by MK Schiller
She wasn’t sure when irritation had turned into admiration. Or worse, when admiration had turned into attraction. Yes, he was handsome with his mane of burnished gold hair and his eyes as vibrant as emeralds. That was obvious. He’d been a cover model on a men’s health magazine, for God’s sake. For most women, that was an accolade in his favor. But not for her.
Yet, there was something about him that drew her, not that she could act upon it. As long as they didn’t cross a certain line, she’d be fine.
“So you live in Islamabad most of the year?” Tristan asked when they resumed their journey toward the hotel.
“I divide my time between Hunza and Islamabad.”
He gave her that smile, the one that was almost boyish in nature. “Why here? Was it to be close to your whale?”
She frowned. “Don’t compare me to Ahab. I didn’t come here originally to climb the mountain.”
“Then what?”
“I came here to meet my mother’s family. My grandfather was a Sherpa. Climbing runs in my blood. I did some smaller expeditions, but I never really planned on something this grand.” She gestured at the high snow-capped peaks around them. K2 wasn’t visible, but she glanced toward the mountain that blocked it. “After a few weeks of this view, I realized I needed to see it from up there.” She was optimistic, but she knew the odds and had experienced them firsthand. “I hope I do it this time.”
“What happened the other times you tried?”
She was quiet for a while, trying to put her chaotic thoughts into some type of logical sequence.
“Sorry,” he said. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
“It’s all right. I don’t mind. The first time we ran low on supplies, the next time we were derailed by the weather. It turned on us as we made the shoulder. The last time I made it all the way to the bottleneck, but we had injured climbers. I had to help them down.”
“No wonder you were reluctant to let me join. You almost made it, only to turn around because someone else wasn’t able to move on.”
“It’s not that miraculous, Tristan.”
He stopped and faced her. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make yourself out to be less than you are.” He was so close she could smell the clean scent of his soap. He held out his hands. They were big and calloused with long slender fingers—the hands of a climber. She thought he might touch her. Maybe hold her for a moment. But at the last minute he shoved them inside the pockets of his jeans.
“I’m not.”
“Did everyone turn around for the injured climbers?”
“Two people made the summit. I decided to head back with the injured.” She wouldn’t have changed her decision, but it did sadden her that she had to abandon her attempt for the summit after coming so close.
“You see what I mean?
“I’m not Mother Teresa.”
He smirked as if he was hiding a secret. “Thank God for that.” He muttered something under his breath.
“Pardon me?”
“Where did you live in Europe?” he asked, instead of repeating what he’d said.
She would have called him out on his previous comment except the question took her by surprise. “How did you know I lived in Europe?”
“Rana told me you went to school there.” Then he added, “He gave me the lowdown on everyone.”
“I went to uni in London. I lived in Switzerland and Germany for a bit too.”
“And your favorite place?”
She jerked her head toward the mountains above them, the snow-white peaks glittering against a purple backdrop of golden stars. “What do you think?”
“I would guess a certain mountain?”
“You’d be right.”
“What’s the story with you and Rana?” His smile tightened for a brief moment before relaxing again. It happened so quickly she almost missed it.
“There is no story. We’re friends. This will be our first climb together though.”
His mouth crinkled at the corners as if he fought his own smile. “I see.”
“What about you? What’s your”—she thought for a second, trying to mimic his language—“lowdown? How did you get into this?”
“Not much to tell. When I turned eighteen, I decided to disappoint my dad to pursue my passion. Well, at least that’s how he describes it. I ripped up my college acceptance letters, packed a bag, and headed down to Joshua Tree. Lived out of my car for two years.”
“How did you survive?”
“This and that.”
“Thank you for the clarification.”
His laugh bellowed, causing several pairs of eyes to turn in his direction. “Okay, okay. I had a small trust from my grandfather. I saved and scrounged to have enough for the next climb. I used that to establish myself until I made money giving tours. My company originally began offering Denali tours. Then after I climbed Everest the second time, I decided to base myself out of Nepal. My goal was always K2 though, but the government of Nepal is a little easier on foreigners. Is that suitably less cryptic?”
“It will do.”
Farah thought the walk back should have taken longer, but it ended far too quick for her liking. She wanted to stretch out this beautiful day and the lovely memory they had made. But they were at the entrance to the hotel already. They lingered there taking in the backdrop of a million stars looming above them.
“What about you? How do you fund yourself?”
She wasn’t offended by the question. It was common among the climbing community. Climbing mountains ranked among the most expensive sports in the world. “I take photographs. I’ve sold to magazines, and some of my work has been purchased by private collectors. It’s shocking how much people will pay for a rare shot of a mountain scene.”
“So you’re an artist and a climber?”
“I never thought of myself as an artist. I’m just in a position to capture the obscure. It’s a privilege and a passion.”
He pulled open the gate to the hotel courtyard. “I’d love to see your work. Will you show it to me?”
“I have a few photographs in my room.”
“Are you inviting me up?” he asked.
What the bloody hell was she doing?
“I don’t know to be honest.” Her breath caught. She usually made decisions quickly, one time at seven thousand meters, hanging from a sloping serac. She’d stared danger in the face and did not blink. Why was she having a difficult time responding to his question? The answer came, swift and simple. Tristan Sinclair was too dangerous…even for her.
He took a step closer. “Take your time.”
She swallowed, hoping the spell would break and she’d wake up. At the same time, she hoped never to wake up. “Tell me what you said earlier, the phrase I didn’t catch.”
He lowered his head and kicked a patch of dirt. He was nervous too. At least they were on level footing. He looked around before turning toward her. He dropped his voice to a husky whisper. “I said, ‘Thank God, you’re not Mother Teresa, or the twisted thoughts I’m having would land me a seat at the Devil’s dinner table.’”
“That’s what you said?”
“Some form of that.”
This time, she shuffled her feet. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him. To be held in his strong arms and touched by his calloused hands. To run her fingers through his thick mane of hair. To taste his skin and feel the warmth of his body.
A movement flickered in her peripheral vision.
Tristan shifted his gaze in the same direction. “Who’s there?”
“Well, I see you two are getting acquainted. Rana was looking for you earlier.” Malcolm stepped out of the corner, a duffle bag on his arm.
She almost screamed. They both jumped back like polar forces reversing…or two
lusty teenagers being caught right before an epic kiss.
Tristan recovered first. “Hi Malcolm, what are you doing skulking about like an alley cat?”
“Just getting some air and checking out the view.” He turned his gaze on her, his expression one of smugness and contempt. For some reason, it fed into her insecurities. “I see you’re doing the same, Sinclair.”
Tristan moved in front of her as if he wanted to shield her from the man’s cold gaze. “We went out for a walk.” His body straightened to his full height, his wide shoulders and solid back impressive. “Not that it should matter to you.”
“Just making an observation.”
She saw Tristan tense. “Make your observations somewhere else.”
She had to remind herself this wasn’t England. Tristan Sinclair wasn’t harmless either. Amma had once told her that stupidity ran in her blood. That, like her, Farah was susceptible to smooth talk and charm. Even at ten years of age, Farah had never believed that. She had always thought of herself as logical and prudent and smart. Getting involved with a member of her group was about the stupidest thing she could do.
“We just got back.” She plied her voice with cheerfulness. Otherwise, he might see how irritated she was. What was he doing, standing in the shadows, all alone outside anyway? “It’s been a long day. I should get to sleep.”
“Me too,” Malcolm said. Clutching his bag, he walked inside the building.
“I don’t like him,” Tristan said. “There is something off there.”
Farah wasn’t sure about Malcolm either, except Ahmed vouched for him, and that was enough for her. Most climbers were used to spending long hours isolated. Social norms often fell to the wayside when they weren’t practiced. “He’s a little odd, but aren’t we all? I mean, we’re not doing the type of thing a normal person does, right?”
Tristan’s shoulders relaxed. He turned to her. “Yeah, you make a point.”
“Good night, Tristan.” She headed toward the door without looking back.
“Sweet dreams, Farah.”
That’s exactly where he belonged. In her dreams and only there.
Chapter 8
She hadn’t planned to attend the Polo match, which wasn’t really a match at all, but rather a casual game. Instead, she decided to spend the day with a Scottish Highlander or three while sipping cups of tea at the hotel gardens. After all, no real man could compete with her Highlanders. They were the perfect medicine. After a few chapters, the allure of Tristan Sinclair would most likely fall by the wayside. She was sure of it.
She had her books all lined up. She prided herself on her pragmatism, but a part of her could not resist the lure and magic of a good paperback romance. A shirtless man in a kilt… Well, there was just something special about that. She started in on the first book, a story about a laird with a stony disposition and the lass he falls for. Farah never thought of herself as a romantic. Her world had never provided much in the way of love and acceptance. But in the pages of these books, she lost herself to a place where things weren’t as bleak.
“Hello, Farah,” Tristan said.
Her shoulders tensed at the sound of his deep masculine voice. His shadow fell upon her in the middle a very dramatic action scene—all right, so it was a sex scene.
She glanced up, caught off guard. He was a flesh and blood example of the men inside the pages of her creased paperback novels. He wore a white polo shirt, the first two buttons undone and showing off his prominent Adam’s apple. His black trousers fit him well. If gorgeous had a face, she was staring at it. He was tall and regal. Her fingers twitched, yearning to tangle in his too-long sunlit hair. The chiseled planes of his face held a slight smile that was one part cynic, two parts mischief. She tilted her head, doing her best to avoid his green eyes, brilliant as the grassy hills of Hunza. They were a trap she wanted to sidestep.
Too much salt in the tea, she thought. Too many highlanders in her head.
“Hi,” she said, her voice meeker than she intended.
He swung an empty chair out and took the seat opposite her. “Good morning.” The waiter brought him a cup of coffee.
“Where are you going?”
“The polo field.”
“That’s right.” She buried her nose back in her book, but the words might as well have been typed in hieroglyphics.
“What are you reading?”
“Just a book.” She clutched the novel tighter.
“You work for the NSA?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then why so cryptic?”
Her face heated and her pulse increased. What the bloody hell was in the tea? She held up the book. The cover featured a bare-chested man clad in a dark green kilt. “Happy?”
“I didn’t peg you for someone who would pick that.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t peg me at all.”
He shook his head. “Ain’t that the truth.”
“I love them.”
“Why?”
He wasn’t mocking her with the question. If he had been, she would have finally found a reason to dislike him. No, instead, he seemed genuinely curious to learn more about her. Had anyone ever asked her so many questions about herself? He waited patiently for her to answer.
How could she explain it to him? “I don’t know.”
“Don’t be coy. We’re friends, aren’t we? You can tell me.”
She took a deep breath, wishing he’d let it go. “I like the language. It’s poetic.”
“Got it, you’re a sucker for poetic language.”
“I identify with the heroines too.”
“You identify with women who lived centuries ago?”
“I do.”
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“Tristan, it’s different in Hunza and Islamabad. There are rights I should have no matter where I live, but I don’t. Tomorrow night I will not be able to sit at a table with you like we are now. I won’t dine with all of you. I’ll have my dinner served in my room.”
“Why?”
“Women are not allowed in the dining room.”
His expression grew serious. “I’m an idiot. I should have been able to figure that out.”
She shook her head. “It’s okay.” She held up the book. “But you can understand why I identify with them now. They had similar rules imposed on them. I like how brave they are. People can impose all the rules they want, but that doesn’t mean a woman is powerless.”
“I understand.” He gestured to the book. “May I?”
She handed it to him. He scanned the back cover. “You have a thing for Scots?” he asked.
“I’m partial to them.” And she did have a thing for men in kilts, but that wasn’t something she needed to voice right now. Apparently, she rather liked men in polo shirts as well.
“Mind if I read a little?”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“We’re going on a long trip. I only brought one book myself so I might want to borrow this.”
“Are you patronizing me?”
“Not at all, Farah. I swear on my life I would never do that.” He looked so contrite she felt guilty for her assumption.
“What book did you bring?”
“The same one I always bring. The Little Prince.”
“The children’s book?”
“The very one. Have you read it?”
“A long time ago.”
“It’s one of my favorites. Made me want to travel to distant asteroids.”
Tristan Sinclair’s favorite novel was a children’s book. Somehow that fit him. When they’d first gotten out of the van in Hunza, she’d seen the look on his face. It had fallen between wonderment and glee, an expression typically reserved for children.
She glanced into the horizon, her gaze shifting up toward
the tall rock giants surrounding them. They looked like faraway, exotic lands. “I see the parallel.”
“I’ll lend it to you if you’d like.”
“Then I’ll have no choice but to return the favor.”
“Exactly.” He held up her book. “So, mind if I read a bit of this? I’m curious to see if I will enjoy it.”
“Be my guest.”
“Thank you, milady.”
She swallowed hard. Dear God, he was a quick study. She told him she enjoyed the language, and now he was using it against her. Play by the rules. Everything he did made her want to waive the white flag of surrender.
Tristan opened the book to the middle and removed the piece of hotel stationery she’d used as a bookmark. He looked around, as if to make sure they were alone. He cleared his throat. “She lay naked and trembling, waiting for the laird to claim her. His kiss held the heat of a million fires.”
Shit. He was reading it aloud. Thank God, they were alone. No one would witness her melting into a puddle. How could one voice be deep and raspy and smooth at the same time? She’d wondered about his accent. When he spoke, certain words had a velvety, slow rhythm that made her heart dance. And now that very voice was reading a favorite scene from a sinful story. She sipped her tea and pretended she wasn’t affected by him. A few seconds later she almost choked when he read the passage where the laird stroked himself.
He continued in a low drawl. “She wondered if she’d be enough for him. It mattered not, for she belonged to him. He made her body sing like an instrument in the hands of a master musician.” Tristan lowered the book. “I see why you like this.”
“You do?”
“Uh-huh.” Obviously, the impromptu reading was affecting him, too.
“Maybe you should skip ahead.”
“Okay,” he said. He flipped the page. He skimmed, his brow furling. He skipped a few more pages. He sighed and turned yet another page. “How long is this scene?” He let out a frustrated groan that caused her to laugh. “You sure this is a romance and not a fantasy?”
“The writer is just very…prolific.”
“And the characters seem to have a great deal of stamina,” he said, passing a few more pages.
