4

 

 

Much to her surprise, Claire finally fell asleep. Maybe the adrenaline rush following her fright had drained her energy, or maybe it was the emotional firestorm that had followed, when she figured out who her intruder was. When she awoke, the interior of the cabin was bright with sunshine reflected off the snow outside, and Claire lay still, trying to make up her mind whether she’d had a particularly vivid dream the night before or whether Jonathan Daulton was really asleep—or unconscious, or dead—on the couch not twenty feet below. Only one way to find out. She disentangled herself from the layers of down and wool and tiptoed over to the railing. Yes, there he was, looking the worse for wear by daylight. Jonathan Daulton, of all the unlikely people. He hadn’t moved since last night. She felt a stab of fear: maybe he’d been worse off than she had thought and he’d died in the night? Which would be easier to handle: a live Jonathan or a dead one?

Claire pulled on jeans, a few layers of sweaters, and warm socks, and crept down the stairs. She put the kettle on to boil for coffee, then went to build up the fire again.

She stopped to study Jonathan in the unforgiving morning light. In the nearly five years since she had seen him, time had thinned his face, added some character lines and a few silver hairs. Despite the fact it was midwinter she could see the faint trace of a tan. Right—he had said he had been in some hot spots—the Middle East, maybe? Some unsettled country? She had no idea why he would have been there—maybe it was because many of those nations still regarded women as second-class citizens. She sneaked a quick look at the bandage on his arm. No fresh blood. Maybe she’d gotten it right.

She shivered, and stacked some more wood on the coals. The noise, as she had expected, woke her guest. He made a startled effort to sit up, then cursed. “God damn, that hurts!”

Ignoring his outburst, Claire went back to the kitchen and dumped ground coffee into a filter and poured boiling water over it. Impatiently she watched the coffee drip, then she filled a cup for herself and crossed the room. She dropped into the chair she had occupied the night before.

“Good morning,” Claire offered, and sipped her coffee.

He tried to focus on her. “God, you’re cheerful. Is that coffee?”

“Yes, it is. Do you want some?”

“Please. Pretty please. Sugar, no milk.”

“Help yourself.” Claire gestured toward the kitchen. Jonathan, after a bemused look, hauled himself into an upright position, then stood up and wrapped the blankets around himself snugly before stumbling toward the kitchen. Claire watched as he located a mug, filled it, and added sugar. He made it back to the sofa and dropped onto it without spilling anything, and drank greedily, then looked up at her. He was the first to break the silence.

“Jesus, I feel like Alice down the rabbit hole. Nothing makes sense.”

“You remember last night? When you showed up here?”

“More or less. Where is this place? You live here?”

“No, actually it belongs to some friends of my parents. It’s their summer cottage. I borrowed it to finish a book I’m working on. I’m Claire Hastings. I teach women’s studies at Sophia College.”

“Ah. I should have figured. Who else but a crazy professor type would hole up in a cabin in Maine in the middle of winter?”

“And where do you prefer to work? Some sports bar?”

Jonathan muttered something that sounded like “that damn book.” “You know my book?”

“I do.”

“I take it you didn’t like it.”

“Perceptive of you.” Claire stood up again. “I’m going to make some breakfast. I assume you’re hungry, after last night?”

“Starving.”

“You must be feeling better, then.” Claire went to the kitchen area and surveyed her supplies. Eggs, bacon, bread. “Fried or scrambled?”

“Yes. Whatever.” He stood up too, with his coffee mug, and wandered toward the bathroom. He emerged a few minutes later with his face and other visible areas free of mud, his blankets draped around him like a toga. He settled himself in a chair at the kitchen table.

“All right, Claire Hastings, what on earth are you doing in this godforsaken backwater?”

Claire pulled out a frying pan and laid bacon strips in it. “Trying to get some work done. And don’t try to distract me. I want some answers about what you’re doing here.” It was bad enough trying to cook with this half-naked man in her kitchen. He looked surprisingly good, considering what he had been through. In fact, he looked surprisingly good, period. She had forgotten. Deliberately.

“Hey, I want your full attention. Wait ’til breakfast’s on the table. But I assume you can talk about yourself while you cook? Tell me more.”

Claire thought about insisting, but she realized she was starving too, and the bacon smelled wonderful. And the sooner she fed him, the sooner they could head for the police station.

“I’ve been teaching for six years, and I was due for a sabbatical. I need to finish up the book I’ve been working on before my tenure review this year.” The breakout book that would establish her name in the academic pantheon, and maybe even garner a little public attention, which might in turn mean some extra dollars.

“What’s the book?”

“Gender and Genre: Paradigmatic Imagery in Contemporary Romantic Fiction.” Claire braced herself for a withering comment from Jonathan. “I’m exploring the conceptual, socio-historical aspects of gender identity, using contemporary romance fiction as the paradigm, and I’m examining why the women who are delineated in these bodice rippers present a skewed image of women.” And all seem to insist on seeking and pairing off with alpha males with throbbing pecs—and a few other body parts. “Not to mention the requisite HEA. Obviously a contemporary form of fantasy.”

“Interesting.”

Claire sneaked a glance at him to see if he was being sarcastic, but he actually looked thoughtful.

He went on, “But why are you here, in this cabin? Wouldn’t Northampton be a more stimulating place to work?”

At least he knew where Sophia College was—a point in his favor. She sighed as she turned the bacon. Why indeed? Halfway through her sabbatical, she was nowhere near finished—despite the fact that in the last six months she had read, by her count, some four hundred romance novels spanning the last five decades, not to mention all the critical literature she could lay her hands on.

“Too comfortable, and too many distractions.” The restaurants, coffee shops, a basement cinema that showed only the best and most obscure art films, visiting colleagues, and all those bookstores, filled with books she actually wanted to read, kept dragging her away from her research. “I was at my folks’ house over Christmas, and they know the people who own this place. It’s always empty this time of year—and now that I’ve been here a few weeks, I can see why—and my mother thought it might help to try a different setting. And then there was the collection at the college, of course—it’s a terrific historic resource.”

The bacon was crisping nicely. Claire pushed it to one side of the pan and broke eggs into the hot grease. She started to shove bread into the toaster, then stopped herself: no power.

“Ah, yes, dear Abigail. Quite a character, wasn’t she?”

Claire looked up from her cooking to glare at him. “I assume her endowment is paying for your stay here. I wouldn’t be so quick to snipe at her. Besides, she was a pivotal figure in her time, and her collection is remarkable.”

Shut up, Claire, before you tell him you’ve been here a month and already you’re reduced to throwing books and talking to yourself. If she had to read any more drivel, she was going to . . . She didn’t know what. The place was ideal, so the problem must be her. Why was she stalled? She had chosen a challenging and timely concept for her work, and she had looked forward to writing it. So what was wrong?

Well, if the piles of overwrought dreck that she’d been wading through were any indication, the answer was simple: she didn’t have a man, ergo she couldn’t understand romance fiction. But she didn’t need—or want—a man to define her life. She had her work, her place in the world. She was happy, she had friends, and she was successful—or would be when she finished this book.

The eggs were done. Claire distributed eggs, bacon and untoasted bread on two plates and carried them to the table. “Here. Breakfast. Eat.”

Jonathan looked up at her plaintively. “More coffee?”

Claire retrieved the coffeepot and refilled their mugs. “Anything else?” She wondered if he noticed her sarcasm.

“What? Oh, no. Thank you.” Jonathan dug into his breakfast with a hearty appetite. Apparently last night’s bullet wound and soaking in icy water had left no lingering effects.

Between bites, Jonathan said, “How’s it going? The work, I mean?”

Damn him, he seemed sincerely interested. But he was stalling, Claire knew. They had more important things to discuss than her interpretation of current feminist theory. “Never mind that. You seem to be in reasonably good shape, considering what you say happened last night. You need to talk to the police.” Jonathan avoided her eyes, and Claire felt a spurt of alarm. “Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts?”

He shook his head, forking up eggs and bacon. “I don’t know. This whole thing makes no sense to me. I open the door and this guy says he’s from the FBI, and I let him in, and all hell breaks loose. Before I throw myself on the mercy of the local officials, I’d like to know a little more. Like why the FBI was knocking on my friend’s door. And why sweet little Susie came out shooting.”

Claire stared at him, her mind racing. “I’m sure the police, or the FBI, or whoever’s in charge, will be happy to fill you in. Just as soon as you get there.” But, Claire realized with dismay, she was already an accomplice. Unless she delivered him to the nearest police station ASAP, she was probably harboring a fugitive, and that was a crime, wasn’t it? She was not about to put her career and her good name on the line for a jerk who didn’t even remember . . .

He ignored that statement. “You have Internet access here?”

She shook her head. “No. And no phone, just the cell. If I want the Internet, I go to the college.”

“No television? Radio?”

“No,” Claire said, with some asperity. “I’m here to get some work done.”

“Damn. Maybe you could go out and nose around?”

Was he actually asking her to dig herself in deeper? “Wait a minute. We agreed you would go straight to the police this morning and get this sorted out. I want you out of here—I’ve got work to do.” And it would be nice if he could get some real medical attention for his bullet wound, in case her ad hoc ministrations had been inadequate. Then she remembered. “That is, once we can find you some clean clothes,” she added dubiously. It didn’t seem quite right to drag him to the police station clad in a pair of her sweats, which was the only thing that she had that might fit him. Clearly his feet were larger than hers.

Jonathan stared into space, then, as if reaching a decision, turned to Claire. “How about this—you go out and find me some clothes, and pick up a paper, see what you can find out?”

“You’ve got some nerve!” Claire snapped at him. “You stumble in here last night, scaring me to death, and because you’re still here I could be arrested for harboring a fugitive, or abetting a crime, or something. Hell, for all I know, they could charge me as an accessory to murder, if that agent is dead. And you want me to play sleuth and find out what’s going on for you? Why should I?”

“Claire, I know it’s a lot to ask. Look, if anybody traces any of this back to you, I’ll be happy to lie through my teeth to keep you clear. But I’ve known Annabeth for years, and I can’t imagine why the FBI would be interested in her. So what were they doing there?”

“Maybe they were looking for you?”

“I doubt it. I haven’t done anything that would interest them. And why would the FBI know I was at Annabeth’s house? Where does Susie fit? She was the one with the gun, not me. Look, can’t you just ask a few discreet questions, and then come back and tell me what you’ve found out? Then we can figure out what to do.”

Claire’s temper was rising like a thermometer in July. “We? Why on earth should I help you? I’d just as soon get you out of here as fast as possible.”

Panic flashed across his face. “Claire, I don’t know what I can say, but something about this just doesn’t feel right.”

That is a massive understatement, Claire thought. “Oh, well, obviously that’s enough to risk my reputation and my freedom for! I’ll be happy to play games with the FBI, based on this hunch of yours,” Claire snarled.

“You don’t have to be sarcastic. I know this all sounds crazy. Look,” he fumbled, “before that damn book came out . . .”

He was interrupted by the sound of tires crunching along the icy ruts on the access road. Claire rose quickly and peered out a window. “It’s a police car.”