by Ally Blake
He braced his hands against the cold hard ground and looked out at the breathtaking vista. ‘Why mountains …?’
He felt her head roll his way.
‘It goes something like this. When you climb a mountain solo, the challenge is so great, so seemingly impossible, the pay-off is all the sweeter when you reach the peak. You’ve conquered the unconquerable. Alone. The glory is yours alone.’
They sat in silence a few moments as his words disappeared in the thin air. Then Hannah said, ‘But you also have no one to cheer you on when you succeed. No one to look out for you if you fall.’
He slid a quick glance her way.
She was looking at him, brows furrowed. Interested, but concerned. Those pale green eyes were seeing far too much. Wanting too much from him.
How much would it take to negate Virginia’s undie-flashing high-kicks? More than something he’d just as readily reveal to a journo, surely?
He cleared his throat and began slowly, the words unfamiliar and uncomfortable on his tongue. ‘I’ve grown used to not having anyone cheer me on. Or care if I fall. In fact I prefer it that way.’
‘I know you do. What I don’t understand is why?’
He swallowed hard, his throat parched to the point of pain. He couldn’t do this. Shouldn’t have to. It was none of her damned business.
She dragged herself to sit and waited till he glanced her way. ‘I miss having my dad tell me, “That’s my girl,” when I do something fantastic. I even miss my mother tsking when she had to bandage an unladylike scraped knee. I can live without them, but it’s nice to know that if I ever need that kind of support I have friends who care about me, who’ll come to my rescue. You do too, you know. You only have to let them.’
Bradley shook his head. ‘It’s my experience that you can never count on anyone but yourself.’
‘What experience?’ she pressed.
‘Formative experience,’ he allowed.
‘So try again.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
The woman was like a dog with a bone!
He turned on her. ‘You really want to know?’
‘I really want to know.’
‘Fine,’ he said, the overly loud word echoing across the cavernous space. Then like shots from a rifle, he hit her with his father’s departure before he was born. His mother’s continued indifference. The day she’d decided looking after him was simply too hard. The plethora of addresses he’d temporarily inhabited. The way in which he’d seen people turn a helpless kid out of their home simply for the sake of ease.
Then suddenly the instances became more specific. Names, faces, places, dates. One draining disillusionment after another.
It was only after some time that he realised she’d curled a gloved hand through his elbow. Offering the kind of support she’d promised he’d have if he just asked.
‘Do you see her much any more? Your mum?’
‘I looked for her once,’ he said, the words all but pouring from him now. ‘When I was in my twenties. I’d made some money. I’d bought some real estate. I’d proved to myself that I was worth something. And the need to let her know it too built and festered inside of me until I had no choice but to track her down.’
Hannah gently leant her head against his bicep. Where others might have shuffled and fidgeted and changed the subject, she just absorbed. Like a sponge. He felt himself siphoning comfort from her, but rather than feeling guilty he sensed that she was utterly willing to give it. He felt no inclination to move away.
‘I wrote her a letter. She wrote back. We agreed to meet. I turned up at the rendezvous. I saw her through the window on the street. It had been years, but I knew it was her in a second. She didn’t look inside the restaurant. Never saw me sitting there. Never even made it through the front door. She was swallowed up by the sidewalk crowd and that was the last I ever saw of her.’
As he relived the moment inside his head he waited for it to burn, to hurt so deeply that he’d learned to close down his emotions so as never to feel so dependent on someone else’s opinion of him ever again. Instead he felt a mild ache, a distant sorrow. Soothed by the cooling balm of Hannah’s light touch.
They sat like that for some time. No sound bar the wind whistling through the low scrub at their feet. Watching a lone eagle soar across the bright blue sky in a beautiful dance.
‘I know now it wasn’t about me,’ he said. ‘It never had been. Whatever her issues were, no matter how good I was, how successful, how sensible, it would never have been enough.’
Then Hannah said, ‘So, no singing into your mother’s hairbrush?’
And he laughed. Loud. Hard. Releasing laughter. Whatever remaining tension there was inside him cracked across the valley like a thunderclap.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not that I can remember.’
Her hand slipped from his arm, and ridiculously—considering how well-dressed he was—he suddenly felt the cold.
She buried her face in her hands. ‘God, I feel like such an idiot for whining about Virginia’s maternal deficiencies. At least she tried. Not well, mind you, but there was effort. Why didn’t you just tell me earlier to shut up and stop feeling so sorry for myself?’
Why? Because he’d never told anybody. Because he’d never wanted to reveal that weakness in his genes. Because he thought she had every right to be upset at her mother’s behaviour.
She turned to smile at him. Then gave his shoulder a bump with hers as she said, ‘Thank you.’
‘For what?’
She shrugged. But didn’t stop smiling.
That mouth. He couldn’t for the life of him remember what had convinced him to yabber on when all he had to do was lose himself in that mouth.
The urge to kiss her then was a primal one. Swelling from deep inside. The urge to pull off her beanie and run his fingers through her hair. To slide his thumbs across those soft pink lips. To follow with his mouth. His tongue. To lie her down gently on the mossy ground and make love to her until night fell …
And they froze to death.
For a man whose best interests were his only compass, he felt as if he was no longer exactly sure which way was north.
As though she sensed he’d hit his limit, Hannah blithely changed the subject. ‘I can’t believe my little sister is getting married tomorrow.’
‘Does it feel strange that she got there first?’
‘Strange …? No. God, no. I’ve seen how it can turn out when it’s done with no thought, no plan, no certainty. Case in point: my mother. I’m more cautious, I guess. I don’t have Elyse’s … blind faith. Besides, I’m a career woman, don’t you know?’
He laughed softly. ‘Good to know.’
She tipped her beanie.
She leant over and grabbed the toes of her boots. ‘So, while we’re on the subject, tell me how come some gorgeous, sparkly, doe-eyed young starlet didn’t snap you up long ago?’
He shot her a glance, but she was still mighty intrigued with her boots.
‘Who says I even like gorgeous, sparkly, doe-eyed … Okay. I’m gonna stop there, before I sound like an idiot.’
‘Too late,’ she grumbled.
But while her voice was light he heard the tremor beneath. Her question hadn’t been blasé. She wanted to know. Because she was one of the people around him who cared.
He had to make sure she never made the mistake of caring too much.
‘I like women,’ he threw back. ‘But I like being single more. I’ve always been perfectly transparent on that score. And I’ve yet to have any woman cling to my ankles as we parted ways. I like to think I’ve found my perfect balance.’
Hannah picked up a piece of shale and scraped at a tuft of grass. ‘Did it ever occur to you that they leave thinking themselves lucky to have had you at all? Even if just for a moment? And that your “transparency” made it impossible for them to wish for more?’
He glanced at Hannah to find she was still super-interested in her shoes. He cou
ld have sworn her cheeks had grown pinker. And she was nibbling at her bottom lip.
Suddenly he could hear his blood pumping fast and furious in his ears.
‘So you think I’m a catch?’ He’d meant it as a joke, a tension-breaker. But his tone came out deadly serious. He wanted to know her answer. Needed to know. Because if this was already more to her than a weekend fling …
Hannah froze. So small beneath her many layers. She slowly lifted her head to squint at the horizon. ‘To be a catch one first has to be caught.’
‘Don’t hide behind semantics,’ he growled, temper rising, cursing her for not following the rules.
She turned on him, eyes gleaming. ‘Fine. Then I can see why some people might think you’re a catch. Rich, famous, okay-looking in the right light.’
‘But not you?’
She rolled her eyes at the gods—asking for help, or perhaps for a lightning bolt to strike him where he sat. ‘You forget,’ she said, ‘we’ve worked together too long. I know you far too well, Bradley—on your good days and your bad—to indulge in such daft fancy.’
His eyes bored into hers. Looking for a twinkle of humour. Or, at the other end of the spectrum, a straight out lie. But for once he could decipher nothing within the pretty green flecks.
He was left feeling finessed. Deflected. It was the strangest, most off-kilter sensation, not being the one holding all the cards. He didn’t like it.
‘Lucky for you you’re too smart for me.’
‘Lucky for you too.’
To all intents and purposes things were back on track. Unease settled on his shoulders all the same. He pulled himself to stand and stretched out his back, which was stiff with a tension that had nothing to do with the hike or the cold.
He held out a hand and helped her to stand. She attempted to brush herself down but, considering she was so padded he could probably roll her back down the hill, she couldn’t reach half of her back.
He spun her around and briskly brushed the grass from her well-cushioned backside. She stood there and let him. Despite everything he felt himself getting aroused. Hell, three layers of clothes and he could still have brushed that backside all day and all night.
He pulled his hand back into the protection of his jacket sleeve and headed back down the trail, towards the lake, towards the Gatehouse, towards their suite.
Friction followed in his wake, and its name was Hannah.
All he knew was the second they got behind closed doors all that tension would translate into passion, and they’d not be able to get their hands on one another soon enough.
He curled his gloved fingers into his palm. He craved her enough to allow her to see into his well-protected past. He craved her so much he’d take her despite his niggling concern about her motivation.
She’d become an addiction. One he’d convinced himself he could go cold turkey on in three days’ time. When they’d be back to working side by side, ten hours a day, six days a week. When late at night, after everyone had gone, he’d sit at his desk, looking out over the Melbourne skyline, with the lingering scent of her playing havoc with his senses.
‘Speaking of work …’ he said.
‘I wasn’t aware we had been,’ she said, closer behind than he’d thought she’d be. Apparently she was in as much of a hurry as he to get back to their suite.
He slowed till they walked side by side. ‘I was thinking earlier about taking Spencer on the Argentina trip.’
‘Oh. Okay. Great. He’ll be so excited—’
‘Instead of you.’
A spark of hurt flashed across her eyes. His gut clenched unexpectedly. It only made him more determined. He held his ground. This was important. Important he do this now. Before things got any more complicated than they already were.
‘Why?’
Because you care too much, and I clearly count on you too much, and we’re both setting ourselves up for disappointment, he thought.
He said, ‘He did everything I asked of him yesterday, and well. I thought I ought to see how he goes with more responsibility.’
‘Right. That’s fair. But I set up that meeting. You wouldn’t even be going if I hadn’t wooed the Argentinians in the first place. I had to stay by the phone till after midnight every night for two weeks so as to be able to take their calls. I went above and beyond for—’ Voice getting breathless, she pulled up short and shook her head. ‘Why am I bothering? Do what you want. You always do. You’re the boss.’
‘Glad you remembered that.’
The look she shot him could have cut glass.
‘Because, as your boss, I have a job for you to do.’
‘Tell someone who’s not on holiday,’ she threw over her shoulder, and she took off down the path in front of him, her ponytail swinging accusingly at him.
He lifted his voice so as to be heard through the thin air. ‘When we get back I want you to concentrate on putting together a full proposal for the Tasmania project. Locations. Treatment. Budget. Marketing. Everything.’
Her feet kicked up dust as she screeched to a halt. A full five seconds later she turned and stared up at him. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Have you ever known me to kid about work?’
‘You? Never. Sonja and I behind your back? Every damn day.’ Expression deadly serious, she took three steps up the hill and jabbed a finger into his chest. ‘Now, let me get this straight. If I’m creating the project specs from scratch …’
‘You’ll be producing it.’
She shoved her hands into the pockets of her parka and breathed in, obviously thinking very deeply. The longer the moment passed, the more Bradley began to fidget. He’d expected her to leap into his arms with joy. He hadn’t expected her to consider it. Or, worse, ponder why.
She spun on the spot. Jabbed him in the chest again. Then took a step back. Her eyes widened as she seemed to lose purchase on the loose ground. And suddenly she was halfway to head over heels.
Bradley reached out and grabbed her by the parka, his fingers clenching tight around the handful of slippery fabric while she wavered at a terrifying angle.
She glanced behind her and let out a cry. ‘Bradley!’
‘I know.’ He could see the ground dropping away. He didn’t even want to know the kind of angle she saw.
His fingers ached. Sweat broke out over his forehead. He dug his heels into the ground and, gritting his teeth, all but broke through the outer lining of her jacket in order to haul her back to safety.
She fell into his arms, breathing like a racehorse and shaking like a leaf.
He growled, ‘You scared me half to death.’
‘How do you think I feel?’
He couldn’t help himself. He laughed. The sound ricocheted off the surrounding cliffs. It was either that or hold her so tight she’d begin to get ideas.
‘So glad you can take my near death so lightly,’ she said. ‘I’m sure there are some who would miss me if I never made it back to Melbourne.’
He breathed deep through his nose and scraped her away from his front to look down into her face. ‘Sonja would miss you once her heat got turned off.’
‘True.’
‘And Spencer. He’d be devastated.’
‘He would. But that’s all? That’s some epitaph. Hannah Gillespie, twenty-five and single, falls to dramatic death from mountain. Terribly missed by semi-estranged family, chilly roommate, and dorky work-experience kid.’
Laughing, Bradley reached out and stroked the back of a finger across her cheek, sweeping her hair away from her eyes. When a strand remained she blew it out of the way with a shot of air from the side of her mouth.
Her eyes remained locked to his. All but begging for him to put her out of her misery and admit he’d miss her.
If she only knew how much. More than was in any way sensible. And it wasn’t just about her work ethic. It was so very much about the lightness she lent to the rigours of his days.
‘Remind me to chastise you for utter stupi
dity later. But for now …’
He crushed his mouth to hers and kissed her, and kissed her, and kissed her, until the ferocious force of their chemistry took over and nothing else mattered but how soon they could get back to the hotel.
Hannah got back to the room first, as Bradley had been forced to stay behind and read a half-dozen messages at Reception. She could have waited, but the excuse to take a moment apart was welcome.
She tore off her gloves, beanie, scarf, parka and shoes, and stretched out suddenly far lighter limbs as she padded into the room in jeans and long-sleeved T.
But no stretching could negate the confusion that was rocketing through her. She felt more as if she’d spent the past few hours on a roller-coaster rather than a mountain hike. Her roiling stomach could certainly attest to that.
Bradley sharing things from his past she’d never hoped he might impart. While still keeping his emotional distance any time she tried to close the gap.
Bradley offering her a chance at the Tasmania show. While unceremoniously ditching her from the Argentina pitch.
Bradley looking at her as if he wanted to devour her on the spot. While reminding her in no uncertain terms that the devouring wouldn’t go on past that weekend.
Bradley, beautiful and bombastic and in his element.
No wonder the documentary-maker who’d discovered him halfway up K2, camera in hand, strong, beautiful face peering out from beneath a month’s worth of dark facial hair, looking like the first real man on earth, had appeared unable to control her salivation when asked in the press about that fateful day. The day that introduced the mountaineer to television and Bradley Knight to an unprepared world.
Up, down. Up, down. Her emotions felt so twisted her heart had yet to stop beating as if she’d run a marathon.
Feeling prickly, and fractious, and uncoop-eratively turned on, Hannah trudged towards her room, stripping off more layers as she went. She passed near the spa. It twinkled darkly at her. As did her half-drunk glass of wine. And the discarded condom packet she’d torn open with her teeth.
And her father’s watch bobbing in the water.
‘No, no, no!’ She ran around the edge of the pool and dropped to her knees, gathering it in her hands.
