Climbing High
Authors: Madelon Smid
Tags: #Romance, #Suspense, #mountain climbing, #Sensual
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Climbing High
by
Madelon Smid
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Climbing High
COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Madelon Smid
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Diana Carlile
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Crimson Rose Edition, 2013
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-162-5
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-163-2
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To the climbers of the world
and with special admiration for my daughter, René,
who shows me there is always a way to summit.
Acknowledgments
My gratitude to Smidly, my in-house techie, always needed.
My thanks to the members of the Prairie Quills writers group for their support.
My appreciation to Natascha Jaffa for making editing enjoyable.
Chapter One
She talked with her hands.
Jake Ingles caught the graceful sweep of her arm in his peripheral vision, then, drawn by that action, turned his head to watch the ballet of her fingers. The two men and three women seated around the table all broke into laughter, gaiety lighting their faces.
But he had eyes only for her.
He lounged at a table made tipsy by the cobblestone floor of an outdoor café, enjoying an espresso and reading the sports section of
Global Mail
on his mobile phone.
Dressed in her leafy spring best, Paris blew a flirtatious breath over him, but failed to attract his interest. He turned his chair from the sunny boulevard to give him a better view of the table behind and to the side, where she held her audience enthralled.
The screech of metal scraping on stone caught her attention. She looked over. Her eyes widened.
He made a production of widening his in turn.
Her shimmering gold stare collided with his intent perusal. For seconds, they shared the amused awareness of people used to being noticed. His lips quirked, hers pressed back a smile.
Her attention returned to her friends. Again her hands swept out in a circle, then paused while she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Hair to dream of, a waterfall of antique gold, curls escaping like rivulets from a braid thicker than his wrist. He stroked the polished granite of the table, imagining the silken length gliding through his fingers. Her expression changed with each movement of her hands. He took inventory, noting the small straight nose set between high cheekbones beneath a wide forehead. He could find no fault with a mouth crafted for kissing, one that led to an intriguing cleft in her squared off chin. Her skin had the poreless quality of a Victorian aristocrat. Her bottom lip puffed out and he looked up to find her arms crossed while her eyes mocked his rudeness.
Direct hit
. He felt sucker punched by the impact of eyes the tawny gold of aged champagne. In retaliation, he allowed her a peek past the camouflage of social niceties to the hungry male predator prowling along the edge of her territory. Her heated blood lay an apricot stain across her cheeks, but her gaze never left his until he dropped the curtain on his play and directed polite inquiry at her again. She switched her attention to the young man on her left.
None too soon
. Swiveling his hips under the small table, Jake reached for his mobile phone flummoxed by the erection that jerked upright, resisting the confines of his tailored slacks.
What the hell?
Down, you beggar. Armani didn’t design these pants to include you.
He glanced at the time setting on the screen and took a last quick sip of his coffee. He had a meeting at the Canadian Embassy back to back with another with the Foret & Overtte Financial Institution and just enough time to get to the first, but he found himself loitering. He signaled for the waiter and pulled some euros from his wallet. All the while he stayed tuned to the woman, fascinated as her husky tones sculpted rapid French into a language he could listen to all day.
The others with her began gathering their things. Kissing each other European style on both cheeks, they dispersed across the café pavers with cheery waves. The small patio emptied save for him, the woman and the waiter.
She too signaled the waiter.
Jake expected her to pay the bill and leave. Instead, she ordered another café au lait with several graceful movements of her hand. The young waiter flashed a wide smile and hurried into the café, while she crossed her legs on the chair lotus style, arranging herself like a boneless Siamese cat napping in the sun. Her suppleness made him think of the sinuous weaving of naked bodies.
His belly tightened, his erection insisting on an introduction. A lop-sided smile followed his husky chuckle. Even as a pubescent orphan, he’d never lacked the confidence to ask a woman out. So what if she looked like a Botticelli angel? He’d been with many beautiful women.
I don’t need this
, he persuaded himself, refusing to define “this.”
She shifted her belongings from the floor beside her to an empty chair and he saw the climbing gear. An in! He couldn’t believe how elated he felt. His thumbs flew as he sent a text message, tucked his mobile phone into his slacks pocket, and stood. Finchley, his stalwart E.A., would pucker up like a prune when she got that message, but she’d deliver. After nine years together she seemed like an older sister, nagging, judgmental, but one who’d always have his back.
The waiter zipped past him, carrying a steaming cup on a tray. He threaded the maze of wrought iron tables and chairs, his eyes locked on his beautiful customer.
Jake dropped his paper in the recycle bin by the café entrance. He rocked on his heels and perused the menu posted under glass by the door, waiting for the young man to serve the woman and leave. He looked over in time to see the waiter’s highly polished Oxford hit a raised flagstone. The waiter lunged forward, working desperately to get his feet under him again.
Time froze.
The tray tipped and foaming liquid sprayed in a trajectory straight for her. Dread tightened Jake’s chest. He leapt forward, knowing he would be too late. With her feet up on the chair she had no chance to jump out of the way, but she slid to the side, minimizing the damage. The scalding liquid poured onto her bare arm, spattered onto the table and streamed downward over the side of her leg.
The waiter regained his balance and started a rapid and voluble apology. She smiled, actually smiled at the fool, and let him continue, while she swiped a napkin over her arm.
Jake pushed past the waiter, his handkerchief already in his hand and used it to scoop ice from her water glass. A red stain brightened her arm. Her steaming khaki cargo pants stuck to her thigh, continuing to burn her skin. He yanked the table away with one hand and settled the sopping cold hankie onto her leg. “
De la glace, vitement
,” he ordered the waiter.
The man seemed incapable of acting.
“
Burdett, amenez, s’il vous plaît
.” She spoke to the agitated waiter in a soothing tone.
He rushed off.
Jake looked across the street and, with a shake of his head, sent his security guard back to his chair in the opposite café. He looked back to see the woman had followed his example, soaking her napkin in the glass of water and pressing it to the line of inflamed flesh tracking the length of her slender arm. She winced, biting down hard on her lower lip.
Jake soaked his hankie again and pressed it back onto her leg, being sure to cover everywhere the coffee darkened her pants.
“Thank you, for reacting so quickly. My skin appreciates it,” she joked in English, though her dilated pupils indicated shock. Either his accent had given him away, or she’d reverted to her native language during the calamity.
He admired her effort to lighten the mood. Grabbing a used napkin from another setting, he wet it and held it hovering above her breast. “I think we just need to get some water on your”—he delighted in her instant scowl—“wet shirt.”
He dropped the sodden napkin onto the wide stain. He couldn’t decide which he enjoyed more, her shocked gasp or the sight of her nipple hardening beneath the cold fluid. “That should take the heat out of it.”
He kept his expression and tone deadpan, at the same time letting his eyes reflect his awareness. Her own smiled back while her face remained solemn and too damn white.
Jake lifted the napkin from her arm, poured the last of the water from the glass on to it and gently pressed it to her reddened flesh. She hissed then clasped her hands beneath her rib cage.
Jake’s hands fisted. His chest felt tight. He fought the instinct to grab clumsy Burdett and shake him for his carelessness. One look at the man’s pale sweating face helped him to gain control. The young guy’s suffering almost equaled his victim’s. With an excess of apologies in French, Burdett set an ice bucket and clean tea towels on the table and stepped back.
Jake packed a towel with crushed ice and lay it along her thigh, then a second towel to replace the sopping cloth on her arm. He held it gently in place. “
D’eau mademoiselle.”
He tilted his head to send Burdett back to the kitchen, then went down on his haunches to look her in the eyes. “How bad is this? Should we call for paramedics, get you to a hospital?”
Her plush lips tilted up. “I think not so bad. The surprise, it hit me worse. They’re just first, maybe a bit of second-degree burns, and you did exactly the right thing to help me. I’ll use the first aid kit in my backpack and find a change of clothes.” She leaned over to reach it and stifled a small moan as the wet cotton pants pulled across her leg.
“Let me,” he said, laying the towel on the table. He dragged over the dry table beside her, lifting the backpack onto it. “Which pocket?”
“Second in the front,” she said through gritted teeth, shifting to help.
“Stay put,” Jake suggested. “I can handle this.” He pulled out the travel size first aid kit. “Good company,” he approved, unlatching the kit. “You’ll have some antibiotic cream in here. Let’s get this dried off first.”
He picked up another clean tea towel and, with the lightest touch possible, dabbed the length of her arm. He cursed the callouses on his fingers with each careful stroke of the salve onto her silken skin. She froze in place. Even her breathing stopped.
Pain? Fear? Awareness?
Jake’s fingers hovered above her skin, before retreating. He found a pair of cotton jogging pants and a matching hoodie in the main part of the backpack. “Maybe you would like to go to the restroom and change into these? You could put some ointment on your leg and your…other burns.” His gaze danced from the transparent cotton on her thigh to the clinging fabric over her breast. She’d puckered up like a schoolmarm.
His mouth twitched at her reaction. “Do you need dry underwear?” He tried to sound normal, but the thought of pulling something silken and small out and handing it to her roughened his breathing.
“Not necessary.” Her eyes laughed at him.
Glass clacked against metal. Saved by the waiter, Jake smiled in relief. “How about taking a pain killer? I see you have some in here.”
He handed her the analgesic and the water. “If you wait a few minutes before moving, it will help control the pain while you change.”
She swallowed the pill and sat back.
Delicate lids lowered over golden eyes while she took slow, deep breaths. The tension left her face. The sculpted outline of her lips relaxed. Was she aware that every movement, every nuance of her expression fascinated him? Enthralled and irritated by it, he took two long strides and turned to deal with Burdett, who stood literally wringing his hands a few paces away.
“
Elle est bien
,” Jake said. He gave the guy’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“C’est correct.”
Brown eyes, eloquent with puppy dog worship gazed back at him.