Melting the Ice

by Loreth Anne White

  The bank dipped closer down to meet the water as White River started to widen and relax into pools and deep back eddies. The roaring sound of the whitewater quieted into a peaceful chatter and chuckle as small rocks knocked together in the shallow currents.

  In the dimming light, Rex could see him. Just ahead. A man, with blood down the side of his face. He was bent over her, a limp heap in pale yellow. She lay on the loamy soil of the bank, water lapping at her ankles.

  Rex crouched, balanced on one knee, pulled the .38 slowly out from the back of his jeans, eyes fixed on his target. Any sound he made was lost against the low burble of the river.

  “Step back or I shoot.” His voice carried clear. A visible jolt shocked through the man. He scrambled to his feet, started to run for cover.

  “Halt or I’ll shoot!”

  The man ducked under a branch and bounded up a narrow trail. Rex fired. The crack rang through the woods. But he was gone. No use following him now. Hannah was the priority. Rex dared to hope he would find her alive.

  He scrambled down the bank.

  It took a split second to absorb the scene, but what met his eyes made no sense. She was barely conscious. It looked as if she had been dragged up through the mud from the water.

  She’d thrown up, was gasping softly for breath. It looked as if the man he’d tried to maim with his bullet had been trying to revive her. His blood was smeared on Hannah’s face.

  Rex dropped to his knees and checked her air passages before touching his lips to hers and breathing warmth and life into her lungs. She coughed, wretched and fell back limp in his arms.

  At least she was breathing. He checked her pulse. Weak. He couldn’t see much in this light. He had to get her someplace warm. The gash above her eye looked superficial, but her skin was bloodless and felt cold as death.

  The river hadn’t claimed her, but if he didn’t hurry, hypothermia would.

  He had to risk moving her.

  “The angels were smiling on you, darling.” He whispered into her tangle of hair, knowing she wouldn’t hear. She was sleeping soundly now, her breathing regular. He’d kept up the two-hourly checks throughout the night. There was no overt sign of concussion, and her temperature was back up into an acceptable range. Rex had managed to keep her out of the more advanced stages of hypothermia that would’ve required hospitalization.

  He lay now, undressed against her naked body. Skin on skin. Sharing his physical warmth. He’d done this throughout the night, keeping her core temperature up. Now, pale gray fingers of dawn searched through gauzy white curtains and touched her face. She looked so fragile. It took his breath away. He stroked her hair and kissed the bandage he had applied to the cut above her eye.

  “You put up quite a fight, my angel, but you’re going to have some bumps and bruises for your effort.” He ran a finger lightly over her cheekbone. She stirred.

  He pulled back.

  He didn’t want to wake her. She needed sleep.

  Holding her naked and vulnerable body through the night, Rex had not slept himself. He’d listened to her breathe, his pulse quickening every time there was a slight change in rhythm.

  Holding her like that was like nothing he’d experienced before. It had sown something in him. A tiny seed that had sprouted, grown and blossomed with warmth through him. He felt as if he had a sublime purpose. To keep her safe from harm. To be here for her.

  The sensation that surged and swelled through his chest was so absolutely foreign it frightened him, awed him.

  She moaned slightly and moved. His heart skipped. The motion of her breast, the weight soft and warm against his arm was arousing. It sent hot blood to his groin. But what he was feeling was not about sex. The stirring in his loins was an automatic physical response to a sexual stimulus. It was the sweet ache in his chest that overwhelmed him, swallowed him. “You’re getting soft in the head, Rex,” he muttered to himself, throwing aside the covers.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, facing the gray dawn, and told himself that what he was feeling was a normal response to the stress of almost losing someone. It was just that he hadn’t quite felt anything like it before. He’d never cared enough about losing anyone.

  A shower would set him straight. He couldn’t afford to lose his edge. That was one of the reasons the Bellona Channel had recruited him—for his steel edge. He was a loner. Didn’t need people, relationships. Sex yes, relationships no. You couldn’t reconcile that sort of thing with the work he did.

  Rex scrubbed his hands through his hair. Hannah had derailed him once in Marumba. He’d been blindsided. He couldn’t let it happen again. Look where it had gotten his friend Scott. Scott had tried to balance a wife and kid with his Bellona work. He got the threat the same time Rex did. Now Scott’s family was dead.

  Rex had saved Hannah from a similar fate six years ago, but only by leaving her the minute he got the note.

  He should walk away now. But now he couldn’t. This time her life could depend on his staying. Christ, coming to White River had brought him full circle to finish everything that had been started in Marumba.

  He picked up the phone, dialed room service. He ordered, hung up and rubbed the hair on his chest. He was running out of time. The toxicology conference was key in all this. It was the common link. Delegates would start arriving in a few days. He had to get moving.

  Someone was holding her hand, calling her name. Nothing.

  Blackness.

  Voices.

  Cold, so very cold.

  Voices, she could hear voices again, far away. Head hurt.

  Blackness.

  Hannah drifted in and out of thick gray sleep.

  She could hear voices now. They faded as she slipped back. Then she could hear them again. Dark. Far away.

  No, they were near. She could hear two men, hushed tones.

  She didn’t know where she was. Couldn’t see. She was naked, warm. She was in a bed.

  Dark. No, not dark. Her eyes were shut, stuck shut. She struggled to open them. Her lids were gummed together. They were heavy, thick as she strained to open them. Then winced as bright white light lanced into her brain.

  “Thanks, you can leave it here.”

  Rex, she could hear Rex. She struggled to open her eyes again. “Rex.” She mouthed the word but heard no sound. Her tongue was too big for her mouth. The sides of her throat were stuck together. She felt as if she was groping her way out of a deep black hole.

  “Rex, is that you?” She heard the words now, a raspy sound. They were her words.

  “Hannah.” He was by her side, his hand shielding her eyes, gentle. “Take it easy, take it slow.”

  She tried to sit up and gasped at the pain in her ribs.

  “Hey, take it easy, I haven’t ruled out broken bones yet.”

  She could see him now, a dark blur bent over her. She tried to bring her surroundings into focus. Fighting the pain, she pulled herself into a semisitting position. The bedcover slipped, exposing her naked breasts.

  His hand came forward, pulled the cover up.

  “Where am I?”

  Memories, images, they were filtering slowly back into her brain. The back of her head was a steady pulsing pain.

  “You’re one lucky lady, Hannah McGuire.” He was holding her hand, sitting beside her bed. No, his bed. This was not her bed.

  The hotel room swam into focus. It was not the same room. Bigger. Another door. She squinted up at him, careful not to move her ribs. “Where am I? This is not your hotel room.”

  “Nothing wrong with your head, I see.” He lifted her hand and brushed it lightly against his lips. “I got them to change my room for a double.” He smiled, a slash of white across his jaw. “I thought you might like some privacy since you’re going to be here awhile.”

  “My head.” She gingerly touched what felt like a baseball of a bump on the back of her skull.

  “You took a bad knock. Not sure if he did that to you or if it happened when you went into the wat
er. I can’t tell you how lucky you are. I’ve seen people survive worse whitewater and I’ve seen lives lost in a lot less. It’s the luck of the draw. You drew lucky.”

  It crashed back into her brain. The man on the bridge. The fear. The water churning below. Falling.

  “Rex.” She reached out and grabbed his arm. “He tried to kill me.”

  “Easy, easy.” He was stroking her hand. “Do you remember who tried to kill you?”

  She pulled her hand free of his and held the bed covers over her chest as she tried to sit upright. “My clothes. I need my clothes. I need to phone Dan— Uh, I need to make an urgent phone call.”

  “Okay. One thing at a time. We’ll get you some clothes and I want you to try and get some food into you.” He got up and headed over to the tray left by room service. Steam curled up in a wisp from a deep-blue china pot as he poured tea. “Who do you need to phone?”

  Her head was thick. She leaned back into the pillow. “I…I think I want to phone my mother. What day is it?” Danny, she must phone Danny. He might have tried to reach her at home. He would be worried.

  Rex placed a cup of tea in her hands. She was so thirsty. She took a sip. Her lips felt dry, cracked. The tea was warm, sweet. So good. She took a gulp. It hurt as it went down.

  “It’s Monday. You lost a day.”

  “Work, I’m supposed to be at work.”

  “I called them already.” Rex grinned. “I told them you had a rough weekend and that you’d check in later. Georgette thinks you have a hangover. Here, have some toast.”

  Hannah was surprised to realize she was ravenous. That must be a good sign. Tea, toast and marmalade—so British. She watched him as she crunched into the toast. His hair was damp. He must have undressed her. She found the thought unsettling. She felt vulnerable. She needed clothes and she needed to make that phone call.

  He seemed to be reading her mind. “You can wear something of mine, and when you’re up to it, we can go and get some gear from your place.”

  Hannah frowned. He wanted her to stay with him. The thought was oddly comforting.

  “Well, I’d get your stuff myself, but I’m afraid to set foot in your house.”

  “Right, thanks.”

  He took the cup from her hands and put it on the table next to the bed, next to her purse.

  “You got my purse.” She reached for it and winced as a spark of pain shot across her rib. He handed it to her. Hannah rummaged through it.

  It was gone. The photograph of Danny. Had Rex seen it? Had her attacker taken it? Oh, God, Danny. She looked up and their eyes locked. He was reading the panic in hers.

  “You missing something?”

  “Uh, no. I…no, nothing.”

  His brow creased. “You sure?”

  “Yes. I’m just feeling…confused. I need to move, to get up.”

  Rex walked over to the closet and pulled out a T-shirt, a sweatshirt and a pair of dark-blue track pants. “You’re gonna swim in these, but,” he flashed her a rakish grin, “it’s better than nothing.”

  She pulled the covers up around her chin. “Thanks.”

  He lay the clothes in a pile on the end of the bed. “I’ll be in the next room. Take your time. I think you may’ve fractured a rib or two but the best we can do for that is rest. Let me know if you discover any other aches or pains.”

  “I keep forgetting you’re a doctor.”

  He opened the door connecting to the next room.

  “You are a doctor, aren’t you?” Or had he lied about that, too?

  “I haven’t practiced that kind of medicine for a while but, trust me, I’ve seen way worse than you out in the field.”

  Hannah frowned. The movement hurt the cut above her eye. “The field?”

  His hand was on the doorknob. He filled the door frame. “I got my med training through the British military. Cut my teeth treating troops out in places like Zambia and the Middle East. That’s before I specialized and went into research.” He closed the door behind him. The room felt suddenly empty.

  Hannah sat forward and squinted into the light coming through the diaphanous white drapes, the bed covers falling to her waist, exposing her breasts. She noticed the indentation in the pillow next to her, the rumpled sheets. He’d lain beside her. She touched the depression in the pillow with her hand. His head had rested there. The thought filled her chest with a spurt of tenderness, but it brought pain, too.

  She remembered all the nights she had spent lying in bed, thinking of him, missing him, the pillow beside her empty.

  She looked down at her breasts. She had no panties on. He had lain next to her naked body. She moved the covers aside and gingerly set her feet on the floor, testing, before transferring her full weight onto them. She eased herself into his pants. The T-shirt was not so easy. She had definitely damaged a rib.

  Hannah reached for the phone. The number would show up on his hotel bill but she figured that was okay. It was her mother’s telephone number and there was nothing that would give her son away.

  “Mom, hi, it’s me, how’s Danny?”

  “Hannah, are you all right? You sound strange.”

  “I’m fine.” She attempted a casual laugh. “I—uh—I tripped when I was out running and I knocked my head. Got a bit of a shock, that’s all. I’m fine, really.”

  “Have you seen a doctor? You could have a concussion, you know, and not even be aware of it. Remember that football player in your ninth grade class? He—”

  “Mom, I’m okay. I saw a doctor. He’s…he’s taking good care of me.” Rex was taking good care of her. He made her feel safe.

  “How’s Danny, can I speak to him?”

  “Oh, he’s great. Jim and I are loving his company. I’m so glad you let him come. Jim’s taking him fishing again today. I hope to put trout on the menu tonight. Ellie and Frank are coming over for dinner. Frank still keeps asking after you, you know. Oh, here’s Danny.”

  “Hey, Mom.” Breath hitched in Hannah’s chest at the sound of his clear little voice. She tilted her head back and scrunched her eyes so that tears wouldn’t spill out. She was a mess of emotion.

  “Hello, my boy.” The thought of nearly losing her life, not being there to take care of him was overwhelming. She had to let him know he had a father, someone besides her mom who could be there for him if something happened to her.

  But would Rex Logan be there for Danny? Hannah wasn’t even sure who Rex Logan really was. She thought she’d known. Now all she knew for sure was that he was a mysterious stranger who lurked in a sinister and secret underworld.

  “Mommy, are you there? Did Gran tell you I’m going fishing with Uncle Jim? We’ve got worms an’ everything. Gran’s packed us a picnic.”

  Hannah strained for a sense of normalcy. “Ugh, worms. Why doesn’t Jim teach you to fly fish, sweetie, it’s much cleaner.”

  “It doesn’t matter how you catch ’em as long as you catch ’em and we have to catch some fish ’cause Gran wants to cook them for dinner.”

  “Well, be careful of those hooks, honey. And, Danny—”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “If you need to speak to me over the next couple of days, try calling me at the office.” Hannah brushed a small tear from under her lashes. “I’m probably not going to be at home much, sweetie. I’ve got lots of work to do before you get back.”

  “’Kay, Mom.”

  “I love you, sweetheart.”

  “Love you more.”

  “Not possible. Now, go get Gran for me.”

  Sheila McGuire took the phone. “You still there, hon?”

  “Still here. Are you sure you’re okay to drive Danny back?”

  “I’m looking forward to it. I haven’t been up to White River for a while now. Jim’s not coming, though. He’s promised to help Frank with the new garage. We’ll drive up Friday. If we get the early ferry, we should be there just after lunch.”

  Four days. Hannah tried to run her hand through her hair. It stuck in the knots,
and she winced at the sharp pain the movement delivered to her ribs. She had just four days to sort things out.

  When Rex opened the door, she was lying back on the white pillows, claimed once again by the healing hands of sleep. A tumble of knotted gold fell about her shoulders. She looked so pale, so fragile in his bulky sweats. There were bruised purple smudges under her eyes, her lips were dry and cracked.

  He felt the rage simmer again as he looked upon her. He clenched his fists. He had a violent urge to avenge this act. He wanted to hurt whoever did this to her. He filled his lungs slowly, taking back control. Allowing emotions like that to fester only clouded judgment. Then you made mistakes.

  He walked over to her bedside and pulled a comforter over her. And he bent, brushing her cool forehead with his lips.

  Pensive, Rex walked over to the French doors, fingering the book of matches in his pocket. He looked out at the slopes, the sleeping snow guns. He knew that in another month or two, when the temperatures dipped to freezing in the valley, those guns would fire up, suck water from the river and blow a fine haze of sharp white crystals into the sky. They would fall onto the slopes, man-made snow helping nature along in the rush to dress the slopes for winter.

  He wondered about Hannah. He knew the intimate corners of her body but he knew so little about her, really. Why had she come here to White River? Why had she quit the job she was so passionate about? Did she ski? What did she look like with a veil of fine white crystals, sitting like little diamonds in the gold of her hair? The image swam into his brain—Hannah, like a snow bride. He crushed it. The mere concept was outrageous. Where in hell had that come from? He had to get this job done and get the hell out of this place.

  The matches. He pulled the book out and read the hotel name again, Fireside Lodge. Rex had found the book of matches on the loamy soil where Hannah had been pulled from the river. He had checked while she slept. CIA agent Ken Mitchell, under the alias Mark Bamfield, was registered as a guest at the Fireside Lodge.

  The woman was still alive. It could end up costing them everything. He gingerly fingered the fresh suture along the top of his cheekbone. The local was starting to wear off, his cheek starting to throb. They were both in the way, Logan and McGuire. That had to be rectified before the conference.