look at.
As for her body, she was slender, but there were curves in the right places. Coming from a climbing family, he expected her to be lean and wiry, the kind of woman who could hold her own on a mountainside. But instead, she seemed soft and feminine despite clothes that did nothing to enhance her figure.
“So tell me about yourself, Amy Engalls. Do you share your family’s love of adventure?”
“Oh, yes,” she said.
“What was the last mountain you stumbled up?”
She laughed softly. “Very funny. I’m not always so clumsy. I studied ballet. I’m just not used to...running.”
“I can see that. That was quite a fall you took.”
“I wasn’t actually running, I was chasing. You,” she said.
“Oh, and now you’re blaming me?”
“No, I just wanted to explain.”
“That you studied ballet?”
“No, why I came here to interview you.”
“You have me alone right now. It’s as good a moment as any. Have at it.”
She didn’t say anything for a long time and Mal waited, wondering what her first question might be. “I’m not sure I can do this,” she finally said.
“Do what?”
“Pry into your personal life,” she said.
“You’re not a top-notch chaser, and if you won’t pry, you won’t get very far as a reporter, either.”
She straightened in her seat. “All right. Tell me how you felt when you heard the news that they’d found your father.”
“My father’s body,” he corrected. Mal could explain exactly how he’d felt. He just wasn’t sure he wanted to start blathering on about it. From the time of his father’s death, he and his family had always maintained a stiff upper lip. Max Quinn had died doing what he loved, that was what they’d always said. And no one ever knew when he’d go. He could be hit by a bus tomorrow.
And yet, what had that answer ever gotten them?
Mal glanced over at her and sighed softly. “The answer would be...gobsmacked.”
“It must have brought back a lot of memories.”
“He’s never been far from my mind,” Mal admitted.
In truth, his father’s memory had loomed large in Mal’s life. Max Quinn was a legend, a man everyone had assumed was invincible. Hell, he was the bloody Titanic of mountain climbing, the guy who could conquer any peak and do it with a smile.
And the climbing community had expected Mal to take after his father, to court risk, to laugh at danger. But even though Mal wanted to do his father proud, he knew what another loss would do to his family. Yes, he was carrying on his father’s legacy. But would Max Quinn have been proud?
“It’s been a long time,” she said.
“I was ten when he died. My siblings don’t remember him as well as I do.”
“He was just six years older than you are now when he died.”
“Thirty-six,” Mal murmured. Jesus, she was right. His father had already accomplished so much by that age. He’d founded a successful business and had been up and down Everest five times. And what did Mal have to show for his life? A struggling business? A dwindling clientele? He didn’t need to conquer Everest to carry on his father’s legacy. He just needed to run a successful guiding business. At least that was what he’d always told himself.
As they pulled up to Mal’s small “bach” on the beach, he thought of his father, with so much of his life in front of him, with a wife and family back in New Zealand. Had he been flooded with regret in his last moments? Or had he been satisfied that he’d died doing something he loved?
Mal shut off the Range Rover, then rested his hands on the wheel. “Some people said that he was a selfish man. That he should have given up climbing the moment he got married and had children. What do you think?” he asked.
“I think that some people are driven to make something out of their lives. And others are content with what they’re given along the way.”
“And what kind of man am I?” he asked.
“I can’t say,” Amy said. “We’ve only just met.” She paused, then shook her head. “That was a rhetorical question, wasn’t it?”
“Maybe not,” Mal said, opening the car door. “If you come up with an answer, let me know.”
He helped Amy out of the car, grabbing the pieces of her computer as she slid down to the ground. They walked slowly up to the cottage and he pointed to a wooden rocker on the wide porch. “Sit. I’ll be right back.”
He pulled open the screen door and stepped inside. Reporters were all alike, only interested in getting the story they wanted and never worrying about the people involved. Even now, he remembered those days after his father’s death, how they’d been hounded by the media hoping to get photos of the grieving mother and her children. Lydie Quinn had been so upset, she’d refused to let her children leave the house, depending upon friends to bring them what they needed. So Mal knew he shouldn’t trust her.
Yet even though she was a reporter, Mal couldn’t deny that he found her attractive. And she didn’t seem like the kind of cutthroat opportunist that most journalists were. She was...sweet. And he found the “damsel in distress” thing sexy as hell.
“Don’t fool yourself, Mal,” he muttered as he rummaged through a tin of first-aid supplies.
When he returned to Amy, she was bent over, examining her injuries more closely. “It’s not so bad,” she said.
He squatted down in front of her, then sprayed antiseptic onto both knees. She winced and Mal leaned in and blew on her wounds, hoping to take away the sting. “Better?”
“Mmm,” she said, nodding.
He carefully bandaged the scrapes, then slowly ran his hand from knee to ankle. She had beautiful legs, slender yet shapely. He couldn’t seem to help himself and he ran his hand up her calf, enjoying the feel of her flesh beneath his fingers.
When he heard her suck in a sharp breath, Mal risked a look up and found her staring at him, wide-eyed. “It should be good now,” he murmured. He sat back on his heels. “I could use a drink. Would you like one?”
“Sure,” she said. “Water would be fine. Or a diet cola.”
“I was thinking about something a bit stronger. Whiskey, perhaps.”
“Oh, whiskey would be fine,” she said.
Mal straightened, his gaze still locked on hers. He ought to just kiss her now and be done with it. He’d never been the kind of guy to hide his desires. When he wanted a woman, he made it clear from the start. And what was there to stop them? They were two consenting adults. At least, he was consenting.
Mal cursed inwardly. Was he reading her wrong? Was she playing him just to get her story? He could see she was attracted...tempted. But maybe she was trying to be “professional.” “I’m going to go get those drinks,” he said.
2
AMY PUSHED TO her feet and walked to the rail of the porch, staring out at the water. The sun was dropping closer to the horizon and the sunset colors painted the sky in a blaze of orange and pink.
He lived in paradise, she mused. Though the cottage, or bach as he called it, was small, the location couldn’t be beat. But then, Mal probably took stunning scenery for granted.
Her thoughts returned to his comment at the bar, the sideways compliment he’d given