Balancing on the lip of the cornice, Clay saw that yesterday’s storm had frosted the chute with a thick layer of new powder—smooth and pristine and unspoiled... and potentially lethal. Clay looked it over carefully, alert for any evidence of sliding snow. Seeing none, he lowered his goggles against the glaring sun, took a few deep, frigid breaths, and skied slowly off the edge.
Keeping his body tucked up tight for balance, he sailed out over the drop-off, extending his legs in the split second before touchdown. Snow sprayed up into his face, but otherwise it was a neat landing—skis pointing across the slope, weight centered, chest facing downhill. He heard the distant applause of the onlookers.
Stay focused. Keep that edge control. Pushing off as if he were spring-loaded, he swung his legs around and landed again, skis facing the opposite way. The powder felt perfect beneath his skis—almost too perfect, blowing past his legs with deceptive, sparkling innocence.
Now comes the hard part: the first turn. Planting his pole on the downhill side, he popped up and pivoted, free-falling for several seconds before touchdown. And again... and again. The audience cheered.
Controlled free-fall. He used to love that feeling. Now it reminded him way too much of his own life. In his mind’s eye he saw Izzy, fast asleep yesterday morning as he laid the valentine on the pillow next to her.
Don’t think about Izzy. Think about the run. Stay focused.
As the chute narrowed between its walls of rock, he had to pivot more aggressively so that he touched down farther across the fall line. In the chill silence between landing and taking off again, he heard a soft rumble and felt the snow shift beneath his skis. The faraway voices began to scream. No. No!
The snow hit him from behind, tearing off his skis. It yanked him off his feet and slammed him down the chute.
Stay on the surface. He started swimming. His mouth filled with snow as it rose higher and higher.
It covered his head. He tried to swim out of it, but couldn’t. Izzy, I’m sorry!
The pummeling abruptly ceased. He wasn’t moving anymore. Snow surrounded him, buried him. It formed an icy ball in his mouth that he couldn’t spit out.
Which way was up? How deep was he? I’m sorry, Izzy.
The snow was so heavy he couldn’t move his arms or legs. His chest felt crushed by the weight of it. He tried to fill his lungs with air, but he couldn’t. His heart pounded with panic. My God, this is it!
This couldn’t be it. He couldn’t die this way. Izzy would hate him forever. He promised her he wouldn’t do this, and now he was dying and she’d think he didn’t love her enough to keep his promise, and oh, God, he loved her so much.
He strained fiercely against the weight of the snow. Move! Move, damn you! But it didn’t budge. His lungs burned. Amid the panic of impending death, a clear, quiet voice in his mind whispered, I’m sorry, Izzy. I blew it. I’m so, so sorry.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
HE WAS LATE.
Izzy checked her watch again. It was 8:47 p.m., and Clay still wasn’t home from the Wolf Peak trip, nor had he called or texted. She’d tried to get in touch all day, but her calls went to voicemail and her texts were ignored. Same thing when she tried to contact Harry.
She opened the oven and lifted the lid of the casserole to check on her stracotto al barolo—Clay’s favorite dish. It didn’t hurt the beef or the red wine sauce to sit around this way in a warm oven, but the vegetables would start getting mushy if he didn’t come home soon. She went to the dining room and turned on the wall sconces, bathing the room in a warm half light, then leaned over the table and blew the candles out. No use letting them burn down before he even got here. To kill another minute she straightened the silverware and refolded the napkins, then checked her watch again.
He'd mentioned something about another snowstorm tonight. Maybe the flight was delayed. But wouldn’t he have called to tell her that? The storm might have knocked out the cell tower. That kind of thing happened, didn’t it? And then he would have had to turn his phone off anyway, during the flight...
Lights flashed in the driveway. Headlights. Yes! She smoothed her flowing silk dress, beneath which she wore no undergarments. When her hand brushed the stiff envelope in her pocket, her heart started beating double-time. No getting cold feet now. It was time to start making amends, and she intended to do as thorough a job of it as possible.
A sound came at the back door—the jiggle of a key in the lock. She took a step in that direction, but then hesitated, feeling absurdly nervous at the prospect of seeing Clay again. She’d been such an idiot, so certain he couldn’t change, even after he’d promised not to ski The Suicide Chute just to prove to her that she was more important to him than The Rush. That kind of gesture deserved some acknowledgment. She’d been selfish to withhold what she felt in her heart. It smacked of punishment, yet he’d done nothing wrong. On the contrary, he’d just made a sacrifice for her, one that benefited their relationship at the expense of his precious magazine.
Izzy heard the door open and then close. Everything was quiet for a long minute, and then she heard slow footsteps moving through the house toward her. She backed up until she felt the dining table behind her. You little idiot, she thought, and smiled. Clay always called her that; never was a nickname more deserved.
Finally she saw him, a ghostlike figure in profile in the arched doorway. He still wore his parka and boots, and he looked sad and haggard.
Then he turned and saw her, and his expression transformed into one of astonishment. “Izzy?”
“You seem surprised to see me.”
He didn’t move or say anything, just took her in, looking pleasantly stunned. “I’m... glad to see you.”
“I’m glad you’re home.” Biting her lip, she reached into her pocket and withdrew the small, square envelope. “This is for you.”
He approached her slowly. His skin looked extraordinarily pale in the muted light from the sconces. “What is it?”
She smiled, nervously clutching the tablecloth. “Open it.”
Clay tore the flap open and slid out the little pink paper heart. Izzy felt her face heat up as he read the message she’d written in elaborate script in the middle of a circle of little glued-on coffee beans: I love you, Clay. Izzy.
He looked up at her, his eyes wide.
She steeled herself, then said the words out loud. “I love you.” Her voice cracked; her eyes filled with tears.
Suddenly he was gathering her in his arms. “Oh, God, Izzy, thank you. Thank you.”
“I do,” she said brokenly, looking up at him. “I’m so stupid. Can you forgive me for being so—”
“Shh.” He kissed her gently, then kissed her damp eyelids. Then he stroked his thumb over her lower lip and kissed her again, not so gently.
She banded her arms around him, pulling him tight against her. He leaned into her, pressing her against the table. She felt the sharp-edged zipper of his parka through her thin dress and fumbled between them to unzip it. Beneath it he wore a button-down shirt. She hastily unbuttoned it; one of the buttons flew off and rattled on the parquet floor.
His hands were everywhere: in her hair, roaming over her back, her hips. He closed one over a breast and moaned into her mouth to find it unencumbered by a bra.
Clay caressed her with an artless, almost frantic desperation, as if he were afraid she’d disappear any second. He squeezed and stroked her everywhere, his touch rough and possessive. She ran her hands over his bare chest, wrapping them around his back beneath the open shirt.
Crushing her to the table, he thrust against her, his tongue mimicking the rocking of his hips. The wood of the table squeaked; a candlestick fell over.
She felt his erection through his jeans and her dress, grinding into her, felt the urgent tugging of his fingers on a nipple. Arousal pulsed through her. When he lifted her onto the table, she was ready.
Clay whipped her skirt up, growling with pleasure to find her naked underneath. He pushed her legs apart, an
d then she felt his unsteady hand between them, parting, investigating. She gasped at the stimulation of trembling fingers where she felt so empty, so swollen and wet.
He unbuckled his belt with shaking hands while Izzy yanked down his zipper, their breathing quick and hoarse. She released him, drawing her hand up his rigid length. He wrapped her legs around his waist and closed his hands over her hips.
Izzy held her breath as he positioned himself, anticipating that delicious moment of male penetration.
He drove in hard, filling her with one ramming thrust—a breathtaking invasion. She cried out.
Clay withdrew almost completely. “Are you all—”
“Yes!” Seizing his parka in both fists, she tightened her legs around him, urging him to thrust again. He did, hard, burying himself to the hilt. And again and again, with increasing speed and force, as she bucked against him, clawing at his parka.
He reached behind her to shove a plate and silverware out of the way. Pressing her back onto the table, he raised her hips, angling for a deeper penetration. Yes... yes... She wanted him deeper, as deep as he could get, wanted him to hammer her into the table, claim her, make her his forever.
Each thrust forced her breath out in a pant that echoed his own harsh gasps. Clinging to each other, they strove violently for release.
The table creaked rhythmically. The other candlestick toppled over.
Clay’s fingers dug into her hips as he plunged into her with stabbing thrusts. He went still, his body bow-tight and quivering, his eyes half closed. A drop of sweat fell from his hair onto her lips.
A raw groan tore from him as she felt the first hot jet inside her. His body convulsed, setting off her own frenzied release. She heard a low, animal moan, and realized it came from her. He pounded into her as she thrashed beneath him, overcome by sensation.
Izzy held Clay tight, riding out the fury of their climaxes, until the last shuddering tremor had run its course.
He was shaking, his chest heaving as he lay atop her, his face damp in the crook of her neck. Lifting his head as if it were incredibly heavy, he kissed her, a wet, pleasingly salty caress of their lips.
He pulled a hand out from beneath her hip and leaned his elbow on the table, accidentally knocking a wineglass onto a plate. It shattered.
Pulling the other hand out, he slid it beneath her and helped her to sit up. She unwrapped her legs from around him, but held him tight, savoring the fullness of him inside her.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her disarrayed hair. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s just a glass.”
He shook his head. “Not that.” Reaching between them, he slid himself slowly out of her. She straightened her skirt as he rezipped and buckled, and then he lifted her down. Taking her face between still-trembling hands, he said, “I have to tell you something. I... I wanted to tell you in person, so I turned off my phone, and I made Harry do the same.”
She just stared at him. He looked so sad, so pale and grim.
“I did something... I shouldn’t have. I made a mistake, and I’m terrified that you won’t be able to forgive me.”
Something he shouldn’t have. Izzy’s first thought was that he’d been with another woman in Colorado. She felt a dull ache in her stomach, and stepped back from him, against the table.
He dragged a hand through his sodden hair. “I skied. I skied the chute. Borg broke a leg, and I—I’m sorry.”
It took her a moment to absorb what he was saying. He hadn’t cheated on her. But he’d done something just as bad.
The ache intensified; she felt physically ill. “You promised,” she said in a small voice, a little girl’s voice.
“I know.”
“Because... because you said I was more important than—”
“I know.” His expression was so desolate. “You are.”
She shook her head slowly. “No, I’m not. Not really.”
“Izzy...” He moved toward her, but she sidestepped him, turning her back on him and wrapping her arms around herself.
“I hate this,” she said. “I really hate this. Were you just lying to me when you said you wouldn’t—”
“No!” He came up behind her and gripped her upper arms. “I wouldn’t lie to you. I meant it when I said I wouldn’t ski.”
“Then why did you?”
He sighed raggedly. “The easy answer is ’cause it was good publicity for the magazine. It’s a little more complicated than that. To tell you the truth, it’s kind of embarrassing...” He shook his head dismissively. “Forget it. I’m an idiot. I made a mistake.”
“I hate that magazine. I hate what you do to promote it. You could have gotten yourself killed. There could have been an avalanche.”
He drew his hands slowly down her arms, and then up again. “There was.”
Wresting herself from his grasp, she wheeled around. “There was? While you were skiing?”
His jaw clenched. He nodded. “They, uh, saw where I got buried, and—”
“Buried!”
“And they were prepared. They had shovels. I was out in less than two minutes. They put me in an ambulance and checked me out at the hospital and let me go.”
She watched him through a wavering film of tears until she couldn’t stand it anymore, and then she took him in her arms. “Oh, Clay. Oh, God. You might have died.” Drawing away from him, she punched him on the chest. “And for what? For that stupid magazine? I hate it! I wish you’d never started it.”
“Izzy.” He reached out to wipe her tears, but she swatted his hand away.
“That magazine means everything to you. And one of these days, it’s going to take everything from you, and there won’t be anything I can do about that.”
“Izzy, I was stupid. I made a mistake. I’m asking you to forgive me.”
“I could forgive you this time, Clay. But what about the next time, and the next? I’m going to keep having to pretend it doesn’t rip my heart out when you take these horrible risks.”
“Would you believe me if I said there would never be a next time? If I told you I was washing my hands completely of all the extreme—”
“An hour ago I might have. Not now. Especially not with Mercer-Hest breathing down your neck. What you did today for the sake of The Rush, you’ll do again. It’ll never end. Until—” She strove to fight off a renewal of her tears. “Until your luck runs out and you don’t come home from one of your trips.”
“Izzy, I promise—”
“You promised before.” She didn’t fight the tears anymore. They slid down her face and she didn’t even bother wiping them away. “I’m sorry, Clay, but I can’t live this way. I should have left when I said I was going to. I’m gonna go repack my bags.”
“Izzy, no.” He took a step toward her and cupped her wet face with his hands. “You said you loved me.”
“I do. That’s why I can’t wait around for someone to call me up and say, ‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Granger, but there’s been a tragic accident, and your husband’s not coming home.’”
“It won’t happen!”
“You can’t guarantee that. You’d set yourself on fire and jump off the Empire State Building if it would benefit The Rush. You know that.”
“If I could guarantee it, would you stay with me?”
Quietly she said, “You can’t, Clay. Today was proof of that.”
“But would you?”
“I’m leaving, Clay. Now. Tonight. Nothing you do or say can stop me this time.”
She could tell by his expression that he knew she meant it. “I guess I really did blow it. Just do one thing for me, Izzy.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Two things.”
Wary, she said, “What things?”
“Don’t leave tonight. Wait till the morning. Stay with me tonight. Sleep with me. That’s all—I just want us to sleep together.”
She swallowed the knot in her throat. “All right. And the other thing?”
He hesitated. “You really do
love me, right?”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh, God, Clay, if I didn’t, this would be so much easier.”
“Then don’t divorce me.” He enfolded her in his arms. “Not yet, anyway. Give me a chance.”
“Clay, I gave you a—”
“To find a way to guarantee—really guarantee—that the magazine won’t come between us anymore.”
“I don’t think that’s possible, Clay.”
“But if it were... would you take me back?”
She looked up and met his hopeful blue gaze. “All you’d have to do is call.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE DOORBELL RANG.
“Who’s that?” Teddy asked as she tasted the marsala sauce.
“Our company.” Izzy took a third plate out of the cupboard.
“I didn’t invite anyone for dinner.”
“I did.” Izzy crossed to the door with Teddy staring after her, peered through the peephole, then unlocked the door and swung it open. “Hi, Rory. Glad you could make it.”
Rory O’Dwyer stood in the hallway of the Brooklyn brownstone, bearing a white bakery box and looking nervous as hell. “Thanks for inviting me.” He met the gaze of Teddy, who hadn’t moved or spoken or apparently breathed since Izzy opened the door. “Teodora.”
“Rory.” Teddy’s eyes slid malevolently toward Izzy. “And of course you know my shithead niece.”
Rory grinned and stepped into the apartment. “Still the same old Teddy.”
SO, IZZY,” RORY SAID as he tucked in to his slab of cherry cheesecake, “I understand you’re doing freelance graphics?”
Izzy stabbed a cherry with her fork. “Yeah, and looking for a regular job. I’m not making enough on freelance work to get my own place. Teddy’s gonna get sick of having me underfoot. It’s been six weeks already.”
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