“Recovering alcoholic…” she said, running a hand through her hair and nibbling the corner of her bottom lip. “Not exactly a title to be proud of.”
“Beating the bottle is an impressive accomplishment,” Christiaan said. “Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.”
An eight-year burden lessened as he suddenly offered words and understanding he wished he’d shared with his wife. Before he’d lost Bri, her drinking had escalated. After her death, he finally understood how she’d crawled into the bottle. He’d married an American who failed to produce an heir. An inadequacy the van Laere family constantly mentioned no matter who was within earshot.
If only he’d recognized her descent into depression.
If only he’d stood up to his father.
If only he’d shown her love instead of contempt on their last night together.
“It takes courage to fight the demons of alcohol,” he told Vicky. “My wife died before I could tell her that, and I’ve regretted it ever since.”
A tender moment passed between them. Vicky’s hand eased from her pocket. Something peeking out from her fist caught the moonlight. Whatever the item, her white-knuckled grip suggested it meant more than anything to her.
Palm outstretched, Christiaan stepped closer. “May I?”
Like a frightened rabbit, she stood as if trying to decide whether the source of the danger she sensed was directly in front of her or buried deep inside.
He was prepared to say goodnight and leave when she reached out and placed her fist in his hand.
The touch fired a shot of raw desire through him. Vicky must have felt the heat, too, because she immediately dropped the item into his hand and stepped back.
A small gold coin with raised lettering lay in his palm. Portions of a triangle with Roman numerals VII etched in the middle appeared worn as if rubbed many times. The words “One Day at a Time” appeared on the reverse.
“What is it?” he asked.
“My AA anniversary chip. My sobriety sponsor gives me a new one each year I manage not to take a drink.”
“A silent reminder of your commitment?”
Vicky nodded.
Christiaan fingered the chip. “VII. Seven years of sobriety?”
“Seven very hard, torturous, but worth-it years.”
“From the worn surface, I’d guess your eight-year prize is due soon.”
Piercing platinum eyes looked up at him. A flood of emotions ambushed Christiaan. Some about Bri. Some about Vicky. Many conflicting.
Before he realized what he was doing, Christiaan grazed her cheek with his free hand. “Eight years is a long time. Congratulations on making a new life for yourself.”
Vicky drew back, her expression now as cold as the light snow swirling around them. She snatched the coin from his hand.
“Like I had a choice.” She glared at him like the highlight of her day would be to scratch his eyes out.
“Wait,” Christiaan said. “I didn’t—”
She strode past him, her jaw set, eyes straight ahead. What had upset her? He was as clueless as the blond who’d hung all over him earlier.
Baz appeared from the shadows as Christiaan debated whether to follow her or not.
“Imagine that,” his friend said. “An alcoholic.”
“You overheard?”
“Yes, and may I say you’re brilliant, bro?” Baz placed a hand on Christiaan’s shoulder. “The way you keyed into her weakness. Got her to reveal her secret, then tested her embarrassment level. Now we have what we need to make her toe the line.”
“What are you talking about?” The small hairs on the back of Christiaan’s neck bristled. He wasn’t exactly sure where this was headed, but the sinister undertone of the remarks was clear.
“It’s not a sobriety chip. It’s a bargaining chip.”
Christiaan stared at Baz. “You’re suggesting blackmail?”
“Yes, I am. Think about it, Chris. She’s obviously ashamed of her alcoholism and probably would do anything to keep it hidden. Threaten to take her secret public, and she’ll call off the ShastaWatch dogs.”
The idea’s tentacles wrapped themselves around Christiaan’s mind. Extortion wasn’t his style. He preferred using intelligence and reason to achieve his goals.
A stab of conscience pierced his gut. Stooping to smear tactics was the act of a desperate man.
Which is exactly what he was. Without Mineral Springs, he’d lose everything.
VL Holdings was all he had left.
And if pulling something underhanded would save it, so be it.
The last time he failed to fight for what mattered to him, he lost her to fate and a deadly explosion.
Christiaan glimpsed Vicky saying goodnight to everyone then entering her tent.
Bri’s face flashed across his mind. If anyone had dared use her alcoholism against her, he’d have killed the person.
Yet, that’s exactly what Baz proposed.
Shame twisted at Christiaan’s gut. If Bri was alive, she’d be so disappointed in him. He reached for the gold band hanging from his neck.
For the first time in eight years, he thanked God she wasn’t.
CHAPTER SIX
From his perch on the mountain, Christiaan stared at the breathtaking beauty before him.
And the scenery on Shasta wasn’t bad, either.
Thirty feet away, Vicky sunned herself on a flat gray boulder. Like a Greek priestess paying homage to the gods, she raised her face to the heavens, sun-kissed hair teasing a slender, kissable neck.
The tight, sweat-drenched top and form-fitting pants revealed a body honed by hard work, perseverance, and passion. A visual of him using his tongue to prove that theory kicked his dust-covered libido into overdrive and begged for attention.
Potverdomme! Eight years is too long to be celibate.
Christiaan dismissed the vision and shifted enough to give his erection room to breathe. Enough thinking with the little head. Right now, he needed to use the one sitting on his shoulders to focus on more pressing, rational thoughts.
Sorry, boy.
Since the deep freeze last night, the closest Christiaan got to the Ice Princess was one “Good morning” and two “Watch your footing” on their way up the mountain. Only a few hours until they returned to the real world and Christiaan wasn’t any closer to her or an acceptable strategy than when he started.
He eyeballed the group. Everyone lounged on various outcroppings, eating peanut butter sandwiches. Baz sat perched on a smaller boulder next to the reporter. Dean entertained them with tales of his climbing exploits.
“Okay, so, I’m just about to lose my footing. I literally push away from the mountain, jam my axe into the ice, thus saving myself and my team.” Dean blew on his fingernails then buffed them on the front of his shirt.
“Tell us another one,” the reporter asked, holding a digital recorder closer to him.
“Okay.” He jumped into some story about Joshua Tree National Park, a rockslide, and a former Miss Oregon “with a body like a walking fantasy”.
Christiaan yawned. He’d been up half the night pondering his situation and his conscience. His sore ribcage a fading memory thanks to an overdose of ibuprofen, he leaned back in time to see a hawk glide in circles across the blue sky. Many an afternoon as a child had been spent like this, gazing at white billows drifting overhead. A young Christiaan would whine about the burdens of wealth and privilege while a young Baz grumbled about the burdens of poverty.
Christiaan snorted. The roles would be reversed if the Mineral Springs project failed. Baz would relish the juxtaposition.
Christiaan bolted upright. Mineral Springs would not fail. He hadn’t leveraged everything he owned to lose it to a cold, vindictive woman and her eco-misfits.
Vicky stretched forward in a yoga-like pose, gently touching her forehead to her knees. He glimpsed a red thong peeking out from her climbing pants and barely stifled a thick groan from the back of his throat.
“So when I said Joshua spanked me hard, she called me a pervert,” Dean explained. “She didn’t understand I was saying how the climb had completely worn me out.”
Everyone laughed.
“Any other interesting stories?” the reporter asked.
“Well...” Dean checked his watch. “Maybe one more. My best climbing story includes Vic. We were part of an expedition support team in Alaska. Vic adding McKinley to her Seven Summits string, and me along for the ride.”
“Seven Summits?” Christiaan asked.
“The highest peaks on the earth’s seven continents. Kilimanjaro in Africa, Elbrus in Europe, Aconcagua in South America, Kosciusko in Australia, Vinson in Antarctica, McKinley in North America, and, of course, Everest in Asia. Something like only four hundred climbers have completed them all.”
A collective “wow” rose from the crowd. Christiaan agreed.
“Vic’s only missing one... Everest,” Dean answered. “Anyway, we’re on day three, ferrying oxygen tanks, when one of the locals who’s ahead of us loses his footing.” Dean paused for effect. “The metal tanks he’s carrying on his back shift and knock him unconscious.”
“Wow!” The reporter leaned in closer.
“Wait, it gets worse. I was directly behind him, so his body hit me first and got entangled in my pack. The tanks I’m carrying jar loose and fall away as both of us go sailing straight down the mountain.” Dean gestured with his hands.
“You must have been moving at a pretty good clip,” Baz said.
“Flying. I couldn’t stop myself ‘cause I’d lost my ice axe when the dude hit me.”
“So what’d you do?”
“Actually, I didn’t do anything.” Dean nodded his head toward his partner. “Vic did. She was about fifty yards behind us. Saw us falling, dropped her pack, and—to this day I still can’t believe it—anchored herself to the mountain with her crampons then drove her ice axe straight through my pant leg into the surface.”
“While you were falling?” someone asked.
“Yes. With a free hand, she grabbed me—now remember I still had the out-cold guy strapped to me—and we came to a bone-jarring stop. Once I caught my breath and my bearings, I got myself semi-anchored, as best you can with a hundred-fifty-pound dead weight hanging on you. Vic radioed our position, and we were airlifted out within the hour.”
Silence covered the group. Everyone’s mouth, including Christiaan’s, opened wide enough to walk an elephant into. They all turned to stare at Vicky.
Who was still in seated-forward-bend-with-winking-thong pose.
“Yo, Vicky.” One of the guys in the group yelled, giving her thumbs up. “Balls of steel, babe. Balls of steel.” The entire group exploded into laughter.
Vicky sat up, the corners of her lips curved. Her high, sculpted cheekbones rose as she laughed, the animation enchanting. “Never leave home without it.” She patted the thin axe hanging from her hip.
No denying the woman possessed a hefty set. Climbing mountains, performing superhuman feats, and serving as Mother Nature’s pit bull took balls.
But last night she’d revealed a weakness. One prime for exploitation.
Baz walked over and sat down next to Christiaan. “‘Local Climbing Hero Former Drunk’ would make a great headline, bro,” he whispered. “ShastaWatch supporters would read that over their morning coffee and drop like flies by afternoon tea.”
Christiaan nodded. “It’s a half-truth and a cheap shot.”
“No worse than her claim that Summit Energy plans to rape the mountain.”
“I understand what you’re saying, but I’m still not comfortable with this,” Christiaan answered, touching the wedding ring hanging under his shirt. “Bri would be so disappointed in me.”
Baz crossed his arms and stared into Christiaan’s eyes. “She’s dead, Chris. Dead. Move on.”
Even now, the words stung like salt in an open wound.
“Look at it this way,” Baz said. “We’re not actually going public with the info, merely threatening to. Vicky will call the dogs off to keep her secret, I get to do what I came here to do, and Bri rests in peace.”
Christiaan sighed and looked away. His life had always been based on honesty, integrity, and fairness.
But now he had no choice. Too much was at stake. Using Vicky’s alcoholism to his advantage may be deceptive, exploitative, and unethical.
But not illegal.
Christiaan glanced at Vicky. She turned and held his gaze, those luminous gray eyes boring into him.
Those eyes.
Vicky would never forgive him.
Neither would Bri.
Vicky cursed life in general as the late morning sun warmed her body. Already twenty degrees higher than when they’d started this morning, the temperature continued to climb.
Along with her anxiety.
She tried to refocus her thoughts and breathe in the wondrous landscape. Unfortunately, Mother Shasta could do nothing to soothe the emotional turmoil provoked by her husband’s presence.
Last night had rattled her. What had possessed her to talk to him let alone pull out her AA token?
Christiaan’s manner had reminded Vicky of the day they met. He’d charmed her with good looks, a disarming personality, and that elegant Dutch accent. They’d fallen in love that day and had been inseparable.
Until…
The dull ache in her heart and the unsettling between her thighs underscored the situation.
She chuckled to herself. Situation. Sounded so innocent. Forgetting to pack soap, that was a situation. Misplacing a canteen of water, that was a situation.
Pretending you’re somebody else to the one person who knows—correction, knew—you better than anyone? That was a nightmare.
A red-tailed hawk screeching overhead penetrated the mental fog surrounding her. Checking her watch, Vicky refocused her mind and rose from the rock.
“So Dean,” the reporter asked. “How long have you and Vicky known each other?”
“A couple of years. Vic just showed up one day. A real gumby. Had never done anything athletic in her life. I taught her how to climb.” He laughed. “Of course, first I had to get her over her fear of hei—”
“Hey, guys.” Vicky jerked to her feet and clapped her hands together. Hopefully, the sound had masked Dean’s last remark. “We really need to get moving.”
He checked his watch. “Vic’s right. Time to head down.”
“Don’t forget to put everything back into your packs,” Vicky reminded everyone. “That includes garbage. Pack it in, pack it out.”
She shoved the empty wrapper from her nutrition bar into a side pouch and shrugged on her jacket then gear. To her left, she caught a delightful view of Christiaan’s backside as he reached for a banana peel on the ground. Her heart pounded.
Wooden shoes make for great buns of steel.
“Vicky, I need your help.” The reporter walked up and dropped her backpack on the ground between them. “I think I broke this.”
“Let’s see.” Vicky hoisted the pack onto a nearby boulder and identified the problem. A shoulder strap had somehow gotten loose from its cinch strap buckle. “Not broken, just unraveled.”
“Gee.” Paige shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know how that happened.”
I hope she’s a better reporter than a liar.
Vicky smiled then began the tedious job of rethreading the strap through the multitude of slots on the buckle.
“Dean tells me you’re pretty active in a local environmental group. ShastaWatch, is it?”
“I thought we agreed you weren’t going to write about me,” Vicky answered without looking up. She didn’t want to make a mistake. Loose equipment could be a climbing hazard.
“Can’t we at least talk about your group? I’m sure you guys could use a friend in the media.”
Good point. ShastaWatch could use all the help they could g
et in their fight against Summit Energy.
“What would you like to know?” Vicky asked, threading the strap through the last two slots.
“In your opinion, what’s the greatest threat to Mt. Shasta?”
“Not what, who,” Vicky said as she double-checked her work. “Real-estate developers. Power companies. Politicians wheeling and dealing for campaign contributions. They’re all environmental rapists.”
“You don’t pull any punches, do you?”
“Not when it comes to saving my mountain.” Vicky pulled to ensure the strap would hold then looked at Paige. “Right now, I’m trying to stop the building of a geothermal industrial park at Mineral Springs, a pristine and sacred Native-American Indian site. The federal government and the power company holding the drilling leases say ‘don’t worry, it’s okay… it’s renewable energy… it’s green energy… it’s safe’.”
Vicky stood. “But it’s not okay. Geothermal is not green… geothermal power plants emit low levels of carbon dioxide, nitric oxide, and sulfur. It’s not renewable… locations may eventually cool down as there’s only so much energy that can be stored and replenished in a given volume of earth. And it’s not safe… earthquakes in Europe, China, and Australia are known to have been triggered by nearby geothermal facilities.”
“Wow, you’re pretty fired up about this.”
“Yes I am. For over twenty years, power companies have tried to tap Mother Shasta’s volcanic highlands. She deserves to remain pristine and untouched for generations.”
“How do you plan on ensuring that?”
“By declaring war on Summit Energy.” Vicky handed the backpack to the reporter.
“You sound pretty sure of yourself,” a Dutch accent said behind her.
Vicky turned to find Christiaan and Baz standing there. She was not going to get into a debate with those two. Neither had ever been interested in social causes. They always sided with business.
“Okay, everyone.” She checked her watch. “We need to get moving.” Now. Vicky needed to get some physical space between herself and her husband.
Mental space wasn’t so easy.
'Til Death Us Do Part Page 5