A Holiday to Remember

If she was Juliet Radcliffe…well, then he had questions to ask. And he wouldn’t be leaving her alone until he got the answers.

The drive to Hawkridge School took him fifteen miles along winding, two-lane mountain roads bordered by dark evergreens and bare hardwood trees. Heavy, ash-colored clouds blocked the sun, creating an early twilight. True to Charlie’s prediction, snow began to dust the pavement only a couple of miles out of Ridgeville.

Chris grinned as he watched the small white flakes sifting over the surrounding forest. He’d always loved spending Christmas here in the Smoky Mountains with Charlie. Not every Christmas had been a white one, but he recalled streaking down the hill behind Charlie’s cabin on a blue plastic disk sled, hearing Juliet scream as she flew beside him, and then the two of them landing in a tumbled heap in the drifts at the bottom. They’d emerged breathless, crying with laughter, then picked up their sleds and trudged back to the top to do it all over again. Charlie had resorted to bribing them with food to get them inside for even a few minutes.

Chris shook off his memories to realize the snow had picked up and was beginning to coat the road. In the next moment, he saw tall iron gates and a sign flash by—The Hawkridge School.

Damn, he’d missed the entrance.

A set of switchbacks took him farther up the mountain, but then came a long, straight stretch of road suitable for a U-turn. With no traffic in sight, Chris eased the bike around and headed back the way he’d come, slower this time and with his mind on his driving.

The trees along the hairpin curves arched out over the road, blocking most of the snow and also the waning light, until he might as well be driving at night. He’d worn a sweater under his leather jacket, plus a scarf, knit cap and gloves with liners. But even the leather chaps over his jeans didn’t cut the frigid wind. His knees and thighs felt like blocks of ice. Inside heavy boots and wool socks, his toes could have been chipped off with an ice pick.

Because of the cold or the darkness, or both, the entrance again came up faster than he expected. Chris started the turn too late, too sharply, just as the tires slipped on the slick asphalt.

He muttered a single swear word.

The bike tilted, then fell over, sliding sideways with Chris’s leg pinned underneath. Metal screamed, and he got a glimpse of approaching tree trunks on the other side of empty space. He had just enough time to send up a fervent prayer before wood started to splinter. Then the world went black.

Chapter Two

By midafternoon, the usual bustle in the hallways of the Hawkridge School had dwindled to complete silence. Students, teachers and staff had left the premises as fast as possible, all anxious to be out of the mountains before the snowstorm hit. Only eight individuals remained behind in the mansion—Jayne and the seven girls who had no other place to go.

They’d gathered in a room that students rarely saw, the private library designed for the wife of magnate Horace Ridgely, the builder of Hawkridge Manor. Mrs. Ridgely—Emmeline—had fancied herself a history scholar, and furnished her retreat with comfortably deep leather sofas and chairs surrounded by library tables wide and sturdy enough to hold stacks of books and provide plenty of work space. At each end of the room, walnut bookshelves packed with gold-tooled leather volumes lined the walls from the floor to the fifteen-foot ceiling. On one side, casement windows with diamond panes looked out into a private walled garden where Emmeline might refresh her mind without being disturbed. Across the room, the fireplace could have roasted an ox whole.

The manor had been wired for electricity from the beginning, and the only change made to this room in the last one hundred years was the addition of a discreet mahogany cupboard which, when opened, revealed a large TV screen and all the necessary components for movies and music. As the light failed outside Emmeline’s diamond windows, the girls spent the first afternoon of their winter break sprawled across two sofas and four chairs, swooning over handsome actors and cackling at sly jokes.

Jayne had joined them during the first half of the film, but found her attention more attuned to the weather than the antics of a gang of con artists stealing from Las Vegas casinos. Standing by the window, she pulled her sweater close around her as she watched the snowflakes falling faster and harder as the minutes passed. The wind seemed louder and stronger, too.

“It’s going to be a real storm, isn’t it?” Sarah Minton, a senior who had volunteered to stay and help Jayne with the other girls, came to join her at the window. “It looks kind of scary out there.”

Jayne smiled. “But we’re safe and sound inside, so we don’t have anything to worry about. We’re warm and dry and there’s lots of food. Lots of firewood, too—I asked Mr. Humphries to leave us a good supply within easy reach.” She glanced at the fireplace, where the blaze had gotten low. “Maybe we ought to bring some wood in before—”

“Did you hear that?” Sarah had turned her face toward the garden outside. “It sounded like banging.”

“Probably a loose tree branch in the wind.” Jayne waited, listening, but didn’t hear anything. “I guess—”

The girl held up a hand. “There it is again.” This time, in the quiet, Jayne heard the sound, too—a slow, hard pounding.

It stopped, and they both took a deep breath. Then the noise started again.

“That’s the front entrance.” Jayne crossed toward the door to the hallway. “You stay here with the girls. I’ll return in a few minutes.”

But as she turned into the hallway, Sarah was right behind her. “I don’t think you should go by yourself.”

When Jayne looked back, she saw the six other students had joined them.

“What’s happening?”

“Is it time to eat?”

“Where’re you going, Ms. Thomas?”

Jayne accepted the unlikely possibility of convincing them to stay behind. “Someone is knocking on the front door. Let’s see who’s there.”

As they proceeded toward the main section of the manor, some of the girls jogged, danced and skipped ahead. But Jayne came to a halt before they could reach the double doors into the foyer. “I want you all behind me once I go through those doors. I’m glad to have your company, but I don’t know who is out there, so stay back and out of the way. Understood?”

Seven apprehensive gazes stayed fixed on her face as the girls nodded.

“Good.” Jayne pulled open one of the paneled mahogany doors. “Let’s go.”

She swallowed hard as she crossed the black-and-white marble floor of the huge entrance hall. Past closed doors on the left leading into the dining hall, past the foot of the curved staircase on her right, and the entrance into the administrative office suite just beyond. Finally she stood with her hand on the brass knobs of the double front doors. Taking a deep breath, Jayne squared her shoulders, just as whoever stood outside started pounding again.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Using both hands now, she turned the right knob and jerked the panel back.

She noticed the snow first, whirling and slashing in the light from inside and the lamps on the porch. Then she caught a glimpse of blue eyes in a pale face smeared with red. Paint?

Blood. “Sorry,” the man confronting her muttered. “Can you…” he swayed from side to side “…help?”

Before the word ended, he pitched forward, right into Jayne’s arms.

At her back, several of the girls screamed. Jayne staggered under the man’s weight, reaching out by instinct to hold him. Though she struggled to stay upright, he bore her down to the floor, collapsing with most of her body underneath his. He was sopping wet. And freezing.

“My God, he’s heavy.” As Sarah moved to shut the door, Jayne pulled her arms free and braced herself against the hard floor with her hands behind her. She could hardly budge, pinned as she was with the man’s head on her chest and the rest of him draped over her.

She struggled to organize her thoughts. “Sarah, take Taryn and Yolanda up to the infirmary and bring back the stretcher. You may use the elevator coming down,” she called as they went running up the stairs. “Just hurry!”

A glance at the agitated faces of the other girls told her she had to get them out of the way and occupied. “You four are the dinner crew.”

When the moans died down, she continued. “Let’s keep it simple, since we’ve got an emergency to deal with. Haley and Monique, make grilled cheese sandwiches. At least twelve of them. Selena and Beth, heat up soup in a big pot on the stove. We’ll need some hot tea, too, for Mr. Two Tons, here.”

She tried to shift, and groaned at her lack of success. The girls gave nervous laughs. “Just make something we can eat when we get this guy settled. That’s all I ask.”

They returned the way they’d come, and Jayne let her head fall back, trying to ease the tension in her neck and shoulders. “Hurry,” she murmured to Sarah, Taryn and Yolanda. “Or I may never walk again.”

As if in answer, wheels squeaked somewhere beyond the top of the grand curved staircase. “We’re on our way,” Sarah called. “Had some trouble figuring out how to operate the stretcher. Be there in a minute.”

“Whew.” Jayne sighed in relief, then gasped as the body lying on top of her moved.

“What the hell…?” His words were slurred, his voice hoarse. “Where am I?” He jerked to the side, off of her, then propped himself on one elbow and stared at Jayne. Comprehension dawned in those sky-blue eyes. “Did I pass out on top of you? Are you okay?”

Before she could answer, he tried to lift his other hand to his head. Swearing, he fell backward instead, and lay flat on the floor, his face twisted in pain.

Jayne shifted to her knees beside him. “What’s wrong? Is your arm broken?”

“Dislocated,” he growled between bared teeth. “Shoulder.”

The squeak of wheels announced the arrival of the stretcher.

“What can we do?” Sarah asked, breathing hard.

Jayne considered the white-faced man on the floor. “Yolanda and Taryn, you two go down to the staff kitchen and see if the girls there need help with supper. Sarah and I can manage here.”

“But—” Yolanda started.

Looking up, Jayne lifted an eyebrow. “Surely you’re not going to argue. I believe I made the rules clear at our meeting this afternoon.” She used her quietest, most intimidating headmistress voice.

“Yes, ma’am.” Haley Farrish, a ninth-grader, elbowed the other girl in the side. “Come on. We can get some chips. I’m starving.”

Yolanda Warner hesitated, her lower lip stuck out in a pout. As a junior, she probably thought she should be allowed to help. But when the man on the floor groaned and struggled to sit up, panic chased away her self-importance. In the next moment, she and Haley disappeared through the office doorway.

Jayne scrambled to her feet and motioned for Sarah to come to the man’s uninjured side. “Let us help you up,” she told him. “We’ll lift under your arms—”

“God, no.” Holding his injured left arm against his side with his other hand, he had somehow managed to maneuver himself to his knees. “Just give me a second.” He stayed there for much longer than a second, head bowed, his harsh breaths the only sound in the immense space of the entry hall.

Then his right knee jerked up, he planted his foot against the marble floor and drove himself to stand. He swayed, and Jayne stepped closer, arms out. Sarah, on his other side, did the same.

But this time he didn’t collapse. Blowing out a deep breath, the man turned slowly to face Jayne.

His eyes were bloodshot, his hair hanging in wet tangles, his face frozen in lines of agony. For the first time, though, she recognized her stalker from the previous day in town.

“Remember me? I’m Chris Hammond,” he said, his voice still ragged. “I came here to find out where you’ve been the last twelve years.

“And why the hell you’re lying about who you are.”

THE HEADMISTRESS DROPPED her jaw till Chris could practically see her tonsils. Her dark, straight brows drew together over eyes the exact hazel color he remembered. He would swear he knew the shape of every freckle on her nose. Oh, yeah, she was lying, all right.

“Well?” He dragged in a breath against the agony searing his shoulder. “What’s with the fake name?”

She gave her head a quick shake. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about your real name—Juliet Radcliffe. If you were trying to hide, Ridgeville wasn’t the smartest spot to choose.”

“I’m not hiding.” She looked across him at the girl still standing with her arms out, ready to catch him if he fell. Or maybe tackle him if he attacked. “Sarah, go check on the girls. If the food is ready, you all should eat.”

“But—”

A lift of the headmistress’s right eyebrow stifled the protest and Sarah disappeared behind the curving staircase.

Chris waited until the woman turned back to him. “Girls? I don’t remember any other girls.”

“This is a school,” she said, letting her effort to stay patient show. “There are students here.”

He shrugged, which was a mistake. Pain narrowed the world to whirling white dots in front of his eyes. He didn’t know if he’d be sick or pass out. Maybe throw up, then pass out.

Her hand closed around the elbow of his good arm. “Look, we can settle identities later. You need medical attention. I’ll drive you—”

His laugh set off another spasm of anguish. “You’re not driving anywhere,” he said, when he could stop gasping. “The roads are slicker than a skating rink.”

“Is it really that bad?”

Chris snorted. “How do you think I got in this shape?” She just stared at him, a bemused look on her face. “My bike slid out from under me down on the highway, that’s how. I landed at your front gate, with the Harley wrapped around a nearby tree.”

“You walked up here from the highway? After an accident?” Now both her hands gripped his arm, the only warm spot on his entire body. He could almost see the wheels in her head turning, preparing to deal with the situation. “We’ve got to get you taken care of. What can we do about your shoulder?”

He wasn’t surprised at the question—Juliet would know he’d been dealing with this issue since he was fifteen. “Just take hold of my wrist. Come on,” he said when she hesitated. “You’ve done this before.”

She shook her head, but moved her hands to his left wrist. “You have me confused with someone else.”

“Not likely.” He forced his numb fingers to wrap around her wrist, linking them together. “Bend the arm to my waist. Right angle.” He couldn’t stop the hiss as she followed directions. “Okay. Hold tight, now. Brace yourself for a jerk.”

“I believe we’ve already met,” she murmured.

Chris felt his lips twitch with the urge to grin in response. But in the next moment the slight curve of her full lips straightened.

“Are you sure this will work?”

“Hell, no.” Chris took a breath, turned his head, then used his legs to drag all of his weight to the left. His shoulder muscles screamed, he groaned…and the ball of his shoulder slipped back into the socket.

“Ahhh.” He couldn’t hold back the sigh of relief. “That’s better.”

Still cradling his hand and wrist, she gazed at him. “You’re okay?”

“If you don’t count the crashing headache, plus a full load of cuts and bruises, I’m great.”

“You do have blood on your face.” She reached a hand toward his cheek. “Where did it—”

But Chris pulled away before her fingertips made contact, taking a long step backward and putting as much distance between them as he could manage. “I’ll take inventory later. Did you say something about food?”

She looked stunned for a second, but then nodded. “Yes. You can get cleaned up in the staff restroom, and then we’ll get dinner. Just soup and grilled cheese sandwiches,” she said over her shoulder, heading in the same direction the girl, Sarah, had gone. “I hope that’s okay.”

“I’ll be happier if you have a beer to go with it.” Though Chris had never been inside Hawkridge Manor, what he’d seen so far lived up to the stories he’d heard. The marble floor and mahogany paneling of the two-story entry hall rivaled some palaces he’d photographed in other countries.

“Here’s the restroom.” The headmistress stopped beside a cherry paneled door with the appropriate gender sign. “The kitchen is on the right, three doors down. Join us when you’re ready.”

She continued in that direction, but stopped when he said, “Does that mean no beer?”

Without looking back, she said, “Strong coffee is the best I can do.”

Chris pushed the bathroom door open with his good shoulder. “Without beer,” he mourned, “this will be a bitch of a storm.”

The restroom behind the old-fashioned door was modern and convenient, but the surroundings did nothing to make him feel better. Indigo-colored bruises from his helmet had started showing up on his cheeks and chin, along with a cut on his right jaw that had bled like crazy until his circulation slowed with the cold.

Still, he’d survived, which he wouldn’t have bet on at the time. One of those tree trunks had come damn close to his head.

His leather jacket was a total loss—ripped at both shoulder seams, with the finish on the back sanded off by the asphalt pavement. He eased it off his shoulders and let it fall down his arms straight into the trash can.

The sweater he’d worn inside the jacket was still in good shape, but the collar of the shirt underneath had been soaked with blood, so he stripped to the waist. Pain from his dislocated shoulder stabbed at him with every move, and tomorrow it would spread across his chest and back, he knew. A glance at the mirror showed him the bruises outlining his ribs, not to mention the outlines of the ribs themselves. The months in Africa had been pretty rough. His shoulders had gotten bony, and his jeans hung loose on his hips. He’d really been looking forward to that meat loaf with Charlie tonight.

Not bothering to stifle his groans, Chris pulled the sweater back over his head, then wet his fingers and ran them through his hair to tame it. The ruined chaps had protected his jeans from major damage, except for being wet to the knees with snowmelt. He thought he looked decent enough for a sandwich with a bunch of schoolkids.

After food and some of that strong coffee, though, he planned to corner Juliet Radcliffe and drag the truth out of her. He would find out what was behind this stupid innocent act of hers if it took all night.

More important, he’d find out why she’d disappeared. And why she’d let him spend the last twelve years believing he’d killed her.

JAYNE ENTERED THE STAFF kitchen to find her seven students staring at a stack of charcoal bricks in place of the sandwiches.

Monique threw her hands in the air. “I can’t cook. And I shouldn’t have to. Meals are part of the deal here, right?” She stalked to the couch and plopped down, with her arms folded high across her chest and the bright beads on her many black braids clicking as they bounced. “I’m not gonna starve, either. Somebody had better make me something to eat.”

Jayne nodded. “That’s fine. You don’t have to cook. You can work with the cleanup crew after every meal.”

“No way.” Her skin, usually a soft shade of creamed coffee, darkened with an angry flush.

“Those are the rules,” Sarah said, without prompting from Jayne. “Staying at school over winter break means helping out with the chores. I’m not cooking extra food for somebody who won’t do her share.” She looked around at the other girls, who were nodding in response.

But Monique didn’t give in. “I don’t care. I’ll just go into town with that dude when he leaves.”

“I’m not leaving anytime soon,” a masculine voice answered. “You’ll get pretty hungry.”

The eight of them gasped in unison at the intrusion, then turned to see Chris Hammond leaning against the frame of the kitchen door.

“My bike is wrapped around a tree down by the road,” he continued. “And the snow’s a good six inches deep by now, with no sign of stopping.” He walked to the table and pulled out the chair on the end. “Ladies, I hope you don’t mind if I sit down. It’s been a long afternoon.”

Without waiting for their agreement, he lowered himself into the chair. From the way his face whitened as he bent his legs, Jayne guessed he’d suffered more than a dislocated shoulder in the crash. He needed food and warm liquids.

“Good point,” she said briskly, moving to pour a mug of coffee. “Girls, this is Mr. Hammond, our guest.” Each of the girls introduced herself in turn. “Since no one is going anywhere tonight, let’s give the grilled cheese sandwiches another try. How’s the soup coming?” She glanced into the pot, then at the knobs of the stove. “Turn up the heat, get it almost to a boil,” she told Selena. “Beth, set the table with plates and bowls. Yolanda can figure out what everyone wants to drink.”

Jayne put the coffee down beside the intruder’s left hand. “Sugar and cream?”

He shook his head and brought the mug to his lips, then managed to sigh as he swallowed. “That’s good,” he murmured. “Thanks.”

“Let me know when you want a refill.” She left him alone as she supervised the dinner preparations, making sure the sandwiches emerged from the pan unscorched, the soup didn’t boil over and there were napkins on the table. Making sure, as well, that she didn’t stare at him, didn’t notice—again—the sharp blue of his eyes under thick, spiky lashes, or his sensuous lower lip, or the breadth of his shoulders.

Where in the world was her mind wandering, in the midst of all these teenaged girls? Maybe adolescent angst was contagious.

With golden sandwiches piled high on a plate and chicken noodle soup ladled into nine bowls, Jayne told the girls to sit down and eat. When the flurry of movement subsided, two empty places remained—one beside Chris Hammond and the other at the far end, facing him. Over on the couch, Monique still pouted. So Jayne had the choice of sitting next to him or facing him as if they were parents on either end of the family table.

Avoiding the domestic image, she sat down in the chair at his left hand. She could pour more coffee that way, and monitor his conversation with the girls.

After all, what kind of man did they have stranded with them tonight? He might be a pedophile, for all she knew. He’d stalked her all over Ridgeville just yesterday. And he’d said—she’d blocked the memory in the urgency of the moment—he’d said he’d come to find out why she was lying about her name and about not knowing him. The very idea meant he was delusional, at least. He’d clearly mistaken her for someone else. At the worst, he might actually be mentally unstable.

But she couldn’t have left him out in the snow, injured and bleeding, even if she’d had a choice. Which she hadn’t, because he’d fallen in the door without waiting for permission. Was he dangerous? Would she and the girls all be murdered in their beds?

“What are you worrying about?”

She snapped her head around to look at him. “I—I’m not worrying. Just eating.”

Chris Hammond gave a lopsided smile. “Except you haven’t picked up your spoon or taken a sandwich. You’re staring off into space with that little crease between your eyebrows you always get when you’re worried. And you’re wringing your hands in your lap.”

Jayne immediately relaxed her fingers. “I was just thinking about the storm.” The flush from that lie crept up her neck under her turtleneck shirt. “Do you know how much snow they’re predicting?”

He took a crunching bite of his sandwich and swallowed. “My granddad was predicting a blizzard as I left this afternoon. Maybe I should have believed him.”

“Is he a weather forecaster?”

“Just an old mountaineer.” Chris Hammond turned his head to lock his gaze with hers. “As you should remember.”

Her denial was overwhelmed by Yolanda’s shout from the other end of the table. “Hey, Ms. Thomas, can we go sledding after dinner?”