low and threatening over Hollowback Mountain. The ruts were so deep in places that Sasha had to slow her vehicle to a crawl to get over them.
“Really need a wider road,” she decided, then bounced so hard she bit her tongue.
She spied headlights approaching, but it was difficult to judge the distance in near whiteout conditions. Refocusing, she blinked, did a disbelieving double take and hissed out a breath.
She had to be seeing things. There couldn’t possibly be a huge pickup bearing down on her.
She swung the wheel to the right. The halogen lights ahead danced like lanterns in a high wind. As she’d somehow known it would, the approaching vehicle lost traction and went into a full three-hundred-sixty-degree spin.
The back end of the truck whipped around to tag her front fender. It struck her again near the tire well, slowed briefly, then spun its wheels and fishtailed away. The best Sasha could do—and she’d been driving in the snow since her sixteenth birthday—was steer into the skid and pray the ravine beside her wasn’t a sheer drop.
An eternity later, she felt something catch on the undercarriage, and her Land Rover jolted to a halt. If she hadn’t been belted in, she would have been flung into the passenger seat. Peering out, she saw nothing, just emptiness, and realized that one good blast of wind would send her tumbling over the side of the cliff.
Need guardrails, she reflected through a jittery blur. Big heavy suckers to embrace the soon-to-be-widened road.
She took a precious moment to catch her breath and calm her racing heart. Breathe in, breathe out, she told herself. Don’t make any sudden moves.
She pried her clenched fingers from the steering wheel, visualized the road, covered with snow but safe and solid beneath her feet. The Land Rover rocked as gusts of wind pummeled it. She used her shoulder and every ounce of strength to fight the door open. As she hit it, the vehicle pitched sideways and seesawed for a moment.
Sasha shot a look upward. “I’m not ready to die,” she warned whoever might be listening.
With her arm braced against the door, she switched off the engine and pulled out the keys. Determined to escape, she gave a heave—or started to. Instead of resistant metal, she encountered only air, and toppled out of her seat into the snow.
A pair of gloved hands prevented her from landing facedown on the ice. Grateful despite her surprise, she looked up into a blurred face.
“Who…?” A blast of wind carried her question away. She pushed her hair back. “Thank you.”
“Are you hurt?”
It was a man, and he had a nice voice, a very nice voice, even when raised.
“I don’t think so.” He helped her to her feet. “Someone in a gray pickup sideswiped me.” She batted at the snow on her jeans. “I saw five guys crammed into the front seat.”
“Sheriff’ll pick them up. You sure you didn’t hit your head?”
“Why?” She probed her temple. “Am I bleeding?”
“Hope not. I can rescue your vehicle, but I’m not so good with blood.”
Love the voice, she thought again, and looked closer. From what she could see of his face, he had an incredible pair of hazel eyes.
Beside them, the Land Rover groaned and slid another few inches downward.
“Uh…” Although she wanted to make a grab for the door handle, Sasha regarded his SUV instead. “Now might be a really good time for that rescue.”
“I’ll get the cable. Can you turn my truck around?”
If she couldn’t, her father, who’d been designing North American race cars for thirty years, would disown her.
Drawing up the hood of her coat, Sasha crunched through a frozen drift to the driver’s-side door. Six more payments. That’s all she had left on the four-wheel drive vehicle her mother had warned her not to buy. She glanced skyward for the second time. “If you have any compassion, you won’t let her find out about this.”
The stranger’s truck was blissfully warm, the passenger seat strewn with papers, files, a laptop computer and various other electronic gadgets. A badge sat front and center on the dash. Under it she glimpsed a photo driver’s license. Too curious to resist, Sasha regarded the badge. Denver PD. Now what would a Denver cop be doing in the northernmost part of the state. Then she extracted the license and the question slipped away.
“Wow.” Stunned, she studied the man’s picture. Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous was all she could think, and, God, this probably wasn’t even a good shot.
She scanned the personal info. Dominick Law. Thirty-six years old; six feet two inches tall; brown hair—too long, but also gorgeous; hazel eyes; one hundred and seventy pounds. That would make him tall and lean as well as stunning.
His features were positively arresting, on the narrow side and highlighted by a great mouth, a straight nose and the hint of a dimple in his right cheek.
“Okay, not good.” As if singed, her fingers dropped both badge and license back on the dash. “You’re on a business trip, Sasha. It’s no time to mimic Mommy dearest.”
As a distraction, she set the wipers in motion and watched Detective Gorgeous hook the cable to the winch and secure the other end to her rear bumper.
Blustery gusts buffeted the windshield and almost blotted out the sight of her tilted vehicle. She waited for his signal, then maneuvered the truck around and revved the engine. Officer Law kept it very well tuned.
All in all, it took them less than ten minutes to get her Land Rover back on level ground. Well, relatively level. The ruts were treacherous underfoot, and the driving snow stung her eyes.
With her hood up, Sasha worked her way back to him. “You’re a lifesaver, Detective.”
“Saw the badge, huh?” Crouching, he checked the cable. “You’re good to go now, Ms…”
“Myer. Sasha.” She caught her hood before it blew down. “Just Sasha.”
“Nick.”
“I’m really happy to meet you, Nick.” Then she noticed a dent in the front end of her Rover and bent to inspect it. “That better be fixable.” She went to her knees, peered underneath. “Did you see any damage?”
“Other than the dent, no. Where are you headed?”
“Painter’s Bluff.”
His amazing eyes grew speculative. “You have blond hair, don’t you?”
“Courtesy of my Swedish grandmother. Why?” Amusement kindled in her as she stood, a mood she couldn’t discern in the serious detective. “Are blondes illegal in Painter’s Bluff?”
“Apparently you never saw Skye Painter in her prime.”
Sasha smiled. “You mean she’s not in her prime now? Could have fooled me. I’m going
