LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER ONE

      LINDSAY BLAISDELL held her breath as the helicopter hit another air pocket, dipping and tilting like a carnival ride. Groaning as its metal belly missed a treetop by inches, she shut her eyes miserably. What on God’s earth was she doing up here? She’d always detested flying, even in a comfortable jumbo jet. But flying through a snowstorm in a tiny, cruelly cold helicopter, just for the joy of meeting with the arrogant Mr. Daniel McKinley—well, that was torture in a class by itself.

      And, to put it bluntly, he wasn’t worth it. She hadn’t seen the man in three years, but she hadn’t forgotten him. The thirty-ish wunderkind president of the McKinley Corporation, he’d been smart, stubborn and, at six-foot-two with curling black hair and icy blue eyes, perhaps justifiably self-satisfied. He had been a ruthless businessman, a relentless boss and, by all accounts, a wretched husband. No candidate for sainthood. Not even for the local Mr. Nice Guy.

      All in all, she thought bitterly as the helicopter dipped again, he darn sure wasn’t worth dying for.

      Snowy treetops lunged toward her, their branches reaching with white, grasping fingers, and the pilot let loose a manic chuckle, as if he and the wind were engaged in a friendly wrestling match. Just the kind of can-do, zealous overachiever Lindsay would have expected Daniel McKinley to employ. Reluctantly the pilot righted the copter at the last minute, having avoided a crash by approximately the breadth of two snowflakes.

      As the horizon straightened out, Lindsay swallowed the acrid taste of her morning coffee—which hadn’t even tasted all that great going down—and relaxed her hold on the briefcase she clutched against her pounding heart. When she felt reasonably sure she wasn’t going to be ill, she decided that she hated two things above all others: helicopters, and helicopter pilots who thought near-death experiences were exhilarating.

      “There it is,” the pilot yelled over the roar of the rotor. He jabbed his forefinger earthward, still grinning. “McKinley’s place.”

      Lindsay peered down and, as the treetops thinned out, a redwood ski lodge appeared just twenty yards below them. McKinley’s place. Massive, elegant and handsome, it claimed this mountain with a silent dominance.

      Handsome. Elegant. Domineering. Why did that sound more like McKinley himself than his house? Perhaps, she mused, there was something she hated more than daredevil pilots. She hated arrogant men who sat, enthroned in mountain fortresses, expecting the world to come to them. Even when the weather was wicked and unwelcoming. Even when it was nearly Christmas, and he had to realize that most people wanted to be at home, wrapping presents by the fire.

      Suddenly, shoved by an invisible gust, the copter lurched sideways, and branches made awful screeching sounds against the window. Lindsay started and, looking over, saw that the pilot’s grin had flattened out. He gripped the controls tightly, fighting the currents that buffeted his little craft.

      “Is everything okay?” she asked. The question was pointless, and the pilot didn’t bother to answer her. She held her breath again as the helicopter began its wobbling descent. The winds were much stronger now than when they had left Denver’s little executive airfield. She hoped this guy was at least half as good as he thought he was.

      It seemed to take forever, but finally the helicopter found the ground. It rocked crazily as it landed, like a top bobbling to a stop, and when the motion ceased both pilot and passenger sat speechless, breathing deeply, staring wordlessly at the silent, dark lodge before them.

      After a long moment the pilot finally spoke. “Pretty damn bleak, ain’t it? Don’t know what in hell anyone would want to come here for this time of year.”

      Lindsay had no answer for that. She didn’t know, either. She certainly wouldn’t have come here by choice. The house did look bleak, its roof shrouded in white, snow creeping up the corners in wind-driven drifts. Dead, almost. As if it waited for someone who would never come back.

      But then she shook herself, annoyed. A “dead” house, indeed! She was imagining things simply because she knew about the tragedy that had occurred here three years ago.

      No, the only reason this house was so silent was that Daniel McKinley, for all his wealth, didn’t have enough manners to come outside to greet his guest.

      Scowling, she unhooked her seat belt. He hadn’t changed

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