Climbing High

Inc.

Climbing High

by

Madelon Smid

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Climbing High

COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Madelon Smid

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

Cover Art by Diana Carlile

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Crimson Rose Edition, 2013

Print ISBN 978-1-62830-162-5

Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-163-2

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To the climbers of the world

and with special admiration for my daughter, René,

who shows me there is always a way to summit.

Acknowledgments

My gratitude to Smidly, my in-house techie, always needed.

My thanks to the members of the Prairie Quills writers group for their support.

My appreciation to Natascha Jaffa for making editing enjoyable.

Chapter One

She talked with her hands.

Jake Ingles caught the graceful sweep of her arm in his peripheral vision, then, drawn by that action, turned his head to watch the ballet of her fingers. The two men and three women seated around the table all broke into laughter, gaiety lighting their faces.

But he had eyes only for her.

He lounged at a table made tipsy by the cobblestone floor of an outdoor café, enjoying an espresso and reading the sports section of Global Mail on his mobile phone.

Dressed in her leafy spring best, Paris blew a flirtatious breath over him, but failed to attract his interest. He turned his chair from the sunny boulevard to give him a better view of the table behind and to the side, where she held her audience enthralled.

The screech of metal scraping on stone caught her attention. She looked over. Her eyes widened.

He made a production of widening his in turn.

Her shimmering gold stare collided with his intent perusal. For seconds, they shared the amused awareness of people used to being noticed. His lips quirked, hers pressed back a smile.

Her attention returned to her friends. Again her hands swept out in a circle, then paused while she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Hair to dream of, a waterfall of antique gold, curls escaping like rivulets from a braid thicker than his wrist. He stroked the polished granite of the table, imagining the silken length gliding through his fingers. Her expression changed with each movement of her hands. He took inventory, noting the small straight nose set between high cheekbones beneath a wide forehead. He could find no fault with a mouth crafted for kissing, one that led to an intriguing cleft in her squared off chin. Her skin had the poreless quality of a Victorian aristocrat. Her bottom lip puffed out and he looked up to find her arms crossed while her eyes mocked his rudeness.

Direct hit. He felt sucker punched by the impact of eyes the tawny gold of aged champagne. In retaliation, he allowed her a peek past the camouflage of social niceties to the hungry male predator prowling along the edge of her territory. Her heated blood lay an apricot stain across her cheeks, but her gaze never left his until he dropped the curtain on his play and directed polite inquiry at her again. She switched her attention to the young man on her left.

None too soon. Swiveling his hips under the small table, Jake reached for his mobile phone flummoxed by the erection that jerked upright, resisting the confines of his tailored slacks. What the hell? Down, you beggar. Armani didn’t design these pants to include you.

He glanced at the time setting on the screen and took a last quick sip of his coffee. He had a meeting at the Canadian Embassy back to back with another with the Foret & Overtte Financial Institution and just enough time to get to the first, but he found himself loitering. He signaled for the waiter and pulled some euros from his wallet. All the while he stayed tuned to the woman, fascinated as her husky tones sculpted rapid French into a language he could listen to all day.

The others with her began gathering their things. Kissing each other European style on both cheeks, they dispersed across the café pavers with cheery waves. The small patio emptied save for him, the woman and the waiter.

She too signaled the waiter.

Jake expected her to pay the bill and leave. Instead, she ordered another café au lait with several graceful movements of her hand. The young waiter flashed a wide smile and hurried into the café, while she crossed her legs on the chair lotus style, arranging herself like a boneless Siamese cat napping in the sun. Her suppleness made him think of the sinuous weaving of naked bodies.

His belly tightened, his erection insisting on an introduction. A lop-sided smile followed his husky chuckle. Even as a pubescent orphan, he’d never lacked the confidence to ask a woman out. So what if she looked like a Botticelli angel? He’d been with many beautiful women. I don’t need this, he persuaded himself, refusing to define this.

She shifted her belongings from the floor beside her to an empty chair and he saw the climbing gear. An in! He couldn’t believe how elated he felt. His thumbs flew as he sent a text message, tucked his mobile phone into his slacks pocket, and stood. Finchley, his stalwart E.A., would pucker up like a prune when she got that message, but she’d deliver. After nine years together she seemed like an older sister, nagging, judgmental, but one who’d always have his back.

The waiter zipped past him, carrying a steaming cup on a tray. He threaded the maze of wrought iron tables and chairs, his eyes locked on his beautiful customer.

Jake dropped his paper in the recycle bin by the café entrance. He rocked on his heels and perused the menu posted under glass by the door, waiting for the young man to serve the woman and leave. He looked over in time to see the waiter’s highly polished Oxford hit a raised flagstone. The waiter lunged forward, working desperately to get his feet under him again.

Time froze.

The tray tipped and foaming liquid sprayed in a trajectory straight for her. Dread tightened Jake’s chest. He leapt forward, knowing he would be too late. With her feet up on the chair she had no chance to jump out of the way, but she slid to the side, minimizing the damage. The scalding liquid poured onto her bare arm, spattered onto the table and streamed downward over the side of her leg.

The waiter regained his balance and started a rapid and voluble apology. She smiled, actually smiled at the fool, and let him continue, while she swiped a napkin over her arm.

Jake pushed past the waiter, his handkerchief already in his hand and used it to scoop ice from her water glass. A red stain brightened her arm. Her steaming khaki cargo pants stuck to her thigh, continuing to burn her skin. He yanked the table away with one hand and settled the sopping cold hankie onto her leg. "De la glace, vitement," he ordered the waiter.

The man seemed incapable of acting.

"Burdett, amenez, s’il vous plaît." She spoke to the agitated waiter in a soothing tone.

He rushed off.

Jake looked across the street and, with a shake of his head, sent his security guard back to his chair in the opposite café. He looked back to see the woman had followed his example, soaking her napkin in the glass of water and pressing it to the line of inflamed flesh tracking the length of her slender arm. She winced, biting down hard on her lower lip.

Jake soaked his hankie again and pressed it back onto her leg, being sure to cover everywhere the coffee darkened her pants.

Thank you, for reacting so quickly. My skin appreciates it, she joked in English, though her dilated pupils indicated shock. Either his accent had given him away, or she’d reverted to her native language during the calamity.

He admired her effort to lighten the mood. Grabbing a used napkin from another setting, he wet it and held it hovering above her breast. I think we just need to get some water on your—he delighted in her instant scowl—wet shirt.

He dropped the sodden napkin onto the wide stain. He couldn’t decide which he enjoyed more, her shocked gasp or the sight of her nipple hardening beneath the cold fluid. That should take the heat out of it.

He kept his expression and tone deadpan, at the same time letting his eyes reflect his awareness. Her own smiled back while her face remained solemn and too damn white.

Jake lifted the napkin from her arm, poured the last of the water from the glass on to it and gently pressed it to her reddened flesh. She hissed then clasped her hands beneath her rib cage.

Jake’s hands fisted. His chest felt tight. He fought the instinct to grab clumsy Burdett and shake him for his carelessness. One look at the man’s pale sweating face helped him to gain control. The young guy’s suffering almost equaled his victim’s. With an excess of apologies in French, Burdett set an ice bucket and clean tea towels on the table and stepped back.

Jake packed a towel with crushed ice and lay it along her thigh, then a second towel to replace the sopping cloth on her arm. He held it gently in place. "D’eau mademoiselle."

He tilted his head to send Burdett back to the kitchen, then went down on his haunches to look her in the eyes. How bad is this? Should we call for paramedics, get you to a hospital?

Her plush lips tilted up. I think not so bad. The surprise, it hit me worse. They’re just first, maybe a bit of second-degree burns, and you did exactly the right thing to help me. I’ll use the first aid kit in my backpack and find a change of clothes. She leaned over to reach it and stifled a small moan as the wet cotton pants pulled across her leg.

Let me, he said, laying the towel on the table. He dragged over the dry table beside her, lifting the backpack onto it. Which pocket?

Second in the front, she said through gritted teeth, shifting to help.

Stay put, Jake suggested. I can handle this. He pulled out the travel size first aid kit. Good company, he approved, unlatching the kit. You’ll have some antibiotic cream in here. Let’s get this dried off first.

He picked up another clean tea towel and, with the lightest touch possible, dabbed the length of her arm. He cursed the callouses on his fingers with each careful stroke of the salve onto her silken skin. She froze in place. Even her breathing stopped.

Pain? Fear? Awareness?

Jake’s fingers hovered above her skin, before retreating. He found a pair of cotton jogging pants and a matching hoodie in the main part of the backpack. Maybe you would like to go to the restroom and change into these? You could put some ointment on your leg and your…other burns. His gaze danced from the transparent cotton on her thigh to the clinging fabric over her breast. She’d puckered up like a schoolmarm.

His mouth twitched at her reaction. Do you need dry underwear? He tried to sound normal, but the thought of pulling something silken and small out and handing it to her roughened his breathing.

Not necessary. Her eyes laughed at him.

Glass clacked against metal. Saved by the waiter, Jake smiled in relief. How about taking a pain killer? I see you have some in here.

He handed her the analgesic and the water. If you wait a few minutes before moving, it will help control the pain while you change.

She swallowed the pill and sat back.

Delicate lids lowered over golden eyes while she took slow, deep breaths. The tension left her face. The sculpted outline of her lips relaxed. Was she aware that every movement, every nuance of her expression fascinated him? Enthralled and irritated by it, he took two long strides and turned to deal with Burdett, who stood literally wringing his hands a few paces away.

"Elle est bien," Jake said. He gave the guy’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. C’est correct.

Brown eyes, eloquent with puppy dog worship gazed back at him.

When Jake turned back to check on her, he found her eyes open and fixed on him. Fine lines formed in her brow while she worked to figure him out. Good luck with that. He couldn’t even figure himself out. The intensity of his reaction to her injury mystified him.

Perhaps tea with sugar to help with the shock? he queried.

She nodded, levered herself in slow stages from the chair, and lifted the dry clothes. I’ll change.

Jake sent Burdett on yet another trip to the kitchen, moved her backpack to a dry table in the sunshine and settled onto one of the chairs. His mobile phone hummed and he smiled when he read his assistant hadn’t been able to move the meeting back to give him the extra minutes he’d requested, but had re-scheduled. Seemed the universe had decided to help him out. Now he had a wider window to explore his strong reaction to this woman and make sense out of it so he could dismiss it.

She came back, her wet clothes rolled in a bundle. Droplets of moisture around her hairline told him she’d splashed water on her face. Late afternoon sunlight backlit her hair, forming a golden nimbus around her head.

He rose, offered his hand. Jake Ingles.

She took it, her touch light and brief. Siree Lorain.

She settled herself across from him. Her smile deepened the small dimple beside her mouth. The painkiller has kicked in. I’m almost back to normal.

Good for you, Suray Loran. He’d spelled it in his imagination how she’d pronounced it, finding it lodged itself like sunshine in his mind. Resilience is an admirable quality.

Thank you, Jake Ingles. She too seemed to pause to test the sound of his name on her lips. Canadian?

He nodded, resting easily as the golden eyes inventoried him.

"Your French is excellent.

"The advantage of growing up in a bilingual country. And your French?"

The advantage of growing up in many countries. She tilted her head and clasped her hands together under her chin. Burdett approached in slow motion, his eyes darting between the flagstones and the teacup in his hand. He set it before her like an offering at a shrine and proffered a small bowl of sugar lumps. She stirred three into her tea, sipped and puckered her mouth in a moue of distaste.

Jake’s attention went straight to her plush lips and stayed there wondering what they would feel like beneath his own.

She looked up and leaned away as if sensing his thoughts.

Distraction. He needed a distraction.

I noticed you have climbing equipment and wondered if you might tell me a few places to get in some climbing while I’m here?

She looked into his eyes, her own intelligent and perceptive, then assessed his body. His relaxed posture in the chair offered her an excellent view of his abdomen and shoulders. Muscles flexed in his biceps and thighs when he shifted under her lengthy perusal.

God, I’m posing like a body builder in some competition. But he made a point of flexing his hands on the table so she could see his climber’s callouses, in case she hadn’t already registered them when he stroked ointment onto her arm. The memory of her silky skin sent his blood south of his belt again. He started a backwards count from one hundred. He didn’t want to blow it now.

Her fingers toyed with the handle of her cup, reminding him of the smoothness of them, sliding across his hand. You wear gloves when you climb? he guessed.

I wish. It would save snagging my stockings when I pull them on. Her eyes crinkled and her full lips turned up, deepening the cleft in her chin. He tried not to stare at it while his mind pictured her slender limbs encased in silk.

Glad I don’t have that problem. He flashed his signature grin at her, surprised at how pleased he felt when she made a production out of pushing her tongue into her cheek while staring into his eyes.

He grinned for real, openly enjoying her poke at him. So you just finished a climb this morning? He spoke in English, following her example. Hers, he noted, sounded accent free.

Yes. She didn’t elaborate, but instead swept her hand to where his mobile phone sat on the table between them. I would think that you could research everything you need on that.

Sure. Jake spun the phone in a circle then tucked it into his trouser pocket. I know the climbs and distances to them, routes, level of difficulty, but I have only a few days here and minimal time to climb, so I want to make the best choice and firsthand knowledge goes a long way. Fontainebleu is the closest. I’d rather spend my time climbing than travelling to get there, but is it worth it?

Depends on what level you handle. She twirled her cup in her saucer, her face thoughtful. Fontainebleau is mostly easy bouldering, you understand. If you want to free climb something more challenging, the Mount Blanc, Chamonix area provides some grueling ascents on granite. Though of course it’s further out of the city, and most of the climbs require an overnight stay to get the early start needed to finish in daylight.

Sounds like the kind of thing I’m after. Our Rocky Mountains provide a lot of granite work. I like to test myself when I go up. I noticed you were with a group. Is it a climb club? Maybe I could join up for their next climb.

No, just friends. She rose and started gathering her things. We’re heading for Chamonix Friday night to make a climb Saturday. If you’d like to leave your contact information with me, I’ll ask the group if they mind you joining us. She tilted her head in question.

Jake leapt to help her, noting the white line around her lips and the depth of pain in her eyes. Works for me. I’m here till Tuesday and don’t have solid plans for the weekend. Jake mentally cancelled his dinner with the trade commissioner, his date with a nubile French model he looked up whenever he came to Paris, and the hours he’d set aside to prepare a proposal for a French company he was wooing. He must be an idiot. Even with the thought bonging in his brainbox, he pulled a business card from his wallet and handed it over. He watched, curious to see her reaction when she read the name of his business and his position as owner/CEO. He’d built the company from a patented software program in college to a major player on the world stage.

She smoothed her fingertips over the black embossed letters that told a story of technical genius.

Her face remained quiet, her eyes calm. I know this company. She tucked his card in her pocket.

Jake’s curiosity ramped up another notch. Her tone had been so neutral he couldn’t read a thing from it. What did she know? Had she read about his business in a reputable magazine or about his personal life in some sleazy gossip rag? Did she work for someone who did business with him?

His company wrote software for other companies who needed to make their products work. JDI Inc. had clients around the world and pulled in billions of dollars in revenue a year. But his satisfaction came from solving the problem of a client, in helping get a product up and running and out there. JDI technicians could design a new assembly line, a new method of distribution, or instructional software for the employees. He had the best techies around the world working for him. He went after the work that kept them busy and that meant a lot of travel and networking. And tore great chunks out of his personal life. Stifling the urge to prolong his time with her, he moved away. If he wanted to climb this weekend, he better write that proposal.

Well, Ms. Suray Loran, it’s been a pleasure. I hope your friends have no problem with me joining their climb. He placed a few euros on the table to pay for her tea. My treat, he insisted when she leaned forward to protest. I hope there won’t be any lasting damage from the accident. He didn’t make the mistake of offering to see her home. She exuded independence. He had no doubt she’d ask for help if she wanted it.

Thank you again, Jake, for coming to my rescue. I’ll contact you with details, if the others say you’re in.

He felt her gaze on his back as he walked away. She wore no rings. Not married then. But wait, a lot of climbers took their rings off to climb. He just hoped she showed up on an Internet search, because the minute he was off this street he’d be typing in her name. He looked back before he turned the corner, his shadow already on his trail. She’d pulled out a smart phone and her slender fingers were flying over the keypad. If she looked him up, she’d have a lot of reading to do. He couldn’t sneeze without someone making it a story. Unfortunately, she wouldn’t just see the business and climbing articles, but the pulp connecting him with dozens of women over the years. Would she, like so many, label him a womanizer? Her tongue in cheek gesture earlier made it obvious she had discernment. With luck, he’d become her favorite bedtime reading