Chains of Ice

by Christina Dodd

  “Apparently a little problem.” But not enough to break the call. “No, I haven’t found him yet. I’ve only been here a week.”

  “These people aren’t going to wait forever.”

  “These people? The Gypsy Travel Agency, you mean?”

  A pause.

  Had they lost the connection?

  Then his voice came through too loud. “Yeah, yeah.”

  She held the phone away from her ear, then cautiously brought it back. “You worked for them, and you’ve said a lot of nasty things about them, but you never told me they were tyrants. Surely they understand that I need time to adjust to a new country and a new job—”

  “For God’s sake, Genny, would you just go out and find him? How many times have I told you that if you want to get ahead in this world, you need to seize the initiative, go beyond what’s expected, and make them—”

  “Sit up and take notice. I know.” She took a breath.

  “But I don’t care whether they sit up and take notice. I don’t even really care whether they forgive the school loan. I told you. I can pay it back.”

  “And I told you I promised you’d do this small favor for them. How hard can it be? How many John Powells can there be in Russia?”

  She decided to give him something to settle him down. “I confirmed it. John Powell is in the area.”

  “What are you—” The connection dropped.

  For a moment, she heard only crackling and she hoped—

  But no. Father was back, still talking. “Go get him!”

  “I’m working here.”

  “You have time off, don’t you?”

  “When I’m not observing, I’m studying.”

  “Studying what?” He sounded incredulous.

  “Lubochka has collected a lot of fascinating material on the Ural lynx for analyzing their movements, their social and feeding habits . . .” Genny’s enthusiasm began to rise. “In the evening, I—”

  “What good does it do you to study the Ural lynx?” Through the crackling on the line, Father’s cold tenacity sounded loud and clear. “You’re only there for the summer.”

  “I enjoy it.” She clipped off the words.

  He must have heard her irritation, for he changed his tactics, became the negotiator, concerned and persuasive. “You just graduated with a business degree. I’d think you would be tired of studying.”

  “Of studying business, yes.”

  “Look. Finding Powell is not a big deal. It’s merely a favor.”

  “It seems to be a very big deal.” Such a big deal you can’t even ask me how I am. “I intend to take care of the matter. Trust me, Father, I don’t lie or make deals I don’t intend to keep.” Nor do I steal.

  Perhaps he heard her unspoken thought. More likely he decided he had made his point. Or maybe he had somewhere to go, because he said, “Okay, let me know when you make contact and how negotiations go. I’d like to give them good news as soon as possible.”

  “I know.”

  “Enjoy your graduation present!”

  “I will. I am.”

  But the connection was dead.

  How like him to make sure he reminded her that he had given her this trip, and cut her off before she could remind him in turn that she was paying for it by doing this “favor” for him.

  Her father wasn’t worth all the angst and anguish. She knew it. But her mother had never cared about her. Her grandparents were dead. He was her father, and she wanted one person to care about her, if only he knew how . . .

  According to her college roommate, it wasn’t Genny’s fault her family was a failure. According to Chloe, parents were the grown-ups, and they were supposed to act responsibly. A mother wasn’t supposed to give birth to a child and wander away when that child got inconvenient. A father wasn’t supposed to use his child to repair his financial fortunes.

  Genny knew all that was true, too.

  Chloe said it was a tribute to Genny’s strength of character that she had turned out to be a well-adjusted human. Chloe said Genny should talk to a therapist, move beyond the childhood fear of being alone, and stop letting her father use her.

  Sitting here, miserable in the Russian wilderness, with nothing to distract her . . . well, she had to face the fact Kevin Valente seemed incapable of loving her. Incapable of maturity, for that matter.

  Genny wondered what Chloe would say about this creepy sensation of being watched. Probably that the eyes she’d seen beside the road hadn’t been real and that the long hours alone or Mariana’s dire warnings were preying on her nerves. Certainly no one would tell her that her dreams were coming true and John Powell was watching her with the intention of dragging her to his hut for days and nights of sex.

  She shrugged her shoulders, trying to rid herself of the sense of being observed—and a movement far below caught her attention. Some creature prowled low to the ground, its hind end lifted and its gaze intent.

  Probably a sable. Every time Genny had seen movement down there and thought she had spotted the lynx, she’d always been disappointed . . .

  But no matter how discouraging she tried to be, her heart thumped with anticipation.

  Maybe this was it.

  She got up on her knees. Groped for the camera. Hung the strap around her neck. Lifted it to her eyes. She adjusted the lens, zooming in on the animal that slipped from tree stump to rock.

  This creature looked large and moved like a . . . like a cat.

  She focused, and there it was—a Ural lynx stalking its prey along the riverbed.

  She had it. She had it!

  The creature slipped from rock to fallen log—beautiful, sleek, brown and black and gold.

  Genny shot photos in a frenzy, video first, then stills.

  The lynx moved in and out of sight under the cover of brush.

  Genny crawled back and forth on her platform, straining to keep the animal in sight.

  The cat pounced on some small creature, looking so much like a house cat that Genny’s eyes filled with pleasurable tears. Sliding face-first out along the heaviest branch, she extended one leg onto the branch on the next tree, and snapped the best photos of her life. When the cat continued down the riverbed, prey in her mouth, and vanished beneath the cover of the brush, Genny adjusted herself in small increments to hang over the clear space. She held the camera in one hand and waited for the lynx to reappear.

  It did. She madly clicked the shutter.

  And while she exulted in the beauty of the elusive animal, a gust of wind caught her, yanking the tree away from under her extended leg—and she dangled a hundred feet in the air, one elbow curled over one branch and a knee hooked over another branch.

  The camera fell from her hand, catching at the end of the strap and jerking her neck, making the whole tree dip.

  She froze, her muscles rigid; the trees swayed in the breeze.

  Pine needles dropped in a shower into her hair, onto her face, and she watched in horror as they twirled down, landed on hard gray rocks that protruded from the cliff thirty feet down, then tumbled all the way to the ground.

  “Oh, God.” She prayed automatically, fervently, fearing death for so many reasons. “Oh, God. Please, God.” She swung her free hand onto the branch. The ridged bark dug into her palm.

  The wind blew harder, whipping the trees from side to side.

  She swayed like a fragile, out-of-season Christmas ornament ready to fall. She hitched herself up. Paused and tightened her grip. Hitched herself up again.

  The breeze rippled through the treetops below. The forest bent like dancers, dipping and swaying to a deadly rhythm.

  Always before, she had loved the music of the wind in the branches, but now the notes grew louder, more threatening.

  Would they be the last thing she ever heard?

  A deep male voice said, “Give me your hand.” She started, glanced up to the platform, and there he was, the yeti, the madman, the lover, the bearded beast of Brandon’s warnings—and her savior.


  Then the wind slammed into the trees, shaking her loose.

  And she fell.

  Chapter 12

  Genny screamed.

  Something caught her around the waist, the chest, the legs. Lifted her and slammed her onto her stomach on the viewing platform. She gasped, the breath driven out of her by the impact . . . and by shock and terror.The man leaned over her. “Are you all right?” “Yes!” Frantic, she tried to lift herself on her hands. He pressed her back down. “Take it easy.”

  She couldn’t take it easy. If he hadn’t been there . . . if he hadn’t acted . . . She rolled over, struggled to sit up. “How did you do that? How did you . . . ? I was falling. And you caught me!”

  He stood over her, his boots planted firmly on the swaying platform. “I’m a big man.”

  She looked up. And up.

  He was a big man, probably six four or five and over two hundred pounds, bulky across the shoulders, slender at the waist, with long legs and massive hands clad in leather gloves. A black, unkempt beard covered his chin and cheeks and grew down to his chest, and lank dreadlocks hung from beneath the worn cowboy hat he pulled low over his eyes.

  She had the snapshot Father had given her, but this wasn’t John Powell. This wasn’t the assured, laughing military man of his picture. This guy couldn’t look her in the eyes. Instead, he stared out at the horizon as if fascinated by the view.

  As she watched, his fingers flexed slowly.

  Brandon said their yeti was insane, suffering from PTSD or worse.

  Yeah. Maybe.

  Avni said he was a sexual being of unparalleled passion.

  And Genny’s subconscious had built on that claim.

  If he truly had a gift, she hoped it wasn’t mind reading, because her thoughts had taken the terror of falling, combined it with her rescue by a big, muscled beast, and she was breathing hard for all the wrong reasons.

  “Are you all right?” he asked again. He sounded perfectly normal; American with the slightest hint of a Russian accent.

  “Yes. Of course.” She swallowed and tried to calm her unruly heartbeat. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You landed hard.”

  “The coat is well padded.”

  “How about your face?”

  She explored with her fingers. Her cheek throbbed, right over the bone. “Well. Compared to what might have happened . . .” She rubbed her bruised chest, then realized . . . she’d landed on her camera.

  With a gasp of horror, she grabbed it, looked at the view screen, and flipped through the pictures.

  They were fine. Better than fine. They were fabulous. The great cat moved through the photos with beauty and grace.

  With a sigh of relief, she took the strap off her neck and tenderly stowed the camera in her case in the backpack.

  John stood unmoving, paying her no apparent attention, yet she thought he was aware of her every movement. And he had saved her, saved her camera, saved the photos . . .

  She placed the flat of her palm on his calf right above his boot.

  He looked down as if her touch startled him.

  She jumped, as startled as he, for his eyes were the bleak pale blue of glacial ice. She’d never seen eyes of such a color, frozen and still, without emotion or feeling.

  Her fingers tightened on the tanned leather of his pants.

  This man had a reputation as a lover?

  No. Impossible.

  She had dreamed about him?

  Foolish.

  A man with eyes like that could kill her with efficiency and indifference.

  Instead, he had saved her life. If not for him, she’d be shattered on the rocks below, swept away by the river; and before her body was discovered, she would be food for the carrion birds.

  He was frightening. But she owed him.

  “Well?” he asked harshly.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, still held in place by the chill of those eyes.

  “What?”

  More loudly, she said, “Thank you for rescuing me.”

  He stared at her, those peculiar eyes growing a deeper blue—and more wary. “Fine.”

  “If there’s ever anything I can do for you . . .” Her voice trailed off, and once again she was aware of him, of the warmth of his leg beneath her palm, of the compelling masculinity that drew her against her will.

  She’d never thought she was dumb enough to be attracted to a dangerous man.

  Obviously, she’d simply never met one before.

  One thing Brandon had gotten right. This guy really did look as if a sheepskin factory had exploded all over him. Or maybe goat, or rabbit, or deer—she was a city girl. She didn’t know. She only knew he wore skins sewn with primitive leather cords like some kind of Russian Daniel Boone.

  “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “In the future, be more careful.” He turned, pulling out of her grip, walked with perfect balance across the tree trunk and climbed the ladder toward the top of the cliff.

  She gaped at his retreating back, then realized—that was it. He was leaving. Just like that. She hadn’t confirmed his identity, whether he was John Powell.

  And she sure couldn’t ask anyone in Rasputye where he lived so she could go talk to him. She could only imagine what Brandon would say if she asked, or how Mariana would react.

  In return for this opportunity to live her dream, she had promised to talk to John, to convince him to return to New York, and this was her break—if that bearded monstrosity was truly him.

  Using her backpack as support, she got up on one knee, then the other, then one foot, then the other. Bruises made themselves felt, and as her ribs complained, she groaned softly.

  But she hadn’t much time. Mr. Yeti had dragged himself over the edge of the cliff, and with his long strides, he would be quickly out of sight.

  The wind dragged at the platform, tilting the corner toward the ground.

  She panicked, leaping toward the ladder, catching one of the steps in a death grip. She steadied herself, struggled into the backpack, and then climbed as fast as she could up the cliff and onto solid ground.

  He was gone.

  Chapter 13

  Genny ran down the path, looking from side to side, and when it took the kink toward the village, she ran the other way. The path here was narrower, the brush closer and less disturbed, and it cut level across the mountain. When she saw the branches swinging back and forth, she knew she was on the right track. She caught sight of John striding ahead of her. He heard her coming; she knew he did, because he picked up speed.

  Like that was going to discourage her? He didn’t know her at all.She scampered around a tree and leaped in front of him. “We didn’t have a chance to introduce ourselves. I’m Genny Valente.” She stuck out her hand.

  He ignored it, ignored her, and walked around her and kept going. Fast.

  She had to skip to keep up. “You’re John Powell, aren’t you?”

  That made him glance at her, those odd blue eyes hard and cool. “How do you know that?”

  It was him. She had been pretty sure, but to have him confirm it . . . what a relief.

  “They talk down there.” She gestured toward Rasputye and comforted herself it wasn’t a lie. They did talk down there. “Thank you, John. You saved my life.”

  “You already said that.”

  “I think it’s a big deal.”

  “You would.”

  “I was wondering how you knew I was in trouble.”

  He didn’t increase his speed, but he didn’t answer, either.

  “Because since I’ve been here, I’ve had this weird feeling someone was watching me.”

  “Do you always tag along like a yellow Lab?” Which was an answer in itself.

  “I’d prefer to walk, but you won’t slow down.” She didn’t wait for the next crushing reply, but plowed on. “Where are you from? You speak English like an American, but I hear a little accent.”

&
nbsp; “What kind of accent?”

  “You sound like the people around here. The people in Rasputye.”

  His facial expression didn’t change. “I’ve been here two years.”

  That wasn’t an answer, and they both knew it.

  So they were both being evasive. And they were both good at it.

  “I’m from New York City.” She sort of enjoyed the repartee.

  The path narrowed.

  He strode on.

  She fell behind and spoke to his broad back. “Have you been to New York City?”

  “I lived there once.”

  “I’m from the Bronx.”

  He pushed a branch out of his way, then let it flip back at her.

  She ducked, said, “If you’re trying to get rid of me, that kind of rudeness will never work.”

  “Why not?”

  “I already told you. I’m from New York.” She heard a deep strangling noise from him, and smirked at the back of his head. So he had a sense of humor, or at least he had had once. “Which part of the city did you live in?”

  “SoHo. Why are you here?”

  “Because I’ve always wanted to be a wildlife observer and my father gave me this trip as a graduation gift.”

  “That’s not true.”

  Her heart leaped to her throat. He knew why she was following him. He knew the promise she’d made to her father. How did he know? “What do you mean?”

  “No one comes to Rasputye for so pure a reason.”

  The best defense was a good attack. “Then why are you here?”

  He plunged ahead. “I lived here. When I was a boy.”

  “You grew up here?”

  “Sometimes.”

  That did it. She grabbed at the hem of his leather shirt and held on, and skied along behind him through the pine needles.

  He turned on her so suddenly, she staggered.

  He caught her arm.

  Although his grip wasn’t painful, in their joined flesh she felt a pulse of . . . of emotion. Not lust. He didn’t feel lust for her. Or if he did, it was muted by grief, pain, loneliness.

  The shared feeling was so great tears welled in her eyes. She put her hand over his. “What is it? Why are you so sad?”