Disclaimer: I have absolutely no right to use these characters, just an abiding admiration for the creative work of the cast and crew of The Pretender.  All rights to all characters within this story are owned by NBC and the fine folks who created and slaved over this sorely-missed gem of a series.  Although the story is original, it is a "derivative work" and I claim no copyright.  No profits are made in any way in the writing or distribution of the work.  It is written solely for creative enjoyment.

The only thing worse than being trapped in the middle of nowhere with Broots was being trapped in a snowstorm in the middle of nowhere with Broots. Why? Because now I have to listen to him whine. Miss Parker hissed in a breath as ice trickled down her neck, working its way between the down jacket and thick sweater. She wished she’d never left the Centre. Wished she’d left Broots and Sydney, anyway. Lugging them was like carrying three hundred pounds of excess weight without having the pleasure of eating the ice cream.

"How do you know when you’ve got frostbite?" Broots asked breathlessly. He’d taken his gloves off again and was working his fingers frantically, staring at white skin. Parker gave him a look colder than the falling snow and dodged under a low-hanging pine branch.

"Want me to snap off one of your fingers and find out?" she asked. "Put your gloves back on, Broots. And if you don’t shut up, they’ll be looking for your body until spring thaw. Sydney? How are you doing?"

It was Sydney she was worried about. Not weak by any means, but older, and sometimes a bit fragile. This climb was hard on him, maybe too hard. If she’d had the choice, she would have sent them both packing down the mountain, but it was getting dark, and the storm getting worse --

"I’m fine, Miss Parker," he said hoarsely. "Please, don’t fret."

"Fret?" She raised her eyebrows, or thought she did; her face had gone numb half an hour before. Jarod, I’m going to hurt you so bad -- "Sydney. When have I ever fretted?"

She got a breathless chuckle for that. One more low-hanging branch that showered snow down her back, and she straightened to look down on a steep drop, and a featureless field of white fifteen feet below.

"Oh God," Broots said, pressing against her to peer over her shoulder. "I’m gonna throw up."

"Do it on me and it’ll be the last thing you ever do." She elbowed him back. "We’ll climb down. Broots, you’ve got the rope."

He turned unpacking a coil of nylon into a comic opera. Great. On assignment with the One Stooge. Sydney waited in silence, offering the occasional helpful hand; Parker belayed the rope around a tree and tested it with her full weight before hooking Broots to it.

"Slide," she said. He stared at her, wide-eyed, firmly planted at the edge of the cliff. "Dammit."

She pushed him off. He grabbed at the rope and braked himself, screaming all the way down. She exchanged a look with Sydney.

"Miss Parker," he said reprovingly.

"I promise not to give you the express," she said. "Let me go first, though. I’m afraid you might land on Broots."

"I’d hate to deprive you of the pleasure," he said. He gave her a half-Sydney, more a twinkle than a smile; she grinned back and took hold of the rope. "Shouldn’t you warn him?"

Broots had stopped screaming. She glanced down to where he was standing, staring up at her.

"Why?"

She pushed off.

Once they were all down on the snowfield, Parker took another bearing; shouldn’t be far now. But the snow was flying harder, the temperature dropping, and she didn’t like the pallor of Sydney’s face.

"Okay, let’s move," she shouted over the wind. The cabin was less than an hour ahead, according to the map; not that she trusted maps particularly, especially when Jarod was involved. Natural laws seemed to warp around him, like good judgment. "Syd?"

"I’m fine," he said. He didn’t look fine.

She stuck close to him as they began to wade through the knee-deep snow.

They’d gone a half hour before she realized they were being followed. Perfect. Stuck with the Bobsey Twins and now this. No point in trying to be subtle – three people in the middle of a snow field weren’t exactly inconspicuous – so she stopped and waited for the snowmobiles to roar to a stop nearby.

It was getting dark, and the all-purpose padding concealed the two men driving the vehicles, but she recognized one of them. Or the frown, as he stepped out of the snowmobile, pushed back his ski hat, and said, "Ma’am, I believe I warned you that this was a very bad idea. Damn near the worst one I’ve ever heard. Ain’t nobody up in that cabin, I told you that, and this storm ain’t fooling around. You keep going, you’re gonna get killed."

"Look, Ranger – " She’d forgotten his name. He was just another speed bump in the road, another bureaucratic obstruction, annoying but hardly important. "Let me make this very clear. I am not turning back. If you really want to help me, give me a ride to the cabin."

"No ma’am." He had clear blue eyes, piercingly bright in a wind-burned face. "I’m not taking you any further, it’s foolish. You and your people are getting a ride all right, back downmountain where you can wait out this storm. You still want to check this place out in a couple of days when it’s safe, I’ll bring you personally. But right now that isn’t gonna happen."

The irresistible force – Parker – had met the immovable object. She wasn’t pleased. It was time for suitable sacrifices to be made.

"Fine," she said. "Take Broots and Sydney back. I’m going on."

"No." Ranger Whatever stared at her with those x-ray eyes; she hoped he was enjoying the view. She enhanced it by putting all the steel she possessed into the look she returned him.

"Oh, yes," she smiled. "Broots. Make sure Sydney gets some rest. I’m going to get Jarod. I’ll call when the storm’s over and you can come help me cart him home."

"Uh, Miss Parker – " Broots hesitated. "I don’t think that’s a really good idea."

"Smart man," the Ranger said. "If you keep on, especially alone, we’ll be digging you out come spring."

She turned and started walking. Behind her, Sydney sighed.

"We’d better go," he said, precisely on cue. There were times when she wondered how much Sydney knew, or guessed. "There’s no convincing her, believe me."

"Damn fool woman." The Ranger supervised bundling Broots and Sydney into the snowmobiles. By the time Parker slogged to the shadows of the treeline, they were gone except for the echo of the motors.

She started uphill toward the cabin.

She was looking forward to this.

Or rather, she was, until her foot plunged through a crust of ice and she dropped into a freezing stream. The cold was horrifying, instantly numbing; she tried to get her breath and couldn't manage it, couldn’t seem to get her muscles to respond at all. Get out of the water. It wasn’t very deep – up to her chest – but she couldn’t feel her legs, her arms, anything below water level. She coughed and sputtered and flailed at the snow in front of her, managed to crawl a few feet up and out of the slow-moving icy stream.

Face down in the snow. Lungs burning, skin on fire, cold seeping into the core of her – Get up. Keep moving.

She tried. Staggered on for five or six steps she couldn’t feel before she found herself in the snow again, dazed, staring at a gray sky that turned brighter, whiter, until white was all she could see.

Whiteout.

Then nothing.

Burning. Parker woke up slowly, foggily, in a lot of pain. Her skin was on fire and for a second she thought she was trapped somewhere, flames all around, but that had been a dream, hadn’t it? Not fire.

Cold.

She was wrapped in layers of warm blankets, but her skin still ached from the icy water, and she felt exhausted, too tired to think. She touched her face with her left hand; she could still feel that, at least. No permanent damage. God.

She couldn’t move her right hand. It was handcuffed to the bed – a massive wooden thing, hand-carved, the mattress stuffed with what felt like goosedown.

Oh, hell. This was not how she’d planned things.

Jarod was feeding wood into the fireplace; he must have heard her move, because he put the rest of it down and came to her side, sat on the edge of the bed and reached out to lay his hand alongside her face. His skin was deliriously warm. It reminded her how close she’d come to being cold for good.

"Welcome back," he said. He adjusted the covers around her, never taking those intense dark eyes away from her face. Even as in his persona as Mountain Man Jarod retained that elegance she remembered – a three-day growth of beard couldn’t hide the strong clean lines of his face, couldn’t lessen the impact of his incredible smile. Focus, Parker. She rattled the handcuff for attention.

"Fun and games?" Her voice sounded harsh and wounded. And weak. Don’t forget weak.

He tilted his head.

"Precautions," he corrected. "You ought to take it as a compliment, I’ve learned not to underestimate you. How do you feel?"

"Freezing," she whispered. "I suppose you’re waiting for me to say thank you."

"Not especially. Sorry about the clothes, I had to get you out of them. They were frozen solid, and you nearly were. I had to give you a hot bath just to get your core temperature back."

Oh. She was, she realized, naked under the blankets. Well. That ignited some warmth, all right. Though it had probably been Jarod in rescue mode, and he’d probably hardly noticed –

"You surprised me," he said, and bent forward, slowly, until he was just inches away, his body heat stroking the cold out of her. "If you’d had any sense you would have stayed away."

"I knew you were here. I knew it. I wasn’t about to let you get away this time."

"You sent Sydney and Broots back down the mountain," he said. Oh, God, those lips, she wanted them so badly. Was it possible to feel so cold and so incredibly hot at the same time? "Why?"

"Sydney’s not up to it."

"Not the entire reason." Jarod reached out and brushed hair back from her cheek, his fingers lingering. The contact sent pulses of heat through her, stupid, but she couldn’t deny that he was waging a serious assault on her self control. "You knew if you made it here you’d be stuck for days."

"Maybe." His fingers traced the line of her jaw, down the side of her neck, to the hollows of her collarbone, oh God, the look in his eyes was enough to give set of tiny explosions in her, it wouldn’t take much to – "Forget it, Jarod. Vacation’s over."

She was talking about Cozumel, weeks of vivid memories that she only thought about in private, memories that still had the power to raise her pulse and shorten her breath. Jarod had taken a chance with her, and she with him; it could have destroyed them. If the Centre ever found out, it still could.

"Then why didn’t you turn back with the others?" he asked. A very sensible question, one to which she had any number of sensible answers. Their eyes locked, and his were so warm, so dark, so endless. She couldn’t stop herself from reaching out to him, touching the rough warmth of his cheek. She loved the shiver that worked its way through him at the contact.

"Because I always get my man," she said. "You know that."

Something flashed in his eyes, something dark and riveting and altogether sexy that made her short of breath, made her forget all about the touch of ice water. He leaned forward, very close, so close it was like a full-body caress of warmth. Not quite touching, and as near as made no difference. As real as made no difference.

He slid his hand up her bared arm to the handcuff. Trapped it cold between them.

"You’re chilled to the bone," he said. "Lie there and think warm thoughts. I’ll make you something hot to drink."

"Jarod -- "

He pulled away. She sank down into the warm embrace of the bed, shivered, curled up on her side and watched his strong back as he spooned coffee into a pot and put it on to brew. He took unnecessary time at it.

Hell. She tried the handcuff, but she was still weak, and too focused on shaking off the chill to worry about freedom just now. Freedom to do what? Go for another walk in the snow? Pace the cabin?

This was not working out the way she’d planned. Not at all.

She closed her eyes and weariness dragged at her like gravity. Warmer, she was feeling warmer, memories of sunlight and gauze curtains and azure sea, that wide white bed, Jarod’s body arched above hers in the morning light --

Stop it, Parker. But it was such a nice dream.

I’d never hurt you, he’d said, and traced the promise on her skin, written it deep inside her.

I’ll never let you go, she’d said. And she’d meant it, in ways she’d never imagined she could.

"Parker." A touch on her arm shocked her back to the present, to Jarod watching her, something like concern in his eyes. He sat down on the bed next to her and held out a steaming mug; she smelled the rich, earthy tang of coffee, wrapped one hand around the warmth and wriggled up to a sitting position.

The blankets slid south. She tried to hold them with her elbow, slopped coffee over the side to spatter on the blankets. Jarod rescued the cup. She readjusted the covers.

Standoff.

Parker widened her eyes and rattled the handcuff. The message, she thought, was pretty clear.

So was his answer. He handed her the cup, stood up and turned his back.

"Bastard," she whispered, but drank the coffee.

Damn him for making it just the way she liked it.

Two hours later, she was warm and dry, and thoroughly pissed off.

Not to mention that the coffee, however lovely it had been, was causing her certain problems that weren’t going to be solved with her right hand chained to a bedpost.

"Hey," she said. Across the room, Jarod was building what looked like the Sears Tower out of wooden blocks, with immense concentration and absolute seriousness. Great. I’m the prisoner of Peter Pan. "Hey!"

He placed a wooden block with absolute precision, surveyed the result, and sat back in his chair. "Jenga blocks," he said. "Have you ever noticed that except for the name carved in the side, they’re exactly like an ordinary block of wood?"

"Listen, toy boy, unless you want to have a very messy problem, I need a bathroom break."

She rattled the handcuff, just in case he’d forgotten.

"Please tell me you’ve got a flush toilet," she muttered as he came toward her, pulling a handcuff key out of his pocket. "I’ve had about all of the outhouses I can stand running around after you."

"Unfair. I only locked you in one outhouse.," Jarod said.

"You left a clue in a chemical toilet," she said as he bent over with the key. "I think that counts. A chemical toilet on a construction site."

A click of the key, and her hand fell free, weirdly weightless; she rubbed her wrist, even though it didn’t really hurt. Seemed like the thing to do. Jarod straightened but stayed close, as if he couldn’t decide how far to draw away. Both hands free. I could --

She could do a lot of things, only half of which she ought to be thinking about. What the hell had he done with her gun?

And why didn’t she care more?

Jarod was watching her with that look in his eyes again, dark and focused and completely open.

"I have a shirt and some sweat pants," he said. "Not quite your usual style, but -- "

"I’ll cope." She watched him turn away and open a drawer. Plaid flannel. Oh, God. He turned his back and let her slip into the sweats and shirt and a pair of thick socks he’d put out for her. She could have taken him down, then. Maybe. And maybe not. She was still too tired to try. "Bathroom?"

He turned to look at her and gave her a very Jarod-like smile.

"If you tell me plaid is my color, I’ll shoot you if it’s the last thing I do," she said. He pointed wordlessly toward a pine door at the back.

It was, surprisingly enough, a decent bathroom. A big claw-footed tub, massive enough to withstand a bomb blast; a genuine working flush toilet, a sink and mirror. The mirror was too much. Her hair had lost its curl and hung straight against her neck, and her makeup -- what little was left -- looked as if it had been applied at a funeral home. She washed her face clean and surveyed the results critically.

She’d never been a fan of the natural look, but when in Rome --

She came back into the bedroom -- the only room -- to find Jarod had started some kind of meal on the stove, something involving chili. Ugh. The nightmare would never end.

"How’s your father?" he asked. She gave him a long, withering look and sat down on the bed again. The sleeves of the shirt writhed down over her hands; she folded them up in precise, angry movements. "I heard he had some heart problems."

"Thanks to you." It was an unfair thing to say, and he told her so in the wordless look he gave her. "He’s fine. The doctors did an angioplasty, they say he’ll probably outlive me. Speaking of which, where are my cigarettes?"

"They got soaked," Jarod said. He sounded so damn cheerful about it. "Sorry."

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to think about how she was going to get through the next several hours. Days. Well, on the up side, she was going to take it out on Jarod. That was a change from taking it out on Sydney and Broots. At least Jarod would give as good as he got.

She sat down at the wooden table and concentrated on soaking up heat from the fireplace. It was really strangely peaceful here. The wind howled outside, and beyond the wind was whiteout, but in here -- with Jarod --

She shut her eyes again and let it go.

The chili actually smelled good. Terrible for my ulcer, though. And I’m fresh out of Pepto-Bismol.

As if she’d magicked it there, a bowl rattled on the table in front of her, and the warm, fresh, delicious smell of the chili swept over her. Oh, God, she was hungry. She hadn’t eaten since -- since --

"No thanks," she said, and shoved the bowl away. Jarod set his own bowl down and pulled up a chair.

"I made it mild," he said.

Which was distinctly unsettling, because he’d just reheated, so far as she could tell. Which meant he’d made a batch of mild chili, when he preferred hot, with the clear expectation of sharing it with --

Damn him, anyway. She glared at the food as if it might jump out and go hand-to-hand with her. Jarod, unconcerned, shoveled his in with every evidence of loving it.

She waited an agonizing five minutes before she picked up the spoon and started to eat. Oh, God, it was sex on a spoon, tangy and warm, and it left her with a warm, sated glow, too. Not even a hint of stomach cramps. Wow. The cure for ulcers was Jarod’s chili. Or Jarod.

She let him collect the dishes and wash them. Something very restful about that, watching him do the dishes. No man ever hung around her house long enough to dirty anything but a wine glass, much less wash it. And the idea of her father washing up was ludicrous. That was what servants were for.

"New occupation for you," she said aloud. "Dishwasher. It’s good you’re expanding your skills, you’ll be that much more valuable to the Centre when I get you back."

Which was not what she meant to say at all. Jarod rinsed soap suds from the bowls and dried them with a dishtowel.

"You don’t have to defend, Parker," he said mildly. "Nobody’s attacking."

"You are. You’re trying to change the rules."

That stung him, made him turn toward her with his dark eyes narrowed and frighteningly focused. "Why would I do that? This game is so much fun. Don’t you think I like being stalked like an animal, never able to build a home, a life -- "

His sarcasm scorched and left a bitter ashen taste in her mouth. She met his eyes without flinching, even though there was more than a bit of Dangerous Jarod in that stare, like a panther watching prey …

"Yes," she said softly. "I think you do. Matching wits with us is your only real satisfaction, because you don’t have a life without someone else to define who you are. The Centre’s always going to be the big, bad bogeyman under your bed, don’t you think it hides under mine? When you’re running, when you’re manipulating the Centre -- manipulating me -- you’re in control. And you do so like to be in control, don’t you?"

It sliced into him, surgically precise. For just an instant he was a wounded child, and she was shaken by her own cruelty.

For just an instant. And then the panther pounced. He could move so well, so unexpectedly -- she barely had time to throw up her arm to block the punch, but it wasn’t a punch, he’d known how she’d react and he’d feinted to make her throw up her arm, and now he’d trapped her wrist in his large, strong hand, and he was pulling her off balance, against him --

"Yes," he whispered. It was a raw, rough sound, not any voice she knew from him. Something scraped up out of the wounded depths. "I like being in control."

He pushed her back, threw her against the bed. She lost her balance and fell full length into its soft grip; as she reached for leverage, he caught her right wrist again.

Snapped the handcuff closed, cold metal around her arm, cold down her spine because this person looking at her right now wasn’t Jarod, at least not the Jarod she’d always seen before. She’d torn something open in him, all right. And she didn’t like what she saw underneath.

"How do you like being out of control, Miss Parker?" he asked. He pinned her down effortlessly, his upper body strength at least twice hers. She had no leverage to kick, but as if he’d thought of that he knelt astride her on the bed, trapping her legs, trapped, she didn’t like the ugly panic that flooded her, didn’t like any of this anymore.

Sydney had warned her about this, long ago. Jarod clings to certain things as constants in his universe. If you interfere with one of those, you risk bringing about a major change in his behavior. I do not think that would be advisable.

No shit, Sydney.

"Jarod," she said, meaning to try something soft, maybe even apologetic.

He kissed her, lips parted, effectively stopping anything she might say no matter how important. Like no. He made it a seductive, dark, demanding kiss, something that ached through her and stoked arousal to a bonfire. She had to return the kiss. Her body wouldn’t give her any choice.

Her lips felt bruised when he pulled away. They were both breathing too hard, and her muscles ached and trembled. I’ve been infected with Jarod Fever. Even if treated, it was probably fatal. It would certainly kill her not to kiss him again, right now.

"You’d like to handcuff me, wouldn’t you," he murmured. She knew that Jarod, his voice low and silky and controlled. He was the one who called her at nights, carried on that careful, double-blind seduction.

"Yes," she whispered. His lips were only an inch away, so close, so maddeningly close. "I’d like to drag you back to the Centre by the hair for what you’ve put me through. I’d like to feel you suffer."

Oh, God, his hands were on her now, unbuttoning the flannel shirt. Where the buttons gaped, he touched skin, set off miniature atomic explosions deep inside her. It wasn’t fair, she wasn’t supposed to be suffering. Suffering so wonderfully.

"Stop," she whispered to the fingertips that trailed a hot line between her breasts.

"Why?"

"Because -- "

"Because you’re out of control." He finished opening the last button, sat back -- oh, God, his weight against her crotch … she fought the need to arch her back against him -- and he began to unbutton his own shirt, as if he knew she craved the sight of him, too, not just the touch. "Because you’re disoriented and scared and you need to be the one to give the orders, Miss Parker."

There was something about the handcuff, the single handcuff -- she was restrained, not trapped. Compelled but not threatened.

It was an unbelievable, unstoppable turn-on.

He was shredding all the rule books she’d ever used for sex. How did he know this? How did he know her so well?

He kissed her again, and this time she moaned, the fuse to orgasm already lit, and the unbearable slide of his skin on hers made her want to weep with frustration.

"Please -- " she whispered.

It was the first time she’d ever asked. The first time.

He pulled back, inches away, and she drowned in the depths of his eyes.

"You can say no, Parker," he said. She felt his voice inside her, like stroking hands. "You know I’d never take that away from you."

"I know," she whispered. She no longer recognized her own voice. It came from that deep, wounded place she’d never been able to touch before, that place where losing control meant losing herself, becoming -- becoming --

She was dissolving into something else, not Miss Parker, not her father’s daughter, something --

-- something free --

"Please," she whispered again, breathed it into his mouth like a prayer. "Please, Jarod, oh, God, please -- "

He answered the prayer.

So beautiful. Jarod’s hand traced her cheek lightly, not quite enough to wake her and open those steel-blue eyes. So much strength. So much pain. He’d never met anyone like her. He supposed -- sometimes hoped -- he never would. He wanted her to remain -- unique.

He ran his fingertip over her parted lips, remembering tastes, touches, words that still resonating in his skin. It had been therapy for himself as much as her. No Pretending. He’d been Jarod with her, just Jarod, and she forced him to acknowledge so many things about himself.

In the end, neither of them had been in control, and that was probably a good thing.

Her right wrist was circled held by the steel handcuff. I should take that off now. But -- on a level he didn’t quite understand -- he didn’t want to. The sight of her bound like that was incredibly …

He took a deep breath and thought about something else. Smiled.

She’d be hungry when she woke up.

He slid out of bed, wincing at the bite of cold against his bare feet; the fire had burned low. He fished his blue jeans from the tangle on the floor and pulled them on, added an unbuttoned flannel shirt and a pair of thick socks before he went to tend the fire.

He’d just picked up the first log to add when, without any warning, the front door of the cabin burst open.

Not the wind. Oh, there was a blast of chill, swirling snow, but it hadn’t been the wind that had pushed open that door. Jarod saw the glint of black metal and threw himself aside just as a gunshot cracked and the smell of burnt powder invaded the room; he landed on the wooden floor and looked for cover. Nothing. Trapped.

Parker had done this to him. It was his turn to lose control, hers to gain it. Nothing so simple as a handcuff, now. This was a noose, tightening around his throat.

"Get up, Jarod." He knew the voice, knew it and hated it with a burst of violence that amazed him. Not Miss Parker’s doing, then. She might make some questionable alliances, but never this one.

Never with Mr. Lyle, that smiling, slick, corporate sadist. He of the missing thumb.

The man who’d killed Jarod’s brother.

"Get up," Lyle repeated. He sounded utterly bored. "Don’t make me shoot you in the back, it isn’t nearly as much fun."

Lyle wasn’t alone. There were two men with him, anonymous in thick parkas, wind scarves, gloves. Sweepers, or the equivalent. Both held guns with the casual neglect of men who’d gotten too comfortable with their use.

Jarod slowly stood. He didn’t glance at the bed; he hoped that Parker might have buried herself under the covers, might be mistaken for a lump of bedding --

"Lyle," Jarod said. Keep watching me. "How’d you find me?"

"You’re kidding," Lyle said. He was a lot more polished than he’d been the last time they’d met, but the menace was still there, under the veneer of good humor. "You left a wide enough trail for a pack of Girl Scouts to follow. Oh! Look! Here’s one now."

Without turning toward the bed, he took hold of the blankets and pulled – a slow, steady unveiling.

Parker looked enraged and vulnerable as the blankets slid back from her face, down the creamy expanse of her neck –

She grabbed them in her left hand and jerked them out of Lyle’s grip.

"Sweet," Lyle murmured. "Well, you are living well, Jarod. Nice house, no neighbors, a naked Miss Parker handcuffed in your bed – life doesn’t get any better than this. Let’s have a beer."

Lyle pulled up a chair at the table, staring at him. Aimed the gun.

"I said, let’s have a beer. Don’t make me get it myself."

Jarod opened the refrigerator.

The only thing that was stopping her from killing Lyle was the handcuff. Not the sweepers – Parker dismissed them with contempt, they were second-string losers she would’ve kicked off her team on first sight – not Lyle’s gun. Not her current lack of clothing. In fact, seeing her come at him naked would make him hesitate before he shot her, and then she would have had time to make suffer and die.

Unfortunately, there was the little problem of the handcuff.

So, she waited.

And steamed.

"Business proposition," Lyle said. He was drinking his beer as though he enjoyed it; Jarod, on the other hand, hadn’t touched the open bottle he’d been forced to set out for himself. "You hate the Centre, I hate the Centre. Let’s do a little deal, Jarod. Your brains, my – brains, we can bring down that chamber of horrors like the House of Usher, with all your enemies inside."

"Last I heard, you planned to use me to buy your way back into that chamber of horrors," Jarod said. He was staring at Lyle with the fixed intensity of a predator, and those eyes – what glittered in those eyes was dangerous. Don’t kill him, Jarod. He’s mine.

Then again, Jarod had cause. She remembered that terrible lost look on his face as he held his brother’s dead body, that blind agony. Lyle had done that to him. Taken away the only vestige of family he’d found.

There’d be an opportunity. There was always an opportunity, if you weren’t too fussy about being hurt in the process. Jarod knew that.

"Well, I changed my mind," Lyle shrugged. He tipped the bottle to catch the last bits of foam clinging to the sides. "Got a better offer, you might say. Tell me, Jarod, have you ever heard of the Cooperative?"

Jarod said nothing, and nothing registered in his body language, but Parker felt the name crawl under her skin. She knew it, though she hadn’t heard word about them for nearly five years – some of the more radical elements of Centre management, dissatisfied with the careful policies, had formed their own cadre and started taking on projects the Centre turned away. Research on the effectiveness of certain kinds of torture, for instance. Development of extremely dangerous bioweapons. She didn’t have all the details, but anything the Centre considered too distasteful to meddle with was bad indeed.

And that was just what she knew about the Cooperative. What she’d heard rumored –

Lyle was a perfect recruit for them.

"They’re vying for some of the same contracts as the Centre, and the addition of someone like you to their research staff – well, I can’t tell you how grateful they be for the chance to benefit from your genius."

"You’re going to stick him in another cage," Parker said. Lyle hooked an arm over the back of his chair and turned to look at her, gave her the slick perfect smile and dead eyes. "Why bother with the sales pitch? You don’t convert a lab rat, you catch him."

"Jarod’s far more than a lab rat. He was even at the Centre, with all their short-sighted attitudes. They’d never have gone to this much trouble and expense for just another white mouse to run through the mazes, even you have to be smart enough to realize that, Parker, unless genetics have finally caught up with you. How’s Daddy, by the way? Arteries getting a little clogged? Surprising, I would’ve bet the old bastard didn’t even have a heart."

She needed to wipe that smile off his face. Jarod did it for her.

"Not a nice way to talk about your father," he said.

Lyle stopped smiling. He turned toward Jarod, giving her a profile view of wide, dark, empty eyes and a face too normal for what went through that sick little mind.

"Not funny," he said. Jarod tilted his head and watched him. Took his first sip of beer. She remembered the routine, it had worked so well on her that night in the cabin by the lake. Keep him guessing. Keep moving the goalpost until he trips.

"Come on, Lyle, you must have had some idea, after all, it was you who took the information out of the Satellite offices. You knew about the Red Files. You knew all about the breeding program." Jarod’s eyes briefly touched Parker’s, but there was nothing but calculation in the look now. "You and Parker. I always thought apples didn’t fall far from the Daddy tree. You make a perfect pair of psychotic bookends."

She knew what he was doing, but it still hurt in places made tender by his touch. He was trying to put her on Lyle’s side, give her a chance.

She could have told him it was useless.

Lyle laughed, turned and looked at Parker again. She really didn’t like the darkness in his eyes this time.

"Wow," he said. "Sis! You know, Jarod, you really should have thought about my family track record before you told me that. Dear old Mom’s out of her head – dear old dad’s rotting in a cell, and my former best friend – well, he’s just rotting. If I’d had a sister, I might have cut her head off, too. Especially if she looked like Parker."

"I don’t think so," Jarod said. He sounded so calm, so in control. She resisted the urge to yank futilely at the handcuff. Wait until I’m in control, you smug bastard, I’ll show you how to play head games – God, she hated being helpless. "You thought I might be your ticket back into the Centre. What about her? What would Mr. Parker pay for the safe return of his golden girl?"

Lyle froze for a second, and then that grin returned, that damn toothpaste-ad grin she wanted to knock out of his mouth.

"Oh, that’s your game. Frankly, Jarod, I was wondering if you’d acquired a more – sophisticated side since I last saw you. A bit of a taste for the louche. I’d like to flatter myself that it was my influence, but – of course, here you have Miss Parker naked and handcuffed and the only thing you’re thinking about is her ransom value. You really are a Boy Scout, aren’t you?"

She really didn’t like the look Lyle gave her this time. No, no, no, you bastard –

"If she’s just merchandise," Lyle said, "You won’t mind me taking inventory."

Jarod grabbed his arm as he started to get up. Lyle raised the gun and put the muzzle directly to Jarod’s forehead.

"Actually, I do mind," Jarod said steadily. On the wrong side of the gun, his eyes were dark and focused. "Leave her alone, Lyle. She’s more valuable this way."

"Stop lying." The gun pressed harder. "She’s valuable to you. Here’s a tip, Jarod: this room doesn’t just smell like the chili you made for lunch. You think I don’t know you’re lying to me? You think I don’t know what you’ve been doing with our little Miss Daddy’s Girl? Well, I’ll give you this much, Jarod. I won’t kill her. Now get up."

Jarod slowly rose. Lyle kept the gun pressed to his head.

"Better get your coat," Lyle said. "It’s chilly."

"We’ll die out there."

"Something you probably haven’t noticed about me, Jarod: I don’t die. Relax, I came prepared, unlike Miss Parker. Snowmobiles down the mountain to a nice little clearing I know, where my helicopter is waiting. By the time we get there, the wind ought to be light enough to take off. From there, a nonstop flight to the new facility the Cooperative built just for you. You ought to feel honored – I’m told it’s very advanced. No convenient ductwork for you to fit through, no allies like Sydney helping you manipulate the system. No Miss Parkers to help stoke your libido, either – sorry about that – but then I’m sure the kind of problems they’ll be asking you to solve won’t be sex therapy."

Jarod didn’t move. Lyle turned the gun until the muzzle was an unblinking eye staring right at Parker. She stared back, fury building in her. Wait. Wait. There’s always a chance –

"Get your coat," Lyle said softly. "Because I’m all out of jolly patience, and believe me, I really do want to shoot this bitch."

Jarod opened a coat closet and took out a thick parka, Thinsulate pull-on pants, gloves, a scarf and hat. He put it all on in silence, without looking at her.

The two sweepers, like good little bulldogs, had remained standing in the corner, waiting. Extras in the drama, like her. One of them was watching her with a glint she thought might be useful, but he was too well trained a doggy to try to steal any treats.

Jarod was ready. Lyle gave her his corporate smile again. Come here. Come within grabbing range, you weasel –

"Let’s go," he said. He gestured to the sweepers, who snapped handcuffs on Jarod’s wrists – she could have told them that was a waste of time – and took hold of him by the elbows. Jarod tried to play for time.

"What about her?" he asked. One of the sweepers opened the door out into the storm.

"Well," Lyle said, "I don’t want to be cruel. Wait – yes I do."

He reached over and grabbed a handful of blankets. Pulled too fast and too hard for her to stop him. The covers slid away, left her exposed. He wadded them up and threw them on the floor.

Cold air swept over her, burned away by fury. Lyle gave her a long, insolent look, raised an eyebrow and said, "Nice. Too bad, really, sis – if you are my sister, of course."

He nodded to the sweepers. They pushed Jarod out the door. Lyle took hold of the doorknob, smiled, and shook his head.

"Sleep well," he said, and left the door open.

"Shit," Parker said.

She watched them disappear into the storm.

It was cold, she was shaking already, and the temperature in this little room, with the fire almost out, would drop to nothing quickly.

He’d left her to freeze.

She stripped off the bottom sheet and wrapped it around her body like a brushed cotton cocoon – not much help, but something. She sat up and looked at the handcuff – cold steel, no Houdini tricks, he’d been careful about that, at least. He’d tightened the cuff past the point where she could slip her hand through, but she tried anyway, biting her lip against the pain, keeping up a steady stream of curses when she thought it might help.

Jarod wouldn’t have been handcuffed to the bed in the first place. Or if he were, he’d have a key –

A key –

Lyle had one thing right about Jarod, he was a Boy Scout – he was always prepared. If he’d planned to use the handcuffs, he’d also have foreseen the eventuality that they might be used on him. Especially if she was involved. All right, I’m Jarod, Parker got the drop on me and handcuffed me to the bedpost. What now?

Nothing in the sheets, the pillow under her head. The flannel shirt she managed to retrieve from the floor. She felt methodically along the bed frame with shaking fingers, God, it was so cold, so –

Her fingers came across a piece of metal that moved. She tried to pick it up but fumbled it.

It fell, a shining silver star of hope, hit the floor, and bounced …

… under the bed.

"No!" she screamed in utter fury. Writhed off the bed, went to her knees with her left arm at fullest extension in the handcuff. Groped under the bed.

The key was just out of reach.

"Uh – Miss Parker – "

She knew that voice.

She’d just been saved by Broots.

"Just get the key, Broots," she said. "And I swear to God, if you say one word about this to anybody, ever, I’ll personally dispose of your body."

He blinked, pulled a scarf away from his face in a shower of ice crystals, and said, "I believe you."

"Get the goddamn key."

"Sydney called your father," Broots said as she laced up a second pair of Jarod’s boots – socks stuffed in the toes to make them wearable – and surveyed the selection of coats. Thank God, Jarod had come up here equipped for survival. She picked out a first-rate parka and insulating pants to go over her borrowed sweats; plenty of masks, gloves, scarves. She took the pick of the litter and looked for her gun.

He’d hid it well, but not well enough. At least he’d had the decency to seal it in a plastic baggie before burying it in the flour canister.

"Daddy told you to get your ass after me," she said.

"He said it would be my job if I didn’t try, and my head if I didn’t succeed. I borrowed a snowmobile – "

"Good," she said. "Let’s get moving."

"But – " Broots looked pitifully grateful for the renewed blaze of the fire; he was just starting to thaw out. Oh, God, Broots had seen her naked. This was not something she was ever going to be able to live down. Ever. At least the cold wind had washed the smell of sex out of the room, or she’d have to kill him.

"Just do it." She checked the clip on her gun, slammed it back in with an authoritative click. "I want Jarod. But more than that, I want Lyle."

Broots didn’t remind her that he wasn’t a Sweeper, didn’t have a gun, wasn’t qualified for the job. She gave him points for that. And for making the first thing on entering the room covering her up.

There were times when Broots was a very valuable guy.

She hoped this was one of them.

The storm was like a living thing, screaming even through the layers of coats and scarves and Thinsulate; Parker began to wonder, quickly, if she’d made the right choice. Then again, Jarod in the hands of the Cooperative – that wouldn’t be good. Not for Jarod, and certainly not for the Centre.

The tracks of Lyle’s snowmobile were fading fast. She pushed the throttle as hard as she dared, Broots a warm presence at her back, and the world narrowed to just that: the shriek of the wind, the narrow white ribbon of fading trail, the conviction that she would not lose, not this time.

She owed Lyle for leaving her like that. And she intended to deliver payment in full.

Broots hammered on her back – he had to do it hard, to penetrate the layers – and pointed slightly off-track at something flickering in the whiteout.

Fire.

She steered to a halt at the burning wreckage of the other snowmobile. Two bodies lay in the snow, one of them still weakly moving; she stripped off snow masks and recognized Lyle’s two sweepers. Broots was radioing for help, but one of them was beyond it, his neck twisted at an angle not made in nature; the other was bleeding hot red from a sliced femoral artery. She tried a tourniquet, but he’d lost too much blood.

No need for any Red Cross.

She found two sets of footprints leading away from the wreckage, both running. One fleeing, one chasing. No telling which was which. Lyle and Jarod had both gotten away.

A hundred feet farther on, one of them had fallen through the ice of a frozen stream. Disturbed snow on both banks showed her that he’d tried to climb out, but there was no sign he’d made it.

There was a body floating under the ice, a dark shadow; she inched carefully down and wiped snow from ice until she had a makeshift window.

Lyle floated face up, his face gone stark-white, his eyes wide. Mouth open, no longer smiling.

She felt a weary surge of satisfaction, and disgust.

Hard to fake this one, she thought, and keyed her radio. Broots answered.

"Lyle’s dead," she shouted into it. She watched the body float downstream, lazy in the current. "No sign of Jarod!"

"The Rangers are on their way!" Broots’ voice crackled back. "Should we keep searching?"

She lifted her gaze to the other side of the bank. He’d cleared the stream in one leap, she saw the deep marks where he’d landed. Fresh marks.

She looked farther up the slope.

He was a shadow in the trees, watching her. Hidden by swirls of white.

She raised her hand. It might have been a goodbye, or a warning, or a threat. She honestly didn’t know.

"No," she said. "We’d never get him in this."

When the white swirl cleared, he was gone.

Be careful, she thought. This isn’t over.

She didn’t know if she was saying it to him, or to herself.