Reckless Engagement. Daphne Clair
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cheeks. She raised her eyes to the mountain top, and found herself speculating on what drove men like Zachary Ballantine. Going up with the object of skiing down again with the wind in her face and the snow sliding away beneath her skis was one thing. Climbing laboriously over sheer rock faces and across treacherous ice fields and skirting hidden crevasses with the sole aim of reaching the top was another, totally alien concept.
Her first skiing lesson had been during a photo shoot for a travel magazine. She’d been playing the part of a beginner—and played it convincingly because she was. Later she’d paid for more lessons, partly because she’d found it enjoyable and a challenge, and partly because she figured it might be a useful skill to add to her portfolio, just as it was handy to be able to sit on a horse without falling off. It had paid off. She’d gained a couple of assignments modelling winter sportswear on the strength of her ability to provide genuine action shots on skis.
The chairlift deposited her at the intermediate slope, a level at which she was quite confident now.
The snow was already crisscrossed with the marks of those who had gone before her. As she adjusted her goggles and took off, someone far below in a red jacket wavered, fell and landed in a flurry of snow, then picked themselves up again. The snow swished under her skis as she gathered momentum, her knees bent, her body perfectly balanced, the stretchy fabric of her bright pink body-hugging ski pants allowing her freedom of movement.
By the time she’d made the run a few times she was exhilarated. She’d taken a tumble once but had landed unhurt and untangled herself to complete the course with ease. The rest of the time she’d skied smoothly and well.
On her last run of the day down the milky incline, she saw a blur of dark blue and bright yellow to one side as another skier swooped past.
A man, slim-hipped, broad-shouldered, and skiing with such speed and grace that she couldn’t help but admire his style. Surely he belonged on the uppermost slopes where the real experts hung out.
When she reached the end of the run she found herself looking around for him, but there was no blue and yellow ski suit in sight. She caught a bus back to the hotel and had an early meal and a leisurely hot soak, gave her skin a thorough moisturising treatment to combat the effects of sun and wind, and retired to her bed with a book, later slipping into a dreamless sleep.
The next day she decided to go to the third level and think about testing herself out on it. If the run looked too difficult on close inspection she could ride down again to the familiar, less difficult slopes.
The summit appeared much nearer from where the chairlift left her this time. Today no cloud obscured the peak, and there was no sign of its recent volcanic activity. It looked remote and beautiful and unattainable. She remembered that in Maori legend the mountain was a woman, squabbled over by her jealous lovers, the other mountains nearby. One, Taranaki, had retired in dudgeon to the coast and now reigned there in splendid isolation. His rival Tongariro remained nearby, occasionally huffing and puffing his displeasure in clouds of volcanic steam.
Katrien watched a couple of skiers take off and gather speed while she stood by, still a little uncertain.
Deciding to have a cup of coffee first, she turned away from the ski field to the nearby café, leaving her skis with all the others leaning against the building before going in.
She was sipping coffee and contemplating the ski run when she heard the voice. ‘Thanks a lot.’
That was all, but it brought her head whipping round, in time to see the back of a blue-and-yellow-clad figure disappear through the doorway. Tall, dark-haired.
No, she told herself. You’re imagining things.
But she had hastily clattered her half-finished cup of coffee back into its saucer and was on her way to the door before she even realised what she was doing.
She’d look silly retracing her steps, so she kept walking out onto the deck.
He was bent over, doing up the buckles on his boots. She watched fatalistically until he’d straightened. And then he looked up and saw her.
‘Mr Ballantine,’ she said.
His surprise showed only in a faint lifting of his brows, an even fainter glint of light in his eyes. ‘Hello,’ he said, ‘…Katie.’
‘It’s Katrien,’ she told him. ‘Katrien Cromwell.’
He nodded. ‘Katrien.’ The name left his tongue like a caress, giving the ‘r’ a slight burr so that it sounded exotic and foreign.
‘I saw you yesterday,’ she told him, ‘on the intermediate slope, but you seemed too good to be on that level.’
‘I did a cross-country run yesterday, then made my way down the mountain.’
‘I guess you have a lot of experience.’
Something changed in his eyes. He looked at her, standing there in her pink ski suit, her hair loose about her shoulders since she’d pulled off her hat when she entered the café. ‘Some. How about you?’ he asked.
Katrien wrenched her eyes from his and looked down the slope. ‘I came up here today thinking I might try this run but…I’m not sure I’m quite brave enough.’
‘Is your fiancé with you?’
She had to look back at him then. ‘He wasn’t able to get away. And anyway, he doesn’t ski.’
His mouth tilted up at one corner and he gave a brief nod. ‘I see.’ There was a small silence. ‘If you like, I’ll go down with you.’
‘I wouldn’t like to hold you up. I don’t suppose you want to spend your time nursing along a bunny skier.’
‘You’re no bunny,’ he argued. ‘You looked pretty competent yesterday.’ At her surprised look, he added, ‘I recognise the…outfit.’ He cast a glance over the figure-hugging stretch pants and the fleecy-lined shirt under her open jacket. ‘So…shall we go?’
It was a challenge, pure and simple. He waited for her to make up her mind whether to accept it, or to walk away and return to the less exciting lower slopes.
She stepped onto the snow and retrieved her skis.
The sound of their skis gliding on the slick white surface was like tearing silk. Katrien’s hair streamed behind her, the momentum of her downhill flight dragging it back from her face. She had left the café in such a hurry she’d forgotten to retrieve her woollen hat.
Zachary was a blur of blue and yellow at her peripheral vision, a couple of times swooping away in a half loop, then coming back to stay at her side, moderating his speed to hers.
‘Okay?’ he shouted at her once, and she risked a look at his face, saw his white smile, and smiled back.
‘Okay!’
When they reached the end of the run she fluffed the stop and ended up in a jumbled heap, laughing.
Zachary offered a gloved hand and helped her up. ‘How was it?’
‘Wonderful!’ She brushed snow from her arms and body, and he reached out to flick away flakes of white from her hair.
His hand touched her cheek, and even though he still wore gloves, she felt a tingling awareness that stopped her smile and made her veil her eyes with her lashes. A flash of unease assailed her, and she tried to step away, forgetting she was wearing skis.
She would have toppled again if he hadn’t caught at her arms. ‘Steady.’
‘Thanks.’ She was breathless, not only from the run. ‘And thanks for bringing me down. I might have chickened out otherwise.’
‘I don’t think so.’
She glanced up and into his eyes, uncertain what it was she read there.
Then he looked away up the slope and said, ‘Want to try again?’
Why