Footprints in the Snow. Cassie Miles
turned to the other man. “And you?”
“I don’t have to tell you my name.”
He pushed back his hood, revealing black hair in a bowl cut like one of the Three Stooges. She decided to think of him as Moe. He took the wallet from Henry and studied her license. “Parisi, huh? Are you Italian?”
“My grandparents were from Italy. Naples.”
“The land of Mussolini.”
Moe and Henry exchanged a meaningful glance and nodded. The land of Mussolini? Oh, please. Anger surged through her veins. “I’m not a spy.”
“Then what are you?” Moe demanded. “You’re not one of those Mafiosos, are you? A girlfriend of Al Capone?”
Could he possibly be more stereotypical and insulting? Obviously, “political correctness” had not been part of the vocabulary in 1945. “Not all Italians are part of the Mafia.”
Young Henry thrust her cell phone toward her. “What’s this thing?”
“A telephone. It’s not working right now.”
“That’s a load of malarkey.” He gave a snort. “A telephone without wires. Like a walkie-talkie. This looks like spy equipment to me.”
Moe snapped her wallet closed. “This license is a bad forgery. They got your birthday wrong. Says here that you were born in 1974. That’s almost thirty years from now.”
Because it’s 1945. That idea was beginning to sink into her consciousness. These two men—Henry and Moe—were clearly from a bygone era.
“You got one more chance,” Moe said, “And you better be telling me God’s own truth. Why are you here in this restricted area?”
“If you talk to Luke,” she said, “he can explain.”
Moe scowled as he shoved her belongings into her backpack and tossed it toward her. “We’ll take her to Luke,” he said as if it was his very own idea. “Come on, Henry. Let’s escort Miss Parisi into camp.”
FRUSTRATION BOILED in Luke’s blood. The men he’d been chasing had gotten away clean. He’d failed in his pursuit.
When he’d spotted them, they were peering down at Camp Hale with binoculars. They fled when he approached, then opened fire with their handguns. Luke was sure he’d winged one of them before they skied out of range and hopped into a waiting vehicle. He should have had them, should have aimed more carefully, should have skied faster.
Though Captain Hughes hadn’t reprimanded him, Luke knew he’d screwed up a simple mission of protecting the perimeters at Camp Hale. After his years of training in mountain combat, he should have been more effective.
And now, he had Shana to deal with.
He stormed into the vacant office where she was being held. Closing the door behind him, he said, “I told you to wait for me at the cabin.”
“I don’t take orders from you.”
“Maybe you should. You’re in serious trouble, lady.”
As she stood and faced him, he realized that this was the first time he’d seen her fully dressed and in control. She was impressive, very composed. Her confidence was high, and her bearing reminded him of the lady officers in the Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps.
With her thick black hair tamed in a knot at the nape of her neck and her maroon turtleneck tucked neatly into her black ski pants, she looked nothing like the passionate woman from last night…until she smiled with those full, ripe, kissable lips.
Calmly, she said, “I might have stayed in the cabin if you’d told me there were gunmen wandering the slopes. Or that I might be in danger.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
“You should have explained.”
She was right. He should have taken the time this morning to tell her that Camp Hale was heavily guarded while the scientists from Project Y were on the premises. Instead, he’d allowed his emotions to overrule his common sense.
When he woke up this morning and realized that he’d rescued such a beautiful woman, something inside him shifted. Their kiss reminded him that he was still alive, still capable of passion. Still a man.
He hadn’t felt that way since his tour of duty in Italy when he saw the devastation of battle firsthand. Small villages shattered under the boot heel of war. Families torn asunder. The suffering. The pain.
Luke was a soldier; his duty was to follow orders. But the first time he’d looked into the eyes of a German soldier and pulled the trigger, the first time he saw a man die, he was changed. He’d gone numb inside. Become a hollow man.
Roberto had given him a reason to hope, but he had to leave the boy behind. The emptiness consumed him. He’d felt nothing until last night with Shana. This morning, he should have been thanking her instead of running away in confusion.
She cocked her head and looked up at him. “Why do your men think I’m a spy?”
“Are you?”
Her beautiful brown eyes narrowed to angry slits. “Of course not.”
He shrugged. “If you were a spy, you wouldn’t tell me.”
Henry and Martin were convinced that she was Mata Hari. They’d waved her International Driver’s License in front of his face, pointed to her weird fiberglass skis and the little mechanical device she claimed was a telephone. However, Henry and Martin were idiots. Luke didn’t put much stock in their opinion.
He has suspicions of his own. Yesterday, she’d appeared out of nowhere. Last night, she attempted to seduce him. “You’re pretty enough to be a spy.”
“Give me a break.” She scowled. “I work for AMVOX Oil. I’m a geologist. Remember?”
Though he didn’t want to believe that she was spying, her profession dovetailed with the work of the government scientists he was here to protect. It would be a hell of a thing if she turned out to be the enemy. “We’ve had intruders in the vicinity. I don’t suppose you were up here with anyone else.”
“I saw you chasing two men. Shooting at them.” She shook her head. “I have nothing to do with them.”
Her beautiful dark eyes regarded him steadily and seriously. If she was lying, she was damn good at it. “I have to detain you, Shana. It’s procedure. You’ll have to stay here until we check out your background.”
“That doesn’t work for me. My project in Rifle starts in five days. I need to be there.”
“This won’t take long,” he promised. “Just give me the name of someone I can call, someone who can verify that you’re an innocent geologist on a ski trip.”
“There isn’t anyone I can call.” Before his eyes, her composure crumbled. Her gaze dropped to the floor and stuck there. “I don’t know anybody.”
“Your supervisor,” he suggested. “Or a family member.”
“There’s no one.” She sank into the hard-backed chair beside the cleared desk, doubled over and buried her face in her hands. “I can’t think.”
The enormity of her situation weighed on her shoulders like a ten-ton boulder. How could she explain? Of course, Shana knew people, important people. Her father was a career diplomat with connections in high places. She knew the CEO for AMVOX. But none of those people were available. In 1945, her father would have been two years old.
She looked up at Luke. He leaned his hip against the wooden desk in this plain square office that was cleared of all paperwork. His arms folded across his chest. He’d been right when he said she was in serious trouble.
She was stranded here. Without a bank account. Neither her