Dark Journey (2 page)

He hadn't expected to be called for her this time. He'd assumed her father would be next, the old man who'd cheated death too many times as it was. But fate had a nasty habit of playing tricks on him. Now Laura Fitzpatrick lay dying in the forest, and he would have to take her, as well.

He leaned over her. Her heart had stopped, time had stopped. The trees were motionless, as the breeze was frozen at twilight. He looked down at her, and a great rebellion rose inside him.

Not this time. Not this one. Not now.

He tilted his head back to glare at the darkening sky, waiting for the answer he'd sought. This time it came, silently. Two days.

He closed his eyes, summoning all the massive power that lay quiet within him, making it hum and grow. When he opened his eyes, the leaves were rustling in the breeze. An owl hooted.

And Laura Fitzpatrick opened her eyes.

S
he knew him. It seemed as if she'd known him all her life, and yet she couldn't place him. For long moments she stared up at him, disoriented, confused, trying to look past the mirrored dark glasses and remember where she'd seen him.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

His voice gave her no clue. It was husky, ageless, oddly sensual, with the faintest trace of an accent that might have been French and, then again, might not. His face was narrow, tanned beneath the mirrored glasses, and his dark hair was long.

She struggled to sit up. He didn't help her, didn't touch her, simply sat back on his heels and watched her. "Fine, I think," she said, amazed that her own voice sounded so shaky. "I must have passed out."

"You shouldn't be out here alone."

"I was looking for my sister."

"She's gone back to the house."

She stared at him. "Who are you?" she said, then flushed, realizing how rude she sounded. "I mean..."

"Alex," he said. "Alex Montmort. I'm afraid I must be trespassing. I was hiking when I thought I heard someone cry for help."

"My father owns this mountain."

A small, devastating smile curved his mouth. "Not so much of a mountain, is it? I'm used to the Alps."

"I've never seen the Alps."

"Ah, but you have the Rocky Mountains. They are as spectacular in their own way, even if this one seems a small specimen. Do you ski?"

The simple question shouldn't have bothered her. She had learned to live with her infirmity. With the restrictions her life and health had placed on her. With the restrictions her family had placed on her. "No," she said. "Do you?"

"That's why I'm here."

"It's a little early in the season."

"So it is. I can wait for the snow. I am infinitely patient."

She believed him. He seemed possessed of almost unnatural calm, willing to wait for anything. The entire conversation seemed bizarre, as she sat on the ground in the twilight, conversing with a stranger, the sudden, erupting pain in her chest long vanished.

"You could probably find work in town," she said, striving for a tone of normalcy as she pulled herself upright. He didn't touch her, didn't offer her a steadying hand, and despite the weakness in her legs, she was oddly glad of that. She wasn't ready to have this stranger touch her. "That's what most ski bums do while they're waiting for the first snow."

His smile broadened. "I am not certain I qualify as a ski bum." He rose, standing patiently as he looked down at her. He towered over her, but then, she wasn't a particularly tall woman. He really wasn't that massive, and yet he seemed to loom over her. The sensation was oddly soothing.

An owl hooted in the night wind, and a streak of unexpected lightning flashed in the sky. "We're going to have a storm," she said, surprised.

"Perhaps," he murmured. "Let me see you safely back to the house, Miss—"

She had the strange feeling that he knew her name, but she obediently supplied it anyway. "Laura," she said. "And I wouldn't want to put you to any trouble. I can find my way home, and you should get back to wherever you came from before the storm hits."

"I have endless time," he said. "Come." He held out his hand, making no effort to touch her, letting her make the first move. There was an expectant air about him, as if he were curious to see what would happen.

She stared at his outstretched hand. It was an elegant one, long-fingered, well shaped. All she had to do was take it, and life would be very simple.

She tucked her hands in her pockets, smiling up at him with unfeigned cheerfulness. "As a matter of fact, maybe you'd better come with me. This place is crawling with armed guards and attack dogs. Daddy—" Her voice caught for a moment, then strengthened again. "Daddy always worried about our safety."

"Why?" It was a simple question. She started down the path, and he fell into step beside her.

"Daddy is William Fitzpatrick."

"And?"

"That name doesn't mean anything to you? Oh, I forgot, you're not... that is, you aren't from around here, are you?" she asked naively.

"No."

"My father is a very powerful man. And when people have wealth and influence, they have enemies. Over the years there have been threats, extortion attempts. Someone once tried to kidnap my older sister, Justine."

"Did they succeed?"

"No. But she's always been a little high-strung since then. We all look after her." For a moment she wondered why she was telling this dark stranger such intimate details of her life, but it seemed a natural thing to do.

"Your family looks after each other," he observed in a neutral voice.

"A little too much at times." She couldn't disguise her own bitterness. "My stepbrother Jeremy is the worst, always hovering." She shook her head. "You'd be better off with me. I can't imagine how you got so far onto the land without running into some of the security precautions, but even so, I doubt your luck would hold. The dogs can be particularly savage."

"I'm very good with animals."

"Not these," she said. "They've been bred to kill."

She sensed rather than saw his smile. "You are good to be so concerned," he said. "They won't hurt me."

The calm arrogance of his words should have bothered her, but it didn't. She'd seen what her father's dogs could do to a rabbit that strayed into their path, and she had been assured they could wreak just that much havoc on an unwanted human. But somehow she believed that they wouldn't hurt this man.

Lightning crackled overhead, illuminating the dark, storm-ridden sky. "I've been away from the house too long," she said again. "My father's dying. He's probably gone by now." She was proud of the unemotional calm of her voice. She'd lived with the knowledge of death all her life—she refused to let the sudden, unpalatable fact of it destroy her.

Alex Montmort looked around him, considering. "I don't think anyone will die this night," he observed.

She bit back her instinctive answer. She believed him on this one, too, but it was probably just a case of wishful thinking. "I'd better get back," she said. "Are you coming with me?"

"Yes," he said. "I'm coming with you."

T
he Fitzpatrick compound at the top of Taylor Butte was fortified, determinedly rustic, and as comfortable and elegant as money could make it. And there was a very great deal of money—Laura had grown up with that knowledge, as well as the knowledge of her uncertain health. The compound consisted of the main house—a great, sprawling log structure with half a dozen porches and wings, a marvel of rambling charm. There was a spacious guest house as well, a stable, a building for the servants, a security outbuilding, and a five-car garage. All made of the same golden-hued pine logs that blended so beautifully with the towering evergreens.

Laura hadn't realized how chilly the night was until she stepped inside the big house with Alex just behind her. A huge fire was blazing in the fieldstone fireplace, sending waves of heat out into the room where her family was gathered.

"Is he gone?" she asked flatly.

Justine sat huddled in a chair, a glass of whiskey clutched in one shaking hand, a defiant expression on her tear-streaked face. "Where were you?" she demanded.

The stranger was directly behind her. She wasn't sure how she knew—she had no sense of his body heat, and he didn't touch her. But he was there, and she found herself grateful. "Looking for you, Justine," she replied, mildly enough. "Is he dead?"

"Morbid, aren't you?" Ricky said, his voice faintly slurred. "But as a matter of fact, my esteemed father-in-law is not dead. We thought he was about to bite the bullet, with both his precious daughters off communing with nature or whatever the hell the two of you were doing, but he suddenly seemed to take a turn for the better." Ricky rose, ignoring his wife, and swaggered toward Laura. "Though I guess I can see exactly what, or who, you were doing. Who would have thought it of sweet Saint Laura?"

"Please, Ricky..." Justine begged.

"Listen, guys, could we stop arguing?" Jeremy said from his stance by the fireplace. "Father's not dead yet, but he's living on borrowed time, and we certainly don't want his last memories to be of us squabbling with each other."

"Laura doesn't squabble," Cynthia murmured. Jeremy's pampered, undeniably gorgeous wife was curled up in the most comfortable chair. She, too, had noticed the shadowy figure behind Laura, and her expression had altered from one of sullen boredom to faint interest. "Who's your friend?"

"Alex Montmort," Laura answered politely, then dutifully made the introductions. "This is my family. My stepbrother, Jeremy, and his wife, Cynthia, and my younger sister, Justine and her husband, Ricky."

"Montmort?" Ricky said with a snort. "Mountain of death? That's a hell of a name, buddy. What do you do for a living, with a name like that?"

"I ski." The response was cool, faintly tinged with that odd, seductive accent.

"Extreme skiing, I suppose," Jeremy said, with an attempt at normalcy. "The kind of stuff where you ski over cliffs and hope you don't die?"

"Most people who ski over cliffs are fully prepared to die," he replied, closing the door behind him and moving deeper into the room. Once more Laura had the sense that he wanted to touch her, wanted to cup her arm. But he didn't.

"Gloomy subject," Ricky said carelessly. "We've got too much death around here as it is. Lemme get you a drink, Al. What are you having?"

"Alex," the stranger said calmly. "Cognac would be ... pleasant."

"Cognac it is," Ricky said, taking his own empty glass over to the bar tray. "Ginger ale for you, Laura."

"She will have cognac, as well," Alex said.

They all turned to look at him with a mixture of shock and speculation. "Laura doesn't drink," Jeremy said flatly. "It's not good for her health."

"It won't hurt her tonight," Alex said calmly.

"It could kill her!" Justine cried.

"Not tonight."

Laura broke into the argument, feeling oddly unsettled. "Alex has decreed that no one will die tonight, including Father," she said with a faint smile. "Personally, I can't imagine fate daring to disagree with him. I think I'll risk a small glass of cognac, Ricky."

"Most unwise, my dear," Jeremy murmured, clutching his own tall glass of whiskey.

A few moments later the cognac burned quite nicely as she sipped it. Alcohol was just one of the many normal pleasures in life that were denied her, and having seen its inroads on her family life, she'd never regretted that. But there was something undeniably pleasant about sitting on the overstuffed sofa with the dark stranger beside her, watching as he cradled a Waterford brandy snifter in his long, elegant hands.

"So tell me," Jeremy said, with a heavy-handed attempt at affability, "how did you happen to find your way up here? This is private property, and we do our best to keep it that way."

"Alex is an old friend." Laura didn't know where the words came from—they were instinctive.

"Where did you meet?" he demanded, pompous as ever. "Laura hasn't left this mountain since she was a teenager."

Alex glanced at her. She didn't know how she was certain, since he still wore those mirrored sunglasses that shielded his narrow, elegantly-boned face, but she felt as if she could read the expression in the eyes she'd never seen. "I've known her for years," he said easily.