Wanted, all right. By him.
“Th-thanks,” murmured Vicky, snatching the bungee from him and shoving it into the red pouch now in her hand. She flung the bundle into a nearby open backpack then pointed a finger at Christiaan. “You wait here while I straighten this out.” A tremor touched her smooth lips. She snared the fallen sunglasses then stomped to the other side of the parking lot.
Christiaan chuckled. Round one of the mental wrestling match had ended in favor of the Dutch contender. He couldn’t wait until the bell rang again. Until then, he’d survey scenery.
Framed by a forest of red firs and mountain hemlocks, Mt. Shasta soared in the background, surrounded by clouds. A symphony of bird songs and nature melodies proved a fitting soundtrack to the picture.
The midday sun burned bright, but the temperature remained low. Cold air tickled the hairs inside his nose. A small breeze picked up, sending a handful of loose snow into his face.
“Baron van Laere?”
Much to his disappointment, the reporter hadn’t moved from his elbow.
“Paige Williams. Inc. magazine. I’d love to interview you.”
“Please, call me Christiaan.”
“Okay… Christiaan…” She stepped closer. “What is the head of one of Europe’s largest conglomerates doing on Mt. Shasta?”
Wishing all reporters wore bells around their necks for easy identification.
“Sorry, no interviews.”
“Are you here looking to expand into the U.S.?”
“No,” he answered, hoping his laugh diffused the truth of her speculations. “I’m simply here to enjoy some long-overdue time off.”
“You said something about giving the mountain another chance. Are you referring to the accident you were involved in a few days ago?”
Potverdomme! He’d paid a lot of money to a lot of people to ensure the crash never made the news.
“How did you—”
The reporter leaned back, eyes unblinking. “Are rumors about your company true?”
“Rumors? What rumors?”
“That you’re in serious financial trouble. That since your wife’s accidental death, you’ve lost your golden touch. That your family’s century-old enterprise is nearly bankrupt.”
Christiaan struggled to maintain his composure.
“Sweetheart…” Baz walked into view, two packs slung over his right shoulder. “You don’t build a billion-dollar holding company without—as you Americans love to put it—pushing the envelope a bit. Besides, what better assets to be born with than blue blood in your veins and a silver spoon in your mouth?”
“And you are?” the reporter asked, the corner of her mouth twisted in obvious exasperation.
“Bastiaan Yager, right-hand man extraordinaire and designated sherpa to His Grace.” He brought the reporter’s hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “But you may call me Baz. All my friends do.”
“Okay… Baz.” She pasted on a happy face, but her body language told a different story. “Are you willing to talk to me about the troubles at VL Holdings?”
“No, but I’d love to show you what—”
The reporter jerked her hand away, muttered something about him being a pain in her butt, and walked off.
“—going Dutch really means.” Baz nodded toward the departing woman. “Hmmm… two angry women in one day. I guess the Baron thing just doesn’t play well with some American chicks.”
Especially not one that knew way more about Christiaan’s current situation than she should. Where was the reporter getting her information? And why was she focused on him?
“I gather the Ice Princess isn’t happy we’re on her mountain,” Baz said. “She looked at me like she wanted to remove my testicles with her bare hands. The reporter looked like she wanted to do the same thing to you, bro. Let’s bag this, head back into town, and keep our boys safe and sound.”
“I’m not leaving,” Christiaan snapped. He wasn’t going anywhere until he had a clear-cut strategy to either appease or circumvent Vicky Golden and her merry band of misguided environmentalists.
The reporter he could handle. Vicky? He wasn’t so sure.
Fear and anxiety knotted inside him. He needed to push this thing along and hard. Assets were running out. Another six to nine months, and he’d be bankrupt.
The Mineral Springs project had to get started. The company was all he had left in this world.
Christiaan watched the object of his frustration and fascination storm back across the parking lot.
She was the key to everything.
Igniting his hormones was a side benefit.
Or a curse.
He hadn’t held such an inexplicable fascination with a woman since…
Bri.
But Baz was right. They may look somewhat alike, but the two women were as different as night and day.
Vicky stopped within striking distance.
Ding. Ding. Round Two.
Christiaan took a step back, half expecting an eye-dagger thrown at his throat.
“Everything seems to be in order,” she said, her tone chillier than the air around them. “Welcome to Climbing for Singles, gentlemen.”
The Dutchman takes Round Two.
“Let’s go.” Vicky grabbed the gear bags she'd tripped over earlier and tossed them onto her back. “We need to get everybody moving so we can be settled into camp before dark.”
“Would you like me to help you with those?” Christiaan asked.
She leaned into him and jabbed her index finger into his chest, missing his sore ribs by an inch. “I don't need or want anything from you, Baron… van… Laere.”
Ding. Ding. Round Three.
CHAPTER FIVE
Rock. Vicky. Hard place.
Yep, I’m between ‘em.
Vicky sat on the fringes of the group, sipping hot Chamomile and toying with the zipper on her jacket. Soft moonlight mixed with the warm glow from the campfire, illuminating everything in muted amber tones. The evening meal finished, Dean served his version of an after-dinner liqueur… warm cider.
“Guaranteed to warm your insides and land you in a tent not your own.” Dean grinned like a Cheshire cat. “It’s not the cider that does it. It’s the whiskey I use to ‘cool it… off’.”
Vicky laughed. He needed a new line. That one was at least four years old.
Dean started a word game for the romantic hopefuls gathered around the campfire.
“My name is Dean. I come from Detroit. I drive a Dodge, and I like to eat deviled eggs.” He turned to his right. “Your turn.”
“My name is Baz Yager. I come from Breda. I drive a BMW, and I like to eat broodjes.”
“Broodjes?” Dean asked.
“Rolls,” Baz answered.
Voices and laughter faded in and out as Vicky peered at her husband, seated near the fire. Between him and Baz sat a voluptuous, surgically enhanced blond with a tush you could bounce quarters off.
Of course, the incessant playboy Baz vied for the bimbo’s attention. However, she seemed intent on gaining Christiaan’s.
Who didn’t seem to notice. He sat focused on the flames, fingers steepled against firm lips, sculpted face set in determination.
Why are you here?
“You’re up, Paige,” said Dean.
“Okay. My name is Paige. I come from Pasadena. I drive a Porsche, and I like to eat pizza.”
For a man in his early forties, Christiaan had the physique of someone half that age. Broad shoulders flexed as he removed a snug jacket, revealing an even tighter long-sleeve sweatshirt and a gold chain that disappeared inside the collar.
Firelight accented a firm chest that tapered to a lean, muscled abdomen. Snug-fitting pants emphasized his long, powerful legs.
Vicky’s heart skipped a beat. His chiseled cheekbones mesmerized her. His dark expression, provocative.
Her body responded. It was impossible to look at him and not want to run her hands— No, tongue all over that body.
>
She hadn’t done that to any man before Christiaan.
Or any man since.
As if reading her mind, Christiaan stared in her direction. His square jaw tensed visibly.
Why are you here? Why am I still here?
Because Claude took her truck and she couldn’t drive the bus. Plus, canceling the trip at this point would have caused more questions, especially from that pushy reporter.
“Dutch,” asked Dean. “You game?”
“Why not?” Christiaan answered. His gaze remained focused on Vicky. “My name is Christiaan. I come from Catrip. I drive a Charon, and I like to eat chocolade… chocolate.”
Vicky wrapped her hands around her tea mug in a futile attempt to steady herself and her emotions.
Man, I need a drink.
If only she could run her fingers through his thick brown hair. If only she could taste the warmth of his mouth. If only she could feel the sensation of his hands on her bare skin.
If only she could be his Brianna again.
If only he hadn’t stopped loving her.
“Okay, who hasn’t gone yet?” Dean said.
“I don’t think Vicky has taken a turn.” Christiaan’s eyes burned deep into hers.
She retreated further into the darkness.
“My turn! I haven’t gone either!” The blond and her breasts bounced. “My name is Heather. I come from Hollywood. I drive a Hummer, and I eat jalapeños.”
Everyone laughed. The blank look on her face confirmed Vicky’s earlier assessment. Heather’s IQ was about the same as her bust line... forty-two.
Christiaan leaned over to explain. “Jalapeños start with a J.”
“Really? Are you sure?” The blond patted his knee.
Then let her hand rest there.
A shot of jealousy stabbed Vicky. Serves her right. Her fingers drummed against the mug.
She should have taken off the moment Christiaan bumped into her at the trailhead. No, she should have disappeared when he showed up at the Climbing for Singles office.
Vicky shook her head. Why defy all logic and place herself in danger?
She didn’t have an answer... at least not one that made sense.
A cold shiver spread over Vicky as she remembered the events that ended her marriage and her “life”. Even now, the horrific truth that murder seemed easier than divorce pierced her heart like a dagger.
He’s the reason you’re “dead”.
She sipped at her Chamomile tea, now lukewarm, but still soothing.
The reporter had called him Baron van Laere. Obviously, he’d finally inherited his father’s title. Astrid must love her new spot in Dutch society. Had she produced the heir and spare yet?
Over the rim of her mug, Vicky caught Christiaan staring at her again, his expression vague.
Why are you here?
He clearly didn’t recognize her. So, if he didn’t know who she actually was, why was he following her?
Unconscious attraction?
Perverse fascination?
Romantic motivation?
Too many questions. Not enough answers.
From the other side of the fire, Baz followed Christiaan’s gaze. He stared at her intently before refocusing his attention on the blond.
Obviously tired of being ignored, the bimbo turned aggressive. She tried wrapping an arm around Christiaan, who winced when she brushed against his rib cage.
Vicky’s breath caught in concern. His injuries were worse than he let on. She should have insisted he return to town. Or at the very least, had someone carry his backpack.
Stop caring about him. He stopped caring about you a long time ago.
This wasn’t going to work. Vicky had to stop thinking like Brianna the victim and start seeing things as Vicky the survivor.
She needed a plan.
Hiding in the shadows, watching the over-siliconed, over-botoxed, over-bleached blond paw at Christiaan, Vicky weighed her options.
Stay here and risk discovery.
Or hightail it off the mountain and out of town before anyone was the wiser.
Vicky twisted the mug in her hands. She methodically analyzed each alternative.
Neither promised much hope of success.
A curse escaped her lips, the breath clouding in the cool air. Taking off now and disappearing would only arouse suspicion, especially Christiaan’s. Not to mention placing her clients’ safety in jeopardy.
But staying and tempting fate wasn’t feasible either.
Or was it?
Christiaan saw her as a female mountain climber with a major-bitch attitude, a complete one-eighty from her former self.
She grinned mischievously. Why not hide in plain sight, right underneath his nose? He’d never suspect a thing.
His precious Bri was dead, right?
She’d only need to keep her distance for one more day. Once they hit town again, he’d head home, climbing trip over.
Vicky smiled and relaxed the grip on her mug.
After all, why else would he stay?
Can you get close to a snarling tiger without her handing you your balls on a silver platter?
Christiaan studied Vicky, alone on a large boulder. The soft glow of the campfire played over her face, accentuating the strength of her perfect features.
And her intense but secretive expression. She sported a smile, but not for one minute did he believe the Ice Princess was melting.
Since their heated exchange at the trailhead, she’d avoided him. On the rare occasions their eyes had locked, she’d stare at him, almost into him, then turn away. An odd sensation—intimacy mixed with pain—stabbed at him. It was hard to ignore.
And incredible arousing. Christiaan groaned in the back of his throat.
The dancing flames entranced him, like the woman in question. Brilliant… spellbinding… intense… Get too close and get burned.
He was already sizzling and ready to go up in smoke.
The last time he felt this strong for a woman, he’d faked an injury to gain her sympathy.
Christiaan smiled. The cheap ploy during his rugby match had worked. Bri interviewed him for some silly article while he iced the invented trauma. They ended up spending the entire weekend in each other’s arms at a secluded beachside house in the Caribbean. They married a week later.
Now he really was injured and highly doubted Vicky would offer any sympathy. She was likely to harm him more.
Christiaan peered at the redhead sipping tea. Her body language conveyed “don’t screw with me”, but something in her face revealed vulnerability. Somewhere, someone had wounded her soul.
Who could be so cruel?
“Knock knock,” Dean said, laughing.
“Who’s there?” The reporter asked from her spot on the other side of the campfire.
“Ben,” Dean urged.
“Ben who?”
“Ben Dover.”
Christiaan snickered. The crowd’s laughter encouraged the amateur comedian.
“Knock, knock,” Dean said.
“Who’s there?” someone asked.
“Broccoli.”
“Broccoli who?”
“Silly girl. Broccoli doesn’t have a last name.”
This time the crowd split between chuckles and jeers.
“I’ve got one,” the reporter said. “Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?” Dean said.
“Police.”
“Police who?”
“Police stop telling me these stupid knock-knock jokes!”
More laughter.
“Knock, knock.” Baz joined in the fun.
“Who’s there?” asked Christiaan.
“Amsterdam.”
“Amsterdam who?”
“Answer the damn door. It’s freezing out here!”
Corny, but Christiaan couldn’t help laughing.
Even the Ice Princess chuckled.
His gaze riveted on hers. The pleasure lighting her face caused a familiar clutch in
his groin. She couldn’t possibly know the affect she had on him, but he nodded in appreciation anyway.
Vicky shivered, but Christiaan sensed the intensity wasn’t from the cold mountain air. Then her expression did an emotional one-eighty.
Iceberg dead ahead, Captain.
“I’ve got a joke,” the reporter offered. “A drunk calls 911 on his cell phone to report his car’s been broken into. Outraged, he explains to the dispatcher, ‘They’ve stolen the stereo, the steering wheel, the brake pedal, even the accelerator!’ He’s instructed to remain calm and wait for an officer to arrive. Minutes later, the officer radios in. ‘Disregard the call,’ he says. ‘The drunk crawled into the backseat’.”
Everyone fell apart at the punch line. Everyone except Christiaan. Drunk jokes weren’t funny. Then again, he’d been married to a drunk. And nothing Bri ever did as one was funny.
Sad. Hurtful. Never funny.
Vicky wasn’t laughing either.
Obviously, the reporter found alcoholism hilarious. “A car sped off the highway, went through the guard rail, bounced off a tree, and finally shuddered to a stop. A witness to the accident helped the miraculously unharmed driver out of the wreck. ‘Goodness, ma’am,’ he gasped. ‘Are you drunk?’ ‘Of course,’ said the woman, brushing the dirt from her shirt. ‘What the hell do you think I am… a stunt driver?’”
The whole group howled.
“I got one,” Dean said. “A drunk walks into a bar…”
Vicky jerked to her feet, one hand on her mug, the other jammed into her pants pocket. Christiaan read her mind as easily as he could his own.
Unbelievable.
She turned and headed into the darkness.
“Vicky, wait,” he said, jumping up to follow her. A whirl of snow hissed past him as he caught up and placed a hand on her shoulder.
She answered without turning around. “I’m tired. I have no energy left to trade clever barbs with you.” Slipping from beneath his grasp, she headed toward her tent.
“How long have you been sober?”
Vicky stopped dead, her warm breath swirling in the cold air. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.”
She whirled around. “How?” The pain of discovery etched on her face could move a mountain.
“Your refusal to partake of the spiked cider. Your response to the drunk jokes.” He stopped to take a deep breath. “Look, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
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