Stevie Lee (16 page)

“Coffee’s ready!” he hollered up from the bottom of the stairs.

“Hah,” she whispered doubtfully, snuggling deeper into the bed.

“Come on, lady, get it in gear. I know you’re awake up there, and you’ve got exactly . . .” he paused, and Stevie groaned, knowing what to expect next—“fifty-three minutes and forty-two seconds. Forty-one. Forty. Thirty-nine.”

“All right, already,” she said softly, hanging one leg over the bed. At his count of twenty-two, she hung the other leg over. The man was relentless; he never gave up on her, and he always got what he wanted.

At ten seconds and counting, she decided to give him a break and called down, “I’m up. I’m up.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Okay, Attila,” she muttered under her breath, thrashing around in the covers until they released her. On leaden feet, she dragged herself to the top of the stairs. Grouchy, rumpled, and indignant, she peered down at him. “Satisfied?”

“Not when you look like that,” he said, his gaze taking a leisurely tour up the creamy length of her legs to the high-cut teddy wrapping her body in soft cotton and lace. Loose, white ribbons trailed down the front of the lingerie, tangling up in the unbound strands of her hair. Until he’d met Stevie, he hadn’t known such teasing concoctions existed, but with her he was making up for lost time. She had every color and style imaginable, and she wore them all with a sizzling, unconscious sensuality. No wonder she didn’t have anything but jeans, T-shirts, and sweaters to wear over them. The lady must have spent a fortune on her lingerie, and by his estimation she’d spent it wisely. Watching her, Hal felt the heat building in his loins. He felt every breath she took, every rise and fall of her breasts shoot right through him, and he started up the stairs.

The predatory gleam in his eyes did more to wake Stevie up than any amount of verbal coercion. A very feminine tremor of apprehension wound its way into her anticipation, adding a sharp edge to the feelings tumbling through her body.

“Hal”—she edged away from the stairs, even as a soft smile curved her lips—“I don’t think we have time for what you’re thinking.”

“Believe me, Stevie, what I’ve got in mind isn’t going to take long.” He kept on coming, one step at a time, an equally soft smile playing with the corners of his mouth. “You’ll be surprised.”

“Changing your style?” she inquired with a lift of one silky eyebrow.

“Just keeping you guessing.” Two steps below her, he slid his arm around her thigh and still kept coming, lifting her onto his shoulder.

“Hal!” she said with a gasp, and gasped again as his open mouth traced the edge of her teddy over the curve of her hip. His wet, gnawing kisses never stopped. They traveled up her body as he lowered her to the bed. They teased the tops of her breasts and the valley between. His fingers unlaced her ribbons, inch by inch, slipping the lingerie from her body. And when he had her breathless and bare beneath him, he slid out of his jeans and into her.

The gentle force of him caught at her desire, carrying her instantly into a higher plane of sensation. Hal’s head dropped to the curve of her neck as her tightening response drew a low groan from deep in his throat.

“Ah yes, Stevie, yes.” His mouth came down hard on hers, devouring the sweet depths in an act of passion to match the rhythm of their bodies.

A whirlwind of the purest physical pleasure spiraled up from their joining, pushing her over the brink into a mindless realm where the only thing she felt was the man on top of her, around her, inside of her.

Long, sweet moments later, he lifted his head and rubbed his nose down the side of hers. “I think we set a new record,” he whispered tenderly, kissing the side of her mouth.

Stevie’s lashes fluttered open, her body still pulsing with the aftermath of climax. “Mmm,” she agreed with her last ounce of energy, stretching languorously beneath him.

“I’ll race you to the shower.”

“You go ahead without me,” she murmured, her eyes closing again for the drift back into sleep.

It was a short drift. “No way, lady”—he rolled her over on top of him—“we’re up for good.”

“Five minutes,” she pleaded.

“I already gave you ten.” A teasing grin spread across his face.

He had her there, and with reluctance apparent in every move, she forced herself to her feet. “Okay, but I get the shower.”

“I’ll bring your coffee in,” he offered, bouncing up beside her.

“Thanks. That’ll be . . . uh . . . wonderful,” she said, but as he passed her, she privately cast her eyes toward the ceiling.

Hunched over the kitchen table, Stevie nursed her first cup of real coffee while Hal was in the shower. The steam rose around her face, rich and aromatic. The cup warmed both of her hands. Her chin was nestled into the turned up collar of her sweater, and with very little effort she was sliding back toward oblivion. Consciousness never came before the second cup of mud—unless, of course, someone named Halsey Morgan wanted to make love.

“You know, Stevie,”—he appeared in the doorway, his hair wet and tousled, her black kimono wrapped around him—“you can go around the world on six thousand dollars. And in certain circles, you can go around two times on that kind of money.”

“Great,” she murmured, travel being at the bottom of her priority list at the moment. They’d discussed Kip’s offer into the wee hours, Hal all gung ho and Stevie strangely reticent. She’d dreamed of a chance like the one Kip had given her, but now that she had it she was full of doubts. What would she do when the money was gone? What direction would her life take if she no longer had the Trail to run? Unlike Hal, she still had a mortgage and car payments. And for all her highflying dreams, she’d never actually stepped out of the borders of Colorado. The reality of leaving was a far sight different than sitting around flipping through books and travel brochures, and it scared her more than just a little bit.

“I’m serious,” he continued as he moved around the kitchen pouring coffee and starting breakfast. “Oatmeal or cream of wheat?”

“Wheat.”

“Peaches or pears?”

“Peaches.”

“And how many eggs in your omelet?”

Lord, Stevie thought, what that man wouldn’t eat. “I’ll pass, thank you.”

“I don’t know, Stevie. I’m talking a taco omelet. Your favorite. All the fixings, cooked to a golden sheen, light and fluffy.”

“One egg, no cereal,” she conceded, because he did have a way with omelets. Even his infamous taco omelets turned out better than hers. Actually, everything he cooked turned out better. He used a lot more spices and a few ingredients like brown rice, expensive tropical fruits, and chinese stuff that she’d never eaten, but his meals always tasted good. Compliments, he’d told her, of his months as a river guide/cook in the backcountry of Alaska.

“I don’t think I can make an omelet with one egg, won’t be enough wrapper for all the stuff.”

“Wing it.” She took a sip of coffee and wondered how to mix up another cup with instant added without offending him—her biggest problem this morning. Life was good, even if she didn’t know where it was all leading.

On his side of the kitchen Hal was having similar thoughts—about life, not food. Over the past couple of weeks he’d put a few feelers out around the world and had come up with a number of options. The Kioga brothers were putting together another assault of Dhaulagiri. They wouldn’t depart the States until next spring, but if he wanted a slot, he’d have to get in on the ground floor and pull his weight with fund-raising and organization. A few months ago he would have gone for it without a doubt. But now—he glanced over his shoulder at Stevie—now he wasn’t sure. He’d spent more hours of his life huddled in a snow cave or fighting his way up mountains than he’d spent loving her, and for all the magnetic pull of those high places, she pulled him harder.

Unlike most serious mountain climbers, he also had a reputation as a river runner, probably because he’d lived long enough to develop another interest. An offer had come in from George Jenkins for an attempt to float the Yangtze from its source. But Jenkins was an egomaniac, and Hal smelled doom and lots of bad karma around his latest scheme for immortality in the record books. And once again it meant leaving Stevie behind.

There still was Chauncey’s place in Australia, but when he’d offered Stevie the trip, he hadn’t planned on going with her; he hadn’t planned on becoming so attached to her. But Australia wasn’t one of his options; he knew he’d only be able to wrangle one plane ticket, Stevie’s ticket. She had more than fulfilled her end of their bargain. She’d given him a job, and as she’d predicted, he’d earned his tax money before the Fourth of July. Backing out on his end of the deal never crossed his mind. No, in another month, she’d be trekking across the outback, and he’d be . . . what?

The ringing of the phone interrupted both their thoughts. Stevie reached out and flipped the receiver off the wall, catching it neatly on the down fall. Even half-asleep, her bartending skills were in good working order.

“Hello.”

A long silence preceded the answer, then, sounding as if it came from the bottom of a deep well a voice said, “Person to person for a Mr. Halsey Morgan.”

“It’s for you,” she informed him with an impressed lift of her brow. “Person to person.”

Hal dried his hands on a dishtowel and threw it over his bare shoulder before taking the phone. “Halsey Morgan.”

While he waited for the connection, Stevie moved over to the coffeepot and her hidden jar of instant coffee, thankful for the distraction—and curious as hell.

“Lola?”

Lola?
She missed her cup with the second spoonful and her curiosity and her eyebrow shot up immediately.

“Slow down, honey. Take it easy. Start from the beginning.”

Honey?
He never called
her
honey. Her pang of jealousy was short-lived though. It faded as the grimness of his face increased.

“How long have they been missing? . . . Who else is up there? . . . Have you called Lars and Charlie? . . . Who’s organizing the search and rescue operation? . . . Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Stevie’s heart sank lower with each question he asked. Then it hit bottom. “Have a plane ticket waiting for me at the Denver airport. I’ll leave tonight. And Lola? Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll find your dad.” He listened for a moment longer. “Okay. With luck, I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.”

Stevie’s heart went beyond bottom. He was going to the other side of the earth. She’d always known he’d go, but not so soon, not that day.

With the receiver still tucked next to his ear and his finger on the disconnect lever, he glanced over at her. “Will you drive with me down to the airport?”

Silent and grief-stricken, she nodded.

He turned back to the phone and punched in the four digits of the local number. “Doug? . . . Hal. Stevie has to drive me to Denver today. Can you hold down the Trail? . . . Thanks. I’ll buy you a beer when I get back . . . I don’t know . . . Papua New Guinea . . . Yeah, it’s a long way. See you.”

Standing with her hands hanging at her sides, one of them clenched around a teaspoon, she waited for him to face her. When he did, she saw the lines of strain at the corners of his mouth, the tightness of his jaw, and the worry darkening his eyes—none of which came close to expressing the awful emptiness she felt.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Chauncey Keats has disappeared somewhere up the Waghi River. They found the rafts and pieces of equipment, but no bodies yet. That was his daughter Lola. She wants me to go in and try to find them.”

“Them?” Stevie clutched the counter behind her. The gentle morning she’d awakened to suddenly had been catapulted into a roller coaster of crisis. Friends of Hal’s were missing, maybe hurt, possibly dead, and that left no time for the two of them, no time at all.

“He was leading the expedition, which was made up of experienced river runners, except for the eighteen-year-old boy who hired them. He happens to be the son of a very wealthy man. The old man is footing the bill for the search and rescue operation, and he wants the best.” The inference was clear without being arrogant. When you were Halsey Morgan, you didn’t need arrogance to make your point, she realized.

“How long have they been missing?” A hundred other questions teased the tip of her tongue, such as
What’s going to happen to us? What will I do without you? Will you come back to me?
, but she didn’t have the courage to ask them.

“A week. They started helicopter reconnaissance four days ago, but they really need a team down on the river. Can you finish breakfast while I get dressed? Then we’ll go down to the cabin to pack. We have to stop somewhere before we get to the airport so I can pick up a few supplies.”

“I’m not . . . uh . . . that familiar with Denver. I don’t know where the big sporting goods stores are,” she confessed, feeling incredibly foolish. Here he was, jetting off to the edge of the earth in a few hours without a second thought, and she didn’t even know how to get around Denver,

“I don’t need a sporting goods store, Stevie,” he said with a quick smile. “A grocery store will do just fine.”

“Grocery store?”

“Yes. I want a case of granola bars, nine or ten bottles of mosquito dope, and cheese spread.”

“Cheese spread?” she repeated incredulously. What was going on?

“Maybe we’ll get some of those little cans of pudding.”

She stared at him for a long moment, confusion and concern narrowing her eyes and furrowing her brow. She started to say something then hesitated again, before finally getting up the nerve to ask. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” She wouldn’t even go on a three-day camping trip with cheese spread, pudding, and granola bars.

“First rule of the road, Stevie: Take your own treats. You can get the basics anywhere. Lola will have them ready by the time I get there. She provisions all her dad’s expeditions.”

Stevie bought his explanation, feeling as though she’d just learned something useful—until they got to his place and he started packing.

“That’s it?”

“Maybe another pair of socks,” he said, digging into the pile of clothes strewn across his bed.