Season of Storm (9 page)

"I'm sorry you're here at all," he said flatly. "But there's a lot more than your father's health riding on this. My people are fighting a battle for their way of life and for their lives. It's a losing battle before it even begins." His voice and his face showed he was implacable. "Your temporary peace of mind is not important in the scheme of things, Miss St. John. Nor is my comfort. I don't want you here, either, but here you are going to stay until this thing is over."

Eight

"Lumber baron Cordwainer St. John was admitted to the Royal Georgia Hospital in the early hours of the morning, after his second heart attack in a few weeks. His condition is said to be stable. He is the president and CEO of St. John Forest Products."

The report hadn't changed since the noon newscast. It was the next-to-last item on the afternoon news, and when it was over, Smith leaned back and gazed at Johnny Winterhawk, who sat behind his desk in silence.

"They keep saying the same thing," she said. He had made her stay with him all day, mostly in his study while he worked. She was trying to focus on a novel.

 "What the hell does 'stable condition' mean?" she muttered.

"It means he isn't better and he isn't worse," Johnny Winterhawk replied.

"Isn't better and isn't worse than what? We haven't had any real news out of that thing all day."

They were in the kitchen making supper together when all that changed.

"Police were called to the bedside of lumber baron Cordwainer St. John at the Royal Georgia Hospital late this afternoon," was the first thing they heard, and Smith dropped her knife and rushed to bend over the radio. Johnny Winterhawk followed.

"The president of St. John Forest Products, who was rushed to the hospital early this morning suffering from a heart attack," the announcer said, "has informed police that he was awakened in the early hours of the morning by five masked men, when he suffered a heart attack and lost consciousness. He regained consciousness as he was being put into an ambulance, but did not remember anything of the circumstances surrounding his attack until late in the day. His daughter, Shulamith St. John, an executive of St. John Forest Products, is missing, he told police. An RCMP spokesman said that they are looking into the possibility that she may have been kidnapped. No ransom demand has been received."

As a slow-talking officer made a brief statement Smith and Johnny Winterhawk stared at each other over the radio. Winterhawk cursed briefly under his breath, and she reached out and gripped his wrist.

"Let me go," she pleaded in a low, intense voice. "Let me go now and I'll lie, I won't tell them anything, I promise. I'll say I was away—"

"No," he interrupted firmly. He broke her grip and turned away.

"Can't you see you're just making it worse?" she begged, following him back to the counter where he calmly picked up his knife and continued to chop an onion. "I could tell them I went out, that I wasn't there when it happened. They would never find you."

"Unless you told them how," Winterhawk said dryly, looking sideways at her.

"But I wouldn't! That's what I'm telling you, that I wouldn't! And you—"

"Why not?"

The abrupt question startled her. "What?" she asked.

"Why not?" he repeated in a reasonable tone. He turned to face her. "If I let you go I have no hold over you. What's to prevent your telling the police the truth as soon as you're free?"

Smith paused only momentarily. "I would give you my word," she said.

He laughed. "What loyalty do you owe me that would make you inclined to keep your word?"

"Well, I...."

In the silence that fell after her voice trailed away Johnny Winterhawk turned back to the counter and resumed chopping.

He was right. There would be no reason for her not to tell the police the truth. He couldn't let her go now. But then....

Smith drew in a small frightened breath as she saw the truth. "But when
can
you let me go?" she asked. "When can you ever let me go?"
 

Johnny Winterhawk crossed to the very modern stove console and scraped the chopped onion into a frying pan. It sizzled and spat into the silence, and Shulamith's voice climbed a notch toward panic.

"Kidnapping is a criminal offence." She pursued the thought to its relentless conclusion, her heart thumping in her ears. "No matter when you let me go my testimony could put you in prison. So if you don't trust my word, you can't ever let me go. You have to keep me here forever—or kill me." His back to her, Johnny Winterhawk stirred the onions in silence. "Have you thought of that?" she demanded shrilly.

"Yes," he said, "I've thought of it."

"What are you going to do?" Her high voice was painful even to her own ears. "Have you decided what you're going to do?"

He didn't answer, and with a strange, unfamiliar little snap her panic turned to rage. For the second time she flung herself bodily at him, emotion driving her beyond reason.

"
Answer me!"
she demanded.
 

Johnny Winterhawk whirled, and with a loud crash the frying pan sailed to the floor, spilling a mess of onions and melted butter as it went. Ignoring it, he caught her by one wrist and reached for the other, but this time his strength did not outweigh her angry litheness. She dragged and twisted against his firm grasp, trying to pull him off balance, and aimed for his head with her flailing free hand.

Like a practised boxer, he swung his upper body easily backward, allowing her to move across the floor, but not letting go her wrist.

"Stop it," he said in a gentle, low-voiced command, and even when he moved his head to dodge her swinging blows, his dark eyes never left hers.

"Damn you, damn you!" she cried. "You're going to kill me, and you haven't got the guts to admit it!"

Her bare foot came in contact with a thick patch of hot butter and onion, and her feet shot out from under her so suddenly that she was flat on the floor before she knew it, with Johnny Winterhawk coming down on top of her.

He managed to break his fall a little, letting go her wrist to land with a hand at each side of her head, but still his body was full-length along hers, and suddenly Smith was breathless with terror.

"Get away from me!" she screeched.

"Stop it," Johnny Winterhawk answered her, in the same low voice as before. She tried to twist away from him, then stopped on a hiss of pain.

Her long hair was tangled all around her, fanning out on the floor under his hands; she couldn't move her head without tearing her scalp. She gritted her teeth and hung onto reason with a superhuman effort.

"Will you please get off me?" she said with forced calm. "You're pulling my hair."

Johnny Winterhawk raised a hand to straighten her hair, lifting the long silky amber strands away from her eyes and face. His strong fingers were gentle and soothing along her cheeks and forehead, and across her just-parted lips. His dark eyes looked deep into hers as her breath shuddered in her throat.

Then it was not his fingers but his thumb that was against her lips, and his touch was no longer gentle. Shulamith's pulse began to pound in her temples. She swallowed convulsively, then her lips parted again, and she heard her own breath hiss between them. She waited, watching him, hypnotized by the dark flame in his eyes, as certain as if it were written in letters of fire that Johnny Winterhawk wanted to fight the compelling magnetism that was alive between them, that he was trying to force himself to let her go.

"Damn it," Johnny Winterhawk breathed hoarsely, and his mouth came down and covered hers.

Smith closed her eyes to reeling darkness, and her small competent hand closed convulsively against his chest into the thick warmth of his sweater. Suddenly the kiss was all she had ever wanted out of life, and the small involuntary moan of need she heard came from her own throat.

The sound of it seemed to ignite something in him. His body leaped against hers, and he gathered her to him, one arm sliding under her head, his hand clenching tightly around her upper arm.

His fingers burned the side of her breast, and suddenly every inch of her skin was electrically alive. She wrapped her arm up around his neck and clung to him as his tongue toyed in the soft warmth of her mouth.

When he lifted his lips at last her head fell back over his supporting arm, and she bared her neck to him in instinctive animal surrender. She felt his breath against the soft hollow of her throat, and her body leapt in a small, responsive spasm.

Johnny Winterhawk groaned as his lips pressed against her; and then suddenly and without warning he let her go, rolling away from her and sitting up. Smith shivered with the sudden cold that enveloped her.

"Are you a witch?" He was shaking his head as if to clear it, his arms on his drawn-up knees, his breathing deep and unsteady. "What the hell are you doing to me?"

Fear washed over her. Smith frantically scrambled to sit up and then to stand. She had forgotten who she was, where she was, she had forgotten everything. She looked down at Johnny Winterhawk's dark form in sheer terror. She had never reacted to a man like that in her life.

She wanted to run, but her feet were coated with butter. So were the clothes she was wearing, and so were his. On the tile floor she could hardly move.

"All right, don't panic," said Winterhawk in a deep, flat voice. He stood up, and Smith gazed at him accusingly, unable to speak.

"It won't happen again," he said in answer to the look. "Nothing is going to happen." He heaved a breath and ran a hand through one thick black wing of hair. His carved lips widened in a half smile, and Smith sighed as she involuntarily relaxed. But she did not return the smile. She had not forgotten, if he had, that
she
had not been the one to draw back from what was happening. She had never felt so threatened in her life.
 

Nine

"What would you have been doing today, ordinarily?" Smith asked as they finished their meal.  Johnny Winterhawk could cook more than scrambled eggs. Each mouthful of salmon she had eaten had seemed to melt into nectar on her tongue, and the spiced sauce he had served with it went to her blood like wine.

Smith's long hair was still damp from her shower. She was wearing a Chinese robe in deep blue silk that was decorated with the most exquisite embroidery she had ever seen, in the shape of a glittering turquoise, green and purple dragon who breathed marvellous fire. Winterhawk had brought the robe to her bedroom an hour ago and ever since, Shulamith had been wondering about the woman who had left it here. He had also given her a pair of corduroy trousers and a couple of shirts that just as obviously were his own, and she wondered why he hadn't given her more of his friend's clothing instead. Her clothes would surely fit Smith better than his did.

Winterhawk pushed his plate away and leaned back. "If you weren't here?" he asked with a faint smile that lit his dark eyes. Smith nodded and then winced as the elastic she had used to hold up the heavy twist of her wet hair pulled uncomfortably on her scalp. "Because of the commission hearings I would probably have worked most of the day anyway. But ordinarily on the weekends I go canoeing or fishing or oyster digging with Wilfred Tall Tree."

Smith smiled at the name. "Who is Wilfred Tall Tree?" she asked.

"My only neighbour on the island," Winterhawk said. "He's an artist—a woodcarver—and he also keeps us supplied with fish and oysters. He's a very old man, a Chopa. He teaches me the old ways. You'll meet Wilf tomorrow, if he gets back. He took his canoe over to Oyster Island for a few days."

"Are there only the two of you living on the island?" She picked up the pot and poured two cups of coffee.

"It's not a very big island," he said.

"I saw a canoe on the dock," Smith said casually. "Is that your own?"

Winterhawk took a sip of coffee and slowly replaced the cup in the saucer, his eyes steady on her. "Do you know how to handle a canoe?" he asked.

"No," she said quickly. She hadn't been subtle enough, and she thought it would be better now if Johnny Winterhawk didn't know about the time she had spent at summer camp. She wasn't sure how much she remembered of what she had learned about canoeing, but perhaps it would be enough.