Nobody's Business (Nobody Romances) (6 page)

A mogul? The skier's version of a speed bump? Forget wolf.
This woman was pure coyote. So why didn't any of the instructors chase her out of here? Set some kind of trap for her?

Well, if no one else would engage in this battle, he'd have to
take care of it himself. But first, he wanted to get up-to face
her on an even keel. Once again, he flipped to his left side, set
his skis across the incline, and slammed his pole into the
ground to support himself. He struggled, but managed to rise
with a little more ease than he had on his first attempt.

His gaze hot enough to melt all the snow within five square
miles, he faced his adversary. She was fiber-petite, a full foot
or more shorter than his own six-foot-three-inch frame. And he
outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds. Her face, from
the bridge of the nose up, was hidden behind a black helmet
and pink tinted goggles.

She grinned-blinding, sweet, joyous-and words flew
around his head like birds around the Cheshire cat.

"Congratulations, Mr. Sawyer. You've conquered the highest
peak you'll have to face-Mount Self-Pity. Now, go join your
comrades. Good luck to you."

Picking up her poles, she pushed off on the schuss-schussschuss of skis on flat terrain.

Surprise left him slackjawed. He stood alone, watching the
woman glide toward the lodge area. When she reached the outdoor deck, she stepped out of her skis, locked them on a rack,
and climbed the stairs.

"Doug?" Kerri-Sue's voice came from beside him. Somehow, she'd slipped close while he'd been distracted. "You ready
for another run?"

His focus, however, still remained glued to the place where
the mystery skier had disappeared. "Who was that?"

Kerri-Sue turned toward the lodge, then back to Doug with
a careless shrug. "Lyn? She's just one of the locals. Owns a
bed-and-breakfast in town."

He arched a brow. "And you take direction from the local
innkeeper?"

"Huh?" Her expression blanked.

"The minute she showed up and said something, you scattered. Why?"

She laughed. "Come on." With a wave of her ski pole, she
indicated the lift where a dozen people milled about. "The
rest of the team is waiting."

After fifteen years as a reporter, Doug knew a brush-off
when he heard one. Once again, a tingle rippled through him,
his sixth sense suspecting a deeper, more interesting story.
And once again, he squelched the instinct to press for details.
Those adrenaline-crazed days of chasing down leads-racing
from airport to airport, standing in feverish crowds where the
frenzy grew contagious-were long gone. Armless reporters
need not apply.

He shook off the self-pity. In that respect, the Coyote was
absolutely right. If he had any intention of regaining a shadow
of the man he'd been before Iraq, he needed to stop feeling sorry
for himself. His gaze studied the group near the lift.

Among the students sharing Doug's class was a female
lance corporal who'd lost both hands thanks to third-degree
burns from an IED. Her fiance had told her he didn't care if
she couldn't carry a bouquet at their wedding. He planned to marry her, not her hands. But that wasn't good enough for a
woman who'd climbed so high in the United States Marine
Corps before the age of twenty-three. With eight months until
her big day, she'd enrolled in Ski-Hab to master every skill
that came naturally to any two-handed woman, from holding
a bouquet to cooking a five-course meal to cradling an infant.

A nineteen-year-old had lost his right arm thanks to a lucky
shot that penetrated his body armor. Nineteen. Cripes. When
Doug was nineteen, the biggest tragedy facing him had been
whether he'd pass his English Lit class. After Ski-Hab, this kid
planned to attend law school. His dream was to become an attorney specializing in rights for the disabled.

If his classmates, despite their youth and the horrors they'd
seen, could overcome their adversities, Doug refused to surrender to any weakness of his own.

"I'm ready," he said gruffly. "Let's go."

One quick push, and he glided toward the Marines and
their respective instructors.

"Hey, who was that?" Private First Class Logan Randall,
future lawyer, pointed in the direction the Coyote had skied.

"I have no idea," Doug grumbled.

"Yeah?" Lance Corporal Chrissy Scott, future bride, replied.
"If that's how a total stranger treats you, I'd hate to spend Christmas at your house."

"Oh, well then I'll scratch your name off the guest list." He
scanned the curious stares facing him, and discomfort itched
beneath his collar. "Are we gonna ski or what?"

"We're gonna ski!" Sergeant Ramon Henriquez announced.

On boisterous cheers, the Marines lined up, Doug somewhere in the middle, and prepared to conquer Snow Wonder
and its J-bar ski lift one more time.

Once inside the ski lodge, Lyn was headed toward the employees' lounge on the lower level when Becky's strident shout
ripped through her.

Post his picture all around the resort so he can't try to kidnap someone else.

Fear slammed her chest like a concrete wall. Michael. Dear
God, had someone tried to kidnap Michael?

In her heavy ski boots, running was impossible. Thanks to
years of practiced experience, she flipped the buckles on both
boots from the calf to the top of her foot in one rapid motion.
She pulled the shell apart and yanked her feet out one at a time.
Abandoning the empty boots, Lyn raced in her thermal socks
to the ski shop. She hit the rear doorway at top speed, zigzagged
past the racks of rental skis, and came to a dead stop at a cluster of slack jawed employees.

"Michael!" she gasped. "Where's Michael?"

"Right here, Aunt Lyn." He stepped into her line of vision,
clearly confused by all the chaos. He blinked several timeshis doe eyes wide and teeth chewing his lower lip.

Lyn's gaze veered from her nephew to her niece. In contrast to Michael's puzzlement, Becky sported bright pink
cheeks and a fighter's stance. Her eyes, however, sat shielded
behind heavy lids. She stood in the shop's main entrance, hands
fisted at her sides, chest heaving as if she'd just raced the giant
slalom.

Beyond Becky, Ace Riordan loitered in the hall, the insipid
grin he wore after every first-place finish splitting his cheeks. "Hey, Lyn," he greeted her with a quick nod. "How's it going?
These two characters with you?"

"Ace." Lyn slowly took in the scene, but she couldn't figure
out exactly what she'd walked into. "They're my niece and
nephew. What's going on?"

"I'm clueless," he drawled.

"I'll tell you what's going on!" Becky exclaimed. "He was
stalking my brother."

Ace shot up his hands. "Whoa. No stalking. Honest. I found
him outside the men's room crying. If you really cared so much,
maybe you should have kept a closer watch on him instead of
letting him wander around all alone."

Becky, tears glistening in her eyes, turned to Lyn. "He was
supposed to stay upstairs. I just went to the ladies' room, Aunt
Lyn. Honest. I came back, and he was gone."

"You took too long," Michael added. "And I had to go too."

With Becky's attention placed squarely between Lyn and
Michael, Ace stepped inside the ski shop. "I tried to help the
kid, but he said he's not allowed to go anywhere with strangers."
He bobbed his head in Michael's direction. "He decided on
his own to head to the ski shop. Said they'd page his aunt and
his sister. Smart boy."

Becky planted her hands on her hips. "So then why were you
following him?"

"To make sure no one else hassled him!"

"No one else," Becky stressed. "Meaning you'd already hassled him."

Lyn allowed her gaze to scour the room. All the employees
in the ski shop seemed glued to the scene unfolding before them
rather than returning to their work. "Hold up," she said to the
three young people. "Let's take this somewhere quieter, okay?
Follow me."

"But-" Becky began.

Lyn cut her off with a quick air karate chop.

In heavy silence, she led them back past the rental skis,
through the rear door, and into the dim hallway where her boots
still sat. Pausing only long enough to scoop them up, she strode along the cracked linoleum floor. The thump-thump of snowboard boots echoed from those who trailed behind her. She
reached the entrance to the employee lounge and pushed the
door open with a hint of caution.

Dark and empty.

Flipping on the lights, she ushered the rest of the players
inside with a sweep of her hand. "Everybody take a seat." She
gestured to a long gray table surrounded by blue plastic chairs.

On the screech of metal on tile, the trio did as she asked. Lyn
remained standing, the position of power. "Ace," she said, "what
are you doing in Vermont? Don't you have a Canadian competition coming up?"

He stole a heated glance toward Becky, but his intensity
dimmed as he looked up at Lyn. "I put the games on hold. I've
got a friend in Ski-Hab."

"Oh, right," Lyn replied without thinking. "Mr. Sawyer."

He arched a brow. "You met him?"

Funny, Ace sounded panicked at the idea. "Why?" She
cocked her head, studied him. "Is that a problem?"

"Nope." His posture relaxed, and he stared at his fingernails.
"How's Doug doing?"

"Struggling." Her mind flashed on the image of Mr. Sawyer
flopping in the snow, followed by the anger in his eyes when
he rose a second time. "But he'll get the hang of it eventually,
I'm sure. How do you know him?"

"He didn't tell you?"

"I was assisting with his rehabilitation, not serving tea and
chitchat."

Ace grinned, his teeth practically nuclear with their white
glow. "Oh, well, he and I go way back. He helped me out with
that little legal issue at the airport."

"Yeah?" Becky's sarcastic edge sliced into the conversation.
"You harass kids in airports too?"

Lyn's focus shifted from Becky to Ace and back again. Sparks
flew between these two brighter than Fourth of July fireworks.
Best to break this up before someone got hurt. Knowing each of
the combatants as well as she did, Lyn considered them wellmatched, but far too young to handle the heat they'd engender.

Much to her relief, Ace glanced at his watch. "In fact, lessons should be just about over. I think I'll go meet Doug in the
training center."

"I think that's an excellent idea," Lyn said evenly.

Inside his slope-side condominium unit, Doug collapsed into a
leather recliner with an icy beer and the television remote control. He clicked the on button and scanned through the available
channels, finally settling on a local news program.

While the bland, blond weatherman forecasted another perfect ski day for tomorrow, Ace, phone to his ear, called out from
the kitchen area. "Mushroom and pepperoni okay with you?"

"Yeah, sure."

After placing the order with the local pizzeria, Ace dropped
the receiver on the table and bounced onto the couch next to
Doug's chair, propping his stocking feet on the coffee table.
"It'll be about an hour for delivery. Giorgio's must be cranking
tonight."

"Whatever." Exhaustion had a bigger claim on Doug than
hunger.

He took a swig of the beer, let the cool liquid sluice down his
parched throat. God, he ached everywhere. Even his missing
arm felt battered and bruised from the exertion of the day.
He'd strapped on his prosthesis when he'd reached the condo.
Oh sure. His nerves sent twinges from his shoulder to work
his fake arm. Still, the pain he felt had nothing to do with impulses. Phantom pain, the medical team called the phenomenon. But there was nothing phantom about it. No doubt doctors
came up with the term to discourage amputees from mourning their loss.

"So." Ace pointed his amber bottle toward Doug. "How was
your first actual day on the slopes? Anything interesting happen?"

"I got bruises on my butt." Doug set his beer on the table
beside him and leaned forward, his hand moving to the waistband of his pants. "Wanna see?"

Eyes wide with mock panic, Ace slid away to the farthest
corner of the couch. "Dude. No. You are totally delusional. I'm talking about your rendezvous with your longtime sweetheart."

With an easy grin, Doug picked up his beer. "What longtime sweetheart?"

"Brooklyn."

"Brooklyn Raine?" Doug laughed. "Oh, right. I'm delusional."
He tilted the bottle toward his mouth.

"No, seriously. I ran into her in the lodge. She said she
worked with you today."

The beer collided with a gasp of surprise in his throat, and
Doug choked. "Brooklyn Raine?" he repeated on a rasp.

"Yeah. You met her, didn't you? She said you were"-Ace
pitched his voice higher-"`struggling, but he'll eventually
get the hang of it.'"

Doug's mind scrambled to catch up to the conversation.
When had Brooklyn Raine worked with him? He must have
misunderstood. Either that, or the single beer had already gone
to his head. "Let me get this straight. You ran into Brooklyn
Raine. Here."