Primary Suspect. Susan Peterson
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to send him a nice bottle of wine when she got back to civilization.
His hands, large and capable, gripped the wheel with ease, and she found herself shooting quick glances in his direction, studying his profile and attempting to connect her memories of the arrogant teenager with the man who now sat next to her.
He’d grown up with an easy confidence, a sense of entitlement that only the rich seemed to master.
Not that any of that surprised Kylie. Eleven years ago, when other teens she knew had fumbled and stammered their way through adolescence, Michael had breezed through with ease.
At eighteen, he had commanded the undivided attention of all the females around him, young and old alike. The women had swarmed around him like anxious bees to honey, fluttering and buzzing for his attention.
Not that Michael had shown any indication that he was bothered by all that fluttering. He’d taken it in stride. Even back then, rumors about his sexual escapades had ripped through the employees like wildfire.
But in spite of how she’d felt about his youthful behavior, Kylie kept track of him over the years, and his high profile career in photography and adventure sports had made it a relatively easy undertaking. He’d become a media darling.
She’d been unable to deny her fascination with him. She’d found herself tied to him in some strange way. Just as she had found herself tied to the other teens who had been there that summer eleven years ago—a wild pack of party animals who had lived for the moment
Although her father had sent her away shortly after that night and she had never communicated with any of the others again, Kylie had felt oddly connected to Michael and the other teens from that summer so long ago. Sometimes she felt as though they were locked in a strange time warp.
Whenever Michael had an article in Explorer magazine, articles with his famous scrawling signature accompanied by a perfectly drawn soaring eagle at the bottom, she had devoured them. They revealed a man hooked on perilous climbing expeditions and risky white-water rafting trips. A man who took chances with his life, a true adrenaline junkie.
But it was when the stories about the Manhattan Slasher hit the tabloids and the mainstream papers that she’d really sat up and taken notice. She couldn’t help but wonder about the young man she’d known as a teen. Was it possible that he’d become the killer the papers speculated about?
Had the terrible accident they’d all been a part of created some kind of monster? Kylie knew only too well how Andrea Greenley’s death had affected her.
She shifted in the seat, suddenly anxious to reach the lodge. Something told her that the sooner she completed her business and returned to New York, the safer she’d feel. The further away the nightmare of that night would be.
Glancing up, she noticed they were passing through the stone pillars leading to the main lodge. On either side of the car, elegant, multimillion-dollar homes appeared, each building strategically set among groves of towering pines.
“Does your family still own Bratton Cottage?” she asked.
He nodded, his gaze fixed on the treacherous roadway.
“So, you’re staying there instead of the lodge?” She knew she was talking too fast, her nervousness revealed in a need to make conversation.
“No, I built my own place a few years ago. It’s on a lot close to Bratton Cottage.”
Some of the members, ones whose membership extended back to the early 1800s, had been able to lease land from Cloudspin and build their own vacation homes. Their homes were passed on from generation to generation, the leases expiring after ninety-nine years but with a clause for automatic renewal.
The less fortunate members, the ones unable to afford the exorbitant leases or the cost of building one of the obscenely luxurious homes, stayed at the main lodge.
“I always liked Bratton Cottage,” Kylie said. “It was one of the few places that seemed to fit in with the surrounding scenery.”
“Probably because it’s one of the original cottages. It was built around the same time as the lodge. Rustic.” He tossed another quick glance in her direction. “Of course, my father added a few modern conveniences in order to entice my mother to agree to summer here rather than the city. Not that she ever really minded.”
Nervous, Kylie chewed on a corner of her fingernail. “I always thought some of the newer homes were a bit pretentious. A bit too modern for the Adirondacks.”
He glanced sideways at her, and embarrassed, Kylie shoved her hand back into her lap. She wondered if she might have offended him with her criticism of his friends’ homes.
“I’m glad to see that you haven’t changed.”
“What do you mean?”
“The chewing of your fingernails and—” he reached out and turned the heat down a notch “—the fact that you were never overly impressed with people. You were never shy about speaking your mind.”
She was glad he had turned down the heat. Her cheeks felt overly warm. “My father always told me to mind my tongue and keep my fingers out of my mouth.”
“I’m guessing you didn’t listen real hard to that particular directive.”
She laughed. “You’re right. But then I never claimed to be Miss Manners. Must be because I never went to finishing school.”
“Good thing. A woman who speaks her mind is a person to be respected. Or so my mother always said.”
“From what I remember of your mother, she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, either.”
“You remember right. And for what it’s worth, she would have agreed with your assessment of some of the homes. She hated to see the destruction of the lodge’s natural beauty. When she served as president of Cloudspin’s governing board over fifteen years ago, she insisted on bylaws that preserved and restricted the development of the land.”
“I remember that. Caused quite a stir with a lot of people.”
“What a lot of people don’t understand is that the wealthy have as hard a time fitting in as everyone else. They just have more money to worry about while they’re mired down in their angst. Most of them get fixated on trying to impress everyone.” He shifted into Low for the climb. “When I took over as president, I followed my mother’s lead and enacted some pretty rigid bylaws of my own. I wanted to restrict the kinds of homes members could build. Wanted the architecture to fit in with the natural landscape.”
“That must have put more than a few noses out of joint.”
“Some. But when I built my place, I made sure the design didn’t spoil the natural beauty.” He pointed out the window to a sleek log home perched strategically on a small knoll overlooking the lodge. “That’s my place.”
Kylie stretched to see out the window and gave a small whistle of appreciation. “It’s beautiful.” She noted the soft sheen of light that seemed to form a halo above the cabin. “Skylights?”
He nodded. “My single concession to modern architecture. I like lying in bed and seeing the night sky overhead. Not possible in my place in New York. So, I made some adjustments.”
The thought of him stretched out on a huge Adirondack poster bed, a brightly colored quilt tangled around his long muscular legs and the brilliant night sky overhead leaped into Kylie’s brain. She glanced away, embarrassed at the unexpected direction of her thoughts.
They rounded another curve and the monstrous structure of Cloudspin Lodge came into view. She sat forward, drinking it in. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed the old place.
Modeled after Adirondack hunting camps that had been popular years ago but with a great deal more grace and elegance, the lodge was four stories high with a pitched, moss-green roof. A huge wraparound porch with a domed portico and thick white columns stretched the length of the