locks. Her breath was rapid and erratic as she started running flat-out up the stairs, her heartbeat in time with the pounding of her bare feet on the hardwood.

PleaseGodpleaseGodpleaseGod—

She was halfway up when his forearm suddenly hooked her around the waist. The world spun dizzily as he lifted her off her feet. At the feel of his viselike grip around her middle, Kendall went apeshit. Twisting and bucking, she screamed bloody murder at the top of her lungs as she tried to kick backward.

There was, of course, no one to hear her except her attacker.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” he shouted above her shrieks of fear and rage as he carried her, kicking and struggling, toward the cluster of sofas before the massive fireplace.

But she'd heard that before. The words settled inside her like bricks. Stay still and suffer. She struggled and bucked as her mind raced with the endless things he could do to cause her pain. Each possibility ratcheted up her anxiety, causing her to fight harder as he moved toward the sofas with her flailing body hooked easily beneath one arm.

Joe dropped her onto the closest one, then held her arm as she tried to shoot to her feet. “Easy. Easy—Damn it, woman, no biting! Sit your pretty ass down. I swear I'm not going to hurt you. We need to talk.”

There wasn't a vestige of color in her face. Amber freckles stood out across her ashen cheeks like cinnamon sprinkled on fresh snow. Her pretty hazel eyes were terror-wild as she stared up at him. Joe felt like a heel for scaring her. Feeling like a heel pissed him off. The fact that she could be stone fucking
dead
right now pissed him off even more. He'd handled this wrong. Joe hated being wrong.

“You have five bullets in that peashooter of yours,” he said grimly. “You should've
shot
me, for Christ sake. Don't give an attacker a chance to take the gun from you. Didn't they teach you that at—Oh no you don't.” He yanked her by the arm as she tried to make a break for it. She sank against the soft, copper-colored leather, her chest heaving beneath the cheerful red sweater.

“You don't think I'm going to sit here passively while you do God only knows what to me, do you?” she demanded through white lips, breath hitching. Her entire body vibrated with tension as she watched him like a mongoose watched a snake.

Joe withdrew his hand from her arm. She rubbed where he'd been holding her with her other hand. Now that he'd seen the obscene scar running across the base of her throat he felt sick to his stomach. He rubbed his hand across his face. “Don't run. Please,” he said quietly, dragging his gaze away from the healing gash made by Dwight Treadwell's Ka-Bar knife. The scar was an obscenity across the smooth skin of Kendall Metcalf's lovely throat just above the neckline of her cheerful red sweater.

“I'm not going to sit here and chat with you before—” Her throat moved and she managed thickly. “Before—
anything.”

He felt like a God-damned bull in a china shop. When the hell had this turned from crap to shit? “We got off on the wrong foot—”

“Gee. Ya think?” she interrupted, a little color returning to her cheeks. Sparks made her hazel eyes appear fiery green. “What's the plan here, pal? I'm not going softly into that good night without fighting you tooth and nail, and I sure as hell refuse to have a polite conversation beforehand.”

Joe rubbed a hand across his jaw. Shit. What a frigging mess. He gave her a steady look. She shot him a look of pure loathing. Fair enough.

He pulled her little peashooter out of his belt in back. “Here.” She took it, flipped the safety off, pointed it at his groin, and glared at him.

“Name's Joe Zorn.” He took his wallet out of his hip pocket and flipped it open so she could see the bad photograph on his driver's license.

She frowned. “That expired three weeks ago.”

Ah, hell! So it had. “That's not the damn point, lady. It's just ID—” Joe ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Look. Your business partner, Rebecca Metzner, hired me to protect you.” So much for his first vacation in two years. His boss, Roz, had hauled his ass off the slopes to do so.

And look at the fine damn job he was doing protecting her so far, he thought with disgust. The woman looked ready to have a freaking heart attack.

“But I gotta tell you, getting my nads shot off isn't part of the contract, so could you point that thing someplace else?”

She clicked on the safety, lowered the small barrel,
slightly
, and scooted back into the corner of the sofa. There wasn't an atom of her body that wasn't ready for flight. Even her flaming hair seemed to crackle and lift away from her shoulders as she moved, making a fiery nimbus around her head.

Dragging in a ragged breath, she gave him a flat stare, chin tilted. Which exposed the raised red keloid tissue. “Protect me from what?”

Christ, that scar was going to haunt him into his next lifetime. He felt too damn big. He'd been sent to protect her, and instead he'd scared the poor woman senseless. She needed protection from her protector, for God's sake. “Who,” he corrected.

Her pretty pinking-up lips formed the word
who
, but no sound emerged. She knew who. “Wh—” She had to lick her lips before she could get out that much.

He gently took the wavering gun from her hand and laid it on the coffee table between them, before she accidentally on purpose shot him. “Dwight Gus Treadwell.”

Even before he'd finished speaking, every vestige of returning color drained from her face. “No!” Her hand flew instinctively to her throat. “He's in Washington State Prison.”

Joe shook his head, and the spark went out of her eyes.

She wet her lower lip, clearly trying to marshal her emotions before she whispered, “He won't look for me in Montana.” She pulled her bare feet up close to her body, hugging her knees with her arms, and gave him a look that sent shards of ice through Joe's veins. A look that said she knew she wasn't safe. Anywhere.

She crossed one pale, slender foot over the other, curling her toes defensively. Joe frowned at how ridiculously …
vulnerable
her feet looked. He dragged his gaze back to her face.

Her large hazel-green eyes glittered. Not with tears, but with fury. “That psycho knows where I am, doesn't he?”