Ryan pivoted on his skis in a puff of snow, forcing her to slide to a stop. “If you think that, then you don’t know the first damn thing about me, Vic,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’d make a lousy father, and no matter how much a woman pushes for it, she’ll get no kids from me. Ever.”
He pushed off, sliding through the snow and picking up speed with a ferocious athleticism that left her stunned.
Okay. So maybe his patience isn’t so boundless. She trailed after him, wondering how a topic that had started as a mere distraction had become so personal—and why his remarks, spoken so bitterly, with such raw pain, had ended up wounding her.
It didn’t take a psychotherapist to realize that he had deep wounds from his childhood. What had happened?
* * *
Ryan halted at the signpost. Coyote Run straight down, or The Roller Coaster to his left. He knew The Roller Coaster was a double black diamond run, while Coyote Run was an intermediate run. So it should be a quick run down to the next checkpoint. God, he couldn’t wait for this to be over. Trust Vicky to cloud a fun ski hunt with unpleasant rip-the-flesh-off-my-soul kind of talk.
Their relationship would be so much better if they could just ignore it. He cast his eyes back up the trail. She’d hung back, given him some space. She should be here any minute. He couldn’t blame her distance. He’d been quite...blunt.
He slid a ski in the groove of his own trail. Damn. He knew she’d just been making conversation, but in true Vicky style, she’d found a chink in his armor and kept digging at it. A good father. He snorted. If she knew what he’d done—and what he hadn’t done—she wouldn’t think that. Hell, she’d be running in the opposite direction.
Just like his old man had tried to.
His lips turned down as memories rose, of his mother pushing him into a closet whenever his father came home drunk. Of listening in the dark, tears running down his cheeks at the sound of slaps and screams and overturned furniture. Of his mother’s bruised and battered face. Of that last time...
He straightened and glared at the panorama that lay before him. The storm clouds were rolling in the distance with an unhurried inevitability. Christ. He was on top of the world, in a beautiful stretch of alpine country, and he was wasting time and energy on a dark and twisted memory lane. He blamed Vicky for reopening old wounds better forgotten.
The swish of skis on snow heralded Vicky’s arrival, and he scowled at her. Her expression was hesitant, wary, as she stopped by his side. “So this is it, huh?” she said into the silence. He wasn’t sure if she was talking about their strained situation, or the trail. Go with the trail. He nodded but remained silent.
She looked at the signpost, then at each direction of the trails. “Can I see the map for a moment, please?”
“There’s Coyote Run,” he said, pointing to the trail.
She nodded, but a slight frown not completely hidden by her goggles showed a hesitancy to accept the fact. “I know, but I just want to check something.”
He sighed roughly as he pulled the ski map up for her to look at. She stared at it for a moment.
“There,” she pointed, “the map shows that’s Coyote Run, and that’s The Roller Coaster, but the signposts are reversed.”
He shrugged. “So that map’s wrong.”
“Or maybe the signposts are,” she argued.
He straightened. They’d often argued about this in the past—and he was certainly in the mood to argue some more. “Maybe the intel is incorrect,” he suggested softly.
“And maybe something has been compromised on the ground,” she shot right back at him, her tone saccharine sweet.
“Yeah, well I’ll trust the data in front of me, every time,” he muttered.
“But the map can’t be wrong.”
“That’s what you said about Russia.”
“Hey, that garrison was underground. No satellite could have picked it up,” she retorted.
“I’m following the signs.”
“Well, I’m going to report the inconsistency when we get back to the main building,” she told him.
“Fine.” He gestured to the trail. “Ladies first.”
She made a face at him and pushed off. He gave her a few seconds and pushed off after her.
He watched her movements for a moment. The decline was steep, and her pendulous movements shortened as she started to pick up speed. Then he wasn’t watching her so much as concentrating on his own downhill journey.
With quick sweeps he skied down the slope, enjoying the challenge, the speed. Until he saw Vicky launch into the air, her skis flailing, just a little, yelling in surprise before she landed roughly and skied on. Then he reached the ramp and hit air.
Damn. This was no intermediate run. He landed, kicking up snow as he tried to decrease his speed. Then he hit the moguls. Ryan swore as he navigated the swollen bumps of hard-packed snow. Keeping his eye ahead, he navigated a path through the mean little mountains, bending low at the knees to absorb the shocks. And there were plenty.
Sticking to the troughs as they mapped a path down the bumpy slope, he angled his skis uphill at the end of each turn in an attempt to slow down his speed, but his descent was still rough. His thighs were burning, and it felt like a pin was piercing his kneecap at each bounce and jostle.
He finally got to the end of the mogul run and twisted to a stop. Vicky stood off to the side, leaning heavily on her stocks, gasping for breath.
He eased over to her. “Are you okay?” She’d managed to get down that stretch in one piece, which was surprising. He wasn’t quite sure of her experience as a skier, but apparently it was considerable.
She nodded, trying to catch her breath. “Trust...the friggin’...signs, he says.” She gulped.
Ryan grinned. “My oops. Damn, what a ride!” He laughed, the adrenaline rush almost euphoric.
Her face set as she glared at him. “You have a warped sense of humor.”
He shrugged, and a flash of yellow caught his eye. “Hey, there’s the envelope.”
A rustic wooden bridge connected the trail from one side of a small creek to the other. The yellow envelope was tied to a railing in the other end of the bridge. Vicky sighed. “I’ll get it.”
She straightened and slid slowly after it. “You know you’re never going to hear the end of this, right? Follow the signs.” She snorted. She pushed off a little with her skis, shifting her weight to propel herself across the flat surface of the bridge.
His grin spread wider. “I never hear the end of anything with you, Vic.”
She leaned over and grabbed at the envelope. “You are so—”
The snow around the base of her skis crumbled in on itself, and Vicky wobbled. She flung her arms out to grab hold of the railing, but the snow hole spread, sucking her down, swallowing her screams as she disappeared from view.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Vicky!” Ryan roared. He skied carefully over to the wide hole in the bridge that had appeared out of nowhere, testing his footing until he got close to the broken wood slats. His heart hammered in his chest. Where was she? Please God, let her be okay. “Vicky!”
“Ryan!” A panicked scream echoed up to him. “Ryan, help!”
He halted at the edge of the hole and peered down. Christ. She’d fallen through a gap, and was clinging to the end of a joist with one gloved hand. Too far away to reach, damn it. Snow crumbled and fell onto the dark, frozen creek below her. He felt a momentary relief. She was alive.
“It’s okay,” he yelled to her. It wasn’t. It was a long drop to the creek below, with large bumps of snow-buried boulders that were scenic sentinels, rounded and benign, hiding their malevolence behind a disguise of purity. Several jagged ledges and outcroppings were below her, with God only knows what hazards lying unseen.
“It�
�s not okay,” she yelled back at him. “I’m falling off a damn bridge.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll get you out. Are you all right?”
She lifted her free hand and raised her goggles, and when he saw her wide green eyes, he realized she was afraid. Really afraid. “I’m okay,” she answered, her voice cracking. She sucked in a breath, as though to calm herself. “I’m okay,” she repeated, her voice stronger.
He nodded. “Good.” He glanced around. A bank of trees lay beyond a small clearing at the end of the bridge, but he couldn’t see anything there that would help their situation.
He leaned over. “Can you reach my stock?” He held it down to her, stretching as far as he could. She tried to grab at it, but it was several inches too short. She whimpered in frustration.
“Just hang in there,” he called as he backed up, shrugging out of the backpack. He unzipped the bag and tipped out the contents. Snacks, water, a flashlight, but no rope. No walkie-talkie, either. Damn. He swallowed his panic. Normally he was calm, cool-headed, and able to handle high-pressure situations. But this was Vicky, and dread held his gut in a vice-like grip. Vicky needed his help, and no matter how crazy her predicament was making him, he had to think.
He looked down over the bridge railing. Letting her fall was out of the question. Nobody would survive that drop. The rocks, the ice...yeah, nobody would survive. His eyes scanned the terrain. The land sloped steeply down to the creek. The bridge actually straddled part of the hillside on either side of the creek. He pursed his lips, trying to gauge the distance. It was a bit of a risk, but she might be able to swing herself a little and drop to the slope. Still, she’d be doing it from an awkward position, with little control.
Unless he was there to catch her.
He quickly snapped the boot release on his skis with his stocks and threw them over the railing, careful to ensure they fell well clear of any landing he might make.
He peered over the edge. “Okay, Vic, I want to try something.”
She met his gaze. “Please hurry,” she gasped. “I don’t think I can hold on much longer.” She winced as she tried to secure her hold on the lip of the ledge. “My fingers are going numb.”
Ryan nodded. He climbed over the railing, took a breath—and jumped.
“Ryan!” Vicky cried.
He hit the ground hard, bending his knees and rolling to the side to dispel the force of the impact. Despite the deep drifts of snow, his ankles, knees and hip absorbed enough of the shock to have him gritting his teeth.
“Are you crazy?” Vicky screeched at him.
He held his hands up and gestured around him. “I’m the one on solid ground, here, so you tell me who’s crazy.”
Vicky tried to raise her other arm to hang on to the wooden beam, her breath hitching as she flailed unsuccessfully.
“Damn it, I can’t hold on much longer.” She grunted as she tried again, and this time her hand caught. Held.
“It’s going to be okay, Vic,” he said, trying hard to keep his voice calm and relaxed, although his stomach churned with worry. “Can you kick off your skis?”
She glanced at him briefly, her frown dubious, before raising one foot behind the other. It took her a couple of attempts, but she finally managed to press the boot release on the front ski.
The weight of the ski hung forward, and she jiggled her boot.
The ski fell off, and Ryan stepped out of the way as it landed near his feet. He picked it up and tossed it further away, downhill. “Okay, try the other one.”
“Oh, God, Ryan, I’m losing my grip.”
“Hurry, kick it off.”
This time it was a little easier for her, not having the second ski to encumber her. The ski slid off, flipping over once before it fell to the ground. Ryan tossed that one aside, too, trying to ignore the whimper as Vicky’s legs kicked futilely in the air.
“Don’t you dare fall, Vicky.” His voice was an unrecognizable growl. “Not yet, anyway.”
Her eyes widened. “What do you mean, not yet?” Her voice shook.
“Swing yourself, just a little. As though you’re on a trapeze.”
“Oh, God, this can’t be your plan.”
He could see the whites of her eyes, and he lifted his arms.
“Jump, and I’ll catch you.”
“No.”
“Jump, Vicky. Swing yourself, and jump toward me.”
“You’re crazy. I can’t do it, Ryan.”
Her eyes glistened as she stared down at him, hanging from the bridge. He could see her fear in her eyes, hear it her voice.
“You can do it, trust me,” he said, pouring as much confidence into his voice as he could muster. Please, trust me. Have a little faith.
“I can’t,” she gasped, and panic lit a fire in her eyes. “Oh, God, I’m losing it!”
Even from that height, Ryan could see her glove slipping on the rock.
“Trust me, Vicky. You have to trust me. Jump!” He remembered their discussion before they found Orla, about things you’d do for a friend. “I jumped off the bridge for you, Vic. Now it’s your turn. Jump off the damn bridge for me!” Would she do it? Did she trust him enough?
“I’m trying!” She tried to swing her legs, gritting her teeth as she lifted her feet to the front, then swung them to the back. “Oh, God, I’m going to fall!”
“Jump!” He all but bellowed at her as he waved his arms.
She grunted as she pivoted her hips, her legs pitching forward and up. She let go.
Vicky screamed as she plummeted.
“Vicky!” Scuffing his boots in the snow, Ryan raced to her, bending his knees, arms outstretched.
Vicky slammed into him, knocking the breath out of him. He fell back and to the side, rolling. Her boots tangled with his shins, and he ducked his head over hers, trying to protect them both. He tried to cushion as much of the force as possible as they rolled and slid down the hill before slowly coming to a halt.
He lifted his head. His lungs burned, his legs and hips were bruised, and he felt like he’d been hit by a Mack truck. He glanced down at the woman he held tightly in his arms. Euphoria swelled inside him, heady and triumphant.
Tears were running down her cheeks as she stared wild-eyed up at him, clinging to his jacket.
He’d caught her.
He rolled, hauling her against him as he collapsed back into the snow, her boots tangled with his.
She trembled in his arms, her hand rising over his head, she hugged him, rocking in his lap and sobbing words of gratitude and frustration.
“Shh,” he whispered into her tousled hair. “Shh, I’ve got you.” He kissed her forehead, his panic finally abated at holding her in his arms. “I’ve got you.” He lifted her chin and kissed her, pouring the relief, the tattered remnants of his panic, and the satisfaction of holding her near all into a scorching kiss.
She’d trusted him.
She kissed him back, matching him in ferocity, in fervor. She sucked his tongue into her mouth, and just like that relief turned to white-hot need, and desire shot straight to his groin.
He rolled her over into the snow, and pressed himself against her. She was soft and curvy, trembling in his arms, and just as eager to get as close as possible to him. She pulled at his hair, and he growled with satisfaction at the tiny darts of painful pleasure she gave him. He thrust himself against her, nestling deeper into the secret place between her thighs.
She moaned, drinking in his kiss, rubbing herself against him, growling in frustration as their entwined limbs prevented her from getting any closer.
He kept kissing her, and slowly his fervor gentled. He enjoyed the long moments of lips touching, tongues caressing, and breathing, just breathing. He slowly raised his head, reluctant to stop, but his knees were wet, and he realized she
was lying in the snow. Cold, wet, possibly in pain.
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
She gazed up at him solemnly, and nodded. “Yeah, I’m okay.” Then she frowned. “Uh, actually, my knee is a little sore.”
He nodded. It had been a big jump, and his shoulder felt as though he’d been shot by a cannon. He leaned forward and touched the knee she indicated.
He could feel the bone of her knee, feel the muscles of her thigh, and maybe a slight, puffy swelling. It would probably hurt like hell later. He didn’t take her boot off. They still needed to get down the damn mountain, she would have to keep her boots and ski pants on until they got back to the resort.
It had to be sore, but she didn’t say anything, just stared as he stroked her leg through her figure-hugging ski pants. His fingers trembled.
“Don’t do that again,” he told her, his voice low and rough.
Her lips lifted in a shaky smile. “What? Jump off a bridge? No. Not anytime soon, anyway.”
He shook his head. She was making light of it. He’d nearly lost her, damn it. He didn’t find it funny at all. “No, just—don’t die. I don’t want to lose you, too.” He gritted his teeth. He’d said too much.
Her eyes met his, and she pounced on his slip. “Too? Who have you lost, Ryan?”
He squeezed her wrist gently. “Come on, let’s go.” He moved to stand up, but stopped. Vicky had turned her arm in his grasp, and now clutched his hand.
“Tell me, Ryan. What was her name?” Her gaze was direct, pleading, as though she desperately wanted to see inside the mush of his brain. She didn’t know. Nobody knew. Well, he thought Reese might know, but he’d never let on. He looked at the woman before him. Whether she knew it or not, he cared for her, cared for her deeply, and he was tired of hiding it from her.
“Rose,” he said quietly. “Rose Gallagher.”
Something in Vicky’s eyes flickered, and she lowered her gaze. “I’m sorry.”
For Her Eyes Only (McCormack Security Agency) Page 19