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“Well, I happen to be a very good judge of beauty. I’ve seen some of the most beautiful places in the world. So trust me on this.”
“Thank you,” Amy said. “For the crisps and the compliment.”
“I’m Mal Quinn, by the way,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Nice to meet you,” Amy said.
A long silence fell between them as she tried to decide what to do. In the end, she didn’t have a choice, the introduction just came out. “I’m Amy Engalls. I’m a reporter from High Adventure magazine and I’ve come here to interview you.”
She quickly grabbed his hand and shook it, then held on tight, hoping that he wouldn’t get up and walk out the door.
He studied her silently, as if he needed time to form a response. “Well, I certainly didn’t expect that.” Mal slowly got to his feet. “I suppose you want a quote. I’ll make it quick and painless. No comment.”
He pulled out of her grasp and headed toward the door. Amy hurried after him. “Wait. I’m sorry. Let me explain.”
“No explanation necessary,” he muttered. “Billy, it was nice seeing you again.”
The barkeeper watched them, confused. “You goin’ already, Mal?”
“Yeah. The place is a little quiet for my tastes right now. I’ll be back later.” He set his glass on the bar and walked out.
Amy looked at Billy and groaned. “I’m sorry,” she called.
“What the hell did you say to him?” Billy asked.
“No comment.” She hurried over to her table and gathered her things, hoping she could catch up to him. A real reporter wouldn’t give up her story without a fight, and neither would Amy.
* * *
THE MOMENT MAL got outside the pub, he let out a long string of profanities. He’d realized he’d have to deal with this sooner or later, but he hadn’t expected it this soon. What the hell was a reporter doing here, in his hometown? The story must be much bigger than he’d ever assumed.
And how the hell was he supposed to react? He and his family had dealt with the loss for nearly twenty years now, and yet the pain hadn’t dulled at all. There were still the “what ifs,” all the possible scenarios that could have unfolded that day on the mountain that could have resulted in a different outcome. Those were the worst.
What might it have been like to grow up with a father? It wasn’t as if his childhood had been bad. There’d just been a huge, gaping hole in his family that Max Quinn should have filled. How was he supposed to explain these things to a total stranger? This wasn’t about some frozen body on Mount Everest. This was about his father.
“Mr. Quinn!”
He spun around to find the reporter running toward him. In the next instant, she stumbled over a crack in the pavement and before he could reach to help her, she went down, face-first. “Oh, hell,” Mal muttered, racing to her side.
By the time he got to her, she had managed to sit up, but both her knees were scraped and bleeding and her computer was in pieces around her. “Oh, no,” she said, picking up the shattered bits of plastic.
“Are you all right? Did you hit your head?”
She reached up and touched her forehead. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Anything broken? Does it hurt anywhere?”
“Just my pride,” she said, wincing.
He met her eyes and his anger softened. She was only trying to do her job. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so rude. “Can you stand?”
She nodded her head. He took her hand and helped her to her feet. “Thank you.”
“What’s your name again?”
“Amy Engalls.”
“Amy Engalls from High Adventure,” Mal said. “Any relation to Richard Engalls, the publisher?”
“He’s my father,” she said.
“And that would make David Engalls your brother?”
“Yes,” she said.
Richard Engalls had built his media empire, in part, to fund his love of adventure. He’d circumnavigated the globe in a balloon, had attempted to row across the Atlantic, and had climbed all Seven Summits. He’d also funded a number of expeditions and was the go-to investor in adventure expeditions after the National Geographic Society. Mal had also met David Engalls, the younger version of his father, who was very good at spending millions of Daddy’s money on his own exotic adventures. Mal’s opinion of David was that he was a horse’s arse—but a very wealthy horse’s arse. Mal had never known there was a daughter involved in the business, as well.
He reached down to brush the dust off her skirt, moving to a spot on her backside before he realized what he was doing. She had a very nice bum, as bums went. In fact, there wasn’t much about Amy Engalls that he found unattractive—beyond her profession. “Come on. Let’s get those scrapes fixed. I live just down the road. I’ve got antiseptic and bandages.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said.
“If I were you, Amy Engalls, I’d accept my offer. And while I’m bandaging your knees, you can try to get a comment out of me.”
This brought a smile to her pretty face. “All right.”
He picked up the pieces of her computer and then led her to the Range Rover. She groaned in pain as he helped her climb up into the passenger seat. Mal jogged around to his side and hopped in, then started the car.
As they headed out of town, he glanced over at her. She was pretty. Not overblown gorgeous, but cute in a clean, girl-next-door way. Her pale hair fell in waves around her face, framing eyes that were an odd mix of green and blue. Although none of her features were particularly striking, when put together, they made a face that he found very pleasant to 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 her. Mal Quinn had said she was pretty. What did that mean? She knew how it felt. An odd anticipation had settled over her, as if she was waiting for something she wasn’t sure she wanted.
It wasn’t 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—”
