Trish tugged the covers to her sister’s chin and turned the setting of the electric blanket on high. She bundled Deb’s soggy clothes, stripped off her own wet jacket and tossed the garments onto the tile floor of the adjoining bathroom. Returning to the bedside, she pulled a chair close and sat.
O’Neill appeared at her elbow and grasped her shoulder. “Your turn,” he said.
“What?”
“Your clothes and shoes are soaked.” He handed her a navy blue velour robe and pointed to the bathroom. “We can’t take care of her if we’re sick ourselves. Get out of those wet clothes.”
His intense midnight-blue eyes and his dark hair, snarled by the wind and damp with snow, gave a wildness to his appearance. For a fleeting instant, Trish feared being alone, God only knew where, with a stranger. Then she recalled his gentleness with Debra and the fact that he’d risked his life in a blizzard to come after her and to rescue her sister. Her fear eased and gratitude surged in its place.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, recognizing that the truth about her identity would be a start, but she was too exhausted to deal with that complication right now.
His lips quirked in a crooked smile that softened the harsh planes of his face and made him look less dangerous. “Thank me by getting dry, so I don’t have two sick females on my hands.”
O’Neill was right, but she was reluctant to leave her sister, even for a few minutes. Trish glanced at Deb. “I think her ankle’s broken.”
He knotted his face in a frown. “She must have fallen from the overlook.”
“And crawled under the overhang?”
He nodded. “It sheltered her from the elements, but it also prevented the rescue teams from locating her. How did you find her?”
“I heard her calling. She must have regained consciousness for a few minutes,” Trish lied. Now that Deb had been found, Trish could reveal her true identity, but not yet. She was too tired for explanations. And he’d never understand her telepathic communication with her sister, so she wouldn’t divulge how their psychic connection had led her to Deb.
O’Neill stepped into the bathroom and returned with a digital thermometer. Pushing Deb’s thick hair aside, he gently inserted the instrument into her ear. When the thermometer beeped, he removed it and checked the readout. “A few degrees below normal, but the electric blanket should help. Did you notice any injuries besides her ankle?”
Trish shook her head. “Just lots of horrible bruises. But if she’s hurt internally…” Her voice broke and tears welled in her eyes.
She’d found Deb, but her sister literally wasn’t out of the woods.
O’Neill reached for Trish and pulled her against him. Through their wet clothes, the reassuring heat of his body enveloped her. Wrapped in his arms, she felt safe and was almost persuaded that Deb would be all right. With a start, she realized she wanted more than his embrace. Her lips tingled at the thought of kissing his, and she shivered as much from the unexpected desire that had ambushed her as from the cold.
O’Neill squeezed Trish in a fierce hug and, to her disappointment, released her. “Your clothes are soaked. Change into this dry robe. I’ll fix something hot to drink.”
He left the room and, after a quick check to assure herself that Deb was breathing naturally and her pulse was strong, Trish went into the bathroom. A glance in the mirrored expanse above the lavatory had her stepping back in alarm, until she realized the wild-eyed, desperate woman with tangled hair who confronted her was her own image.
Her gaze traveled from the beveled mirror to the cream-colored Italian marble of the floor and shower to the gold-plated fixtures. The decor, expensive yet understated and tasteful, made her wonder if the house was a private annex of Endless Sky.
And if this was an annex, there had to be an access road, a way for emergency vehicles to reach them.
Trish swiftly stripped her wet clothing, tugged off her soaked shoes and socks, and pulled on the soft robe. Obviously meant for a man, the velour garment almost touched the floor. She tied the robe tightly at the waist and rolled up the sleeves to free her hands.
Giddy at the prospect of imminent rescue, she hurried out of the bathroom, checked once more on Deb, who was breathing steadily but showed no sign of regaining consciousness, and went in search of O’Neill.
In her concern for Deb, she’d hardly noticed the living room earlier, but now she was struck by the casual comfort of the space with its high beamed ceiling, overstuffed furniture in a woodsy burgundy-and-green plaid, and a huge stone fireplace where O’Neill had lit a cheerful blaze. Grateful for the growing warmth that chased the bone-deep chill from her body, she crossed the room and entered the kitchen.
O’Neill, his dark hair standing in spikes from an apparent toweling, stood at the cooktop, stirring something in a saucepan. He wore dry jeans, snugly fitted and slung low on his hips, and a black crew-neck sweater. His feet were bare. He looked up and smiled when she entered the room, and her stomach did a flip-flop at the intensity in his expression.
“I’m making spiced cider,” he said. “It’ll heat you up.”
Desire blindsided her again. O’Neill’s innate appeal, mixed with his efforts to save Deb, made him impossible to resist. With the warmth his smile had generated, if she were any hotter, she’d burst into flames. With a twinge of guilt, she shoved her longings aside. She shouldn’t be thinking of her attraction to O’Neill, not while her sister lay in the next room in need of medical attention. She tore her gaze away and focused on an object on a nearby countertop.
“Is that a phone?” she asked.
“Yep.” O’Neill reached into a cabinet beside the stove, removed spice containers and dropped cinnamon sticks, cloves and powdered ginger into the simmering cider.
“Does it work?”
He nodded.
“Shouldn’t we call for help?”
“Wouldn’t do any good.” His calm attitude was irritating.
“Why not?”
“Because we’re cut off by the blizzard.”
“Surely there’s some vehicle that can make it through this weather. A snowmobile?”
O’Neill shook his head. “Trails are too narrow, steep and rough.”
“Even for the Hummer?” Trish asked in disbelief.
“Especially not the Hummer.”
Her earlier sense of security was swiftly disintegrating. “Why not?”
“No roads.”
“You’re kidding?”
“We’re literally in the middle of nowhere, and the only way out is the trail we came in on. Or a helicopter, which can’t fly in these conditions.”
Trish sank onto a stool beside the island and looked around the large kitchen, beautifully decorated and fully equipped with every modern convenience. “There has to be a road. Otherwise, how did they build this place?”
O’Neill removed the pot from the stove and strained its contents into two handmade pottery mugs. He handed one to Trish and leaned beside her, his hips against the island, one foot propped on the cabinet below. The easy calm of his attitude irritated her. “This is Quinn Stevens’s personal hideaway. Besides him, only the workmen who built it and I know it’s here.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.
“As for how it was built, every tree removed to clear the land was carried out by helicopter. And all the building materials, furnishings and appliances were brought in the same way. So there was no need for roads. Stevens didn’t want to destroy the environment by building a long access drive.”
“But the electricity, phone lines—”
“Underground cables,” he said, “buried at considerable expense, but if anyone can afford it, Stevens can. He has all the comforts of home here and no one to bother him.”
She concentrated on her one ray of hope. “But there’s room for a helicopter to land out there?”
He nodded. “As soon as the storm passes, we’ll call for a chopper to airlift Ms. Devlin to the hospit
al in Asheville.”
“Any idea how soon that will be?”
“Sometime tomorrow, if the weather report I heard was accurate.”
“That long?” Her hopes sank. If Deb had internal injuries, the wait could be fatal.
O’Neill set down his mug and grasped her shoulders. “The phone’s working. We’ll call a trauma specialist at the hospital and ask his advice on how to care for our patient until we can medevac her.”
Trish choked back a sob. She’d accomplished what she’d come for, to find her sister, but if Deb didn’t get medical attention soon—
Before she realized what was happening, O’Neill had wrapped her in his arms. His hand smoothed her hair and his deep voice murmured in her ear. “Try not to worry. We’ll take good care of her. I promise.”
Frightened and exhausted, wrung out by the emotional and physical pressures of the past thirty-six hours, Trish yielded to the comfort of his embrace. With her cheek pressed against his broad chest, she could count the beats of his heart, a steady, reassuring rhythm. She slid her arms around his waist and reveled in his body heat that did more to chase the chill of worry over Deb from her bones than any hot cider ever could. He smelled of balsam-scented soap and leather and dryer-fresh clothes. She tilted her head and her gaze met his, dark and unwavering. “Why did you follow me?”
He cupped her face in his hands and his breath, fragrant with spices, fanned her face. “I knew the weather was turning bad. I couldn’t leave you out in it.”
“You could have sent the rescue squad.”
“I thought I’d catch up with you faster than I did and make you turn back before the storm hit.”
“So you were concerned for the resort’s liability?” Even as she asked the pragmatic question, something far from practical flashed in his eyes.
“I was concerned for you.”
“You barely know me.” But she knew enough about O’Neill after his rescue of her and her sister to know that he was a good man, a man who had touched her heart.
“I intend to remedy that.” He dropped his head and claimed her lips with his.
Caught by surprise, she yielded to his kiss. He tasted of spicy cider, and an excitement she’d never experienced shot through her veins.
Straddling the stool where she sat, he enveloped her with his body, his arms around her, his legs gripping her thighs. She laced her fingers through his thick hair and opened her lips to him. She tried to think of reasons to resist, but instead remembered his unselfishness, his compassion, and her resistance melted beneath his heat.
Time stood still, and nothing existed but the two of them, heartbeats and breathing synchronized. Their bodies melded as if forged in the heat of a white-hot flame, and all she wanted was closer, more. She felt as if she was where she truly belonged, as if she’d come home for the first time.
“Ah, Erin,” he breathed.
The false name on his lips jerked her back to reality, and she broke from his embrace. Had she lost her mind? Her sister lay injured in the next room, and she was indulging in a passion party with a handsome stranger. What was she thinking?
A flush crept up her face. She knew exactly what she’d been thinking, wishing, hoping. And from the heated look in O’Neill’s dark eyes, they’d been on the same wavelength.
He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand, and she resisted leaning into his touch.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
Everything.
Deb was injured, and Trish wasn’t who she’d claimed to be. Neither the time nor circumstances lent themselves to a relationship with O’Neill. The cold must have frozen her brain. “I’m just worried about Debra.”
“You’re right.” He stepped away, but his reluctance to release her was clear. “I’ll call the hospital.”
She had to come clean about her identity and her relationship to Deb, as soon as—
Trish? Are you here or did I dream you?
Debra was conscious. Trish slid off the stool and grabbed her mug of cider.
“I’ll see how she’s doing.” With her lips still burning from O’Neill’s kiss, Trish hurried to the bedroom. She found her sister awake and propped on one elbow.
“Trish?” Deb’s voice was cracked and rough, but whether from extended silence or days of screaming for help, Trish couldn’t tell.
She rushed to Deb, put a steadying arm around her and thrust the mug into her hand. “Drink this. It’ll warm you.”
Deb took a few sips of the cider, then returned the cup to Trish with a shaky hand. “Where am I?”
“Quinn Stevens’s private retreat. Is this what you were looking for when you fell?”
Deb grabbed Trish’s forearm so hard her nails bit into the skin. “I didn’t fall.”
Deb must have hit her head, Trish thought, and was confused. “You did fall. I found you on the ledge beneath the overlook.”
“I know. But I didn’t fall,” she insisted. “Someone pushed me.”
Chapter Eight
“You were pushed?” Trish asked, stunned by the claim. “On purpose?”
Debra nodded. “I was standing at the overlook and heard something behind me. Before I could turn around, I felt two hands hit hard on my back. If that ledge hadn’t been there to break my fall, I’d be dead now.”
Not wanting to believe her, Trish looked into her sister’s eyes, but she found no confusion, only anger and fear. “Do you know who pushed you?”
Deb shook her head and collapsed against the pillows. “That’s why I hid under the ledge. I was afraid whoever shoved me off the overlook would come back to finish the job.”
“That’s a serious charge, Ms. Devlin.” O’Neill stood in the doorway like a dark shadow, his expression unreadable.
Deb looked at O’Neill in surprise. “What’s he doing here?” she asked Trish.
Trish suppressed a groan. She’d been so startled by Deb’s story that she’d forgotten to warn her sister that she was at Endless Sky under a false name. “He carried you off the mountain. He saved your life.”
O’Neill, one eyebrow cocked in speculation, glanced from Trish to Debra and back again. “You two know each other?”
Trish frowned. The moment of truth had arrived sooner than she’d planned.
Deb, unaware of her sister’s charade, laughed, not the full strength of her usual chuckle, but a laugh nonetheless. “You could say we know each other. Trish is my sister.”
“Trish?” O’Neill’s eyes burned into Trish with the intensity of a laser. “Is Ms. Devlin delusional or is there something you’d like to tell me?”
A moan of pain slipped from Deb’s lips. “My ankle. It hurts like hell. And so does my head.”
“Any painkillers here?” Trish asked.
O’Neill had already disappeared.
Debra gripped her arm. “I don’t know who pushed me. Whoever it was snuck up from behind and shoved me before I could get a look at him—or her.” She nodded toward the doorway where O’Neill had stood. “For all I know, it could have been him.”
Trish shook her head. “Why would O’Neill risk his life to save you if he wanted you dead?”
Debra shrugged in confusion. “Why did anyone push me in the first place?”
Trish recalled the questions the FBI agents had asked about Deb’s potential enemies and wondered if one had surfaced at Endless Sky. Or if, in her investigation, Deb had created a new adversary. “Did you meet all the guests at the hotel?”
“Every single one.” Talking was obviously an effort. A thin white line etched Deb’s lips, and her voice had a breathy quality. “I was digging into their backgrounds, especially the men in their thirties, trying to identify Quinn Stevens.”
“Maybe someone was afraid you’d uncover secrets best left buried. Especially since you’re a reporter who might publish your findings.”
Deb thought for a moment. “Or maybe I was too close to exposing Stevens’s identity and he, or someone he hired,
stepped in to keep me quiet.”
“Is he that ruthless?”
“Nobody knows.” Deb closed her eyes. For a moment she appeared to have lost consciousness again, but she must have been gathering strength to speak. “There’s no personal information available about the man. Not even a description.”
“O’Neill knows him,” Trish said.
“Can we trust O’Neill?” Deb looked frightened. “He owes his paycheck to Stevens. We don’t know how deep his loyalties run.”
“What choice do we have?” Trish wanted to trust O’Neill, even though her sixth sense was sending her warnings she wished she could ignore. She didn’t like to consider the alternative, that he had harmed her sister or hired himself out to do Stevens’s dirty work. “I don’t know where we are or how to get out of here. He says there’re no roads.”
“And you believe him?”
Trish hesitated. She believed O’Neill, but had her judgment been skewed by her strong attraction? Or had she been attracted to him because he seemed trustworthy? Her internal debate was making her head hurt.
O’Neill reappeared in the doorway with the handset from the phone in one hand and a bottle of Tylenol in the other. He offered the handset to Debra. “I have the trauma specialist on the line. He wants to talk to you.”
Debra took the handset, and Trish watched and listened while her sister fielded the doctor’s questions.
O’Neill retreated to the doorway, where he stood with one shoulder propped against the jamb and his arms folded across his chest, his neutral expression giving nothing away. Outside the blizzard raged, hammering the sturdy log house and howling in fury.
When Deb had answered all the doctor’s questions, she passed the phone to Trish.
“Will you be caring for Ms. Devlin?” the doctor asked.
“Yes, for now.”
“Give her Tylenol for pain. Rehydrate her, as much warm liquid as she can take. No solid food. And keep her quiet.”
“What about her ankle?”
“If you know first aid, you can put it in a splint. Otherwise, it’s best to leave it. Let me speak with O’Neill, please.”
Mystique Page 9
