it be pleasant to run this place with Joanna? Together. Working as a team. Lovers, friends.
In her book
Every Little Thing
the heroine had lived in a large, run-down home in San Francisco. The hero, an architect, had bought the building to renovate and turn into a high-class spa. Instead, they’d worked together to create a quaint bed-and-breakfast, fell in love, and married.
He could see himself in that role. Working with Joanna to keep the Moosehead Lodge afloat. Her grandfather was old—probably eighty—and she couldn’t do it all herself. She needed a man. She needed him. Aaron.
John Miller.
“Yo, Aaron?”
“You’ll have to kill her.”
“She’s my distraction, buddy. You want some? I’m worn out.” Doug laughed.
How had Aaron ended up with this vile human being as his partner? Aaron wasn’t about to have sex with any woman except Joanna. And he wouldn’t take her against her will. She would offer her body to him freely, out of love and passion, not fear.
“Joanna is going to be here any minute.”
“Want me to help you restrain her?”
Aaron’s hands clenched and unclenched. He slammed a fist on the table, knocking over the thermos of coffee. He didn’t notice the hot liquid spill across the wood, onto the floor.
“Fuck, man—”
Aaron whispered, “You touch her and I will kill you.”
Doug blinked, stepped back. Started cleaning up spilt coffee.
“Just saying, man.”
“Kill the woman and go back to where I left you yesterday. Do not leave. The Sheriff faxed over our mug shots.”
Doug stopped cleaning and glared at him. “What about you?”
“The machine jammed. I helped clear it, erased the memory,” Aaron lied easily. “But your page already had come through. Everyone there knows what you look like.”
“I can’t believe this! You said we’d have that place to ourselves. It’s in the middle of nowhere, no one would think of finding us, but the cops know we’re here? How the fuck do they know we’re here? Who told them? Who saw us?”
Aaron had been thinking the same thing. He shook his head. “Maybe the clerk at the gas station where I bought the map.”
“That’s stupid,” Doug said. “Why would she remember you? You know how many people go into gas stations and buy maps?”
She’d commented on the romance novel Aaron had bought. “You like Joanna Sutton?”
“Yes,” he’d replied.
“Me, too. I read them as soon as they come out.”
Doug said, “Maybe you didn’t take care of O’Brien.”
“He was dead.”
But he hadn’t been dead when Aaron had left him in the ditch. He was bleeding from the gut. No one could survive without medical attention. O’Brien had been left in the middle of nowhere. Only a few hours later it was snowing so hard, he’d certainly have frozen to death if he hadn’t bled to death first.
Aaron didn’t need to tell Doug that.
“It’s the only way this will work. Do it.”
A sound. A snowmobile. He jumped up, parted the curtains a fraction. Joanna had just started her snowmobile. She was looking at the cabin.
Stay away. Stay back.
“I have to go. Do what I say, Doug.”
“Or what? You going to kill me like you killed O’Brien?” Doug had his hand on his gun.
Aaron glanced at Vicky Trotsky. Almost felt bad for her. She didn’t ask for this, not like other women. “Kill her before you leave. She can identify you, and me.”
Vicky tried to scream and fought the ties. Aaron turned from her, unbolted the door. “If you fuck this up, Chapman, you’re dead.”
“Ooo, big threat.” But he didn’t sound so tough—he knew Aaron was dead serious. “Fine. But I have all day, right?”
“No one will be out here tonight, I’ll make sure of it. Be out before seven tomorrow morning.”
“That’ll give me plenty of time for some more fun.”
Vicky whimpered and strained, the fishing wire cutting deep into her wrists.
“Keep that up,” Aaron told her, “and you’ll kill yourself.” He turned to Doug.
In her book
Every Little Thing
the heroine had lived in a large, run-down home in San Francisco. The hero, an architect, had bought the building to renovate and turn into a high-class spa. Instead, they’d worked together to create a quaint bed-and-breakfast, fell in love, and married.
He could see himself in that role. Working with Joanna to keep the Moosehead Lodge afloat. Her grandfather was old—probably eighty—and she couldn’t do it all herself. She needed a man. She needed him. Aaron.
John Miller.
“Yo, Aaron?”
“You’ll have to kill her.”
“She’s my distraction, buddy. You want some? I’m worn out.” Doug laughed.
How had Aaron ended up with this vile human being as his partner? Aaron wasn’t about to have sex with any woman except Joanna. And he wouldn’t take her against her will. She would offer her body to him freely, out of love and passion, not fear.
“Joanna is going to be here any minute.”
“Want me to help you restrain her?”
Aaron’s hands clenched and unclenched. He slammed a fist on the table, knocking over the thermos of coffee. He didn’t notice the hot liquid spill across the wood, onto the floor.
“Fuck, man—”
Aaron whispered, “You touch her and I will kill you.”
Doug blinked, stepped back. Started cleaning up spilt coffee.
“Just saying, man.”
“Kill the woman and go back to where I left you yesterday. Do not leave. The Sheriff faxed over our mug shots.”
Doug stopped cleaning and glared at him. “What about you?”
“The machine jammed. I helped clear it, erased the memory,” Aaron lied easily. “But your page already had come through. Everyone there knows what you look like.”
“I can’t believe this! You said we’d have that place to ourselves. It’s in the middle of nowhere, no one would think of finding us, but the cops know we’re here? How the fuck do they know we’re here? Who told them? Who saw us?”
Aaron had been thinking the same thing. He shook his head. “Maybe the clerk at the gas station where I bought the map.”
“That’s stupid,” Doug said. “Why would she remember you? You know how many people go into gas stations and buy maps?”
She’d commented on the romance novel Aaron had bought. “You like Joanna Sutton?”
“Yes,” he’d replied.
“Me, too. I read them as soon as they come out.”
Doug said, “Maybe you didn’t take care of O’Brien.”
“He was dead.”
But he hadn’t been dead when Aaron had left him in the ditch. He was bleeding from the gut. No one could survive without medical attention. O’Brien had been left in the middle of nowhere. Only a few hours later it was snowing so hard, he’d certainly have frozen to death if he hadn’t bled to death first.
Aaron didn’t need to tell Doug that.
“It’s the only way this will work. Do it.”
A sound. A snowmobile. He jumped up, parted the curtains a fraction. Joanna had just started her snowmobile. She was looking at the cabin.
Stay away. Stay back.
“I have to go. Do what I say, Doug.”
“Or what? You going to kill me like you killed O’Brien?” Doug had his hand on his gun.
Aaron glanced at Vicky Trotsky. Almost felt bad for her. She didn’t ask for this, not like other women. “Kill her before you leave. She can identify you, and me.”
Vicky tried to scream and fought the ties. Aaron turned from her, unbolted the door. “If you fuck this up, Chapman, you’re dead.”
“Ooo, big threat.” But he didn’t sound so tough—he knew Aaron was dead serious. “Fine. But I have all day, right?”
“No one will be out here tonight, I’ll make sure of it. Be out before seven tomorrow morning.”
“That’ll give me plenty of time for some more fun.”
Vicky whimpered and strained, the fishing wire cutting deep into her wrists.
“Keep that up,” Aaron told her, “and you’ll kill yourself.” He turned to Doug.
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