That's what it had to be. An uncanny attraction that made her whole body heat up, again, with delicious anticipation.

Breakfast, that's all this was. And then she'd be on her way to find Hilson, and Cameron MacPherson would be on his way to whatever business he had to conduct. And regrettably, she'd never see him again.

With her bag packed and sitting next to the door, Faith glanced at her watch, and then the room clock one last time. Cameron MacPherson was twenty minutes late. She couldn't wait any longer, no matter how sexy or intriguing the guy was. She whipped out a note on the hotel stationery telling him to meet her if he made it in time and planned to slip it under Cameron's door when she saw the tip of a note under hers.

She opened her door and found a folded note. Inside, the message on hotel stationery said, "Sorry to have missed you. Had to leave earlier than expected. If I return before you have breakfast, I'll meet with you in the restaurant. Cameron."

She sighed, left her room, and closed her door, then headed for the elevator, rolling her suitcase along behind her. Probably for the best. Although self-doubt began to worm its way into her thoughts. Had she turned him off by one too many rejections? She groaned at herself, always overanalyzing everything.

After the hostess seated Faith in the mostly empty lodge restaurant, where the dark brown furniture and décor made her feel as if she were in a bear's den, she watched the entryway. Hoping for a glimpse of Cameron's sparkling eyes and his roguish smile that would brighten up the place considerably, she couldn't help wondering what he might be wearing this morning. From nothing, to a towel, to a pair of jeans and nothing else, to boxers, and jeans again with an open shirt, he seemed like the kind of guy better suited to a hot weather climate.

She delayed ordering her cinnamon roll for a good twenty more minutes. But he never showed. Trying not to feel any disappointment or think anything more about Cameron, she finally gave up, had her green tea and roll, then got into her rental vehicle and drove in the direction of Back Country Tours. She had business to take care of, after all, and Cameron wasn't part of the deal.

When she reached the office, Faith found that the hotel clerk was right. The carved white wolf sign hanging off the building couldn't be missed. Pictures of snow-covered peaks hung in the windows and every thing was white—the trim, the brick façade, even the roof was nearly white, which made it blend in with the snow accumulated against the buildings as if it were an ice cave in the Antarctic.

A light was on inside and her spirits lifted. According to Hilson's itinerary, he was coming here first. And maybe she'd finally get some answers to where the hunter guide, Trevor Hodges, was. The man who had taken her father on the tour that changed her father's life forever had to have seen something. Or at least confirm that nothing extraordinary had happened. But when her father had returned home, he began writing the research paper with such zeal, she suspected whatever had happened here had triggered his need to write it. And, besides locating Hilson and the flash drive, she wanted to know the story from Trevor's point of view.

As soon as she walked into the office, she sensed something wasn't right. The place was entirely too quiet. A massive oak desk sat near the entrance, like a fortified barrier to keep the riffraff from going any further into the labyrinth of offices. Or at least that's the way it appeared to Faith.

Then she heard a rustle of papers and a drawer sliding open down the hall. "Hello?" she said, moving toward the hallway leading to several rooms.

The noise instantly ceased. She really didn't have a good feeling about this.

She backed up and turned around to leave the building pronto, when she saw a man's shoe sticking out from behind the massive desk near the entryway.

It's just a shoe, she told herself. A door somewhere else in the building opened, then closed. She hurried around the desk and started, seeing a white-haired old man lying still on the floor, clothed in a suit, missing one shoe, his face gray, his eyes staring at the ceiling, lifeless. She reached for his wrist, felt no pulse. His skin was cold. He'd been dead for a while.

She couldn't see any sign of a struggle, or foul play, but if someone had killed the man and was still in the building, she could be next. She headed for the door, jerked it open, and came face-to-face with Cameron MacPherson.

She gave a wispy gasp, threw her hand to her chest, and took a step back.

Tousled by the wind, sandy blond hair fell to the top of his plaid collar, softening his stern look a hint. His parka was open, a soft cabled sweater hugging his broad chest, the sky blue color electrifying his eyes even more. But his eyes widened at the sight of her, and he quickly reached out to steady her.

Her mouth dropped open and he stared at her with a look of disbelief.

"Faith O'Malley?" he said, as if he was so shocked to see her here, he had to confirm it really was she.

"I… there's…" She pushed against him to get out of the building. The killer, if there was one, could be inside, and might decide to finish them off next.

Cameron took hold of her arm and stopped her, the strength of his touch defeating her panic. "What's wrong? You look as white as this building."

"A dead man's in there. Not that I haven't seen a lot of them in the work I do, but the police always call me to the scene after they've dealt with it. I'm never the first one at the scene."

"The work you do?"

"I'm a forensic scientist."

His brows raised a little, but she swore a hint of admiration appeared in his expression.

"Did you touch anything?"

"Sure, the man's wrist. To make sure he's dead. Been that way for a while. Skin's cold."

"You're sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine. He's not, and if he was murdered, the guy might be still in the building. I heard noises in one of the offices off the hall."

Cameron reached under his jacket and drew out a gun, but he still hadn't released her, as if he feared she'd collapse or something. "Go outside and call 9-1-1."

Her lips parted, she stared at the weapon, then looked up at Cameron.

"Private Investigator. I have a permit to carry one. Former police officer, too." Cameron pulled out some ID to confirm it.

She closed her mouth, looked back at the other offices, then slipped her cell phone out of her purse. "Then I'm staying right here." She figured she was safer with him since he had the gun and credentials, than away from him.

"All right." However, instead of checking for the intruder, Cameron did a quick check of the body.

Faith got the 911 operator and said, "I'm Faith O'Malley and I'm at Back Country Tours where I found a dead man behind the receptionist's desk."

The operator asked a million questions, or at least it seemed like it, before Faith finally ended the conversation to see what Cameron had discovered about the victim. "Do you see any evidence of a crime?"

He pointed to the man's shirt. "Speck of blood on the front of his dress shirt. I don't see any evidence of any kind of trauma, blow to the head, strangulation, nothing. Looks like he might have been injected with something. No way to confirm my suspicions without stripping him down and looking for a needle mark, and then identifying something foreign in the body. Stay here, or go outside and wait for the police. I'll be right back."

Cameron strode off down the hallway.

"Wait! Don't you think that's a little dangerous?"

"That's why you're to wait here or outside for the police." He didn't say another word, but headed down the hall.

A cold breeze from the open doorway thoroughly chilled her, and she rubbed her arms, then leaned over the body again and opened the buttons on the man's shirt. Peeling the shirt away just a little, she examined his chest. Cameron was right. He'd been poked with a needle and the area had bled slightly before the man died. But what was really bizarre was a drip of shiny silver glistening at the point of entry.

A couple of sirens wailed down the road, and she quickly rebuttoned the man's shirt, then wiped the buttons clean with a tissue.

Before the police arrived, Cameron hurried back into the office, took hold of her arm as if he were her knight to the rescue, and led Faith out of the building. But even outside, he didn't loosen his grip on her. She could envi sion him as a former police officer rescuing women in distress and taking great pride in his work. "Did you see any sign of anyone?" she asked.

He looked a little blank.

"When you went into the back offices. Did you see anyone?"

"No. A door was wide open at the back of the building. He or she probably got out that way."

Instantly, Faith was suspicious. Not just of the person who had been in the building looking for something, who probably killed the old man, but of Cameron. Because she could swear he was holding out on her.

As soon as the police arrived, Faith and Cameron showed their credentials to the officers. She thought they acted oddly. She wasn't sure why. Maybe because they didn't seem too surprised. Or because they didn't appear very much concerned that Faith and Cameron might be the murderers. Which may have been because the police were dealing with a serial killer and they knew Faith and Cameron couldn't have been involved because they were out-of-towners and both worked or, in Cameron's case, had worked, with the police. Or maybe it was because the men were jaded—just another dead guy case.

The one had brownish butch hair, his light brown eyes glued to her, as if he was interested in more than her story in regard to her finding a dead body. As if he recognized her, or was intrigued with her, but not as a suspect or witness. Officer Mick Whitson. She couldn't figure out the mixed messages. The other, Bert Adams, moved around the room, his gaze darting about, taking everything in. Several times he sniffed the air. His hair was darker, his eyes hazel, and he had a heavier build. He was the one who asked the questions, as if he was in charge, while Whitson watched Faith's reactions. Not Cameron's, just Faith's.