Boneyard Ridge. Пола Грейвс

      She was trapped and hunted. She was stuck with a man she didn’t know, for reasons she wasn’t sure she understood, in a place that might as well be the far side of the moon, for all the chance she had of finding her way out of these woods barefoot in the pouring rain.

      Who was this man named Hunter? And why did his name seem to ring a bell with her, as if she’d heard it recently but couldn’t quite place where? She’d certainly never seen him before, as far as she could remember, but there was still something about him that seemed familiar.

      She made herself turn the light back on, aiming the beam around the small cave to get her bearings. Hunter hadn’t told her where he was going, so she didn’t know how long he might be away.

      Bottom line, she did not need to spend the night in this cave with a man she didn’t trust. If that meant wrapping her feet in every inch of gauze she could find in that first-aid kit he’d so kindly left with her, then that’s what she had to do.

      She had to get out of here before he got back, get to a safe place and start figuring out who those men with the guns really were.

      Because if they were somehow connected to the Bradburys, then her life was about to get a thousand times more dangerous.

      * * *

      HUNTER DIDN’T THINK it was likely that Myron and the other boys had stumbled upon his hiding place while they’d been scouring the woods for any sign of Susannah Marsh. He’d stashed the large rucksack filled with emergency supplies in a hard-to-access area of the woods, where fallen trees and some rocky granite outcroppings created a natural nook perfect for hiding and sheltering something the size of the rucksack.

      It was only slightly damp when he pulled it from its hiding place, and the water-resistant canvas lining would almost certainly have protected anything inside from the elements.

      Not that he supposed Susannah Marsh would quibble about wet shoes; they’d certainly be a big improvement on the bloody gauze wrap currently protecting her battered feet.

      He’d purchased a pair of hiking boots and another pair of tennis shoes he hoped would be comfortable for walking, though he wasn’t exactly an expert on women’s shoes. She had narrow, delicate-looking feet, although the hard calf and thigh muscles he’d seen—and felt—while carrying her through the woods on his back had suggested she wasn’t nearly as soft and ornamental a woman as she looked.

      That was good. She’d need to pull her weight over the next few days, until he could figure out what to do next.

      He couldn’t be sure Myron or the others had recognized him, but it was likely they had. So his undercover assignment was officially over, as far as he was concerned. While he suspected his boss might wish him to take a chance and try to get back inside the cell, he wasn’t stupid enough to risk it. He’d already come damn close to pushing up daisies twice in his life.

      No hurry to do that again anytime soon, right?

      Hiking back to the cave with the backpack strapped to his shoulders reminded him of the frantic run through the woods with Susannah Marsh clinging to his back like a leech. A leech with long, well-toned legs and pert little breasts that had somehow managed to feel both soft and firm against his shoulder blades.

      Plus, she’d smelled like freshly cut tart apples. How could she possibly have managed such a thing after a long day in the office and a headlong run for her life?

      He tried to follow the path he and Susannah had taken earlier that night in hopes of tracking down his missing cell phone, but he’d seen no sign of the phone by the time he reached the cave entrance. He had to assume it was now in the custody of one of the Blue Ridge Infantry foot soldiers Billy Dawson had sent to kill Susannah Marsh.

      The phone was a burner, and he took care not to leave any incriminating evidence for Dawson or the others to find. Even his calls to his handler, as he’d come to think of the wily old ex-spy who had hired him for this operation, were calls to another burner phone that would be next to impossible for Dawson and his crew to trace.

      Alexander Quinn had made sure of that. After all, the Blue Ridge Infantry might be a crew of authority-hating rednecks with a mean streak, but not long ago, they’d aligned themselves with a band of tech-savvy anarchists as well as a hodgepodge of downright entrepreneurial drug cookers that had once formed the standing army for a criminal named Wayne Cortland.

      Cortland had died a couple of years ago, and the authorities had largely dismantled the organization in a series of raids not long afterwards.

      But the remaining remnants now had a blueprint for success. A business model, if you wanted to put it in those terms. When the local cops, already dealing with more than their share of crime, had moved on to other cases, Alexander Quinn had apparently decided to take up the slack. He seemed to be making the job of cleaning up the post-Cortland mess a personal project.

      Overhead, a break in the rain clouds offered a brief glow of moonlight, just enough to reveal the rain-slick face of the rocky overhang that hid the small cave where Susannah Marsh was waiting. He slowed his approach, trying to prepare himself for telling her the truth about why he’d confronted her in the parking lot earlier that evening—and just what he had planned for them for the next few days.

      She wasn’t going to like it. That much he knew for sure. If Susannah Marsh was known for anything around the Highlands Hotel and Resort, it was her polished, professional look. Men and women alike commented on it when she wasn’t in earshot, and not all of the talk was kind, but Hunter chalked the negative talk up to envy.

      Susannah Marsh was damn near flawless. She dressed with meticulous style, her clothing a compromise between fashion and function. Never inappropriate, but always sleek and attractive. Perfectly groomed, perfectly competent, perfectly lovely.

      But what he had in mind for the next few days, he was pretty sure she’d find perfectly appalling.

      He had been sticking with a stealthy approach to the cave to this point, but he didn’t want to sneak up on her and scare her, so as he reached the mouth of the cave, he made sure to make a little noise to give her notice of his arrival. “Susannah?” No answer.

      Peering into the gloom, he tried to make out any signs of movement. But the cave interior was cold and still.

      Pulling his keys from his pocket, he winced at the jingle of metal on metal as he located the small penlight he kept on his key chain. With a flick of his finger, the penlight beam came on, and he ran the light across the width of the cave.

      The first-aid kit was still there, lying on the stone outcropping where they’d sat a little while earlier. Even the flashlight was there, snugged up next to the first-aid kit.

      But Susannah Marsh was nowhere in sight.

      The flashlight beam caught a glimmer of white on the cave floor beneath the stone bench. Crouching with a grimace of pain, he shined the light on the floor, taking in several half-moon-shaped white slivers. It took a second to realize what he was seeing.

      Nail clippings. She’d cut off her nails.

      He picked up the first-aid kit to put it in his pocket and stopped as he realized it was considerably lighter than when he’d used it to bandage her feet earlier. When he checked inside, he found that all of the gauze that had been packed within was gone.

      What the hell was the woman up to?

      * * *

      WAS SHE CRAZY to be doing this?

      When Susannah had left the cave, she’d been certain that the worst possible choice she could make was to stay there and wait for Hunter to get back. No matter how attractive he might seem, especially when he was standing between her and a bunch of men with guns, he wasn’t her friend. He wasn’t even an acquaintance. He was just a guy she’d seen for the first time in an elevator earlier that very day. For all she knew, he’d been lying when he told her he’d hit the button for the wrong floor.

      Maybe he’d been looking for her the whole time.

      But