Tall Poppies (14 page)

Jack Taylor wasn’t just poetry in motion. He was a symphony, an epic. He had blasted through the sport like an F-14 jet fighter. Jack might have come from nowhere, Elizabeth thought, but my God, the guy is ruthless on a pair of skis.

The Swiss, the Austrians, the Scandinavians, the FrEnch - none of them knew what had hit them. Over and over, the Stars and Stripes tlew on the winner’s podium.

‘I cannot understand it,’ the Swedish coach had shrugged. ‘He is a freak. After all, there is no skiing in Texas.’

He’s the best, but doesn’t he know it, Elizabeth thought, annoyed. Jack bloody Taylor, with his magna cum laude from Harvard and his blatant sexuality. She’d heard the stories from some of the other girls, and tried to dismiss Taylor as a womaniser. What else could he be, with that Southern drawl like slow-pouring treacle, and that cruel, sexy mouth?

She thought about Jack Taylor a lot. It bugged her that she thought about him so much. Though she pretended not to care, his derision at Val d’Isre cut her.to the

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quick. Elizabeth knew the American was a one-off, a once-in-a-generation kind of talent. She wanted his respect. She wanted his approval. The bastard could snub her all he liked, but she wanted him to rate her. As an equal.

When the women’s and the men’s events coincided, Jack Taylor turned up to the female event to cheer on Kim Ferrell and Holly Gideon, the US team. At those races, Elizabeth tried to squeeze a little more excellence from her performance. She could see Taylor watching her as she crouched forward, schussing over the finish lines. His handsome face was assessing, taking notes. But though she took three wins and a second in front of him, he never offered her a word of encouragement.

It became ever clearer that Elizabeth stood a chance, and the British media went nuts. The ‘battle of the slopes’ was the second favourite tabloid story, right behind the rumours that Prince Charles had a thing for Lady Diana Spencer.

Hans kept her away from the media, but that only made them chase her more.

‘These people are fools,’ he snorted, when he caught Elizabeth reading The Times at the airport. The headline ‘Lightning Strikes’ showed a glowing Elizabeth after a four-second slalom win at Val Gardena. ‘They think you are good last year.’

He couldn’t afford her to relax one millimetre. It was the final stage of the Cup, and things were too close to call.

‘Ronnie Davis called the hotel. CBS wants the team to go on Good Morning, America,’ Elizabeth told him, hopefully.

She wouldn’t mind becoming well known in the States. Maybe it would help convince the FIS to let her do their

marketing. Or be leverage to change Dad’s mind about Dragon.

‘The team, indeed! They want your ladyship, nicbt wabr? Certainly not.’ Wolf snorted with disgust. ‘We have only two more races, and you are just one point ahead of Friulein Laufen. The only Americans you mix with will be Taylor and Kowalski.’

Elizabeth felt her heart skip a beat under her Jean Muir suit. ‘What did you say?’

Boarding for first-class passengers was announced, and they stood up, picking up their hand-luggage. Wolf glanced at his protegee, a smart!y dressed young woman, beautiful, vibrant, her hair flowing loosely about her

shoulders, her elegant hand resting on a Gucci purse. Her ‘forest-green eyes sparkled like snow in the sun.

‘They are already at Kitzbiihel for the slalom. Thursday they ski the Hahnenkamm.’

‘We’ve got slalom Tuesday, downhill Wednesday.’

‘]a, and I have asked Kowalski if you can train with

him Wednesday morning. He agreed.’

‘And Jack Taylor?’

‘Taylor always trains with Kowalski. Rick is the American number two,’ Wolf reminded her. ‘He will not alter his plans for you.’

Elizabeth handed her boarding card to the attendant, smiling.

‘You are excited, Liebcben,’ the old man teased. ‘Just make sure you keep your eyes on.the snow. Taylor is very good looking, no?’

‘No.’ Elizabeth sounded dismissive. ‘Jack’s the best in the world. I’m the best in the world. Who else would I ski with?’

“Natiirlicb,’ Hans said, grinning.

The final slalom of the women’s World Cup was a nail biter. Girl after girl swooped off from the s.ummit,

planting their ski-poles, turning, planting again, control and speed in brilliant balance. Kitzbiihel cheered the Austrians and Louise Levier, the Swiss now certain to take bronze. But it was Heidi and Elizabeth everybody was waiting for.

Elizabeth said a prayer at the starting gate and thrust forward. Three hours of practice, days of layout study, a week of videos, all down to these few minutes. Plant, turn. Stick, slice. The cheering crowd lining the run, deafening her with whistles and cowbells and ululating shrieks, urged her forwards. Out of the corners of her eyes she saw Union Jacks, even the Red Dragon flag of Wales. She ignored it all. There was nothing registering except the flagpoles and the snow. Concentrating furiously, her technique was perfect but she lost a little speed. Elizabeth shot through the finishing line one point five seconds’behind her best time on this course. She led the field comfortably.

Hans slapped her on the shoulder and Elizabeth turned to the cameras to give her reaction. She kept it short. Nothing to do but wait for Heidi.

Kim Ferrell took fourth place for the US and Kate Cox came in eighth for Britain, a terrific result for her. Elizabeth congratulated her warmly.

Finally, to roars of approval from the Swiss in the crowd, Heidi Laufen was called to the start. Time seemed to stop for Elizabeth as she reached the first gate and twisted through it cleanly. Slicing, sticking and lunging, Heidi tore through the flagpoles. White plumes of snow sprayed up behind the edges of he skis. She wasn’t as exact as Elizabeth, but she was quicker. With each gate Elizabeth felt her heart sink. She didn’t need to look at the clock to know Heidi’s pace; she could see it in her rhythm. Laufen was letting go and she was fast.

Heidi came bombing through the finish line over a second ahead.

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Elizabeth could feel the eyes of her coach, her team and the press burning into her back as she walked over to shake the World Champion’s hand. Now they were level. It would all depend on the downhill tomorrow - the legendary Hahnenkamm, the fastest, toughest, most dangerous run on earth.

At the side of the ropes, Jack Taylor, looking stunning in black jeans and a sweater, was standing with the US team: Elizabeth walked across and pumped Kim’s hand. ‘Nice racing.’

‘You too,’ the redhead said. ‘Bad luck. Heidi was on top of her form, right then. Didn’t you think so, Jack?’

Jack Taylor shrugged, looking straight at Elizabeth. is eyes flickered over her body, but their expression was unfathomable.

‘You could have done better,’ he said.

Elizabeth stiffened. She pulled up to her full height. ‘And I will. Tomorrow.’

W0dnesday morning, Elizabeth was up before her wake up call. She’d tried to rest but she hadn’t slept much. The thought that everything was riding on this afternoon had been too exciting for sleep. She only hoped that Heidi Laufen had been similarly affected.

Quickly, Elizabeth selected a training suit in scarlet Lycra and began to get dressed. Outside the windows of her hotel suite the massive mountain peaks were jagged silhouettes against the early-morning light. A telltale brightness in the sky let her know there’d been a fresh snowfall during the night. Adrenalin pumped through her. Today would be sudden death; she was challenging the world’s best skier on the world’s most dangerous course. It had a hospital purpose-built at the bottom, to cater to the dead and wounded the mountain regularly claimed; victims of the Mausfalle, the sheer drop y.ou hit

just after the starting gate, or the 18o° Panorama turn, or the plummeting dive of the Steilhang …

Enough. Enough, Elizabeth told herself, selecting her training skis. Practise first.

It would be a great warm-up to the downhill, to show that son-of-a-bitch Jack Taylor just what she was made of.

Before she headed out the door, Elizabeth spritzed herself with Chanel No. 5 and slicked a dash of Elizabeth Arden over the sunblock on her lips.

Not only was she going to ski the pants off him, she was going to do it in style.

Rick Kowalski had arranged to meet her at the top of the Resterh6he. Seven thousand feet above sea level, it was the higb, est ski area in Kitzbiihel, guaranteeing no problems with the snow. This morning he needn’t have worried, Elizabeth thought as she leaned back in the cable-car. The fresh fall in the night had blanketed the whole resort, and the peaks and valleys lay covered with a thick, unmarked blanket of soft white velvet. The forecast had been for clear skies, but she was sure there was more to come. Clouds were gathering darkly behind the mountains. She prayed no blizzard would delay the race.

The car clanked to a halt and Elizabeth stepped out, hefting her skis on to the flattened snow. She was ready for some serious training. They would be heading off piste; apart from the Hahnenkamm “there were no black runs at Kitzbtihel hard enough for a world-class skier.

She looked around for Kowalski, but couldn’t see him. Maybe he was out there wearing an ivory suit, or something. Elizabeth cupped her hands over her mouth and yelled.

‘Rick?’

Suddenly, from behind her, a black-suited figure shot

out of nowhere and sliced to a halt.

Elizabeth jumped out of her skin.

He raised dark goggles and regarded her steadily. ‘Jesus Christ, Jack. You scared me,’ Elizabeth said angrily. ‘Where the hell did you come from? Where’s Rick?’

‘Good morning to you, too, ma’am,’ Taylor replied. The Texan drawl was cold. ‘Kowalski couldn’t make it. He’s in bed.’

‘Really.’ Elizabeth’s nerves made her snappy. ‘Too much Gliihwein last night? I’d have thought even you Americans might give the partying a rest two days before ,your last downhill.’

Jack’s eyes narrowed with anger. He paused, then said calmly, ‘Actually, he has flu. He’s in bed on doctor’s

orders, so he stands a chance of competing tomorrow.’ Elizabeth blushed. ‘Oh, OK. I’m sorry.’

‘He asked me to come train with you. Rick never

breaks a commitment.’

‘I said I was sorry.’

‘And there’s nothing Rick could teach you about partying, my lady. Not from what I hear.’

She bent down and locked her boots into their bindings, forcing back the reply. She was here to train, not to fight Jack Taylor.

‘My name is Elizabeth, Jack. Are we going to ski, or do you prefer talking?’

Taylor studied her a moment, then lifted his stick and pointed off down the mountainside towards a dark pine forest.

‘Brad found a route for me yesterday. It’s got a sixty five-degree sheer drop, a tough mogul run, some tree skiing, lots of powder on the straight.’ He shrugged. ‘Reasonably challenging.’

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That meant white-knuckle terror, Elizabeth thought. A shiver of spine-chilling pleasure rushed through her.

‘I’ll want you to stick with me. There are crevasses and the new snow will have covered some of them. We’ll be going close to a lot of mountain edges; concealed boulders, outcrops, stuff like that. Think you can handle it?’

‘Hey. I do have a little snowcraft, Taylor.’

‘You want to train with me? You follow me.’ He was uncompromising. ‘I’m not explaining to some English lord how I watched his daughter ski off the edge of a precipice.’

‘I’m the best female in the world.’

‘You’re not as good as me,’ Jack Taylor said flatly. Enraged, Elizabeth glared at him, but Taylor held her gaze calmly, refusing to back down. He was resting his huge bod on his ski-pole, dark brown eyes studying her impassively.

He was right and she knew it.

‘You win.’ Elizabeth swallowed her pride. ‘I’ll be right behind you. But this better give me a workout.’

‘Hey, Princess,’ Jack said, and now his look was sexual, flickering over the tight red Lycra, stripping, assessing, lingering on her breasts. ‘You haven’t been trained at all. After this, the Hahnenkamm’s gonna look like a nursery slope.’

He pulled down his goggles and pushed off to the right, schussing swiftly down towards the forest. Elizabeth followed, gathering her body into a crouch. The snow glittered like crystal dust in the rosy dawn light, arching up behind her skis in a feathery spray. The air had the crisp, clean sparkle of high altitude. She gathered her body into an aerodynamic crouch, skis close together, picking up speed. Jack’s tracks were deep tramlines on the virgin slope, their smooth, sharp angles displaying his skill like a signature. Thrusting harder, she caught up

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with him. His black-clad figure was aiming straight for the forest; he said nothing to her, was acting like she wasn’t there. Angrily, Elizabeth ski’d closer, crowding him, until there were just a few inches between them. Taylor swung sharply left. Elizabeth followed. He immediately took a hard right. She matched him, inch for inch. Fighting. Challenging. Competing.

Without so much as a glance at her, Jack leaned forward into his crouch and disappeared. Gasping, Elizabeth found herself plunging down a sheer icy curve that had looked like an ordinary ridge a second ago. Instinctively she righted herself and hugged the gradient, while her stomach somersaulted.

You son-of-a-bitch! She was barrelling into the schuss now, beside him again, but Jack tilted away left, bringing his skis together. Why was he doing that? And then she saw it - two patches of dark shadow, bridging white ground barely two feet across. Shade like that could be covering a ravine, a crevasse. You would plunge down a hundred feet of solid ice to your death. Elizabeth broke into a cold sweat as she swung her body violently, making sure she was behind him, not beside. The broad muscles of Taylor’s back, skiing without even a hint of tension, seemed to taunt her as he schussed coyly across the strip of solid ground. Elizabeth followed, dry mouthed with fear. Now she was across!