Tackling the mountain in one day was a piece of cake compared to corralling these tourists bent on self-destruction.
Rafe stalked into the campsite—silently cursing the pile of trash that broke park rules and invited wildlife to pay a visit. He overlooked a collapsed tent, strode past the woman curled up like a pretzel and chanting about Calm in a patch of itch-weed that would come back to haunt her by morning, and approached the circle of campers gathering around an argument that was quickly becoming a brawl.
“I saw you come out of that tent!” A blond man, decked out in L.L. Bean from head to toe, ignored the woman with her hand braced against his chest and shoved her forward in his effort to get at the man he accused.
“Ed,” she protested. “Stop this.”
Ed Butler. The first name from the list kicked in.
A black man, sporting shoulder-length twists of hair, shouted over the top of the woman’s bronzed curls. “I was paying my respects. What, are you spying on me now? Haven’t you done enough to screw up my life?”
“Keith—” She tried her luck with him. Keith Robinson. Rafe memorized the face to go with the dossier.
“You’re the one who mucked up that grant, not me.”
“You son of a—”
Ed shoved.
Keith shoved back.
Someone in their audience shouted, “Gentlemen!” No one listened.
“If I die up here in this godforsaken—”
“I’m happy to oblige—”
The woman jostled between the men’s chests, her shapeless figure the only thing keeping their fists from landing their targets. A khaki-clad shoulder knocked her narrow-framed glasses off her nose as she twisted around to beg for help. “Dr. Copperfield, do something!”
Rafe dropped his pack beside the cold firepit and plunged into the circle of shocked faces. He knocked Ed Butler aside, wrapped his arm around the woman’s waist and lifted her out of the fray. Her startled gasp was drowned out as the feud between the two men heated up with a string of obscenities and a throat-grabbing lunge.
A shaggy-haired hulk backed off a step as Rafe carried the woman out of harm’s way. “Whoa!”
He tuned out the blond kid’s awestruck response and ignored the curious stares and sputtering protests of the gallery of onlookers who’d been too frightened or indifferent to intervene.
“You can put me down now,” the woman ordered, squirming against his chest.
Hints of a familiar voice drew his entire attention to her for an awkward moment. With his hand palming the swell of her hip and his forearm wedged beneath the generous weight of her breasts, Rafe realized shapeless hadn’t been an accurate first impression of her. She had more curves to her than most, in fact, camouflaged beneath her baggy clothes. But before he allowed his body to respond to the impression of such lush femininity, he set her safely down behind him.
Returning to the business at hand, Rafe pried the black man’s fingers from his opponent’s collar and twisted his arm up behind his back. “Ow! Who the hell are you?”
Butler wavered, debating whether to help his buddy escape or take advantage of him being restrained.
Rafe made the decision for him. Holding on to one man, he glared the other into submission.
Ed, the tussler dressed like an outdoorsman catalog ad, wisely retreated. Keith Robinson went still, finally understanding he had no advantage over Rafe’s brawnier build and expertise in dealing with human nature as well as Mother Nature.
“Let me go, dammit,” Keith pleaded, breathing hard and wincing at the inflexible grip on his wrist. “This isn’t any of your business.”
“The hell it isn’t.” Ed snapped to when Rafe addressed him, “Get the lady’s glasses.”
While Ed scrambled to do his bidding, Rafe kept his eyes on the campers closing in around them, making sure no one else tried to jump in and reignite the battle.
“Why the hell didn’t any of you break up this fight?” he demanded.
“I was going to,” a mid-life crisis of a man insisted. Rafe quickly identified him as Dick Copperfield. The devilish points of his receding hairline deepened as he arched a condescending eyebrow. “You just beat me to it.”
In a pig’s eye. Copperfield couldn’t let go of that blond showgirl turned office manager, Natalie Flanders, long enough to take any useful action. But maybe it wasn’t fading testosterone so much as wanting a shield to protect himself that made the college president hold on to his assistant so tightly.
“We function as one unit, one team, up here on the mountain,” Rafe explained in succinct terms even the two hotheads could understand. “Or else we die on this mountain. Do I make myself clear?”
While his words were absorbed by silence and the cooling summer air, Rafe made a few quick impressions of the people he’d come to rescue and wondered which—if any—of them had the brass and motive to murder Frank.
They matched his research to a T. Irene Sharp, New-Age airhead and suspected con artist. Rowdy Trent, overgrown surfer boy stuck in the flatlands of Kansas. His petty juvenile crimes and poor grades had raised questions about how he’d ever landed a teaching assignment. William Hawthorne, apparently more frail than his age might indicate. Charles and Lydia Defoe, real estate magnates who looked as out of place in a rustic campsite as he’d look at a black-tie party. And, of course, Butler and Robinson, who’d carried an old grudge up the mountain with them.
The fact he didn’t see one spinsterly, pinched-face, Miss Chapman type in the bunch brought Rafe’s gaze back to the woman he’d pulled from the fight. She belonged to that sex-under-the-stars voice that had served as both inspiration and distraction on his grueling climb.
He watched as she accepted her glasses and wiped them clean on the hem of her flannel shirt. The only lines on her fresh, flushed expression were the dimples beside her mouth, putting her closer to thirty than to retirement. She’d never tame that riot of sun-kissed amber curls back into a bun. And he didn’t want to read too much into how perfectly her pretty gray eyes matched the snow-capped granite of the peak above them.
“You made your point crystal clear,” she replied when no one else would. “I’m afraid we’ve been working on the team idea now for several days without much success.” Her gray eyes fluttered self-consciously when she slipped on her glasses and finally saw how intently he’d been studying her. But, dismissing his interest, she tilted her chin. “Mr. Kincaid, I presume?”
He nodded. “Kansas?”
“Hannah Greene,” she confirmed and corrected in one sentence. Rafe grinned. Miss Chapman’s spirit was alive and well, despite the new and decidedly improved packaging. “I appreciate your help, but I think you can let Dr. Robinson go now.”
Rafe cautioned Keith Robinson to mind his temper before freeing him. The black man rubbed his arm from shoulder to wrist and sulked his way back into the circle.
“So you’re the roustabout superhero who’s come to rescue us?” The man who’d ignored Hannah’s plea for help extended his hand and flashed a smile. “I’m Dick Copperfield, president of Randolph College. This expedition was my idea.” Like that was some claim to fame? “As you can see, we still have a few issues to work through. I must admit, I hadn’t planned on staying alive being one of them, however.”
“Rafe Kincaid.” Rafe shook his hand just to get the niceties over with and move on. “Let me assure you that even though you signed liability clauses, Extreme, Inc., will see your party safely down the mountain.” He propped his hands on his hips and scanned from side to side, including everyone in his instructions. “But in order to do that, I need you to do exactly as I tell you, the moment I tell you to do it.”
Copperfield smirked. “Frank Brooks used a much more patient, scholarly approach as our guide. He made this a fun, educational experience for us.”
Rafe’s gaze swung back and nailed the president. “And look where that got him.”
Copperfield’s beady black eyes narrowed, giving Rafe a glimpse beneath the
good ol’ boy facade. The guy wasn’t all charm and PR. “Are you insinuating something, Mr. Kincaid?”
My friend’s dead, and the ten of you are the only people I’ve seen on this mountain all day. Making accusations now wouldn’t endear him to anyone, and would put the killer on his or her guard if, indeed, one of these so-called academics had taken Frank out. Despite the suspicions that beat a strong pulse inside him, Rafe bit his tongue. Far better to focus on survival at this point, and keep his eyes and ears open for leads of any kind. Besides, there was still a possibility that someone from Frank’s past had gotten to him, that the killer was someone adept at tracking, hiding and making an undetected strike. Stranding these people could simply be collateral damage—an unfortunate consequence to pulling off a murder.
Heeding his own advice, Rafe turned his speculation down a notch. “I’m just saying that time is critical. I understand there’s a food shortage. Plus, the National Weather Service predicts stormy weather by tomorrow noon. That means our climbing time will be cut short. In the interest of safety, at that time we’ll take shelter until the storm front passes.” That earned a few worried murmurs. “I want to get you down to headquarters, then come back for Frank’s body as quickly as possible. But I don’t want anyone getting hurt in the process.”
“You’re damn straight he’ll get us out of this mess ASAP.” Charles Defoe, a man of about sixty, made his presence known with a thump against Copperfield’s chest. “I paid good money to finance this fiasco. You promised me that Randolph would return to its glory days if you could get your faculty to resolve their differences and work together. So far I haven’t seen anything resembling cooperation—or competence.” He pointed that same polished finger up at Rafe. “If anything happens to me or my wife, the college won’t be the only one hearing from my lawyers.”
A chorus of hear-hear’s and stony silences told Rafe just how fractured this supposed team truly was.
Dr. Copperfield introduced the man who’d just threatened to sue. “Mr. Defoe is an alum of the college, and one of our most reliable investors.” The two men exchanged contemptuous looks hidden behind fake smiles. It seemed that Copperfield liked Defoe’s money more than the man himself. “This is his wife, Lydia.”
“Ma’am.”
The refined redhead acknowledged Rafe with a nod and a threat of her own. “I was against this stupid idea from the start. I want to be home in my hot tub by tomorrow night.”
Rafe shook his head. “Not possible, ma’am. I figure we have at least two more nights on the mountain, and that’s providing we leave here first thing in the morning.”
“Two nights?” Lydia scoffed. “That’s entirely unacceptable.”
“Two nights to get to a clearing where we can safely land and load a chopper. Three if we go all the way back to the canoes.”
“Why, I… You—” Temper dotted her cheeks to match the color of her hair. “I have appointments. I have a life.” She turned to her husband. “Charles?”
“My wife is trying to put on a brave front here. But we’re all thinking the same thing. We’re not safe.” Charles wagged an accusatory finger. “And I’m not talking about mountain-climbing. After the tragedy that befell Mr. Brooks—”
“Mr. Defoe, Lydia,” Hannah argued, stepping into the conversation with a rebuke that was too gentle to do much damage. “Rafe can’t help what happened to his friend. Or to us. We should be grateful that he’s finally here. That we’re going to get home, period.”
There was something a bit Miss Chapman-like and unexpectedly intriguing about a woman who barely reached his shoulder jumping in to defend him. Still, Rafe had faced tougher crowds than this on his own. “I don’t intend to let anyone else get hurt, Mr. Defoe. But you’ll make my job a lot easier, and this trip a lot safer, if we all cooperate. Keep in mind that I’m willing to leave a friend behind in order to see you and your wife and the others home just as soon as I can.”
Dick Copperfield finally made an effort to sound like the voice of authority. “Well, I, for one, am relieved to see you. What do you need us to do first?”
Rafe didn’t like the feel of this place. These people. The mountain was telling him something was amiss—there were too many secrets, too much tension that he couldn’t attribute to fear alone. Something very wrong was brewing beneath the surface of all this bravado. But they had only one problem he was compelled to deal with at the moment. Survival.
“We’ll be losing daylight in about ten minutes,” he warned. “You, you and you—” He pointed to the most able-bodied men. “Gather wood and get a fire going.”
“We lost our matches, dude.” The beach boy, Rowdy Trent, shrugged. “They were with the food when it disappeared.”
“Fine. I’ll get the fire started if you bring me the wood. I need dry stuff, deadwood you find on the ground. And stay in sight of the tents. I don’t want to search for anybody after dark.” Once Rowdy and the dueling professors had scurried away into the trees, he turned and snapped orders to the others. “Assemble any and all food from your tents and packs on the table—everything from an energy bar to a breath mint. Make sure you’re dressed in layers to conserve body heat. Professor Hawthorne?” He addressed the white-haired gentleman with the stooped shoulders. “Do you know how to pitch a tent?”
“I sure do.” The old man smiled. “And it’s William.” The sparkle in his eyes made Rafe think the old man was sharp and willing, even if the body couldn’t quite keep up.
Rafe grinned, respecting the energy he conveyed. He nodded toward the collapsed tent. He figured it was the least strenuous job at hand since it required no climbing or heavy lifting. “Can you fix that?”
“I sure can. But that’s Ed and Keith’s tent.”
The two combatants bunked together?
“They’re a little busy right now. Do you mind?”
Seeming pleased to do Rafe’s bidding, Hawthorne laid a hand on Dr. Copperfield’s shoulder. “C’mon, Dick. I’ll need your help.”
With a reluctant nod from the alleged man in charge, the remaining campers scattered to do Rafe’s bidding.
As the group cleared, Rafe sought out the closest thing to an ally he had on the mountain. “Kansas.”
Hannah paused on the slope above him, giving him a glimpse of denim clinging to some interesting curves before she shifted direction to climb back down. “Yes?”
A shower of dirt and gravel swept beneath her boots as she turned, carrying her feet along in a current that moved faster than the rest of her body. She wobbled, and her arms wind-milled to keep her balance. But before she landed on her backside, Rafe reached up, spanning his hands at either side of her waist to set her squarely on the flat ground in front of him.
“Try to keep your center of gravity closer to the mountain,” he advised, automatically shifting his hands to her stomach and the curve of her hip and buttock to demonstrate the technique. “Lean in to the slope when you’re facing it. Bend your knees a little and sit back when you’re going the other way.”
“Oh.” Her fingers pinched into the muscle beneath his skin, almost like an urgent caress, and suddenly Rafe was as curiously aware of the soft swells of woman filling his hands as he was of her clinging to the sweater and skin around his biceps. She nodded along with a breathy reassurance that buzzed across nerve endings and awakened dormant parts of his body. “I’ll try to remember that.”
Though she tried to hide it with a man-size flannel shirt, shapeless was definitely the wrong adjective for the ample figure beneath his big hands. And those gray eyes were pinpoint in focus—even above the rims of her glasses—turned up to his superior height in a completely innocent, completely captivating…
Rafe plucked his hands away almost as quickly as she reached up to center her glasses back into place. “What did you need, Mr. Kincaid?”
You? Sex? A swift kick in the pants?
Silently damning the untimely arousal of hormones, he tuned in to her actual words. Mr. Kincaid. What happened
to Rafe? Like a splash of icy water, the subtle distancing cleared his head of those scattered impressions of her and put him firmly back in the moment and his need to assess the situation. “What was that fight between Butler and Robinson about?”
“The radio.” She seemed to breathe easier now that the charged moment between them had passed. Feeling more like himself as well, Rafe followed as she crossed to the camp table and pointed out what was left of shattered plastic, shredded wires and crushed computer circuits. “I left it in Frank’s tent after the last time we talked. I figured no one would bother it since no one wanted to go in there. About a half hour ago I went to get it to let you know the natives were getting restless, and…” She gestured at the mess on the table. “That’s how I found it.”
“And Robinson was the last one in the tent?”
“That’s Ed’s claim. Though I didn’t see him there.” She tucked a springy curl behind one ear. But it popped right back out of place, masking the red welt that was deepening in color across her cheekbone. “But then I didn’t realize I needed to be watching everyone. Now I don’t know who to trust.”
“Trust yourself,” he advised. Rafe reached out with one finger to brush the curl aside and frowned at the evidence of the earlier fight. “It doesn’t look like there’s anyone else up here to take care of you.”
Rafe savored the heat creeping into his fingertip as a blush stained Hannah’s cheeks. Was she feeling this connection, too? Or was she embarrassed that the big, tough mountain man she barely knew couldn’t seem to keep his hands to himself?
With almost a shy duck of her head she broke the contact and turned away. Rafe curled his finger into his palm, respecting, if not liking, the don’t-touch-me message she sent. “But I’m supposed to trust you, though. Right?”
“Yes,” he answered honestly, though a smart woman would take the time to get to know a man before investing that kind of faith in him.
Cornered Page 19
