dared to hope for, and more. Barbara had warned that the place was rustic, and it was. And yet the decorative touches—a flower-bedecked, deep-cushioned sofa and two matching chairs, sun yellow curtains, and a large rug braided in colors harmonizing with those in the furniture and the curtains—gave the place a snug, homey warmth, even though the still air inside felt at least ten degrees colder than the spring-washed air outside.
Sandra longed to investigate, but, deciding to deal with first things first, went directly to the thermostat to activate the heater, which, Barbara had assured her, had a full supply of fuel. Hearing the heater kick on, she turned and retraced her steps outside to collect her gear and the groceries she had purchased before leaving the city.
In all, four trips were required from the cabin to the vehicle, and Sandra was panting for breath by the time she set the last two bags of groceries on the butcher-block table in the small kitchen.
Whew! Was she getting old—or was she just terribly out of shape?
Pausing to catch her breath, she ran a slow, comprehensive look over the room. Her perusal banished consideration of encroaching age and deteriorating physical condition. A smile of satisfaction tilted her lips at what she observed.
Though small, the kitchen was compact, every inch of space wisely utilized, with fitted cabinets above and below the sink, and a small electric range and refrigerator. A full-size microwave oven was tucked into a corner of the countertop, and next to it sat the latest in automatic coffeemakers. A small, uncurtained window above the sink looked out over a smaller replica of the front porch, and the stately pines dotting the gentle incline of the foothills. A bottled-gas-fired grill stood on the wood-railed porch. Its domed lid wore a thin layer of snow.
Hmm. Sandra’s mouth watered as she envisioned the steaks she’d bought, sizzling to a perfect medium-rare on the grill. Thinking of the steaks brought awareness of place and time—and it was time to put the food away, unpack her cases and familiarize herself with the place that would be her home for several weeks.
But first, she could do with a cup of coffee.
Humming softly, she washed the glass pot, then dug out of a stuffed-full grocery bag one of the cans of French-roast coffee she had bought. While the aromatic stream of dark liquid trickled into the pot, she loaded perishable foods—meat, cheese, eggs, milk, and fresh vegetables and fruits—into the fridge. Onto the bottom shelf she slid the two bottles of wine, one white, one red, that she had thought to pick up. The dried and canned articles went into the overhead cabinets.
When the foodstuffs were stashed away, Sandra poured coffee into a rainbow-decorated ceramic mug and carried it into the cabin’s single bedroom, where she had earlier dumped her suitcase and carryon, and the shopping bag into which she had jammed sheets and towels.
Measuring approximately twelve feet by fourteen, the room was far from spacious. And yet the sparse furnishings, a double bed, a small nightstand and one standard-size chest of drawers, lent the illusion of roominess.
Another brightly colored braided rug covered most of the pine board floor. As in the living room, the colors in the rug were picked up in the bedspread and curtains at the room’s two windows, one of which faced the north side of the cabin, the other the mountains to the rear.
All in all, not bad, Sandra decided, hefting the large suitcase onto the bed, then plopping onto the mattress and bouncing to test the resiliency of the springs.
It would do quite adequately, she thought, shivering in response to the thrill of anticipation that scurried up her back as an image of Cameron Wolfe filled her mind, along with the realization of what the bed would be used for, besides sleeping.
The temptation was overwhelming to forget every other concern and to settle back, wallowing in the comfort of the mattress. and exciting speculation.
But, being disciplined and responsible, Sandra resisted the temptation. With an unconscious sigh of longing, she heaved herself from the bed.
It was now midafternoon on Thursday, and there was work to be done before Cameron’s scheduled arrival. He had told her to expect him sometime around noon, give or take an hour or so, on Saturday.
Sandra flicked the clasps on the large suitcase and flipped it open. She had to get her tush in gear. She had to unpack, put away her clothes, make up the bed with her own sheets. And then start scrubbing.
Barbara had given Sandra fair warning that, as she hadn’t been to the cabin since the beginning of December, the place would need a thorough cleaning.
Barbara had not been overstating the case. Even with her quick initial perusal of the place, Sandra had noted the layer of dust that coated every flat surface, lamp, appliance and knickknack. not to mention the tile and fixtures in the bathroom.
It was immediately obvious that neither Barbara nor her daughter was very neat or very much inclined toward cleaning up after themselves. Fortunately, that was not reflected in their professional work or their workplace.
But at the time of her employer’s offer, delighted with the idea of having the use of the isolated retreat, Sandra had shrugged and readily agreed to doing the necessary work involved.
Still, being willing to do the housekeeping chores and actually doing the work were two entirely different things, especially when one was not, either by nature or by training, particularly domesticated.
Sandra heaved another sigh as she began removing her clothes from the case. She did not do housework. With the jam-packed client schedule she carried—or had been carrying up until nowshe didn’t have time to do housework, even if she was so inclined. She paid a hefty amount to a professional service to do for her.
But the cleaning service was in Denver, and she was here, in this isolated cabin. So, Ms. Professional, she told herself, systematically stowing her things in dresser drawers and closets, you’d be well advised to get your act together and get it done.
Sandra was nearly undone herself when she pulled open the narrow drawer in the bedside nightstand. As small as it was, the gun inside the drawer looked lethal—which, of course, it was.
Naturally, she had known it was there. Barbara had told her it was there. Still.
Sandra hated guns. She knew how to handle them, how to use them properly, simply because the use of them had been included in a self-defense class she took while in college. Even so, she hated them.
Shuddering, she slipped the paperback novels she’d brought with her into the drawer, shoving the weapon, and the accompanying box of cartridges, to the back, out of sight. Then, firmly erasing the ugly thing from her thoughts, she turned to begin working on the bed.
Did she want Cameron to think she was a slob?
“Your man flew out of Denver in a private plane at 6:35 this morning.”
“Heading where?” Cameron asked tersely into the phone. He slanted a glance at his watch. It read 6:51; his operative was right on top of his assignment, as he had fully expected him to be.
“Chicago.”
Cameron breathed a sigh of relief; if Whitfield was off to Chicago, on business or whatever, he couldn’t very well be harassing Sandra.
“Thanks, Steve,” he said. “Who will take over surveillance there?”
“Jibs.”
