01 Storm Peak (32 page)

Read 01 Storm Peak Online

Authors: John Flanagan

Tags: #Mystery

“Good workout?” Jesse asked her, easing out the clutch and guiding the Subaru back onto the main road. She nodded enthusiastically.
“Great!” she said. “They’ve got some good instructors in there. I did a whole class with one of them. Just what I needed.”
“Uh-huh,” he said noncommittally, keeping a cautious eye on a Chevy Blazer that didn’t seem totally sure of which lane it wanted to be in. He tapped the horn once to let the driver know he was there. Silhouetted against the other car’s windshield, he saw the driver raise his middle finger. Jesse eased up on the gas and let the Blazer get ahead of them. He was in no hurry.
“Just like LA,” Abby said, grinning. He looked at her and couldn’t help grinning back. She looked cute and little-girlish, sitting there, huddled up inside the fur collar of her parka.
His eyes dropped to her legs. They didn’t look so little-girlish.
She put a hand lightly on his right hand, where it rested on the steering wheel.
“Jess,” she said seriously “I’m glad we can do this.”
He grinned at her in his turn. “Go driving where Chevy drivers give us the bird?” he suggested, and she smiled and shook her head.
“You know what I mean,” she said patiently. “I’m glad we can see each other. I’m glad we don’t have to hate each other anymore.”
He hesitated, then said a little awkwardly “I never hated you, Abby.”
The fingers around his right wrist tightened a fraction.
“Didn’t you?” she asked earnestly. “Times there, I was sure you did. And I never wanted that, Jesse. There was too much between us that was good, wasn’t there?”
He shook his head, not in response to her question, but to emphasize his earlier statement. “I never hated you, Abby. I was angry maybe. And maybe I might have said some hard things. But I never hated you. You should know that.”
She smiled widely at that, took her hand away and folded it in her lap.
“I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “Now let’s go eat.”
“Sounds good to me,” He took his eyes off the road long enough to grin at her. That crooked little grin of his that could still make her breath come a little quicker. Then he looked back at the traffic and she studied his profile, backlit by the streetlights and the glare from the headlights of passing cars. She liked what she saw, she decided.
The Barn was crowded, warm and friendly. The lighting was low-key and they sat close together in a small booth toward the back of the restaurant. They had to pitch their voices up a little to cut over the background babble of conversation. She ordered a steak, rare. Jesse ordered ribs. Knowing his preferred drink was usually beer, she decided he wouldn’t drink red wine, and so ordered a bottle of cold Napa Valley Chardonnay.
He hesitated over his almost automatic choice of a Moosehead, then shrugged as Abby raised an eyebrow.
“I can’t drink a whole bottle of wine myself,” she said. He looked at her, head tilted to one side.
“You must be slowing down,” he told her. “Time was, you sure could.” Then turning to the waitress, “Okay, I’ll have the wine as well.”
She tossed out their napkins into their laps with a practiced flick of her wrist, then hurried away to place their orders.
They looked at each other. For a moment, there was nothing to be said. Finally, Jesse broke the silence.
“So, did the network pick up your piece? Or haven’t you heard yet?”
She made a small moue with her lips, shook her head.
“They passed,” she said. “I heard just after I spoke to you this evening. Seems nobody wants to hear good news about cops, Jess.”
“You could have made it bad news if you’d wanted to,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow, questioning the statement. The waitress chose that moment to return with the bottle of chardonnay. Abby inspected the label, the year, the drops of dew that covered the bottle and nodded her approval. The girl busied herself stripping the foil from the cork, then carefully removing the cork from the bottle, easing it out the last few tenths of an inch so it didn’t pop. Abby frowned slightly. She wondered why waiters did that these days. The pop was one of the more enjoyable moments in a bottle of wine, as far as she was concerned.
“Just pour it,” she said. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
The golden-colored wine spilled into their two glasses, frosting the outsides almost immediately. Abby picked up her glass, paused with it on the way to her lips.
“So,” she said lightly. “Just how could I have made the network with that piece?” Her eyes smiled at him above the rim of her glass. He took a deep drink of his own, felt the chilled wine bite against the back of his throat, felt the slowly releasing glow of the alcohol fuse through him. Then he answered.
“You could have come down heavy on us,” he said. “You know it. I know it. You did everything you could to make us look good.”
She nodded to concede the point, then said distinctly, “Well, fuck the network. Maybe I don’t need them quite as much as I thought I did.”
That stopped him, as she knew it would. Truth to tell, she admitted to herself, it had stopped her when she first thought about it. She allowed herself a wan little smile.
He said nothing. But she knew she’d set him thinking. She shrugged to herself, took a slightly larger drink of her wine than normal.
Their meals arrived and they changed the subject to less challenging matters. Jesse expressed his regret that she wouldn’t have time to ski before heading back to Denver. It seemed a shame to miss out.
“Snow’s pretty near perfect the past few days,” he said. She shrugged again. Channel 6 had given her a leave of absence from the morning program while she did the special report. Now she’d filed, she had no real excuse for staying on. Also, she’d sensed an undercurrent of anger from the head of News and Current Affairs when he’d called earlier. The channel would have enjoyed the prestige of having one of its reports picked up for national broadcast and she thought her boss knew she’d blown the chance intentionally with her choice of angle on the story.
“I guess it’s good skiing at the moment?” she asked, and he nodded.
“Knee-deep powder everywhere,” he said. She thought about it. She was a good skier, although try as he might, he’d never been able to convince her to ski moguls. She could imagine the mountain in weather like this. It was exhilarating skiing Mount Werner at any time. With soft, aerated, super-light powder flying waist or chest high, it would be simply great.
“Maybe I’ll try to get back later in the season,” she suggested.
Jesse shook his head. “Time to ski is when the snow’s good,” he said. “It’s good now.”
She laughed lightly at him. Skiing to him went beyond a recreation. In his eyes, it was almost a religion, and not to ski when the snow was perfect was very close to blasphemy.
“Things I’ve got to do back in Denver, Jess,” she said. She hesitated, waiting to see if he’d try to convince her to stay longer. But he said nothing.
On the small stage at the far end of the room, a five-piece bluegrass band started playing. They stopped their conversation, turning slightly in their seats to watch.
“Fiddle player’s good,” she said. Jesse nodded. The fiddle was sawing out the two-string stops of “Orange Blossom Special,” then flying into the fast-paced notes of the solo. The girl playing the piece couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. In spite of the frantic pace of the music, her face was relaxed, calm, almost detached.
The boy playing the five-string banjo beside her joined in, trading breaks with her. They blended easily, grinning at each other.
“Five-string’s no slouch either,” Jesse agreed. Abruptly, Abby came to her feet.
“Dance with me, Jess,” she said, knowing that this had been in the back of her mind hours before, when she’d asked if there were any good bands playing in town. Jesse hesitated for a moment, not sure if he wanted to revisit that area. She caught his hand and dragged him to his feet, leading him between the tables to the dance floor.
There were a few couples already swing dancing to the fast, rippling music as they stepped onto the polished parquet tiles that made up the dance floor.
One thing that they had always done superlatively was dance together. They both loved country music and, individually they were both excellent swing dancers. But as a pair, they had a chemistry a special, instinctive understanding that let them blend smoothly together. He stood behind and to one side, set his left hand on her hip, took her right hand in his and they started.
And, instantly, the old magic was back. They glided across the floor, feet moving in half steps, then full slides, then heel kicking behind. It was instinctive, totally unplanned, absolutely coordinated. Then he swung her out and they faced each other and went into another of the complex routines they’d danced years before.
There wasn’t another pair on the floor to match them and the other dancers, sensing their expertise, moved to the outer limits of the floor, simplifying their own movements to watch, acknowledging their superiority. The musicians noticed them, as did people at the tables close to the floor, who started clapping in time to encourage them.
They spun, kicked, stamped. He marveled at the fact that he knew, simply knew, every small move she was going to make just before she made it, and matched each one with his own.
Onstage, only a few yards away the fiddle player and the banjo picker exchanged a quick glance and upped the tempo progressively. It was a challenge to the dancers to see if they could maintain the rhythm with them, to see if they could keep the beat with their complex steps and moves. And they could.
Until finally the band capitulated, bringing the piece to a close with a repeating eight-bar riff. As the banjo rang out the closing chord in a loud
rasgueado,
the other dancers clapped and cheered and the people at the tables stood and applauded.
Breathing hard, sweating freely, Jesse and Abby laughed into each other’s eyes. The banjo player leaned down to shake hands with Jesse.
“Nice going, man,” he said, grinning. “You ready for another?”
Jesse grinned back, shaking his head, still a little short of breath. “Not just yet bud,” he replied. “Got to get some O
2
back in the lungs here first.”
The banjo player smiled and turned back to his companions as the fiddler began the introduction to “Earl’s Breakdown.” Jesse looked back to Abby. He was conscious of the rise and fall of her breasts under the soft lambswool sweater she was wearing. He was aware that she was wearing no bra, or anything else, under the sweater.
She grinned at him, brushed a stray tendril of her glowing blond hair back from her eyes.
“Let’s finish that wine,” she said happily.
She took his hand to lead him from the floor, guiding it to slip naturally around her waist as they walked back to their table, then moving it just a fraction lower. He could feel the warm, firm flesh under her tights, and felt no ridge of a waistband or legband under them. Unobtrusively she moved his hand with her own, allowing him to confirm the thought, letting his hand stray over her buttock and hip. She was naked under the tights and the sweater and he felt a sudden rush of warmth in his groin.

 

I
n her hotel room, she stood nude before the big windows, pulling the curtains aside to let the lights from Mount Werner in.
He watched her, fascinated by the perfection of her body reveling in the play of light and shade on the perfect curve of her hip and thigh. She turned slightly, allowing the cold light to play on the swell of her breasts, and smiled at him.
She moved toward him and he rose to meet her, his erection throbbing almost painfully. She slid the zipper down on his jeans, laughing softly as his erection forced its way out through the gap. Then, with increasing urgency she shoved his jeans and briefs down, kicking them free, leaving him as naked as she was.
She thrust forward against him and he moaned softly. There was a distant part of his mind telling him he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be doing this. Then his hands went under her firm, muscular buttocks and he lifted her as she let her legs twine around him. He was searching for her and he felt her hand on him, guiding him into the amazing heat and wetness of her. He moved slightly, resting her on the dressing table, letting it take some of the weight, then began thrusting urgently into her, feeling her matching his movements as her legs tightened around his waist, then he lifted her clear off the table, allowing her to slide down upon him, taking her full weight as he strained to reach farther and farther inside her and then, shatteringly, explosively he came. And came. And came.

Other books

The Guilty by Sean Slater
Griffin of Darkwood by Becky Citra
A Matter of Principle by Kris Tualla
Hunger Revealed by Dee Carney
Irish Linen by Candace McCarthy
The Correspondence Artist by Barbara Browning
Tomorrow’s World by Davie Henderson