She'd hitchhiked, taking the first ride that was offered, and it had been sheer luck that she made it as far as she did. She'd ended up in the tiny town of Austinburg, Nevada, with no money and no prospects, accepting a ride from a very dangerous man.

Billy Joe Nelson had already killed five young women. Laura would have been his sixth, and they never would have found her body.

But Billy Joe had been the one to die, and Laura had never known how close she'd come. She'd never known he was there, watching over her. And that he got to Billy Joe before the killer could put his hands on her.

He should have taken her then. He'd already let her go too many times. When she was five years old, choking to death, and she'd looked up at him, quite fearlessly, something had made him hesitate.

Or when she was twelve, and she'd fallen off that horse she was forbidden to ride. She was always being protected by her family—the doctors hadn't expected her to live past her tenth birthday. If he hadn't been suddenly, inexplicably capricious, she wouldn't have.

But she'd climbed on a horse that was too big and too strong for her, and taken off. The horse had thrown her, her weak heart had erupted, and she'd lain as she lay now, turning a delicate shade of blue, dying.

He had reached out a hand to take her, and then drawn it back when she looked at him again. The same eyes. The same calm, unquestioning curiosity. And no fear.

Time meant nothing to him. There had been no need to take her then. Once he put his hand on her, she would be gone. Out of his reach forever. And for some strange reason, he hadn't wanted that to happen.

He hadn't expected to be called for her this time. He'd assumed her father would be next, the old man who'd cheated death too many times as it was. But fate had a nasty habit of playing tricks on him. Now Laura Fitzpatrick lay dying in the forest, and he would have to take her, as well.

He leaned over her. Her heart had stopped, time had stopped. The trees were motionless, as the breeze was frozen at twilight. He looked down at her, and a great rebellion rose inside him.

Not this time. Not this one. Not now.

He tilted his head back to glare at the darkening sky, waiting for the answer he'd sought. This time it came, silently. Two days.

He closed his eyes, summoning all the massive power that lay quiet within him, making it hum and grow. When he opened his eyes, the leaves were rustling in the breeze. An owl hooted.

And Laura Fitzpatrick opened her eyes.

She knew him. It seemed as if she'd known him all her life, and yet she couldn't place him. For long moments she stared up at him, disoriented, confused, trying to look past the mirrored dark glasses and remember where she'd seen him.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

His voice gave her no clue. It was husky, ageless, oddly sensual, with the faintest trace of an accent that might have been French and, then again, might not. His face was narrow, tanned beneath the mirrored glasses, and his dark hair was long.

She struggled to sit up. He didn't help her, didn't touch her, simply sat back on his heels and watched her. "Fine, I think," she said, amazed that her own voice sounded so shaky. "I must have passed out."

"You shouldn't be out here alone."

"I was looking for my sister."

"She's gone back to the house."

She stared at him. "Who are you?" she said, then flushed, realizing how rude she sounded. "I mean..."

"Alex," he said. "Alex Montmort. I'm afraid I must be trespassing. I was hiking when I thought I heard someone cry for help."

"My father owns this mountain."

A small, devastating smile curved his mouth. "Not so much of a mountain, is it? I'm used to the Alps."

"I've never seen the Alps."

"Ah, but you have the Rocky Mountains. They are as spectacular in their own way, even if this one seems a small specimen. Do you ski?"

The simple question shouldn't have bothered her. She had learned to live with her infirmity. With the restrictions her life and health had placed on her. With the restrictions her family had placed on her. "No," she said. "Do you?"

"That's why I'm here."

"It's a little early in the season."

"So it is. I can wait for the snow. I am infinitely patient."

She believed him. He seemed possessed of almost unnatural calm, willing to wait for anything. The entire conversation seemed bizarre, as she sat on the ground in the twilight, conversing with a stranger, the sudden, erupting pain in her chest long vanished.

"You could probably find work in town," she said, striving for a tone of normalcy as she pulled herself upright. He didn't touch her, didn't offer her a steadying hand, and despite the weakness in her legs, she was oddly glad of that. She wasn't ready to have this stranger touch her. "That's what most ski bums do while they're waiting for the first snow."

His smile broadened. "I am not certain I qualify as a ski bum." He rose, standing patiently as he looked down at her. He towered over her, but then, she wasn't a particularly tall woman. He really wasn't that massive, and yet he seemed to loom over her. The sensation was oddly soothing.

An owl hooted in the night wind, and a streak of unexpected lightning flashed in the sky. "We're going to have a storm," she said, surprised.

"Perhaps," he murmured. "Let me see you safely back to the house, Miss—"

She had the strange feeling that he knew her name, but she obediently supplied it anyway. "Laura," she said. "And I wouldn't want to put you to any trouble. I can find my way home, and you should get back to wherever you came from before the storm hits."

"I have endless time," he said. "Come." He held out his hand, making no effort to touch her, letting her make the first move. There was an expectant air about him, as if he were curious to see what would happen.

She stared at his outstretched hand. It was an elegant one, long-fingered, well shaped. All she had to do was take it, and life would be very simple.

She tucked her hands in her pockets, smiling up at him with unfeigned cheerfulness. "As a matter of fact, maybe you'd better come with me. This place is crawling with armed guards and attack dogs. Daddy—" Her voice caught for a moment, then strengthened again. "Daddy always worried about our safety."

"Why?" It was a simple question. She started down the path, and he fell into step beside her.

"Daddy is William Fitzpatrick."

"And?"

"That name doesn't mean anything to you? Oh, I forgot, you're not... that is, you aren't from around here, are you?" she asked naively.

"No."

"My father is a very powerful man. And when people have wealth and influence, they have enemies. Over the years there have been threats, extortion attempts. Someone once tried to kidnap my older sister, Justine."

"Did they succeed?"

"No. But she's always been a little high-strung since then. We all look after her." For a moment she wondered why she was telling this dark stranger such intimate details of her life, but it seemed a natural thing to do.

"Your family looks after each other," he observed in a neutral voice.

"A little too much at times." She couldn't disguise her own bitterness. "My stepbrother Jeremy is the worst, always hovering." She shook her head. "You'd be better off with me. I can't imagine how you got so far onto the land without running into some of the security precautions, but even so, I doubt your luck would hold. The dogs can be particularly savage."