For Her Eyes Only (18 page)

“There,” she pointed, “the map shows that’s Coyote Run, and that’s The Roller Coaster, but the signposts are reversed.”

He shrugged. “So that map’s wrong.”

“Or maybe the signposts are,” she argued.

He straightened. They’d often argued about this in the past—and he was certainly in the mood to argue some more. “Maybe the intel is incorrect,” he suggested softly.

“And maybe something has been compromised on the ground,” she shot right back at him, her tone saccharine sweet.

“Yeah, well I’ll trust the data in front of me, every time,” he muttered.

“But the map can’t be wrong.”

“That’s what you said about Russia.”

“Hey, that garrison was underground. No satellite could have picked it up,” she retorted.

“I’m following the signs.”

“Well, I’m going to report the inconsistency when we get back to the main building,” she told him.

“Fine.” He gestured to the trail. “Ladies first.”

She made a face at him and pushed off. He gave her a few seconds and pushed off after her.

He watched her movements for a moment. The decline was steep, and her pendulous movements shortened as she started to pick up speed. Then he wasn’t watching her so much as concentrating on his own downhill journey.

With quick sweeps he skied down the slope, enjoying the challenge, the speed. Until he saw Vicky launch into the air, her skis flailing, just a little, yelling in surprise before she landed roughly and skied on. Then he reached the ramp and hit air.

Damn
. This was no intermediate run. He landed, kicking up snow as he tried to decrease his speed. Then he hit the moguls. Ryan swore as he navigated the swollen bumps of hard-packed snow. Keeping his eye ahead, he navigated a path through the mean little mountains, bending low at the knees to absorb the shocks. And there were plenty.

Sticking to the troughs as they mapped a path down the bumpy slope, he angled his skis uphill at the end of each turn in an attempt to slow down his speed, but his descent was still rough. His thighs were burning, and it felt like a pin was piercing his kneecap at each bounce and jostle.

He finally got to the end of the mogul run and twisted to a stop. Vicky stood off to the side, leaning heavily on her stocks, gasping for breath.

He eased over to her. “Are you okay?” She’d managed to get down that stretch in one piece, which was surprising. He wasn’t quite sure of her experience as a skier, but apparently it was considerable.

She nodded, trying to catch her breath. “Trust...the friggin’...signs, he says.” She gulped.

Ryan grinned. “My oops. Damn, what a ride!” He laughed, the adrenaline rush almost euphoric.

Her face set as she glared at him. “You have a warped sense of humor.”

He shrugged, and a flash of yellow caught his eye. “Hey, there’s the envelope.”

A rustic wooden bridge connected the trail from one side of a small creek to the other. The yellow envelope was tied to a railing in the other end of the bridge. Vicky sighed. “I’ll get it.”

She straightened and slid slowly after it. “You know you’re never going to hear the end of this, right? Follow the signs.” She snorted. She pushed off a little with her skis, shifting her weight to propel herself across the flat surface of the bridge.

His grin spread wider. “I never hear the end of anything with you, Vic.”

She leaned over and grabbed at the envelope. “You are so—”

The snow around the base of her skis crumbled in on itself, and Vicky wobbled. She flung her arms out to grab hold of the railing, but the snow hole spread, sucking her down, swallowing her screams as she disappeared from view.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Vicky!” Ryan roared. He skied carefully over to the wide hole in the bridge that had appeared out of nowhere, testing his footing until he got close to the broken wood slats. His heart hammered in his chest. Where was she? Please God, let her be okay. “Vicky!”

“Ryan!” A panicked scream echoed up to him. “Ryan, help!”

He halted at the edge of the hole and peered down. Christ. She’d fallen through a gap, and was clinging to the end of a joist with one gloved hand. Too far away to reach, damn it. Snow crumbled and fell onto the dark, frozen creek below her. He felt a momentary relief. She was alive.

“It’s okay,” he yelled to her. It wasn’t. It was a long drop to the creek below, with large bumps of snow-buried boulders that were scenic sentinels, rounded and benign, hiding their malevolence behind a disguise of purity. Several jagged ledges and outcroppings were below her, with God only knows what hazards lying unseen.

“It’s not okay,” she yelled back at him. “I’m falling off a damn bridge.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll get you out. Are you all right?”

She lifted her free hand and raised her goggles, and when he saw her wide green eyes, he realized she was afraid. Really afraid. “I’m okay,” she answered, her voice cracking. She sucked in a breath, as though to calm herself. “I’m okay,” she repeated, her voice stronger.

He nodded. “Good.” He glanced around. A bank of trees lay beyond a small clearing at the end of the bridge, but he couldn’t see anything there that would help their situation.

He leaned over. “Can you reach my stock?” He held it down to her, stretching as far as he could. She tried to grab at it, but it was several inches too short. She whimpered in frustration.

“Just hang in there,” he called as he backed up, shrugging out of the backpack. He unzipped the bag and tipped out the contents. Snacks, water, a flashlight, but no rope. No walkie-talkie, either.
Damn
. He swallowed his panic. Normally he was calm, cool-headed, and able to handle high-pressure situations. But this was Vicky, and dread held his gut in a vice-like grip. Vicky needed his help, and no matter how crazy her predicament was making him, he had to think.

He looked down over the bridge railing. Letting her fall was out of the question. Nobody would survive that drop. The rocks, the ice...yeah, nobody would survive. His eyes scanned the terrain. The land sloped steeply down to the creek. The bridge actually straddled part of the hillside on either side of the creek. He pursed his lips, trying to gauge the distance. It was a bit of a risk, but she might be able to swing herself a little and drop to the slope. Still, she’d be doing it from an awkward position, with little control.

Unless he was there to catch her.

He quickly snapped the boot release on his skis with his stocks and threw them over the railing, careful to ensure they fell well clear of any landing he might make.

He peered over the edge. “Okay, Vic, I want to try something.”

She met his gaze. “Please hurry,” she gasped. “I don’t think I can hold on much longer.” She winced as she tried to secure her hold on the lip of the ledge. “My fingers are going numb.”

Ryan nodded. He climbed over the railing, took a breath—and jumped.

“Ryan!” Vicky cried.

He hit the ground hard, bending his knees and rolling to the side to dispel the force of the impact. Despite the deep drifts of snow, his ankles, knees and hip absorbed enough of the shock to have him gritting his teeth.

“Are you crazy?” Vicky screeched at him.

He held his hands up and gestured around him. “I’m the one on solid ground, here, so you tell me who’s crazy.”

Vicky tried to raise her other arm to hang on to the wooden beam, her breath hitching as she flailed unsuccessfully.

“Damn it, I can’t hold on much longer.” She grunted as she tried again, and this time her hand caught. Held.

“It’s going to be okay, Vic,” he said, trying hard to keep his voice calm and relaxed, although his stomach churned with worry. “Can you kick off your skis?”

She glanced at him briefly, her frown dubious, before raising one foot behind the other. It took her a couple of attempts, but she finally managed to press the boot release on the front ski.

The weight of the ski hung forward, and she jiggled her boot.

The ski fell off, and Ryan stepped out of the way as it landed near his feet. He picked it up and tossed it further away, downhill. “Okay, try the other one.”

“Oh, God, Ryan, I’m losing my grip.”

“Hurry, kick it off.”

This time it was a little easier for her, not having the second ski to encumber her. The ski slid off, flipping over once before it fell to the ground. Ryan tossed that one aside, too, trying to ignore the whimper as Vicky’s legs kicked futilely in the air.

“Don’t you dare fall, Vicky.” His voice was an unrecognizable growl. “Not yet, anyway.”

Her eyes widened. “What do you mean, not
yet
?” Her voice shook.

“Swing yourself, just a little. As though you’re on a trapeze.”

“Oh, God, this can’t be your plan.”

He could see the whites of her eyes, and he lifted his arms.

“Jump, and I’ll catch you.”

“No.”

“Jump, Vicky. Swing yourself, and jump toward me.”

“You’re crazy. I can’t do it, Ryan.”

Her eyes glistened as she stared down at him, hanging from the bridge. He could see her fear in her eyes, hear it her voice.

“You can do it, trust me,” he said, pouring as much confidence into his voice as he could muster.
Please
,
trust me.
Have a little faith.

“I can’t,” she gasped, and panic lit a fire in her eyes. “Oh, God, I’m losing it!”

Even from that height, Ryan could see her glove slipping on the rock.

“Trust me, Vicky. You have to trust me. Jump!” He remembered their discussion before they found Orla, about things you’d do for a friend. “I jumped off the bridge for you, Vic. Now it’s your turn. Jump off the damn bridge for me!” Would she do it? Did she trust him enough?

“I’m trying!” She tried to swing her legs, gritting her teeth as she lifted her feet to the front, then swung them to the back. “Oh, God, I’m going to fall!”

“Jump!” He all but bellowed at her as he waved his arms.

She grunted as she pivoted her hips, her legs pitching forward and up. She let go.

Vicky screamed as she plummeted.

“Vicky!” Scuffing his boots in the snow, Ryan raced to her, bending his knees, arms outstretched.

Vicky slammed into him, knocking the breath out of him. He fell back and to the side, rolling. Her boots tangled with his shins, and he ducked his head over hers, trying to protect them both. He tried to cushion as much of the force as possible as they rolled and slid down the hill before slowly coming to a halt.

He lifted his head. His lungs burned, his legs and hips were bruised, and he felt like he’d been hit by a Mack truck. He glanced down at the woman he held tightly in his arms. Euphoria swelled inside him, heady and triumphant.

Tears were running down her cheeks as she stared wild-eyed up at him, clinging to his jacket.

He’d caught her.

He rolled, hauling her against him as he collapsed back into the snow, her boots tangled with his.

She trembled in his arms, her hand rising over his head, she hugged him, rocking in his lap and sobbing words of gratitude and frustration.

“Shh,” he whispered into her tousled hair. “Shh, I’ve got you.” He kissed her forehead, his panic finally abated at holding her in his arms. “I’ve got you.” He lifted her chin and kissed her, pouring the relief, the tattered remnants of his panic, and the satisfaction of holding her near all into a scorching kiss.

She’d trusted him.

She kissed him back, matching him in ferocity, in fervor. She sucked his tongue into her mouth, and just like that relief turned to white-hot need, and desire shot straight to his groin.

He rolled her over into the snow, and pressed himself against her. She was soft and curvy, trembling in his arms, and just as eager to get as close as possible to him. She pulled at his hair, and he growled with satisfaction at the tiny darts of painful pleasure she gave him. He thrust himself against her, nestling deeper into the secret place between her thighs.

She moaned, drinking in his kiss, rubbing herself against him, growling in frustration as their entwined limbs prevented her from getting any closer.

He kept kissing her, and slowly his fervor gentled. He enjoyed the long moments of lips touching, tongues caressing, and breathing, just breathing. He slowly raised his head, reluctant to stop, but his knees were wet, and he realized she was lying in the snow. Cold, wet, possibly in pain.

“Are you okay?” he whispered.

She gazed up at him solemnly, and nodded. “Yeah, I’m okay.” Then she frowned. “Uh, actually, my knee is a little sore.”

He nodded. It had been a big jump, and his shoulder felt as though he’d been shot by a cannon. He leaned forward and touched the knee she indicated.

He could feel the bone of her knee, feel the muscles of her thigh, and maybe a slight, puffy swelling. It would probably hurt like hell later. He didn’t take her boot off. They still needed to get down the damn mountain, she would have to keep her boots and ski pants on until they got back to the resort.

It had to be sore, but she didn’t say anything, just stared as he stroked her leg through her figure-hugging ski pants. His fingers trembled.

“Don’t do that again,” he told her, his voice low and rough.

Her lips lifted in a shaky smile. “What? Jump off a bridge? No. Not anytime soon, anyway.”

He shook his head. She was making light of it. He’d nearly lost her, damn it. He didn’t find it funny at all. “No, just—don’t die. I don’t want to lose you, too.” He gritted his teeth. He’d said too much.

Her eyes met his, and she pounced on his slip. “Too? Who have you lost, Ryan?”

He squeezed her wrist gently. “Come on, let’s go.” He moved to stand up, but stopped. Vicky had turned her arm in his grasp, and now clutched his hand.

“Tell me, Ryan. What was her name?” Her gaze was direct, pleading, as though she desperately wanted to see inside the mush of his brain. She didn’t know. Nobody knew. Well, he thought Reese might know, but he’d never let on. He looked at the woman before him. Whether she knew it or not, he cared for her, cared for her deeply, and he was tired of hiding it from her.

“Rose,” he said quietly. “Rose Gallagher.”

Something in Vicky’s eyes flickered, and she lowered her gaze. “I’m sorry.”

He smiled. “You have nothing to apologize for. It happened a long time ago.”

“You must have loved her deeply.”

His smile broadened into something bittersweet. “I did. She was my mother.”

* * *

His mother. She thought about that for a moment. Initially she’d thought the woman who’s loss so wounded him was a lover.

His mother. Rose Gallagher. Her brow wrinkled. “How is it that your mother has a different surname to yours?”

Ryan’s tender smile twisted into something dark, fierce. “I changed my name.”

O
-
kay
. There was a whole world of buried hurt, right there.

“Tell me about it.”

Ryan rose to his feet and shrugged. “Not much to tell. She died when I was fifteen.”

There was something they had in common. “My mother died when I was twelve. Cancer.” Ryan met her gaze, and for a moment there was a wealth of pain, of sorrow shared between them. She cocked her head and she rose to her feet, too. “What happened? Were you adopted?”

Ryan made a face. “Fostered.”

“Oh.” Was that why he’d changed his name?

“It wasn’t so bad.”

God, how bad had his life been that foster care “wasn’t so bad?” “Where was your father?” She’d been blessed. She’d still had her father and brothers, and although it had been a rough time, their bond had strengthened as a result. His expression became shuttered.

“Prison.”

Her eyes widened. Prison? His answer raised more questions, and she sensed a deep, dark chasm that he’d kept hidden up until now.

He slid his boots into his skis. “We’d better get back to the resort.”

She didn’t push him for more details. It was obviously a painful memory, and while she was curious as all hell, for once her need to know came second to Ryan’s comfort.

“I’m not playing the rest of this game,” she warned him, allowing the conversation dodge. “We’ve had a bear trap and a base jump without a parachute. I don’t want to see what else has been cooked up at the other two checkpoints.”

Ryan nodded. “I agree. I vote we just head straight for reception.”

Vicky’s eyes nodded. “I think I’ll be paying Meagan James a visit.”

He hesitated. “Maybe not. If we pretend nothing happened, then nothing will happen. If we complain and make a big song and dance about it, they might have to suspend the rest of the course. Or we might tip our hand to the Maxwells.”

“From this morning, I’d have to assume they’re already on to us.”

He shook his head. “Maybe not. Our cabin isn’t the only one bugged. Maybe these traps were set for whoever was on this particular trail, not specifically for you and me. They couldn’t know who would get which map.”

Vicky closed her eyes. This was doing her head in. “What would that achieve?”

“I don’t know, yet. I do know that I really want to find the Maxwells, and don’t want to shut this course down. The Maxwells are clever, and highly dangerous. They’re used to going in, wreaking hell, then disappearing to do it somewhere else, to someone else. I want to get them before they disappear like ghosts, and stop them from killing anyone else.”

Vicky sighed. He had a point. She briefly wondered how Orla was. The thought of her injured friend was enough to shore up her reserves. She wanted to go in and slap the resort management in the face for putting her and Ryan in danger, but like Ryan said, they would have to shut down the mountain, search to ensure those were the only hidden traps before letting others use it again. She and Ryan would lose whatever advantage they had if the resort closed and everyone had to leave.