The Smoky Mountain Mist

As she started speaking to the person on the other end of the call, Seth turned back to the sofa and crouched next to Rachel. She looked as if she was sleeping peacefully, her lips slightly parted and her features soft and relaxed. The calm expression on her face struck him hard as he realized he had never seen her that way, her features unlined with worry. The past year had been hell for her, watching her father slowly die in front of her while she struggled to learn the ropes of running his business.

He smoothed the hair away from her forehead. Most of the time when he’d seen her at the office, she had looked like a pillar of steel, stiff-spined and regal as she went about the trucking business. But every once in a while, when she didn’t know anyone else was looking, she had shed the tough facade and revealed her vulnerability. At those times, she’d looked breakable, as if the slightest push would send her crumbling to pieces.

Had her father’s death been the blow to finally shatter her?

Behind him, Delilah hung up the phone. “Eric says we just have to keep an eye on her vitals, make sure she’s not going into shock or organ failure,” she said tonelessly.

“Piece of cake,” he murmured drily.

“We could take shifts,” she suggested.

He shook his head. “Go on to bed. I’ll watch after her.” He certainly wouldn’t be getting any sleep until she was awake and back to her normal self again.

There was a long pause before Delilah spoke. “What’s your angle here, Seth? Why do you give a damn what happens to her?”

“She’s my boss,” he said, his tone flippant.

“Tell me you’re not planning to scam her in some way.”

He slanted a look at his sister. “I’m not.”

Once again, he saw contradictory emotions cross his sister’s expressive face. Part hope, part fear. He tamped down frustration. He’d spent years losing the trust of the people who loved him. He couldn’t expect them to trust him again just like that.

However much he might want it to be so.

BLACKNESS MELTED INTO featureless gray. Gray into misty blobs of shape and muted colors and, finally, as her eyes began to focus, the shapes firmed into solid forms. Win-dows with green muslin curtains blocking all but a few fragments of watery light. A tall, narrow chest of drawers standing against a nearby wall, a bowl-shaped torchiere lamp in the corner, currently dark. And across from her, sprawling loose-limbed in a low-slung armchair, sat Seth Hammond, his green eyes watching her.

She’d seen him at her father’s funeral, she remembered, fresh grief hitting her with a sharp blow. She’d looked up and seen him watching her, felt an electric pulse of awareness that had caught her by surprise.

And then what? Why couldn’t she remember what had happened next?

Her head felt thick and heavy as she tried to lift it. In her chest, her heart beat a frantic cadence of panic.

Where was this place? How had she gotten here? Why couldn’t she remember anything beyond her fa-ther’s graveside funeral service?

She knew time must have passed. The light seeping into the small room was faint and rosy-hued, suggesting either sunrise or sunset. The funeral had taken place late in the morning.

How had she gotten here?

Why was he here?

“What is this?” she asked. Her voice sounded shaky, frightening her further. Why couldn’t she muster the energy to move?

She needed to get out of here. She needed to go home, find something familiar and grounding, to purge herself of the panic rising like floodwaters in her brain.

“Shh.” Seth spoke softly. “It’s okay, Ms. Davenport. You’re okay.”

She pushed past her strange lethargy and sat up, her head swimming. “What did you do to me?”

His expression shifted, as if a hardened mask covered his features. “What can you remember?”

She shoved at the crocheted throw tangled around her legs. “That’s not for me to answer!” she growled at him, flailing a little as the throw twisted itself further around her limbs, trapping her in place.

Seth unfolded himself slowly from the chair, rising to his full height. He wasn’t the tallest man she’d ever met, but he was tall enough and imposing without much effort. It was those eyes, she thought. Sharp and focused, as if nothing could ever slip past him without notice. Full of mystery, as well, as if he knew things no one else did or possibly could.

Her fear shifted into something just as dangerous.

Fascination.

Snake and bird, she thought as he walked closer, his pace unhurried and deceptively unthreatening.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” He plucked at the crocheted blanket until it slithered harmlessly away from her body. He never touched her once, but somehow she felt his hands on her anyway, strong and warm. A flush washed over her, heating her from deep inside until she thought she was going to spontaneously combust.

What the hell was wrong with her?

He asked you a question, the rational part of her brain reminded her. Answer the question. Maybe he knows something you need to know.

Instead, she tried to make a run for the door she spotted just beyond his broad shoulders. She made it a few steps before her wobbling legs gave out on her. She plunged forward, landing heavily against the man’s body.

His arms whipped around her, holding her upright and pinning her against his hard, lean body. The faint scent of aftershave filled her brain with a fragment of a memory—strong arms, a gentle masculine murmur in her ear, the salty-sweet taste of flesh beneath her tongue—

She tore herself out of his grasp and stumbled sideways until she came up hard against the wall. Her hair spilled into her face, blinding her. She shook it away. “What did you do to me?”

She had meant the question to be strong. Confronta-tional. But to her ears, it sounded weak and plaintive, like a brokenhearted child coming face-to-face with a world gone mad.

Or maybe it’s not the world that’s gone mad, a mean little voice in the back of her head taunted.

Maybe it’s you.

Chapter Three

Seth met Rachel Davenport’s terrified gaze and felt sick. It didn’t help that he knew he’d done nothing wrong. She clearly believed he had. And he would find few defenders if she made her accusation public.

Cleve Calhoun had always told him it never paid to help people. “They hate you for it.”

What if Cleve was right?

“You’re awake.” The sound of Delilah’s voice behind him, calm and emotionless, sent a jolt down his nervous system.

Rachel’s attention shifted toward Delilah in confusion. “Who are you?”

“Delilah Hammond,” Delilah answered. She took the crocheted throw Seth was still holding and started folding it as she walked past him toward the sofa. “How are you feeling?”

“I don’t know,” Rachel admitted. Her wary gaze shifted back and forth from Delilah to Seth. “I don’t remember what happened.”

Delilah slanted a quick look at Seth. “That’s one of the symptoms.”

“Symptoms of what?” Rachel asked, looking more and more panicky.