"I can imagine what. Now do you believe me when I tell you that man is dangerous?"

"Don't be ridiculous!" Laura snapped back. "He didn't hurt her."

Jeremy reached down for his trembling wife. Cynthia tried to resist, but he simply pulled her upward, pushing Laura out of the way. "She'll be all right. I'll take her back to the guest house and get some hot tea into her. She could do with a nap. Don't worry, Cynthia. I'll take care of you."

Cynthia looked up at her husband of more than ten years, and her expression was one of complete horror. Before Laura could intervene, however, Jeremy had half helped, half dragged her from the room.

Laura watched them go, feeling helpless, frightened, confused. Nothing was as it had seemed. Not her autocratic father, not the fearless, amoral Cynthia, not the stolid, dependable Jeremy.

And certainly not the stranger who'd appeared on their mountain just as the rest of the world was shut away from them.

She slammed her bedroom door behind her, then locked it. She had no idea where Alex was, and she didn't want to know. She locked the French doors that led out to the small balcony their two rooms shared, and then she lay on her bed, huddling under a down comforter. The coldness was permeating the entire house; the lights were dimming, and outside, the storm was increasing in its intensity. It seemed as if the world were about to end. Laura pulled the covers over her head, shuddering, prepared to ride it out.

Poison was far more dangerous, Jeremy thought calmly as he put the mug of arsenic-laced tea in Cynthia's trembling hands. There would be an autopsy, and there was no way a toxicologist would miss the huge amounts of poison he was pumping into her system.

But he couldn't afford to wait. Or to make another miscalculation.

It was fortunate for him that Cynthia had had her fit of hysterics in front of his gullible stepsister. He had no idea what had set Cynthia off, and he didn't care. While a part of him thoroughly enjoyed the expression of abject terror in his wife's eyes whenever she looked at him, he couldn't afford to indulge himself. If Cynthia had inexplicably come to suspect him, it wouldn't take long before that suspicion was passed to others.

He would make it look like a suicide. She'd been restless, despondent, drinking too much. She'd had a nervous breakdown right in front of her fragile sister-in-law. The strangeness of the weather, the isolation, her despondency over her failing marriage—it was no wonder she'd succumbed to thoughts of suicide and taken a fatal dose of rat poison.

There would be less money for him this way. If only Ricky and Justine had died as planned, it would all have been his. But he was resourceful. He'd been willing to wait for Laura's share, secure in the knowledge that she hadn't long to live. He could certainly manage some misfortune for Justine and Ricky in the next year or so.

And then it would all be his. The money, the knowledge that he'd been stronger, more determined, than all of them. His only regret was that he would never get the chance to throw it in the old man's face.

"Drink it all, darling," he urged gently, feeling wonderfully calm and encouraging. After last night's unexpected failure, things were finally coming together. All the old man had to do was hold on for a few more hours, and then at least his inheritance would be his alone, and not part of a nasty divorce settlement. A divorce hearing would mean his finances would be gone over in minute detail, and it wouldn't take the lawyers long to discover he'd been siphoning huge sums of money from his stepfather for decades.

If he hadn't known better, though, he would have thought Cynthia knew what was going to happen to her. There was a bleak, terrified expression on her face, as if she'd looked into the future and seen her death. If she had, it wasn't enough to stop her fate. She took the mug of poisoned tea from him and drained it, then leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes.

He closed the door gently behind him. He hadn't had time to concoct a suicide note, but he could take care of that later if the need arose. In the meantime, it was only a matter of minutes before he was free.

He carried the tray back into the kitchen, humming under his breath.

When Laura awoke, her room was pitch-black. There was a faint tapping noise, a clicking against the windows, and it took her a moment to realize it must be the rain. Or even sleet, considering the icy, metallic click against the glass. She reached for the light beside her bed, but it wouldn't turn on. The generator must have finally given up the ghost, she thought, swinging her legs out from under the down comforter.

She almost swung them back. The room was ice-cold—the heating system must be down, as well. With luck, there would still be enough juice in the auxiliary generator to keep William's life-support system functioning, but there was obviously nothing to spare.

She should go downstairs and make sure every-thing was all right. That there were fires burning in the myriad of fireplaces that were usually more for atmosphere than function. That her father was still alive, that Cynthia had recovered from whatever had panicked her. She should see if Mrs. Hawkins needed help, or if any new disaster had befallen the Fitzpatrick compound. But she knew she wasn't going to do anything.

She reached into her nightstand drawer for the tiny flashlight she always kept there, turning it on. It remained stubbornly dark, and she shook it in frustration. She'd just put fresh batteries in a week ago—they must have been duds.

There were a pine-scented candle and a box of matches on the mantel overhanging her fireplace. She stubbed her toe as she made her way across the pitch-black room, and all the time the wind outside was growing louder, wilder, and the ice particles dashing against the window grew noisier.

The match flared, and the candle sent a tiny pool of light into the room. She knelt down, using the candle to light the kindling that was always in readiness in the hearth, then stood back as light and warmth began to fill the room.

A streak of lightning blazed outside, filling the room with a blinding glare before plunging it into darkness once more. It was followed by a clap of thunder so powerful it shook the sturdy log house, and Laura dropped the candle, watching as it rolled across the floor, landing against the French doors before guttering out.

Once more lightning flashed, and she could see him outside, his long hair caked with ice, his shirt plastered to his strong back. He was holding on to the railing, staring out into the night, and Laura watched in both fascination and despair as he seemed to reach into the night, becoming a part of it. She half expected him to leap off the balcony, to hurl himself into the darkness, and she stood, transfixed with pain and longing.

They were plunged into darkness once more, and finally Laura moved. She'd put a chair under the door handle in addition to locking it, and it took a moment for her to pull it away and fumble with the latch before flinging the doors open, letting in the night and the storm. Letting in the man.

He turned. Ice coated his face and his dark glasses and frosted his hair. The late-summer night had turned to winter, and she reached out for him, pulling him back inside, into her room, shutting the storm outside.

She caught his icy shirt in her hands and was trying to strip it off him when he stopped her, his hands covering hers, holding them still. Despite the chill of his flesh he was hot, desperately hot, burning against her skin.