“Beard’s from Kentucky. He owns racing stables.”
“And Werner?”
“Apparently independently wealthy, but from what source, I haven’t a clue,” O’Neill admitted.
“What age is Werner?”
“Midthirties, as are Redlin and Beard.”
Trish starred the men’s names on her list. Looking for Stevens, Deb had concentrated her search on men in their thirties. O’Neill also fell into that age group. But Deb had said she’d found nothing about him.
“How come,” Trish asked, “Deb couldn’t find anything about you?”
O’Neill’s expression turned guarded. “It wasn’t for lack of trying. She grilled me with a ton of questions, but I never gave her enough to go on. Hard to find anything about a person when all you know is his last name.”
“Why the secrecy?” Trish felt she was knocking on a door that she had no idea what was on the other side. A door that perhaps shouldn’t be opened.
But O’Neill didn’t hesitate in answering. “Maintaining a certain mystique is part of my job. Endless Sky is not only an exclusive resort, it’s also famous for its eerie ambience. Remember the ghost stories I told you?”
Trish nodded. “And Ludie May added her share.” She didn’t tell him about hearing the voice of the ancient Cherokee. She had concluded that the phenomenon, a figment of her imagination, was the result of the power of suggestion and her hysteria over her missing sister.
“If everyone learns I’m just an ordinary guy from Chardon, Ohio,” O’Neill said with an appealing grin, “my mystique goes down the drain. Better for business that I seem mysterious and dangerous.”
If O’Neill was ordinary, she was the Queen of England. “What kind of ordinary guy are you?”
He lifted the chicken from the grill, dished out green beans and removed the potatoes from the convection oven. After filling two plates, he asked, “Want to eat here or in the dining room?”
“Here’s fine.”
Again he had avoided answering her question. He set two places with flatware and napkins, slid a plate across the island to her and sat down in front of his own. “Hope you’re hungry.”
Trish was too worried about Deb to have much appetite, but, for politeness’s sake, took a bite of the chicken, which was tender and flavorful. “This is good.”
“I aim to please.”
“Then why didn’t you answer my question?” The fact that O’Neill was pleasing in a very visceral sense made her skin flush.
His handsome face was the picture of innocence. “What question?”
“I asked what kind of ordinary guy you are.”
“A boring one.” He slathered butter on his baked potato. “I graduated high school and college, opened a business that eventually went under, then went to work for Stevens. That’s about it.”
While she couldn’t fault his answer, it hadn’t satisfied her curiosity. There were layers to O’Neill she hadn’t peeled back yet, and she itched to know what lay beneath them. “Are your parents living?”
“They’re retired.”
“In Chardon?”
He shook his head. “They moved to Phoenix after Dad quit his job, and now they travel a lot. Free rooms at the resorts is one of my perks for working for Stevens, but they prefer St. Thomas over the mountains.”
Trish wanted to ask about Alicia, his ex-fiancée, but his earlier attitude when speaking of her suggested she was a touchy subject. “You have any hobbies?” she asked instead.
“If this is twenty questions,” he said with a searching look and a ghost of a smile, “do I get a turn next?”
“If I’m going to spend another night with a strange man,” she shot back, “I should learn more about him first.”
“I enjoyed sleeping with you.” His gaze was heated and his eyes sparked with mischief. “Even if you do snore.”
“I do not!”
“A very ladylike rumble, but a snore nonetheless.”
“And I don’t intend to sleep with you again,” she insisted, fighting against her desire to do exactly that. “I was referring to staying under the same roof, that’s all.”
“No problem. There’re two bedrooms.” He polished off the last of his dinner, took his plate to the sink and flipped on the coffeemaker.
Trish, her face hot with embarrassment and a touch of disappointment at his easy capitulation, handed him her plate.
“We can have coffee in the living room,” O’Neill said, “in front of the fire.”
“Fine, but you avoided my question again.” Talking about O’Neill took the focus off her awkwardness. “The one about hobbies.”
“Hobbies?” He thought for a moment. “I like to hike. The trails around here are one of the things I love about this job.” He opened the freezer and removed a flat red box. “Cheesecake?”
“Sure. Nobody doesn’t like Sara Lee.” Trish was happy to inject a lighter note into the conversation, to shove aside the images of another night in O’Neill’s arms. And with as much hiking as she’d done yesterday, she didn’t have to worry about cheesecake calories.
O’Neill defrosted the dessert in the microwave, put their dessert plates, cups and saucers, and the coffee carafe on a tray, and motioned her toward the door to the living room.
Avoiding the sofa, Trish took a deep chair by the hearth. O’Neill set the tray on the coffee table, tossed extra logs on the fire and sat across from her.
Enveloped in the cozy, intimate atmosphere, Trish couldn’t help contemplating what sharing coffee after dinner on a regular basis with O’Neill would be like, but she was too practical to let short-term attraction sidetrack her from her ultimate goal of a solid marriage, family and children. From everything she’d read and observed, the keys to a lasting relationship were honesty and commitment. She didn’t know enough about O’Neill to discern if he was entirely honest—her instincts said otherwise—and commitment seemed a contradiction to his lone-wolf lifestyle.
In spite of his answers to her questions, she knew almost nothing about the man. His magnetic appeal drew her, but she sensed he held back, revealing as little of himself as possible. Maybe, as he’d hinted earlier, he’d been burned too deeply by Alicia to trust women.
Or maybe his secrets were more sinister?
Before she could follow that train of thought, the phone rang. O’Neill retrieved the handset from a nearby cradle and answered.
“I’ll let you tell her,” he said and handed Trish the phone.
“It’s Deb,” the familiar voice sounded on the other end of the line.
“Are you okay?” Trish asked.
“Except for a broken ankle. The doctor says I need a pin in it. But the MRI shows no other injuries.”
“Will you need surgery?”
“Tomorrow morning, to insert the pin.”
“I’ll come see you no later than tomorrow afternoon. I promise.”
“Don’t worry. They’re taking excellent care of me.”
“I want to see that for myself.”
“You be careful, sis. Whoever pushed me is still roaming free.”
“I’ll be careful. I promise. Love you, Debster.”
“Love you, too. See you tomorrow.”
With a sigh of relief, Trish clicked off the handset. Deb was going to be okay.
Without warning, in an inundating rush, all Trish’s pent-up emotions of the past few days broke free. She hadn’t cried when Deb had gone missing. She’d been too busy planning her own search. And once she’d found her sister, Trish had been too concerned over Deb’s injuries to shed a tear. But now that Deb was in good hands with nothing worse than a broken ankle, a dam burst.
TRISH PUT DOWN the phone. O’Neill waited for a report, but she said nothing. She sat frozen, as if in a trance. A solitary silver tear slid down the perfect curve of her cheek, her sea-blue eyes filled with moisture and her shoulders trembled.
“Bad news?” he asked.
Trish shook her head. Her tears spilled over
and ran down her face, and a sob racked her.
“What’s wrong?” he insisted, alarmed at her distress.
“N…n…nothing,” she uttered between her steadily increasing sobs.
Confused, but touched by her anguish, O’Neill left his chair and went to her. He picked her up, not ing how delicate she seemed in his arms, then sat again and cradled her in his lap. Rocking her gently, he murmured against the silky texture of her hair. “That’s a lot of crying over nothing.”
She lifted her face and forced a smile through her tears. “She’s going to be all right. Just a broken ankle.”
“Isn’t that good news?”
Trish sniffled and nodded. “But I’ve been so worried.”
Now he understood. “Delayed reaction?”
She nodded again and gulped down a sob. “I can’t stop.”
He tightened his hold. “Shhh. Don’t try. Let it all out.”
“But I feel…so…foolish.”
“You’ve been through hell. I’m surprised you’ve held up this long.”
Trish Devlin was a remarkable woman who’d risked her life to save her sister, who hadn’t given up, even when hardened and experienced members of the rescue squad had called it quits. Even while crying her eyes out, she maintained a certain dignity, an ethereal beauty. He cupped her face in his palms and wiped her tears with the pads of his thumbs.
He’d kissed her yesterday and the encounter had been like nothing he’d experienced before. It had left him longing for more. Propelled by the memory, he dipped his head and tasted the salty tears on her lips. He fully expected her to pull away, but instead, she opened her mouth to him and lifted her arms to encircle his neck. Heat surged through him like a cleansing fire and, in a moment of clarity, he wanted this woman more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life.
Against his chest, her heartbeat thudded, echoing his own, and her breath mingled with his. He threaded his fingers through her hair and pulled her closer, deepening the kiss.
She stiffened suddenly and drew back. “I shouldn’t do this.”
“You don’t want to?” He released her, loath to force himself on her.
“Oh, I want to.” Her voice was low, breathy, and he had to strain to hear. “Too much.”
He traced the curve of her cheek with his index finger. Her skin was soft, smooth. “Then why stop?”
She climbed from his lap and moved closer to the fire. “Things are moving too fast. Especially when I’m not sure that they should be moving at all.”
He struggled to concentrate, trying to understand her reasoning through the fog of his desire. “Why not? We’re adults and neither of us has commitments to someone else.”
She’d said she wasn’t married or engaged, but she hadn’t said there was no one else in her life. “You don’t, do you?”
She shook her head and lifted her gaze past him, as if unable to meet his eyes. “But—”
Her eyes widened and she gasped in alarm.
Chapter Ten
O’Neill grabbed Trish by the shoulders. “What’s wrong?”
She pointed to the window, filled now only with her own reflection, and blinked in surprise. “He’s gone. Just disappeared into thin air.”
O’Neill whipped around and stared where she’d pointed. “Who?”
“There was a man on the porch, looking in the French door.” Someone had been there. She was sure of it. She couldn’t stop shaking. Either O’Neill’s tales of ghosts were true or she was losing her mind.
In three long strides, O’Neill crossed the room, threw open the door and stepped onto the porch. After searching its length, he came inside and locked the door. “Are you sure it wasn’t a reflection? There’re no tracks in the snow.”
“I saw him as clearly as I’m seeing you now.” Maybe she was losing it. Knees trembling, stomach fluttering, she sank into a chair. “He was tall with long, black hair, dark skin. And he was bare-chested.”
“In this cold?” O’Neill shook his head in disbelief.
“He was dressed like an American Indian, all leather and beads. And paint on his face.”
O’Neill stared with raised eyebrows.
“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”
He crossed to the glass-paned doors, drew heavy drapery over them and returned to her side. Contemplation, not disbelief, shone in his eyes. “If you are, you’re not the only one.”
“What are you saying?”
“Our Cherokee friend has been seen before.”
“Here?” Trish didn’t know whether to feel relieved or frightened.
“Not here. In the halls of Endless Sky.”
“You’ve seen him?”
“No, but several guests and a few of the staff have reported an Indian in full battle dress hovering in the shadows.” O’Neill frowned. “His appearance usually portends some dire event. The last time he was seen was right before one elderly guest suffered a fatal heart attack.”
“Brought on by fright?” Trish’s own heart was pounding like a jackhammer.
“The guest didn’t see the apparition. Judd Raye, the custodian, encountered him in the basement while he was repairing a water heater.”
“So this Cherokee is a harbinger of doom?”
O’Neill shrugged. “It could be coincidence.”
Shivering despite the heat from the fireplace, Trish sank into a chair. “I hadn’t seen him before, but I’ve heard his voice.”
“He talks to you?” Now O’Neill did look skeptical, and she couldn’t blame him.
“Either that or I’ve become suddenly schizophrenic with voices in my head.”
“What did he say?”
O’Neill had to be humoring her. He couldn’t believe her bizarre assertion. She hardly believed it herself.
“He promised to look out for me. And that I would find Deb.”
His expression remained dubious. “You’ve been under a lot of strain.”
She took a deep breath in a futile effort to stop trembling. “You’re right. Both the voice and apparition were probably nerves.”
O’Neill went to a sideboard and returned with a snifter of brandy. A whopping double. Great. If there was anything worse than a crazy woman, she thought, it was a drunk crazy woman.
“Drink this.” He handed her the glass and turned to leave.
The last thing she wanted was to be alone. “Where are you going?”
“To get your bed ready. You’ll need a good night’s rest. We’ll leave at first light to hike back to Endless Sky.”
He disappeared into the bedroom Deb had occupied. She averted her gaze from the covered window, well aware it was no barrier against a wandering spirit, and stared at the flickering flames. She couldn’t allow herself to go to pieces. Not now. Deb was safe for the moment, but her assailant still wandered free, ready to strike again. Trish had to keep her wits about her if she intended to identify and bring to justice the person who had almost killed her sister.
As much as she dreaded being alone, her only alternative was to sleep with O’Neill. And she couldn’t let that happen. Despite all her instincts that insisted he was hiding something, she didn’t trust herself to resist the longings he stirred in her.
Resigned to a night alone—she hoped she would be alone and not joined by the Cherokee ghost—she chugged the brandy like medicine. Soon, its soporific effect and the heat from the fire had her dozing in her chair. When O’Neill reappeared and gathered her in his arms, she snuggled against him, her inhibitions diminished by emotional exhaustion and a brandy buzz. Only half-conscious, she didn’t protest when he removed her clothes and tucked her between fresh sheets and blankets. She barely registered the brush of his lips against hers and his whispered, “Sleep tight,” before darkness claimed her.
SUNLIGHT SLICED THROUGH the tree canopies and glinted on the rapidly melting snow. During the night, the wind had shifted, bringing warm air from the south to disperse the drifts left by the storm. But the trail was still inches deep in
snow and Trish’s sneakers were soon soaked. The icy misery of her feet increased her pace, making her more anxious than ever to return to the warmth and relative security of Endless Sky.
In the bright light of morning, she flushed with embarrassment at her behavior the previous night. Her Cherokee apparition had clearly been the workings of her overactive imagination and exhaustion. Just like her dreams. She could have sworn she’d heard O’Neill in the kitchen talking on the telephone in the middle of the night. She even remembered looking at the bedside clock at 2 a.m. But at breakfast, O’Neill had laughed when she questioned whom he’d called.
“I slept like a rock straight through the night,” he insisted. “You must have been dreaming.”
But hearing him in the kitchen hadn’t felt like a dream. Of course, the sight of the Cherokee warrior hadn’t seemed like a hallucination at the time, either. This morning, rested and secure in the knowledge that Deb was receiving the best of care, Trish hoped her imagination had finished playing tricks on her.
Ahead, O’Neill’s sturdy hiking boots broke through the snow, clearing the path. Every now and then, he reached back to give her a boost up the steepest slopes, his grip strong on her wrist. While his actions were considerate and protective, he’d turned aloof and withdrawn this morning, as he’d been the first day she met him, probably regretting breaking his rule about not becoming involved with a guest.
As conflicted as her own feelings were, she could understand his reservations. O’Neill’s magnetic appeal was as much a mystery as the man himself. He made her pulse race, her heart pound and sent a burst of excitement, like Fourth of July fireworks, exploding through her when he smiled. She had it bad, but she couldn’t understand why. Yes, he was one of the most handsome men she’d ever met, but no more attractive than Coach Brad Larson was in his own way. O’Neill had helped her sister, but most people would have done so under the same circumstances. And he could cook, a trait she found especially appealing in a man. While looks, kindness and culinary skills were terrific attributes, were they enough to engender the strong emotions that consumed her? She didn’t think so. Otherwise she’d be gaga over Bobby Flay on the Food Network.
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