Snow as cold as the heart of Dundee Greer began to trickle in soft flakes and pepper the ground white. The alternate tour of the town of Devon was turning out to be anything but adventurous for Pelion, who had been following a ghost trail for almost an hour in the forest with high heels. She had always known Dundee Greer was a few valves short of a combustion engine waiting to burst, but when he had grabbed her wrist, that was it. He had just sealed the deal as the lead role in the sequel to Hitchcock’s Psycho. Give the man a knife and an ee-ee-ee, and he would fit the role to a T.
Pelion whirled away from him with a mix of raging fear and regret. “You’re mad, I’m positive!” she blasted over her shoulder. “And I’m not auditioning for Ophelia in this dank underbrush! Good-bye, Mr. Greer.”
Greer was watching her with those eyes. Those dark, unreadable eyes. Yet, she was somehow drawn to them. Was there a hint of sincerity there? Had he just been melodramatic in trying to get some point across that she had failed to grasp? Regardless, maybe she didn’t feel like waiting around any longer to find out.
As she spun around to leave, her high heel caught on a rock, and she stumbled, tumbling off balance and crashing hard to the ground.
“Oooohhh!” Pelion wailed. “I’m scratched… and… and bruised! I’m lost… and my ankle’s killing me!”
Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw movement. Maybe he was going to play all chivalrous and help her up. Over her dead body!
“Don’t you dare touch me!” Pelion shouted, lying on her hip, holding her swollen ankle. “Don’t you dare!” she warned him. “I’ll scream my lungs out if you so much as take a step in my direction!”