Tall Poppies (10 page)

‘OK, 0 K. I hear you.’ Elizabeth felt a tiny ray of hope pierce the shadows. Sell skiing for the FIS ? God knew she had first-hand, customer experience. All it would take was one post, one job where she-could shine.

you suggest I do?’

do

Wolf speared a forkful of sauerkraut. ‘You stop wasting time this season and you start to train. For the first time, you work with the other athletes. You will

, need to sweat blood to get that five seconds back.’

‘All right. I suppose I could try.’

‘You will succeed. I will arrange for you to train with

some of the men’s teams - don’t think of beating Heidi Laufen, think of beating Franz Klammer.’

‘Klammer!’

“The legendary Swiss racer had won twenty-five titles.

‘You must try to be best. Not just as a woman - best overall. Then, you might take the gold. Anyway, this

World Cup is a warmup.’

‘To next year’s Cup?’

‘No, idiot child. To the Olympics.’

Darkness. Panic. Elizabeth woke with a start, the shrilling of the telephone shocking her out of sleep. Semiconscious, she grabbed at-it blindly.

‘Good morning, my lady,’ a French voice said calmly. ‘It’s five a.m. Your wake-up call.’

The slalom was at twelve, and she’d agreed to be ready for practice at six. Hans had arranged for her to meet up with the US men’s team; there was a long mogul run down from Mont de la Challe, an unrelenting bastard of

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a run that would have her turning and slicing like her life depended on it.

It would be hard, hard work.

Sighing, Elizabeth hit the shower.

‘Where’s our princess?’ Kate Cox asked at nine, when the team assembled in the lobby for training. ‘Still in bed?’

‘Some rich French Romeo’s still keeping her up,’ Janet guessed.

Karen Carter shook her head. ‘We won’t wait for the thunderbolt. Let’s just hope she turns up for the race.’

Ron Davis joined his team, a scrap of paper in his hand.

‘It’s a note from Hans Wolf. Apparently Elizabeth’s already on the moguls. Training. She got there three hours ago.’

‘You’re )king. Who with?’ Janet demanded.

Davis scratched his head. ‘With the Yanks.’

‘Kim and Holly are training with her? They’re letting Elizabeth see their technique?’

‘She’s training,’ Davis said slowly, ‘with the men.’

When Hans Wolf arrived at five forty, Elizabeth Savage was already waiting. He had a flash of admiration for her curvy figure, the stylish way she carried herself on those skis; he might be fifty years too late, but some guy was going to get very lucky. It annoyed him to think of a girl like that with Gerard de Mesnil. That milksop was just a snow groupie with money.

Of course, people said that about Elizabeth, but they were wrong. There was some spark about the girl he’d never forgotten; enough to make his blood boil when he saw her wasting her talents. At Saas-Fe she’d looked one with the slopes, a snow-leopard, but a year into international competition, she was a robot. Bored and cynical, lost in the glitterati.

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Wolf didn’t know himself why he cared. He was retired, and Elizabeth wasn’t even Swiss. But it was the chill twilight of early morning, and here they were.

‘How you feel? Muscles all warm and relaxed?’ he asked as they jumped on the draglift.

Elizabeth nodded, adjusting her goggles.

‘After four hours with Brad they will be screaming for mercy,’ Wolf told her smugly.

He could see her body in front of him tensing with anticipation. Every muscle in her thighs was lovingly outlined in that shimmering Lycra; her tight, round butt sat high on her long legs.

For a second he worried that Brad would get mad at him. Brad Hinds, the US men’s coach, was training for the Super-G tomorrow. The demands he made of his boys would be a shock to Elizabeth’s system, but if they took time out to look at their guest, she’d have them all crashing into the mountain.

‘] can’t believe you’re making us do this, Brad. It’s a waste of fucking time.’

Jack Taylor leaned against his ski-pole, his two. hundred pounds perfectly balanced, barely denting the snow. It always amazed the team, how such a big guy could be so fluid, so smooth, once he strapped his boots into the skis. Taylor was six-three, bench-pressed three hundred, refused to check into a hotel without a weights room. But get him on the snow and he moved like a ballerina.

Sam Florence, Rick Kowalski and Pete Myers had all been on the team longer than Jack, but they didn’t resent him. Taylor was the great white hope for the Olympics next year. He’d taken the silver in his first World Cup, overall gold last year and was running a comfortable lead over his Austrian rival this year. Despite the overnight success, though, Taylor had worked for it. His dedication

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took even champion athletes aback. Taylor would be up before dawn working out, ran five miles each evening before supper, ski’d all year long to train, following the snow round the world as the seasons shifted across the globe. Jack studied videos of the competition, tested out countless pairs of skis to find a millimetre advantage for his edge. It wore you out just watching him.

Jack Taylor had his sights on next year. An Olympic gold medal for his country, nothing less. The World Cup was a practice run.

The team admired him more because he didn’t have to do it. Now twenty-four, Taylor had been tapped for the US three years back, when he was skiing for Harvard at Aspen. That year he’d graduated magna cum laude in English and put off a business degree for the sport. He could only dedicate one more year to amateur competition - his oe shot at the Olympics. But Taylor was never going to need the glory for a r6sum& His father was a multimillionaire, one of the few Texans to make a fortune outside oil and cattle. John Taylor, Sr, had a Thoroughbred horse ranch outside of Dallas and traded Grade-A bloodstock across the world. The Aga Khan and other Arab princes made the trip across the Atlantic to buy from him.

Jack Taylor was an only child. One day he would own four hundred acres of prime Southern land, two Dallas hotels, a large stock portfolio, a colonial mansion and an exclusive stable of racehorses.

In addition to this, there was the slight matter of his looks. His mom used to say that when” God was making Jack, he forgot to press the ‘stop’ button. Sometimes it didn’t seem fair. Not only was he smart, rich and athletic, Jack Taylor’s tall, muscled body was crowned with a face that stopped girls in their tracks. Women passed him on the street, paused, and turned round for another look. Taylor had jet-black hair, so smooth and glossy it

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looked like the flank of one of his mares. He cropped it close to the head in a severely masculine cut, which complemented the frank brown eyes with their dark, long lashes, the square jaw and the sensual, slightly cruel mouth. Jack couldn’t help his mouth, but it was the finishing touch that broke so many girls’ resistance. Set against his all-American, open good looks, the faint sullenness of the mouth, the ruthless set of his lips, spoke

of a hidden drkness, a pitiless male sexuality.

Girls fluttered around him like butterflies.

Jack was selective about the ones who made it to his bed. He’d been hit on since junior high, the envy of all his friends who found it Mission: Impossible just getting to , second base. Jack was thirteen years old when he lost his virginity, and thirteen and a half when his pop caught him on a haystack with his riding mistress. The riding mistress was fired, and Jack was given a lecture. Horrified by his father’s lurid descriptions of what venereal disease could do to his cock, Jack was supposed to abstain. Instead, he learned everything there was to know about condoms.

His pop did nothing because he was secretly delighted. Every good of’ boy would be proud of a son who got laid at thirteen.

By the time he was fifteen, Jack Taylor was a connoisseur.

By the time he hit college, .he was sexually mature. Dynamite in bed, he was dominant and skilful. Non orgasmic women often climaxed for the first time with Jack. He learned to savour going slow, to enjoy relationships, not just two-week flings without strings. His pop boasted that if a stallion of his could sire like Jack, he’d retire ten years early, but slowly the string of cute faces were replaced by steady girlfriends who lasted four, five months at a time.

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Still, Jack had never fallen too hard. Six girlfriends at Harvard; six broken hearts by the time he left.

Clarisse Devlin was the last candidate. Blonde, slim and pretty, Clarisse had hung on for a year post-graduation, but eventually the constant travel broke them up. Against the dream of Olympic gold, Clarisse never stood a chance, and Jack was secretly glad. He didn’t need a girl hanging round right now. There were enough Identikit Euro-babes on the circuit to keep any guy happy, and being single gave him more time to train.

Taylor took practice deadly seriously. He was none too happy right now.

‘It’s not a waste of time. It’s a favour to Hans Wolf.’

‘Yeah? Why can’t she train with the British guys? Or have Hans ask favours from the Canadians, not us?’

Brad Hinds shrugged. ‘He wants her to train with the best. She’s’the women’s bronze medallist. This year she wants gold.’

‘Elizabeth Savage is no gold medallist.’

‘I didn’t know you followed the women’s competition, Jack.’

‘Enough to know that Savage is lazy, disruptive.’ Jack’s voice was ice. ‘We don’t need that attitude around.’

‘So, not everyone’s a fanatic,’ Brad Hinds said doubtfully. He’d heard the same things. ‘But it’s only once, and we owe Hans. Come on, Taylor. He helped you out enough last year.’

Sighing, Jack Taylor nodded. Last year he’d pulled a ligament and might have dropped out if Hans Wolf hadn’t found him the best doctor in Switzerland.

‘OK, OK. But don’t expect me to slow down so she can study my technique.’

His teammates laughed.

‘You wouldn’t slow down for the President,’ Rick Kowalski pointed out.

At that moment the draglift pulled two figures into

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view and started carrying them up the mountain to the top of the mogul run.

Sam, Rick and Pete stared at Elizabeth’s curvy frame with open admiration.

Jack shook his head. Sex kittens were great, but not while he was working.

‘Here already,’ Hans said cheerily as he slid off the draglift. ‘Brad, it’s good to see you. Hello, guys. Brad, can I present Lady Elizabeth Savage.’

Brad Hinds leaned forward and took Elizabeth’s gloved hand. He tried hard not to show how surprised he was. Christ, the kid was gorgeous! High cheekbones, brilliant green eyes, full lips, kick-ass athletic little body. She had a tight butt, long legs, sculptured shoulders. Goggles and rainbow Lycra that clung like a second skin did a lousy job of wrapping her up. He couldn’t stop his eyes flickering over her breasts. They had to be the only part of her that wasn’t firm and toned. To his dismay, he felt the beginnings of a hard-on. Thank God he’d picked bulky nylon pants today.

‘Uh, how do you do, my lady,’ Hinds said uncertainly. ‘Please call me Elizabeth, Mr Hinds. It’s such an

honour to meet you. I really appreciate your making time for me today.’ Her small hand shook his huge paw enthusiastically.

‘Hey, no problem. I’m Brad, and these are Sam, Pete, Rick and Jack.’

‘Elizabeth.’ Sam Florence’s grin was fit to split his face. Kowalski and Myers nodded hi and undressed her with their eyes. Nothing she wasn’t used to.

However Taylor’s reaction was a surprise. He gave her a cold stare, shifted impatiently on his skis, and turned away. ‘Brad, can we get going? We’ve hung around long enough.’

‘Sure.’ Hinds pulled out a stopwatch. ‘You take the first run.’ He turned to Elizabeth as Taylor settled into a

crouch. ‘Don’t mind Jack. He’s World Champion, it makes him a little excessive about training.’

‘Oh, I understand,’ Elizabeth said warmly. ‘Jack, you were superb at Garmisch—’

She never got to finish her sentence. Ignoring her completely, Taylor pushed off with a mighty lunge and tore down the mogul run, planting his stick cleanly and with perfect rhythm, his heavy body leaping, twisting and landing cleanly and sharply.

‘Jack Taylor is a real skier. He does not want to know you,’ Hans whispered in her ear. ‘You have not earned his respect.’

Elizabeth stood at the top of the run, her eyes narrowing.

That smug bastard. She was going to teach him a lesson, o

Two hours later, Elizabeth was ready to drop. Hans had been right: training with the men pushed her to the limit. Her muscles were burning with effort, her body bathed in sweat under the suit, her head throbbing from the gritted focus it took keeping up with them. After Pete Myers sliced his way down the mogul run barely a second behind Jack, Elizabeth took a go. Swooping, turning and jumping with ferocious concentration, she made the run three seconds ahead of her personal best.

She was miles behind the men. Taylor’s stare was scornful.

Elizabeth listened to Brad’s comments with unusual humility, but she was biting her lower lip with rage. The second descent, she shaved off two extra seconds, but still trailed Taylor. The third time she pushed herself too hard and fell, bruising her outer hip painfully and jolting a ski out of its bindings.

‘Are you OK? Maybe you’d better take a breather,’ the’

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coach suggested anxiously. Ronnie Davis would skin him alive if the Brit’s star girl was injured before her slalom.

‘You made a great time for a woman, anyway,’ Sam told her.

Jack Taylor caught her looking at him. She was stunningly beautiful. The type of chick who thought the world owed her a living. Or a gold medal, in this case.

‘The idea is to stay upright, Cinderella,’ he remarked coldly. ‘Don’t bite off more than you can chew. Women’s training is effective for women - if they bother turning up for it.’