massive home. For now, the estate relied on two huge diesel generators, which ran everything except the propane stoves and the well water and filtration system, which used battery-powered pumps. Off to the left of the main house, the roofs of the detached guesthouse and large barn were just visible, as well. Several smaller structure, including the lean-to that housed the generators, as well as a woodshed where the firewood was kept, were below the level of the trees, hidden among the pines.
Griffin was proud that he was able to offer his son such a cool getaway, and a place where they could be just a family, away from the pressures and posturing of San Fran society. He glanced at Sophie. “What do you think?”
“It’s lovely,” she breathed.
“Yeah,” he agreed, the view reminding him why he’d bought Lonesome Lake rather than one of the other half dozen places he’d considered. He’d liked the isolation, yes, and he’d been able to picture himself fishing in the lake with Luke, year after year. But he’d also been drawn to the wildness of the location, the grandeur of the views and the sheer presence of the architecture.
It was a hell of a place, that was for sure.
Suddenly anxious to get inside the buildings and take a look around at what had—or hadn’t—been done, he hit the gas and sent the SUV thundering across the bridge.
They were halfway across when he heard a banging noise, as though the SUV had backfired.
Moments later, the concrete surface ahead of them cracked, then sagged. Adrenaline jolted through Griffin as the SUV dropped a few inches, tilting. The damned bridge was giving way!
“Hang on!” he shouted as he hit the gas hard, flooring it. The SUV’s tires screeched and the vehicle lunged forward, but it was too late. They were already sinking. Falling.
Sophie screamed as the steel railing gave way with a screech and groan. The nose of the SUV yawed downward. Griffin locked up the brakes, but that didn’t help. Nothing did.
The vehicle slid ten or fifteen feet, then dropped straight down and smashed into the frozen surface of Lonesome Lake.
The crash noise roared inside the vehicle, counter-pointed by Sophie’s choked-off scream. Ice chunks flew up on either side of them and the airbags detonated with a whumpf, cushioning the force of the impact, but also pinning Griffin back against the driver’s seat as the SUV nosed beneath the lake surface. Cursing, he fought the springy airbag, fought his seat belt, trying to get free.
The spiderwebbed windshield crumbled inward under the water pressure and frigid water poured in over the dashboard, dousing him. Freezing him. A clock started up in his head, timing how long they’d been in the water, and how long they could stay there, which wasn’t long at all.
The SUV paused for a moment, hung up on a chunk of pylon, then slewed to the side and started to sink once again.
Griffin didn’t know how deep the lake was at that location, didn’t want to wait around and find out. They had to get out of the vehicle, had to reach the mansion and get themselves dried off and warm, or else hypothermia would set in quickly. He didn’t know why or how the bridge had given way just as they were crossing it—maybe the passage of the construction trucks had weakened it, or the last freeze-thaw cycle had done irreparable damage. But that didn’t matter just then. What mattered was getting him and Sophie to safety.
Knowing they’d gone from a business drive to a life-or-death situation in an instant, Griffin shoved his business persona aside and drew on the man he’d once been, the soldier who’d saved lives, and taken them. Fighting past the airbag, he kicked the windshield all the way out, letting in a new gush of water but clearing the way for escape. “Come on,” he said. “We can—” He broke off, cursing bitterly as he got a good look at Sophie.
She was out cold. And the water was rising fast.
ON THE OTHER SIDE of the lake, the bald man leaned up against a tree and watched the SUV sink into the frozen lake.
He would’ve liked a cigarette to congratulate himself for a job well done, but his wife had nagged him to quit a few years back. So instead, he stood there and watched as the ice-laden water rose up around the heavily tinted rear windows of the four-by-four.
He couldn’t see in through the tint, but there was no sign of the vehicle’s occupants trying to escape. If Vaughn and his secretary were in a position to get out, there would’ve been doors flying open, and occupants scrambling out to safety. Which meant they were already dead, or close enough to it that the distinction was academic.
It was for the best, really, he thought, feeling no grief or guilt for the dead, but rather the sense of another box checked off on his to-do list. He didn’t have anything against Vaughn and the woman. They had simply been in the way of more important things.
Satisfied, the man pantomimed flicking an imaginary cigarette butt to the ground and pretended to grind it into the frozen soil. Then he settled his loaded knapsack more comfortably on his back and turned away, headed back uphill toward the barn at the rear of the house.
He had a job to do. It was as simple as that. And anyone who got in his way was going to become a statistic, real quick.
Sophie awoke to panic and pain. The panic was locked in her chest, squeezing her lungs and keeping the screams inside. The pain was in her head, making her dizzy and weak. And she was freezing—not just a little “time to go put on a sweater” chill—but a deep, bone-hurting cold that surrounded her, consumed her.
She struggled against the sensations, trying and failing to push away from whatever terrible nightmare gripped her. Then the world shifted, reeling around her. Light intruded, forcing her to squint against the stabbing glare.
“That’s it, Sophie. In and out,” a deep, masculine voice said from very close by. “You can do it. Breathe in and out.”
The pressure on her lungs let up, and some of the pain cleared. The world stopped spinning and she could move again. Moments later she could see again, though seeing didn’t do much to clear her confusion, because she found herself lying on her back, with her handsome boss, Griffin Vaughn, leaning over her.
In his late thirties, with short dark hair that was frosted with silver at the temples, Griffin was a hard, no-nonsense businessman with chiseled features and elegantly arched brows. He was clipped and to the point, and rarely let his face show the slightest hint of emotion. Which was why it was shocking to see worry in his dark green eyes, and hear it in his voice when he said, “Hey. Welcome back to the land of the living. You scared the heck out of me.”
“Sorry,” she said inanely, too aware that his face was close enough that if she reached up just a little, they’d be kissing. Which was the sort of thought she usually relegated to the “don’t go there” section of her brain, along with thoughts of her mother’s illness and her own crippling debt load.
She stared up at him, blinking, trying to figure out what had happened. As she did so, she realized she wasn’t really even that cold anymore, just numb, almost going to warm now, kindling to heat. She smiled, dazed. Griffin didn’t smile back, though. Instead, he touched her cheek, though she barely felt it. “You’re freezing.”
“Not really. I’m actually
