by Lia Riley
“Frowny face?”
“Yes, that one.” I wag my finger. “There it comes again.”
“I’m not good with people,” he says, resigned. “They don’t like me.” His brow creases. “My disposition is…”
“Not awesome?” I shrug with exaggerated wide-eyed innocence.
He doesn’t notice, or more likely ignores, my attempt at sarcasm. “Mum says I can be unbearable.” Despite his sullenness, the loneliness in his eyes beckons me. I don’t buy what he says, about preferring solitude, for a second. He hasn’t run away from the world to be alone, but because he feels he has no other option. “My brother, Cameron, he… Well, some people bring light, you ken? And others… don’t.” He glances at the ceiling, growing still. “Hear that?”
“No. Nothing.” Except for the uncertain judder of my heart, silence reigns supreme.
“Exactly. The storm’s over,” he says abruptly, and in a flash he’s unzipped the tent and crawled outside.
My tongue still tingles from the whiskey, and the rest of me tingles from a confusing confluence, desire and annoyance fighting for supremacy. I take a deep breath, close my eyes and listen, assess my body—still a slight catch on the exhalation, but nothing to fret about. I take a few puffs off my inhaler and glance around. For the first time since climbing into Rhys’s tent, I’m alone.
Is there a wayward clue lying about to help define the person with whom I’ve just spent the strangest night of my life? Not really. Hints are few and far between. There’s his book, the ever-cheerful Heart of Darkness. A pair of black-framed, polarized sunglasses. A red toothbrush with half the handle sawn off. A GoPro camera thingy that can mount on helmets and record live-action footage.
Nothing that gives me the secret of him.
Rhys pops his head back in. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Hungry?”
My belly rumbles as soon as he asks the question. I forgot dinner last night, and after such a big day yesterday, my body is not-so-subtly reminding me of the fact. “Starving.”
“Don’t suppose you’d want a hot breakfast.”
“Actually, that sounds amazing, thank you.”
I exit the tent and wobble into my mud-caked boots, noticing the view for the first time. “Whoa.” My arms drop to my sides, and I’m pretty sure my jaw ends up somewhere near my knees.
He gives me a knowing look. “Didn’t have a chance to see much of the surrounds last night, eh?”
“Not a thing.” We’re standing in a large amphitheater. Clouds cling to the highest peaks in a thin, translucent veil. I grew up in the mountains—they are my de facto scenery—but never have I experienced such a raw landscape firsthand. There is a different rhythm here, a greater force at work. A twisted old tree on the rise above us is scorched with a thin black line. Danger came close last night. A little too close for comfort. This hike isn’t a simple walk in the woods. Civilization is far away, and the surrounding country is undeniably wild. It’s impossible to restrain a shiver at the idea of continuing alone.
“The place stirs the blood, aye?”
“Yeah,” I say, becoming aware of his proximity. If I move my arm a centimeter—two max—I’ll graze his wrist. Heat licks between my legs. I’m, ahem, stirred in more ways than one. “So.” I clap my hands and step to a safer distance. “What’s for breakfast?”
“Porridge.” He saunters to a flat rock where the camp stove is lit, checks the pot, his wide stance allowing his pants to hug the firm outline of his ass.
“Porridge?” I wrinkle my nose even as I lick my lower lip. Look away. That ass is not on the menu. Neither is bacon, eggs, and toast, but hey, a girl can dream a little.
“Don’t sound too excited.”
“There’s trail mix in my bag. I might just stick with that.” Why did I think of eggs? Now Denver omelets dance through my head, hand in hand with banana bread French toast and Rhys doused in maple syrup. He’s not the friendliest sort, but there is something about him that’s making me hungrier for more than breakfast.
“Nuts and raisins won’t warm you up.” He idly scratches beneath his navel, revealing a tantalizing view of a sharply defined V-line muscle. Two veins run over the top, disappearing into the waistband of black boxer briefs.
I volunteer as tribute to discover their end point.
“Trust me,” he says. “I make it good.”
Oh, I bet you do. Time to dig my sunglasses from my vest pocket and shove them on before it’s all too obvious that my mind is floating down the gutter. I never had thoughts like that about Brett, ever. In hindsight, maybe that was a big huge warning sign, or is horndogness a side effect of being on the rebound?
I clear my throat. “Is there a wrong way to cook porridge? I mean, how hard can it be to boil oats?”
He makes a derisive noise. “There are more wrong ways than right ones.”
“OK.” I screw up my nose.
“It’s the backbone of many a sturdy Scot. Mum raised me on the stuff.”
Guess it does a body good.
He grabs a bag and sniffs inside. “Ah, love that smell.”
I cough into my fist. “Weirdo.”
“You can eat ’em raw, too, but it’s parching.”
“Boil ’em up, Scotty.”
He gives me a weird look.
Awesome. Way to whip out the random sci-fi references. “Star Trek?” I mumble. “Scotty is Scottish and, er, never mind. I’ve got to take a quick walk.” I need to use the bathroom, but declaring an intention to pee seems too intimate. But I need to. Badly.
“Don’t wander far,” he says, shaking his head. “This will cook up quick.”
I check to make sure my boots are laced up properly and to hide the fact I’m blushing yet again. He’s going to think I have a blood pressure problem. “OK, I’ll be back soon.”
I meander through the trees, scouting for a well-hidden spot to relieve myself. A hollow behind a tree has decent privacy and a distinct lack of mud. I undo my pants and crouch.
I’m finishing when a furtive scuffle and low woof sends me leaping to my feet. “What the hell?”
A snout pokes through the bush, and I scream, turning and tearing in the direction I came. Branches scratch my face. There’s a sting. I swipe, and a streak of blood spreads over my palm.
I stumble around a boulder and slam straight into another rock, this one of a warm, human variety.
“What happened?” Rhys braces my shoulders. “You screamed.”
My hastily hiked pants drop to my ankles.
He glances down, eyes twinkling. “Last night didn’t seem quite the time to mention it, but those are quite the knickers.”
“A gentleman wouldn’t have looked.” I tug my pants back up, this time fastening the button.
“I’m no’ a gentleman, love.” A gleam highlights the yellow in his irises, giving him a wild, predatory edge. In another blink it’s gone, back to business. “Now, what scared you so?”
“A wolf. There’s a freaking wolf in the bushes.”
He gives a dismissive shake of the head. “There aren’t any wolves left in these mountains.”
I thrust back my shoulders. Who made him a wildlife biology expert? “There’s one back there in the bushes that disagrees with you.”
“That was a fox,” he says with a tone of finality. “One hunts in this area. Did it happen to have a black band of fur over its eyes?”
“Yeah.” My shoulders deflate a little. Guess he does have the upper hand here.
“Zorro.”
“You named him?” I didn’t take Rhys as the kind of guy who befriends woodland animals, but the idea has a certain appeal.
“He’s friendly enough.” And then he traces my cheekbone.
What the what?
My stomach flip-flops as his finger travels the branch scratch from my frantic forest run. I lean in to him, not much, just a fraction, and he moves like I’ve burned him.
For a moment we stand here, both breathi
ng a little too fast. Goose bumps pepper the base of my neck.
“If you’ve had enough excitement, are you prepared to experience the finest porridge this side of the Atlantic?” He abruptly turns away, walking briskly in the direction of camp, apparently assuming I’ll follow, which I do, albeit with a sigh. My body aches for more of his touch, and face it, that’s not going to happen.
He has a graceful, unconscious way of navigating loose rock and uneven terrain. I’m a water buffalo in comparison, tripping and stomping in the rear. With the sun out, I’m clear to leave after breakfast, but the whole point of this little expedition is to profile climbers and Mr. Scottish Congeniality Runner-Up here could be the perfect guinea pig.
“Hey,” I say, dialing my brightest smile. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
He seems impervious to my charms. “Depends.”
Play it cool. Don’t blow the shot. “So… um, sticking my journalistic hat on for a second. I’m doing this story on La Aguja, a series of climber character profiles.”
His gaze flies to my face. “Go on.”
Whoa, what crawled up his butt? “I want to learn more about why people have come to face off with the mountain, whether it’s to reach the summit or if there’s more at stake.” Great. I’m officially rambling.
His lids narrow to slits. “The legend, you mean?”
“Yes, uh, you know,” I stammer, unsure where his hostility is originating from. “The whole part about attaining your heart’s desire.”
“No.”
“That’s not why you are doing it?”
“I don’t talk to the press,” he says firmly. Is it my imagination, or is he paler? “Ever.”
“Oh.” I keep my shoulders from slumping, just. “Why?”
“Because.” Pain etches his features. We’re dancing close to the mysterious edge of what he’s able to bear.
I could ask a million more questions but bite my tongue. The less I speak, the more he seems to say. “OK, noted. My journalistic hat is coming off now. I’m packing it away. It’s just that I know next to nothing about climbing, so I wanted to pick your brain.”
He gives me another long look before dropping his shoulders. I’m not sure why, but I get the sense I passed some secret test. He keeps walking. “People dream of being the first to thread the needle, ken.”
“Excuse me?” His pace is faster now and hard to match.
“The rock is called The Needle.”
“Right, La Aguja. I speak Spanish.”
“At the top there’s a keyhole formation. It’s supposed to be easier for a man to enter heaven than to pass through the eye of the needle.” His smile is more than a little ghostly. “I’m no’ getting into heaven, so…”
“It sounds like a death wish.” Rhys is alive, strong, so vital. “I can’t fathom you risking your life for what amounts to a fleeting moment on top of a rock.”
His jaw tightens. “You don’t understand. This climb is important.”
“Why don’t you go with a team at least? Safety in numbers and all that jazz.”
“The legend’s clear on that point.” His gaze sweeps over my face, pausing not quite long enough to focus before turning to regard the empty sky. “It says if you stand on La Aguja’s summit alone, you’ll find the thing you most desire.”
“What do you hope waits there?”
But we’re back at camp, and he motions for me to take a seat on a sun-warmed rock. “My turn to ask the questions. What about you? What do you do?” He looks over, stirring the pot. “When not causing trouble, that is?”
I sit and rest my chin in my hand. “You’re excellent at evading.”
He focuses his attention on the spoon. Is it my imagination, or does his jaw set a little tighter? Hard to tell under the scruff.
“Fine. Never mind,” he mutters. “Sorry I bothered.”
“Hey, I was just kidding.” I anticipated a smart-ass retort, but his sudden retreat gives me whiplash.
“Should I be laughing?” he asks. His merino wool top fits him like a second skin as he flexes his back. I don’t have a clue what the muscles beneath his shoulder blades are called. I didn’t even know those particular ones existed.
“You’re confusing.” I make my hand teeter-totter. “Hot. Cold. Nice. Not so nice. Talkative. Silent.”
The muscles in his neck cord as if I’m tap-dancing across the last shred of his self-control. He’s got this wounded hangdog posture going on, like he expects to be kicked, so snarls, but really he wants a good bed and a scratch behind the ears.
I also might be going a little insane.
“You don’t scare me. I have a sister,” I say.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“In my case? It means I have experience fighting dirty.”
“Do you, now?” He faces me head-on, raises an eyebrow, and his tongue skims the corner of his mouth, a gesture that’s meant to look aggravating but is somehow appealing.
That’s him really, in a nutshell.
His tawny gaze drills through me as he reclines against the cooking rock, and a prickling awareness radiates through my spine. God, look at the way his forearm flexes as he grips the small hold.
I’m testing him, teasing like a thirteen-year-old with her first crush. It would be far more advisable to return my gaze to the surrounding mountains, but I can’t help ogling his obvious strength, or letting my thoughts explore what it would feel like to be gripped against all that hard male body.
He seems to sense the direction of my thoughts. “Get a good look?”
For once the burning in my lungs has nothing to do with asthma. He idly circles his thumb over a little nob of granite. The gesture is nothing in reality, but the inadvertently sexy motion is making me wet. What if I stand, step closer? There’s a part of me wondering that as much as I’m driving him crazy, his covert stares indicate perhaps I can use his hermitage to my advantage.
He’s clearly been alone for some time.
+
He’s a guy.
= There’s a decent chance he’ll go for me just out of sheer physical desperation.
My body suggests this demeaning fantasy is the best idea I’ve had since hiking into the national park. When else will I get another chance at this kind of opportunity? God, God, God. I wrap my hands around my knees.
He comes closer and squats. Every movement he makes is purposeful, deliberate.
I tip back and almost lose my balance, reach for his arm to steady myself.
His grins as my fingers lock onto his biceps, teeth white against his dark scruff. “Am I making you swoon, lass?”
Bark from the tree behind me prickles against my back. Shit. Nowhere to retreat.
He leans forward until only inches separate us.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I rasp, gripping him tighter.
“Fine.” He sounds smug, as if he’s scored a point in whatever strange game we are playing. “Like a taste?”
His mouth is wide and expressive, encircled by rough beard. He’d feel soft against me, but also coarse. My breath comes faster, a little ragged. I release my grip and touch the side of my cheek. “Taste?”
He brings a spoon from behind his back. “Of porridge.” He smirks at my obvious flustered state. “You’ve a filthy mind.”
“You bring it out in me.” I force myself to hold his gaze while opening my mouth. The porridge is hot, creamy. “Oh, wow. That’s actually delicious.”
“Told you.” He pops the spoon in his mouth, runs his tongue over the concave metal, the same place I just licked.
My heart thumps hard enough he can probably hear it. “Are we fighting or flirting?”
“Maybe a bit of both.” He stares at my mouth with scorching eyes. Holy shit. That’s an “I’m going to kiss you” look.
My entire body flashes hot. Do it. The urge hits me with something approaching violence. My brain is a dizzy fog. Do it. Do it. Do it. A shaft of light breaks from the clo
uds, hits my face, and I sneeze.
Gah—and just like that, the moment’s gone.
“You’ll have good weather for your hike out,” he says, standing, squinting at the sky.
So much for my powers of telepathy.
“Yes.” The sun warms my face, even as a frustrated coldness settles in my belly. I’m being ridiculous. Fighting, flirting, it might be a bit of fun. He seems to need some lighthearted distraction, and I certainly wouldn’t mind a little rebound action, but I’m first and foremost here to advance my career. And this thing sparking between us isn’t going to lead any further.
It’s certainly not foreplay.
10
RHYS
Auden scrapes the inside of the pot. “Oh no.” She peers down. “All gone!”
Watching this girl eat is a rare pleasure, not to mention a serious fucking turn-on. She takes each bite seriously, making these sexy, appreciative noises while her eyes are half-closed. It sounds like she’s having an orgasm in her mouth.
I swallow. Hard. “For someone who claims to despise porridge, you cleaned up.” It’s a wonder I manage to think; rational thought is all but impossible. Something restless roams within me¸ hungry and merciless.
“What can I say?” She gives a quick grin. “You made it just right.”
“Happy you enjoyed, Goldilocks.” I take the pan to wash up. Of all the girls to finally get a hard-on for, it’s a bloody novice journalist. Somewhere above the clouds, some snarky god is no doubt having a good laugh. “Sure you’re not Scottish?”
She shakes her head, licking her lips. “English and German, a hint of Norwegian.”
A muscle in my cheek tenses at that flash of pink tongue. “Maybe that’s the link. The Vikings settled in Scotland.”
“We could be long-lost relatives?”
“I hope not,” I mutter, more to myself than her.
She puzzles that a moment, and a blush creeps up her rounded cheeks before she tosses her head. “How do you know ‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears’ anyway? Isn’t that American?”
I chuckle hoarsely, and the unfamiliar sound surprises me. “You’re joking, yes?”
