Baby, It's Cold Outside (17 page)

When they were children, Kristján had idolized his older brother. Arni had been the fastest, the smartest, the most handsome boy in their neighborhood. Early on, he’d been lauded as one of the best young Icelandic skiers, and had been groomed as a future Olympian. Kristján, not as gifted, had been accepted as part of the team because his brother was there, but Arni drew the lion’s share of attention, winning more races, receiving more praise. Kristján was proud of his brother, and was never happier than once when Arni had won a gold medal at a junior competition, and Kristján had claimed the silver.

He still had that photograph somewhere: two young
teenagers in ski gear, heads close together, medals held aloft. At the time, Kristján had thought it would always be that way, the two of them together, a team that couldn’t be beaten.

Then the accident had happened, when Arni was seventeen, Kristján fifteen. Not a skiing accident, as everyone might have expected, but an automobile accident. A car in which Arni was riding plunged off a cliff. The driver, a boy from their neighborhood, was killed, while Arni’s spine was crushed. He lived, but he would never race again.

Now he had to sit on the sidelines and cheer as Kristján won the medals. He had to build a different kind of life than the one he’d planned.

For a long time Kristján had believed he could help his brother. He could allow Arni to live vicariously through him. Even at the Olympics, he had tried to share the experience with his brother, telling Arni that he was racing for both of them. When he’d presented his medal to his brother, they had both wept, and Kristján had told himself it was enough.

But now he saw it would never be enough. He could not erase Arni’s bitterness and anger over what had happened to him. All his love and goodwill would never make up for the accident and the end of Arni’s dreams. Kristján had to stop trying to live for his brother. He had to start living for himself.

A
SECLUDED SECTION OF
the pools had been roped off for the photo shoot late that afternoon, closed to the public, including nosy photographers like Lang Kerr. Stacy had seen no sign of the annoying little man, but she was glad the Tourism Commission had arranged for them to have this privacy.

The orange and gold light of sunset tinted the mists rising from the pools, deepening the blue of the opalescent water. Stefan first shot Kristján and the female models at the edge of the water, posed among the black lava formations. Next, he stood them in water to their waists. Finally, he had them immerse themselves in the water and clicked off a series of shots as they rose, water streaming from their bodies, a god and goddesses rising from the sea.

“Now I know why Jóna didn’t want to watch. All that heat and salt water is ruining her expensive creations.”

Stacy turned and was startled to see a handsome young man in a wheelchair rolling toward her. There was something very familiar about the man, though she would have sworn they’d never met. “I’m Arni Gunnarson.” He offered his hand and she shook it, trying hard not to show her surprise at this unexpected meeting.

“I’m Stacy Bristol,” she said.

“I know. Kristján and Jóna have both mentioned you.”

And what did Kristján have to say about me?
she wondered. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said. “I’m glad you were able to join your brother and sister at this beautiful place.”

“They didn’t tell you about the wheelchair, did they?” Arni’s tone of voice told her he’d correctly read her surprised expression. “They always leave out that little detail, as if maybe no one will notice.”

She didn’t know how to respond to this, so she remained silent.

Stefan directed Kristján to raise his hands over his head, as if reaching to pluck the dying sun from the sky, while the women draped themselves on either side.

“Kristján’s done a lot of crazy things in his life, but this has to be the craziest,” Arni said.

Stacy stiffened at this implied criticism of Kristján. “I believe your sister talked him into modeling as a favor to her,” she said. “He’s actually very good.” Modeling required more than outstanding looks. It required patience, a willingness to follow directions and most of all, a presence in front of the camera. Kristján had all of those, and a knack for looking past the camera lens, as if confronting the viewer herself.

“Jóna worries Kristján has become a lazy playboy who will only get into trouble,” Arni said. “I told her not to worry. As soon as the next racing season begins he’ll be too busy to get into trouble.”

“I thought he was giving up racing.”

Arni shook his head. “He says that now, but I know
him. Skiing is in his blood. Besides, what else can he do? He doesn’t have any other talents or education.”

Stacy could think of a few talents Kristján had demonstrated, though she supposed a killer smile and great kissing technique weren’t in demand in the job market. Still, she thought Arni underestimated his younger brother—and was that a touch of jealousy she detected? “Jóna tells me you’re a computer draftsman,” she said.

“I won an industry award for my designs last year. But I can’t take any special credit. Design comes naturally for me.”

“You’re too modest, I’m sure.” She might have said more, but she was distracted by the sight of a soaked Kristján peeling a wet sweater off his torso, revealing rippling abs and a sculpted chest. He was pure male perfection. Even the models, who were used to seeing exceptional men, stopped to stare.

Kristján seemed oblivious, ducking himself beneath the surface and rising up, raking his hair back, water cascading through his fingers.

“You should have seen him as a kid,” Arni said. “He was so skinny the other racers called him toothpick. Of course, being a lightweight is a handicap in racing. Heavier racers have gravity in their favor. No one who knew him then ever expected him to have the success he’s had.”

“Some people have to grow into their talent, I suppose.” She appreciated the glimpse of Kristján as an awkward youth—it made the man he was now less intimidating, though she was sure that wasn’t Arni’s intention.

Like Kristján, Arni was handsome and charming. But his charm had a hard edge to it that made her uncomfortable. She turned to him. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Gunnarson,” she said. “I really need to confer with my photographer now.”

“Don’t let me keep you.” He flashed a smile, showing off gleaming teeth. “Maybe I can buy you a drink later.”

“Thank you.” She hurried away, after the retreating figure of Stefan.

But before she could catch up with Stefan, Kristján approached. He was still shirtless, the wet denim of his soaked jeans clinging to his muscular thighs like a second skin. “I need to talk to you,” he said.

“I really have to speak with Stefan,” she protested.

“Then later. I’m having dinner with my family, but can you meet me here about eight o’clock?”

“Here? At the pools?”

“Why not? The pools are very relaxing at night. The darkness and mist—very sexy.”

The last thing she needed was to be alone in the dark with this man she found so difficult to resist. But as the days passed she was finding it more and more difficult to justify her resistance. So he wasn’t a man she could spend the rest of her life with. Did that mean it was wrong for her to enjoy a few moments of pleasure with him? Would leaving him later really hurt as much as denying herself now?

“All right,” she said. “I’ll meet you at eight. But I really do have to go now.”

“I’ll look forward to it. And, Stacy?”

“Yes?”

“You don’t have anything to be afraid of from me.”

She started to argue that she knew that. But she merely shook her head and moved on. Of all the emotions she experienced when she was with Kristján, fear did not figure into the picture. Maybe a little uneasiness about the changes a man like him could bring to her life, but that wasn’t the same as fear. She was cautious, but she certainly wasn’t a coward.

A
T ONE TIME, THE POOLS
of the Blue Lagoon had been as familiar to Kristján as the rooms in the house he’d grown up in. The summer after Arni’s accident, the brothers had spent weeks here, Kristján pushing Arni’s chair along the boardwalk, helping him in and out of the water, and trying in every way possible to ease his brother’s suffering and assuage his own guilt. Arni hadn’t yet decided to blame Kristján for his troubles and those weeks here had drawn them even closer. Did Arni even remember that now?

Arni was the gifted brother, the Olympic hopeful who was supposed to be Iceland’s first medalist. He was supposed to shine while Kristján remained content in his shadow.

But Kristján wasn’t content. That was his ugly secret and the source of his guilt. The life he lived now was Arni’s dream, and a constant source of friction between the brothers.

“Kristján, is that you?” Stacy’s voice, soft and questioning, interrupted his thoughts.

“I’m here,” he said, and held his hand out to her.

She ignored the gesture and lowered herself into the pool beside him. “How was dinner?” she asked.

Dinner had been uncomfortable—Arni communicating in terse sentences only when necessary and Jóna trying to keep the conversation light. “Jóna was in a good mood. She’s delighted with your ideas for advertising her sweaters.”

“Your brother doesn’t seem very happy.”

“Arni has his moods.”

“Is he in pain?”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t talk about it.”

He took a step toward her and she deftly moved away. “Why did you want to see me?” she asked.

“First, tell me what my brother said to you this afternoon.”

“He didn’t say anything in particular. He was just making conversation.”

Maybe Arni saved his bitterness for Kristján. Certainly Arni was capable of being most charming, especially to beautiful women. “Did he flirt with you?”

“Why? Are you jealous?”

“Yes.”

His honesty seemed to surprise her. She looked away.

Kristján decided it was time to change the subject. “The moon is almost full tonight,” he said, looking up at the pale orb that flooded the pools with silvery light.

“It’s beautiful.” Water lapped against him as she moved closer. “What is wrong with Arni?” she asked. “Why is he in a wheelchair?”

“He was thrown from a car in which he was a passenger when he was seventeen.” All their lives had changed that summer. “He had just made the Olympic ski team. People were already talking of him winning a medal for Iceland.”

“How awful for him. And for you.”

That she would see his suffering in this touched him. “He can’t forgive that I can still ski and he can’t.”

“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.”

S
TACY FOLLOWED
K
RISTJÁN
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.