Success was now one step closer.
He knew who pulled ShastaWatch’s strings.
Now he needed to find out how to yank Vicky’s.
“Come on.” Christiaan smiled at Rainbow then waved for Baz to follow him. “Let’s take another chance on this mountain.”
Was he nuts?
No, just desperate… unless desperately nuts was a socially acceptable condition.
Christiaan stood outside the Climbing for Singles building and zipped up his newly acquired down jacket to ward off the brisk wind. He smiled. Duff would probably have appreciated Christiaan making the purchase sooner and not tainting the Irishman’s luck.
While they stuffed gear into their new backpacks, Baz peppered him with questions.
“Tell me again why we’re doing this, bro?” his friend asked.
“Vicky is the key. She is ShastaWatch. A few days on the mountain will give me time to get to know her a bit and maybe devise a strategy to either make her happy so we can build our plant or get around her so we can build it.”
“You think it’ll be that easy?” Baz handed him a sleeping bag. “She didn’t exactly thaw out for you.”
“No, but on the mountain, with clients depending on her, the Ice Princess can’t disappear like she did in there.” Christiaan bent over to push the bag into his pack.
“Hey, Dutch Boys. I need your stuff in the bus… now,” Dean said, carrying gear past them.
“Almost ready,” Christiaan called after him.
Baz shook his head back and forth. “I don’t know, bro. I don’t see Ice Princess making nice with Prince Rape and Pillage.” Holding up a set of metal spikes, Baz raised an eyebrow. “What exactly are these?”
“Crampons. You attach them to your boots for traction on snow and ice.” Christiaan reached for the equipment and carefully wrapped them in a towel before putting them in his backpack. “But remember, Ice Princess doesn’t know I’m Prince Rape and Pillage.”
“Are you sure? Because from the look on her face, bro, if she could have frozen you stiff, she would have.”
She did, metaphorically speaking.
“If Her Highness even suspected who we were—who I was—she’d have done more than sling a few verbal arrows. We’d have been tarred and feathered by now.”
Baz laughed. “So her surprising immunity to the Baron catnip is simply a stroke of luck?”
“Real funny.”
“Why do I have to go?” Baz squatted down to zip a roll of toilet paper into a side pocket on his pack. “Are we talking some Cyrano de Bergerac action, bro?”
“I may not be as smooth as you, but I certainly don’t need lines whispered from the shadows.” Christiaan folded a fleece pullover and handed it to his friend.
“No, but you are rusty. When’s the last time you had to woo a woman, especially one not impressed by your money and title? Not since—”
“Bri, I know.” Christiaan stopped packing to look up at his friend. “But it’s like riding a bike, right?”
“Yeah, well you haven’t—” Baz made air quotes. “‘Ridden a bike’ since then either.”
“I’m not trying to bed Vicky.”
I’m not… right?
Baz’s eyes narrowed. “If you’re so confident you can sweet-talk her, why do I have to tag along?”
“Because if I do strike out, then the Yager charm gets to bat.” Christiaan hoped it didn’t come to that. The thought of Vicky and Baz together shot a stab of jealousy through him.
“I don’t know, bro.” Baz stood up and massaged his lower back. “We’re not exactly over our last mountain adventure.”
“Considering our timeframe and ShastaWatch’s momentum, there’s no other choice.” Christiaan squatted to tighten the top drawstring on the backpack top. Pain knifed through his knee. He grimaced. “Nothing a handful of ibuprofen can’t fix.”
“Now’s really not a good time for me.” Baz gnawed his lip a moment. “I’m ass-deep in geological reports, environment impact studies, and spreadsheets galore.”
Christiaan glanced up. “Which reminds me. Where is the operating costs-to-date report I asked for? I expected to see it earlier this week.”
Baz tilted his head. “Accounting didn’t send you the figures?”
“Not yet, but I’ll need to see them as soon as we get back. Also, I’m still looking for a complete project status rundown, details on where we’ve been, where we are, and where we’re going. I’m especially interested in estimates from the seismologists on when we’ll move from final exploration to initial production.”
“Yeah… yeah… I’ll take care of that as soon as we get back, okay?” Baz bent over and focused on cinching his pack closed. “Are you sure you want me to go? I mean, I don’t know how to use these crampon things.”
“They’ll teach you.”
“Well,” he snickered. “I planned to look for a pot of gold at the end of the Rainbow tonight.”
“Her treasure will keep ‘til you get back.”
Baz sighed. “No matter what I say, I’m going, huh?”
“Yes.”
“And this is strictly to save the project?”
“Yes.”
“And nothing to do with Vicky?”
“Yes… I mean… no!” Christiaan stammered. Honestly, he wasn’t sure. The connection he’d felt when she’d introduced herself was undeniable. He also couldn’t reject the spark of excitement at the prospect of seeing her again.
Only because she stands between you and your company’s future, right?
Vicky was strictly a means to an end. That was it.
Christiaan fumbled with the backpack’s main zipper. He wished he could explain to Baz how desperate he was to ensure the project moved forward. He didn’t like keeping secrets from his friend, but he didn’t feel like burdening Baz with how dire the situation was.
“Well, let me make a few calls, move a few things around before my phone is as useful as a stone, bro,” Baz said before wandering off.
Not a bad idea. Christiaan couldn’t imagine decent—if at all—cell service on the mountain.
He pulled out his phone and dialed Lou Mancini, VL Holdings’ security specialist.
One ring. “Talk to me.”
“Lou, it’s Christiaan. I need some background on a mountain guide out of Mt. Shasta City, California. The name is Vicky Golden. Late thirties, early forties, owns an outfit called Climbing for Singles.”
“Business or pleasure?”
“What?”
“Is this for business or pleasure?” Lou asked.
“Does it make a difference?”
“Yeah, the difference between looking at financial information and criminal records or marriage records and civil restraining orders.”
Christiaan hesitated. “Business. Strictly business.”
“Okay, I can get you some basics by tomorrow. Give me forty-eight, and I’ll tell you who her third-grade teacher was, what’s her favorite Popsicle flavor, and whether she prefers boxers or briefs.”
Fingers crossed for tightie-whities.
“Let’s go, boys,” Dean yelled from the back of a rusting yellow school bus.
Christiaan nodded in acknowledgment.
“I’ll be out of touch for a day or two, Lou, so email me anything you find.”
“Will do.”
Christiaan slipped the phone into a pants pocket then hoisted his backpack onto his shoulder and grabbed Baz’s.
“Potverdomme!” His bruised ribs protested. Christiaan bit his lip. He’d be fine.
As long as he didn’t breathe.
“Come on.” Dean motioned with his arm. “Let’s get this party started.”
Christiaan followed the guide to the rear of the bus. He tossed both packs into the back then followed Dean onto the bus.
Christiaan sank, literally, into an empty bench seat. On a comfort scale of one to ten, the duct-tape-covered beauty rated a zero.
Dean slid behind the steering wheel and p
ulled the lever to close the door. Baz jumped in right before it slammed shut.
“Sorry.” Baz settled into the seat behind Christiaan.
Dean threw the bus in gear. “The adventure begins.”
What an understatement. Christiaan stared out the window.
Intuition warned him that his world was about to turn upside down.
And he couldn’t do anything about it.
CHAPTER FOUR
She’d done it again. Got away from Christiaan.
Through sunglasses, Vicky surveyed the cold, shallow snowfield she’d picked for base camp this trip. Good thing she’d decided on the early equipment run. No one had yet snagged the spot near a stone cairn large enough to protect them from the sporadic brisk wind.
Of course, she’d have had an easier time battling a hundred-mile-per-hour snowstorm than feigning indifference to the man she’d promised once to love for better or worse.
Who would have guessed what worse entailed?
The instant Christiaan’s gaze had caught hers back in town, she forgot to breathe. Neither time nor age had softened his sculpted physique. Neither had it cooled the heat that ran through her body and pooled between her thighs every time she was near the man she loved.
Once loved.
Inches from him, the control she’d mastered over her emotions unraveled, almost. Then the sheer irony of the situation penetrated her psyche.
Christiaan saw her as a stranger. Even Baz failed to recognize her. Neither caught her “Mr. Yager” slip up. Thank God.
Kudos to a drunk plastic surgeon and a old car without air bags. Dr. Zweit’s skills had not only rebuilt her shattered nose but altered her face somewhat. The doctor tossed in a free breast reduction to avoid a lawsuit. Focused practice had eliminated the Texas twang.
“You about ready to head back?” Claude, a local college student who worked for her part-time, interrupted her thoughts. His breath turned into small white puffs as he pounded stakes into the ground for the last tent.
“Yes,” she answered. Anything to get her mind off her husband. “Dean and the crew should be hitting the trailhead soon.”
And by now—if there was a God—Christiaan was on his way back to The Netherlands, to Astrid’s loving arms. His father must have been overjoyed when Christiaan had finally married the debutante chosen for him then sired the heir Vicky had failed to produce.
The heir she’d lost.
She kneeled to hold the last tent peg steady for Claude. Two mallet thwacks, done.
“Whoa!” he said, checking his watch. “This took longer than I thought. I’m gonna be late for class!”
She gestured to the trail with a nod. “Then let’s go.”
A swirl of snow whipped around Vicky as she offered a silent prayer to Mother Shasta. Forgetting Christiaan this time would be easier than the last. Eight years ago, her heart had shattered the moment she realized he’d given up on her.
He was dead to me then… still is.
Vicky worked her way down a few thousand feet of elevation, refocusing her thoughts on ShastaWatch and their efforts to protect the mountain.
Chief Running Bear would roll over in his grave if he knew the white man planned to tap his tribe’s hallowed Mineral Springs area to provide energy. The property northeast of Shasta was sacred to his people. They believed the area’s dozen or so hot springs heated by the earth’s interior had the power to heal and renew.
Now, the world wanted to harness that gift to produce electricity.
The chief had fueled Vicky’s love and respect for the mountain with stories about the mountain’s legends, mythology, and folklore. His beliefs about the beauty of Shasta’s mix of strength and vulnerabilities helped Vicky find herself.
She tipped her face into the sun. Unfortunately, the rest of the world didn’t share the Native American’s appreciation for nature. Jane and Joe Q. Public couldn’t get past their never-ending energy needs. The government couldn’t see past their own shortsighted political agenda. Summit Energy saw only hefty profits.
But they all underestimated ShastaWatch. The group was successful at stopping similar projects and would prevail again this time.
Vicky still had a few tricks up her sleeve. She’d learned a thing or two as the wife of a hard-nosed businessman. She wasn’t about to let anyone take away the most precious thing in her life without a fight.
Not again.
A shortcut through the trees put her at the trailhead parking lot and an extremely out-of-breath Claude.
“You okay?” Vicky asked.
“Peachy.”
A manic flutter of warblers and chickadees overhead announced a vehicle’s approach. Loud backfire heralded the arrival of the Climbing for Singles bus.
Claude hopped into the bed of Vicky’s old truck and tossed the last gear bags onto the ground. “You sure you don’t want me to tag along to camp with these two?”
“Nah, I got ‘em.” She tossed him the truck keys. “Get your butt to class.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be back late tomorrow afternoon to help break camp.” Claude jumped behind the wheel, started the engine, then sped out of the lot.
Vicky crouched next to the pile of gear. Bungees that had secured the bags into the truck bed lay strewn about.
Behind her, one final exhaust bang told her Dean had parked the bus. She yanked a small red pouch from her jacket and spent the next several minutes rounding up stray cords.
Faint footsteps caught her attention.
“Miss Golden?”
She looked up to find a camera inches from her face. Gently, she pushed it away.
“Hi.” The young woman offered a hand. “Paige Williams. Inc. magazine.”
“How nice to meet you.” Vicky shook the writer’s hand then gestured toward the mountain range behind them. “Welcome to Mt. Shasta. Breathtaking, isn’t it?”
“Yes, very.”
“First time here?”
“Yes.” The reporter snapped a few images. “I’ve read about McKinley and seen pictures of Rainier, but nothing really about Shasta.”
“McKinley’s higher and Rainier’s famous, but Shasta… she’s special.” Vicky returned to gathering bungees.
“Why?”
“Because so many myths and legends surround her,” Vicky said. “One story deals with the Lemurians, a super race who built a golden city called Telos in the center of Shasta.”
“Come on. That’s crazy,” the reporter said over digital camera clicks.
“Not according to the locals.” Vicky shoved the last of the cords into the red pouch, pulled the drawstring tight, then tossed it next to the gear bags. “Shasta Indians won’t ascend above the timberline of Waki-nunee-Tuki-Wuki. Not out of fear, but—” She smothered the camera, once again pointed at her. “No pictures.”
“Why?”
Because tempting fate is not for people supposedly dead. Vicky shook her head.
“Camera shy, huh?” the reporter said.
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“Okay.” The reporter sighed. “So, are you from around here?”
“No.” Vicky’s brain snapped to full alert anytime someone asked about her past.
“Have you been a climber all your life?”
Vicky smiled, remembering tenacity was a reporter’s best trait. Of course, it worked both ways.
“Hey, aren’t you here to write about Climbing for Singles?” she asked. “Let’s talk about that.”
“A forty-year-old woman who summits mountains around the world and runs a successful climbing business would make a great feature story.”
“No.”
“You’ll be famous.”
“Don’t want to be.”
“Come on,” the reporter laughed. “What are you afraid of?”
Spiders, cellulite, and someone from my past recognizing me.
Vicky forced a smile. “I just like my privacy. Write about anything else but me.”
“And there’s nothing I can s
ay or do that will change your mind?”
“No.”
“Okay, okay.” The reporter raised both hands in surrender. “No pictures. No talking about you. No nothing.”
“No is such a discouraging word.” A deep accented voice caressed Vicky’s ear.
Crap. She slowly turned and collided with a powerful, rock-hard, unforgettable body. She inhaled slowly, exhaled softly, and almost melted from his spicy masculine scent.
Double crap. She peered up. A wicked smile filled her husband’s devastatingly handsome face. She swallowed. Hard.
Triple crap.
Lucky for him those damn mirrored sunglasses had flown off her face when she’d bumped into him. Christiaan could drown in those eyes.
Beautiful.
Haunting.
Familiar.
“What are you doing here?” Vicky jerked back. The cool beauty of her tanned face contrasted with the hot anger chasing up her cheeks.
“Baron van Laere.” A young woman holding a camera appeared at his elbow. “Paige Williams. Inc. magazine. Could I have a moment of—”
“What are you doing here?” The Ice Princess repeated, eyes blazing.
Christiaan flashed a coy smile. “Giving the mountain a second chance. I’m hoping she’ll return the favor.”
That curious American adage, “if looks could kill,” seemed appropriate. Dead would be his current state if the daggers shooting from Vicky’s eyes were real.
She plunged delicate fingers through gorgeous chestnut hair then nibbled a luscious lower lip.
Again. That movement.
“You… you’re not supposed to be… be here,” Vicky stammered. “Who said you could be on my mountain?”
“Your partner seemed to think it was a great idea, especially when we paid for everything in cash.”
“We?”
“Myself and Baz.”
“Dean!” Vicky whirled away, tripping over a small red bag in the process. A tangle of bungees fell at her feet. “He’s gone too far this time.”
Christiaan lowered his head to hide the laugh fighting to break free. A stray cord lay on his right boot. He handed it to the fiery redhead. When his fingers brushed her arm, she jumped like a wanted woman.
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