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Michelle smiled. The smile she saw in response was enough to warm her from the inside. They may not be completely safe, but in that instant, she could sense that Fletch was satisfied with this destination.
If she were writing this story, she could think of what would happen next. She’d be able to explore Fletch’s toned abdomen. He’d help her with her shower and frost-nipped toes. They’d find a stash of wine and sit by the fireplace.
Alas, this wasn’t fiction.
She didn’t know anything about Fletch.
There was no reason her thoughts should be going in that direction.
CHAPTER FIVE
Michelle didn’t know anything about the rich dude who owned the cabin, but drastic times called for drastic measures. She helped herself to the clothes in the closet and dresser. Thankfully, the rich dude had a woman at his side or at least one he kept clothed. While the jeans were too small, she found a pair of black athletic pants that fit—albeit snug.
Now, nearly two hours after they’d arrived, Michelle was showered, dressed, and had been exploring the cupboards in search of something more substantial than coffee. She turned as the front door opened and a snow-filled gust of wind scattered white flakes on the wood floor.
Fletch turned and closed the door, careful to engage the locks. When he turned, he pulled the scarf from around his face.
No icicles.
Michelle grinned.
“No one will see the snowmobile. The way the wind is whipping around, a snowdrift will have it fully buried in an hour or two.”
“The water is warm. You should go shower.”
After removing his coat, hat, gloves, and boots, Fletch stood in front of the fireplace, lifting his hands to the flames. With his back toward her, he said, “I’m sorry you got dragged into this.” He turned, his jaw clenched. “Denny must have hoped if he gave himself up, you’d be safe.”
Michelle moved from the kitchen to the living room. “What in the world could my dad have done that he would need to give himself up?” When Fletch didn’t answer, she stepped closer and placed her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry I was dragged into this too, but I don’t know what this is, and that’s scaring the hell out of me.”
Fletch turned, taking her hand in his and looking down into her blue orbs. The coolness of his long fingers surrounded her warmer ones. “You weren’t supposed to be here—aren’t.”
Michelle’s pulse quickened and she took a step back. “Did you…did you kill my father?”
“No,” he answered immediately.
“But you knew it was going to happen?”
Fletch shrugged his wide shoulders. “There was chatter. There always is. Finding it, hearing it, understanding it…that’s the trick.”
“I don’t understand.”
He lifted his palm gently to her cheek. “Shelly.” The nickname her father used for her was like a baritone melody from his lips.
Fletch went on, “I wish I could tell you more. You’ve already been strong, and I know that not understanding adds to your fear.” It was a potent component of the rush of emotions racing through her circulation. “All I can tell you is that you don’t need to be afraid of me. And I need one thing in return.”
“What?”
“Forget me.”
Her gaze was glued to his as if somewhere in the black hole of his orbs were the answers she needed. “Forget you?”
“Once I get you back to your house in Indianapolis, forget I ever existed. Claim amnesia or shock or whatever.” His smile curled in a wistful, sexy way. “You’re the expert at making up stories. Make one up, one that doesn’t include me.”
“Why?” she asked, needing more understanding.
“Because” —sadness was obvious in his expression— “I don’t exist.”
Michelle ran her hands over Fletch’s arms. Though he was covered by his hoodie, she could still feel the hard definitions of his muscles beneath. “If you’re a figment of my imagination, I deserve a damn award.”
