voice was soft and female, like the hands that held his. But he could barely hear it over the clattering noise that filled his head. He clenched his teeth and the clattering stopped.
“Hello? Mister, can you hear me?”
Remy heard the woman’s voice draw closer, and the scent of flowers grew stronger.
Something bumped his feet. Agony stabbed into his frozen toes. He tried to shift away, but his limbs felt bound, held down. Panic tripped his pulse. They must have found him after all. The safety was an illusion. He couldn’t trust it. He couldn’t trust anyone.
The woman released his hand. Fingertips feathered over his forehead before her palm settled warmly against the side of his face. “Hello?” She patted his cheek. “Hello?”
Remy struggled to open his eyes but his eyelashes seemed stuck together. He held his breath and tried again. He managed to crack his eyelids apart just enough to glimpse a face.
She was leaning over him, her hair falling in a blond curtain across her cheekbones. Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth and her pale eyebrows angled together in concern. She looked worried. She looked innocent.
And she wasn’t wearing a uniform.
His pulse steadied. Gradually his surroundings started to solidify. He realized he was lying on his back, on the floor. There was a quiet crackling nearby, like a fire. Blankets weighed down his legs, not shackles. There was a flash of orange fur by his feet, and a marmalade cat raised its head to stare at him.
Remy closed his eyes and feigned unconsciousness, buying time to assess his situation.
It was okay. This couldn’t be a hospital. It couldn’t be a police station. They didn’t have cats there.
So Sibley hadn’t found him. There was still hope. All he needed was a chance to rest, to regain his strength. Then he’d figure out what to do.
Chantal.
The name echoed through his mind like the clang of a locking door. Had he heard it? Spoken it? The last time he had seen her he hadn’t been able to speak at all. His throat had been swelled shut with the sob he had been determined not to let her hear.
Was she warm? Was she safe? Was she happy?
Did she believe what they said about him?
His pulse tripped with helpless, frustrated anger. It was a familiar feeling. For seven months he had lived and breathed it.
He couldn’t waste time resting. He had to keep moving. He had to find the key that would end the nightmare.
Would he ever see her again? Would he feel the sunshine of her laughter and hear the lilting music in her voice when she called him Daddy?
She would turn five next month. Five. And she was being raised by people who called him a murderer.
No, he thought. No! He wouldn’t give up. He couldn’t. Not until Chantal knew the truth.
Chapter 2
“John? Mr. Becker? Can you hear me?”
Remy floated back to awareness with a confused jerk. When had he drifted off again? How long had he been out? And who the hell was Becker?
“I’m just going outside to get some more firewood, Mr. Becker. The storm isn’t letting up, and it’s going to be a long night.”
Gentle fingers brushed across his forehead, accompanied by the scent of lilies. There was the rustle of clothing and the rasp of a zipper. Remy squinted one eye just enough to see the blond woman pull the hood of a red parka over her head and move away. A door creaked, a blast of frigid air whistled inside for an instant, then the latch clicked shut. Remy waited another few seconds, listening to be sure he was alone before he opened his eyes fully.
Whitewashed beams crossed the ceiling above him, mottled with flickering shadows. A plaid couch with wooden arms loomed above him on his right, and to his left a fire burned low behind a mesh screen.
Right. The resort, the storm. It didn’t take as long for his brain to click into gear this time. Good. That must mean his strength was returning. Remy stretched his arms, then his legs, one at a time. Aches and stiffness but no real damage, from what he could tell. He tried to flex his fingers. Pain, swift and white-hot, knifed through his joints from the thawing flesh. He took shallow, panting breaths until the pain eased, then cautiously lifted his head.
The room was large, taking up the entire front half of the cabin. Along with the couch, there were two overstuffed easy chairs, footstools, bookshelves and a table with a tilted top and a stool. It was a drafting table, Remy realized. Did it belong to the woman who smelled like flowers? Who was she? And what was she doing out here by herself?
Didn’t matter, he told himself immediately. Whoever she was, she was one person too many. He never would have come here if he’d known the place was occupied. She was a complication he hadn’t anticipated. He had to leave, he thought, pushing himself up on his elbows.
The room went gray and tilted. Remy waited until it righted itself again, then straightened his arms and levered himself into a sitting position.
A shudder shook his frame as the air hit his bare skin. He glanced down, puzzled, and noticed that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Using the heels of his hands, he clasped the edge of the blanket that had fallen to his lap and pulled it to his shoulders. That was when he realized he wasn’t wearing any pants.
“What the—” Wincing at the rawness of his throat, he swallowed carefully. He spotted his shirt draped over a wooden rack near the fireplace, along with his jeans. Another shudder rattled through him, and he had to clamp his jaw shut to keep his teeth from clacking.
Damn, he was cold, so cold. But he had to get dressed. He had to leave. He hung on to that thought as he bent his knees and tried to stand up.
The floor was hardwood, he learned. It rushed upward and slammed into the side of his face.
A marmalade cat padded daintily into his field of vision. “Mrrowww?”
Remy glared at the cat as he regathered his strength, then rolled to his back and gingerly assessed the additional damage. Everything throbbed now, and he tasted blood. He mouthed a string of silent curses as he wiped the blood from his lip. Taking care to move more slowly, he sat up again.
The cat sat back on its haunches and curled its tail around its feet. Its ears pricked forward as it studied him.
Remy ignored the animal’s scrutiny and focused on the clothes on the wooden rack. They were wet. That must be why the woman had stripped them off him. He shuddered again as he realized how completely vulnerable he had been while he had been unconscious. He hadn’t even been aware that a strange woman had taken off his clothes and wrapped him in blankets.
He should be grateful. Whoever she was, she had undoubtedly saved his life.
But she could just as easily have ended it.
He had to leave. He couldn’t count on the charity of a stranger. He knew better than to trust anyone. During the past year, people he had believed to be his friends had
