Baby, It's Cold Outside (18 page)

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 darkness 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.

K
RISTJÁN 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.

S
TACY 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.

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.

K
RISTJÁN FOUND
A
RNI
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 his 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.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Arni said. “It isn’t for me.”

“You were never a coward before,” Kristján said.

“Who are you calling a coward?” Arni’s gaze burned into him.

“You just admitted you’re afraid of what other people
think of you.” Kristján grasped the arms of the wheelchair and leaned down, his face inches from his brother’s. “Why do you give a damn about what anyone else thinks? What do
you
want?”

“I…want to be able to ski again. To race.”

“Then don’t pass up this opportunity.”

The lines around Arni’s eyes deepened. “What if it’s too late? It’s been so long…”

“You won’t know if you don’t try.”

“And you’ll be there with me?”

Kristján’s throat tightened as he recognized the anxiety behind Arni’s plea. Arni really did want Kristján with him now. They would be a team again, facing this together. “I’ll stay until you ask me to leave,” he said. Not even then, if he didn’t think Arni meant it.

“I won’t ask you to leave.” Arni gripped Kristján’s hand. “I can’t do this without you. Watching you all these years doing the things I wanted to do—it’s kept me going. Maybe for the wrong reasons sometimes, but it got me through some tough times.”

“We’ll get through this together, too.”

“Yeah.” Arni blinked rapidly, his eyes shiny. “Yeah, we will.”