The Perfect Victim

She wasn't happy with him and it showed. But even unhappy and angry, she was still utterly lovely. He resisted the sudden, overwhelming urge to touch her. To skim his fingers over her velvet cheek. Touch that lush mouth. First with his fingertips. Then with his lips.

 

Reining in his thoughts, he reminded himself that women like Addison Fox didn't fall for men like him. How would she react if she knew about his post-traumatic stress disorder? If she knew he'd botched a decent career because he hadn't been able to hack it and spent the last six months consoling himself with his bottle of bourbon? How would she react if she knew the thought of going back to his job in D.C. sent shivers of fear up his spine?

 

The last thing Addison needed in her life was a man like him. Hell, the last thing he needed was a woman in trouble. He had enough problems just taking care of himself these days. But Christ, she looked good sitting there, looking wild and inviting and vulnerable all at once.

 

"Let's go." Tearing himself away from her, away from thoughts that would do nothing but bring him grief, he opened the door.

 

The snow was driving hard, coming in from the west like a frozen tidal wave. Visibility was down to zero, and Randall knew they'd made the right decision by stopping. They wouldn't have made it to Interstate 70, just twenty miles to the north.

 

Keeping Addison in sight, he jogged toward the front door. She came up beside him a moment later, out of breath, snow sticking to her hair and clothes like confetti. Without speaking, she jabbed the key into the lock, twisted, and swung open the door.

 

The cabin was small, yet designed with a flair that was distinctly Colorado. The first thing Randall noticed was the three-way stone fireplace that dominated the living room. It was constructed of river rock and jutted from pine flooring and ran all the way to the rough-hewn beams of the vaulted ceiling.

 

"Colorado stonemasons don't mess around," he said in admiration.

 

The living area was huge and largely bare. Most of the furniture had been draped with sheets. A camelback sofa faced the fireplace. Next to it, a heavy pine end table bore a single, oversized lamp.

 

The place smelled of old pine and mothballs. But the most pressing issue was the temperature. It was above freezing, but barely. "Where's the furnace?" he asked, rubbing his gloveless hands together in a futile attempt to warm them.

 

When Addison didn't answer, he turned to find her at the double set of French doors overlooking the cedar deck. Beyond the wall of snow, he knew, were thousands of trees and a spectacular view of Hoosier Pass. Concern inched through him. Her hands were knotted in front of her, her shoulders set and rigid. For the first time he realized just how difficult coming here was for her.

 

"Are you all right?" he asked.

 

She nodded, but her eyes were wistful. "My mom always loved snow. They loved this place. This house was their dream, and they worked their entire lives for it. I hate it that they're not here to enjoy it."

 

Awkwardness crept over him. He was a whiz at partaking in an occasional argument, but light-years out of his element when it came to dealing with emotions, particularly the female variety.

 

She continued to stare out into the blinding snow. "I've only been here a couple of times since they died. I thought it would be easier this time. I mean, it's been ten months."

 

He watched her from across the room, reading 'her as best he could, not knowing what to say or how to comfort. "Pain is a part of life, Addison. But so is healing. It takes time."

 

"I can't believe how quickly the months have passed. It seems like just yesterday when ..."

 

Slowly, cautiously, Randall came up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. He felt the tremors rising up inside her. He wasn't sure if it was from the cold or the grief or, perhaps, a combination of both. "We didn't have to come here."

 

"Yes, we did." Shaking off his hands, she turned to face him. "I did."

 

"It's okay for you to grieve."

 

"I can deal with the grieving."

 

"Can you?"

 

"Yes." For the first time he noticed the anger smoldering in the depths of her eyes, crowding out the grief. "What I can't deal with is that they were taken from me. That somebody murdered them. My parents. They were good people. How could someone just wipe out their lives?"

 

For her sake, he wished he could dispute the truth. He wished he could tell her that Patty and Larry Fox hadn't been murdered. But he couldn't. He might be able to lie to himself, but he couldn't lie to Addison. He'd never been able to lie to someone he cared about, and he'd always been able to live with himself because of it.

 

Her tears came in a flood and with the same violence as the storm raging outside. Turning away from him, she slammed her open palm against the door. "Damn!" Her shoulders began to shake.

 

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