“You, I’m afraid, are just plain wrong.”

Jayne turned her back to Chris and reached for the doorknob. “Now that we’ve got that settled, I think the best place for you to sleep is—”

“The hell we have.” Chris strode forward, grabbed her forearm and pulled her around to face him while shutting the door with a single kick. Then he gripped her other elbow. “I learned every inch of your body when we were seventeen.”

She stopped struggling and stared at him, mouth open.

He nodded. “You have a birthmark on your left hip, red and shaped like a boot.” Her gasp made him smile. “Oh, yeah, I’ve seen it. I’ve kissed it. Want to tell me now that I’m plain wrong?”

Before his next heartbeat, the lights went out.

Dear Reader,

Though my family moved to Florida when I was nine, I still treasure Christmas memories from my early years in the Smoky Mountains. I recall sitting on the curb of a downtown street, waiting for Santa to arrive at the end of the Christmas parade. I remember watching red and green traffic signals blinking like ornaments in the falling snow.

Of course, I remember opening presents in front of the tree on Christmas mornings. Then we’d dress in our holiday best and drive to my grandmother’s house, where my cousins and aunts and uncles would all gather for a splendid Christmas dinner.

Sometimes, though, Christmas doesn’t turn out as you expect. A natural disaster—say, a blizzard—can make travel impossible, keeping you from the ones you love or, worse, shutting you in with someone you don’t trust. The electric power might fail. How will you stay warm? What will you eat? Will rescue arrive soon enough?

These challenges confront Jayne Thomas when she’s marooned over the winter holidays with some of her students at the Hawkridge School. The unexpected arrival of sexy photojournalist Chris Hammond eases the burden of looking after the girls, but his disturbing presence threatens Jayne’s emotional balance. Chris says he knows her, insists they have a past together. Jayne doesn’t remember him at all. Which one of them is telling the truth?

I hope you enjoy spending time in the snowy wonderland of the Smoky Mountains. I love to hear from readers at any time of the year, so feel free to write me at P.O. Box 1012, Vass, NC 28389.

Happy holidays!

Lynnette Kent

A Holiday to Remember
Lynnette Kent

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lynnette Kent began writing her first romance in the fourth grade, about a ship’s stowaway who would fall in love with her captain, Christopher Columbus. Years of scribbling later, her husband suggested she write one of those “Harlequin romances” she loved to read. With his patience and the support of her two daughters, Lynnette realized her dream of being a published novelist. She now lives in North Carolina, where she divides her time between books—writing and reading—and the horses she adores. Feel free to contact Lynnette via her Web site, www.lynnette-kent.com.

This book is dedicated to all the wonderful workers at

Harlequin Books who type and copy and proofread pages, who design and illustrate covers, who run the machines that put pages together, who fill and ship boxes and perform countless other tasks I’m not even aware of…in other words, the people who see to it that my stories get into print. Thank you!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter One

Chris Hammond had never thought of himself as a stalker.

But he needed to get another look at the face of the woman who’d entered the coffee shop just as he was leaving. They’d danced together on the threshold for a few seconds, trying to get out of each other’s way. He’d backed up, finally, and held the door open for her. With a quick smile and a “Happy Holidays,” she’d headed inside as Chris stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Now he turned toward the wide front window to find her again. The service counter ran across the back of the room, so all he could see of his quarry was an auburn ponytail fanned over the back of a heavy gray coat appropriate for the subfreezing mountain weather.

Maybe the hair had triggered his memory. A long time ago he’d known a girl with a mane in that same polished mahogany color, with the same extravagant curls. He’d been a kid then, but coming back to Ridgeville, North Carolina, had brought those days closer to the surface.

That’s why he hadn’t been here in over a decade.

Chris didn’t think the hair was the only resemblance, though. Something about her face had seemed familiar enough to stop his heartbeat for a second or two. He wanted to be sure he was wrong about recognizing those hazel eyes, the lightly freckled cheeks and pointed chin. Then he could finish grocery shopping for his granddad with a clear head.

So he lingered in front of the adjacent hardware store next to the coffee shop, waiting for the woman and hoping like hell she wasn’t meeting a gaggle of friends for an hour’s gossip over coffee. He’d have frozen to death by then, despite his new down-filled jacket. His last assignment, in equatorial Africa, had left him with a poor tolerance for cold.

Every time the bell on the shop door tinkled, he glanced that way from beneath the lowered brim of his baseball cap. Six times he was disappointed, but seven had always been his lucky number and proved so yet again—he saw the gray sleeve of her coat as she pushed the door open.

He tipped his hat back, wanting to get a good look as she approached. The coffee place was the last business at this end of Main Street. Surely she would come his way.

Instead, the woman walked straight to the curb, showing him only her profile. She checked both ways for traffic before stepping into the street, but he missed seeing her full face because that one glimpse of her tip-tilted nose and full lower lip had left him gasping for air, like he’d been sucker punched.

Such a likeness couldn’t be an accident. What the hell was going on?

Using instincts refined by ten years spent in war zones around the world, Chris followed her. Chaos had replaced logic in his brain. He knew only two things. One—dead people did not come back to life. He’d seen enough of them to be absolutely certain of that. So she couldn’t be the person he thought she was. But just in case…

Two—he wouldn’t get a decent night’s sleep until he made damn sure he’d never met this woman before.

WITH EVERY PASSING MINUTE, Jayne Thomas became more convinced. And concerned.

She was being stalked.

She’d noticed him first at Beautiful Beans, when she was going in as he came out. Well, what woman wouldn’t notice him? Big, but not in the least fat, graceful yet at the same time unquestionably male, with piercing blue eyes and light brown hair curling at his temples and the nape of his neck. A respectable stubble of beard shadowed his square chin and sensual mouth. The man was, in the vernacular of her students, seriously hot.

Headmistresses of private schools did not deal in seriously hot men, however, so she’d resisted the impulse to invite him back into the shop for more coffee. Anyway, she had errands to run. She’d just wanted to warm up first.

As she waited her turn to order, though, she’d felt an itching between her shoulder blades. A backward glance had shown her the same man, now standing on the sidewalk, staring inside from underneath the brim of a Yankees baseball cap.

Surely not at her, though. She wasn’t the type to draw attention from a man who could take his pick of the beautiful women in any room he entered. Especially here in Ridgeville, Jayne noted, as one of the young women seated at a table sent him a wink through the window, then pouted when he didn’t notice.

Leaving the coffee shop, Jayne saw the man again, in front of Gibbs’s Hardware. Waiting to take advantage of that flirtatious wink, after all?

No, because he followed her across the street and into Woolgathering. He did not look like the knitting type, but he appeared fascinated by the different wools along every aisle she visited. Though he never addressed her directly, time and time again Jayne felt the burn of his gaze.

Finally, she ducked into the back corner and cowered behind the mohair display, hoping to wait him out. As a result, she spent too much on needles and wool for a sweater she wouldn’t have time to work on over the school’s winter break. At least he’d left when she emerged.

He turned up again in Miller’s Candy Kitchen about five minutes after she walked in. A coincidence, maybe, since the yarn shop was right next door. Then Jayne recrossed Main Street and stepped into Angela’s Art Supplies and Gallery. The blue-eyed stranger appeared in the wide front window only seconds later, apparently consumed with interest in a papier-mâché crèche from Italy.

“He’s waiting for me to come out,” Jayne told Angela, as they pretended to examine the art pencils. “What am I going to do?”

“Leave by the back door,” Angela suggested, in her precise English accent. “Give him the slip, so to speak.”

She nodded. “Of course.” She squeezed Angela’s elbow with gratitude and made her getaway, hurrying along the alley behind the string of businesses to her real destination, Kringle’s Toy Store.

Sitting at his desk in the back room, Mr. Kringle looked up from his account books as she slipped in the rear entrance. “A welcome, if unconventional, arrival,” he said. “What can I do for you today, Miss Thomas?”

“I have five students staying at school over the break, and I want to have some new, enjoyable activities to keep them occupied.”

“Of course.” His German accent and courtly manner soothed her agitation. “I have just what you’re searching for.” He led the way to a shelf filled with bright holiday-themed boxes.

“These are the finest crackers I could order.” He picked up a box with a cellophane window that showed one of the paper-and-cardboard containers called “crackers” in England. “Each contains a selection of candies and a variety of prizes—jewelry, games and so forth.” He made a motion with his hands, as if pulling on the two ends of the cracker. “And a delicious pop! when they are opened.” He leaned closer to whisper, “I tried one myself.”

“They’re lovely. But…” Jayne shook her head. “We don’t make a fuss over the holidays. The girls tend to get homesick, even if they chose to stay at school, and celebrating makes them feel worse. I’ll just look around for a while. We’ll need games to fill the time, maybe some paint-by-number kits and puzzles. I want to keep them too busy to mope.”

Mr. Kringle smoothed his long brown mustache. “It’s a good thing you do. These girls are lucky they have you to care for them.”

Jayne smiled at him, then spent an hour choosing diversions for her winter break boarders. As headmistress of the Hawkridge School, and with no family of her own, she stayed over the vacations with those students who would not be going home. Hawkridge provided a last resort for teenagers with emotional problems that threatened to ruin the rest of their lives through drug addiction, alcoholism, risky sexual involvements and other dangerous behaviors. Given the temptations offered by the holiday season, some parents couldn’t face the prospect of coping with challenges not yet resolved. Less often, a girl would rather remain at school than return to an abusive or uncomfortable home.

Without exception, however, these troubled girls needed the haven. Hawkridge had never had a student fail to come back from the winter break.

With her purchases stowed in two heavy shopping bags, Jayne wished Mr. Kringle a Happy Hanukkah in response to his “Merry Christmas” as he opened the front door for her. Pausing in the sheltered entryway, she shifted one of the bags to her left hand, then turned to head up the sidewalk toward her car.

“Took you long enough.”

Jayne gasped and jerked her head up. The stalker stood in front of her, blocking her way. She’d put him out of her mind in the cheery atmosphere of the toy shop. Now he loomed over her, seeming bigger than before, definitely more threatening. He wasn’t smiling.

“Got a lot of kids to buy presents for, I guess?” His smooth, deep voice held an undercurrent of anger.

Chills shuddered down her spine, spreading fear to the tips of her fingers and the soles of her feet. The wind felt colder than it had earlier this morning. Main Street seemed more deserted.

But when she glanced around, Jayne saw that she erred in her impression of emptiness. There were still plenty of people going in and out of the stores nearby. No one could hurt her with all these folks watching.

The knowledge stiffened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Yes, I do. Why are you following me?”

Instead of answering, he stared at her face. Jayne glared back at him while tightening her grip on the shopping bags. They were heavy enough to serve as weapons if she needed them.

“Jayne Thomas,” he said, finally. “You say that’s your name?”

“Yes. Why are you following me?”

He shook his head once, as if clearing a fly away. “Are you from Ridgeville?”

Her fear was giving way to irritation. “I don’t owe you any information whatsoever. Certainly not until you identify yourself and what you want. Why are you following me?” She raised her voice this time, hoping to get the attention of someone nearby.

The man grabbed her upper arm and jerked her toward him. “Have you always lived here?” The set of his jaw hinted at violence.

Her heart pounded. “I—”

“Trouble, Miz Thomas?” Steve Greeley, one of the county’s deputy sheriffs, came up beside her. “What’s going on?”

The grip on her arm fell away. “Nothing,” the stranger said. “I thought Miss Thomas was an old friend.”

Jayne gazed at him through narrowed eyes. “You were wrong. I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

After a moment, one side of his mouth twitched into a half smile. His gaze, however, remained steely. “Sorry. You look just like…well, somebody else.” He glanced at Deputy Greeley. “I’m Chris Hammond, Charlie Hammond’s grandson. I’ll be staying with him for a few days. That’s my bike on the other side of the street. You can watch me out of sight.”

“I’ll do that,” Greeley promised.

Jayne, too, observed as Chris Hammond crossed Main Street and walked down the hill to a huge motorcycle parked at the curb. Black and chrome, the bike seemed to take up as much space as her own Jeep. The roar, as he fired the engine, rolled through her like an earthquake.

The noise died away once the bike topped the hill and headed down the other side. Steve turned to Jayne. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m just fine. He worried me a little, following me around town. But if I looked like someone he knew, I guess that makes sense.” She hunched her shoulders and relaxed them again. “I’d better get these bags to the car. My arms are starting to stretch.”

“Here, let me.” The deputy took the bags, walked with her to the Jeep and stowed them in the backseat. “Do you have anywhere else you need to shop, Jayne? I could go with you, in case that weirdo comes back.”

“No, thanks. I’ve got to head back to the school. Tonight is our official end of term dinner—tomorrow the students leave for winter break.”

“Well, y’all have a good evening, then.” He slapped the hood of the Jeep. “There’s snow coming, you know. Better put chains on your tires.”

Jayne nodded. “A fairly big storm, from what the weather report said. We might get six or eight inches.”

“I heard a foot,” Steve said. “I’ll drive by and check on you over vacation, be sure everybody’s doing well.”

“I appreciate it.” Jayne lied with a smile, then put the Jeep into gear. Steve’s personal interest was getting harder to discourage, though she couldn’t help being grateful he’d stepped in this afternoon. Who knew what might have happened if the stranger had kept hold of her?

But he wasn’t a stranger now. He had a name—Chris Hammond, grandson to Charlie Hammond. Neither name seemed the least bit familiar. But he had asked if she grew up in Ridgeville, which implied that the person she resembled had lived here. No one else in town had ever mentioned that she looked like someone they knew. Maybe Mr. Hammond was mistaken. Delusional. Drunk.

No, he hadn’t been intoxicated. She would have smelled alcohol on his breath, they’d been that close. But Chris Hammond had smelled of soap and fresh air. She’d felt his body heat as she stared up at him for that moment, and sensed the strength in his hand. Strangely, she could still feel his touch, like a band of tender skin around her upper arm.

Though he seemed harsh, with his unruly hair and stubbled cheeks, she’d seen something desperate and sad in his eyes. Bedroom eyes, her grandmother would have called them, with those lazy, drooping lids. He had a beautiful mouth. His smile would be intriguing. Irresistible.

She was so caught up in her thoughts she almost missed the school entrance, braking hard to avoid cruising right by.

“Since when do you spend time daydreaming about men?” she asked herself, slowing down for the drive through the forest surrounding the Hawkridge School. “You don’t have time for romance, even the imaginary kind.”

She’d seen three of her teachers fall deeply in love this past year, which probably accounted for the unusual direction her thoughts had taken. As the headmistress of a school housing three hundred girls, each with her own set of problems, plus the staff and faculty required to deal with those students, Jayne rarely had a spare moment to herself. She didn’t waste time wondering about a different life or a family of her own. As far as she was concerned, Hawkridge gave her plenty of family and numerous children to look after. Getting involved with a man would simply mean another set of needs to meet.

And the one commodity she would not run out of anytime soon was needs to be met.

Her secretary accosted her as she walked in the door from the staff parking lot. “They’ve upgraded that snowstorm—we’re in for eighteen inches, at least. Starting tomorrow night.”

Jayne nodded. “E-mail all the parents and advise them to be here early, so they can be out of the mountains by noon. Ask them to reply at once, and call any you haven’t heard from by midnight or can’t reach via the Web.”

One of the kitchen staff knocked on Jayne’s office door before she’d had a chance to take off her coat. “Cook says the market shorted her on the roast beef order. Even accounting for vegetarians, the portions won’t stretch to cover all the girls and teachers.” The traditional Hawkridge end of term dinner featured roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, so this tragedy assumed immense proportions in the kitchen.

Jayne would have settled for a bowl of soup. But she gave the issue a moment’s consideration. “Does she have chicken?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ask her to serve chicken to the head table, and present a platter of chicken to the girls’ tables along with the beef.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Three girls appeared in the outer office, needing to consult with the headmistress over an incident of name-calling and missing bubble bath. Two teachers wanted to discuss a discipline problem. Her secretary returned with the news that one set of parents and one guardian grandfather had called to say they couldn’t possibly pick up their daughters before the snow started, and they’d decided to wait the storm out at a luxury hotel in Asheville, an hour away.

Jayne dropped back into her chair. “Terrific. Two more girls for the break. Who are they?”

“Monique Law and Taryn Gage.”

“Ah.” Monique, a junior, had waged a private war with beer and cocaine since before arriving at Hawkridge two years ago. She managed well as long as she stayed at school, but when she went home, the local crowd and its addictions consumed her. Maybe a snow-enforced vacation at school would help her break the cycle.

Taryn, one of their new students this year, had already been isolated in the infirmary three times as a result of her temper tantrums. The abusive home environment she’d been rescued from explained her rage, but she would have to learn to handle that anger without violence.

Jayne got to her feet as the warning bell for dinner rang. “I might have more of a challenge on my hands than I realized, staying here alone with seven girls. Do you suppose there’s someone else on staff who has no plans for the holiday and would like to help?”

Her secretary pulled a doubtful frown. Jayne nodded. “Right. I didn’t think so. Well, I’ll worry about that later. First, the faculty procession into dinner.”

Standing at the head of the double line of teachers, she allowed herself an appeal for assistance from a higher power. “I could use some backup, here. I can’t do everything myself.” As she passed between the rows of tables in the dining hall, she saw girls eyeing the platter of chicken with doubt.

“Please,” she murmured, with a harried glance heavenward. “At least make the chicken taste good.”

“DAMN FOOL, that’s what you are, going out in the snow.”

Wrapping a scarf around his neck, Chris smiled to himself. “It’s not snowing yet, Charlie. The weather report says the snow won’t even start till after dark.”

“What do they know? I’ve lived my whole life in these mountains and I tell you it’ll be coming down hard and fast by four at the latest.” Still with a full head of hair, gray now instead of brown, his grandfather scowled at him.

“Well, I should be back here long before the roads get bad. I just want to ask some questions.” He’d told Charlie about yesterday’s encounter.

“You showed me that picture on your phone and, yeah, she does look like Juliet. But don’t you think I would have heard if Juliet Radcliffe had returned? There’s been neither hide nor hair of that girl seen around here since the two of you crashed up on the mountain.” The old man grabbed Chris above the elbow and stared at him through round, rimless glasses. “She died that night, Christopher. You’ve known it for twelve years. Why would you suddenly start doubting?”

Chris patted the chilly fingers. “Because…because I feel it. There’s something in this woman’s face that I know as well as I know my own. And she’s so close to what Juliet might have looked like now. How could that be?”

“They say everybody has a double.” Still as tall as ever but on the thin side, after losing fifty pounds to illness, Charlie looked even older than his seventy-eight years.

“Maybe. But in the same North Carolina mountain town? Not likely.” He grabbed his helmet off the kitchen table and turned to look at his granddad’s worried face. “I’ll be back for dinner. Put that meat loaf I bought at the market in the oven with a couple of potatoes. We’ll have a good meal, a few beers and watch the ball game on TV. Okay?”

Charlie growled low in his throat. “You’re asking for trouble.”

That, Chris thought as he fired up the Harley, was probably true. If this Jayne Thomas wasn’t who he thought, she might call the Ridgeville police on him. Or the sheriff’s department, with Deputy High-and-Mighty. He might end up spending Christmas in jail instead of hanging out with his dying grandfather, storing up memories for when Charlie was gone.

If she was Juliet Radcliffe…well, then he had questions to ask. And he wouldn’t be leaving her alone until he got the answers.

The drive to Hawkridge School took him fifteen miles along winding, two-lane mountain roads bordered by dark evergreens and bare hardwood trees. Heavy, ash-colored clouds blocked the sun, creating an early twilight. True to Charlie’s prediction, snow began to dust the pavement only a couple of miles out of Ridgeville.

Chris grinned as he watched the small white flakes sifting over the surrounding forest. He’d always loved spending Christmas here in the Smoky Mountains with Charlie. Not every Christmas had been a white one, but he recalled streaking down the hill behind Charlie’s cabin on a blue plastic disk sled, hearing Juliet scream as she flew beside him, and then the two of them landing in a tumbled heap in the drifts at the bottom. They’d emerged breathless, crying with laughter, then picked up their sleds and trudged back to the top to do it all over again. Charlie had resorted to bribing them with food to get them inside for even a few minutes.

Chris shook off his memories to realize the snow had picked up and was beginning to coat the road. In the next moment, he saw tall iron gates and a sign flash by—The Hawkridge School.

Damn, he’d missed the entrance.

A set of switchbacks took him farther up the mountain, but then came a long, straight stretch of road suitable for a U-turn. With no traffic in sight, Chris eased the bike around and headed back the way he’d come, slower this time and with his mind on his driving.

The trees along the hairpin curves arched out over the road, blocking most of the snow and also the waning light, until he might as well be driving at night. He’d worn a sweater under his leather jacket, plus a scarf, knit cap and gloves with liners. But even the leather chaps over his jeans didn’t cut the frigid wind. His knees and thighs felt like blocks of ice. Inside heavy boots and wool socks, his toes could have been chipped off with an ice pick.

Because of the cold or the darkness, or both, the entrance again came up faster than he expected. Chris started the turn too late, too sharply, just as the tires slipped on the slick asphalt.

He muttered a single swear word.

The bike tilted, then fell over, sliding sideways with Chris’s leg pinned underneath. Metal screamed, and he got a glimpse of approaching tree trunks on the other side of empty space. He had just enough time to send up a fervent prayer before wood started to splinter. Then the world went black.

Chapter Two

By midafternoon, the usual bustle in the hallways of the Hawkridge School had dwindled to complete silence. Students, teachers and staff had left the premises as fast as possible, all anxious to be out of the mountains before the snowstorm hit. Only eight individuals remained behind in the mansion—Jayne and the seven girls who had no other place to go.

They’d gathered in a room that students rarely saw, the private library designed for the wife of magnate Horace Ridgely, the builder of Hawkridge Manor. Mrs. Ridgely—Emmeline—had fancied herself a history scholar, and furnished her retreat with comfortably deep leather sofas and chairs surrounded by library tables wide and sturdy enough to hold stacks of books and provide plenty of work space. At each end of the room, walnut bookshelves packed with gold-tooled leather volumes lined the walls from the floor to the fifteen-foot ceiling. On one side, casement windows with diamond panes looked out into a private walled garden where Emmeline might refresh her mind without being disturbed. Across the room, the fireplace could have roasted an ox whole.

The manor had been wired for electricity from the beginning, and the only change made to this room in the last one hundred years was the addition of a discreet mahogany cupboard which, when opened, revealed a large TV screen and all the necessary components for movies and music. As the light failed outside Emmeline’s diamond windows, the girls spent the first afternoon of their winter break sprawled across two sofas and four chairs, swooning over handsome actors and cackling at sly jokes.

Jayne had joined them during the first half of the film, but found her attention more attuned to the weather than the antics of a gang of con artists stealing from Las Vegas casinos. Standing by the window, she pulled her sweater close around her as she watched the snowflakes falling faster and harder as the minutes passed. The wind seemed louder and stronger, too.

“It’s going to be a real storm, isn’t it?” Sarah Minton, a senior who had volunteered to stay and help Jayne with the other girls, came to join her at the window. “It looks kind of scary out there.”

Jayne smiled. “But we’re safe and sound inside, so we don’t have anything to worry about. We’re warm and dry and there’s lots of food. Lots of firewood, too—I asked Mr. Humphries to leave us a good supply within easy reach.” She glanced at the fireplace, where the blaze had gotten low. “Maybe we ought to bring some wood in before—”

“Did you hear that?” Sarah had turned her face toward the garden outside. “It sounded like banging.”

“Probably a loose tree branch in the wind.” Jayne waited, listening, but didn’t hear anything. “I guess—”

The girl held up a hand. “There it is again.” This time, in the quiet, Jayne heard the sound, too—a slow, hard pounding.

It stopped, and they both took a deep breath. Then the noise started again.

“That’s the front entrance.” Jayne crossed toward the door to the hallway. “You stay here with the girls. I’ll return in a few minutes.”

But as she turned into the hallway, Sarah was right behind her. “I don’t think you should go by yourself.”

When Jayne looked back, she saw the six other students had joined them.

“What’s happening?”

“Is it time to eat?”

“Where’re you going, Ms. Thomas?”

Jayne accepted the unlikely possibility of convincing them to stay behind. “Someone is knocking on the front door. Let’s see who’s there.”

As they proceeded toward the main section of the manor, some of the girls jogged, danced and skipped ahead. But Jayne came to a halt before they could reach the double doors into the foyer. “I want you all behind me once I go through those doors. I’m glad to have your company, but I don’t know who is out there, so stay back and out of the way. Understood?”

Seven apprehensive gazes stayed fixed on her face as the girls nodded.

“Good.” Jayne pulled open one of the paneled mahogany doors. “Let’s go.”

She swallowed hard as she crossed the black-and-white marble floor of the huge entrance hall. Past closed doors on the left leading into the dining hall, past the foot of the curved staircase on her right, and the entrance into the administrative office suite just beyond. Finally she stood with her hand on the brass knobs of the double front doors. Taking a deep breath, Jayne squared her shoulders, just as whoever stood outside started pounding again.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Using both hands now, she turned the right knob and jerked the panel back.

She noticed the snow first, whirling and slashing in the light from inside and the lamps on the porch. Then she caught a glimpse of blue eyes in a pale face smeared with red. Paint?

Blood. “Sorry,” the man confronting her muttered. “Can you…” he swayed from side to side “…help?”

Before the word ended, he pitched forward, right into Jayne’s arms.

At her back, several of the girls screamed. Jayne staggered under the man’s weight, reaching out by instinct to hold him. Though she struggled to stay upright, he bore her down to the floor, collapsing with most of her body underneath his. He was sopping wet. And freezing.

“My God, he’s heavy.” As Sarah moved to shut the door, Jayne pulled her arms free and braced herself against the hard floor with her hands behind her. She could hardly budge, pinned as she was with the man’s head on her chest and the rest of him draped over her.

She struggled to organize her thoughts. “Sarah, take Taryn and Yolanda up to the infirmary and bring back the stretcher. You may use the elevator coming down,” she called as they went running up the stairs. “Just hurry!”

A glance at the agitated faces of the other girls told her she had to get them out of the way and occupied. “You four are the dinner crew.”

When the moans died down, she continued. “Let’s keep it simple, since we’ve got an emergency to deal with. Haley and Monique, make grilled cheese sandwiches. At least twelve of them. Selena and Beth, heat up soup in a big pot on the stove. We’ll need some hot tea, too, for Mr. Two Tons, here.”

She tried to shift, and groaned at her lack of success. The girls gave nervous laughs. “Just make something we can eat when we get this guy settled. That’s all I ask.”

They returned the way they’d come, and Jayne let her head fall back, trying to ease the tension in her neck and shoulders. “Hurry,” she murmured to Sarah, Taryn and Yolanda. “Or I may never walk again.”

As if in answer, wheels squeaked somewhere beyond the top of the grand curved staircase. “We’re on our way,” Sarah called. “Had some trouble figuring out how to operate the stretcher. Be there in a minute.”

“Whew.” Jayne sighed in relief, then gasped as the body lying on top of her moved.

“What the hell…?” His words were slurred, his voice hoarse. “Where am I?” He jerked to the side, off of her, then propped himself on one elbow and stared at Jayne. Comprehension dawned in those sky-blue eyes. “Did I pass out on top of you? Are you okay?”

Before she could answer, he tried to lift his other hand to his head. Swearing, he fell backward instead, and lay flat on the floor, his face twisted in pain.

Jayne shifted to her knees beside him. “What’s wrong? Is your arm broken?”

“Dislocated,” he growled between bared teeth. “Shoulder.”

The squeak of wheels announced the arrival of the stretcher.

“What can we do?” Sarah asked, breathing hard.

Jayne considered the white-faced man on the floor. “Yolanda and Taryn, you two go down to the staff kitchen and see if the girls there need help with supper. Sarah and I can manage here.”

“But—” Yolanda started.

Looking up, Jayne lifted an eyebrow. “Surely you’re not going to argue. I believe I made the rules clear at our meeting this afternoon.” She used her quietest, most intimidating headmistress voice.

“Yes, ma’am.” Haley Farrish, a ninth-grader, elbowed the other girl in the side. “Come on. We can get some chips. I’m starving.”

Yolanda Warner hesitated, her lower lip stuck out in a pout. As a junior, she probably thought she should be allowed to help. But when the man on the floor groaned and struggled to sit up, panic chased away her self-importance. In the next moment, she and Haley disappeared through the office doorway.

Jayne scrambled to her feet and motioned for Sarah to come to the man’s uninjured side. “Let us help you up,” she told him. “We’ll lift under your arms—”

“God, no.” Holding his injured left arm against his side with his other hand, he had somehow managed to maneuver himself to his knees. “Just give me a second.” He stayed there for much longer than a second, head bowed, his harsh breaths the only sound in the immense space of the entry hall.

Then his right knee jerked up, he planted his foot against the marble floor and drove himself to stand. He swayed, and Jayne stepped closer, arms out. Sarah, on his other side, did the same.

But this time he didn’t collapse. Blowing out a deep breath, the man turned slowly to face Jayne.

His eyes were bloodshot, his hair hanging in wet tangles, his face frozen in lines of agony. For the first time, though, she recognized her stalker from the previous day in town.

“Remember me? I’m Chris Hammond,” he said, his voice still ragged. “I came here to find out where you’ve been the last twelve years.

“And why the hell you’re lying about who you are.”

THE HEADMISTRESS DROPPED her jaw till Chris could practically see her tonsils. Her dark, straight brows drew together over eyes the exact hazel color he remembered. He would swear he knew the shape of every freckle on her nose. Oh, yeah, she was lying, all right.

“Well?” He dragged in a breath against the agony searing his shoulder. “What’s with the fake name?”

She gave her head a quick shake. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about your real name—Juliet Radcliffe. If you were trying to hide, Ridgeville wasn’t the smartest spot to choose.”

“I’m not hiding.” She looked across him at the girl still standing with her arms out, ready to catch him if he fell. Or maybe tackle him if he attacked. “Sarah, go check on the girls. If the food is ready, you all should eat.”

“But—”

A lift of the headmistress’s right eyebrow stifled the protest and Sarah disappeared behind the curving staircase.

Chris waited until the woman turned back to him. “Girls? I don’t remember any other girls.”

“This is a school,” she said, letting her effort to stay patient show. “There are students here.”

He shrugged, which was a mistake. Pain narrowed the world to whirling white dots in front of his eyes. He didn’t know if he’d be sick or pass out. Maybe throw up, then pass out.

Her hand closed around the elbow of his good arm. “Look, we can settle identities later. You need medical attention. I’ll drive you—”

His laugh set off another spasm of anguish. “You’re not driving anywhere,” he said, when he could stop gasping. “The roads are slicker than a skating rink.”

“Is it really that bad?”

Chris snorted. “How do you think I got in this shape?” She just stared at him, a bemused look on her face. “My bike slid out from under me down on the highway, that’s how. I landed at your front gate, with the Harley wrapped around a nearby tree.”

“You walked up here from the highway? After an accident?” Now both her hands gripped his arm, the only warm spot on his entire body. He could almost see the wheels in her head turning, preparing to deal with the situation. “We’ve got to get you taken care of. What can we do about your shoulder?”

He wasn’t surprised at the question—Juliet would know he’d been dealing with this issue since he was fifteen. “Just take hold of my wrist. Come on,” he said when she hesitated. “You’ve done this before.”

She shook her head, but moved her hands to his left wrist. “You have me confused with someone else.”

“Not likely.” He forced his numb fingers to wrap around her wrist, linking them together. “Bend the arm to my waist. Right angle.” He couldn’t stop the hiss as she followed directions. “Okay. Hold tight, now. Brace yourself for a jerk.”

“I believe we’ve already met,” she murmured.

Chris felt his lips twitch with the urge to grin in response. But in the next moment the slight curve of her full lips straightened.

“Are you sure this will work?”

“Hell, no.” Chris took a breath, turned his head, then used his legs to drag all of his weight to the left. His shoulder muscles screamed, he groaned…and the ball of his shoulder slipped back into the socket.

“Ahhh.” He couldn’t hold back the sigh of relief. “That’s better.”

Still cradling his hand and wrist, she gazed at him. “You’re okay?”

“If you don’t count the crashing headache, plus a full load of cuts and bruises, I’m great.”

“You do have blood on your face.” She reached a hand toward his cheek. “Where did it—”

But Chris pulled away before her fingertips made contact, taking a long step backward and putting as much distance between them as he could manage. “I’ll take inventory later. Did you say something about food?”

She looked stunned for a second, but then nodded. “Yes. You can get cleaned up in the staff restroom, and then we’ll get dinner. Just soup and grilled cheese sandwiches,” she said over her shoulder, heading in the same direction the girl, Sarah, had gone. “I hope that’s okay.”

“I’ll be happier if you have a beer to go with it.” Though Chris had never been inside Hawkridge Manor, what he’d seen so far lived up to the stories he’d heard. The marble floor and mahogany paneling of the two-story entry hall rivaled some palaces he’d photographed in other countries.

“Here’s the restroom.” The headmistress stopped beside a cherry paneled door with the appropriate gender sign. “The kitchen is on the right, three doors down. Join us when you’re ready.”

She continued in that direction, but stopped when he said, “Does that mean no beer?”

Without looking back, she said, “Strong coffee is the best I can do.”

Chris pushed the bathroom door open with his good shoulder. “Without beer,” he mourned, “this will be a bitch of a storm.”

The restroom behind the old-fashioned door was modern and convenient, but the surroundings did nothing to make him feel better. Indigo-colored bruises from his helmet had started showing up on his cheeks and chin, along with a cut on his right jaw that had bled like crazy until his circulation slowed with the cold.

Still, he’d survived, which he wouldn’t have bet on at the time. One of those tree trunks had come damn close to his head.

His leather jacket was a total loss—ripped at both shoulder seams, with the finish on the back sanded off by the asphalt pavement. He eased it off his shoulders and let it fall down his arms straight into the trash can.

The sweater he’d worn inside the jacket was still in good shape, but the collar of the shirt underneath had been soaked with blood, so he stripped to the waist. Pain from his dislocated shoulder stabbed at him with every move, and tomorrow it would spread across his chest and back, he knew. A glance at the mirror showed him the bruises outlining his ribs, not to mention the outlines of the ribs themselves. The months in Africa had been pretty rough. His shoulders had gotten bony, and his jeans hung loose on his hips. He’d really been looking forward to that meat loaf with Charlie tonight.

Not bothering to stifle his groans, Chris pulled the sweater back over his head, then wet his fingers and ran them through his hair to tame it. The ruined chaps had protected his jeans from major damage, except for being wet to the knees with snowmelt. He thought he looked decent enough for a sandwich with a bunch of schoolkids.

After food and some of that strong coffee, though, he planned to corner Juliet Radcliffe and drag the truth out of her. He would find out what was behind this stupid innocent act of hers if it took all night.

More important, he’d find out why she’d disappeared. And why she’d let him spend the last twelve years believing he’d killed her.

JAYNE ENTERED THE STAFF kitchen to find her seven students staring at a stack of charcoal bricks in place of the sandwiches.

Monique threw her hands in the air. “I can’t cook. And I shouldn’t have to. Meals are part of the deal here, right?” She stalked to the couch and plopped down, with her arms folded high across her chest and the bright beads on her many black braids clicking as they bounced. “I’m not gonna starve, either. Somebody had better make me something to eat.”

Jayne nodded. “That’s fine. You don’t have to cook. You can work with the cleanup crew after every meal.”

“No way.” Her skin, usually a soft shade of creamed coffee, darkened with an angry flush.

“Those are the rules,” Sarah said, without prompting from Jayne. “Staying at school over winter break means helping out with the chores. I’m not cooking extra food for somebody who won’t do her share.” She looked around at the other girls, who were nodding in response.

But Monique didn’t give in. “I don’t care. I’ll just go into town with that dude when he leaves.”

“I’m not leaving anytime soon,” a masculine voice answered. “You’ll get pretty hungry.”

The eight of them gasped in unison at the intrusion, then turned to see Chris Hammond leaning against the frame of the kitchen door.

“My bike is wrapped around a tree down by the road,” he continued. “And the snow’s a good six inches deep by now, with no sign of stopping.” He walked to the table and pulled out the chair on the end. “Ladies, I hope you don’t mind if I sit down. It’s been a long afternoon.”

Without waiting for their agreement, he lowered himself into the chair. From the way his face whitened as he bent his legs, Jayne guessed he’d suffered more than a dislocated shoulder in the crash. He needed food and warm liquids.

“Good point,” she said briskly, moving to pour a mug of coffee. “Girls, this is Mr. Hammond, our guest.” Each of the girls introduced herself in turn. “Since no one is going anywhere tonight, let’s give the grilled cheese sandwiches another try. How’s the soup coming?” She glanced into the pot, then at the knobs of the stove. “Turn up the heat, get it almost to a boil,” she told Selena. “Beth, set the table with plates and bowls. Yolanda can figure out what everyone wants to drink.”

Jayne put the coffee down beside the intruder’s left hand. “Sugar and cream?”

He shook his head and brought the mug to his lips, then managed to sigh as he swallowed. “That’s good,” he murmured. “Thanks.”

“Let me know when you want a refill.” She left him alone as she supervised the dinner preparations, making sure the sandwiches emerged from the pan unscorched, the soup didn’t boil over and there were napkins on the table. Making sure, as well, that she didn’t stare at him, didn’t notice—again—the sharp blue of his eyes under thick, spiky lashes, or his sensuous lower lip, or the breadth of his shoulders.

Where in the world was her mind wandering, in the midst of all these teenaged girls? Maybe adolescent angst was contagious.

With golden sandwiches piled high on a plate and chicken noodle soup ladled into nine bowls, Jayne told the girls to sit down and eat. When the flurry of movement subsided, two empty places remained—one beside Chris Hammond and the other at the far end, facing him. Over on the couch, Monique still pouted. So Jayne had the choice of sitting next to him or facing him as if they were parents on either end of the family table.

Avoiding the domestic image, she sat down in the chair at his left hand. She could pour more coffee that way, and monitor his conversation with the girls.

After all, what kind of man did they have stranded with them tonight? He might be a pedophile, for all she knew. He’d stalked her all over Ridgeville just yesterday. And he’d said—she’d blocked the memory in the urgency of the moment—he’d said he’d come to find out why she was lying about her name and about not knowing him. The very idea meant he was delusional, at least. He’d clearly mistaken her for someone else. At the worst, he might actually be mentally unstable.

But she couldn’t have left him out in the snow, injured and bleeding, even if she’d had a choice. Which she hadn’t, because he’d fallen in the door without waiting for permission. Was he dangerous? Would she and the girls all be murdered in their beds?

“What are you worrying about?”

She snapped her head around to look at him. “I—I’m not worrying. Just eating.”

Chris Hammond gave a lopsided smile. “Except you haven’t picked up your spoon or taken a sandwich. You’re staring off into space with that little crease between your eyebrows you always get when you’re worried. And you’re wringing your hands in your lap.”

Jayne immediately relaxed her fingers. “I was just thinking about the storm.” The flush from that lie crept up her neck under her turtleneck shirt. “Do you know how much snow they’re predicting?”

He took a crunching bite of his sandwich and swallowed. “My granddad was predicting a blizzard as I left this afternoon. Maybe I should have believed him.”

“Is he a weather forecaster?”

“Just an old mountaineer.” Chris Hammond turned his head to lock his gaze with hers. “As you should remember.”

Her denial was overwhelmed by Yolanda’s shout from the other end of the table. “Hey, Ms. Thomas, can we go sledding after dinner?”

A chorus of cheers greeted the question.

“In the dark? Absolutely not.” Jayne shook her head. “You can play in the snow tomorrow.”

“There are lights all around outside,” Yolanda pointed out. “It’s practically daylight out there.”

“Yeah, those lights shine in my window every night.” Monique had finally allowed hunger to win, and had taken her place at the table. “I should know.”

“The best sledding hill doesn’t have lights,” Jayne told them. “There’s a little bowl on the other side of the woods, off the hiking path to Hawk’s Ridge. We call it The Nest. Girls usually try to see who can go down one side the fastest and then come up the other side the farthest.” She shrugged. “Of course, if you’d rather settle for the tame little bumps around here instead of spending several hours in The Nest, that’s up to you.”

“Masterful strategy,” the man beside her murmured.

The girls around the table debated for a few seconds. “The Nest sounds cool,” Yolanda announced. “How early can we leave?”

“How early do you plan to get up?” Jayne pushed back her chair and stood. “While you’re deciding, let’s get the kitchen cleaned up. Dishes to the sink, paper to the trash and the leftovers in the fridge. Monique, you’re washing.”

“I know, I know.” Rolling her eyes, the girl went to the sink and began running water. “Get over here and help me, Haley. You didn’t do much with dinner, either.”

“I opened the soup cans,” Haley protested. But she found a dish towel and prepared to dry the wet dishes.

“Wipe the table down,” Jayne reminded them, “while I—”

A big fist closed around her upper arm. Chris Hammond had gotten to his feet. “I need to talk to you.” His set face matched the steel in his tone…and his grip. “Now.”

Sarah came up on Jayne’s other side. “Ms. Thomas? Are you okay?”

“I’m not going to murder or rape her,” Chris Hammond said irritably.

Pale blond hair and light blue eyes might give the impression that Sarah would be timid, but she didn’t flinch in the face of Chris Hammond’s temper. Jayne put her free hand on the girl’s arm. “I’m fine. There’s something Mr. Hammond and I need to get straightened out. I’ll show him where he can sleep tonight and be back here in a few minutes.”

As she stepped past him, the grip on her arm fell away. Jayne walked down the hallway to the private door of her office without looking back, certain he would follow. She motioned him inside, then shut the door and leaned back against it, refusing to let him believe she was scared of being alone with him.

Although, in truth, she was terrified.

“All right, Mr. Hammond, you’ve got what you want—complete privacy with no possible intervention from the police, the girls or anyone else. What in the world do you have to say to me?”

Chapter Three

Chris took his time examining the office. More wood paneling and a wall of bookshelves surrounded a huge desk with brass handles. Leather armchairs and a brocade sofa faced each other on an Oriental carpet. Original oil paintings and velvet drapes at the windows bespoke money and prestige.

“Very nice,” he said crisply, turning to face the headmistress again. “Looks like a cushy job. One you wouldn’t want to lose.”

“Yes.” She didn’t dress to impress, which suggested she was very comfortable with the power she held. Posed with her shoulders against the door, wearing navy blue slacks and white sneakers, a navy sweater and white turtleneck, she looked casual and confident. But he could sense the tension in her body.

“Is that the reason you won’t tell the truth?”

“What truth? What could I possibly be lying about?”

Chris set his jaw. “Your name, for starters. Not Jayne Thomas, but Juliet Radcliffe.”

“I have never heard that name before in my life. And it certainly isn’t mine. You have me confused with someone else.”

He sat on the edge of the big desk. “So where do you come from?”

Her shoulders relaxed a fraction. “About fifty miles south. My grandmother lived near Nantahala. She raised me.”

“Not your parents?”

“Our house burned down when I was seven. They were killed trying to bring out my little brother.”

“That’s quite a tragedy.”

She gave him a dirty look. “Don’t be so sympathetic.”

“Sorry. But I don’t understand why you would make up a background like that when you’ve got a legitimate past to call on. With me.”

She took a step forward. “You have to believe me. I’ve never heard of Juliet Radcliffe.” Her voice had softened, lowered, as if she were pacifying a wild animal. “You and I met for the first time yesterday.”

“Charlie says different.”

“Charlie?” She stared at him with a puzzled look. “Your grandfather? How would he know?”

Chris took out his cell phone. “Not much quality in these gadgets, but you get a general idea. I snapped your picture yesterday in town. Charlie said he would have known you anywhere.” He pushed a few buttons and called up the photo, then held up the phone screen for her to see.

She gave it a brief glance. “Charlie, the ‘old mountaineer’? At least he’s got the excuses of age and bad eyesight. You, I’m afraid, are just plain wrong.” Turning her back to him, she reached for the doorknob. “Now that we’ve got that settled, I think the best place for you to sleep is—”

“The hell we have.” Chris strode forward, grabbed her forearm with his good hand and pulled her around to face him, while shutting the door with a single kick. Then he gripped her other elbow, ignoring the spear of pain through his shoulder. “I learned every inch of your body when we were seventeen.”

She stopped struggling and stared at him, mouth open.

He nodded. “You have a birthmark on your left hip, red and shaped like a boot.” Her gasp made him smile. “Oh, yeah, I’ve seen it. I’ve kissed it. Want to tell me now that I’m plain wrong?”

Before his next heartbeat, the lights went out.

IN THE ABSOLUTE BLACKNESS, the girls started screaming.

“Dear God.” Jayne whirled, felt for the doorknob and flung open the panel. “Sarah! Monique!” Out in the dark hallway, she started running. “It’s okay, girls,” she called. “Everything’s okay.”

“No generator?” Chris Hammond asked from behind her.

“There is. I don’t know why it’s not kicking on.”

Outside the kitchen, she ran into a bumbling, sobbing huddle of teenage girls. Stretching out her arms, she touched as many of them as she could reach. “Calm down, everybody. We’re okay. Everybody is okay. Our eyes are adjusting. We’ll be able to see soon. Shh. Shh. Just relax.”

Gradually, the sobs were replaced by sniffles. Jayne herded the girls into the library, where embers glowed red in the fireplace.

“We’ve got plenty of flashlights,” she told them, “one for each of you, at least. Thousands of batteries. We’ll build up the fire and be warm and cozy.”

“What happened?” Taryn’s voice still quivered. “Why did the lights go out?”

“I don’t know.” Jayne carried a plastic tub of flashlights and batteries from the storeroom into the library.

“Isn’t there a backup generator?” Sarah started handing out the torches. “Doesn’t it switch on automatically?”

“That’s the plan.” Jayne stood back as the girls began playing with their lights. “I don’t know why it didn’t work.”

“Can’t we call somebody to come fix it?”

At the window, Jayne looked out into a white curtain of snow. “I don’t think anyone can get out from town tonight.” She picked up the nearby phone and was relieved to hear the dial tone. “I’ll call first thing tomorrow morning.”

Red-haired Haley raised her hand. “Ms. Thomas, who’s taking care of the horses? If Miss Ruth Ann can’t get here, are they going to starve in the snow?” A computer genius with a history of anorexia and several arrests for hacking into business systems, Haley had started riding lessons this fall.

“We’re lucky in that regard. Ms. Granger had already planned to spend the vacation with her husband and daughter in Ireland. She left our horses with different friends in the area to be cared for with their animals. They’re fine.”

“Whew.” Haley sat back in her chair. “I’m glad.”

As the girls relaxed, Jayne had the chance to realize Chris Hammond wasn’t in the room. With her flashlight clenched in suddenly clammy fingers, she checked the kitchen, the storerooms and even the men’s restroom without finding him.

For a few moments, she stood in the hallway outside the library, considering Hammond’s strange disappearance. Where had he gone? Why?

A sudden gust of cold wind swirled around her legs. The beam of her torch showed Jayne that the outside door, locked as usual, was propped open a few inches. Chris Hammond had left the building. Would he come back? With a weapon this time? She didn’t know him, had no reason to trust him.

Maybe she should call the sheriff’s office. They might need help up here, after all….

In the next minute, the door opened all the way and the man in question stepped inside. The beam from his flashlight hit her square in the face, then dropped immediately.

Jayne kept hers high. “Where have you been?”

“Do you mind?” He brought his hand up to shield his eyes.

She didn’t move. “Why did you go outside?”

“I thought I would find and check out the generator, see if I could get it running.”

“Oh.” She lowered the flashlight. “What’s wrong with it?”

“I can’t tell. When’s the last time you needed it?”

“Never, in the three years I’ve been here. But we get yearly maintenance from the company.”

“Then you’ll have to ask them what went wrong. It’s dead out there, though. No chance of power for tonight.” He pulled the door firmly closed behind him. “What about water?”

“We’re supplied by the town reservoir, so we should be okay. If that water failed, we could switch over to the original Hawkridge supply, from a lake high in the mountains. We won’t have to melt snow to drink.”

His teeth flashed in the dark. “And are we taking cold showers?”

“Our water heaters are gas, so we’ll have hot water for showers and washing up. Thank goodness.”

“Things could definitely be worse.” He tilted his head and looked at her quizzically. “So, do you still suspect I’m an ax murderer?”

“Yes.” Without smiling, Jayne turned and went back into the library. The girls had settled around the fireplace, thanks to Sarah’s brilliant discoveries—marshmallows and coat hangers.

“Are there chocolate bars and graham crackers?” Taryn licked white goo off her fingers. “We could make s’mores.”

Jayne didn’t want to take on another project tonight. “We’ll look for those tomorrow in the daylight.”

A general protest rose from the crowd around the fireplace, expanding to take in the weather, the lack of power and entertainment options and the miserable state of their adolescent world in general. The whines and complaints came at Jayne as only the most recent coating on a snowball of stress and tension that had been rolling downhill for the last two days, growing larger with every moment and now barreling straight at her.

She dropped into the nearest chair, her hands clamped tight together. In a minute she would regain control.

“Hey, girls! Shut up!” The shout actually echoed in the large room. Through the silence that followed, all eyes turned to the source of the command.

“That’s better.” Standing just inside the library door, Chris Hammond surveyed each of them in turn, one eyebrow lifted in sardonic question over those steel-blue eyes. “Is this a bunch of five-year-olds? You sound like it.”

Resentment flared on several faces. Yolanda opened her mouth to speak.

Chris held up a hand. “No excuses. This is far from the worst place you could be holed up during a blizzard. From what I heard at dinner, most of you chose to stay at school over the holiday.”

Yolanda’s mouth shut.

“Right now you’re warm, there’s food and drink and you’ve got company. You could be in the Middle East, holed up in a cave, looking for an enemy you can’t see even in the daytime. No fire allowed, only water to drink, and freeze-dried food from a bag for Christmas dinner.”

“Have you done that?” Taryn asked, curling one of her frizzy brown pigtails around her finger.

“I’ve traveled with the soldiers carrying the guns. My weapon of choice is a camera.”

A photojournalist, Jayne thought, as her hands began to relax. Interesting.

“Can we see your pictures?”

He dragged a ladderback chair near the fire. “Didn’t bring my camera on this trip.”

“Do you work for a newspaper?”

“I usually freelance—I come up with projects and then look for an editor who’s interested.”

Beth Steinman, whose expensive and stylish haircut branded her a resident of Manhattan, asked, “Have you ever published pictures in the New York Times?”

“Three articles last year.”

“Wow.”

“How about the L.A. Times?” Selena Hernandez represented the West Coast at Hawkridge.

“I just sold them a piece, and they asked for more.”

“Cool!”

His genuine smile was just as nice as Jayne had expected. “I have a blog, too. I post pictures and articles on The View from Here.”

“So we could find you online?” The girls sat up in excitement, then all fell back to their usual slumps. “No electricity, no Internet.”

“Something else to look forward to when the power returns.” Jayne got to her feet. “With the heating off, we’ll have to sleep near the fire. We’re going to the dormitory now so each of you can change into pajamas, robes and slippers. A scarf or a soft hat might be a good idea—you’ll stay warmer if you sleep with your head covered. Then you can bring sheets, blankets and pillows back down and we’ll get set up for the night.”

The predictable protests ensued.

“So early?”

“I’m not sleepy.”

“I stay up till midnight, at least.”

“I can’t sleep without my tunes.”

Jayne held up her hands for silence. “We’ve got a school full of books,” she reminded them. “Also games, puzzles, paint kits…you can choose whatever you want to do.”

The walk through the dark halls by flashlight and the pajama-clad procession back to the library, dragging bedding and stuffed animals, only seemed to drive the energy level higher. A pillow fight erupted and threatened to soar out of control until Jayne pointed out what could happen if flying pillows caught fire. Hunger struck next, and no one seemed to be satisfied with cold candy, cheese and crackers. The absence of a microwave oven brought tempers and tears almost to the breaking point.

Without thinking, Jayne glanced at Chris Hammond, standing at the door observing the chaos. He nodded once, then gave another of those shouts, which again created instant silence. With a hand motion, he turned the room back over to her.

She cleared her throat. “Okay. If you can all settle down, get your bed made, such as it is, and sit on it, I will make hot chocolate for everybody. But you have to be calm. Cooking on the fire isn’t easy.”

“You can cook on the fire?” Beth looked skeptical.

“As long as people aren’t wrestling and throwing things nearby.”

“Then what?” Taryn always managed to ask the hardest questions.

Yolanda threw her pillow on the floor. “Yeah, how are we gonna get to sleep without TV or music?”

“As I said, there are books—” Jayne began.

“Or,” Chris Hammond offered, “I could tell you a story.”

“A STORY?” Yolanda, the tall girl with a boyish haircut and espresso skin, glared at him. “You think we look like little kids?”

Selena from L.A. snorted. “I hate those stupid fairy tales.”

But the blonde, Sarah, asked, “What kind of story?”

He settled into the chair near the fire. “It’s not a fairy tale, by any means. Not even fiction. This is a true story.”

“About who?”

He lifted his eyebrow. “What about Ms. Thomas’s instructions?” In the scurry to get their bedding straightened out, the girls didn’t notice his sarcastic emphasis on her name.

The headmistress did, but chose to ignore him as she carried a stockpot of milk to the fireplace and set it on a three-legged iron stand above a small pile of coals she’d raked forward, out of the blaze.

Then she sat on the hearth, too, legs curled underneath her, to stir the milk as it heated. Gradually, the girls quieted down on top of their blankets and turned their attention back to Chris.

“So?” Monique, the troublemaker from dinner, glared at him with a skeptical curl to her lips. “What’s this story about?”

“A boy,” Chris Hammond told them. “And a girl.”

A raspberry sound effect greeted his announcement. “Hansel and Gretel?” That was one of the quieter girls whose name he didn’t know, a redhead with green eyes.

“I don’t like fairy tales.” Selena began rubbing lotion into her hands and arms.

“Are they vampires?” The one with pigtails clutched a pink stuffed rabbit. “I like vampire stories.”

“No, not vampires.” He rolled his eyes. “And not zombies, either. Or demons or whatever other unnatural, unreal creatures you pretend stalk the earth.” Bloodsucking sounded tame compared to some of the horrors he’d seen humans perpetrate on their own kind. “Just a boy and a girl.”

“So what’s the big deal?”

He hadn’t expected this to be such a hard sell. “Well, they grew up together. Had lots of adventures. Fell in love.” More derisive sound effects. “Then he killed her.”

The girls gasped. Chris glanced at the headmistress, saw her sitting upright, motionless, staring at him. Good. He’d gotten her attention.

The redhead broke the silence. “Why’d he do that? How?”

“That’s part of the story. If you want to hear it, you have to settle down.”

Mumbling and grumbling ensued, as the seven girls tucked and rolled themselves into their makeshift beds on the plush Persian carpet near the fire. Chris shifted a little in his chair, trying to get comfortable; between bruises and scrapes and a pulled shoulder, every inch of his body hurt in one way or another. He could hardly wait to lie down, even on a bare floor.

First, though, he would tell his story. Their story. The Juliet he knew couldn’t hold out against the truth spoken aloud. This Jayne mask she was wearing would crack at some point as she relived their time together. Then he would corner her, in front of seven witnesses, if necessary, and get the answers he needed.

“So,” he began, “they met the first time when they were thirteen years old.”

The pink rabbit person popped her head up. “What were their names?”

“Juliet,” he said. The headmistress narrowed her eyes, and he thought for a second she would stop him from telling the story.

When she didn’t say anything, he looked at the girls again.

“Juliet and…” Yolanda prompted.

“And…” What name could he use for himself? What would impress these girls?

“Romeo?” Monique snorted. “That’s so lame.”

“Nobody’s named Romeo these days,” Selena added. “Except dogs.”

“Chase,” Chris decided. “Juliet and Chase.” He thought it sounded like a soap opera couple. But when no protest greeted the announcement, he continued. “It was three days before Christmas….”

His grandfather had sent him to the general store for nails to fix a fence. Chase thought he’d get a bag of chips and a soda with the change from the ten dollar bill Granddad had given him.

Juliet was just wasting time, prowling the store aisles because she was tired of sitting around at her grandmother’s house, pretending to read.

It was just her bad luck that Chase glanced over as she dropped the candy bar in her coat pocket. Juliet didn’t even realize she’d been caught until he spoke into her ear from behind, “Gotcha!”

She jumped and looked around to see if anybody had heard him. “Shut up!” she hissed. “Keep your mouth closed and I’ll give you half.”

He shook his head. “Shoplifting’s a crime.”

“Like he’ll even notice it’s gone.” She nodded toward the man at the counter, who just happened to be a good friend of Chase’s granddad.

“Why don’t you just buy it?” She was pretty, which accounted for what he said next. “I’ll buy it for you.”

“That’s no fun.” She turned and started walking toward the door, pretending to look at the dish towels and pots on the shelves.

Chase watched her go, arguing with himself even while he noticed her long reddish hair shine in the light coming through the high windows. On the one hand, he should tell the store manager. That was the right thing to do. Only problem was, he’d look like a wuss and she’d hate him forever. At thirteen, he wasn’t sure which was worse.

While he was still debating, Juliet slipped out the door without a glance in the manager’s direction. He didn’t even notice her. She’d gotten away with stealing.

When Chase brought his nails and chips and soda to the counter, he found himself talking to Mr. Fletcher, the manager, who’d known him since he was about three years old. And he started feeling guilty for letting the girl get away with her crime. A thirty-five cent candy bar was no big deal. Still, Mr. Fletcher was a nice guy.

At the last minute, he said, “I almost forgot—I bought that girl a candy bar. A Snickers. Add that in.”

He left feeling more like Galahad than that Quisling guy they’d talked about in school.

Once out on the sidewalk, he looked around and saw her slouched on a bench just up the street, slowly eating the candy bar. Chase went to sit beside her, opened his chips and took a swig of his drink. But he didn’t say anything.

Finally, she said, “You bought it, didn’t you?”

He just nodded, pretending to finish chewing a chip.

“Wuss,” she told him.

From the floor in front of the fireplace, the seven Hawkridge girls groaned.

Chris grinned. “You can’t win when it comes to girls.”

Monique snorted. “Get on with the story.” She glanced at the headmistress’s disapproving face. “Please.”

“Right. So then…”

She gave a sideways glance. “What do you do around here for fun, anyway?”

“Besides shoplifting?”

Juliet jabbed him in the side with her elbow.

“There’s plenty to do in the snow.” He glanced up at the sky—it had been a warm winter and they were only wearing sweaters. “Not much if there’s no snow.”

She sighed and raised her arms in the air. “Why am I here? What possible point is there to Christmas in this hick town?”

He finished his chips, balled the bag and tossed it toward the trash can, praying for a basket. But the bag bounced off the rim and fell on the sidewalk. Feeling his ears heat up, he retrieved the trash and dropped it in the container.

As he sat down again, though, he managed to casually turn his body toward her and prop his elbow on the back of the seat. In a few minutes he would stretch out his arm behind her shoulders. If he was really lucky, some of that shiny red-brown hair would brush his hand.

“I’m Chase,” he told her.

“Juliet.” She crushed the candy wrapper and pitched it at the trash can, where it landed without a sound.

“Are you from around here?” he asked, to distract from his hot, red cheeks.

“No way. I live in New York.” She tossed her hair back over her shoulder. If he’d had his arm stretched out, he could have caught some across his palm. “Manhattan, where there’s shopping and music, plays and people and a hundred things to do.”

“So why’d you come to the mountains?”

“My grandmother. She’s sick and she said she wanted to see me before she dies.” Juliet rolled her eyes. “She never wanted to see me before. I barely know the old bat, but I’m forced to spend a whole week trapped in the middle of nowhere.” Head bowed, the girl sat and sulked.

Chase took the chance to lay his arm across the back of the bench. “I’m here for the whole winter break. Got here on the twentieth and I’m stuck for three weeks.”

Finally, she seemed a little curious. “You’re not from here? Where do you live?”

“Philadelphia.”

“So you’re a prisoner, too.”

Chase shook his head. “Nah. In Philly I’m the prisoner. I get free when I come to visit my granddad.”

“Parental marriage issues?”

“Big time. At least here nobody’s fighting World War III. My granddad’s a pretty cool old guy.”

She tossed that hair again, but it missed his hand. “My parents basically live on different planets. My granddads both died before I was born and this is the first time I’ve met the grandmother here. The one in New York, my dad’s mother, is a first-class bitch.”

“You should meet my granddad. You’d like him.”

Juliet bounced off the bench to her feet. “Okay, let’s go.”

Chase stood up more slowly. “You want to go see him? Now?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“I…” He couldn’t think of why not, except…“I only have one bike.”

“Cool,” she said. “‘You can ride me on the handlebars.”

And that’s what they did. Juliet sat in front of him and Chase pedaled for all he was worth. Going up the hills nearly killed him and he nearly killed her as they flew down the slopes. Good thing his granddad lived only three miles outside of town. Chase didn’t know if his heart would last any farther.

When he stopped at the end of the long dirt driveway, Juliet dropped off the front of the bike and looked around at his granddad’s place. “Beverly Hillbillies, anyone?”

He surveyed the junk-cluttered yard with a smile. “Yeah, Granddad likes to tinker with engines, and he’s not much on mowing grass or pulling weeds.” Chase stomped up the rickety steps to the front porch. “Inside’s better, ’cause he has a lady come clean every week. Except for his workshop, which is a danger zone all by itself.”

He held back the screen door and pushed the front door open. “Come on in.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” She stepped past him, brushing her shoulder against his chest and her hip against his legs.

Chase felt every cell in his body go on alert. He was a goner from that moment on.

Chris doubted any of the girls heard that last part. All of them appeared to have fallen asleep, which was exactly what he’d intended.

Jayne Thomas stirred in her chair. “That was quite an opening chapter.” He could barely see her in the near-dark, and her voice sounded calm. Had he not stirred a single memory? “Do you include ‘novelist’ on your résumé? ‘Storyteller,’ perhaps?”

“No. I get paid to tell the truth.”

She didn’t respond, and he knew he’d failed. At the same time, he realized how exhausted he was. “Anywhere in particular you want me to sleep?” He winced as he stood up. His muscles had petrified while he sat. “As far away from this room as possible, I assume.”

“Well…” Her hesitation told him she approved that suggestion. “This is the only working fireplace. The rest of the building will be very, very cold.”

Chris shrugged a shoulder—the wrong one, but he swallowed the groan. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve slept in colder places.” He looked at the fire, now reduced to glowing red embers. “I’ll put a couple of logs on and bring more in. But you’ll have to keep it stoked overnight, or you’ll all be freezing in the morning along with me.”

She still didn’t move. “Yes.”

When he brought the wood in from outside, Juliet—Jayne—was standing near the fireplace, in case he tried something with one of the girls, Chris guessed. After stacking the logs carefully on the hearth, he straightened up. “I’ll grab some blankets from the infirmary, if that’s okay. In fact, maybe I’ll just sack out on a bed in there.” He sent her a grin. “At this point, a mattress might be a better deal than mere heat.”

He thought he saw her smile. “That could be true.”

As he went to the door, the beam of her flashlight came up beside him, then went ahead of him out into the hallway. “The infirmary is on the second floor,” she said. “On the right.”

“I remember, more or less.” He started toward the double doors to the entry hall, surprised to find her walking beside him. “You were waiting for the girls to bring a stretcher down.”

“I thought you were unconscious all that time.”

“When I land in a good place, I stay there.”

The headmistress didn’t say anything to that.

Chris put his hand on the door panel, but shifted to face her before he pushed. Dim light reflected from the polished hardwood, revealing her face only in the contours of shadows. Round cheeks, delicate chin. Plump, full lips, parted slightly.

She was Juliet, he knew it. Maybe the way to convince her was…

He bent his head and touched his mouth to hers, brushed his lips across those curves, and pressed softly. She gave a small gasp and her taste flowed into him, a familiar honey. Twelve years of wanting clutched at his chest, his gut. Chris deepened the kiss, bringing up a hand to cup her shoulder.

And got a slap on the cheek that snapped his eyes wide open.

Chapter Four

A huge knot of something—Jayne decided to call it anger—clogged her throat, preventing her from telling Chris Hammond what he could do with his kisses. So she jerked out of his hold and strode back toward the library, hoping his cheek hurt even half as much as her hand did after that slap.

Then she remembered the bruises and scrapes on his face from the accident and felt guilty for making them worse.

But he had no business doing that, she argued with herself as she put another log on the fire and then went to wrap up in a blanket on the empty couch. She couldn’t possibly have signaled that she was interested in any kind of physical contact, because she definitely was not.

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