by Snow, Wylie
And he was there, pulling her up, pulling her into his arms. Luc. Her Luc.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she cried into his collar. Her fingers fisted into tight little balls and she beat them against him, but he didn’t let her go. Her chest burned from the great gasps of air she gulped to maintain her freakishly high level of hysteria.
She’d shed a few regretful tears since leaving Miami but, for the most part, she’d smothered them and the barrage of melancholic thoughts that haunted her. She played loud music during the day, ignored Lydia’s phone messages—it was much easier to text “I’m fine, how are you”—and kept herself physically busy, cleaning every surface in sight, from the attic to her backyard shed. The house hadn’t been that tidy since Aunt Jude was alive, and even then, she doubted it was ever as uncluttered as its current state.
With the exception of the suitcase in the front hall.
She couldn’t bear to unpack from her American adventure lest she see something that reminded her of him.
Who was she kidding? The very suitcase in the hall was a reminder itself, and her heart stopped every time her eyes stumbled upon it.
While she blubbered like the silly cow she was, he hadn’t said a word, hadn’t cooed words of comfort or rubbed her back. Nothing. How could she ever make this right again? How could she fix them?
He stood stoically as she drenched the front of his shirt. It wasn’t like the last time when she cried in his arms, when he told her everything would be okay. She was desperate to hear his voice—needed him to yell, to tell her she had no business screwing with his feelings—anything so the image of him in slack-jawed disbelief, the moment he realized she’d lied to him, again, could be erased from her mind. Guilt pushed more anguished tears out, robbed her of every shred of dignity she possessed.
“I-I-I didn’t m-m-mean—” she hiccoughed. She couldn’t even calm down enough to explain.
“You lied to me.”
“I-I-I’m sorry. I thought…” but she couldn’t continue. Every word hurt so badly, seared her lungs, her windpipe, her tongue. She’d lost another Biscuit. And this one didn’t die. She killed him.
And still he held her, let her use him like a giant hanky.
Finally, finally, he said, “Shhh, mon amour. I know why you did it.”
Her breath hitched.
He pushed her hair from over her ear and whispered, “Because you love me.”
Because I love you.
“Y-y-yes,” she wailed, nodding into his neck. She released the grip on his shirt and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I d-do love you…I r-really d-do.”
The second it was out, her entire body relaxed. She was able to fill her lungs with air again. There were no more lies left, nothing left to fester inside of her. He held her, her Luc, until her shoulders stopped shaking, until her pulse returned to almost normal and she could breathe without hiccoughing, until everything in the world felt right and whole and worth living for again. Until the smoke dissipated.
Luc leaned away from her and tilted her chin up so he could see her face. Her swollen-eyed, blotchy, cry-soaked face. And she let him. It was all out; he might as well see her at her absolute worst.
He pushed away the strands of hair that had plastered to her wet cheeks. “So now that we’ve established that you love me, perhaps almost as much as I adore you, and you promise you’ll never ever keep something inside you like this, even if you think it’s for the best—”
“I-I promise. I promise!”
“Then you’ll have no problem coming back home with me?” he said, placing a kiss on her nose.
“B-but I just got this place clean.” She tried to smile, but it was shaky and her heart felt as if it would burst. Love was wonderful… but it really hurt.
Luc kissed the tracks of her tears until he found her salty lips. “You’re coming home, with me, where you belong.”
With him, where she belonged.
She nodded, unwilling to break the seal of their lips.
She ran her hands across his shoulders, wrapped her arms around his neck, and sunk her fingers into his hair, something she never thought she’d do again. It felt right, like her hands belonged at the back of his head, and her body fit against his. Weeks of tension drained from her muscles as she pressed against him.
“Clara?” he said, his warm breath fanning her cheek.
“Hmm?”
“Maybe you’d consider, in the not too distant future, adding a hyphen?”
“A hyphen?” She pulled back to look into his face.
“Yeah. Between Bean and Bisquet.”
Clara giggled. No…Clara tittered. Tittered and nodded as only an in-love silly cow could. She’d probably have cried from sheer happiness but she was dehydrated, completely wrung out. “Even though I’m unemployed and so useless I can’t even make toast?” she asked. “I’ll have to be a kept woman until I write my book.”
“I’ll keep you, my love,” he said, showering her with kisses. “I’ll keep you forever.” He slid his hands under her bottom and lifted her onto the counter so she was face to face with him. “Besides, you’ll need lots of free time to go to hockey games.”
“But I never want to go without you.”
“You’ll just have to.”
“But why?”
“Somebody has to take our kids to practice.” He kissed her again, but this time there was nothing soft or gentle about it. It was hungry, full of passion, of love, and she opened her mouth to welcome him.
“Before I take you to bed and love you until I’m physically unable, are there any other secrets?”
She looked at him with wide-eyes and slid off the counter. “Um, maybe just one,” she confessed, dropping her chin and looking at him through her lashes. Clara turned her back and let the robe drop to the floor, revealing the worn yellow-and-black trimmed hockey jersey, the name Bisquet emblazoned across the back. She looked back over her shoulder. “Seems I’m a liar and a thief.”
His voice dropped an octave. “Is that all you’re wearing?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Luc’s luscious mouth parted into a sexy, wolfish grin. “Game on.”
Acknowledgments
Buckets of gratitude to my critique partner, Red Garnier, whose friendship I treasure beyond words. Thanks also to Thomma Lyn Grindstaff who has the spirit of a saint and the eyes of an eagle. To my beta readers Gwen Hayes and Shana Baptista – thanks so much for your feedback and enthusiasm.
A writer’s life is a solitary one and if not for the fabulous women of the Toronto chapter of the RWA, whose generosity, guidance and encouragement are legendary, I may have given up long ago. Big boisterous shout outs to my Collingwood gals—Christine D’Abo, Cynthia Sax, J.K. Coi, Amy Ruttan, and Maureen McGowan—who know exactly how much red wine to pour for peak creativity. Thanks for holding my hand through the many ups and downs and most of all, for the laughter. So much laughter…
The hockey insights come from T.J. McCann, via his editor-wife Laurie Rauch, without whom I would have never understood, or accepted, the truculence. Thank you for letting me into your head.
And finally thanks to Frank Bruni, author of Born Round, who unknowingly helped me understand the job of a food critic. Any injustices I did to the profession are mine alone.
About Wylie Snow
Almost every author says they knew they wanted to write from a very early age. Not me. I wanted to be a detective like Nancy Drew, or a wildlife expert like Jim Fowler or an archaeologist like Indiana Jones. Or own my own island resort and make fantasies come true!
I didn’t do too badly with any of those…
I married a detective, worked in a zoo, explored ship wrecks instead of old ruins, and spent 18 glorious years living on a sunny island.
; As for those fantasies…
That’s another book ;)
I love to hear from readers. You can write to me at [email protected]
Visit my website for information on upcoming books: www.wyliesnow.com
Like my FACEBOOK page for notifications of contests or ‘coming soon’ excerpts:
Facebook:
www.facebook.com/pages/Wylie-Snow-Author/496092523761066
Twitter:
twitter.com/WylieSnow
Sneak Peek: Jump Zone by Wylie Snow
“A wildly addictive page turner, Jump Zone is an exhilarating heart-pounding journey.”
—Katy Evans
New York Times Bestselling Author
Book 1: Cleo Falls
—Prologue—
Taiga Forest
I’d always presumed the moments before death would be fuzzy and warm.
They’re not. Death is painful. And cold.
Death is terrifying.
For me there are no sepia vignettes of my childhood, no sign of my mother’s smiling face to usher me into a blissful afterlife, open armed. There’s nothing to distract me from the fright that slams me every time my mouth fills, every time my head slips under.
No matter how hard I kick or thrash, the current is merciless, dragging me down river, closer to the edge, closer to the—
I can’t even think the word.
I claw for the surface, flailing desperately for something to grab onto. But there’s nothing. Not a rock, not a log, not even a stray root. Even if by some miracle I don’t drown, there is nothing to save me from the fall.
Seventy feet, straight down.
And the rocks at the bottom… I’ll be smashed.
My chest burns so bad I want to scream from it. Can’t, don’t dare. I bite down on the inside of my lips to seal them from another mouthful of icy water and taste the copper of my blood. I will my legs to get me to the surface for another breath but I’m tumbling through the blackness, not sure which way is up.
The rapids twist and toss me, pull me fast and hard as if they’re doing me a favor in getting me to the edge quickly. It’ll be over soon. Yet, every agonizing second feels never-ending.
The more my muscles ache from cold, the heavier my limbs become, the slower time goes. Death is a cruel bitch.
My lungs are on fire. And no matter that my eyeballs feel like they’ve been dunked in acid, panic won’t let me close them.
There’s a legend amongst my people of a Ghost Warrior, a survivalist from Old Canada who lost his life in the Polar Wars. They say he guides folks home in their time of need, gives them a second chance. Where is this phantom rescuer for me? Am I not worthy?
I already know the answer…
The pressure in my chest begins to crack me open. I acknowledge my fate, look it in the eye, welcome it. The thought frees me. The simple act of mental acquiescence releases my fear, replaces it with regret. And anger. I’ll never get a chance to make amends to my tribe, to Jaegar or my father, never feel the love I’ve tried so hard, so damned hard, to earn.
Anger fuels my strength, gives me a final burst of energy. My anaesthetized legs push off of something solid. My head breaches the surface.
I scream in Death’s face.
Then water fills me, douses my fire. I am numb, unable to feel my extremities, unable to feel anything. Like a piece of flotsam, the current tosses me over the precipice toward the jagged rocks below. My world goes black.
—One—
“Easy now, darlin’. Get it all out. Breathe for me now.”
His voice came at her through a long black tunnel. Cleo ignored it at first, but it grew louder and more persistent. She couldn’t connect where she was, or who kept insisting she breathe. Before she could get a grasp on her senses, her stomach muscles twisted, convulsed as river water filled her throat and exploded out her mouth. She could vaguely taste the tang of her last meal; a strip of jerky and a couple of handfuls of trail mix, eaten in haste.
Images flooded her mind—the flash in the sky, the kayak, the rocks. Her head spun like the vortex she’d been trapped in. She needed to breathe, needed to—
Gripped by another spasm, she opened her mouth to scream from the agony ripping up her insides but all that came out was another mouthful of river.
There was a spot of warmth on her back, the hand of whoever was keeping her propped on her side so she wouldn’t drown in her own sickness.
So, not dead.
Or alone.
The Ghost Warrior must have come. She’d always been skeptical of the legend, but who else could have possibly brought her back from the journey into dark?
“That’s it. Let it all go.”
Retching, loud and vulgar in her throbbing head, masked the words of the rumbling, reassuring voice behind her. There couldn’t possibly be anything left in her, yet her body still heaved, still gagged until every ounce of strength was spent. Exhaustion made it impossible to keep her cheek off the ground.
Blackness beckoned her to come back to the place where she wouldn’t have to fight, wouldn’t feel the pain or cold, but Cleo refused to succumb. She clung to this discomfort, to life, and struggled to shake off the disorientation. She prised open her burning eyes and through milky vision saw a shimmer of light reflected in the shiny pool of her own vomit.
Lovely, she thought as her eyes drifted closed again, I survived but my dignity didn’t. She groaned and tried to roll away from the mess but the movement triggered more retching.
“You’re going to be fine. I got you. Just concentrate on breathing,” the voice reassured calmly, while she ejected more from her stomach. “Quite a bath you took there, darlin’.”
As her wits returned, she began to tremble, gasping for precious air, afraid to let her lungs go empty.
He draped something over her, something heavy and warm, but her wet leather clothing held the chill and she couldn’t stop violently shaking.
“You’re going into shock,” he said, bundling her tighter. “Try to slow your breathing down. Don’t want you to hyperventilate on me. In and out, nice and slow, on my count.”
Cleo closed her eyes and focused on the Ghost Warrior’s voice, concentrating on his instructions. She tried to inhale deep and slow, tried to savor the feeling of each inhalation, but she gulped greedily and let it out with fearful reserve.
Tingles, sharp and searing, spread through her limbs as her core warmed. The discomfort shoved away the fog and confusion from her mind. The details of the accident buzzed behind her eyes but Cleo swept them away like an annoying horsefly. She couldn’t go there. Not now. It was more important to focus on surviving.
Ghost Warrior talked her through the worst, all the while rubbing her back. He counted slowly as she breathed, in and out, in and out, until her panicked gasps calmed.
It was working, whatever he was doing. She was glad the legend was true. The Ghost Warrior, born of the Taiga, the northern wilds, protected his people.
He smoothed the clinging tendrils of her hair from her neck and cheek with a gentle touch, his silk-smooth fingertips gliding across against her forehead. Softly…so softly.
Too soft.
People of the Taiga did not have soft hands. So who was stroking her hair? Not a triber. Definitely not a warrior, even a ghostly one.
Don’t trust outsiders.
Instinct kicked in. Cleo rolled away from the gentle touch as fast as her protesting limbs would allow. She grasped for the knife at her thigh, only to find an empty sheath, then felt for the weapons harness that normally crisscrossed her torso. Gone.
Her muscles protested as she jumped to her feet in a graceless, jerky motion and assumed a stiff version of attack stance. Hot-pokers stabbed through her right leg as she fought to keep her footing. Her body sway
ed as her brain struggled to maintain equilibrium. The last thing she needed was to faint.
“Whoa, whoa.” The stranger got up slowly, palms outstretched like he was talking to a spooked horse.
Soft hands. Not one of us. Even the tribe medics and scholars chop their own wood. The youngest children develop calluses from working fields and learning to handle a bow.
Never trust outsiders.
He was backlit by a potassium nanowire lantern that threw his face into shadow and blinded her with its glare. Cleo tried to peer into the darkness behind him, around him, and as far as her peripheral would allow without letting him out of her sight, trying to ascertain if this outsider was alone.
From his silhouette, she could see he was a much larger man than she wanted to face while unarmed and half stunned.
He moved toward her. Cleo stepped back, ignoring the pain shooting through her lower leg, worse now that the ice in her blood had thawed. Her shin was on fire but she couldn’t take her eyes off the outsider.
“Take it easy darlin’, before you hurt yourself,” he said, his voice even. He inched toward her, hands open, fingers spread.
He was taller than her father, but not as broad. She might be able to take him…if only the damn world would stop swaying.
“G-get back,” she warned, but her throat burned and her croaky voice sounded more squeaky than fierce. She was in position, ready to execute a roundhouse kick to his side, but her leg wouldn’t bend, wouldn’t move. And then there were two of him, rushing at her. She shook her head to clear the spinning black discs that danced through her vision but the movement made them grow bigger.
