Free Wolfe Wedding by Joan Hohl Page A

scowl.
    She rushed on. “I mean it stands to reason that if you can’t get down the road, then that man, that criminal, can’t get up the road, either.” She foughtto keep the note of triumph from her voice; she didn’t quite succeed. “Isn’t that right?”
    “Sure,” he readily agreed. Then he delivered the pinprick that burst her balloon. “That is, of course, unless he is already up here.”
    Sandra grimaced; she hadn’t thought of that.

Six
    T he day dragged even more than the previous night, and was fraught with tension.
    Cameron was moody and mostly silent, deflecting her few innocuous remarks with growled monosyllables, which in turn sparked a fire of anger and discontent inside Sandra.
    At regular, almost predictable intervals, he prowled to the window to glare out at the road, as if willing the ice to melt from the heat of his angry stare.
    Not only did the ice not melt, but by late afternoon the temperature had plummeted, ensuringthat the frigid conditions would last through the coming night and into the morning.
    And throughout the day, whenever a branch creaked from the weight of the ice, or a window rattled from the gusty wind, he went stock-still and alert, eyes narrowed, muscles taut, as if readying for action.
    In those moments, he was more than unnerving; he was flat-out frightening.
    While preparing dinner, Sandra surprised herself by suddenly wishing for a warming trend and thaw that would set her free from her confinement inside the cabin, even if it meant being hustled back to Denver.
    Being caged with a restless, disgruntled Wolfe was not her idea of a relaxing vacation.
    “What are you cooking?”
    Though Sandra started, she managed to hold back a yelp of surprise at the unexpected and almost human sound of his voice so close behind her. Composing herself, she slowly turned to look at him.
    “Snails and puppy-dog tails?” he went on, in a peacemaking, cajoling tone.
    “I’m fresh out of those,” she rejoined dryly. “You’ll have to settle for meat loaf.”
    “I love meat loaf.” He gave her a tentative smile; she didn’t return it.
    “Most men do.” She turned back to peeling potatoes. “So do I,” she said, leaving him under no illusions that she had chosen the meal to pacify him.
    “You’re really ticked, aren’t you?”
    “Me? Ticked?” She swung around again, this time brandishing the paring knife. “Why ever would you think that I’d be ticked?”
    Eyeing her warily, Cameron took a satisfying step back. “Careful with that thing,” he murmured in warning.
    “This thing?” She held the knife aloft, relishing the moment as she examined it, before giving him a droll glance. “Afraid I’ll peel you along with the potatoes?”
    “Feel inclined to take a strip off my hide, do you?” Amusement laced his serious voice.
    “I feel inclined to tell you to go—”
    His beeper sounded, overriding her need to vent her anger and resentment. Frustrated, hating the damn beeper, and pretty close to hating him at the moment, she watched him stride into the living room to where he had left the dratted thing on an end table.
    Swinging around, she rinsed the potato, quartered it, placed the pieces in the roast pan with the other chunks of potatoes, carrots, onions and celery arranged around the meat loaf, then shoved the pan into the oven.
    When she turned again, Cameron was standing propped against the kitchen wall, his back to her, talking softly into the phone.
    More trouble? she wondered, heaving a sigh. Not wishing to appear at all interested, she took off for the bedroom, to shower and change before dinner.
    She lingered beneath the shower spray, half believing Cameron might join her there.
    He didn’t. Nor did he enter the room while she was dressing. Optimistically hoping his call had been good news—like the information that the escaped criminal had been apprehended, thereby allowing them to resolve their differences, if that was possible, and get on with their