Dressed broad shoulders to boots in black ski attire, he looked like one of those macho, chest-thumping males. He was also grinning. "You could call it that."
"Or you could call it insane." Another image of that demonic run flashed through her mind, and anxiety turned her expression serious. "Isn't it dangerous?"
"Only if you take risks," he said evenly. He stabbed both his poles into the snow. "And I don't."
Trepidation churned in Emily's belly as he glided to a stop in front of her.
"Time to get you skiing," he said smoothly. "Hand over your poles."
Emily blinked. He wanted her to relinquish her support system? Her only reliable connection with mother earth? She ran her tongue around a powder-dry mouth. "You can't be serious."
He didn't laugh. In fact, when he leaned forward and whipped the ski-goggles from her face, his eyes glinted with purpose. "You won't be needing those, either."
"I won't?"
"You won't." He smiled, probably for reassurance, although Emily remained thoroughly unreassured. Her heart thudded against her rib cage as if begging for escape. It had her sympathy.
"Before we came up here, you said this run—" she sneaked an aggrieved look around him at the roller-coaster mountain "—you said it wasn't much steeper than the bunny slope."
"And before we started this morning, you said you trusted me. Remember?"
Would she ever forget? Hands on her shoulders, he'd leaned right in close and captured her gaze, her focus, her entire being. Then, in that low, husky, velvet-cream voice, he'd asked for her trust. Heavens, if he'd asked for her right arm with that kind of in-her-face sincerity, she'd have gladly chopped it off.
Perhaps she should have offered that alternative: Here, Mitch, take my arm instead. I'd as soon hang on to my trust, if it's all the same with you.
Except she did trust him and always had.
Eyes squeezed shut, she drew a deep, sustaining breath and uncurled her gloved hands from the poles. "Take them. Quickly, before I change my mind."
His laugh was low and engaging and so close she felt it fan her face, a deliciously warm contrast to the cold mountain air. Her eyes snapped open, and he smiled right into them. "Good girl. That's all you have to do," he said softly, slowly. "Keep looking right into my eyes."
Oh, yeah. She could manage that. Without any effort.
Belly tight and knees weak, she did as he asked. Dimly she noticed that he'd taken her hands and wrapped them around the center of her ski poles before positioning his on either side. Warmth spun through her body, eddying out from that hand-beside-hand contact but mostly from the prolonged eye contact.
Ah, those eyes… Reassuring, yes; purposeful, yes; but something else lurked deeper, swirling in the ever-changing mix of green and gray. Then he started to move. No, they started to move. Skiing backward, he towed her by the poles they both held, her skis sliding inside his but unstable, wobbly, as feeble as her knees. She squeaked a warning.
Unperturbed he raised one brow. "Where's your weight, Emily?"
Um … drowning in your eyes?
"Balls of your feet, skis parallel," he instructed. "No, don't look down—"
"How will I know if my skis are straight?"
"Were you looking at them earlier?"
She frowned. The bunny slope where they'd started had teemed with learners, most as inept as she. "I had to watch out I didn't run anyone down."
"And you managed to keep your skis straight? Without looking down?"
Mostly. With a small nod she acknowledged his point and relaxed a smidgen. They traversed the wide basin in a big, lazy serpentine crawl, gathering speed gradually and turning on the thickly powdered banks. Not that she didn't blunder. Several times she managed to cross her tips, and her stomach jittered in instant panic. But his calm purpose steadied her, reassured her, fed her confidence.
When they detoured off the main thoroughfare – "Gets icy lower down," he explained – onto a trail that weaved its way between the tall, straight snow gums, Emily's heart bumped along with their skis.
"It's okay," he murmured. "I've got you."
Oh, yes, he had her. Especially when he took one of her hands from the poles and held it in his strong grip.
"Let go the other one," he encouraged. "It's time to start trusting yourself. You can do it, Emily. Believe it."
Letting go wasn't so difficult – her fingers, surprisingly, hadn't frozen into a death grip. He held her hand a minute longer, and then his fingers slipped away and her heart dipped momentarily with the loss, before skipping into a faster rhythm. Without the tow poles, without a guiding hand, her skis continued to glide smoothly inside his, following his lead in a fluid, graceful dance.
"Do you feel your skis running?" he asked.
Amazingly, she did. Even more amazingly, she remembered to shift her weight, ski to ski, as he led her through a sharp turn. Approval darkened his eyes, and her heart smiled with silent joy. Yes, it beamed. You've got it. For the first time in her life she felt athletic, accomplished, almost daredevilish, and her grin spread all over her face.
"Having fun yet?" he asked.
"Are you kidding? I feel like thumping my chest."
Mitch laughed, and the sound seemed to soar as big and bright as the perfect winter sky. Even more exhilarating than the crisp swoosh of skis against snow, she mused, was the sound of his laughter.
"You are a good teacher," she admitted as they executed another tricky turn. "Chantal was wrong."
"Don't tell her that." Their eyes met and shared the humor a moment, before his expression turned serious. "I didn't do so well at the driving instruction."
"That wasn't your fault."
"No?"
"No." Was it her imagination or did his gaze dip to her mouth? Her smile faltered; her lips tingled with heat. No, not her imagination. Undercurrents of that day, of how it ended, swirled around them, binding them as firmly as their synchronized motion.
"I shouldn't have kissed you," he said quietly, and the sound of that word – that slow, sibilant kiss word – shimmered through her as delectably as the first touch of his lips.
"Why not?"
"I'm your employer."
"Not twenty-four hours a day and not on Sundays. Besides—" Their skis touched and bumped.
"Easy," he murmured, slowing their speed, balancing her with his firm hands on her upper arms, drawing her so close that their knees brushed in a sensual slide. "Besides?" he prompted.
"I wanted you to kiss me."
Not a good time to shock him, Emily decided, when he stopped without warning. Her skis continued, delivering her right into his solid body with a whoomph. If her skis hadn't kept on sliding she might not have wrapped her arms around him, but her skis did keep sliding and for this she said a silent, Thank you, Monsieur Rossignol.
Before letting go she savored the moment, committing the details to memory. The hard strength of his body flush with hers, the mingled scents of fresh air and sandalwood and warm man. His hands sliding over her back in a way that felt deliciously like a caress, his long exhalation against her hair.
A low laugh that mirrored the tension in his body. Gently he eased her away, enough to look down into her eyes. "You shouldn't go saying things like that."
Perhaps it was time to say things like that. Last week she'd driven a car. Just now she'd skied. Perhaps it was time to go after something that really mattered – the reality instead of the symbol. Her hand trembled as she lifted it to touch his mouth … and she wished her thick gloves to perdition.
Slowly she traced the curve of his bottom lip. "I wanted you to kiss me yesterday, too. When you carried me up those stairs."
"And now?"
"It's Sunday." You're not my boss, I'm not your nanny, so please kiss me before I expire with need.
Desire glittered in his eyes, sharp, intense. Emily trembled as he took her face in his gloved hands, big hands that framed her entire jaw and cheeks. And then he bent and took her lips with t
he same firm, all-encompassing purpose. Emily's entire tense, strung-out body sighed with relief.
Six months before, he'd kissed her in anguish, a sightless, senseless quest for comfort, for life in the nearest shape and form. That day in the rain he'd kissed her in frustration but this … this was a real kiss. A real toe-curling, knee-weakening, thigh-softening kiss that started with the lips but slid through her blood in quicksilver flashes of heat.
He tasted her lips all at once, then in tiny nibbling samples, before drawing her bottom lip between his teeth in a gentle sense-shivering bite. Who knew that kissing could be such an art, such a skill, so involved and involving? And then – she dragged a serrated breath into her aching lungs – and then he led her tongue in an unhurried duel of astonishing eroticism, a give-and-take dance that mimicked the way they'd slid over the snow. Mouth to mouth, she followed his lead, learning and exploring, fanning the slow fire in her blood.
Oh, yes, Chantal had been so wrong about his teaching skills. So very, very wrong.
Hands at his nape, fingers tunneling into his hair, she pressed closer, restlessly seeking that perfect alignment of soft against hard. Up. She needed to push up on her toes, to wind her leg around his.
Too late she recognized the impediment. The tip of her ski lodged in the snow, twisting her knee, throwing them both off balance until they collapsed in a tangle of skis and limbs. For one stunned second all she heard was rough, fractured breathing – hers? his? – and then a voice, a stranger's voice raised to attract attention, cut across the slopes. "Are you all right over there?"
Emily blinked snow from her eyelashes, brushed it from her face. Had she landed nose first? Was she all right? The planks attached to her feet complicated all attempts to right herself. Her attempts to right herself brought her deliciously, thrillingly closer to the man who had broken her fall. Amazing that planes so hard could provide such perfect cushioning.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
Oh, yes, she decided. I'm about drowning in allrightness. She wiggled some more for the sheer thrill of moving against his body, heard his swift intake of breath, felt strong hands close over her hips and the thick pounding of her own pulse. But then those hands set her aside and he busied himself with binding releases, freeing her with a couple of quick, efficient clicks. Emily flopped back in the snow, eyes squinted against the dazzling brightness until a shadow blocked out the sun.
"Do you need a hand?" The passerby who'd called out had come to their rescue.
"No," Mitch growled. "I have two of my own."
Mr. Helpful backed away. Quickly, if the crisp crack of skis on snow was anything to go by. "Thanks for stopping," Emily called after him. He didn't answer.
The ensuing silence resonated with the tension of Mitch's curt response. It snapped around them, as edgy as the sound of those departing skis. She wondered if their good Samaritan had put two and two together and come up with two-idiots-trying-to-make-out-on-skis. She'd been lying in the snow thinking in terms of shedding clothes, for pity's sake. Unexpected and unbidden, laughter bubbled up inside her, part tension, part genuine amusement, and once she started she couldn't seem to stop.
"What's so funny?"
Unable to form a meaningful answer, she shook her head, enough times that the snow pillow beneath registered as cold and wet. Not uncomfortable, but a sobering contrast to her overheated body.
"Do you think," she asked eventually, sneaking a sideways look at Mitch, "that man had any idea why we were flailing about in the snow?"
His response fell somewhere between a snort and a laugh. "After I bit his head off? Probably."
Oh, dear. Emily chewed her lip and sneaked in another quick glance. Flat on his back, he stared up into the sky, either unable or unwilling to look at her. "I suppose we should get going," she said softly, her mood sobering.
"Not yet. I need to lie here and cool off a minute longer."
Oh. His meaning slammed into her, sending her spirits soaring. Sending her gaze soaring down his body. Oh. She swallowed. "Perhaps you need to lie facedown," she suggested.
He groaned. Rolled onto his side. Pinned her to the spot with the intense heat of his gaze. "Perhaps you need to remember where we are."
Shocked by her own boldness – where had that last comment come from? – and his response, Emily could only stare back. Heat thrummed through her body, a dramatic counterpoint to the cold blanket of snow beneath. If they were somewhere else, somewhere warmer and drier and less exposed, would he bother trying to cool down? Or would he do something with that impressive delineation of hard heat? A feverish shiver raced through her blood at the thought of shedding clothes, of touching, taking…
In a sudden rush of motion, he rose to his feet. Bindings clicked, one, two. "Let's go."
Shaking free of her sultry imaginings, Emily eyed his proffered hand. "That was a quick minute."
"Lying there next to you—" he expelled a harsh breath "—I was never going to cool off."
* * *
Thirty minutes waiting for the Blaineys to show – or not show – didn't cool Mitch down any. Finally, sick of waiting in the lobby while one of the staff went "to see if I can find them," he stomped back out the door. He could do without that kind of aggravation. He'd done his part, he'd made an attempt, and the frustration of a wait that had seemed more like thirty hours than minutes boiled in his blood as he made his way back to his lodge.
That cross-country slog managed to work off some steam but not nearly enough to stanch his response when he spotted Emily's racked skis. Hot, fierce impatience surged through his blood, a desire to barrel through that door, to stride through the foyer, to find her, to … what?
To see her eyes widen with surprise because he was back so early? To see them burn with sweet fire as she recognized his intent, as he shed clothes and conscience and control and finished what they'd started on that mountain trail?
He blew out a long, frustrated breath and let himself inside in the civilized way. Key and doorknob weren't nearly as satisfying as the notion of shoulder and brute force, and the edgy need to break something, anything, rode him hard as he flung gloves and boots and jacket aside. The thud of the door closing behind him sounded unnaturally loud and he recognized, belatedly, the concentrated quiet within the apartment.
Hands on hips, he inspected the living area. No used mug or glass on the kitchen bench. No magazine or television remote cast aside on the coffee table. He prowled through the emptiness, pausing outside her bedroom.
He knocked on her door. "Emily?"
No answer.
Damn. The punch of disappointment hit low and hard. Its power should have triggered a million alarm bells, but, hell, if he'd been listening to internal warning systems he'd not have come within a metric mile of Emily and this apartment, not with Joshua at Ski Kids for hours yet. Not with the taste of her kiss still sizzling through his blood.
Not remembering the afterward, the way her dark gaze had stroked his aroused body as he'd struggled for control. No wariness, no reservation, just pure, sweet want.
Mitch flung back his head and growled. Not a good idea, remembering, reliving. A cool-down shower might help … or he could take her advice and bury himself, facedown, in the cold, white snow. For about a week, he decided with a rueful grimace.
En route to his bedroom, he stripped off his shirt and balled it for the obligatory three-point attempt on the laundry basket. He didn't let the shot go. Alerted by a faint sound beyond the bathroom door, he paused. Felt a subtle skip in his pulse. A not-so-subtle tightening low in his body.
Slowly he lifted a hand to knock at the same time the door slid open. Eyes wide with alarm, Emily slapped a hand to her chest and backed away from the door, back into a fragrant cloud of steam that drifted around her in delicate, ethereal ribbons. Not naked but near enough. Her birthday robe – soft, pale, peachy pink – clung to every slope and curve of her newly bathed body.
Clung and clung and clung.
Blood
roared through his veins, hot, demanding, deafening any polite avert-your-eyes, give-her-some-privacy pretences. To hell with politeness. He could spend another hour staring, stripping away that robe in his imagination.
The gurgle of emptying bathwater dragged him back to reality. He inhaled, slow and deep, filling his lungs with scented steam. Raspberries and cream. Ever since the night of her birthday, he'd fantasized about those tastes on her skin. On his tongue. Riveted, he watched her tongue moisten her plump bottom lip.
"I didn't think you'd be back so soon."
"Nor did I," he said tightly. "My in-laws didn't show."
"Didn't show?" Her voice rose on a note of mild pique. "Why ever not?"
Annoyed, frustrated, Mitch hitched an impatient shoulder. "Your guess is as good as mine. No message, no explanation, nothing."
Questions crowded the sympathetic warmth in Emily's dark eyes. In his current mood, Mitch needed neither. Not unless the sympathy was for the ache low in his body and the questions started with, Do you want to…? and contained the words hard, fast and now.
Yeah, right, and this is Emily, for cripe's sake. What he needed was a shower. Cold, slow and now. "I'll use the other shower—"
"I'm finished. You can have this one." Her gaze drifted to his bare chest, touched it with fingertips of flame before returning to his face. "I can recommend a bath for the kinks."
"What kinks?"
"Skiing ones, falling ones. Although I guess you don't fall down as much as I do."
Their eyes met and held, and shared recollections of falling and kissing and wanting arced between them. Color crept into her cheeks and when she drew a breath, her breasts pressed tight against her robe, tight and obviously aroused.
"I'll leave you to it." She gestured vaguely toward the shower stall. "To your shower or bath. Or whatever."
Or whatever. Right. He needed to forget about raspberries and cream on her lush body. He needed to get out of the doorway, give her some room to move, because she sure as hell was having trouble edging between the vanity and—
Her swift, sharp inhalation had him in the room and in her face in a split second. "What's wrong?"
A TEMPTING ENGAGEMENT Page 9
