Under His Spell (Holiday Hearts #4)

by Kristin Hardy

  “It’s starting,” Kisha whispered to Latrice. The three kids sat on pillows on the floor, squirming impatiently.

  Catchy theme music came on and the camera panned over a snow-covered mountain and a timbered village so quaint that Lainie almost expected to see Heidi and her goats come walking by.

  “Welcome to Sölden, Austria, and the kickoff event of the 2006-2007 World Cup season,” said the voiceover. A commentator appeared in a heavy coat and toothy grin. “I’m Bill Reynolds, here with former World Cup racer John Carstairs.” He turned to a younger guy standing next to him in a parka. “This is the start of an exciting year, isn’t it, John?”

  Whereas Reynolds had the fleshy look of a football hero gone to seed, Carstairs appeared wiry and lean, even bundled into a ski jacket. “That’s right, Bill. World Cup is really the peak of ski racing. The Olympics are kind of like baseball’s All-Star game—they get a lot of attention but they don’t count like the World Cup season. The racers who win medals at the World Cup championships—or better yet, win the World Cup overall title—are at the top of their sport.”

  “And we’ve got J. J. Cooper coming in fresh off Olympic gold last spring and second in the World Cup overall last year,” Reynolds said, “so he’ll be the one to beat.”

  Suddenly the screen changed to show J.J. stretching, up on the mountain. A cheer went up from the people in the room. “Knock ’em dead, J.J.,” George called.

  The sight of J.J.’s face hit Lainie with an almost physical impact—the blue of his eyes, the taut line of his jaw, the sharp focus of concentration in his expression. The easygoing beach boy was gone, replaced by the gladiator. His speed suit showed the rock-hard swell of quad, bicep, deltoid, as though he’d been stripped down to muscle and sinew. The machinery of a winner.

  “Speaking of Cooper, he’s looking stronger than ever.”

  “You got that right,” Carstairs said. “He missed some of his summer training because of a shoulder injury, but if his practice times are any indication, it didn’t slow him down.”

  The network guy glanced down at his notes. “He’s got a reputation as a racer who enjoys the parties and his personal life as much as he enjoys racing. Do you think it’s a problem?”

  Carstairs grinned. “It hasn’t been so far.”

  “But he’s thirty-three now and he won’t recover from the nightlife like he once did. Is age a factor?”

  “It can be,” Carstairs admitted. “Most racers, downhill racers especially, are done by thirty.”

  “You retired at twenty-seven, didn’t you?”

  “Correct. J.J.’s in superb physical condition, but it’s got to be catching up with him, and Hermann’s been logging phenomenal times in practice.”

  George put his hands around his mouth. “Go home, Hermann,” he yelled in high good humor.

  “Yeah, go home, Hermann,” Kisha added enthusiastically.

  Lainie closed her eyes briefly.

  “That’s the Austrian, Hermann Leipzig, also known as the Exterminator,” the network guy said. “He took third place in the World Cup overall last year, right on Cooper’s heels. Outside of Cooper, he’s one of the few racers who does all five events, right John?”

  “Right. Most racers either choose the speed events, like downhill, or the technical events, like slalom and giant slalom. The fact that these two race both just tells you how amazingly talented they are.”

  “Which one’s better?”

  “Hermann’s a force of nature,” Carstairs said admiringly.

  “And he’s six years younger.”

  “And he’s six years younger, but J.J.’s got six more years of experience on every mountain in the circuit going for him. He knows Sölden like the back of his hand.”

  “So who do you like for it?”

  Carstairs broke into laughter. “You aren’t going to get an answer out of me. I’m going to let the mountain decide.”

  “It’s gonna be J.J.,” George said. He started clapping and the kids joined in. “J.J., J.J., J.J., J.J.”

  J.J. stood in the start house, listening to the grunts and thuds of Hermann Leipzig psyching himself up for the run. Everybody had their own method, and the stocky Austrian’s was noisier than most. Actually, J.J. had skied directly before or after Hermann so many times that the noise actually triggered his own race mentality. Pavlov’s dog, or, rather, Pavlov’s ski racer.

  J.J. took a breath and closed his eyes, relaxing. Some racers focused, stringing themselves up tight as a wire. He preferred to be as loose as possible and rely on all the practice and groundwork he’d put in. He put his faith in muscle memory, the fact that once he got skiing, his body knew what to do before he commanded it.

  He knew the course. He’d trained exhaustively earlier in the week, he’d inspected it again that morning. His skis were tuned, he was ready. And when he stepped into the gate at the start house, conditioning would take over and he’d be as focused on the course as he knew how to be.

  The pips sounded, and with a roar, Hermann pushed out onto the course.

  Applause and the flat clatter of cowbells sounded further down the course. Up at the start house now, all was quiet. J.J. stepped into place at the gate and let out a long breath, imagining the course, imagining how he’d ski each foot of it. He knew where he was going. He knew what he had to do around each gate.

  Then the first pip sounded and wham, he brought it all back to the snow before skis.

  It made her think of a spring uncoiling. One instant J.J. was motionless, the next he was exploding out of the start gate, slamming his poles into the ground, pushing off with his skis, getting every bit of speed possible before he sank down fluidly into his tuck.

  The room around Lainie erupted in cheers and clapping.

  It was a grade she’d be nervous about walking down and he shot down it fearlessly, doing his best to go faster, crouched the way she’d seen him practice so many times. Now it was the real thing. Now he was using the muscles he’d trained in all the brutal hours of conditioning. Now he was doing what he was meant to do.

  He whipped into a turn, his whole body slanted nearly horizontal against the slope of the mountain, his edges digging in. She could see his legs shake, see the skis bend and flop with the force of his passage, and yet he looked somehow perfectly relaxed, at home.

  And plastered across his face was an exuberant grin.

  “We know that Hermann’s time is the one to beat.”

  “That’s true, but wow, J.J.’s looking good,” Carstairs said enthusiastically. “Look how he came off that jump and found his line right away. I think he’s going to at least keep up with Hermann.”

  “We’ll know when we see the split time coming up. We’ll be able to see if—”

  “Look at that split!” Carstairs’ voice rose. “Four tenths of a second ahead. That’s huge.”

  George whistled.

  On the screen, J.J. flew down the course, rhythmically carving his way from gate to gate.

  “He’s got a different style from Leipzig,” Reynolds said.

  “Absolutely. You can see it in the way he’s skiing. Hermann’s very mechanical, very technical. J.J.’s like a savant. He’s just got this natural feel for the course. Oh, wow!”

  Lainie caught her breath as J.J. cut too close to a gate and smacked it with his shoulder.

  “See,” Carstairs was saying, “that would have spelled disaster for most guys, out of the race, but J.J. just comes back. He is such a gifted athlete.”

  “He’s lost time, though. He’s behind Leipzig, and even Anders in third.”

  “It’s not over yet,” Carstairs said excitedly, abandoning his pose of neutrality. “Watch him, he’s carving his line perfectly. That is so clean.”

  “Come on, J.J.,” George bellowed.

  Lainie’s fingernails were embedded in her palms but she didn’t notice. All she could do was stare at the screen, at the black square of the clock where the numbers ran up alarmingly quickly. All she could do
was watch, willing J.J. to win.

  “This is perfect technical skiing. Look at him, he’s gaining back time.” Carstairs’ voice rose.

  “But does he have enough of the course left?” The commentator echoed Lainie’s thoughts.

  On the screen J.J. whipped through the final curve of the course and drew down into the tuck he’d perfected so fanatically. The clock raced along, nearing Leipzig’s time, nearing it.

  And stopping abruptly as J.J. flashed over the finish line.

  Lainie jumped up, whooping. Her living room was bedlam, full of cheering, clapping, whistling.

  “He did it!” Carstairs’ voice was jubilant. “He beat Hermann!”

  On the screen, J.J. was slowing abruptly as he skied in an arc around the apron at the bottom of the course, hands down, standing as casually as though he were at a bar, waiting for a drink, not skiing along at maybe thirty miles an hour. He pushed up his goggles, looking for the clock.

  She could see the moment his time registered, see the flash of uncomplicated joy on his face.

  Excitement bubbled through her. He’d shown them all, everyone who said he was too old to compete. He’d come back from injury and triumphed.

  “Let’s go down to Bonnie Plummer, who’s with our winner. Bonnie?”

  “Thanks, Bill.” A perky redhead in a green woolly cap stood beaming next to J.J. “I’m here with J. J. Cooper, who just came back from the edge of disaster to take the race from Hermann Leipzig. J.J., what were you thinking about in the last half of that run, after you had trouble?”

  He looked, Lainie thought, like someone had plugged him into a wall socket, crackling with energy, eyes almost incandescently blue. “I don’t know, you don’t really think. Not when it’s like that. When it goes like that, you’re not thinking, you’re just doing.”

  “In the zone?”

  He gave a manic laugh she’d never heard before. “Yeah, in the zone.”

  “How do you feel about this year?”

  “Like I want a lot more days like this.” Someone handed him a glass of champagne and he drained half of it in a swallow.

  “What about the future? You won the downhill gold at the Olympics and second overall in last year’s World Cup, but you’re already several years past typical retirement age. What happens next?”

  He laughed at her as though she were a circus clown. “I’m thinking about right now. Who cares about the future? Right now, I feel like I could ski forever.”

  “And you look like it, too. Congratulations, J.J. Back to you, Bill.”

  The camera panned to the awards dais, where officials were announcing the winners. A blond Valkyrie draped the medals about the neck of each racer, giving a cursory air kiss over each cheek after she did. Leipzig looked distinctly grumpy, Lainie noticed.

  Then they announced J.J.’s name and the crowd went crazy, cheering, ringing their cowbells and blowing horns. J.J. walked across the podium grinning, both hands in the air. There was something about him, that same otherworldly spark that celebrities had. And in that life, that continent, he was a celebrity. She’d always known it at some level, but she’d never really understood it until now.

  On the dais, the trophy girl put the medal around his neck. And instead of giving him the air kisses, she pressed her mouth to his.

  Hard.

  The air went out of Lainie’s lungs in a whoosh. The crowd erupted in even more noise, if that were possible.

  Her living room went dead silent.

  When J.J. stepped back, he raised his hands in the air again, the bouquet of flowers in one hand.

  George cleared his throat. “Now there’s a job,” he said in a falsely hearty voice. “Women grabbing you and kissing you.”

  “Hush,” Amanda, his wife, hissed, elbowing him.

  Lainie leaned back on the sofa, fighting to catch her breath, fighting to act like everything was normal. It wasn’t the woman, she didn’t think. It was clear that he’d been surprised by the kiss. Whatever else he was, J.J. was honorable. She didn’t think he’d hit the Continent and just started catting around, not while they were ostensibly involved. It wasn’t that that was upsetting her, she didn’t think.

  Because she was upset, she couldn’t deny it. “Anybody want more chips?” she asked, and rose to walk to the kitchen.

  Once there, she stared out into the street. It was just seeing him in this totally different environment, seeing him be someone else, someone very far away from her, and not just in the sense of miles. It was a life that had nothing to do with anything she knew…where goddesses kissed him on the lips. Nothing to do with the way she lived.

  His life centered around working unimaginably hard—and playing hard when he wasn’t. There was no room for anything else, especially for a guy like J.J., who was at a place where he needed every bit of effort he could bring to bear on his training to keep himself at peak. This was a J.J. she could admire. This was a J.J. who lived in a world that had no room for her.

  It was ridiculous to feel jealous, she told herself. It wasn’t the kiss—although it was a long kiss, okay, from a ten-foot-tall blonde with cheekbones that could cut diamond. It was…everything. Without being conscious of it, she began to pace. It wasn’t the kiss—but it was the kiss. It probably happened to him a lot. He inhabited a world that was foreign, and not just because it was on a different continent and three thousand miles away.

  It was more like a million miles away. There was no way her life could keep up, no way anything she had to offer could possibly be big enough. And she was an idiot to ever think that what was between them could be more than a passing fling.

  She heard a cell phone ring, out in the living room.

  “Hey, Lainie, I think this is you,” George called.

  She walked out to get it, flipping it open. “Hello?”

  “Lainie?” It was J.J., talking amid cacophony. “Hey, sweet girl, how are you?”

  And how was it that despite everything she was feeling, hearing those words from him could still make her melt? “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.”

  “We saw it all on TV. You were amazing.”

  Someone whooped near the phone and she heard J.J. grunt. “What?”

  “I said you were amazing. You almost went down and it didn’t even faze you.”

  “Hey, you gotta put it out there if you want to win,” he said, in the same singsong tone he’d used with the television interviewer. From somewhere nearby him, Lainie heard the sound of a cork popping. “How are you?”

  “I’m doing fine. Everybody was rooting you on today.” Behind her, George and the kids stomped and cheered.

  “Great. Hey, I’ll take some of that,” he said to someone in the background, and broke out into laughter.

  “Everyone misses you here.” She paused. “I do, too.”

  “Hey, what’d you say, babe? This connection really sucks. I’m not getting you at all.”

  She was very afraid that was exactly the problem. “Look, I’ll let you go celebrate. Call me when you get back.”

  “Look, how about if I call you when I get back?” he said. “Maybe then we’ll get a better connection.”

  Maybe then, Lainie thought as she hung up.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The wheels of the plane hit the ground with a jolt.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’d like to welcome you to Boston.” The voice of the flight attendant came over the intercom. “We will be taxiing for the next several minutes, so please remain seated with your seat belts securely fastened until we are at the gate.”

  Boston. J.J. stared out the window, across the blue glow of the runway markers to where the terminal blazed light. Boston had always meant he was back in the United States, but it had never felt like home before. Home had always been another hop up to the Montpelier airport; Boston was just a way station. Somehow, though, this time it was different. This time Boston meant Lainie.

  It had been two days since he’d talked with her. Too long
, way too long. Of course, it had been his fault. He’d forgotten how frenetic and insular the World Cup atmosphere could be. Between time zone differences and the packed schedule, it was like being sucked into an alternate universe. Communicating with the outside world was strange; reentry was usually stranger, a combination of jet lag, physical exhaustion and social burnout. Somehow, he always felt like he was coming back from farther away than just another continent. It felt more like coming back from another planet.

  Of course, this time around, he’d felt that same sense of dissociation when he’d landed in Innsbruck. Nothing in Sölden had felt quite right, either. Sure, he’d gone to a party or two, but mostly he’d spent the time waiting to leave. It had felt familiar and yet somehow wrong, like walking through his old elementary school.

  The only thing he was sure of was that he missed Lainie. He missed the sound of her voice. He missed the feel of her against him.

  He missed her.

  At the front of the cabin, a curvy dark-haired flight attendant beamed at him from her jump seat. J.J. just waited for the ping that indicated the plane was well and truly stopped. The instant it sounded, he was on his feet, pulling his duffel from the overhead bin and moving forward to the exit door.

  The flight attendant rose. “Congratulations again on your race, Mr. Cooper. Are you visiting or do you live here?”

  “It’s home,” he answered, shifting impatiently.

  “I hear it’s a fun town. I’ve only ever been here on layover. I bet a guy like you knows all the best places to go.”

  It took him a minute to recognize the nature of the smile she gave him, the interest that lingered in her eyes. He blinked as the door went up. Things really had changed, he realized. There had been a time not so long before that he’d looked at every flight as an opportunity to enhance his social life.

  Now all he found himself thinking about was Lainie. He glanced at his watch. In forty-five minutes he’d be in Salem. In fifty, he planned to have her in his arms.

  “Enjoy the city,” he said to the flight attendant and vaulted out into the Jetway, focused, as always, on speed.