She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed being with people. But that wasn’t her only revelation…she’d come to enjoy her workouts too. Not only was she feeling better, but she was sleeping better too.
Instead of dragging her feet to Upper Limits, Holly arrived much earlier than she needed, just so she could watch Oliver in the shadows. But it wasn’t just her joy over the rock climbing that surprised her—she enjoyed being with Oliver. He was fun and funny and laughed a lot. She found herself looking forward to his smiles. Each one was a dose of elixir that relaxed her. He had a kindness that made her feel safe, even when she was a dozen feet in the air.
It was so lovely to admit that.
Oliver had eased to the side wall with one of his clients, who she recognized as one of the regulars, and the two of them seemed to be having an in-depth conversation. His brows drilled together, and when he placed his hand on the man’s shoulder, his concern was touching. Yet even as they continued chatting, Oliver still managed to say goodbye to each patron who walked past.
He seemed to know everyone. Holly reflected on the gym she’d frequented back in Seattle. Despite going there for nearly three years, she was pretty sure most of the trainers hadn’t known her name. Until it was a headline in the papers, that is.
That flashback was the jolt she needed to remind herself that she was Amber Hope. Amber Hope. She repeated the name over and over as she waited for everyone to leave Oliver’s gym.
Once all of his clients had gone, Oliver disappeared into his office and she waited a minute or two before she entered the building. Oliver stepped from the doorway, and she had a funny feeling he somehow knew she’d arrived. He gave her a smile that seemed so genuine an unexpected rush of familiarity blossomed within her. It was like they’d known each other forever. No, not just known each other—it was like they knew every little intimate detail about each other. It was such an intense feeling that Holly had to convince herself that they’d known each other for barely seven hours.
Oliver didn’t even know her real name.
As he strolled toward her, her heart skipped a beat over the unfounded feeling he was about to lean in and kiss her. Instead, he touched her shoulder and walked right past. “I’ll just shut the door.”
Furious at her foolishness, she tugged her hair back into a hairband that’d been on her wrist and strode for the line of harnesses hanging on the wall. She plucked one off the hook and as she adjusted it to fit, she used the distraction to force any more irrational ideas from her mind.
She had a mission to do. And she was a long, long way from achieving that goal.
Oliver stepped up to her. “How was your day?”
She shrugged. “Same as usual. How about you?”
His quizzical expression indicated he wanted more from her answer, but after a moment’s pause, he sighed. “Not too bad for a Tuesday.” He reached for her rope and hooked it into his belay device.
Holly had become the master at brief responses, and she was sure Oliver was growing tiresome over her minimal banter. But she had secrets to keep. Lots of them. By not engaging in conversation, she was less likely to mess up.
No matter what, she could never reveal her identity. Nobody—not Oliver, not Kelli, not anyone—would ever have the opportunity to rummage through the wreckage of her past life.
Secrecy was paramount to her mental survival too. By assuming the identity of Amber Hope, she’d officially buried Holly Parmenter, along with all her rotten baggage.
At least that’s what her therapist had said.
Besides, she had a job to do.
Forcing the tumbling thoughts from her brain, she stepped up to the wall, placed her fingers into the nearest hold, and wriggled her right foot into position. “Climber ready.”
“Up you go then.”
The gloomy nuance in Oliver’s reply ignited a flame of guilt in her mind. It was raw. It was justified, and it hurt like hell. She used that fire to drive her limbs. With a clenched jaw and dogged determination, she clawed her way upward. Her breath shot in and out in ragged breaths as her arms and legs pushed on. Adrenaline coursed through her veins unchecked, giving her the now familiar rush of the challenge.
She didn’t pause this time. She didn’t look down.
Her concentration was on gripping one hold after the other and moving upward. She arrived at the top so fast it shocked her, and she cheered as she slammed her fist onto the bell. “Releasing,” she called out, and a heartbeat later she leaned into the harness and Oliver gently lowered her to the padded mat.
“Good work.” He looped the rope as he approached her. “That was your fastest climb yet.” He placed his hand on her shoulder and her brain swam with reckless intoxication when she inhaled his musky scent.
She stepped back and wanted to slap herself. His smile was so genuine, so real, that he seemed as proud of her achievement as she was. “Thank you.” A pleasant flush of triumph washed through her, but before she did something silly she dragged her gaze away from Oliver’s stunning eyes.
Oliver was a nice guy, and the brutal reality was that she was confusing his professional attention with affection. Yet despite accepting that her confusion was justified, she still had to fight the blaze of heat curling up her neck.
She’d survived a tornado of life changing events that’d ripped everything she’d loved from her grasp. Top that with her reclusive lifestyle and nearly zero personal contact and she’d created her very own perfect storm.
It was a storm that she needed to quell before she’d be forced to lock herself away from the world all over again.
* * * *
Regi adjusted his rearview mirror and tried to ignore his pounding heart. His fingers strangled the steering wheel. He turned to look out his side window at his opponent. Pope’s grin was that of the devil. His stubble gave the lower half of his face a dark stain, his teeth were yellowed and crooked, and his thick black eyebrows cast a shadow over coal-black eyes. But it was Pope’s I’m-gonna-kill-you glare that’d have any sane person running in the opposite direction.
But Regi wouldn’t run. Not this time.
As he experienced that glare for the hundredth time, Regi wondered how he’d got himself into this situation. Although for the first time in years, he was finally doing something that’d get him out of his mess.
According to Pope’s proposal, if Regi won this race, he’d be debt free. If he lost, he’d owe twice as much. Double or nothing. Losing was not an option, and Regi planned on putting everything he had into this race. He’d done some illegal street racing in his teens. But that’d been in beaten-up old cars on a dirt track.
This was very, very different.
The car Carson had given him to drive was worth at least a hundred grand. The Audi R8 was powerfully engineered and took to the road like an animal that was born to run. He’d already taken six laps around the impromptu track in an attempt to familiarize himself with both the lay of the land and the high-powered car. Regi had done the car little justice the first time around. His gearshifts were clunky, and he was so fucking nervous he had trouble breathing, let alone concentrating.
Forcing himself to calm down, he focused on the feel of the engine. By the fourth lap, it was talking to him. He accelerated around the corners and the wheels hugged the asphalt like it was glued down.
When he truly floored the accelerator, pushing the car to its one hundred ninety-six mile-per-hour limit, g-force wobbled his cheeks. The car was built to race, and when he forgot about the reason he was there and the looming ultimatum, he’d once again considered that crashing into Carson was a blessing.
But now, as Pope glared at him from the Porsche 911 Turbo, Regi hated that he’d ever met Carson and his bunch of thugs.
This was his chance to eradicate all the shit from his life forever, and he had every intention of doing it—or he’d die trying.
&
nbsp; “Good luck.” Carson’s appearance at the driver’s side window was as sudden as it was unexpected, and Regi jumped.
He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Thank you.”
“Watch out for Pope; he races dirty.”
Regi frowned. He had no idea what that meant, but it didn’t sound good. A woman stepped into the headlights wearing only bikini bottoms and very high heels. She had the biggest tits he’d ever seen and, given that he’d had a year of playing waiter at Carson’s wild parties, that was saying something. Her breasts wobbled when she raised the green flag above her head and he was annoyed at the distraction.
Pope revved the Porsche and the sound jolted Regi out of his trance. In his rearview mirror he saw Carson stand before the hundred-strong crowd and accept a wineglass from another topless woman.
Regi revved his engine, squeezed the steering wheel until his knuckles were white, clamped his teeth, and tried to stare at the billowing flag rather than the woman’s bulging boobs.
She swung the flag down.
He stomped the accelerator and the car catapulted forward. About one second into the race he knew Pope had jumped the start. The yellow Porsche was a full car length in front before he’d even put the R8 into third gear. Regi’s foot was to the floor. He didn’t care about his safety, or about damaging another obscenely priced car.
Winning was all that mattered.
They flew up the warehouse-lined alley that was bathed in temporary floodlights. Litter scattered everywhere in the wake of the Porsche. Regi knew the turn up ahead was a tight one and expected Pope to brake in five hundred or so feet. He’d be ready; it was one of the few chances he’d have to get around his opponent.
Pope’s brake light flared, but he was early—way too early.
“Fuck!” Regi stomped the brake and missed careening into the ass of the yellow car by barely an inch.
The Porsche’s brake light blinked out and the car accelerated ahead. Pope had done that on purpose; he’d expected Regi to crash into him. That’s what Carson meant about racing dirty.
“Fuck you, Pope.” Regi slammed the R8 into third, floored the accelerator, and clamped his teeth as he aimed the Audi at Pope’s rear end. The R8 was designed for this; it responded to every move with efficient deadliness and put Regi right up Pope’s ass again.
Pope made his first mistake, and Regi didn’t miss a beat. He pushed up on Pope’s inside and they took the corner together, side by side. Once they were around the bend, Regi was in front. He floored the accelerator again and shot into the lead.
Regi was flanked with darkened warehouses one side and nothing but black water on the other. It was like looking into space. One wrong move and he’d be in the water. The Porsche was right behind him. He’d put his brights on, but Regi couldn’t afford even a second to adjust his mirrors to deflect the glare. The hum of his tires over the uneven concrete was lost under the pounding of his own heart.
Pope was so close on his tail the Porsche’s headlights disappeared. Regi decided to give Pope a taste of his own medicine. He clutched the steering wheel, tapped the brake, and braced for the impact he knew was coming.
But the squeal of tires ensured it didn’t happen. Pope must’ve known Regi’s intentions, and when he saw the Porsche’s headlights again he knew he’d backed off. Regi dropped the R8’s gear and revved the engine to max before he pumped it up again. The next corner approached quickly. He readied to take it fast and tight.
He counted down the approach: five, four, three—
Suddenly he was flying through the air. The impact nanoseconds earlier had connected with the R8’s back left corner. The Audi spun twice, clipped something, and the moment it flipped, Regi knew he was a dead man.
He didn’t even have time to scream before the car tumbled onto the roof and careened into a concrete barrier. The windshield exploded, and the airbag ballooned in a flash of white.
The ensuing silence was brutal.
A loud buzzing stung his ears, and his chest hurt so badly he could barely breathe. It took him a moment to realize he was upside down. The seatbelt had trapped him in place.
The sound of pounding feet forced him to move. He hadn’t died in the crash, but if he didn’t get out now, Pope would surely kill him. Desperate to escape, he punched the airbag, forcing the air from it. When he had wriggle room he pressed the buckle and the belt released. He fell in a crumpled heap and howled at the pain in his chest.
Spots blurred his vision, but his brain forced him to keep moving. He shoved the door open and spilled from the car. His head was filled with static and the buzzing in his ears grew louder. Regi crawled from the wreck, and when he glanced sideways he saw the leather boot about a second too late. It connected with his stomach and barreled him over. If he thought he was in pain before, that was fucking excruciating.
He sucked in air and his lungs burned with each breath.
“Looks like this’s the end of the line for Regi the Rat.” Pope had left the Porsche headlights on and the glare silhouetted his bullish frame. His opponent loomed over Regi, and he knew he had one shot at saving himself. He groaned, imitating intense agony, which wasn’t hard. Regi rolled to his feet, pretending to be wobbly, then, the second Pope was within spitting distance, he balled his fist and with all the strength he could summon plowed it upward into Pope’s chin.
The thug groaned, a tooth went flying, and Pope hit the ground in a full body slam. He didn’t even use his hands to break his fall.
One look was enough for Regi to know that Pope was either out cold or dead.
Chapter 13
It’d been four weeks since Amber forced herself to enter Oliver’s gym. That decision had been one of the best ones she’d made in her new life. In fact, she’d been progressing so well she’d begun to believe she could truly go through with her mission. It’d been touch-and-go for a while, but the for and against debates in her head were leaning more toward the positive now.
It wasn’t just her mental attitude that’d changed either.
Rock climbing three times a week and skiing every weekend had her body changing too. Her strength was gradually returning to her arms and legs, bringing muscle definition that she hadn’t seen in years. She was eating more and sleeping better. Twice she’d actually slept right through the night.
She’d already motored through two doctor’s transcripts, and, with her mission occupying the forefront of her brain, she decided she was ready to take her plan to the next step.
After making herself a peppermint tea, she settled in for an afternoon of research.
She’d resisted doing this research for two reasons. One was if she knew too much about the bodies in the ice and couldn’t go through with her mission, then she’d be forever haunted with her failure to help Dorothy and the lovers. Somehow, not knowing their full story made it less personal. But after a month of training, both in the gym and on the ski slopes, she was almost certain she could now go through with the crazy quest.
Now she simply had to learn more about them.
There was no turning back.
The second reason she’d resisted the research was because she needed a goal. One month of training, then reassess. That’d been her first goal. Baby steps. Just like when she’d learned to walk again after the coma. Take a few steps and reward yourself. The dangling carrot was a great motivator. Today’s carrot was learning everything she could about the frozen bodies.
Years ago, after she’d woken from the coma, she’d forced herself to read every article she could find on Milton’s death. She’d been desperate for information. Anything that would help her piece together what’d happened and give substance to her missing eight months.
Now, though, she was scanning those reports for a very different reason: she needed to pinpoint the exact location of the helicopter crash. But it seemed that specific detail was an unnecessary waste o
f precious tabloid space, one they wouldn’t print when they had so much other sensational media fodder.
Multibillionaire and son die in horrific helicopter crash.
Only survivor was Milton’s young girlfriend.
Pilot way off course.
Yes, the tabloids had plenty to work with.
Victoria had spent years using Milton’s wealth to climb the social ladder, so when her ex-husband died under such controversy she had the ear of social media and the tabloids. She’d helped feed the media frenzy with her never-ending lies about Holly’s relationship with Milton, the much older billionaire. Milton had always said his ex-wife was a heartless bitch, but Holly hadn’t known the depth of her evil until after his death.
The fact that Holly had been willed a chunk of his money upon his death didn’t help. Not when Victoria got nothing.
Holly would do anything to reverse that scenario.
She skipped over one report after another, searching for the exact location of the crash. The closest she could get was that it was somewhere on Whiskey Mountain and that the helicopter had been airborne for approximately thirty-seven minutes after departing the exclusive Miracle Lodge. Other than that, she had nothing.
This was where Mr. Carter Logan came in.
She typed “Carter Logan” into Google. The National Geographic photographer was featured in two headlining stories, the first being Carter’s ordeal in Mexico with the drug runners. The second was his discovery of the plane wreck in the Canadian Rockies.
For Holly, the plane wreck was the direct link to figuring out more about the bodies in the ice. Carter had been in British Columbia to follow the trail of eighteenth-century explorer Alexander Mackenzie. Two weeks into the journey, he’d taken a helicopter ride as far as was permitted and was set down with an experienced mountain guide, Chancy Holden. Their plan was to reach the top of the peak and return within two days. What neither of them expected to find was the wreckage of a plane that’d been missing for nearly forty years.
Out of Mind Page 9
