Primary Suspect. Susan Peterson
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forbidding winters of the Adirondacks. She hadn’t been back to Cloudspin in over eleven years.
Instead her father had taken on the responsibility of making the trips down to see her. But with him taking care of the lodge and her working on completing her fourth year of medical school, the visits had been few and far between.
Now he was gone and she was coming home to take care of business. Business that meant cleaning out the caretaker’s cottage. A cottage she’d lived in throughout her childhood, witnessing at age eight the slow painful death of her mother from ovarian cancer and watching in wide-eyed wonder the wealthy patrons of Cloudspin vacation in their private, sprawling Adirondack paradise. The contrasts had been stark and painful, making her homecoming bittersweet.
She leaned forward and peered through the ice accumulating on the windshield. The comforting thump thump thump of the wiper blades soothed the tension in her shoulders. Getting closer.
Up ahead, she could make out the final S curve. A few miles beyond that and she’d reach the main gates of the lodge.
Relief washed over her as she eased the car into the final curve. But then, out of the dim light, something fast and dark flashed out into the center of the road.
A skier! Where in God’s name had he come from?
Kylie hit the brake.
She gripped the wheel and watched in frozen horror as the car skidded toward the man poling to reach the cutaway trail on the opposite side of the road.
What kind of fool skied in a snowstorm at dusk? Not to mention doing so dressed in black!
Time shifted into slow motion and the car slid sideways, the tires silent on the smooth ice. The skier glanced up, his expression hard. Determined. He knew the danger.
He dug in, moving for the opening with quick, powerful strides. His shoulders bunched beneath the sleek black jacket and his muscular thighs strained to propel him out of her way.
“Oh, God, he’s not going to make it,” Kylie wailed.
But she was wrong. He reached the cutaway as she skidded past him sideways. She overcorrected and the car fish-tailed.
A sharp crack filled the silence and she cringed. She knew without actually seeing it that one of her tires had hit the back end of his skis.
In the rearview mirror, she saw him stumble and then pitch forward into the snowbank.
She hung on and eased her foot onto the brake. The car slid to a stop on the opposite side of the road and the hood gently hit the snowbank.
Stunned, she sat perfectly still, unable to loosen her death grip on the wheel. But then squirts of adrenaline shot into her bloodstream, hitting her hard. She reached up and unsnapped her belt. As she reached for the door handle, she prayed she’d find him alive.
A blast of frigid air hit her, taking her breath away. She scrabbled for the back end of the car, and in her haste, almost tripped. Frantic, she grabbed for the side of the car and cringed as the cold metal stung her bare hands. She ignored the pain and the voice that warned her to go back for her mittens. She needed to check on the skier.
Across the road, the skier climbed to his feet and leaned over to brush the snow off his pants with brisk, efficient sweeps of his gloved hands. A sense of relief flooded her. He didn’t look injured. He moved with the fluid motion of a natural athlete.
Kylie gingerly trekked across the slippery road, watching as the man bent down to examine the broken section of his ski. It had snapped directly behind the binding. He wouldn’t be using that particular pair of skis anytime soon. She hoped she had enough money in her bank account to replace them.
He straightened up and a pair startling blue eyes, direct and unflinching, focused on her.
Kylie’s heart sank. There was no missing the smear of blood seeping from a jagged cut on his left cheek. The fall had injured him. Not only was she going to have to pay for his skis, but she was also going to be paying medical bills.
He reached up and pulled off his ski hat. “Are you nuts?” he shouted over the howling wind. “Where the hell was the fire?”
The force of his anger made Kylie’s stomach tighten. The man was royally ticked. Not that she blamed him. She’d almost killed the guy.
“I’m sorry,” she said, skidding to a stop next to him. “It was totally my fault. I didn’t see you until it was too late.”
“Nothing like stating the obvious.” Sarcasm dripped from every word.
“I didn’t think anyone would be out on a night like this.”
He lifted a ski pole to point to a sign. “Are you blind? Didn’t you see the signs warning you that there was a ski crossing up ahead? You’re supposed to slow down when going through this section of the road.”
Confused, Kylie glanced at the sign. It did indeed warn drivers of a Ski Xing. She’d forgotten about the trail, failed to see the signs as she focused on trying to keep the car on the road. How could she have missed them?
“Look, I’m really sorry. I—I take complete responsibility.”
“Sorry doesn’t cut it, lady.”
“It—it was an accident. I was concentrating on getting around the curve.”
“You were going entirely too fast for the road conditions.”
She shifted uncomfortably. Okay, she was willing to admit she’d been going too fast. But what the hell was he thinking skiing at night, dressed all in black and during a freakin’ blizzard?
She bit back the rush of words that threatened to spill out. Deep breath. No need to make matters worse. If there was one thing Kylie knew she was good at, it was taking the blame and smoothing things over in tense situations. She was a master at it.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” She pointed to his cheek. “It looks as though you cut yourself pretty badly. You might need stitches.”
He reached up and casually brushed aside the trickle of blood seeping down his lean cheek. “It’s a scratch. I’m fine.”
He bent down and unclasped the toe binding of his other ski, the close-fitting cling of his nylon ski pants stretching nicely over his muscular form. Kylie worked to keep her gaze off his physique and on his face. Now was definitely not the time to be lurking on some hot guy’s body. Not after she’d almost turned him into roadkill.
“My skis are shot. You’ll have to give me a lift back to the lodge.”
Kylie nodded and rushed over to help him, slipping and almost colliding with him. He reached out and grabbed her elbow, effortlessly keeping her from taking a tumble. She could feel the heat and strength of his grip sink down through the thick lining of her coat and singe her raw nerve endings.
“Sorry, it’s more slippery than I thought.”
“All the more reason not to barrel down a road with little regard for what might be around the next curve.”
His tone was clipped, impatient. He was not in a forgiving mood. The possibility of a lawsuit loomed in the back of Kylie’s mind.
Lord, could her luck get any worse? She considered sitting down in the middle of the road and crying. With a whopping tuition bill due in January, she was fairly certain things couldn’t get much bleaker.
But she quickly brushed aside the thought. She was made of tougher stuff than that. She could handle this.
Clenching her fists, she studied the man’s face. He looked familiar. Something about the classic lines of his angular face, the strong Roman nose and dark eyebrows over bluish-gray eyes, struck a cord in her. She knew him from somewhere, but for the life of her she couldn’t place him.
She stuck out a hand. “I’m Kylie McKee.”
He ignored her hand and swung his skis over