by Tara Janzen
Glass fell in a brittle shower from the winter sky, and Chantal hid farther under her arm, praying for the cruel rain to stop. Paul, Paul. The name flooded her mind with images, dragging a sob from deep in her chest.
In seconds it was over and reality took hold. There had been no rope in Monaco, no cliff, no bite of cold numbing her fingers. Slowly she raised her head, and found Jaz halfway up the cliff, twisting and turning in the rope, his body dangling at a dangerous angle. Get out of here! The warning flashed across her brain. But there was another message, a stronger message battling in her heaving breast: Help him. Without her belay, the rope would flow like water through his harness connection and he’d drop like a stone. Once she had run. She couldn’t do it again.
Using her weight, she tightened the friction on the figure eight to give him a chance, his only chance. “I’ve got you! Rap down!” Her voice echoed hollow and high off the cliff wall. He twisted again, and the rope jerked her off the ground. Chantal gasped for breath and squeezed her eyes shut, pulling for his life, her muscles wrapping around each other until they hurt.
She touched earth and spread and braced her feet against a fallen tree, hanging like a hundred pounds of deadweight on the end. “Move! Jaz!” Her scream teetered on the edge of panic.
Jaz was in trouble. He knew it as sure as he was hanging there. He had lost the rope out of one hand and his ears were ringing in two octaves. Cold, rough stone bit into his cheek. At least he’d had enough sense to slide past the window, but where was the rope? Like an answer to his prayers, the rope tightened with a jerk and he swung upright.
A voice cut through the buzzing in his head. Move, it commanded, and Jaz did his damnedest to obey. He reached out for the rope, but a sharp pain lanced him from his shoulder to his neck and down his arm, cramping his fingers into an ineffectual fist. The ringing in his ears increased, and somewhere, way in the back of his mind, he wondered if this was the end of the line.
“Move! Move, you crazy sonofa—Move, Jaz!” The harsh cry came again from below, lighting a fire under his survival instincts.
Ignoring the pain, he clenched the rope with a white-knuckled grip and immediately felt her slack off. No place to go now but down, Jaz, old boy, and fast. The thought and action were simultaneous as he slipped down the rope, yards at a time, his body burning. At the bottom, a pair of strong, supple arms came around his waist, pulling him off the rope and supporting his weight.
“Thanks. Ah . . .” He winced when she tucked her shoulder under his arm, but just feeling the ground beneath his feet sent a fresh wave of strength through him.
“You’re hurt,” she said with a gasp, and he lightened his weight on her body. She was so small, he wondered if he’d been kissing jailbait. He hoped not, because he wanted to kiss her again. Planned on it, actually.
“It’s just a flesh wound,” he said bravely. Lord, he hoped it was just a flesh wound, but what he knew about wounds would fit on the head of a pin. It hurt like hell. That he knew for sure.
“We’ve got to get out of here.”
“I’m game. What’s the plan?”
“Don’t you have a plan?” What had she gotten herself into?
“I’ve got a snowmobile.”
“Where?”
“Half a mile to the north.”
“Can you walk?”
“Yes.” Jaz tested his knees to see if the fear-induced jelly had hardened up yet.
Her eyes met his for an instant, sharp and intense. “Then run.”
Chantal took her own advice, racing over the forest rubble to the end of the ravine. He either made it now or he was on his own, she told herself. But he stuck to her like glue, his hands grabbing for branches she had barely cleared. When they scrambled to the top of the gulch, it was his hand stopping her backslide, his hand on her instep giving her the final boost over the top.
Chantal scrambled to her feet and steadied herself in the drifting snow; then she reached down for his hand. He was already halfway up, and her added tug sent him flying over the edge. A tangle of arms, legs, and bodies ensued, with Jaz gaining the high ground. The breath whooshed out of her lungs.
“Sorry,” he grunted, without making the effort to move.
She knew he was hurting. It showed in the awkward angle of his arm between their stomachs and his labored gasps filling the air with vapor clouds. She’d give him five seconds, and not a moment more.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Uh . . . good-bye and good luck.” Like their previous conversations, her statement sounded ridiculous, especially with him sprawled all over her, pressing her into the snow.
He groaned in answer and levered himself up on one elbow. Light from the full moon spilled onto his face, delineating the square line of his jaw and the curve of his cheekbones up to his eyes. The rest of his face remained a mystery, and for the first time Chantal allowed herself to wonder what he looked like. But his five seconds were up.
“We’ve got to get out of here.” She started to slide from beneath him.
“Can I give you a ride home?”
The line was so out of place, she couldn’t stop a smile from curving her mouth. “I don’t think so.” The roar of a snowmobile engine in the distance instantly changed her mind. “Maybe that’s not such a bad idea.” She’d never be able to out-ski a snowmobile.
“Let’s go.” His words bespoke haste; his actions didn’t. Slowly and carefully he rolled off her and into the snow. One arm was held close to his waist as he stood. He used the other to grasp her forearm and hold her steady until she got her feet under her.
“I’ve got to pick up my skis,” she informed him, stopping herself from brushing off the snow clinging to her clothes. In this light, the more mottled her coloring the better. She noticed he left the snow on his clothes too.
“Lead on.” He graciously stepped back and let her break the trail.
She took a couple of seconds to get her bearings before striking off into the forest. The moon was both a blessing and a danger as they melted into the shadows, loping from tree to tree, from light into darkness and back again. Five minutes later they found her cache. A troop of snowmobiles was crisscrossing the Sandhurst property in wide sweeps, the arcs of the headlights slicing through the night and bouncing off the trees. The whine of the engines rose and fell with the landscape.
Chantal strapped on her skis, and Jaz threw her pack over his good shoulder. Silently he signaled her to wait, the pressure of his hand on her shoulder all the warning she needed. A snowmobile roared past them less than twenty yards away, the closest yet. When it headed off into the night, he tapped her on the arm and Chantal took off. Her instincts were to give it everything she had and fly up the trail, but she forced herself to a slower pace, knowing if she lost him her best chance for getting out of there would also be lost.
The trek from her cache to the snowmobile took them farther and farther from her original route, and her confidence wavered with each added yard. Following a stranger into nowhere hadn’t been a part of her plan. But it wasn’t really nowhere, she reminded herself. No matter where they ended up, she could find her way home. An innate sense of direction and at least a passing familiarity with any stretch of the countryside were her guarantees against ever being lost in these mountains. And she could ski all night if she had to.
Jaz stumbled on the trail, and she sliced her skis into the snow to keep from plowing into him. Before she could lend a helping hand, he was up and moving again. Could he make it? If he was a flatlander, the altitude alone had already cut his stamina in half. Would she continue putting herself in danger if he really couldn’t make it?
Questions, questions. She hated the questions, was unsure of the answers. Kicking off with an angry burst of energy, she caught up to him with three long glides and stayed close, until he stopped by an outcropping of granite. The huge boulder jutted into the night sky, shadowing the land beneath it and the snowmobile. Relief flooded through her, washing away the little shreds of guilt nagging at her conscience
. Of course they were going to make it, and no, she wouldn’t have left him if he hadn’t been able to keep up.
While she stepped out of her skis, he straddled the seat. But when he reached for the key, she grasped his hand.
“The second you start this thing, they’re going to know exactly where we are. Let me drive. I know where we’re going.”
The words were more of a command than a request, which didn’t seem to faze him. He cocked his head and flashed her a grin, the last thing she’d expected, considering their grueling hike. “You crack a damn good safe, lady, but trust me, I can outdrive anybody in these hills tonight. You just hold on and point and I’ll get us there.”
His easy confidence told her he wasn’t bluffing, and for the second time Chantal wondered what he looked like beneath the blackface and knit cap. She sure liked his smile. She didn’t even want to think about his kiss. “How’s your shoulder?”
“It hurts.” He flexed his fingers, testing them out. “But I’m scared enough to overlook it until we’re out of here.”
His admission surprised her. For some inexplicable reason, she was tuned in to this stranger. As she hadn’t found danger before, she didn’t find fear now—only a dauntless optimism strong enough to diminish her own too-real fears.
She bundled her skis under her right arm and used her left to hold on, curling her fingers tightly around the front of his waistband. Her fingers pressed into the taut muscles of his stomach, but intimacy never crossed her mind. If he was going to get them out of there it was going to be a wild ride, and she wasn’t going to get dumped. When Jaz turned the key, the engine roared to life like a jet engine, the sound and the power almost blowing her off the seat.
Taken completely by surprise, she hollered, “What kind of snowmobile is this?”
He flashed her another grin over his shoulder. “Turbo-charged.” Then he gunned the motor and they took off like an earthbound rocket.
Just as Chantal had predicted, the other snowmobiles coalesced into a beeline headed straight for them, but there was no catching Jaz’s machine. They raced on the edge of danger and disaster. For all their speed and recklessness, she never felt that he was out of control or that they had a snowball’s chance in hell of losing their pursuers. Sandhurst’s men fell farther behind, but Jaz was laying a line of tracks a blind man could have followed.
What had she been thinking when she’d cast her lot with the snowmobile instead of her silent cross-country skis? she asked herself. Her plan had been to hook up with one of the many ski trails crisscrossing the countryside. Their pursuers never would have been able to distinguish her tracks from the others, but then again, she never would have made it to the trails in time. Sandhurst would have had her skinned and hung out to dry less than a mile from the mansion.
Jaz took them up over a rise, and the snowmobile caught air at the top. Chantal held on for dear life, her grip tightening on everything that was grippable, his sweater, his pants, maybe even a part of him that under different circumstances would have shocked her. The sharp edges of her bindings cut into her upper arm, and the driven snow beat against one of her frozen cheeks. The other was buried in the worn softness of his denim jacket.
Five miles from the Sandhurst mansion, she directed him onto the Forest Service trail that switchbacked across the mountainous terrain to within a couple of miles of her cabin. The snowmobile rocked on the treacherous turns, with Chantal making herself a shadow of his every move, leaning out from the curves to keep the skids on the snow. She doubted if another snowmobile had ever attempted the trail, and she wondered about the wisdom of doing it now. Jaz didn’t seem to harbor the same worries. He not only kept the snowmobile upright, but added to the thrill by taking a few shortcuts that jammed her heart up into her throat. The man could drive, of that she was sure. Everything else was up for grabs. They needed a plan.
Suddenly Jaz pulled off the trail and tore through a stand of aspens. Chantal jerked frantically on his jacket, trying to direct him back down the mountain. Thirty yards into nowhere, he came to a stop and turned off the machine.
Muttered curses floated through the air.
“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Where in the hell are you taking us?”
They both swung their legs over the snowmobile and squared off.
“Dammit, I’m the one giving directions.”
“Around and around and around. We’re getting nowhere fast.”
“Nowhere is right. We need to go that away,” she said urgently, pointing her finger down the mountain in quick jabbing motions.
Jaz grabbed her hand, his grip firm but not painful. “Lady, what we need is a plan. In case you haven’t noticed—”
The crack and echo of a rifle shot stopped the conversation cold and sent them both diving behind the snowmobile. Jaz still held her hand, and as she vainly tried to free herself she lapsed into a stream of French profanity, most of it directed at him.
“I resent that,” he whispered through clenched teeth.
Oh, brother. “You speak French?”
“Only the kind you do. I can’t get through a menu.”
“Well, I can.”
Jaz whipped her around, and their knees bumped. “Great. Congratulations.” He craned his head forward until their noses almost touched, his voice rising with each syllable. “But can you get us the hell out of here?”
Another rifle shot cracked in the distance, and Jaz jerked her into his lap with one powerful move, using his body as a barrier between her and the unseen death strafing the night. Seconds ticked by with nothing but the sound of the snow falling through the trees and the creak and groan of frozen boughs dipping in the wintery breeze.
Jaz slowly raised his head above the vinyl seat of the snowmobile, listening and waiting.
“I can’t breathe,” Chantal mumbled into the tensely muscled thigh pressed against her face. Everything about his body was tight, hard, masculine. She must be losing her mind, she thought, thoroughly flustered by her awareness of him.
“Shh.” His hand cupped the back of her neck, gently holding her where she lay. The far-off whine of engines was a discordant backdrop to the silence of nature. “Who are they shooting at? They’ve got to be at least a mile away.”
“Us, big boy,” Chantal answered with an exasperated sigh, fighting her way clear of his arms. Her hand dug into his sweater for leverage. As she straightened she felt a stickiness on her fingers through the frayed ends of her gloves. Sweat was running off both of them, despite the temperature, but the viscous fluid she rubbed between her thumb and index finger wasn’t sweat. Dawning recognition sent a shiver of fear down her spine. “You’re bleeding. A lot. My God, Jaz.”
“That’s not exactly a news flash,” he retorted. Then he caught the concern shining in her eyes, the paleness of her skin beneath the hastily applied grime, and he reached out and touched her face. “Hey, its okay. I’m not dead yet.” His thumb brushed across her cheek and tucked a strand of golden hair back under her cap. Her hair was soft, vibrant; her skin cold and softer still. Reassuring her increased his own confidence past practical bounds. “We need a plan, and, believe it or not, I’ve got one. How far are we from where you want to be?”
“My cabin is about two miles from here, mostly downhill.”
“Where?”
Chantal hesitated, her gaze dropping to where she had wiped his blood on her pants.
Jaz understood, but he knew his options had dwindled desperately since he’d taken her on. “I’ll be honest with you. I’m lost, and I’ll never outrun them all night. Hell, I’ll probably freeze to death before dawn . . . or you can save me. Let me stay with you, if I make it.”
“I’m not exactly home free,” she reminded him.
“You will be in about thirty seconds. If you’re half as fast as I think you are, I can hold them off long enough for you to get home.”
“And if I don’t tell you where I live?”
He shook his
head and smiled at her, a band of white in his darkened face. “Lady, you’re out of here either way. But if you say no, I’m gonna miss you.” And he would, he thought, that was the amazing thing. Sometime during their mad dash he’d made a vow—if nothing else, before this was over he’d know what she looked like, this woman who’d saved him, this woman whose kiss had pulled such an unexpected response from him.
Chantal realized the depth of his need, knew she was the only chance he had. For whatever reasons, for this one night her life was entwined with a stranger’s—and she wanted him to survive. She didn’t give herself time to change her mind, and quickly gave him directions. “The last switchback empties out into a meadow. A quarter of a mile south of there, there’s a cut in the mountains to the west. It leads into a larger valley, and my cabin is on the north side, about halfway up the hill.” She prayed she hadn’t just made the biggest mistake of her life. Second biggest, actually, the first having been being born a Cochard, a heritage she seemed incapable of avoiding. Ten years on her own, five as a successful real-estate agent, and she still felt the call of duty and the weight of a debt unpaid.
“Thanks. One more question.” She noticed him flinch as he rolled his good shoulder to ease the pain of the bad one. She too was feeling the aches and scrapes of their escape, and the cold of the night was becoming an uncomfortable reality. “What is your name?”
Why not? she thought. It was too late for that bit of information to protect her. “Chantal Cochard,” she said.
“Shan-tal Co-shard.” He drawled her name slowly, letting it sit on his tongue. A mischievous glint warmed his eyes as he repeated her name and bent from the waist to lower his head close to hers. His mouth was only a breath away. “Thank you, Chantal.” His cool lips brushed across hers, the two mouths together kindling a flame.
He used his good hand to cup her face, his touch warming her there also. Gently he traced her lips, and she felt herself sink inside, wondering again at the delight of kissing a stranger. Was that fate whispering in her ear?
Of its own volition her hand touched his face, her fingers discovering the roughness of his jaw, the arc of his cheekbone, and the softness of his eyebrow. Her hand came to rest on his cheek, and she felt the muscle there curve into her palm. A new sense of wonder warmed her from the inside out; she’d never been kissed with a smile before. Her lips parted.