His shoulders tightened. “Can wolves smell blood?” he asked, trying to snap her out of it. Yeah, he was angry, but that dull look in her eyes was giving him the willies. “Like the way sharks can smell blood from miles away?”

  She dropped her gaze to her fingers, the cuts still leaking. “I was trying to dig you out,” she muttered.

  “If you hadn’t come out here to avoid me, you wouldn’t have had to dig me out.”

  That seemed to do the trick. Her nostrils flared, her gray eyes sharpening to steely points. “I wasn’t trying to avoid⁠—”

  “Can you just stop?” Louder than he’d intended, but his face was hot, his belly prickling with thorns. “You don’t have to lie, not now. It doesn’t matter what you intended. The fact is, we are not currently in the place we discussed with the hotel concierge. Our cars are hidden beneath an outcropping where no helicopter will see them. I left my cell in the glove box, not that it’d do any good with no reception. No one knows we’re here. So tell me, Ms. Backstrom, are we in a place where there might be other people coming along soon? Are there guided tours that come out this way? Once more: What do you know about this area? I mean, aside from its thriving killer-wolf population?”

  “I…” She swallowed hard. “I picked this place because it’s…”

  “Isolated,” he finished. “Treacherous enough that you thought you could lose me.”

  Her eyes dropped to the snow. “The popular areas have more sightseeing. Trees and stuff, a lodge at the top with coffee and snacks. This is just… rocks.”

  “So, no one else is likely to come along.” Not a question.

  He scanned the jagged gorge. Would the path on this side hold out until they managed to get beyond the crack? Could they make it back to the original path?

  “By this evening, someone might register that we haven’t returned,” he said. “More likely, we won’t be noticed missing until tomorrow afternoon when we don’t show to the shareholder meeting. They’ll send a search party, but they’ll look in the area you told the concierge. And we drove…” Hours.

  Even if rescuers went from their last cell phone pings, they’d be searching much too far from where they were now.

  “My dogs are going to be so pissed at you.” He stepped away, scanning the ground for his hat, her gloves—anything they might bring with them.

  She cut her eyes at him, frowned, then looked away. Her feet remained still, buried in the snow.

  “We can’t stay here, Anne. With the ground as unstable as it is, things falling left and right⁠—”

  “We might also have to deal with a secondary avalanche.” Her brow furrowed.

  She obviously knew that he was right—they couldn’t stay here. But her hesitation irked him. She’d rather risk death by avalanche than go traipsing down the mountain with him?

  “We don’t have the luxury of standing around,” he snapped. “We won’t make it a week on this cliff, and it might be months, or longer, before rescuers get all the way out here.”

  Anne raised her yellow-gloved hand, shielding her eyes against the sun. He followed her gaze. Pink stained the western clouds. In a few hours, purple bruising would spread from end to end and steal the last of the warmth from the world—from their bones.

  Forget weeks or months; if they didn’t find shelter, they’d have a hard time surviving the night. The temperatures in the mountains routinely dropped below zero this time of year. Up this high, they’d be dealing with negative temperatures for sure. Their ski gear would help some… but not enough.

  He blinked down into the ravine. The utter blackness. Certain death.

  They were stuck in the wilderness, and no one had any idea they were here.

  No one but the wolves.

  Chapter 9

  Anne

  She stomped out an S.O.S. near the cornice, hoping that the block of ice would protect the letters from drifting snow. The wind was picking up. They’d managed to locate their hats, their ski scarves wrapped tight around their throats, but her gloves were still missing. And as late afternoon waned, the blustery wind bit harder.

  The unease in her chest was colder still.

  Which way, which way? That was the question asked over and over again within her head and presumably in John’s, too, from the furtive looks they passed between them. But there was exactly one answer: there were no options. One way only.

  They had a giant crevasse to the east blocking their original path back and a cliff to their west. Toward the mountain’s peak, the path ended where the rock sliced straight up—a large panel of stone that stretched into the clouds. Even if they’d had equipment, they would not have tried to scale it. The goal was not to get higher on this mountain. The goal was down.

  Down, down, down.

  “What’s better, Anne? Forests or mountain ranges?”

  She cut her eyes at him. His face was serious, jaw tight. Was this going to be a survival lesson? He was a big guy—six-four, muscled, kinda rugged, not that she was looking—but she would not have pegged him as a survivalist type. She hoped she was wrong. They could definitely use a survivalist out here.

  “Mountains,” he finished when she did not respond. “They’re hill areas.”

  Jesus Christ.

  “Get it? They’re hilariou⁠—”

  “We don’t have to talk.”

  He opened his mouth to reply, then appeared to think better of it. John clamped his lips shut and tucked his face into his collar.

  Wind cut at the bare skin around her eyes, the tip of her nose. The glittering snow stretched into infinity, the path at their backs pockmarked by their bootprints. Purple-edged mountains soared in the distance. The crevasse, while still far too wide to cross, began to taper as they went on, the additional cracks that had first appeared like branches coalescing into a single craggy split.

  But as the hours passed, Anne became increasingly uneasy, oscillating between panicking that the crevasse would eventually cross in front of them and staring beyond the cliff at the far-off mountains. There was something wrong with those mountains. And when the sun ducked behind the far peak, she finally figured out what it was.

  “Shit,” she muttered.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “We’re… going the wrong way.”

  John gestured with both hands, one aimed at the gorge, the other at the cliff. “You sure? Can you fly?”

  “No, I mean…” She pointed to the wall of rock in the distance. “That’s Mount Granlam. See the triple peaks along the southern third?”

  He squinted, then met her gaze, emerald eyes dark—tired. “So?”

  “So, to get back to humanity, the path that will lead back to our cars, we need to head the opposite way. Right now, we’re walking farther into the mountain range. I didn’t realize how far we were from the original piste.”

  “The what?” John scratched at his head, knocking his wool hat askew. Yellow. Everything yellow. It made him glow against the encroaching twilight.

  “The ski trail. The farther we go, the harder it will be for anyone to find us.”

  They would not get to the foothills anytime soon—their only option was to go deeper into the mountains. And once they hit the trees… would rescue ever be able to locate them?

  “We’re just taking a little detour,” he said. “What’s the worst that can happen? I mean, look at that movie Wrong Turn. Everything there turned out fine.”

  Wrong Turn?

  John glanced over at her, eyes glittering—too calm. But, of course, he was calm. John had never needed to worry about anything; his brother had always bailed him out.

  “Isn’t that movie about backwoods cannibals who eat anyone unfortunate enough to stumble onto their land?”

  He shrugged, boots crunching through the snow—cssssht-cssssht, cssssht-cssssht. “I’m saying… that won’t happen to us. Because there are no cannibals out here. There’s no one out here.” He nodded once, then pointed. “More good news… it looks like the crack is narrowing. We might get lucky after all.”

  She snorted. “I’m not sure I’d call getting stuck out here with you lucky.”

  “This is a work trip, not a fucking vacation.”

  The venom in his tone made her stop. Surprise, sure, but her fists were tight balls against her thighs, her molars grinding together. “I came here to do a job. I don’t have to spend my downtime with you.”

  John’s feet ground to a halt. He whirled to face her. Her boss felt bigger, domineering, with the hazy sky at his back, his shoulders broad and strong. His eyes bored into hers.

  “What did I ever do to you, Anne? I’ve always tried to be kind, though I have every reason to be an asshole. You’re the one who wrote that will. You’re the one who screwed us all over.”

  Her shoulders went rigid, heat flaming into her cheeks. Was he fucking serious?

  “If I didn’t write that will for your father, someone else would have. Hell, he could have done it himself. Your dad did start out as a lawyer.”

  “And what about Charles?” he growled. Five-o’clock shadow prickled beneath his cheekbones, a shade darker than the hair on his head.

  “What about Charles?”

  “You used to be married to him. He spends his time trying to get in with my father, and all of a sudden, you’re composing a will that will let him take over the company?”

  She squared her shoulders and stalked toward him. “Are you accusing me of something, John?” she hissed. Because I could accuse you of a hell of a lot worse.

  She’d never told him or his brothers what she knew, but she had told Desmond not to look too deeply into their father’s death. If Desmond had told John about that, John might assume that she knew about his crime. No matter what she’d done with the will, John was the reason his father was dead. Was it any wonder she’d pressed harder on the gas when she realized he was following her?

  His face softened as if he’d realized his error. He backed off a step. “No, of course, I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just… asking what’s going on between you two. You’re divorced, but you’re having breakfast together?”

  Fury spiked through her blood, her chest hot. “So, you’re what? Following me around New York, too? My breakfast plans are not your business. And I had every intention of meeting with you directly before we saw the shareholders, even though it was completely pointless—there was nothing more to say. I’m not incompetent, John. And now, here you are, stalking me the same way Charles does.” Tears smarted in her eyes, part panic, part rage. “You’re just as bad as he is.”

  He squinted. “What did you just say?”

  Why? Because you can’t lower yourself to listen? “I said that you’re a dick.”

  “No… about Charles. He’s been stalking you?”

  She threw her hands in the air. “You’re the one stalking me, John! How else would you know who I eat breakfast with?”

  John raised an eyebrow. “You ate with him at a very public restaurant. You didn’t think people would notice? Journalists are vicious, Anne. And I shouldn’t have to chase you to talk about work. The shareholder meeting is tomorrow, and I asked you on numerous occasions to go over our strategy. Just because you don’t think we need one doesn’t mean you can ignore me.”

  She swallowed hard. That was fair enough—she could have spared twenty minutes to see if he had something to add. Something she didn’t know that might become pertinent at the shareholder meeting.

  Her fury eased, a tingle of guilt twitching in her belly. He might have been right about the meeting, but he wasn’t exactly blameless. She had valid reasons to avoid him. She hadn’t wanted any distractions while she cleared her head, and she definitely hadn’t wanted to be entertainment for a spoiled rich boy who thought it was hilarious to fake a damn heart attack. More than that, she didn’t want to spend more time than necessary with a murderer. And regardless of his thoughts on that meeting, he didn’t have to follow her out here, hours from the hotel. That was insane. Charles-level insane.

  John’s nostrils flared, his gaze hard, but when he spoke, his voice was practically a whisper. “By trying to avoid me, you might have killed us both.”

  The guilt vanished in a heartbeat. “Right. This was all me, skiing and causing avalanches. Cracking the world open like an egg.”

  John met her eyes. His shoulders slumped. Finally, he sighed. “We can argue about this when we get back. We can even do it calmly… if we’re on the same side about Charles.” The way he said it sure didn’t sound like he believed they were on the same side.

  Just because she had breakfast with the man? If only he knew what she’d done to protect him from her ex.

  Anne searched his eyes, deep pools of jade, looking for… what? Some sign of humanity? A hint that she might get away with confessing? I know what you did, John—I talked to the medical examiner. I’m the good guy here.

  The words were on the tip of her tongue, threatening to burst from her lips. She was damn tired of being accused of disloyalty, and he was the one person she could talk to about it—the one person who already knew.

  But if she was the only one who could tell the world he was guilty, the only one who even knew he was guilty, what was to stop him from leaving her on this mountain?

  John blinked and cocked his head, his brow furrowed. He was watching her for signs of something, too. But his eyes…

  Her heart went cold, frozen like the landscape around them. He… knew. John might not be positive on the specifics, but he knew she had information she shouldn’t.

  So why didn’t she feel more afraid? The set of his shoulders was high and tight—stressed but not threatening. Domineering though he was, she didn’t think he’d kill her.

  Anne swallowed hard. She hadn’t felt a threat from Charles either. And John had already killed twice. Twice. The man on the bike, then his own father. She was an idiot not to believe him capable of hurting her, especially here. There would be absolutely no consequences. On this mountain… they’d never find her body.

  Her mouth went dry, breath whistling through her too-small windpipe. She cut her eyes at the cliff once more. A beautiful monster—that’s what he was. Just like Charles. She’d do well to remember that.

  John turned on his heel and stepped away, heading off along the cliff in the only direction they could go. “Right now, we have one job, Anne: stay alive,” he said over his shoulder. “We have to get off this mountain.”

  Her heart was a trapped sparrow in her chest. Would she do better on her own? No. They were safer together, especially if they used their body heat… not that she wanted to be that close to him. Besides, there was nowhere else for her to go, nowhere to hide—no choice but to follow. And the sun was setting. She was less than an hour from being stuck in the dark with a twice-over murderer.

  Anne tightened her fists, balled inside John’s gloves. The wind blared against her back. She shivered. But she marched on, her eyes on John’s yellow back, his yellow hat. His broad, muscled shoulders, so easily capable of… well, anything.

  Things were going to get worse before they got better. They were utterly alone out here. It was just them and their secrets.

  This twice-killer was her best chance at survival.

  Provided he didn’t kill her, too.

  Chapter 10

  John

  Way to go, Johnny-boy. Maybe she’ll spill her guts if you piss her off a little more.

  Anne had been staring daggers at him all afternoon, trudging through the snow, socking her boots into the prints he’d left behind. The hairs on the back of his neck were spiky, prickling with tension. They were lost in the middle of an icy wasteland, the sun pinkening the sky as it began its slow descent toward the mountains. And here he was, preoccupied with what she might know. With how much she hated him.

  Wondering what that meant for his family.

  John pulled the yellow hat lower over his ears, his lobes freezing. The jagged gouge in the earth had vanished from sight hours ago, but not because it ceased to be. It would have been far too easy if they’d been able to backtrack around it to reclaim the original trail. Instead, the ski slope—the piste—had hooked a sharp left. That was where the crack vanished clear off the edge of the mountain, permanently separating them from the trail where they’d begun the day.

  The snow on their side of the chasm sloped steadily downward—white as far as John could see. As Anne had said, they were traveling deeper into the mountains. Though the cliff on their right remained treacherous, a brutal fall to the rock beneath if they put a foot wrong, the fact that they seemed to be heading for lower ground made him feel better.

  They did not discuss whether to keep walking, not when they approached the cliff’s edge and were forced to take a thirty-degree turn to trudge downhill into the mountains, not when the path zigged, then zagged, then zigged again over the ice. They could not stop here. They needed to find a tree—one single scraggly pine, and he could build a fire for the night. Their ski clothes were doing a fairly good job of protecting them, but once they stopped moving, things would get bleak and quickly. It had been hours since they’d seen so much as a boulder to block the wind.

  Would they die here? He tried not to think about that, tried not to imagine what might happen to his dogs, his family, reciting dialogue from his favorite movies inside his head. But his brain refused to be distracted by trivialities. And Anne’s silence only made it worse—made angry, spiteful thoughts fire off in his brain.

  If Anne didn’t make it home, she couldn’t marry Charles and steal the company out from under them. If she survived, it would cost his family billions. Not that he’d kill her, of course, but who was he to argue with Mother Nature?

  Yet her survival was directly connected to his own. And if he didn’t make it back to New York, he could never marry to even up the ranks. He had no plans to get hitched, not now, but his single vote meant something. And his could not be willed to anyone else. If he died, that vote was just… gone.

 

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