He scowled and lingered in front of the door, his face exasperated. He tapped his watch.
Tap it till it cracks, Constance thought, willing away her attraction to him. I don’t live in your pocket.
“Nonsense, Mr. Henning, you can see them from here. I promise, you won’t miss your plane or muss your shoes.”
If he felt the barb she’d just thrust into him, Constance couldn’t tell it. He gave up and headed toward her. She wasn’t sure if he was simply limping, or limping and trying to cover it.
“Look at that! Dead of winter, yet the fox grapes and wild mint are flourishing back here,” she pointed out. “The mint makes a delicious mountain tea.”
“How interesting,” he replied from a stoic dead-pan, mimicking her. His voice sounded machine-generated.
Not bothering to get his permission, Constance walked the short distance to the bridge. She wondered how he could not be captivated by the beauty of this spot.
The creek formed a clear little pool beneath the stone arch of the bridge. The water’s calm, glassine surface wrinkled with each wind gust. Golden fingers of sunlight poked through the leafless canopy of trees surrounding them. From the bridge she could look straight down and glimpse the silvery flash-and-dart of minnows.
He joined her on the bridge, pointedly ignoring the view. His cool, smoky stare riveted to her.
Why, his face is sweaty, she noted. But it was quite brisk weather up here, practically no humidity. She felt chilly even with her wool blazer, while he had no topcoat at all.
She pointed toward some mossy boulders half-submerged at the water’s edge. “Those always put me in mind of green-upholstered stools. Aren’t they fascinating?”
His stony silence implied he couldn’t care less. Constance noticed how his shadow seemed long and sinister in the waning light. She’d left her sunglasses in the Jeep, and when she looked up at him she was forced to lift a hand to shade her eyes from the low sun.
“Miss Adams,” he began, laboring to speak, “I confess I don’t give a tinker’s damn about those rocks. Now…are you going to unlock that cabin or not?”
Or not? His pointed emphasis on those last two words altered her mood. Suddenly she was fully aware of his intimidating physical advantage over her. She wondered, for just a moment, what might happen if she said not. But she decided she didn’t want to find out.
“Of course.” She gave in, stepping around him and walking down off the bridge. “But to be frank, Mr. Henning, I can’t imagine you being very…at home up here. As you can see, this is a nature lover’s hideaway. The place isn’t even wired for electricity.”
“I’ll use a portable generator,” he replied curtly. “It’s just for vacations, anyway.”
By now her dislike for this rude, intimidating man made Constance desirous of discouraging him. Like Hazel, she wasn’t simply interested in selling the cabin—she wanted to match it up with someone who appreciated its rustic charms. This creep would be bored by the Grand Canyon.
She unlocked the heavy padlock, slid it from the hasp, and swung the front door wide open, flooding the dark, musty interior with light.
“Pretty basic,” she told him, which was certainly true. The unfurnished cabin was partitioned into two rooms, with a sleeping loft over the largest.
Only a few braided rugs covered the floorboards.
“I need a little more light,” he told her, crossing to one of the shuttered windows. He slid it up, slid back the bolt lock on the heavy batten shutters, and swung them wide.
She only wanted to be rid of this man. She stayed back in the doorway, saying nothing to further a sale.
He glanced around indifferently.
“Well,” he said after a few moments, adding nothing else. She noticed that his eye coloring was variable according to the light—the smoky tint she noticed outside seemed almost like a teal blue in here. He really was extraordinarily good-looking, if one could see past that sneer of cold command. And that ashen complexion…it seemed curiously unhealthy in light of his robust build.
“Thank you,” he told her with another cursory dismissal. “I’ll give it some thought and call you.”
Despite her desire to be rid of him, Constance could hardly believe her ears. The man had been downright desperate to see the place. But now, clearly, his tone was cold—he had no intention whatsoever of calling her, she could tell.
“Fine, Mr. Henning,” she replied with a bare minimum of civility. Never mind her wasted time; at least she’d be rid of him. “Now I really must get back to Mystery.”
“Let me close the shutter and window,” he offered quickly as she started toward them. She could have sworn his limp seemed more pronounced when he crossed to the window. For the first time, she noticed the small tear in his trousers on the back of the left thigh. A dark stain ringed it. The tear and the stain was at odds with the man’s impeccable attire, and she wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that he was in a hurry.
“You forgot to bolt the shutter,” she pointed out as he turned to join her.
“No, it’s fine,” he assured her, his tone brooking no debate on the matter.
She was on the verge of pointing out that it clearly was not locked—she could see a seam of daylight where the shutters failed to join tightly.
Then she spotted it on the bare wooden floor, brightly illuminated in the sunlight flooding through the front door: a glistening scarlet drop that could only be fresh blood.
For a long moment she paused, on the edge of her next breath, cold dread filling her limbs as if they were buckets under a tap. She glanced around and spotted another drop, another—several of them, all marking places where he had walked.
A terrible sense of foreboding gripped her. She had to grab hold of the door to steady herself. Henning, meantime, had stepped outside, waiting for her to lock up.
“Mr. Henning?” she said without turning around.
“Yes?”
“Are you…I mean—Mr. Henning, are you…bleeding?”
The moment she asked, some instinct warned her she should have pretended not to notice. His next comment verified her instinct.
“I’m sorry you had to notice that, Miss Adams. I truly wish to God you hadn’t.”
Fighting a sudden, watery weakness in her calves, she turned toward the yard to confront him. And encountered the single, unblinking eye of the gun in his hand.
Chapter 3
The moment she spotted the gun, Constance felt her heart surge. For a few seconds, an exploding pulse made angry-surf noises in her ears.
He wasn’t actually pointing it at her, but he certainly hadn’t pulled it out for show-and-tell, either.
“I’m
