White Wedding
Jean Barrett

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Ginny and Paul for their friendship and support

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Lane Eastman—She had planned to be a bridesmaid, not a target for a killer.

Jack Donovan—He wanted a reconciliation with the woman he’d never forgotten.

Allison Whitney—The wealthy heiress loved one man and was marrying another.

Chris Beaver—The Native American had a volatile temper, especially when it came to Allison Whitney.

Judge Dan Whitney—The bride’s cousin was concerned about an increasingly dangerous situation.

Hale McGuire—The groom was not a happy man.

Ronnie Bauer—She would do anything to get Jack Donovan in her bed.

Stuart Bauer—The teenager had a hostile attitude and a fondness for lethal weapons.

Dorothy Asker—What secret was the housekeeper protecting?

Nils Asker—The caretaker was more than the uncomplicated man he seemed.

Teddy Brewster—What did the eccentric florist learn that cost him his life?

Contents

Prologue

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 Fifteen

Prologue

The door crashed open with a sound like gunfire, violating the stillness of the winter night. A panicked Teddy Brewster, as skeletal and awkward as a scarecrow, exploded from the lodge. His lungs were on fire from his wild flight through the sprawling house, but he didn’t dare to rest. Death was stalking him.

Teddy charged across the flagged terrace and down over the snowy landscape. Shapes loomed around him as he ran, dark and fantastic, their grotesque heads rearing on all sides. He welcomed their existence, permitted himself to be swallowed by their numerous ranks.

He was in the topiary garden, where cedars had been tortured into the forms of every mythical beast imaginable. He had been charmed by them during the light of day. They’d appealed to both the eccentric and the artistic in him. Now they were vital allies, providing a living labyrinth in which to lose himself.

But the moon was his enemy, Teddy realized with a whimper of fear as he dodged from shadow to shadow. Cold and silver, mercilessly revealing his presence. And his tracks... He was leaving tracks in the snow. Maybe they didn’t matter. He had already left a maze of confusing footprints, crossing and recrossing each other, when he’d thoroughly toured the garden this afternoon.

His appearance, however, was a definite handicap. He had taken pleasure in his outrageous flowered, flowing overcoat. One of a kind. Now this vanity, along with his long, flaming hair, marked him as a clear target.

Desperation clawed at his insides. He could sense his relentless pursuer not far behind him. He couldn’t hope to outrun him, and it was useless to confront him. Teddy wasn’t in the least athletic, and he was certainly no fighter. He was a creator of beauty. That’s all he knew, all he cared about. He didn’t deserve this senseless horror.

Rest. He had to rest for a moment. Had to think. His lungs were raw, burning. Gulping great mouthfuls of air, he huddled behind a winged dragon. He stood there trembling, his breath smoking on the frigid air. He tried to plan, but his mind was in a useless disorder.

Carefully he peered around the side of the dragon. The lodge crouched there, massive and forbidding. A black form glided across the terrace and melted into the topiary garden. He was coming for him. It wasn’t a game. It was real. Murderously real.

Where should I go? Where can I hide?

Sick with terror, he shrank away from the dragon, backing into another shape just paces behind him. He whirled and faced a leering troll perched on a low mushroom. The spreading mushroom cleared the ground by a foot or so. Urgency inspired Teddy.

Without hesitation he dived under the dense evergreen, wriggling on his stomach toward its stem. He reached the trunk of the cedar and curled around it in a fetal position.

It was dry under the mushroom. Dry and soft with an accumulation of needles. The odor of cedar was strong and pungent. Teddy pressed his gangling body into the bed of needles and prayed. He prayed to get off the island, to survive this gruesome nightmare. Prayed to understand.

None of it made sense. He had overheard one end of a conversation he wasn’t supposed to overhear. He had glimpsed a collection he wasn’t supposed to see. But he didn’t comprehend their importance or why his life should be at risk because of them. It wasn’t fair.

There! The crunch of a boot in the snow close by! The hunter was coming this way, searching the garden for him. Teddy kept very still, tried not to shiver, tried not to make any betraying sound.

The voice of his stalker, low and silky, taunted him. “It won’t do you any good, Teddy. You can’t get away. I’ll find you.”

The heavy boots approached, came to a stop just beside the mushroom. Teddy stuffed a fist to his mouth to prevent himself from sobbing aloud.

“Where are you hiding, Teddy? I know you’re here somewhere. Come out and talk to me. We’ll work it out,” he promised. “We’ll make a deal.”

Teddy didn’t believe him. He waited. An eternity of waiting. The boots moved on, faded through the garden in the direction of the path toward the shore. His pursuer was on his way to the dock. He must be thinking Teddy was headed for the ice, making every effort to cross to the mainland.

There was silence in the topiary garden, a long and terrible silence. Was it safe? He crawled slowly from beneath the mushroom, rose cautiously to his feet.

There was another trail in the opposite direction along the edge of the bluff. It passed behind the chapel. It was a longer, indirect route to the beach. His stalker wouldn’t expect him to go that way.

If he could just reach the snowmobile...

His mind in a frenzy, loose coat flapping around him, Teddy loped out of the garden, heading toward the thick woods massed behind the chapel. The woods would offer a cover for his escape.

He was nearing the path that rounded the tiny, dark chapel when his dreaded enemy moved out of the thick shadows of the porch where he had been lurking, cutting off his flight. Mewing his alarm like a trapped animal, Teddy came to a petrified halt.

His stalker chuckled. “Gotcha,” he whispered triumphantly.

There was a compound bow in his gloved hands. Powerful and accurate, an efficient killing machine. He raised the weapon slowly, directing it at his target. Teddy could see the aluminum shaft of a lethal arrow glinting in the moonlight. Understanding gripped him in an agony of icy fear.

I’m going to die! I can’t die!

“Please,” he begged, his plea a humiliating squeal for mercy. “Please—let me live.”

“You’ll tell.”

“I won’t...oh, I won’t.”

“Promise?”

“I swear.”

“Liar.”

There was a soft hissing sound. Nothing else. Teddy never realized the arrow had left the bow. He felt a strange burning sensation, and when he looked down the arrow was protruding from his chest. He clutched at it, struggling with it in a ghastly disbelief. Too late. He was already sinking to his knees, already choking on his own blood.

The pale moon wheeled overhead, then went dark.

Chapter One

Lane knew that the setting was something she was supposed to be enjoying, not fearing. It had all the elements of a perfect Christmas card: a dazzling blue sky on a late-December afternoon. Snowy, wooded bluffs hugging the shores of Wisconsin’s Door Peninsula. And tucked between those bluffs the village of Ephraim, as charming as any traditional New England village.

But Lane was unable to appreciate the appealing scene as she stood at the foot of the dock gazing out over the vast, frozen expanse of Green Bay. The prospect of crossing all that ice in an open sleigh was making her increasingly anxious.

The five other members of the holiday party gathered with her at the dock apparently didn’t share her concern. They were busy exchanging a lively dialogue as they waited for the arrival of the sleighs. But then, she thought, they weren’t struggling with her painful memory.

You don’t have a choice, Lane reminded herself sternly. This whole weekend is necessary, and that means enduring the ice.

Among the company was an individual who threatened the happiness of someone she loved. She had promised that, if it was possible, she would find a way this weekend to ease the critical situation. The promise worried her, however. After all, this was not her prime reason for being here.

“There,” said an affable male voice close behind her. “Can you make it out?”

An arm extended over Lane’s shoulder. Its hand, wearing a distinctive silver-and-onyx ring, pointed helpfully toward a smudge far out on the horizon.

“Thunder Island,” he said.

He had misunderstood her preoccupation with the view, regarding it as anticipation for their destination. He didn’t know about her fear of the ice. She wanted to keep it that way.

Lane turned her head, summoning a smile for the man at her elbow. He had a kind but unremarkable face, except for a pair of alert gray eyes and a quiet humor that seemed to perpetually hover around the corners of his mouth. Judge Dan Whitney was the bride’s cousin.

“Looks pretty far out,” Lane observed, hoping her casualness masked her worry.

“About six miles,” he indicated. “Wouldn’t you say, Allison?”

The bride, to whom Thunder Island belonged, joined them. The presence of Allison Whitney, a striking, elegant blonde, reminded Lane of her main purpose for being here. She was to be her friend’s attendant at tomorrow’s ceremony.

“At least,” Allison agreed. “But don’t let all that remoteness fool you, Lane. The lodge has every modern comfort, including a phone.”

Lane considered Allison and decided she wasn’t mistaken. There was a definite quality of overbrightness in her quicksilver smile. Of course, every bride was entitled to a degree of nervousness on the eve of her wedding, but this seemed to be something more. She could swear, too, that Allison had been sneaking anxious glances at her ever since their arrival at the dock.

Something was up, but Lane had no chance to question it. Allison captured their attention by declaring enthusiastically, “Oh, look, my caterer!”

A young couple had emerged from a rambling old inn directly across the highway and was headed toward them.

“Dick and Nancy Arnold,” Allison explained as the couple approached the dock. “He opened the place last summer. Cooks like a dream. We’ll eat royally this weekend.”

She performed quick introductions all around as the Arnolds reached the group.

Nancy Arnold greeted them and said, “Just came to extend our best wishes to the bride and groom.”

“And,” Dick added, “to assure you, Allison, that all of the meals you ordered were picked up by your help this morning before they drove out to the island.”

“The wedding cake is to die for,” Nancy promised, obviously proud of her husband’s accomplishment. “Dick outdid himself.”

“Don’t oversell me, sweetheart,” he cautioned, grinning as he slid an arm around his wife.

It was then that Lane noticed Nancy Arnold was radiantly pregnant. She had never seen a happier couple. Allison must have been equally aware of their joy in each other. She hooked an arm through her fiancé’s arm and drew him close, as though to prove her own happiness.

Her small action troubled Lane. She eyed the groom standing silently beside Allison. Hale McGuire was tall and classically handsome, but there was something about him that lacked substance. What bothered Lane, however, was Allison’s determination about him. It struck her as missing a natural conviction. She hoped she was wrong.

Allison thanked the Arnolds, then asked, “Do you know if Teddy Brewster finished the flowers on the island?”

“The florist?” Nancy nodded. “Must have. He rented a snowmobile from us for the crossing, and it was back in place this morning and his car gone.”

Dick frowned. “The funny thing is, though, he never stopped in to collect his deposit. Made me wonder.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Allison assured him. “Teddy is unpredictable, definitely an eccentric, but his arrangements are award winners.”

An impatient Hale interrupted the exchange. “Here comes our transportation,” he said, indicating a pair of horse-drawn sleighs cutting along the edge of the ice in the direction of the dock.

“Bells and all,” Nancy observed with an expression of envy. “A Christmas wedding in a marvelous old lodge on a winter-wonderland island, and with horse-drawn sleighs to get you there. Now, you can’t get much more romantic than that.”

Dan Whitney chuckled. “Not to mention slightly impractical, considering the place was meant chiefly as a summer retreat, but our Allison here has been stubbornly insistent about this weekend.”

Rather mysteriously so, Lane thought, agreeing with him. In fact, there were too many little intrigues connected with this whole situation. Including her own involving that promise, she supposed. But Nancy Arnold was right. The concept of Allison’s Christmas Day wedding on the island tomorrow was wonderfully romantic. She just wished it didn’t require crossing the ice.

But she was not, Lane promised herself, absolutely not going to be a coward about it. Anyway, not an obvious one. Allison deserved to have her special holiday wedding without anything spoiling it.

The Arnolds wished the company a pleasant crossing and then retreated to their inn as the sleighs, decorated with wreaths for the occasion, arrived at the landing. The drivers began to load the luggage.

The fifth member of the party, silent and bored until now, muttered, “Finally we get to go. My cheeks are frostbitten standing around on this dock. And I don’t mean the ones on my face.”

Lane wasn’t surprised. Along with triple earrings in one of his earlobes and a badly scarred bomber jacket, fifteen-year-old Stuart Bauer wore the regulation torn jeans of a rebel teenager. The denim was so faded and thin that it barely covered his backside.

Veronica Bauer, mother to both Stuart and Hale and the sixth member of the group, favored her younger son with an indulgent smile. “I wouldn’t count on that, Stuie.”

Lane eyed the woman in her expensive mink coat, sensing she wasn’t the type to be concerned in the least about political correctness. Ronnie Bauer amazed her. She had to be well past fifty, but artful makeup and a head of glorious black hair took almost two decades off her age. That and a few surgical enhancements, Lane suspected. There was a flamboyant, hungry quality about Ronnie. Hale was plainly embarrassed by her, his much younger half brother barely tolerant.

“Yeah?” Stuart challenged his mother. “How come?”

“Because, pet,” she drawled, turning up the collar of her fur, “we’re still missing the best man. Or hasn’t anyone noticed?”

Lane was confused. She knew that Dan Whitney, as a Wisconsin judge, was scheduled to marry his cousin and Hale tomorrow. She had assumed, therefore, that Stuart would serve as his half brother’s best man. This was the first she had heard about an addition to the party.

And there it was again—Allison casting another of her swift glances in her direction. Lane was beginning to have a distinctly uneasy feeling.

“Allison?” she softly questioned her friend.

“He’ll get here,” Allison announced loudly to the company. “He promised.”

She would say no more, but Lane noticed that the subject was completely uninteresting to Hale. Odd, since it was his best man they were discussing.

The luggage was loaded by now. They spent another five minutes waiting on the dock. Stuart complained again about the cold, which really wasn’t all that bad since there wasn’t a breath of wind.

Lane was about to tackle her friend again over the subject of the best man when a powerful, sporty car flashed onto the scene and swung sharply into the parking lot adjoining the dock area.

Stuart passed judgment on the gleaming red vehicle with an emphatic “Cool!”

And then it happened, the realization of Lane’s worst nightmare. The driver’s door popped open and a male figure, with a compact body still familiar to her after all these years, emerged from the car. Her heart went down to the vicinity of her knees.

Lane’s panicked gaze flew to Allison. Their eyes met, exchanging a silent communication.

You might have told me.

If I had warned you, you wouldn’t have come, and I need you here.

It was no explanation, and Lane meant to have one. However, this was hardly the time or the place to demand it, especially since she was here herself under a slightly false pretense. Besides, like it or not, the compelling figure at the car had recaptured her full attention. She watched him as he slung his suitcase with ease out of the trunk of the vehicle.

There was no question about it. Had Jack Donovan been born two hundred years ago, he would have been a buccaneer with a cutlass between his teeth and a struggling wench under his arm. No, make that willing wench. There were few women immune to the wicked grin he wore like an Irish charm, not to mention the sexual energy he radiated without will.

Veronica Bauer certainly wasn’t oblivious to all that masculine appeal. “Well,” she murmured eagerly, feasting her eyes on Jack as he strode toward them with his energetic gait. “The term best man is certainly no exaggeration in this case. The weekend is suddenly looking much more interesting.”

Lane would willingly have stepped aside in favor of Ronnie, but Jack was making straight for her. She had time to do nothing but caution herself: Careful. And suddenly there he was standing directly in front of her, all riveting blue eyes and hair black as midnight.

“Lane Eastman,” he said in that deep, resonant voice that had frustrated her on too many occasions, and using her full name as though he’d just learned it. He held out his hand.

You can do this, she instructed herself firmly. You’re no longer nineteen and vulnerable. You’ve had seven years to build maturity and confidence. Show him just how self-possessed you’ve become.

“How are you, Jack?”

Her greeting was smooth and easy. Good. She was in control. Until, that is, she accepted his offered hand and his strong fingers clasped hers. Mere physical contact with him was her undoing, just as it always had been in a past she preferred not to remember. She could suddenly feel herself coming apart inside. And, damn him, he knew it! She could tell he knew it by the smoldering gleam in his eyes. He’d always recognized her vulnerability to him.

Wonderful. There was already an element of strain about this whole weekend. She’d been sensing the undercurrents ever since they’d all come together at the dock. Now this!

“Never better,” Jack assured her. “So, how about you, Lane?”

He didn’t wait for her to tell him. She could feel those deep blue eyes carefully appraising her. Discovering, perhaps, that she knew how to dress her slender figure with more style these days, that she wore her cinnamon hair longer and with less curl, even noticing that she’d learned restraint in the use of makeup on a face that qualified as winsome if not sublime. She was aggravated with herself that it should matter in the least whether he approved of these changes.

Managing to extract her hand from his grip, she covered her inner turmoil with a hasty response. “I’m fine.”

“Still rising in the hotel business?”

“I try to. I’m assistant manager now for one of the chain’s four-star inns.”

“Good for you. In St. Louis, right?”

She was surprised that he knew.

“I manage to stay informed,” he assured her.

It worried her that he would make the effort. She was relieved when Ronnie Bauer, hovering close by, impatiently interrupted their absurdly polite exchange. “Are you going to share him, dear?”

Allison saved the moment by introducing him to those he hadn’t already met. “Dr. Jack Donovan, everyone.”

Ronnie was impressed, and purring flirtatiously. “Do you specialize, doctor?”

“Bones,” he said.

“I’ll certainly remember that if I ever break one.”

“I don’t mend them, Ms. Bauer. I dig them up.”

Ronnie was plainly confused until Hale corrected her misconception. “Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Mother, he’s not a medical man. He’s a doctor of paleontology.”

“Fossils?”

“Dinosaur, to be exact,” Jack said.

“Even better,” she cooed. “All those exciting expeditions. Just like the hunk in Jurassic Park.”

“Hunting for usable fossils is no Hollywood adventure, Ms. Bauer,” he informed her dryly. “It’s a lot of time-consuming, hot-as-hell labor.”

How well she had learned that truth, Lane thought.

“Hey,” Stuart demanded, “are we going or not?”

Jack eyed the waiting sleighs. The first one had places for six people, including the driver. The second, carrying all the luggage for the party, had space for only two passengers in the rear.

“Give us a minute,” he said.

Before Lane could object, Jack drew her off to one side for a private exchange.

“I’d like for us to ride together in that second sleigh.”

There was a determined look in his eyes that warned her to avoid any such intimate arrangement. “Not a chance.”

“Look,” he pressed her, “it isn’t what you think. It’s just that I’d feel better if we rode together.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t trust the situation.”

“The sleighs?”

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s the whole setup of this weekend that bothers me. I learned something last night I don’t like. All right, so it probably doesn’t mean a thing. Let’s just say you humor me, and we stick together.”

There was a mysterious grimness in his undertone that frightened her. Was he serious? For a moment she was inclined to think so. Then she dismissed the whole thing, remembering how often in the past she had fallen for Jack Donovan’s take-charge, overprotective tactics. Well, not this time.

“Sorry,” Lane said at a volume that could be heard by the others, “but I’ve already promised Judge Whitney I’d ride with him.”

She hadn’t, and she regretted the necessity for her impulsive lie. She could see how surprised Dan was when she rejoined the group, but he offered no word of contradiction.

Before Jack could object, Ronnie linked a proprietary arm through his. “Sit with me, and you can tell me all about these important fossils of yours.”

Lane watched an irritated Jack being hauled off to the second sleigh. She felt sorry for him. Almost.

Dan, falling in step beside Lane as the rest of them moved toward the sleighs, whispered in concern, “Is something wrong?”

She shook her head, then offered a quick apology. “I’m sorry about that. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Riding with you? On the contrary, it’s my pleasure.” She could feel his curious gaze on her as they reached the end of the dock. “An old friend of yours?”

She knew he was referring to Jack. “Not exactly.” She hesitated. There was no reason he shouldn’t know. “Try an old husband. Now,” she added, just as buoyantly as she could, “would you like to suggest some graceful way to climb down from this dock and into that sleigh?”

* * *

THE HORSES WERE POWERFUL Belgians, able to draw the heavy sleighs over the fractured ice of the broad harbor with an effortless ease. The snow cover, thick in places, almost nonexistent in others, formed swirling patterns across the wrinkled surface. Through the brittle air the sleigh bells called to each other musically.

It should have been a pleasant experience, one that Lane could enjoy without reservation. Instead, she twisted in her seat to gaze back longingly at the receding village where a pair of white church steeples rose through the dark evergreens against the steep hillside. Those spires looked so solid and comforting, the ice beneath her so fearfully insecure.

“No need to be nervous,” her insightful companion assured her. “We don’t very often get safe ice on the bay this soon in the season, but it’s been an unusually early winter with a lot of hard freezes. And the Nordstrom brothers,” he added, referring to their drivers, “are experienced and know what they’re doing.”

Lane turned her head, managing a lopsided smile for Dan beside her. “That obvious, huh?”

“Your tension? Well, a little,” he conceded with a gentle smile.

She considered him, thinking how different he was from his cousin, Allison, with his relaxed manner and brown hair frosted with gray. He was the sort of person who prompted confidences, probably a good quality in a judge. She decided to share a confidence of her own.

“And I was hoping it wouldn’t show. But I really do have a good reason for minding so much. Bad memory.”

“Something traumatic?” he guessed.

“You could say that. When I was about eight or so a playmate and I went out skating where we had no business to be. The ice was rotten, and it collapsed under us. I was lucky. They managed to fish me out. She wasn’t. She was dragged under the ice. When they did get to her it was, well, too late.”

“Good Lord,” he murmured sympathetically, “then this crossing must be a real ordeal for you.”

Her laugh was shaky, and she knew it. “Let’s just say that when it comes to ice I prefer it in my drinks to having it under my feet. Uh, I’d appreciate it if my little confession was just between the two of us.”

“Done.”

“Thank you.”

Lane made another concentrated effort to enjoy the crossing. Or at least tolerate it. Not easy considering their present position. They had left the harbor behind them and were now on the open reaches of the great bay. The frozen sea, like a lunar landscape, was seamed with hazards around which the sleighs carefully detoured. The ice had faulted and folded in some past thaw—huge, upthrust slabs of it scraped head-high along a shoal. The stacked shards glittered like crystal under the winter sun.

Dan pointed to small, jerry-built shelters scattered across the surface. Some of them had small Christmas trees anchored to their roofs. “Fishing shanties,” he explained. “If it’s clear tomorrow, holiday or not, the ice fishers will drive out here in bunches in their trucks and spend most of the day.”

She knew he meant it as another encouragement. It didn’t work. She was too busy minding the alien ice. She could swear it was alive. She could actually hear it now creaking, snapping with the cold, rolling like drums in the distance. Awful.

“Have you and Allison been longtime friends?” he asked her.

Lane suspected that his question wasn’t motivated by curiosity but was actually a further attempt to distract her from the terrors of the ice. She was more than willing to accommodate him.

“Have I been kept a secret?” she teased.

“Well, we’re the only family each other has these days, but with Allison way off in Chicago most of the year, I’m afraid we don’t keep up with each other’s lives.”

“Then to answer your question, yes, we do go back a few years. Since our undergraduate days at Northwestern University, actually. And it was a pretty unlikely beginning. Our friendship, that is.”

“Why is that?”

“Well—” The sleigh runners struck a rough spot in the ice, jouncing them. Lane fought her anxiety and continued. “We were universes apart. I was fresh off the farm—Indiana, to be exact—and as green as they make them. I wouldn’t have been there at all if it hadn’t been for a generous scholarship. And here was Allison and her crowd with every advantage behind them.” She realized how that might sound to Dan. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply—”

His small laugh interrupted her. “Don’t apologize. It’s Allison’s side of the family with all the money, not mine.”

“Anyway, I completely misunderstood her. I thought she was...oh, you know, the stereotypical spoiled heiress. And to be honest about it, I guess there is that side of her. But nobody minds it, do they? She’s too lovable and generous.”

“To a fault,” he agreed. “So the friendship was born?”

“As I remember, it had something to do with rescuing me from a lecherous quarterback. After that she more or less adopted me. I think Allison was convinced I was much too naive to survive on my own. She was probably right. So here we are, still friends—though long-distance friends now—and the relationship still amazes me.”

Northwestern University, Lane thought. It wasn’t just Allison she had met back then. Jack Donovan had been there, too, working on his doctorate and already making a reputation for himself in his field. If it was true that her connection with Allison had been improbable, then her bonding with Jack could be defined as incredible.

From the beginning, from their first encounter, in fact, the sexual attraction between them had been so powerful it had stunned both of them. But the miracle—and it had been just that—never stood a chance.

Not smart, she reminded herself. Not smart at all reliving her brief marriage, remembering how hard she had fallen for him and the heartache that had eventually resulted. But how could she avoid remembering? An absent Jack Donovan was hard enough to forget. But when he was actually here, only yards away in the next sleigh, the effort was impossible.

Though she had resisted riding with him, permitting Ronnie Bauer to inflict herself on the poor man, she couldn’t prevent her awareness of Jack. Even from here his Gaelic good looks were evident. It hurt just looking at him.

Why was he here, and how was she supposed to spend an entire weekend in the same house with him? And that unexplained warning of his back on the dock... What did that mean? Nothing, she tried to convince herself. Just a ploy to get her to ride with him. Then why couldn’t she stop thinking about it?

Danger. There was an aura of danger here that intensified when Jack sensed her gaze on him. He swiveled in his seat, making eye contact with her across the ice that separated them. The hot challenge in his probing stare robbed her lungs of air. There was also a glowering accusation in his look. Jack was not prepared to forgive her for Ronnie. The woman, squeezed against him as tightly as decency permitted, was clearly aggravating him on every level.

Lane didn’t think he’d appreciate her sudden smile. She hid it by shifting behind the pair of cross-country skis that protruded from the luggage piled in the middle seat between them and their driver.

“Sorry,” Dan said.

She glanced at him, perplexed.

“The skis blocking your view,” he explained. “They’re mine. I’m hoping to get in some time with them this weekend.”

Which accounted for the bright blue insulated jumpsuit he was wearing, she realized.

“This probably will be my last chance to ski the island, so I’d like to take advantage of the opportunity. Which, of course,” he went on, “is also the reason Allison is insisting on having her wedding on the island.”

Here it was again, she thought. Another reference to Allison’s mysterious determination.

Dan noticed her puzzlement and shook his head. “I shouldn’t be mentioning it. It’s for Allison to explain, and I think she’s planning to do that before the wedding tomorrow. So,” he said, quickly changing the subject, “where are we now?” He checked the distance from his side of the sleigh. “Better than halfway there, I think. How are you holding up?”

She was about to assure him she was doing just fine when off to her left she spotted what looked like a veil of steam rising from the ice. Her apprehension was exasperating to her, but she couldn’t help her alarm. “Is that what I think it is?”

Dan followed her gaze and nodded. “Yes,” he said mildly, “a patch of open water. Sometimes the currents force a breach. Don’t worry. The Nordstroms know how to read the ice. They’ll avoid any tricky spots.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” He must think her an absolute neurotic, she thought. All the same, she couldn’t wait to put this crossing behind her.

The fishing shanties were far behind them now. There was nothing on the sea of ice but the two racing sleighs. The air was no longer still. Lane could feel a ripple of wind in her face as their destination loomed ahead of them. This time she distracted herself by remembering what Allison had told her about Thunder Island.

By legend, it was the ancestral home of the Thunder clan of the Menominee people who had once dominated this entire region of Wisconsin. Shaped like an artist’s palette, the island was almost two hundred acres in extent. Nearly all of it was heavily wooded with evergreens and mixed hardwoods. On its southern end—and Lane could see them clearly now—were massive, sheer limestone bluffs sloping gradually to the low, rocky shoreline on the north. The lodge was situated on the higher end of the island. She searched for a glimpse of it as they neared the island, but the forest concealed it.

“Almost there,” Dan promised as they rounded the shoulder of the closest bluff and headed into the indented portion of the palette, which formed a natural harbor.

Seconds later their sleigh reached the island’s dock, where the pickup truck that had brought out the supplies and the weekend helpers was parked. Lane felt like a white-knuckled flier who has just made a safe landing. Climbing from the sleigh with relief, she expressed her gratitude to Dan.

“Thanks for all the expert hand-holding. Oh, it looks like we’re being met.”

Two men, who must have noted their arrival from the lodge, were descending the bluff trail. Lane and the judge watched them emerge single file from the trees.

“Probably came down to help with the luggage,” Dan said. “That’s Nils Asker in the lead. Runs a charter fishing boat in the summers. Allison has known him and his wife, Dorothy, since she was a girl. Dorothy will be waiting for us up at the house.”

The figure he indicated was tall and bony with a weathered Nordic face.

“And the other one?” Lane asked.

The second man had appeared from behind Nils where the path widened. He was younger than Nils, broad shouldered and copper skinned. He had the impressive, dark good looks of a pure Native American on his stoic face.

“That would be Nils’s brother-in-law, Chris Beaver,” Dan said slowly, “but I thought...”

He didn’t finish. There was a sudden expression of concern on his face. Lane, puzzled, saw him glance sharply in Allison’s direction. The second sleigh was emptying on the other side of the dock. Allison was busy talking to the driver, getting his assurance that both sleighs would return for them on Monday noon. She was unaware of the newcomers until Nils called a friendly greeting.

Lane was even more mystified then by Allison’s reaction when she looked up and discovered the presence of Chris Beaver. Her face registered shock and another emotion that could only be described as unhappiness. What’s more, her bridegroom, Hale, hadn’t missed her response. Chris, meanwhile, began silently unloading luggage, his somber black eyes making contact with none of them.

And just what, Lane wondered, is this all about?

She had no chance to find out. Jack had left the other sleigh and was striding toward her purposefully. That meant she had her own emotions to deal with, and they weren’t easy ones.

It didn’t help that he was dressed like that—his familiar Aussie outback hat crammed on his head at a rakish tilt, plus bulky ski jacket and snug cords that emphasized his lean masculinity. But then, Jack Donovan would have been disarming in a Sherpa ceremonial robe.

Subtlety was never his style, and obviously that hadn’t changed. Reaching her, he wasted no time in asking bluntly, “You all right? Was the crossing bad for you?”

Of course, he knew all about her phobia. He knew far too much about her, damn it.

She chose her words and tone with care, wanting him to realize she appreciated his concern but that he no longer had any right to be worried about her. In effect, reminding him that his overprotectiveness had been one of the sources of conflict in their marriage.

“No need to ask, but I’m just fine, thank you.”

Her politeness clearly annoyed him. “I could have been there for you if you’d let me ride with you instead of abandoning me to that female predator. I know well-preserved bones are supposed to be my specialty, but—”

“You can take care of yourself, Jack. You always have.”

“Not this time. The woman is as rapacious as a T. rex. Oh, hell, here she comes again.” He groaned aloud, much to Dan’s amusement.

Ronnie Bauer joined them at the foot of the dock, burbling, “What a delicious spot to get snowbound in!” She moved close to Jack’s side, adding far too obviously, “With the right individual, that is.”

Dan chuckled softly. “Afraid you’re out of luck on this trip. There’s no forecast of any real snow for the weekend. That’s what I’ve been assured, anyway.”

Ronnie’s scarlet mouth formed a little pout of disappointment. “Too bad, because I brought enough outfits to cover that possibility. Jack,” she pleaded, “you will help me up to the house with my luggage, won’t you? I have some of my good jewelry in one of the cases, and I’m not going to trust that to just anyone.”

Lane saw her opportunity to escape. “I wasn’t that foresighted. I have only one suitcase, and I can manage that on my own. See you at the lodge, everyone.”

Her case had been deposited with the others on the dock. She snatched it up before Jack could extricate himself from Ronnie’s latest ambush and fled up the path on the heels of an impatient Stuart Bauer.

The men had cleared the trails with snowblowers, and the ascent was gradual. Still, with a bulky suitcase to carry, Lane found the climb a challenging one. But Ronnie was right. The island was delightful with its thick forest and ledges of layered, mossy rock thrusting through the cover of snow.

She was puffing by the time she reached the crown of the bluff. Lowering her suitcase, she stopped at the edge of the woods to recover her wind. Stuart had disappeared somewhere ahead of her on a restless investigation of his own, and the others were still behind her. Lane had a moment to herself to enjoy the scene. And it was worth her appreciation.

Just below her, tucked into a spacious, open hollow at the sharp edge of the bluff, was the sprawling, two-storied lodge. Scandinavian in character, it was a pleasing combination of log and fieldstone. A jumble of chimneys, steep roofs and windowed bays made the composition even more appealing.

Her interlude ended when Jack overtook her seconds later. Dropping his burden of luggage, he confronted her. “Are you planning to avoid me the whole weekend?”

“Why are you here, Jack?” she responded tautly.

“Stand still for two minutes, and maybe I’ll tell you.”

“I don’t think I can afford that.” Seizing her suitcase, she moved on toward the lodge.

“Damn it, stop running away from me,” he called after her. “What’s wrong with you? Are you afraid to be with me?”

Lane neither paused nor turned her head when she answered him with an emphatic, unqualified “Yes!”

* * *

THE BEDROOM they had given her, like the rest of the house, was as enchanting as a Norwegian fairy tale. The folk painting known as rosemaling was expressed on cupboards and chests, even on the faces of the beams that crisscrossed the low ceiling. There was an abundance of peasant-style carving, as well. The genial trolls called tomtars were everywhere.

Then why, Lane wondered, did she persist in feeling so chilled by the setting? It had nothing to do with temperature, either, because she’d been assured that a powerful generator on the premises provided both electricity and a comfortable central heating.

When she stood by the window and examined the view, she thought she understood what was troubling her. Her room overlooked a topiary garden at the side of the house. Ranks of evergreens had been trained into the forms of mythical beasts. She found them somehow depressing. Maybe it was the season. Maybe in summer the place was more cheerful. But just now there was something about the garden...

She had started to turn away when she spotted a figure below her on the flagged terrace adjoining the garden. He was gazing at the topiary figures, and even from this angle she could see the brooding expression on his handsome face. Hale McGuire.

Should she? Lane wondered. Why not? He was alone down there, and another opportunity might not so readily present itself.

There were two vital matters she needed to discuss privately with Allison’s bridegroom. One of them concerned the secret promise that had brought her to Thunder Island. The other, as of this afternoon, was Jack Donovan.

Lane didn’t know what surprised her more—that Allison had insisted she couldn’t get married without her or that her ex-husband had turned up as Hale’s best man. It was no accident Jack was here, and his presence worried her. A close friendship between the two men seemed unlikely to her, but since Hale had chosen Jack as his best man, she would begin with him. She meant to have answers.

Chapter Two

“Gruesome things, aren’t they?” Hale fingered the cedar fronds of a unicorn as he contemplated the other topiary forms scattered around the snow-blanketed lawn. “Why would anyone want to force a plant into looking like something it’s not supposed to be?”

Lane shivered in her green parka. The air was colder now that the sun was lower in the sky. Or maybe it was the mood of the garden that was still chilling her. She could swear there was a kind of stress that lingered here. She could actually feel it.

“I guess some people find them whimsical,” she said with a little shrug.

Hale grunted. He was silent for a moment, then turned his head to consider her, as though just realizing she had joined him. “You want me for something?”

Lane regarded him in his immaculate chesterfield overcoat. He was an impressive figure, well built and with eye-catching features, but there was no animation in his expression. Maybe that was an asset to him, she thought, trying to like him. Allison had told her he was a lawyer.

“It’s about Jack Donovan,” she said, beginning with the easier of the two subjects.

Hale frowned. “What about him?”

“I suppose Allison told you we were once married. To be honest about it, it was a shock having him turn up here as your best man.”

“Sorry if that’s a problem.”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” She hoped. “I guess I’m just surprised that you’re close friends.”

“Friends?” There was a cynical note in his brief laugh. “I barely know the guy.”

“Then why—”

“Allison. She wanted Donovan as my best man, said she had her reasons, and I went along with her choice.”

Somehow the revelation didn’t surprise Lane. Now that she thought about it, it made sense that Allison was responsible for Jack’s presence. Yes, well, her friend owed her an explanation.

“Anything else?” Hale asked.

Lane hesitated. Should she? No, she decided. The mission she had been entrusted with was a delicate one, much too tricky to approach when Hale was obviously in a difficult mood. Better, after all, to wait.

She hated this situation and was beginning to wonder if her promise had been a mistake. She refused to hurt Allison or risk spoiling her wedding. But the problem was ultimately unavoidable. She’d been made to clearly see that several days ago. Somehow, for the sake of everyone involved, it had to be resolved.

“No,” Lane answered reluctantly, “nothing else.”

He nodded. “Then I’ll see you later.”

Yes, she told him silently, watching him as he turned and walked off through the garden, unfortunately, you will have to see me later. And something tells me you won’t like it. Only I wonder what’s bothering you now?

There was no mystery about what was troubling her. Jack was still strongly on her mind. She needed to do something about that. But this time Allison would be her target.

Lane returned to the lodge and made her determined way up the massive staircase. The house was quiet, no one around. She assumed people were settling themselves in their rooms. And Jack? Well, he’d been placed in guest quarters semidetached from the main lodge. She wondered about that arrangement, too.

Allison’s bedroom was the first on the left at the top of the stairs. The door was ajar when she reached it. She had lifted her hand to rap on the frame when a gruff male voice close on the other side forestalled her intention.

“Where do you want these?”

“I don’t care about the luggage!” It was Allison’s voice, and there was a frantic quality to it. “Just tell me what I want to know. Why are you here, Chris?”

There was a sound of suitcases being bumped on the floor. “Why do you think? I’m working.”

“But it was your brother who was hired to—”

“Mike couldn’t make it. He got sick last night. Something he ate, I guess. Frankly, he needs the money, and Dorothy and Nils couldn’t manage the weekend on their own. There was no one else available, so I agreed to replace Mike. You didn’t think I was eager to see you get married.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way, Chris,” Allison pleaded.

“Let’s not start in on that again. We both know it does have to be this way. Look, don’t worry about it. I plan to make myself as scarce as possible. All I’m here for is to do Mike’s job.”

“I hate it when you’re like this.”

Lane, conscious that she was overhearing something intensely emotional, realized she had no business standing here listening to any of this startling conversation. She started to back away, but before she could manage a safe retreat, the door was flung open. The brawny Chris Beaver, his face stiff with pride, stormed past her without a glance and disappeared down the stairs.

Lane was afraid to guess what that little scene meant. She turned her head and discovered Allison standing in the doorway. The anguished expression on her friend’s face said it all. Hale’s dark mood in the garden suddenly began to make sense.

Lane had been embarrassed. Now she was simply worried. “Are you all right?”

Allison recovered herself. “I have to be. I’m the radiant bride, remember.” She seemed to realize then that Lane must have witnessed her exchange with Chris, and she quickly changed the subject. “Were you looking for me?”

“Uh, nothing that can’t wait.” This was definitely the wrong moment to press for an explanation about Jack. Dear Lord, was there anyone in this house, herself included, who wasn’t struggling with an unpleasant secret?

Lane started to leave, but Allison stopped her. “Come out to the chapel with me. I’m going to check on Teddy’s flower arrangements.”

“Now? Are you sure that—”

“I can’t wait to see how they’ve turned out. It’s going to be fun. The whole thing tomorrow is going to be fun. A wedding we’ll all remember.” There was a fierce determination in her promise, as though nothing else must be allowed to matter.

Lane was beginning to have the uneasy conviction that Allison had no business at all getting married tomorrow. And certainly not to Hale McGuire.

“Allison, do you think maybe—”

“Please, I’d like to go.” Refusing to discuss anything but the flower arrangements, she insisted that Lane accompany her.

They paused on the lower floor to admire the florist’s efforts in the house. There was a replica of a Viking hall off the foyer, a cavernous place where the wedding luncheon would be held following the ceremony in the chapel. The table was already set for the celebration. The flowers were impressive—masses of scarlet poinsettias and tall candles in keeping with the wedding’s Christmas theme.

Allison, restless and overeager, snatching at conversation, inspected the arrangements. “Wonderful, aren’t they? I loved that holly bouquet with the gilded angel back in the foyer. Teddy really has a special touch. The flowers in the chapel should be spectacular.”

They left the house, Allison hurrying them toward the rustic chapel at the far end of the garden. Lane had been told the wooden structure was a tiny version of a Norwegian stavkirke. As they approached it, she found herself charmed by the pointed gables, the small belfry, the half-enclosed porch.

The interior, which they reached through a stout oak door, was a delight with its wealth of native carvings on the raised pulpit, baptismal font and high-backed pews. The primitive stained-glass windows and delicate wall frescoes glowed like jewels.

“Allison, it’s marvelous!” Lane pronounced. “I can see why you want your wedding here. And when the candles are lit tomorrow in all those iron wall holders it will be...well, pure magic.”

Her friend had no response. Lane glanced at her where she stood by the door, her hand still on the light switch. Allison was frowning, and for a second Lane feared her mind had returned to Chris Beaver.

“They’re missing,” she finally murmured.

“What are?”

“The flowers. There aren’t any.”

Lane had been so busy picturing the beauty of a wedding ceremony in the serene setting that she hadn’t noticed. But Allison was right. There wasn’t a single ar- rangement in sight.

“Maybe Teddy was afraid they would freeze out here and left them somewhere in the house.”

Allison, annoyed, shook her head. “Nils put the heat on in here for him early yesterday before he went back to the mainland. It was all prearranged.”

“Then there must be an explanation.”

Allison nodded. “I’ll have to find out.”

She started to douse the lights, as if intending to return immediately to the lodge. Lane put a hand on her arm to delay her. They were alone out here, and the thought occurred to her there might not be another opportunity for privacy.

“Could we talk for a minute first?”

She could feel Allison stiffening under her hand. She thinks I’m going to ask her about Chris.

The tall blonde gazed at her, asking warily, “Is this a subject I’m going to like?”

“Probably not.” Lane’s answer was dry. “It’s about Jack.”

Allison relaxed slightly. “Oh. Yes, I expected that to come up. All right, let’s sit for a second.”

They settled side by side in one of the back pews. Lane turned to her, seeking an explanation. “How did Jack wind up as Hale’s best man? Hale told me he barely knows him.”

“It just sort of happened,” her friend confessed with a note of evasiveness. “Jack called me to offer his best wishes. He’d seen the announcement of my engagement in one of the Chicago papers. I got to telling him about my wedding plans and how you were going to be my attendant but that nothing had been settled yet about the best man. We talked for a long while and...well, one thing led to another.”

“Uh-huh. And just whose idea was it for him to play best man this weekend? Or was it a joint conspiracy?”

“I don’t remember. Jack’s, maybe.”

Lane might have known. Jack Donovan could charm his way in or out of just about anything he put his considerable talents to, which was exactly why she hadn’t trusted herself to go directly to him for this explanation. And this time he’d talked himself into a weekend on a secluded island where his ex-wife would be virtually trapped. The question was...

“Why?” she demanded of Allison. “You’ve told me how he came to be here. Now tell me why he wants to be here.”

“I think he just means to—” She broke off, squirming uncomfortably. “No, I can’t say. It’s for him to tell you.”

“If it’s what I think it is...” she said warningly.

“Lane, I was wrong to agree to this situation. I know I was wrong. And maybe it’s none of my business to say that your divorce was a mistake, but the two of you...oh, you know what I mean.”

Lane avoided looking at her. She stared grimly at a carving of a sleeping angel above the altar rail. A reconciliation. That’s what Allison was driving at. Oh, no! Never! Not in this lifetime! Jack Donovan’s rarefied world had cost her enough anguish. Oh, she’d been vulnerable, all right, was probably still much too vulnerable, but she wasn’t suicidal.

Allison laid an imploring hand on her arm, her voice suddenly remorseful. “I couldn’t get married tomorrow if I thought you were mad at me, though I suppose I deserve it. I don’t want to lose your friendship, Lane. God knows, when you’re in a position like mine—you know, the money and all—there are few enough people you can really count on or trust, and you’ve never asked anything of me. Now if I’ve gone and—”

“Allison, it’s all right. I’m not happy about the situation, but it’s too late to change it. All I can do is survive it.” Another disturbing possibility occurred to her. “Wait a minute. You didn’t deliberately put Jack out in the guesthouse because you thought he and I might—”

“No, of course not. It’s just the way the arrangements worked out.”

But Lane wasn’t so sure. Her friend’s denial had been too quick. “Okay, let’s forget it. Just promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“No more playing matchmaker. Because what you want isn’t going to happen.”

“Promise,” she agreed reluctantly. “But it really was your happiness I was thinking of. I guess I just figured that someone might as well...”

She didn’t finish. She shook her head resolutely.

Chris Beaver, Lane realized. Allison was thinking again of Chris Beaver and her. Lane thought about them, too. And Hale, as well. She didn’t know who to feel sorriest for in this regrettable triangle. Or why it even existed. Only one thing was clear. Allison didn’t want to talk about it, and she respected that.

They returned to the house by way of the Viking hall and found Nils’s wife arranging place cards and wedding favors on tomorrow’s luncheon table. Dorothy Asker, like her brother, was a full-blooded Menominee. But she shared none of Chris’s dark good looks. Tall and sturdy, she had a face as round as a moon and a nature that was placid.

Allison warmly complimented the woman on her efforts and then asked her about the flowers missing from the chapel.

Dorothy shook her head. “Well, that’s sure funny. I haven’t been out there yet so I didn’t know. There are no extra arrangements in that big cooler in the kitchen, either, only your bridal bouquet and a lot of loose flowers I thought were leftovers. But I guess those were what didn’t get made up for the chapel.”

“Did Nils say anything when he got back home yesterday?”

“Just that by the time he’d turned on the heat and the water over here Teddy had arrived. He was already unpacking his flowers when Nils left again. Said he expected to work right through the day and into the evening. Nils asked him if he minded staying alone on the island, and he said he’d be too busy to notice. Well, you know what a loner he is, anyway.”

“I’d call him,” Allison said, “but he was closing his shop right after this job and going off somewhere for the holiday.”

There was an expression of pure exasperation on her face. Lane didn’t blame her. A weekend that was meant to be memorable was turning out to be complicated and difficult. And looking no easier, she thought as she remembered she had a severe challenge of her own. She’d have to spend this entire weekend somehow resisting the man who had once meant everything to her.

* * *

THEY GATHERED in the lounge for drinks before dinner. There was an enormous stone fireplace with an inviting blaze, deep leather chairs and a fragrance of pine in the air. Nothing could have been more appropriate for a festive Christmas Eve. There was even a tall tree in one corner waiting to be decorated by everyone after dinner.

And yet, Lane realized, toying with a glass of white wine she’d accepted from Dan, none of the party was really relaxed. Allison and Hale certainly weren’t, she thought, observing them on the sofa they shared. She was telling him about the missing flowers and how they had no choice now but to decorate the chapel themselves. Hale was dutifully sympathetic, but the strain between them was obvious.

And Jack...well, Jack was fighting for patience and fast losing the battle. Ronnie Bauer had trapped him again. Something about her having heard that powdered dinosaur bones made excellent aphrodisiacs, and could this be true? Jack, wearing a Nordic sweater that accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, looked positively dangerous. He kept glaring in Lane’s direction, as though Ronnie might be her fault.

She wasn’t, but Lane wasn’t ungrateful for Ronnie. The woman had intercepted Jack as he was heading obstinately in her direction. Besides, Veronica Bauer was an entertainment in herself. The rest of them were casually dressed. She wore an alluring black number that revealed a pair of impressive breasts, which she managed to thrust in Jack’s direction at every opportunity. Her jewelry was also very much in evidence. Allison had confided to her that the divorced Ronnie had money from her second husband and that she was recklessly spending every dime of it.

“It’s the wind,” Dan said, joining Lane where she stood by the tall windows that overlooked the bay.

“Pardon?”

“That’s making all of us a little tense.”

He had an uncanny ability for reading her thoughts. But he was right. The wind had risen since sundown and was blowing in strong gusts around the lodge. There was an unsettling quality about it.

“Look,” he said, indicating the view.

She turned, gazing out at the frozen expanse lit by a strangely hazy moon. What appeared to be dust clouds were moving erratically over the ice. It was an eerie scene.

“The wind is whipping up the ground snow. If it blows any harder, there will be whiteout conditions on the bay by morning. Won’t allow the ice fishers to go out, but it shouldn’t bother us up here.”

No, Lane thought, it shouldn’t matter. It was the night before Christmas and an idyllic wedding, but the weather shouldn’t matter. Nothing was supposed to matter, or interfere, but too much did.

The conversations around the room were lagging, with some of the party casting impatient glances in the direction of the dining room, when a rasping voice exploded into the lull. “You’re all dead!”

Startled faces swung in the direction of the doorway to the adjoining library. A figure was lurking there in the shadows, clutching what looked to Lane like a medieval crossbow. The wicked weapon was trained on the occupants of the lounge.

There were gasps and a shrill little yip of alarm from Ronnie. Their reactions brought a shout of pleased laughter from the intruder as he moved forward into the light, revealing himself.

“Gotcha!”

“Stuie!” his mother shrieked. “You fiend!”

The teenager chuckled, waving the crossbow at them. “Relax. It isn’t loaded.”

Lane realized that Jack had managed to suddenly appear at her side. He was still trying to play her guardian angel and, damn it, she didn’t need a guardian angel.

“That kid has a sick sense of humor,” he muttered.

“It wasn’t just a joke,” Lane murmured. “He’s looking for attention. Haven’t you noticed how Hale and his mother manage to ignore him?”

Ronnie, however, wasn’t ignoring Stuart at the moment. “Put it down,” she demanded. “Where did you get that thing?”

“In there.” He jerked his head toward the library.

“There aren’t any bolts for the crossbow,” Allison interjected. “None of the collection is dangerous.” She moved behind Stuart, folding back the other wing of the double door to the library and flipping on all the lights.

The others crowded into the opening behind her to gaze at the wall-mounted antique weapons. The assortment represented every early age, ranging from maces to muzzle loaders.

“It was my father’s collection,” Allison explained. “But he made certain they were all neutralized. Even the sword points have been blunted.”

Ronnie shuddered. “Harmless or not, they’re still nasty things.”

Stuart certainly didn’t share his mother’s distaste, Lane noticed. There was a gleam of fascination in his eyes as he reverently stroked the edge of a halberd.

“Dinner, everyone.”

Dorothy’s welcome announcement summoned them to the dining room off the other end of the lounge. As they gathered around the table, Ronnie cast out another seductive net.

“I feel absolutely defenseless after Stuie’s little performance. I need a bodyguard next to me. Jack,” she implored, “you will sit beside me, won’t you?”

But Jack had no intention of being outmaneuvered again. “Good for you, Ronnie,” he agreed heartily. “There’s nothing wrong with a little old-fashioned male protectiveness when the situation calls for it. But whenever possible, I think it ought to come from family, don’t you? That makes you lucky tonight. You’ve got two strapping sons here, one for either side of you.”

Her game had been neatly turned against her. Stuart grinned while his mother glared at him murderously. But Ronnie, left without a choice, found herself flanked by her sons.

Jack, however, wasn’t finished. “Allison, of course, has her cousin Dan to guard her from any stray dragons. But Lane here...well, I’m the closest to family she’s got. Right, sweetheart?”

Lane would have looked like a fool sputtering objections to what the others must regard as mere playfulness, though she knew better. In any case, he didn’t give her the opportunity. With the ease and swiftness of a military tactician, he installed himself beside her, his expressive mouth registering a smile of satisfaction. Lane felt her careful defenses already under assault. It was going to be a long meal.

Allison, amused by Jack’s strategy, was seated between Hale and Dan before she suddenly noticed the table setting. She glanced up at Dorothy, who was waiting to serve them. “There are only seven places. Why aren’t you and Nils and Chris joining us?”

“We’ve already eaten in the kitchen. Would anyone like freshly ground pepper for their salads?”

“Even if you were hired to help with the weekend,” Allison persisted, “you’re friends, not servants.”

“Chris wanted it this way.” Dorothy’s response was quiet, impassive.

“But I didn’t intend—”

“Allison, let it go,” Hale cautioned her.

The uncomfortable moment passed, but a tension remained in the room. They tried to ignore the ceaseless wind blasting around the lodge as they concentrated on the savory beef burgundy that the caterer had provided for the occasion.

Dan, an able diplomat, made an effort to distract them. He told them how his Norwegian grandmother was responsible for the style of the house. Even the chapel was her design. It was his side of the family who had once owned the island. Neither Whitney cousin offered to explain how the property had passed to Allison’s father.

Lane endeavored to enjoy both the food and the conversation but, thanks to Jack’s potent nearness, she found herself with an appetite for neither one. Maddening the way he had his chair positioned so unnecessarily close to hers. She could actually feel the sensual heat of his hard body.

It was no accident either when, rescuing the napkin slipping from his lap, his hand came brushing against her thigh. She caught her breath, feeling as though fire had stroked her.

“Something wrong?” he murmured, his strong-boned face all innocence.

“Not a thing,” she assured him, and silently damned him for tormenting her. He was deliberately testing her, of course, wanting to know if she was still susceptible. Because whatever else had been wrong with their marriage, the sex between them had always thrived. Then she damned herself for her own weakness. Where Jack Donovan was concerned, she was still volatile.

Struggling for self-control as the interminable meal progressed, Lane focused on the conversation.

“The taxes and upkeep have become horrendous,” Allison was telling them. “Properties like this one are just no longer practical. And that, dear hearts, is exactly why I insisted on this weekend. My wedding here will be the last Whitney house party on the island. A week from Monday I sign the papers that transfer Thunder Island over to the new owners.”

There were exclamations of surprise around the table, Ronnie’s the most vocal. “You’re actually selling the place?”

“With regret but, yes, I am. It was the state of Wisconsin that made the right offer. They’ll preserve the island as a wilderness park. I’m glad about that and pleased that Dan, who already knows, will receive all the proceeds of the sale. The island would have eventually gone back to his side of the family anyway, according to Dad’s instructions and my will, so why should he have to wait for the results?”

Dan saluted her approvingly with his water glass. “Bless you for your generous foresight, because, while I’m as sentimental as the next man, I would never have survived the expenses of the place.”

“Oh, but the surprises don’t stop there,” Allison informed them mysteriously. “The state has several solid reasons for wanting the island, but one of them is positively extraordinary. An exciting discovery that was made just last fall when I was having repairs done to get the property ready for sale. And if you’re all good little girls and boys and clean your plates, Auntie Allison will show you before coffee and dessert.”

Dan leaned toward her. “Allison, do you think you should? The state did caution against any disturbance until they can bring in their team of experts.”

“The state doesn’t own the place yet. Anyway, we’re only going to look, not touch.”

“But there’s Chris and Dorothy,” he reminded her softly. “You know how they feel about—”

“I don’t see why they should be offended,” she interrupted him, her voice brittle. “After all, the thing will go public after the sale.”

Lane could see that Allison, after her earlier frustrations, was in one of her contrary moods. Dan, too, recognized her defiance, perhaps even realized that Chris Beaver was responsible for it. In any case, he surrendered the argument.

“Well, I don’t know about the rest of you,” Ronnie declared, “but I can’t stand the suspense.”

“Let’s do it, then,” Allison said, throwing down her napkin and coming decisively to her feet.

Lane, as perplexed as the others, followed Allison, who led the group through the swing door and into the roomy kitchen. Chris and the Askers, drinking coffee at the table and not expecting an invasion, stared at them in surprise.

“Sorry for the intrusion,” Allison apologized with a single-minded liveliness. “We just need to help ourselves to a few of the oil lamps from the shelves here. Here, everyone, help me to light these.”

Lane noticed that Chris, who must have understood her intention, had a mutinous expression in his dark eyes. He and his sister exchanged a rapid dialogue in Menominee. He started to get to his feet then, but Nils laid a restraining hand on his arm and shook his head. Dorothy, too, looked as if she wanted to object, but she lapsed into a stolid silence.

Jack, close beside Lane, shared her puzzlement when he muttered, “Just what are we getting into?”

“This way, children,” Allison instructed them blithely, opening a door in the corner of the room. “And watch your heads. There’s a low beam at the bottom.”

Ronnie peered suspiciously through the opening at a stairway that angled steeply to a cellar beneath the service portion of the house. “Lovely,” she complained. “Spiders and cobwebs. This had better be good.”

“It’s worth it,” Allison promised. “Jack, you will positively drool when you see.”

“Must be a chained brontosaurus, then,” Stuart said gleefully.

Allison led the way. They filed after her down into the shadowy cavity of the cellar that had been hewn out of the solid rock of the bluff. Lane was immediately aware of a mustiness in the air. Her eyes, adjusting to the dimness, made out the shape of the furnace crouching under the rafters like a squat beast. From somewhere overhead came the soft ping of a heating duct emitting air.

Jack, still provocatively at her side, murmured an intimate aside. “Reminds me of those nights when we’d rent a fright movie and snuggle. Remember?”

She didn’t answer him. It was too risky.

“Over here,” Allison called, gathering them at one end of the cellar where a temporary plywood barrier had been erected against the rock wall.

“The stones were crumbling here,” she explained, “and when the masons started to dig away all the rubble to set up a new, deeper wall, they found...well, you’ll see.”

Lane could now recognize a door in the plywood barrier. It had been fitted with a hasp and a padlock. Allison produced a key and started to free the padlock. Then she stopped, her face wearing a frown of annoyance.

“It’s already unlocked,” she said. “Not supposed to be. I wonder who forgot—”

“Allison,” Hale urged, “let’s get on with it.”

“All right, here we go. Hang on to your lamps, people.”

Spreading the door wide, she revealed a gaping black hole in the rock. The fissure, merely a crack when discovered, she explained, had been widened by the masons to permit a narrow passage. Allison, head low, squeezed through the opening, the others trailing after her in anticipation tempered by apprehension.

Lane felt a little like Alice in Wonderland when she stood erect on the other side, gazing in amazement around the natural cavern in which they found themselves. The oil lamps flung shadows over the limestone formations, intensifying the bizarre spell of the cave.

Stuart whistled in the hollow stillness. “Man, where are the vampires?”

The air was raw, and Ronnie shivered. “This is creepy. Let’s go back.”

“Wait,” Allison insisted. “You haven’t seen the good stuff in the next chamber. It’s perfectly safe.”

“Just how many chambers are there?” Jack wondered.

“Could be a whole labyrinth of them,” Dan said. “The place has yet to be explored. Or there might be only the two chambers. Workers must have just missed discovering the whole thing when the cellar was first excavated.”

“Now, if the tour will just step this way, please.” Allison directed them playfully as she led the way through another opening into a second, larger cavern.

When they had collected down at one end of the chamber, the oil lamps casting flickering pools of light, she pointed with delight. “There! Didn’t I tell you it was something special?”

Lane, along with the others, found herself gazing at a series of oblong depressions hacked out of the floor of the cave. Occupying each of the shallow, open pits was a skeleton curled on its side. The areas on either side of the human remains were rich with grave offerings. They could see implements of bone, copper beads, pots of assorted sizes and shapes, crumbling birch-bark baskets decorated with quill work and a variety of shell adornments.

“Oh, my God,” Ronnie cried, “it’s a cemetery!”

“An ancient one,” Allison said. “The state archaeologists can’t wait to get their hands on it.”

Jack was impressed. “I don’t blame them. It’s not my field, but this looks to me like the Archaic Indian period, and that makes it a real treasure. Even better, it hasn’t been disturbed through the centuries.”

“Probably,” Dan explained, “because the original way in was through the bluff face in the first chamber, and that was sealed off by a rock fall ages ago.”

“And all this time,” Hale mumbled darkly, staring at the skeletons, “they were waiting here in the blackness.”

Lane shuddered at his morbid observation.

“The petroglyphs!” Allison exclaimed, remembering. “You have to see the petroglyphs on the walls! They’re wonderful! Bring the lamps over to this side.”

The lights were carried to the other end of the chamber. And there they revealed something else waiting for them in the darkness. Something huddled down in the farthest corner that, once illuminated, brought them all to a horrified standstill.

It was Ronnie’s strangled cry that echoed in the cave. A sick, croaking sound. The rest of them were silent with shock.

“Teddy!” Allison whispered at last in disbelief. “Dear God, it’s Teddy Brewster!”

The body had been propped against the wall, knees drawn up. An arrow protruded from the thin chest. Grisly enough. But what Lane found even more appalling was the sight of the young florist’s bared head. He had been scalped.

Chapter Three

The fir tree standing in the corner captured Lane’s attention as they gathered again in the lounge. The tall, symmetrical evergreen seemed to mock the stunned party. Lane knew that the tree would never be decorated now, just as she realized that there could be no wedding in the chapel tomorrow. She felt numb, unable to accept what they had discovered in the cave below.

The rest of the group dealt with the horror in their own individual ways. Most of them were still silent with shock. Not surprisingly, Ronnie was the exception. She was near hysteria as she collapsed into the nearest easy chair.

“Tell me it’s a joke!” she pleaded shrilly. “Someone tell me it’s all nothing but a hideous joke!”

No one did, or could.

“Stuie,” she wailed, “be an angel and get Mama a brandy. I know I saw a decanter in the library next door.”

“Get your own booze,” he growled.

“Little beast! How could you when I feel positively ill?”

“I’ll get the brandy for you,” Lane offered quietly. Anything to escape the cruel irony of that Christmas tree. Besides, wasn’t she supposed to be able to satisfy difficult people and their demands in situations of crisis? It was a necessary skill she had developed in her hotel work.

As she slipped into the adjoining library she hoped that ability wouldn’t fail her. Her hands were none too steady, however, as she poured a generous measure of brandy from the crystal decanter on the burnished tray. It was the sight of the weapons collection covering the walls of the library that unnerved her. She couldn’t help associating those gruesome artifacts with the obscenity in the cave.

When she turned with the glass, she saw that Stuart had trailed her into the library. There was a sulky, defiant expression on his young mouth. He, too, gazed at the weapons. But with a difference. There was a gleam, almost of satisfaction, in his eyes. Lane shivered when she realized that his attention was fixed on a tomahawk.

She passed him without a word and returned to the lounge. The brandy in her shaking hand was in danger of slopping over on the geometric patterns of the Scandinavian rug when Jack rescued the glass.

“Here, I’ll take it,” he murmured.

This was one time when she didn’t object to his assertiveness. She gladly surrendered the glass.

“Sure you don’t need some of this yourself?”

Lane shook her head. “What about the Askers and Chris Beaver?” she asked.

“Nils is still on the phone in the kitchen trying to raise the sheriff. Dorothy is with him. Chris is busy in the cellar making sure that the door this time is securely locked and that nothing on the other side is disturbed. Shouldn’t you sit down?”

“I’m better off on my feet.”

She didn’t feel weak in the legs, but she was suddenly cold. She went to stand near the fireplace, welcoming the heat from the pine logs. Jack delivered the brandy to Ronnie, who accepted it gratefully. For a welcome change, she was silent as she gulped from the glass.

It was the others, grouped on chairs and sofa near the fire, who were no longer quiet now that the initial shock had subsided. They discussed the tragedy in hushed, unbelieving tones.

“How could I have done it?” Allison whispered, hands clenched in her lap. “How could I have blamed poor Teddy for not finishing the flowers when the whole time—” She broke off, shuddering.”Dan,” she appealed to her cousin, “must we leave him down there like that? It seems so inhuman.”

The judge shook his head. “He can’t be moved, Allison. It’s a crime scene. Nothing can be touched until the sheriff’s team investigates it.”

“I keep seeing him in that way,” she moaned. “Like—like he was some kind of awful sacrifice. I suppose there’s no question of it? I suppose it was murder?”

“Had to be,” Hale muttered.

“But why?” Allison demanded angrily. “Who?”

They were questions that haunted each of them, but no one answered her. There were no answers. There was only the dismay.

“I don’t understand,” Allison persisted. “Teddy was supposed to have been alone on the island. Lane, wasn’t that what Dorothy told us this afternoon? That Nils left Teddy here all on his own yesterday and returned to the mainland.”

“Yes,” Lane agreed softly, “that’s what she said.”

No one in the room questioned this claim, but Lane noticed several gazes turning in the direction of the kitchen where Nils Asker was busy with the phone. She knew what they were wondering. She couldn’t help wondering it herself. Just how accurate was Dorothy’s assertion?

“Obviously,” Hale observed, “Teddy wasn’t alone. There was a killer with him. And either that someone was here the whole time or he arrived after Nils left.”

“Please,” Ronnie begged loudly, “will all of you just stop talking about it? Isn’t it bad enough that we had to see him like that?”

“Scalped, you mean,” Stuart reminded them callously, rejoining the group.

Ronnie, clutching her brandy glass, made a face of revulsion. “Only a monster could have performed something so indecent.”

Lane cast a swift glance in Jack’s direction. He was leaning against the other side of the fireplace. He had been quiet during the exchange of speculations, but she was close enough to hear him softly and slowly whistling under his breath. An unconscious habit that she recognized from the days of their marriage. It meant that systematic scientist’s brain of his was dissecting a problem.

“Yeah,” Stuart said, offering his dark warning to Ronnie, “and that monster could be lurking on the island right now. Any of you thought of that?”

The boy plainly enjoyed pressing his mother’s buttons, Lane thought. Ronnie’s reaction, a yelp of alarm, didn’t disappoint him.

It was then that Jack stood away from the fireplace and informed them mildly, “I don’t think so. I think the killer left the island. And his victim wasn’t scalped.”

“Of course he was scalped,” Ronnie insisted, as though he were trying to cheat her out of a perverse pleasure. “We all saw it, didn’t we?”

Jack shook his head. “We only thought we did. It had the illusion of a scalping because we were down there with those native remains, and there was an arrow in his chest. But the head had been shaved, not scalped.”

“Either way,” Dan said, “it was senseless.”

“Not from the killer’s viewpoint,” Jack maintained. “From what you’ve said about Teddy Brewster, I understand he had a mane of flaming hair and a flowered overcoat that was practically a trademark. Both the hair and the coat are missing.”

“Disguise.” Lane suddenly realized what he meant. “The murderer used them as a disguise to get off the island. He left as Teddy.”

“That’s right,” Allison said, remembering. “The Arnolds told us back at the dock that the rented snowmobile had been returned and that Teddy’s car was gone.”

Jack nodded. “All cover for the killer and a way to keep the florist from being missed right away.” His broad shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “It’s conjecture, of course, but I think it’s the right explanation.”

Ronnie sagged with relief in her chair. “As long as it means there’s no longer a homicidal maniac loose on this island, that’s all I care about.”

But Hale wasn’t ready to let the subject go. “Genuine scalping or not, the guy still died with an arrow in his chest. And all that Indian stuff down there... Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

Allison turned to him, her voice sharp. “What are you saying, Hale?”

His gaze drifted in the direction of the kitchen. “You tell me. Or better still—” his look shifted toward the judge “—let Dan here tell us. You understand the Menominee lingo, Dan. I’ve heard you say so. So what were Chris Beaver and his sister telling each other out there in the kitchen when we started down to the caves?”

“Nothing important,” the judge demurred.

“Come on, you can do better than that. They were outraged, weren’t they, because they thought we were about to desecrate the sacred burial grounds of their ancestors?”

Dan, uncomfortable and reluctant, resisted Hale’s accusation. “That’s an exaggeration. They simply minded our...well, casual attitudes about the visit. I’m sure that’s all it was. You have to remember that the Menominee have resided in Wisconsin for more than five thousand years. Some say as long as ten thousand years. And, naturally, their descendants are going to have some feelings about—”

“Uh-huh,” Hale interrupted dryly, “the violation of ancient graves. Wonder if that’s how Teddy Brewster ended up down there? Wonder if he just wanted to have a look at those graves and somebody minded?”

Allison rounded on him indignantly. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting? Because if you are—”

“I’ll tell you what he’s suggesting,” interrupted a coldly angry voice from the shadows of the dining room. “That I had something to do with the florist’s death.”

The startled members of the group around the fireplace looked up to find Chris Beaver standing in the doorway. There was a dangerous expression in his dark eyes as he moved rigidly into the lounge.

“That’s right, isn’t it, McGuire?” he challenged Hale.

Shaking off Allison’s restraining hand, Hale rose to his feet and confronted the other man. “Maybe it’s more than just a suggestion,” he said recklessly. “Maybe it’s an accusation.”

An outraged Chris charged before anyone could stop him. His fist slammed into Hale’s face. Ronnie screamed as the others came to their feet. But it was Jack who sprang between the two men, separating them before the incident resulted in a full-scale brawl.

“You all right, McGuire?” he demanded.

The lawyer, pressing a handkerchief to his bleeding nose, nodded and glared at his attacker. “You’ve got a bad temper, Beaver. Some people might say it’s a murderous one.”

Chris would have gone for him again, but Jack held him off. “That’s enough,” he ordered. “From both of you. No more senseless accusations and no more wild punches. We’ve got enough to handle without you two losing your heads.”

Chris, looking grim, pulled away from Jack. Without a word he turned and headed toward the kitchen. Allison started to go after him.

“Chris, wait!”

The proud, retreating figure never paused. He brushed silently past his bewildered brother-in-law, who had just arrived in the lounge doorway, and disappeared into the darkened dining room.

A sickened Lane, suddenly needing to put distance between herself and the nasty scene she’d just witnessed, left the fireplace and drifted across the room to one of the French doors overlooking the bay. From this position she sympathetically watched Allison realize that it was her fiancé she was supposed to comfort, not Chris Beaver. Allison tried to put a concerned hand on Hale’s arm, but he shook it off.

With Hale in this kind of nasty mood, Lane wondered how she would ever find the courage to approach him on the subject of her sensitive mission. Or whether now there would even be the opportunity. But she’d promised, so eventually she must find a way.

An uncertain, puzzled Nils Asker went on hovering in the doorway until Jack pressed him for the news they were all waiting to hear.

“How soon can we expect the sheriff?”

The lanky Nils shook his head, reporting gloomily, “We can’t. Not for now, anyway. I kept trying, but the phone is useless. It’s that devil of a wind out there. Communication tower on the mainland must be down. It can happen along the peninsula with these cellular phones, the power getting interrupted when the weather’s nasty like this.”

“Dear God!” Ronnie cried. “You mean we’re cut off out here with a dead body on our hands?”

“Until the phone’s on again,” Nils admitted. “Should be back in service by morning. That is, if this wind ever quits long enough.”

“And what if it doesn’t?” Jack asked. “What then?”

Nils took a slow, deep breath before answering. “Then I cross over in my truck as soon as there’s enough light.”

“And I, for one, am going to be riding with you,” Ronnie insisted. “I have no intention of staying trapped out here.”

Nils shook his head stubbornly. “If I end up going, I go alone. I know the ice, and I can make it. But if there’s whiteout conditions still, it’s gonna be real tricky. And I won’t risk a passenger with me.”

“He’s right,” Dan agreed. “We’re much safer waiting here. Besides, the sheriff will expect us to remain on the scene. Involved or not, we’ll all of us have to answer a slew of questions.”

His affirmation brought on a fresh burst of objections and speculations. Dan quietly slipped away from the commotion at the other end of the room and joined Lane where she remained at the window.

“Sorry about this,” he apologized in a low, grave voice.

Lane gazed at him, not certain what he was referring to.

“Out there,” he said, nodding at the glass behind her.

She realized then that he was talking about the wind that was still blasting fearfully around the corners of the lodge. “You’re apologizing for the weather?”

He smiled gently. “In a way I do blame myself. You see,” he explained, “Allison made me responsible for checking out the forecast for this weekend. You know, making sure we weren’t going to get snowbound here.”

“But there isn’t any blizzard.”

“No, but these winds... The thing is, I let someone else do the checking for me.” His gaze traveled in the direction of the group at the other end of the lounge. “And they promised... Oh, well, I’m being foolish. The forecast was probably off. And, anyway, you don’t think about freak winds stranding you if it’s precipitation you’re worried about.”

Lane had no opportunity to hear a further explanation. A storm of another kind had surfaced across the room.

“Here we go,” Dan muttered. “Ronnie is being Ronnie again.”

He left Lane to rejoin the group as Ronnie, in a loud voice, raised another storm of objection and demand.

“I don’t care how safe you all keep insisting we are! It’s only a theory the murderer left the island, not a guarantee! This is a big house, and that lunatic could be hiding anywhere inside! I think the least the men could do is offer to check the lodge from top to bottom before we all go to our rooms for the night. I’ll never sleep a wink otherwise!”

Veronica Bauer was clearly no advocate of equal rights for women, Lane thought wryly. Not in this situation, anyway.

Jack, leaving the others to placate the tiresome, difficult woman, crossed to Lane at the window. “What was that all about just now?” he asked her in a low voice.

She knew he was referring to her hushed exchange with Dan Whitney. Jack was far too observant. And his virile nearness was still much too disturbing. She shared with him the judge’s brief conversation.

Jack frowned. “What was he suggesting? That someone here deliberately withheld the truth about the weather conditions for the weekend?”

Lane shook her head. “I’m not sure. I don’t think it’s anything to worry about.”

At the other end of the lounge Ronnie seemed to realize Jack had left the circle that was supposed to be paying attention to her. There was displeasure in her expression when she looked around and discovered him with Lane at the window.

“Jack,” she coaxed from across the room, “you’ll be my supporter, won’t you? Tell them that the men should spread out and search the house before we lock ourselves in for the night.”

Lane could see that her handsome ex-husband was very close to telling Ronnie Bauer exactly what he thought of her pretentious state of nerves. “Please,” Lane urged him in a hurried undertone, “just humor her. Anything to get this situation over with.”

She suddenly found the whole emotional scene excessive and exhausting. All she wanted was to go to her room and crawl into bed, even if sleep itself wasn’t possible. She was all for Ronnie’s plan, no matter who the search included or excluded, if only it achieved for them a blessed state of release.

Jack eyed her. She could see that he, too, had no desire to prolong the strained gathering. “All right,” he agreed dryly, “we’ll look under the beds.”

The men, Stuart with them, filed out of the lounge in the direction of the staircase. Allison followed them as far as the foyer, offering instructions for access to the attics.

Lane found herself alone with Ronnie. The older woman spared her no word or glance. She was interested only in her brandy glass, which she had long ago emptied. Getting to her feet, she drifted off to the library to help herself to a refill.

Lane was grateful for the solitude. And then, with a rush of guilt, she remembered Allison. She had failed to offer her friend a single word of comfort regarding her spoiled wedding. Allison must be sick about the disastrous result of what was meant to be a memorable holiday weekend.

Intending to comfort her, Lane headed for the foyer. Tense voices stopped her just short of the doorway. Before she could retreat, she realized she was overhearing for the second time today a conversation that was meant to be private. This time it was Allison and her cousin engaged in a low, hurried dialogue from a corner just around the archway.

“Sweetheart,” Dan pleaded kindly, “I know you don’t want to think about it, but it’s bound to come up in the investigation. Right or wrong, Chris and his brother have gotten reputations for themselves since that Dream Dance, and when questions are asked—”

“I won’t listen to this!” Allison fiercely cut him off. “Being militant about something doesn’t mean you’d resort to—well, I won’t even name it. It’s unthinkable!”

“I know. I’m just saying you have to be prepared.”

“You’re like all the others. You think I’m being defensive and unreasonable. Well, I won’t stand by and see him crucified.”

“You’re right. Allison, I’m sorry I ever brought it up. Just forget that I...”

Lane didn’t stay to hear anymore. Remorseful, she backed away into the depths of the lounge until she was out of listening range. She had managed to overcome the longing to eavesdrop. She could do nothing, however, to control her curiosity about the mystifying exchange she had just overheard.

A moment later Allison returned alone to the lounge. She looked distracted and unhappy as she glanced in the direction of the kitchen. “I suppose I’d better go talk to Dorothy,” she murmured. “She’ll want to know about to- morrow. Whatever’s happened, people will still need to eat.”

Lane didn’t try to stop her when she went off to the kitchen. Nor did she detain Ronnie when she reappeared with her brandy glass, wanting to know, “Where’s our hostess?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Think I’ll join her.”

Apparently Ronnie had no desire to be alone with her. That suited Lane just fine. She couldn’t think of a subject the two of them might have in common. Unless it was Jack, and she certainly had no intentions of sharing her impressions in that direction. Least of all with Veronica Bauer.

Ronnie left. Lane was alone once more. And restless. She almost wished she had joined the men in their search. She wondered what, if anything, was happening with them. She could hear no activity overhead. The lodge was too solidly built. And the lounge, except for the ceaseless wail of the wind outside and the soft popping of the fire in the grate, was suddenly too quiet.

Lane decided she didn’t want to remain in the room. She couldn’t bear another minute of this empty waiting. She went out into the foyer and stood at the bottom of the massive staircase, listening. Silence.

She turned away and noticed that the door to the Viking banquet hall hadn’t been closed. The room was too cavernous to be adequately heated. Cold air from the place invaded the foyer. Lane went to shut the door, and instead found herself venturing into the great room.

The soaring, raftered hall was a well of darkness. Her hand groped for a light switch on the wall inside the entrance. She failed to find one. It didn’t matter. There was a kind of grilled hatch in the wall that backed up to the library. Light from the library on the other side spilled a weak glow into the hall. It was just sufficient enough to permit her to make out the nearest objects in the gloom.

Lane could see the poinsettias massed on the long table. She could also make out an enormous sideboard where Teddy Brewster had arranged a collection of Father Christmases garlanded with holly and ivy. They were another depressing reminder to her that this was Christmas Eve. The members of the house party were supposed to be in the lounge drinking punch, decorating the tree, sharing a lively anticipation for tomorrow’s wedding. Instead, they were dealing with murder.

It wasn’t the cold in the hall that made her shiver. It was the sight of the poinsettias on the table. They were as red as blood.

Mistake, she thought. I should never have wandered in here.

Lane turned sharply and started to leave. Instead, she collided with a shadowy figure who had slipped in behind her. She gasped with alarm, prepared to scream the house down, as a pair of hands reached out and gripped her by both arms.

“Easy,” muttered a deep voice.

He was no more than a silhouette against the light from the foyer. But she recognized that rich baritone. Though she hated to admit it, she was immediately reassured.

“Jack! You might have warned me instead of sneaking up on me like that.”

“Sorry. I didn’t know it was you I was investigating in here until you turned around.”

“Then you had no reason to grab me.”

“I wasn’t grabbing. I was steadying.”

His hands were still on her arms, and the sensation of his strong fingers scalding her flesh was decidedly unsettling.

“Well, you can unsteady me now.”

She could sense his reluctance as he slowly released her. “What are you doing in here, anyway?”

“Just waiting for an all clear from the search party. Where are the others?”

“Still playing hide-and-seek upstairs. I got tired of the game.”

“Did you find anything?”

“Yeah, a hell of a lot of dust bunnies.”

She hadn’t expected otherwise. “Then can I go to my room? I don’t know about you, but I’m ex—”

She never finished her plea. Jack silenced her with a shake of his head and a rapid finger against his mouth. She noticed that his attention was suddenly riveted on something over her shoulder. Her head swiveled in bewilderment, and then she saw it, too.

The lighted opening revealed someone stealing into the library on the other side, carefully closing the lounge door behind him. There was a definite furtiveness about the scene framed by the glowing hatch.

Jack seized her by the hand and drew her quietly toward the light.

“What are you doing?” she murmured.

“It’s called spying,” he whispered.

“You can’t,” she whispered back.

He ignored her warning. “This is far enough,” he breathed into her ear. “There’s glass under that grille and no light on this side. If we’re careful, he’ll never know we’re here.”

Lane decided not to challenge him any further. The activity in the next room was far too intriguing. The figure that had slipped into the library was Chris Beaver.

They watched him as he moved swiftly to the open bookshelves. From a cabinet underneath, he extracted a thick volume, which he placed on a table directly in line with their view of the room. It wasn’t until he began flipping through its pages that Lane recognized the book as a photo album. He found what he was seeking seconds later. From its clear, protective envelope he removed a sizable snapshot. Lane, holding her breath, saw him grimly study the photograph for a long minute. From this angle and distance, there was no way to identify the subject.

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