She couldn’t stop herself from gazing at his tall length. The straps hugging his chest made heat pool low in her stomach. In six years of mountain climbing, she’d seen hundreds of male chests framed by gear. But not one had prompted an overpowering urge to slip her hands under clothing to touch bare flesh.
None. Until today.
Vicky swallowed a deep breath and tried to erase a vision of her lips playing with the muscular ridges of his abdomen. Only a few more hours until the torture was over. Goodbyes would be said, and she could escape to her lodge to forget everything about the last two days. Forget the pain. Forget the pleasure.
Forget Christiaan.
“When your bag is packed and on your back,” Vicky said to the entire group. “Double check your crampons are secure and free of any ice buildup then file into line behind me. Remember, pay attention and watch your footing.”
Just her bad luck, Christiaan and Baz were ready before anyone else... including Dean.
“Gotta siphon the python.” A slow grin spread across Dean’s face before disappearing behind a rock.
“Hij is gek,” Christiaan said directly behind her.
“Yeah, he’s crazy,” she replied.
Christiaan smiled.
A devastatingly dark, sinful smile. The expression still took her breath away, just like the day fifteen years ago when she arrived in Amsterdam to interview him. An afternoon of watching him play rugby turned into a long weekend in the Caribbean. Four incredible days—and nights—of love, romance, and passion still today left her breathless at the memory.
Oh, their passion. Smoldering. Tantalizing. Intoxicating. Vicky clung to the images like a climber dangling from the edge of a crevasse.
She turned to head the crew down the mountain, and a spray of snow blew off a nearby rock to kiss her face.
She’d fallen in love with Christiaan the moment they met. He was Prince Charming to her Cinderella, introducing her to a world unlike her own humble existence in Texas.
He’d defied his father to marry her.
He’d insisted she accompany him on his travels to discover investment opportunities all over the world.
He’d refused to blame her for their failure to conceive a child.
Then everything changed. She choked back a tear. He betrayed their love for Astrid.
Vicky’s foot caught on something, pitching her body forward.
What the he—?
Off balance, she stumbled and immediately grabbed for her axe. Chunks of falling ice and rock stung exposed flesh as she slid down the steep slope. On her back, she was fighting gravity.
And losing.
Gaining speed, she flipped onto her stomach, bent her knees, and jammed the axe point into the thick snow.
She skidded to a stop less than forty feet from a sheer drop-off.
“Vicky!” Dean’s baritone cut through the other voices calling her name.
She struggled to get as much of her weight over the head of her axe, but Mother Shasta refused to cooperate. Rocks dislodged by the fall rained down. An extremely sharp one bit into her hand and she lost her grip.
No!
Her only hold on the mountain was gone.
Vicky slid closer to the drop-off.
Dig! Dig! Dig!
She clasped her hands together against the slope to accumulate snow in them and distributed her weight evenly. The combined movement created friction and slowed her descent. She hammered her elbows and knees into the surface. Slow. Slower.
Stop.
She jammed the steel toe points of her crampons into the mountain and took a deep breath. Heart beating like a jackhammer, she sized up the situation.
Not good.
A loose, palm-sized rock perched inches from her hand. She reached out, twice, to grasp the support. Just out of range.
Shifting slightly, she stretched again. Fingertips scraped the rough edge. Still too far.
Risking shoulder dislocation, she shot the hand out again. Little more… little more… finally, she closed her fingers around the stone.
Got it!
Vicky stabbed the crude axe into the surface, using the stone to work her way back up the slope. Anchor right toe hook into snow. Push. Dig in. Slide right foot up. Repeat.
“Hold on! I got ya.”
Heavy breathing covered hers. Powerful hands grabbed hers.
Christiaan.
He caught her arm and dragged her back onto the trail. Once safe, Vicky threw her arms around him, her heart thumping against both their chests. Their breaths were ragged. For a few seconds, only the howling wind broke the silence.
Danger over, adrenaline withdraw set in. Vicky began to shake.
“Shhh,” he whispered, tightening the embrace. “I got you now.”
The warmth of his body enveloped hers. This is where she belonged. Here, in the arms of her Prince Charming.
“Vic!” A gruff voice called out. “Vic!”
She pulled away as Dean rushed toward them. He glared at Christiaan then motioned for her to sit on a nearby boulder. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure. Did anybody else fall?”
“No,” Dean answered, squatting beside her to check for injuries. “You okay?”
“I’m fine, really.” She nodded. “Just a bit shaken up.”
“Man, you disappeared like a puff of smoke in a windstorm. What happened?”
“I lost my balance... somehow.” The answer made no more sense aloud than in her head.
“The Dutch Boys were right behind you.” Dean looked at Christiaan. “You guys see anything?”
“No. What’s that line you Americans like to use…?” Christiaan smiled. “Accidents happen?”
A cold shiver ran through Vicky.
“Accidents happen,” she repeated, but wasn’t sure if she believed it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Christiaan was supposed to be having fun.
He wasn’t.
“Here’s to life, love, and the pursuit of fun,” Dean said, raising a beer mug into the air. “From this day forward, may your arms never be empty and your bed never cold.”
A dozen glasses clinking in toast cut through the din of the crowded roadhouse on a busy weekend night. Their Climbing for Singles trip successfully completed, everybody agreed to clean up and meet here for a few rounds of drinks, compliments of Baz.
Christiaan sat at the far end of the long group booth, nursing a Scotch, hoping to derive by sheer divine intervention a way to save his company.
Unfortunately, God wasn’t divulging any secrets.
He traced the rim of his highball glass with a fingertip. His situation had gone from bad to worse.
Scratch that. Bad to dire. At least, that’s how he felt after talking to his corporate attorneys.
Baz slid into the booth next to Christiaan, third Scotch in his hand.
“Was that Duff I saw you talking to at the bar?” Christiaan asked.
“Yep.” Baz drew a long, slow swig from his glass. At this rate, he’d be on his fourth in less than a minute. Christiaan still nursed his first.
“How’s he doing?”
“Fine,” Baz answered then took more Scotch. “Duff’s always fine.”
“Did you invite him over for a drink?”
“No, but knowing Irishmen like I do, it’s only a matter of time until he comes over and asks.”
Baz was probably right. Christiaan knew a few Irishmen, too.
“Tell me again why the attorneys want to put Mineral Springs on hold,” Baz said.
“They suggest we cease all work at the site until we can appease ShastaWatch. A show of good faith that might prompt the group to work with us.”
Baz eyed Christiaan. “Work with us? They refuse to even talk to us. What makes you think they’ll suddenly agree to some type of arbitration?”
Christiaan didn’t. But he was running out of options, time, and money.
As well as patience. He hated to admit it, but blackmail seemed the on
ly possible solution.
“Stopping isn’t an option!” Baz slammed a hand on the tabletop, anger flashing across his face. Mugs, glasses, and plates rattled. Talking ceased. He smiled, waved “sorry” at the startled table, then lowered his voice.
“A delay now could cost us a bundle,” Baz growled. “That meddling bitch is ruining everything. She has to be stopped, soon. Very soon.”
Christiaan peered over at said bitch.
Vicky had surprised him, showing up to celebrate with the group, especially in this setting. A few spots down in the booth, she nursed a Shirley Temple.
“I need a refill, mijn schatje.” Baz flagged their waitress with his empty glass. “Another round for the table... compliments of this good-looking Dutchman.”
Almost wearing cutoff jeans and a tight t-shirt, the young woman rattled off their order.
“Let’s see, that’s two pitchers of beer, an Appletini, a strawberry Margarita, two scotch-on-the-rocks, and a kiddie cocktail, right?” She pointed to Vicky’s drink.
“Yes.” Vicky nodded.
“I’ll be right back,” the server said then scurried off.
Christiaan pulled a long taste of Scotch. The whiskey burned his throat.
Pale amber.
Single-malt.
Bri’s drink of choice. And since her death, his.
He glanced over at Vicky, in deep conversation with the reporter. Vicky was as much a mystery tonight as she had been yesterday. Lou’s first-round background check hadn’t uncovered much. Nothing scandalous. Nothing noteworthy. Nothing even remotely interesting.
Nothing on the boxers or briefs question either.
None of this made sense. How could such a vibrant, adventurous, willful woman live such a plain-Jane life?
“Christiaan.” Paige now turned her attention to him. “You’re a businessman. Vicky says that people who see this planet as a commodity are in direct opposition to those who see it as a community. Therefore, compromise is impossible. What do you think?”
Christiaan considered possible answers. He needed something vague and elusive. Nothing to suggest a connection to Summit Energy. Now was not the time to tip his hand.
Not yet.
“Compromise is possible,” he answered. “Provided everyone is willing to make concessions.”
“Like realigning a thirteen-mile power line to lessen the impact on a thriving osprey habitat? Or setting aside a few hundred acres as designated green space?” Vicky leaned forward and tapped her finger on the table. “That’s not a compromise. That’s a travesty.”
Obviously, Congressman Beckwith had forwarded Christiaan’s latest offer to ShastaWatch. Obviously, they weren’t interested.
“Is that the project you told me about earlier, Vicky?” The reporter peered over at Christiaan. “Mineral Springs?”
“Yes.” Vicky nodded. “ShastaWatch will fight until the power company gives up.”
“Then you’re in for a hell of a war, princess,” Baz slur-blurted out. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
Christiaan shot his friend a quick look of warning.
“Tell me.” Paige’s eyes moved from Baz to Christiaan. “Exactly who is she dealing with?”
A heavy guitar cord cut the air, followed by a drum roll. Christiaan prayed the sound had drowned out the question.
“All right!” Dean shook his fist in the air. “Sounds like the band’s ready to play again.”
The lights dimmed, and a seductive rhythm purred through the speakers.
“Exactly who is she dealing with?” the reporter repeated.
Christiaan jerked Paige onto the dance floor before she could say anything else. He slid his arms around her waist. She popped her hands on his butt.
Uh-oh.
They swayed silently for a few minutes as other couples filled the floor.
“Nice move,” she said. “Drag me away before I reveal your little secret.”
“Secret? What secret? I just wanted to dance.” Christiaan peered into her face, praying he looked as sincere as he hoped he sounded. “Just love this song.”
“You’re a brilliant businessman, decent dancer, and lousy liar. You’re also Summit Energy.”
Someone had done her homework.
“Look, I don’t like wasting time,” she said.
No confusion there considering the firm grip she had on his butt.
“I’m tired of chasing petty-ass feature story sidebars, writing routine corporate profiles, and going to banal business conferences.” She squeezed Christiaan’s left butt cheek. “I need a real story about real issues. One that will make my editors take me seriously.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Don’t patronize me.” She squeezed the right butt cheek. “I know who you are, why you’re here—”
“I told you on the mountain, I’m simply here to—”
Paige stretched up on her toes to whisper in his ear. “And that you need this project to save your company.”
Where was this girl getting her information? Maybe Lou should consider hiring her.
“You know what else I know?” She flicked his ear with her tongue.
Christiaan pulled out of mouth reach. “That the human tongue is a veritable breeding ground for an infinite number of germs?”
“Cute.” The reporter laughed. “You’re funny. I like that.”
Good. For a minute there, I thought you weren’t interested.
Christiaan gazed over at the woman he wished was groping him. Vicky accepted a fresh Shirley Temple from the waitress. Paige followed his line of sight.
“So that’s it. You don’t want her to know why you’re really here.”
Not yet.
“What’s it worth to you?”
“Excuse me?” Christiaan asked.
“Give me exclusive access to your story and...” She wiggled her eyebrows. “…you, and your secret is safe with me.”
“I’m not sure I understand.” This was more his friend’s territory than Christiaan’s.
WWBD... What would Baz do?
“Okay, let me spell it out for you. You give me everything I want... and I mean everything... and in return, I don’t tell Vicky that you’re the environmental rapist she’s trying to send packing.”
Blackmail was getting rather popular around here.
“Come on, what’s it worth to you, Baron van Laere?” the reporter pushed. “How far are you willing to go to protect your secret?”
Good question.
Baz winked at Christiaan as he slid a fresh Scotch in front of Vicky.
“Obviously, whatever it takes.”
Vicky’s eyes connected with Christiaan’s. A hot ache grew in her throat. That angular handsome face. Those extraordinary cobalt eyes. The sexy grin that could charm the pants off any woman in the room.
Including her. She crossed, then uncrossed her legs. Then she shifted in her seat. Nothing she did could satisfy the itch that needed scratched.
Her vulnerability to him disturbed her. On the mountain, after he’d pulled her to safety, she’d melted into him. Like a rock tumbling down a steep mountainside, she was powerless to resist. Even now, the fire spreading through her body could barely be contained.
Vicky swallowed hard, but the lump forming in her throat as she watched her husband slip an arm around another woman refused to go away.
The thought of him with any female burned deep. Especially that whore Astrid. The memory of discovering them in a passionate embrace haunted her still.
Across from Vicky, Baz swirled his drink glass, ice cubes tinkling against the side. When he took a sip, she could almost feel the whiskey burning down her throat, matching her mood.
Pale amber. Single-malt.
Her favorite.
Vicky stared at the tumbler.
“Care to dance?” The sweet aroma of Scotch on Baz’s breath overpowered her, singing to her like a siren.
“No.” She didn’t want to dance. She wanted to leave
. No, she needed to leave. Vicky shoved her chair back. Now.
“Victoria, love.” A thick Irish brogue coming from a devilishly handsome, somewhat arrogant, but ultimately friendly body carrying a half-empty beer pint pecked her cheek then slipped into the seat next to her. “Fancy meetin’ ye ‘ere at thet pub.”
“Hey, Duff. How’s the wrist? Downing a few pints to dull the pain?”
“Well, certainly can’t ‘urt.” The Irishman grinned. “No worries. I’ll be back flyin’ before ye know it.”
Vicky tapped the cast. “Can I sign it?”
“Of course, love.” Duff handed her a black marker.
Shamrocks, pots of gold, and the Irish flag engulfed most of the cast. “I told you Mother Shasta would make you pay for those low summit flybys.” Vicky drew a heart next to a sunburst with two upside-down Fs inside it and two Irish words underneath it. “A little revenge on her part?”
He laughed. “Well, it wouldn’t be thet first time a lady wanted revenge on oul’ Duff. Dutchie ‘ere tells me ye had some trouble with thet lady yourself earlier today.”
“Baz told you?”
“Aye. Lucky fer ye thet Baron Boy was thar to save ye. Who knows what might have happened, eh?”
“Yeah,” Baz said, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Prince Charming to the rescue.”
Vicky stole a look at Prince Charming. He guided the reporter around the dance floor perimeter, smiling as she whispered into his ear.
Vicky clutched the sobriety token in her pocket so hard the ridged edge dug into her palm. What made her think this was a good idea? To come to a bar? With the man responsible for her death and quite possibly involved in today’s “accident”?
“My goodness, love. Tha’ looks brutal.” Duff touched her wrist with his tattooed ring finger.
She hadn’t noticed it before. A golf-ball-sized bruise where Christiaan had caught her.
“It’s nothing,” she said.
“You really need to be more careful,” Baz cautioned. “Prince Charming won’t always be there to protect you.”
The man had no idea.
Vicky’s breathing shallowed as she fought for control of her mind. Her body. Her sobriety.
She traced a finger down the outside of Baz’s drink. The whiskey looked so inviting. One sip would erase this pain.
Vicky’s hand closed around the glass.
'Til Death Us Do Part Page 6