Snowflakes on the Sea. Linda Lael Miller

      1

      The bare semblance of a smile curved Nathan McKendrick’s taut lips as he stood at the living room windows looking down at the measured madness in the streets below. Cars fishtailed up and down the steep hills, and buses ground cautiously through the six inches of snow that, according to the doorman, had fallen since morning. The stuff was still coming down, in great lazy slow-motion flakes, like flour from a giant sifter.

      Nathan sighed. The people of Seattle didn’t really believe in snow—though they were certainly acclimated to rain—and they were always caught off guard when it came. The timid closed down their businesses and cowered at home, while the more adventurous braved the elements.

      He focused his dark gaze on the distance. The harbor was invisible, through the swirling storm and the cloak of night, except for a few flickering lights, and the rugged Olympic Mountains beyond were blotted out entirely. The Space Needle, a modern tower commemorating a past world’s fair, appeared as a patch of blue light in the gloom.

      Depressed, Nathan turned from the scene and sighed again. The penthouse, sumptuously furnished in rich suedes and velvets, was close and confining that night, even though it occupied the entire top floor of the building and had been carefully designed to seem even more spacious than it was.

      Where was Mallory? The question played in Nathan’s exhausted mind and stretched his waning patience thin. He began to pace the empty living room in long, fierce strides, expending energy he didn’t possess. A six-week concert tour, followed by the endless flight back from Sydney, had left him physically drained.

      He paused, looking down at his travel-rumpled clothes—tailored gray slacks and a lightweight cream-colored turtleneck sweater—and grimaced. The garments felt scratchy against the lean, muscular length of his body, and the rough stubble of a new beard stood out on his face like tiny needles.

      Though the penthouse boasted no less than four bathrooms, it hadn’t occurred to him until that moment to take the time to shower, shave and change his clothes; he’d been too frightened, too desperate to find Mallory. Oblivious to everything except the state of his wife’s health, he’d caught a cab at the airport and hurried to the hospital, where he’d been summarily informed that “Ms. O’Connor” had been treated and released.

      The nurses had told him so little, and he hadn’t been able to reach Mallory’s doctor, Mallory herself or any of her friends. Finally, when he’d frantically dialed his sister’s number, he’d gotten a recorded voice telling him cheerily that Pat couldn’t come to the telephone at the moment.

      Though he’d tried the penthouse number and gotten no answer, he had hurried there hoping that Mallory might have left a note.

      Now, having made all the same fruitless calls again and left a rather direct message on his sister’s answering machine, he was nearly overwhelmed by weariness and frustration.

      Softly, furiously, he cursed. Then, with consummate control, Nathan brought himself up short. Mallory was all right—Pat’s cable had said that much, at least, and with characteristic certainty. Pat was never wrong about anything.

      He ground his teeth and went back to the window, only to turn away again and stride toward the master bedroom and the sumptuous bathroom beyond. There, he stripped and stepped into a pulsing, steaming shower.

      By the time he’d finished scouring his tense flesh, shaved and gotten dressed again, he felt better. He tried Pat’s number once more and got the same mechanical spiel he’d heard before. Muttering a curse, he dialed the island house and was informed by a harried operator that the lines were down.

      At that moment, the doorbell rang. Nathan bounded over the plush carpet and wrenched open one of the heavy double doors.

      His sister stood impatiently in the hallway, glaring up at him. “You shouldn’t say things like that on the telephone, Nathan!”

      He remembered the colorful message he’d left for Pat and laughed gruffly. “And you should be at home when I want to talk to you,” he retorted, arching one dark eyebrow.

      Pat sighed, placated by his off-the-cuff comment. She looked tired as she ran one slender hand through the copper and gold strands of her long hair and blinked her wide cornflower blue eyes. “Could we start over here?” She smiled, stepping around her brother to enter the penthouse. And then, without waiting for an answer, she cleared her throat and began again. “Hello, handsome. Rough trip?”

      Nathan shook his head distractedly. The grandfather clock in the living room chimed a soft reminder of the hour. “Pat, I’m going insane while you make small talk. What’s the matter with Mallory, and where the hell is she?”

      Pat stood on tiptoe to kiss her brother’s freshly shaven chin.