difficult to read his intentions. He’d been on a glacier for the past month with a bunch of guys. He’d rubbed her calf and now he was getting them both a drink.
But if Amy knew only one thing about being a reporter, it was that you didn’t sleep with the subject of your story. She had to maintain professional objectivity, and she couldn’t do that if she was constantly undressing Mal Quinn in her mind.
She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, the images floating through her head. There had been a number of men in her life, but they’d all been rather ordinary—an accountant, a lawyer and the owner of a bookstore. Not the kind of guys who hung off the sides of mountains for a living. They didn’t even venture outside when it was raining.
Mal Quinn was a passionate man. And someone who lived his life on the edge would certainly bring that same intensity to the bedroom. A shiver skittered down her spine at the idea of the two of them together. There was a bed inside his cottage, probably just ten or fifteen short steps away.
The door opened and Mal stepped out onto the porch, a bottle and two tumblers in his hands. He held a glass out to her and then poured a small measure of whiskey into it. After he poured himself a drink, he sat down in the chair next to hers.
They sat silently for a long time, staring out at the sunset. Amy was afraid to talk, sensing that he was still considering her offer to be featured in the magazine. Or was he considering something else? Maybe he was undressing her in his head.
Amy winced inwardly. She didn’t spend a lot of time working out or watching her diet. He was probably used to women who could free-climb a rock wall or trek to the South Pole. There were days when she could barely make it from the subway to her office without complete exhaustion.
“This is a beautiful country,” she said. “Everything is so...wild. Untamed. Unspoiled—”
“I’m not going to do your story,” Mal said. “I can’t.”
“Someone is going to write about this,” she said. “With me, you could get your story out there the way you want it to be told.”
Mal shook his head. “It took my mum a year to make it through the day without crying. I’m not going to make her relive that time. You can write what you want to write, but without me or my brothers.”
“Without you, there’s no story,” Amy murmured.
“You’re not going to write anything?”
Amy shook her head. “I know good stories, and that wouldn’t be a good story. I wanted to write about your father and the aftereffects of the tragedy that took his life.” She shrugged. “I understand that wouldn’t be easy for you.”
She didn’t want to give up, but Amy saw the pain in his expression. The emotions were still raw, the wounds unhealed even after twenty years. She was sure in her heart she could tell their story the right way, putting aside the sensational and focusing on the human element. But if he wasn’t going to participate, what was the point?
Amy pushed to her feet. “I should probably go. I can’t afford to miss any more work.”
“Isn’t this your work?”
She didn’t want to admit the truth to him, but then again, what difference did it make now? “I was hoping if I got this story, I could convince my father to mount an expedition to Everest for you and your brothers.”
He gasped, then looked away. Gulping down the last of his whiskey, Mal sat silently for a long moment. Amy waited, wondering if the revelation might change his mind. “I thought we’d do a series of articles. Profiles on all three of you, then we’d follow the preparations for the expedition. And then cover the expedition itself. I wanted to put a historical perspective on the story and show the way climbing Everest has changed in the past twenty years.”
“You have a lot of grand plans,” he said.
“I do,” Amy admitted.
Was he really considering her offer? Would the expedition change his mind? Amy knew she ought to tell him the truth, that an Everest trip wasn’t actually a firm part of the deal, but if she wanted this story, then she had to do everything in her power to make it happen. That was what a real journalist did.
“I’m still not going to do the story,” he said.
Frustration welled up inside her. So he’d decided to string her along and get her drunk. “Then I think I’ll go back to my hotel.” She walked down the porch steps, then realized that she didn’t have her car. And she wasn’t really sure how to get back to her hotel.
“Come on,” Mal said. “At least let me buy you dinner for your trouble. You came all the way to New Zealand.”
“You already bought me crisps and a beer. I’m good.”
Mal jogged down the steps and grabbed her hand. The physical contact sent a tremor through her body. When he leaned closer, she forgot to breathe. She realized she should put some distance between them. And yet she couldn’t seem to make herself move.
She wanted him to kiss her, to come away with that one singular experience. She’d consider her trip a mild success if she left with that memory. After all, this whole trip had been about expanding her horizons, about reaching for new goals.
“Can I take you out?” he asked. “I promise, I’ll show you a good time.”
She couldn’t help but smile. If he knew the kind of fun that she had in mind, he might not be so anxious to keep her around. Or maybe he would....
Glancing down at their hands, her fingers still caught up in his, Amy realized what she had to do. If she couldn’t have the story, then she’d satisfy herself with the man. Or at least a night out with him. Suddenly, the word adventure took on a whole new meaning.
“All right,” she said. “I am hungry.”
Mal gave her hand a squeeze, then pulled her along to the Range Rover. “A friend of mine has a burger place over on Bow Street. Do you like burgers? Of course you do, you’re American. You’re going to love this place.”
He opened the door and helped her into the truck. Amy watched as he jogged around to the driver’s side. He moved with such ease, as if he was in absolute control of every muscle in his body. What would it feel like to have that body beside her in bed? To be able to touch him at will?
As he slid in behind the wheel, she pushed the thought out of her head. She’d blown all of this entirely out of proportion. He’d touched her calf; he’d squeezed her hand. That didn’t mean he wanted to carry her into his bed and ravish her. It was Mal Quinn’s business to be charming and accommodating. They would have a fun meal, that was all.
She searched her mind for a topic of conversation. Now that he’d refused the article, she didn’t want to probe his past too deeply. She took a different tack. “Do you surf?”
“Yes,” he said. “After my father died, we moved up from the south island. My mum’s parents lived here and we lived with them at first. They ran a little restaurant.”
“Does your whole family still live here?”
“My grandparents have a place closer to Auckland now. The bach was theirs. They used to rent rooms out to visiting surfers. Now my brothers live there with me, although we’re rarely there together. And my younger sister also lives in town with a few friends. She used to live with us, but that didn’t really work out once she started bringing men home.”
“Your father was Australian. Do you ever see that side of the family?”
He glanced over at her. “You’ve done your research.”
She smiled. “I wanted to be prepared.”
“He was an only child and his mother passed away when he was thirteen. He never knew his father. He lived with foster families for a couple of years, then ran away when he was sixteen. He just wandered from adventure to adventure