No, Runne was perfect. He'd chosen him for that very volatility and fanaticism. Betworth could handle him until the job was done. There was no need to dispose of him, as long as Runne remained obsessed with the hunt.
Stockton, Maine
The house appeared empty.
But Morgan was clever. It could be a trap.
Runne moved swiftly, silently over the autumn leaves spread on the ground before the window. He'd already disabled the alarm system, and it took only a moment to cut the glass of the window and unlock it.
Darkness.
Are you in there, Morgan?
He waited.
Silence. Emptiness.
Morgan was gone. He could feel it. Disappointment surged through him.
He swung over the windowsill into the room.
Paintings. Canvases. Morgan's studio. Like the studios in the other two houses where he'd just missed catching him.
Frustration and sorrow soared within him as he looked around.
Morgan hadn't bothered to pack up his canvases and take them with him, even though he'd known Runne would find this hiding place as he'd found the others. He knew Runne would not destroy them.
Destroy the man.
Destroy the soul.
Never destroy the beauty.
He would not turn on the lights. He would not look at the paintings. They would hurt too much.
But he knew the sketch would be somewhere in full view where he could find it. Morgan always took pains to make sure he wouldn't miss it.
There it was. By the window.
He didn't want to see it.
Yes, he did. At this moment he wanted nothing more in life than to see that sketch. He slowly walked toward it. As he drew closer, he saw that it wasn't just one sketch this time. There were several. He picked them up and held each one up to the moonlight streaming in the window.
Twisted. Haunted. Passionate.
It was Runne's face, sketched over and over. Each portrayal more revealing than the next. It made Runne feel naked and angry . . . and sad. He could feel the tears run down his cheeks.
Morgan, may you rot in hell.
It couldn't go on. Life was too unbearable. He couldn't keep hunting him down and then having him slip through his fingers.
He had to die.
Alex carefully opened her bedroom door.
It was after three A.M., and she could see the crack of light beneath the door of the study but no moving shadow on the other side. It was the fourth time she'd checked out the study and found it the same.
Hell, maybe Morgan had sat down in a chair or couch and fallen asleep.
Not likely.
He was probably listening, waiting for her to make a move.
Well, she was going to make one. What could she lose? Morgan didn't want her dead, so he wasn't going to shoot her if he caught her. She'd try the Land Rover first and see if she could hot-wire it. She'd spent the last few hours prying the brass trim off the marble fireplace in her bedroom to make a jimmy stick. If that didn't work, she'd hike down the mountain and see if she could see the lights of another house. For all she knew, Denver might be only a few miles away.
What she did know was that she couldn't wait any longer. She had to do something.
She closed the door and went over to the window she'd opened a few minutes ago. It was snowing harder and there was already a little pile of snow dampening the carpet.
She pulled her jacket closer around her and swung over the windowsill.
She'd gotten the Land Rover started.
Judd smiled and put down his brush as he heard the roar of the engine.
Smart woman. He wondered how she'd managed to open the door.
He heard the vehicle's tires crunch in the snow as she peeled away from the lodge and down the mountain. He moved across the room to the closet and got out his jacket and gloves. A moment later he was trudging down the mountain, his gaze on the taillights on the road ahead of him.
He hadn't gone ten yards before he lost his footing and slipped. He recovered before he fell, but it wasn't the cold that sent a chill through him.
Ice.
Shit.
Dammit, the snow was so heavy she could barely see the road ahead of her.
Alex lifted her foot from the accelerator and braked lightly. Even the slight pressure caused the Land Rover to skid on the ice-covered road.
She frantically turned the wheel into the skid and then straightened the car.
God, that had been close. A foot more and she would have been off the road and plunging down the mountain.
She drew a deep, shaky breath to steady her nerves.
No big deal. She just had to drive more slowly. This Land Rover was a strong workhorse of a vehicle and meant for rough driving. She just wished she could see better. Once she got down this mountain she'd be—
Icy branches looming out of the darkness, blocking the road, reaching out . . .
“No!” She turned the wheel, but it was too late. A branch shattered the windshield as she skidded on the ice and into the tree.
“Jesus!”
Judd broke into a run as he came around the curve, sliding and falling and then getting to his feet again.
The headlights of the Land Rover were piercing the darkness, but the SUV had come to a stop, wheels still spinning as it rested on top of the fallen tree—and the big branch that had smashed through the windshield, splitting on impact to a dagger-thin splinter.
A splinter that had entered Alex's body and was pinning her to the seat.
“This is going to hurt.”
What was he talking about? She already hurt, Alex thought dazedly.
“Do you hear me? I can't wait. I have to get you out of here. I've got to break this branch and get you free. I'll try to be quick, but you mustn't fight me or you'll tear more. Do you hear me, Alex?”
“I . . . hear you.” She opened her eyes to see his face before her.
Icy blue eyes. Ice everywhere. The windshield lay shattered around her like glittering cubes.
His hand was closing on the branch.
She stiffened as she realized what he intended to do. “No!”
“I have to do it. I have to get you back up to the lodge. I can't leave you to get help. You could die of hypothermia out here.”
“Hurt . . .”
“I know.” His hand gently stroked her hair. “It's going to hurt like hell. But only for an instant and then it won't hurt anymore. I'll take care of you.”
Safety. Smoke. Dad . . .
No, this wasn't him. Her father was dead.
God, she missed him. . . .
“Alex, will you try not to jerk?” He held her gaze with his own. “I'll take care of you. I promise you'll be safe. I promise you'll live if you'll only help me.”
“Dad . . .”
“It's not your father, Alex.”
Yet her father was here. Acrid smoke, rescue dogs, and Sarah holding her. Life was important. She had to remember that, or her father would have died for nothing. She nodded and closed her eyes. “Do it.”
Agony.
“I need a doctor up here, Galen,” Morgan said as soon as Galen answered the phone. “Someone who's good and fast and will keep his mouth shut.”
“Why?”
“There's been sort of an accident.”
“I don't like the sound of this.”
“Alex is hurt.”
“Oh, shit. Tell me you didn't cause this ‘accident.' ”
“I can't do that. I think she's going to be okay, but I want to make sure there's no nerve damage. I don't want her crippled. I need a doctor to clean and stitch the wound. One that won't insist on her going to the hospital.”
“What did you do to her?”
“Nothing that she won't get over . . . eventually.”
“My God, Logan's going to murder you.”
“He'll have to stand in line. So will you get me the doctor?”
“Give me fifteen minutes.�
�
Morgan went back to the bedroom and checked Alex. She was pale, still unconscious, but her pulse was steady. He should probably take this waiting period to go back down to the scene of the accident to clear the road so that the doctor could get to the lodge.
Jesus, she was pale.
Screw what he should do. He wasn't going anywhere right now. He'd wait until he had to leave her.
Judd Morgan was sitting in a chair beside the bed.
She had seen him there before, she realized drowsily. How many times? Five? Six? She couldn't remember. But he'd been there, sketching in that pad as he was doing now.
“What . . . are you doing?”
He glanced up and put aside his pad. “You must be feeling better if curiosity is raising its head.”
“Better than what?”
“You've had a fever for the last two days. The doctor said your body was fighting infection.”
“Doctor?”
“You don't remember him? Dr. Kedrow. I dragged him up here to tend that extremely nasty wound in your shoulder.”
Her right shoulder was swathed in bandages.
A razor-sharp branch stabbing through her flesh.
“Now you remember.” His gaze was on her face. “You're okay. The branch went into your shoulder very high up. No permanent damage, but you might have to have plastic surgery if you want to get rid of the scar.”
“It . . . hurt.”
“I'd say that's an understatement. You were very gutsy. I was impressed.”
“Don't want you to be impressed. . . .” She was having trouble forming the words. They kept drifting away from her. “Want you to let me go.”
“We'll talk about that later.”
“I want to talk about it now.”
“You're half asleep. Later.” He picked up his pencil again. “Just go back to sleep. You're fine. You're safe. . . .”
I promise you'll be safe.
Dad.
Not Dad.
Judd Morgan, who was the last man she should believe or trust . . .
“What are you sketching?”
He looked up and smiled. “So you're with me again. How do you feel?”
She thought about it. “Better. Stronger.”
“And mad as hell?”
“I'm sure that will come. I'm not up to it right now.”
“Let me help you in that direction.” He lowered his gaze to his sketch as his pencil moved over the pad. “I'm to blame for what happened to you.”
“Of course you are. I wouldn't be here if you hadn't brought—” He was shaking his head. “More?”
“I cut that pine down to block the road.”
Her eyes widened in shock. “What?”
“I thought it was likely you'd try to get down the mountain. From what I'd learned about you, I knew it wouldn't do any good to try to stop you. You had to discover it was impossible yourself.”
“So you tried to kill me by causing me to crash into that damn tree.”
He shook his head. “A miscalculation. I didn't expect you to crash into the pine. You should have had time to see the tree and stop. I didn't count on the ice.”
“Miscalculation?”
“Now you're mad as hell.”
It was an understatement. She was so angry she felt as if even the roots of her hair were on fire. “You bet I am. I'd be interested to know what you'd have done if I'd stopped the Land Rover in time and taken off on foot.”
“Gone after you. I'm very good at tracking.”
He was sitting perfectly relaxed, but she could suddenly envision him in the woods, swift, tense, predatory. It didn't defuse the rage she was feeling. “You'd have hunted me down like an animal?”
He didn't answer. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you.”
“Well, you did, damn you.”
He nodded. “Which means I owe you. I find that position very uncomfortable, but it may work to your advantage.”
“You bastard.”
“I believe this is when I should make my exit. You need a little time to cool down.” He rose to his feet. “I'll go get you something to eat.”
“And I'll throw it at you.”
“That's okay. I've gotten enough down you in the past couple days that missing a meal won't hurt.”
She had a vague memory of him sitting beside her, spooning something hot and liquid into her mouth. “If I'd had my wits about me, I'd—”
“Shh. I know. You'd have spit in my eye.” He moved toward the door. “And I'd deserve it. I don't usually make mistakes this big. But you should use it to get what you want.”
“I want to push you off this mountain.”
“That would only give you temporary satisfaction. I'm sure you can think of a more long-term goal.” He glanced back at her as he opened the door. “It might help you to know that the dominoes are falling in your direction right now.”
She stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I have to make reparations. I have very few codes I live by, but you stumbled onto one of them. It means I have to figure how to give you what you want and still keep you alive.”
He was gone before she had a chance to question him. What was he up to? Did he expect her to believe he was having twinges of conscience because he was responsible for this wound? She would be an idiot to be that gullible. He was a kidnapper and a paid thug and she didn't know what else. He was ruthless and cold and without—
Yet she did believe him. She didn't know about the twinges of conscience, but he was a complicated man and his moral structure was probably also convoluted. Most strong people had to have some sort of rules to guide their lives. Maybe the fact that she'd been hurt had tapped into some humane reservoir beneath that cool surface.
Or maybe not. Maybe he was trying to find another way to control her.
There was only one way to find out. Challenge him. Test him.
Jesus, she didn't feel strong enough right now to challenge a Muppet.
So get over it. Move.
She slowly, carefully, sat up.
Her shoulder throbbed and her head swam with dizziness.
Get to the bathroom. Wash your face.
Yeah, sure.
She held on to the nightstand as she got to her feet.
Darkness.
It passed within a minute or two, but she still stood there waiting for her strength to come back. She took deep breaths and tried to focus on something besides the desire to fall back on the bed.
The sketch pad Morgan had tossed on the footstool when he'd gotten to his feet. It was lying sideways on the hassock, but she could tell that it was a sketch of a face.
Vulnerable. Frail. Troubled.
It was Alex's face.
Was that how he saw her? Well, he had a few things to learn. She was neither weak nor vulnerable. She could feel the energy flow through her as the adrenaline kicked in. She let go of the nightstand and moved determinedly toward the bathroom.
She was back in bed and flipping through the pages of Morgan's sketchbook when he came into the room carrying a tray.
“Invasion of privacy.” His tone was light as he set the tray down on the nightstand beside her. “I could sue.”
“When all these sketches are of me? I don't think so.” She looked up with a cool stare. “You must have been very bored.”
“You weren't the most entertaining company. I had to keep myself occupied.”
“This isn't me.” She closed the sketchbook. “You've made me . . . weak.”
He shook his head. “There's nothing weak about you. It's not uncommon for a subject to see what they fear in a portrait.”
“I'm not afraid. I see what you've sketched.”
He flipped open the pad to the first sketch. “You're ill; you're without defenses.” He pointed to the line of her mouth. “But there's strength here. And do you see the tension in the jawline? Determination. You wouldn't let go even when you were feverish. You were a very interesting subject.”
He was too close. He wasn't touching her, but she could feel the heat of his body and she instinctively tensed. “And you didn't feel in the least guilty for sketching me when I was helpless?”
He smiled. “You know what a ruthless bastard I am. I take what I'm given.”
“And also what you're not given.”
“True. But I never thought of you as helpless.” He took the pad from her and handed her a small plate. “So stop brooding and eat your ham sandwich.”
He'd taken a step back, and she breathed a sigh of relief. It was idiotic to be this physically aware of him. It must be because she had been hurt and his power and presence were in such sharp contrast.
He smiled. “I thought you'd prefer finger food to spilling soup down your chest in front of me.”
She did prefer it. She was feeling clumsy and vulnerable enough without— She had a sudden thought. “I'm wearing your shirt. How did I get it on?”
“Me.” He sat down in the chair and put his feet on the hassock. “It wasn't in the doctor's job description and I didn't want to offend him. I'm sorry if it upsets you.”
“It doesn't upset me. That's the least of my worries.” She bit into the sandwich. “I was just curious.”
“I should have known better. A woman who can hot-wire a car wouldn't let a little thing like nudity bother her.”
“There are too many ways a person can be naked besides the physical.” She tapped the sketch pad. “This bothers me more. You . . . intruded.”
“You have a very interesting face, but I promise I won't do it again without your permission.”
She believed him. “You're very good—for a criminal.”
He laughed. “That was a grudging compliment. I'm glad I didn't disappoint you.”
“You couldn't disappoint me. I don't expect anything from you.”
“Good. A clean slate.” He made a face. “I wish.”
“You're a fine artist. Which makes it even worse that you ignore your gift to do things that hurt other people.” She shrugged. “Not that it makes any difference to me. Do what you want, be what you want.”
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