A Touch of Spring
Authors: Evie Hunter
An Erotic Short Story by Evie Hunter
FIRST KINDLE EDITION
Copyright Eileen Gormley, Caroline McCall ©
2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the purchaser. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental. The right of Eileen Gormley and Caroline McCall to be identified as the Authors of the Work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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ALSO BY EVIE HUNTER
Full length novels available in the Kindle store:
The Pleasures of Winter
The Pleasures of Summer
The Pleasures of Autumn
The Pleasures of Spring
Short stories available exclusively in Kindle store:
A Touch of Winter
A Touch of Summer
A Touch of Autumn
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
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This book is dedicated to the Val Cenis Mountain Rescue Service which got Eileen Gormley safely down La Goulet in January 2014
The only sound was her panting breath and the squeak of the snow under her skis. Almost two metres of fresh snow had fallen overnight, and although more was promised, Roz was enjoying the break in the weather.
She paused on a flat area of piste and gazed down at Zermatt, tiny and perfect, below her. In a brief gleam of sunlight, she could make out her hotel. She turned to point it out, and remembered she was alone. The man beside her was a stranger, a photographer whose telephoto lens swept from the Matterhorn down to the resort.
Roz sighed. Zermatt was a romantic jewel, not a place to be alone.
She adjusted her goggles to ski on when a loud whooping caught her attention. Three skiers were taking advantage of the deep fresh snow to try their hand at off-piste on the steep mountain above.
One of them slipped, and as he tumbled, an entire sheet of snow loosened and slid, slowly and inexorably, towards her.
Roz barely had time to scream before she was enveloped by the avalanche. She was tossed over and over in an icy white blanket until something hit her on the head and the world went black.
Measureless time later, the sound of voices reached her and she forced open her eyes to dim white. She was twisted in an impossible position and she had no idea which direction was up.
She moaned with pain, and a voice yelled, “Ecouter, il y a quelqu’un.”
Roz tried to respond but pain made the world fade again.
She roused when she was being strapped to a stretcher. The rescue workers were brisk and careful, and assured her in English that they would look after her. One tightened straps across her body before the other man pulled an orange cover over her, raising a hood which obscured her view of the dark clouds overhead. Her skis were fastened on beside her.
She had a semi-hysterical thought that the cover matched her hair.
The rescue worker clicked into his skis. “All right? We are going down,” he called, before the stretcher shifted and she found herself sliding head first down the mountain.
She resisted the instinctive urge to grab a strap to prevent herself from slipping out of the stretcher. She was secure, if not comfortable. Every moment increased the pain in her head. The hiss of the stretcher’s runners on the snow was loud enough to hide any sounds she made so, alone in her orange cocoon, she gave herself up to pain.
Her tears ran unchecked into her hair, but she discovered that her nose was blocked. Almost upside down as the mountain rescue worker skied straight down the steepest, most direct slope back, her nose could not run.
She had no idea of how long it was before they slowed and came to a stop and the cover was pulled back. There were several bumps as the stretcher was attached to a noisy little skidoo and dragged along the flat to the medical centre.
Dimly, Roz noticed that the snow was falling again, giant flakes landing on her stretcher. By the time the skidoo stopped at a large building, it was covered with white. Two paramedics came to help her onto a hospital trolley.
Once inside in the warmth, she was checked over by a nurse who helped her remove her ski jacket and boots. Nothing was broken but the pain in her head was becoming unbearable.
“What’s your name?” the nurse asked in perfect English.
That was easy. “Roz Spring.”
“Date of birth?”
She had to struggle to make her tongue form the words. “June 28, 1985.”
“And where are you staying in Zermatt?”
Roz groped for the answer, but her mind was blank. “I don’t know.”
“Are you staying in Zermatt?” the nurse asked, pen poised over a form.
Roz closed her eyes, trying to fit a picture to the words, but nothing formed. “Is that where we are? I can’t remember.”
“I’ll alert the doctor to check you for head injuries,” the nurse said, helping Roz to lie back down on the trolley. “You may have a touch of amnesia. Don’t worry, I’m sure it will only be temporary.”
How can I have amnesia? I know exactly who I am.
She was Roz Spring, Londoner, daughter of Peter Spring, who was currently on remand awaiting trial for computer fraud. She was twenty seven years old, an expert at parkour, good at hustling people and able to Domme any man she met. And oh fuck – she winced as she remembered and her head throbbed painfully to punish her – she had witnessed a murder in Paris and now Interpol and a private security form were after her, trying to bring her in as a witness.
Not happening in this life. Roz Spring did not do Witness Protection.
What she couldn’t remember was why she was in Zermatt.
Two hours later, she had been examined and prodded and MRI’d until she was exhausted. The young Swiss doctor confirmed that she had a head injury, but assured her that she was young and healthy. With rest and patience, she would recover her memory. He gave her painkillers and left her to rest.
Roz lay in a small private room, listening to the television more than she watched it. She flicked channels and discovered that she understood French better than German, but could pick out enough words to hear that a famous Van Gogh painting had been stolen from the Zermatterhof hotel the evening before.
That triggered a memory of a small painting of bright red flowers in a plain frame.
Poppies. She knew its name.
“The painting of poppies had been stolen before,” the announcer said before he went on to discuss the history of the painting.
Panic seized her. She knew the painting before the news reader announced it. How was that possible?
There was one way. Her heart dropped like a stone. Could she have stolen it? She had no memory of taking it or where she might have put it but the name resonated with her.
Roz struggled to a sitting position, waiting for more about the theft, but the newsreader was solemnly announcing details of the avalanche which had killed two skiers and injured two others. Her avalanche, she realized with a chill. She had no idea how close she had come to dying.
The heavy snowfall had triggered another avalanche which had closed the train line to Täsch. Zermatt was now cut off from the rest of Switzerland. Well, that might give her a respite in which to find the painting and get away.
She flopped back onto the bed, battling the blanks in her memory. How could she not remember stealing something like that?
“Where is she?” The voice was masculine, forceful and carried a sexy Irish burr. “Where is Roz?”
Her door opened and a man entered, bringing with him the cold air of outside. He was still covered with snow, but his dark eyes were vivid and determined.
“Roz! Thank god.”
She would have known him anywhere. Andy McTavish. So what if she’d only met him a couple of times before? The former Irish Ranger wasn’t someone a girl would ever forget.
She barely had time to register his name when he swept her into his arms and kissed her.
Oh God!
His cold lips were urgent on hers, possessive and insistent. They slanted against hers, demanding a response. His arms crushed her against his muscular chest, so tightly it was difficult to breathe.
Who cared about breathing? Roz had spent many an empty night dreaming about Andy McTavish, wondering if she would ever see him again, wondering if her memory could have played her false.
She had no idea why he was in her room, kissing her as if she was his hope of heaven, but decided she didn’t care.
After coming so close to dying, she wasn’t going to pass up a chance like this. Roz put her arms around his neck and kissed him back.
Andy’s kiss gentled, became warm and tender. “Roz,” he whispered, and returned to her mouth, his tongue sweeping in with absolute certainty.
She licked at it, sucking eagerly on it, hungry for more. His heart thudded heavily against her breasts and she pressed up against him. She slid her hand into his hair, which was as black and silky as she had imagined.
He kissed his way along her jaw, muttering something in between each kiss. She anchored his head so that she could return to his mouth. As if it were a signal, his lips plundered hers, almost bruising in their intensity.
“I swear, Roz, if you ever do anything like that again, you won’t sit down for a week,” he said.
She pulled back. “Are you out of your mind?”
Maybe she was the one who was out of her mind. She knew perfectly well who Andy McTavish was. He was the security operative who had been ordered to bring her in and make sure she gave evidence before she disappeared into Witness Protection.
They had met chasing through the streets and catacombs of Paris.
They weren’t even on kissing terms. Where the hell did he get off, thinking he could spank her?
“No, but you clearly are,” he snapped. “What did you think you’re doing, going skiing on your own, getting caught in an avalanche and not calling for me? I’ve been going demented searching for you.”
Roz sat up in the bed, anger allowing her to ignore the throbbing in her head. “What business is it of yours what I do?”
Maybe a bit of bravado will keep him off the track of the missing Van Gogh.
He stared at her as if she had sprouted horns and a tail. “Roz. You’re my wife.”
Roz didn’t know whether to laugh or spit. “Married? To you?”
The door opened and the uniformed nurse popped her head into the room. “You have found your wife, Herr — ” She stumbled over his name, before eventually strangling out an unrecognisable version of McTavish.
“Yes.” Andy smiled at her.
“No,” Roz announced firmly. The cheek of him. Was this how he planned to take her into custody, by pretending they were married? Not a chance.
The nurse glanced from one to the other and was about to speak when the sound of the Tardis blared loudly in the tiny room.
Andy reached for his phone.
The nurse shook her head disapprovingly as the ring tone increased in volume. She pulled the door open. “Outside, if you please, Herr McTavish. No telephones are permitted in the hospital.”
With a last reluctant glance at Roz, he left the room, speaking quietly into the phone as he hurried down the corridor, followed by the nurse.
Roz swung her legs over the side of the bed and the room swayed alarmingly. She blinked, waiting for it to come back into focus before stumbling towards the locker where her clothes were stored. Knowing Andy McTavish, she didn’t have much time.
She dressed as quickly as she could, grabbed the painkillers that the nurse had left for her and slipped into the corridor. She carried her heavy ski boots and tiptoed on stocking feet. Her thumping headache would have to wait until she was out of here. So far, so good, but she needed her skis.
The lobby of the small hospital was crowded with people anxious to discover if their relatives had been involved in the avalanche. Roz tapped an orderly on the shoulder and requested directions to the storeroom for patients’ property.
She forced her feet into her ski boots and scanned the room. A broken telephoto lens was testament to the ferocity of the avalanche she had been swept up in. She had only the vaguest memory of the skis she had hired that morning. Why did they have to look so alike? She didn’t have time for this, Andy could return at any second.
There was something familiar about the handle of one of the ski poles. She was certain that she had seen the colourful design on the handles before. Roz tugged them from the pile. They would have to do.
The door swung open and a tall man with sallow skin and cropped brown hair entered. Gorev. The name popped into her fogged brain. She knew him. Vadim Gorev, one of the nastiest gangsters the Russian mafia had ever produced.
He cocked his head and grinned. “Red? What are you doing here?”
“Same as you,” she said, proud that her voice didn’t tremble. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
She strode confidently towards the door, but Vadim stepped into her path. “Not yet. I think we have a little matter to discuss.”
His narrowed eyes left her in no doubt as to what kind of a discussion he meant – one that involved her thawing body being found by hill walkers in the spring. Roz drew in a deep breath to scream. This was a hospital. Someone would come to help her.
The door was pushed inwards again and Vadim was forced to step out of the way of a stout, middle-aged man carrying a stack of boxes.
Roz seized her chance. “Pervert,” she shouted at Vadim.
Doing her best impression of a helpless female, Roz pointed her finger at the Russian. “He pushed me in here and tried to touch me.”
Bristling, the portly attendant put the boxes on the bench. He was almost as tall as the Russian and thirty pounds heavier.
“I’ll call security,” Roz said as she stepped into the corridor. Clutching her ski-poles in her hand, she headed for the nearest exit.
