Which was worse? If they both made it back, or if neither of them did? The greater good was a complicated question, but only if you took the two of them as a package deal.

  He sighed, staring out over the glittering landscape. His eyes ached. So did his head.

  He had two distinct issues, both of them of critical importance. His life had been split cleanly in two, the way the earth had been by that wicked crack. One half was on this mountain, a life-and-death mashup of skiing misadventure and survival reality show. The other half was a murder mystery that he’d already solved—he was the villain. But would Anne prove to be a Devil’s Advocate partner in crime or the Pelican Brief attorney who took him and his family down?

  And how in the hell was he supposed to reconcile all of that? When it rained, it poured, or in this case… snowed. Ha-ha.

  The air grew more brittle as the night sidled closer, the wind more punishing. It screamed over the mountains and chilled him through his ski jacket. He glanced over his shoulder to see Anne watching the slowly darkening sky, her nostrils flaring. Her teeth chattered. Her hands, sheathed in his gloves, were tucked beneath her armpits.

  He dug his hands deeper into his pockets, turned away, and kept walking, watching the horizon bleed—red to purple and finally to a gangrenous gray-black haze that hid the sun completely. He imagined the hours passing on a clock drawn in the darkened snow, hands made of icicles.

  “John…” Her words were a pressured hiss at his back.

  Was she too tired to go on? Ready to give his damn gloves back? But when he turned, he saw where she was pointing.

  A small pine glade had appeared on the horizon, strained gray by the moonlight. None too soon. The wind was bitterly cold, slicing through his snow pants—stabbing at his cheeks.

  “I wish we had a blanket,” he muttered, clumping over the snow toward the glade. It was getting harder to walk; his muscles were half-frozen.

  “Or a lighter.”

  “Always trying to one-up me, eh? Might as well wish for a five-star hotel.” He chuckled, but he didn’t feel the smile on his face, didn’t feel the humor in it.

  He scanned the circle of trees… no, the triangle of trees, a squat stump claiming the fourth corner of the glade. Not much for shelter. The pines were not the Christmas tree types, heavy boughs flush with sticky green. They were tall, scraggly, little tufts of needles way up top where they were closest to the sun, the bottoms stripped bare by ice or avalanche. Or hungry wolves.

  “Were you ever a Girl Scout?” he asked.

  Anne shook her head. “No. But I can pick up branches with the best of them.”

  He nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

  Pine resin made a good fire-starter, but wet wood… well. It’d be tricky.

  Tricky but not impossible. It couldn’t be impossible. If it was… they wouldn’t make it.

  Anne kicked her way through the snow, seeking the barely visible twigs beneath, broken branches hiding beneath the white. John chose a spot in the middle of the glade—a place where the rock showed through, the snow inexplicably shallow. He shoveled the rest of the snow aside as best he could and made a ring of stone to house the twigs and branches Anne collected.

  His fingers were numb, the dry wood frozen. But the stacking went easily enough. And there were plenty of downed pine needles. Good thing, since there was no way they were scaling fifty feet up those trees to get tinder.

  John located the driest piece of kindling he could find and set it upright against the ground. He surrounded the bottom end with pine needles. Then he rubbed his hands back and forth, back and forth, the stick spinning between his palms.

  Anne lowered herself to a crouch against the nearest tree, directly in front of him—across the fire. Her hungry gaze locked on the pillow of needles. “Boy Scouts?” she asked.

  “Firestarter.”

  Anne frowned. “The Stephen King movie where she lit things on fire with her mind?”

  “Well, I tried that first,” he muttered. “Obviously.”

  His hands ached, but at least they weren’t numb any longer; the friction had woken them up, increasing the blood flow. They stung. His forearms ached, too.

  Just a little more, John. You’ve got this. If he failed… he had no ideas outside of making a fire. It was caveman logic: warm, good; cold, bad.

  You don’t know what you’re doing. You’re both going to die out here.

  John’s heart seized, far worse than on the plane. He poured his anxiety into the task, into his hands, whipping the stick faster, faster, faster, spinning it until the skinny branch grew damp in his hands. He was not sure if that newfound stickiness was sweat or blood, but he did not stop, and then… was that smoke?

  No, just the haze of moonlight.

  Wait… yes?

  Crunching footsteps at his side. John moved his hands faster, palms burning. Anne dropped to her knees beside him and leaned forward, hands on the earth. She blew softly, gently.

  Smoke wafted into his nose.

  His hands were moving of their own accord now, spurred on by the smoke, the promise of survival. Faster. Faster.

  Anne blew again. A flame caught, tiny and orange, licking the pine needles. Fucking hell yessssssss.

  “I am all that is man,” he growled.

  Anne raised her eyebrows.

  “Come on, Anne, you know Lord of the Rings but not Super Troopers?”

  She stared.

  “Crazy,” he said, carefully tending the flame, shoving more needles around the fire, encouraging the bigger sticks to catch. The larger twigs sizzled—still damp. The earthy, spicy aroma of pine tingled in his nostrils. “Super Troopers is amazing. Broken Lizard changed a generation with the cat game. Better to just accept that right meow.”

  “Broken… what?” she asked, sitting back on her heels. “John, seriously, I⁠—”

  “Broken Lizard. They’re the producers, the actors—the film company in charge of the best movies of all time.” Orange flames licked the branches—finally, finally—the heat searing enough to make his eyeballs hurt.

  Anne shook her head. Not up on cinema, eh? Good to know. But at least they were talking. All those quiet hours, nothing but the crunch of snow beneath his boots, had nearly driven him insane. He could sit in silence at home… when he was calm. But anxiety without distraction was torture. Worse than someone stealing your gloves and keeping them forever. He cut his eyes at her yellow-sheathed hands, then returned his attention to the pit.

  John poked at the fire, arranging, stoking. But his peripheral vision was locked on Anne. Firelight glistened along the planes of her cheekbones, the point of her chin—orange glinted in her irises. When they’d first met, he’d pondered what an asshole like Charles had done to get a woman like her. After her divorce, he had considered whether he ought to take her home for a night, had envisioned them together more than once—how her coconut-scented hair might tangle in his fingers, how her breath would warm his throat. How she might feel writhing beneath him. He had been this close to asking Anne to dinner. Then he’d met Rebecca.

  Just as well. If he had sex with Anne, his dick would probably freeze right off. Plus, they worked together now. Kinda.

  “I thought Broken Lizard was a euphemism for erectile dysfunction,” she said softly.

  He blinked, his stick pausing mid-poke. Was that a… joke? He smiled. The thickest branch caught. John quickly turned back to the fire and shifted the other kindling around it. It would be a long night of tending, but they might actually make it out okay.

  Anne shuddered.

  “Still cold?” he said to the wood.

  “Aren’t you?”

  Hell yes. His eyes might be burning from the pine smoke, but his back was freezing. “Like I said before, ‘I am all that is man.’” He stretched his hands toward the pit, warming his bare palms over the flames. “If you want to sit by me, I won’t push you away. Body heat is one of the more effective means of warding off the cold.”

  She cocked her head, brow furrowing. “Are you asking if I want to… cuddle?”

  “Cuddle is a strong word. But I miss my dogs, and I need a temporary substitute.”

  Even if she wasn’t looking at him like he was a leper, she still despised him. This was just survival—the primitive urge to be warm overriding their drive to throw one another off the cliff.

  Anne made no move to edge closer; she was still frowning.

  “You can hang out alone if you want,” he said with a shrug. “But we only have so much wood. This emaciated pile might not last the night.”

  She met his eyes, her lips pursed—chewing on her cheek. Then she sniffed, dismissive. Anne looked away.

  John’s hackles rose. He wasn’t immediately sure why that pissed him off so much. Maybe because she was ignoring a genuine offer of assistance, something that would keep them both safe. It seemed like a jerk move. Spiteful.

  He glowered at her. Some rag magazine had once polled their female readers: he was the man they wanted to be trapped on a deserted island with. Anne should count herself lucky. Hell, she was still wearing his damn gloves! And if Desmond was right, if she was throwing his family under the bus, getting back together with her ex…

  John focused on the flames, orange and yellow, licking the night sky, the embers like fireflies.

  He had so many questions. He needed to use this time to get to the bottom of whatever was going on with Charles. He needed to know if she was going to ruin his family.

  If she was, it would be better for the O’Connors if he hogged the fire.

  If he let her freeze.

  Chapter 11

  Anne

  Anne sat in the snow, watching him across the fire. His face took on a different glow in the moonlight—an actor in an old movie. The stubble on his chin glistened with golden flame. But his face was worried as he warmed his hands.

  Even when he was digging in the snow, his fingers red with cold, he never asked for the gloves back.

  Would she have given them back? He’d followed her out here, so sharing his gloves was really the least he could do. And the fact that he knew about Charles, that he knew she’d spoken to him, had eaten breakfast with him…

  It made a knot form in her belly. Yes, he might have gotten that information from some reporter, as he’d said. The O’Connors and the Duffys were both highly photographed families, and since the news about the will had leaked, the press had been especially aggressive.

  But she couldn’t discount the idea that he’d had her followed—that her employers had been watching her. What if half the time she felt eyes on her back it hadn’t been Charles at all, but the O’Connors?

  Yeah, she was keeping the damn gloves.

  “I wish I had a steak,” he muttered.

  “I could go for some sushi,” she said. “Or a giant chocolate muffin.” She’d had a chocolate muffin the morning she and Charles had eaten together. Did he know that?

  “Why not both?” John shrugged.

  The wind moaned in the distance, hissing against the ice. No sign of recognition—the muffin was not a significant piece of information. It was a small thing, silly, but it somehow made her feel a little better to know that she got to keep that tidbit to herself.

  “All we’ve got is water,” he went on. “We might as well enjoy the fantasy.” As if to drive the point home, he scooped up a handful of snow and brought it to his lips. She’d done the same thirty times since they’d sat down, but she did it again, relishing the wetness in her dry throat. If only it were warm. Despite the fire, it was still miserable out here. Frost seeped through her snow pants, froze her feet. This far up, there were few things that could erase the bitter chill from one’s bones.

  Anne settled herself back against the tree nearest the flames. A bit farther than she’d prefer, but it blocked the wind from her back. The raw bark bit into her shoulders, splinters scraping at her coat. Her hips ached. She couldn’t sit like this all night.

  But she didn’t want to be near John. She didn’t have the energy to argue, didn’t want to talk about her ex… or about anything else. John might want to interrogate her while she was a captive audience, but she had only one goal: to get off this mountain alive.

  Anne would be best off if she kept her mouth shut.

  She adjusted herself against the tree, her back smarting. She was John’s only link to Charles—an inside source. If John wanted to know what Charles was up to, she was of far more use to him alive and working with the company, especially if he believed she was friendly with her ex.

  Anne watched as John stoked the fire with a spindly branch. Did he know what she and Charles had discussed? She doubted it—Desmond was a shrewd negotiator, one who played both sides against the middle. He would not have sent her here if he imagined her complicit.

  And unlike Desmond, John had never had to play more than one side. If John knew about her and Charles, really knew, she would have seen some sign of it. So what did they imagine she was doing with Charles at breakfast?

  The crackling tinder popped and hissed—dampness leaking from the sodden wood. The night beyond the fire was pitch-black, a void filled with unseen horrors. Cliffs and wild animals and, more dangerous, the glacial air.

  John glanced her way, and she averted her gaze, then shifted off the tree. Her hips twinged as she lowered herself to her elbow, then down to the ground with her head resting on her upper arm. They’d cleared an area, scooped the snow from the stony ground, but the mountain held on to the cold like a jealous lover. The chill clawed at her through the coat. She shivered, a full body contraction that clamped her teeth together and made her spine spasm painfully.

  “Are you okay?” His voice was so quiet that she almost didn’t hear him over the crackling of the burning tinder, the distant howl of wind echoing over the canyons, and the chattering of her own teeth.

  “We’re stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere,” she said, but it lacked force. Most of her energy was focused on her twitching muscles—on keeping herself warm. It wasn’t working. Not even a little.

  “So… that’s a yes? Never better?”

  “I’m fine.” She wasn’t. She couldn’t feel her legs. Anne shifted again, moving her feet closer to the fire, her heels resting on the rocks.

  “You’re going to melt your boots.”

  “I said I’m fine,” she snapped.

  What, like he was some kind of survival expert? If his food didn’t come on a silver spoon, he had no clue what it tasted like.

  He did build you a fire, Anne.

  “Friction keeps people warm, too. Body heat.” His voice was strained—raspy. “A completely platonic solution, so long as you don’t get fresh with me. We don’t have to rub one out in the snow.”

  She grimaced and squeezed her eyes shut. “You’re disgusting.”

  “Most women would disagree with that assessment.”

  She snorted, staring into the dim behind her eyelids, hazy orange flickering like tiny fireworks. “Right, I’m sorry. You’re a god, you’re a magnificent⁠—”

  “Anne!” The crunching of snow made her jolt upright. And… her ankle stung. A lot.

  She looked down, but John was already there, patting the hem of her pants, his hands tucked into his sleeves. The fabric near her ankle was smoking. She yanked her feet away from the flames, but a drifting spark had already singed a hole through her snow pants, clear through her thermal underwear, a small round burn in her thick woolen socks.

  “You really shouldn’t sleep on top of the fire,” John said without a hint of a smile, collapsing to the ground beside her.

  “What the hell do you want from me? It was obviously an accident.” But just his nearness, the warmth against her arm, was enough to make her want to edge closer. Not affection—survival.

  “Fine,” he said with a shrug. “You go ahead and sleep in the pit. At least one of us will be warm.”

  Her? No… him. Because she’d be on fire. She rubbed at her stinging ankle. “If only your dogs were here, right?”

  For once, he did not laugh. His face was stoic in her peripheral, gazing off into the distance, his attention locked somewhere beyond the flames—beyond the grove of pines.

  “Why did you want to ski this mountain?” he asked the darkness. “Of all the places you could have gone, why this one?”

  A rhetorical question—he already knew the answer—but she responded, anyway. “It seemed… fun.” Anne tugged her sock to the left, protecting the small, round injury like a cigarette burn. She’d have a blister by tomorrow.

  “Ah.” He snorted at the fire without looking her way. “Do you still wish you’d come up here alone?”

  She blinked. “I’m not… sure.” But it wasn’t true. Whatever nasty thoughts she’d had about him, she didn’t want to be alone here in the dark.

  “You’re shaking.”

  “Duh.” She finally turned her head. John’s legs were crossed beneath him, his hands on his knees. “Why aren’t you shaking?” she asked. “Wait, let me guess. Because you’re all that is man, and real men are impervious to negative windchill?”

  “Now you’re getting it.” He grinned, the wide, white smile she’d seen often on magazine covers. A single crooked canine. But his face fell when a long, keening howl cut the air. The plaintive cry of—“ Was that a wolf?” he asked, wide eyes darting around the darkness.

  All that is man, my ass. The sound was far off, well in the distance—the animal wouldn’t make it here tonight… she hoped.

  Shit. Between the wolves, freezing temperatures, ravines opening in the earth, the sheer cliffs, there were far too many things that might kill them.

  “Seven deadly sins,” she muttered, rubbing her arms, her gaze on the flames. “Seven ways to die.”

  He squinted at the night. “You think there are… seven wolves?”

  “I have no idea how many there are.” She just needed to cut the silence, override the lingering echo of that desperate howl. She did not want to watch the void around them. Did not want to imagine what might be lurking where the flames did not reach. “But I am sure that Se7en is a much better movie than Super Troopers.”

 

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