Baby, It's Cold Outside

by Jennifer Greene, Merline Lovelace

  “But he can. Ski, I mean. My father teaches people in wheelchairs to ski all the time. Some of them have even competed in the Paralympics.”

  If Arni could ski again, would he let go of some of his anger at Kristján—and at himself? “I don’t know if he would do it.”

  “Call my father and talk to him. He may know of a program in Europe, if Arni doesn’t want to come to the States.”

  “All right. I’ll do that.” Anything, if it would help bring back the old Arni—the brother he loved.

  “Now tell me why you wanted to see me tonight.”

  “I went to the sauna this afternoon with Arni.”

  “Jóna told me. What does that have to do with my being here tonight?”

  “It has everything to do with my wanting to see you.”

  Her expression told him she didn’t see the connection and was quickly losing patience with him. He forged on. “Arni doesn’t want me to give up racing,” he said.

  “When he spoke with me, he seemed convinced you wouldn’t give it up.”

  “He said I had won a medal for myself, now I had to win one for him.”

  “Oh.”

  “For most of my life I have been living for my brother, always asking myself, ‘What would Arni do?’ When I won the gold medal, I presented it to him. I told myself that finally I had done enough.”

  “And was it enough?” she asked quietly.

  “No. And I realized today it never will be. I have to stop trying to live for my brother and pursue the things I want.” He closed the gap between them and looked into her eyes, daring her to move away or to deny the pull of desire between them. “Tonight I want you. Not because it’s practical or wise or a good plan for the future, but because I feel things for you I have never felt for any other woman. And I can’t let you leave without exploring those things.” He took her by the shoulders and pulled her to him, his lips silencing any protests she might have made, letting her know with his lips and tongue and body how much he meant the words he said.

  She didn’t resist, but returned the kiss with all the fervor he’d hoped for. When they broke apart at last, breathless and a little dazed, she looked into his eyes. “All right,” she said. “I’ll stay with you tonight. We won’t think beyond that.”

  STACY FOLLOWED KRISTJÁN along dimly lit paths, past mist-shrouded pools bathed in silvered moonlight. It was a scene out of a fantasy or a dream and the fact that Kristján was with her only added to the dreamlike quality.

  His honesty tonight made her want to be honest, as well. She’d avoided him because she was so afraid of making a mistake. But maybe the larger mistake lay in not enjoying the gift he offered for even the little time it might last.

  Sex was a dance whose steps she thought she knew, but once again, Kristján surprised her. When she moved into his arms, he backed away. “I want to look at you,” he said, and undid the tie at the neck of her bikini top.

  As he peeled the swimsuit from her, she fought the urge to cover herself. She hated feeling this vulnerable, as if he had removed more than her clothing. She forced herself to focus on him, stripped of his swim trunks now and standing before her in all his perfection.

  Except she could see now that he wasn’t perfect. He had scars around both his knees and another up the inside of his wrist. She traced the jagged line of paler flesh with one finger. “What is this?” she asked.

  “Broken wrist. They put a metal bar and seven screws to hold it together.” He indicated another, smaller scar at his shoulder. “There is more metal here, and new tendons in both knees.”

  He would laugh if he knew how much she had complained the summer she stepped off a curb wrong and had to wear a walking boot for a month. “Is all the pain worth it?” she asked.

  “Yes. To stand on the Olympic podium was worth it, but also, every time I step into a pair of skis and feel the snow slide beneath my feet it is worth it.”

  “But why? It’s just a sport.” So many times she had wanted to ask her father that question.

  Kristján pressed his lips together, his gaze focused inward. Was he trying to find words to describe something she couldn’t hope to understand? “Our lives are shaped by expectations,” he said. “When we are children, we must live up to the expectations of our parents and teachers. Later, our bosses and neighbors and lovers and even our friends expect us to act in certain ways. Even the most independent person can’t escape that. On the snow, I leave all that behind for a while. Even when I’m racing, with coaches and judges and teammates all judging my performance, I can forget them. To race well takes such a connection between my body and the skis and the snow, there isn’t room for anything or anyone else in my head. For the few minutes of a race or even a casual run down the slopes, I am really free.”

  She nodded, not completely understanding, but envious that he had found this escape from the pressures of every day. She seldom struggled with the expectations of others, but she often put pressure on herself to live up to some imagined ideal.

  “Pretend you are skiing now,” she said, sliding her palms along the perfect plane of his shoulders. “No expectations, only the freedom to enjoy this moment.”

  She felt his lips curve in a smile as he trailed a path of kisses along her jaw, and she answered with a smile of her own as she arched her body to his. When his mouth covered hers she felt herself melting into him, the last hard edge of resistance disappearing in the heat of his kiss.

  Her skin warmed at his touch, and her body hummed with an awareness of him—of the tautness of his waist and the long line of his thigh, of the heaviness of his hand on her hip and the way her breasts compressed against the wall of his chest, and of the insistent nudge of his erection against her stomach, and her own growing need to feel him inside her.

  When at last they broke the kiss, she started to tell him how much she wanted him, but he silenced her words by sweeping her into his arms and carrying her to the bed.

  She giggled. She didn’t mean to, but she couldn’t help it.

  “What is so funny?” he asked, eyebrows arched in mock outrage.

  “It’s such a romance-movie moment,” she said. “The Viking warrior sweeping the woman off her feet and carrying her to bed.”

  “Do you have something against Viking warriors?” He opened his arms and dropped her—gently—onto the bed.

  “I think they’re wonderful.” She held her arms out to him. “I think you’re wonderful.” Though she might never admit it out loud, maybe what she’d needed all along was for a man to sweep her off her feet, to battle past the walls of her logical objections and practical behavior to give her what she really wanted, which was to be loved solely for and in spite of herself.

  They lay side by side in the narrow bed, letting the tension build. He smoothed his hand along the indentation of her waist and up the curve of her hip. “You’re perfect,” he said.

  “And I think I’m glad to discover a few of your imperfections,” she said, touching the scar on his shoulder.

  He laughed. “I have plenty of flaws.”

  “But not in bed, I don’t think.” She rolled onto her back, bringing him with her. He knelt between her legs and kissed his way down her body, teasing her nipples to swollen, aching peaks, feathering kisses across her belly. She moaned as his mouth closed over her sex, arching to him as his tongue swept over her, shuddering with desire and need.

  Then he was kneeling over her, sheathing himself in a condom, burying himself in her with a guttural cry that spoke to some ancient, primitive part of her. He was indeed a warrior home from battle, and she was his sanctuary.

  Love was such a loaded, powerful word, but she knew no other way to describe what passed between her and Kristján that night. As much as she might have wanted to fool herself, this was about more than sex. They were two people who had formed a connection almost from the moment they met. They needed each other, though how much and for how long was too soon to tell.

  But as she lay in the darknes
s when their desire was spent, reveling in the feel of his arms around her and the sound of his deep, even breathing soothing her to sleep, she wanted more than anything for this feeling to last. All the failed relationships of her past had surely taught her lessons she could use to make this one work. If she had to change Kristján, or change herself, she would find a way to hold on to these feelings between them.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  KRISTJÁN SLIPPED OUT of the room while Stacy slept. He made his way along the deserted boardwalk by the pools, his steps muffled on the damp wood. The muted light of dawn struggled to pierce the mist, reminding him of mornings when he was a boy, rising early to go out with his uncles on their fishing boat.

  He was on a mission of a different sort this dawn. His fingers in his jacket pocket curled around the slip of paper on which Stacy had written her father’s number. She thought her father could help Arni; if Kristján could arrange for the two of them to meet, he thought he could persuade Arni to take this chance.

  He left the pools and emerged in a sheltered picnic and concession area. He bought a cup of coffee, then sat at a wooden table and pulled out his phone. It would be about two o’clock in Colorado; he hoped that was a good time to call.

  On the fourth ring a hearty, friendly voice answered. “Hello?”

  “Hello. My name is Kristján Gunnarson. I am trying to reach Ed Bristol.”

  “You got him. What can I do for you?”

  “Your daughter gave me your number. I understand you teach skiing to the handicapped.”

  “Stacy gave you my number?” Ed’s voice brightened. “How is she doing?”

  “She’s great. She’s here in Iceland supervising the photography for some advertisements.” Shouldn’t he know this already? Had Stacy not told him?

  “Iceland? How about that? Hey—Kristján Gunnarson! Aren’t you the guy who won the gold in men’s downhill in Vancouver?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you know Stacy?”

  “I’m part of the ad campaign she’s working on.” That was better than saying I slept with her last night. Oh, and I love her.

  “I watched that race on television. You were great. A big moment for you and for your country.”

  “Yes, it was.” Even after months of such praise, the attention made Kristján uncomfortable. “I really wanted to find out more about your job,” he said.

  “Sure. I teach for the Adaptive Sports Center at Crested Butte Mountain Resort. We try to find a way to help almost anyone who wants to ski to get on the mountain and have a good time. We work with kids and adults—a lot of veterans these days. Had a veteran in here this morning, a double amputee. After a couple of hours we had him making runs by himself. He was thrilled. I was, too. That’s the great thing about this job—I get to help change people’s lives. I get back as much happiness as I give.”

  Kristján felt a rising excitement, not unlike what he experienced before an important race. “Stacy said you’d worked with some Paralympians.”

  “You bet. We’ve had several Paralympians train here.”

  “Do you think someone who skied professionally—at an Olympic level—before an injury put them in a wheelchair, could learn to ski again? To maybe compete again?”

  “Absolutely. They’d be ahead of the game because they’d be familiar with the dynamics of skiing and racing. As long as their upper-body strength and balance were reasonably good, we’d put them in a mono-ski and away they’d go. Hey—you haven’t been in some kind of accident have you?”

  “No, no, I’m asking for a friend.” He hesitated. “For my brother. He was injured nineteen years ago, but he used to be a very good skier.”

  “Bring him to see me and I’ll get him set up. The exercise would help him physically, but I think the biggest benefit is mental. I see it all the time. This gives people back some of their independence. It gives them back an activity they love.”

  “How long have you been teaching?” Kristján asked.

  “Ten years now. I love coming to work every day.”

  “What did you do before?”

  Ed laughed. “I guess you’d say I was a ski bum. I taught able-bodied skiers, worked in lift operations, did some bartending—whatever it took to earn a lift ticket and time on the snow. I’m surprised Stacy didn’t tell you that. She and her mom never thought much of my priorities. They didn’t understand I wasn’t happy with a conventional job and a conventional life.”

  “Stacy’s very proud of what you’re doing now.”

  “She told you that?” His voice was rough.

  “Yes.”

  Ed cleared his throat. “So what are you doing now that the Olympics are over? Have you started training for the next one yet?”

  “I’m retiring.”

  “Really? Well, why not? Go out on top.”

  “I would like to visit you,” he said. “And bring my brother.”

  “Anytime. I’d love to meet you and your brother.”

  “I’ll be in touch. Thank you.”

  “Thank you. And say hello to Stacy for me.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  He hung up the phone and sat with his now-cold coffee, watching the sun climb in the sky and burn away the mist. The prerace excitement and the anticipation that something big was about to happen stayed with him. He had thought when he retired from racing, he would leave skiing behind, but what if he did something like Stacy’s father? What if he used his skills to help others?

  He felt a new urgency to make this trip. He wanted to help Arni, but it might be that he would help himself, as well. Here was a way for him to do what he knew best—skiing—without the grind of travel and constant pressure of competition. Here was a way for him to help other people—people like Arni. The darkness that had shadowed him since his decision to quit the Olympic team lifted at the thought.

  STACY WAS SURPRISED to find herself alone when she awoke. Even as she’d fallen asleep last night, she’d looked forward to waking with Kristján this morning. Instead, she had to settle for a note he’d left on the dresser.

  Good morning, sleeping beauty. I have things I must do this morning and didn’t want to wake you. Have a good day and I will see you later. Love, Kristján.

  The word love was wobbly and faint, as if he’d hesitated over writing it. But he had put it down all the same, and those four simple letters made her feel like shouting with joy and excitement and, yes, a little bit of fear.

  Part of her wanted to find him and go to him and tell him how happy she was. But the other part of her told her it would be good to spend a few hours apart from him, thinking about what she really wanted to do.

  She needed to call her boss in the States and let him know she planned to take a couple of weeks’ vacation. Kristján could show her his home country and they’d have time alone to get to know each other better. Then maybe he’d agree to come to the States with her. Her mother would absolutely love him.

  And what about her father? Her father wouldn’t miss the irony of having his daughter fall for a skier—an Olympic medalist, at that. As a teenager, especially, she’d been so vocal in her objections to his lifestyle.

  She sighed. Maybe it was past time she apologized to her dad for some of the things she’d said. She still didn’t agree with all the choices he’d made in his life, but maybe it was time to let go of some of those grudges. She could remember the good times they’d spent together and try to overlook his faults—just as he must have to overlook hers.

  Smiling to herself as she pondered all the possibilities for her future, she quickly showered, then headed for the spa, where she’d previously scheduled a day of pampering: facial, body scrub and massage and manicure and pedicure. When she saw Kristján again she’d be a new woman, inside and out.

  KRISTJÁN FOUND ARNI in his room and told him they’d been invited to visit the Adaptive Sports Center at Crested Butte Mountain Resort in Colorado. While he’d anticipated some reluctance on Arni’s part, he wasn’t prepared for h
is brother’s anger.

  “Aren’t you the generous one, arranging all this without bothering to consult me?” Arni’s voice dripped with contempt.

  “I haven’t arranged anything,” Kristján said. “And I am consulting you now. Don’t you want to ski again?”

  “Sitting in a chair while someone pushes me over the snow is not skiing.”

  “This isn’t like that and you know it. You could ski on your own—independently. You could even race again.”

  Arni looked away, lips pressed so tightly together all color was blanched out of them.

  “Maybe it’s not the idea that bothers you so much, but that I am proposing it,” Kristján said. “Would you deny yourself something you want solely to spite me?”

  “You have no idea what it’s like for me.”

  “Then tell me.” He moved around so that Arni was forced to look at him. “Help me understand why you hate me so much. I’m not the one who put you in that chair.”

  Arni swallowed, his Adam’s apple prominent with the effort. “If we go to America, I know exactly how it will be,” he said. “Everyone will be looking at you. Everyone will be talking to you. I’ll be the poor crippled brother in the wheelchair—isn’t Kristján wonderful for taking such good care of him?”

  The pain and truth of Arni’s words cut deep. If the media tracked down the story of the Olympic gold medalist helping his wheelchair-bound brother to learn to ski again they would make the most of it. Once again Kristján would be the hero, Arni in his shadow. “The press won’t find out,” he said.

  “Oh, no? They follow you everywhere.” Arni snatched a magazine from the table by his chair and tossed it at Kristján. Kristján stared at the color photograph that took up most of the front page of the tabloid. It showed Stacy leaning from around Kristján, her hands at his waist, his hand protectively on her shoulder. American mystery woman latest conquest for Olympic playboy read the caption.

  Had Stacy seen this? Would she be upset that she was on display like this, or would she laugh it off now that she and Kristján really were lovers? He folded the paper and laid it back on the table. “We’ll leave before they know we’re gone,” he said. “The press won’t find us in Colorado the way they can here.”