A Touch of Spring (3 page)

They were like fire and ice. Some dark part of her had known it from the first time they had met in Paris. Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t fight this thing between them any longer. For the first time in twenty-four hours, Roz stopped running and gave herself up to the inevitable.

As if she weighed nothing, Andy lifted her in his arms and headed for the bed. While he walked, he pressed a hard ruthless kiss onto her open mouth, making her squirm to get a little closer, to increase the teasing pressure. How did the man do this to her?

He raised his head, smiling a pure conquering smile. “You're so responsive. I bet you are wet right now.”

He was right, she realised, and something clicked.

She couldn’t do this. It didn't matter that Andy McTavish was a walking talking female fantasy. That he had a body cover models would kill for. That his abs, now pressed against her side, were rock-hard and defined. That his eyes were a seductive combination of intelligence and warmth which melted her insides. That the arms holding her made her feel safer than she had ever felt in her life.

He was not hers. Hell, she had only met him twice in her life before. That day in Paris had given her many views of his spectacularly fine ass but they had barely exchanged ten words. And in the hospital, she had discovered that he could kiss like a dream. And that he could lie with a totally straight face. He had been so convincing when he told the doctors that he was her husband that for one wild moment she had almost believed it herself.

Roz was the first to acknowledge that she was no saint. She knew that the only way she was going to get into heaven was to con St Peter into doing a few prop bets. She wasn't proud of it, and she swore that she would change and go straight, just as soon as she got her life sorted out. But there were some things she did not do.

And they included fucking men she didn't know, and stealing another woman's man.

She jerked herself out of his grip, and was pleased to land solidly on her feet. Her balance was getting better. “Sorry, Irish, but I'm calling time on our little interlude.”

Roz was tempted to grin at the shocked expression on his face, if only a nasty little niggle wasn't making her wonder if she had just make a colossal mistake.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded.

“Apart from the headache, massive collection of bruises, lack of memory and a few crop marks? Not a thing, which is why I am calling it a day before we do something that we both regret. Or have you forgotten Frau Campbell?”

“Who?” He looked genuinely blank.

“Your other woman.”

He took a step closer to her. “There is no other woman.”

Roz gestured to the wardrobe full of clothes. “Then you kept your cross-dressing habit a really big secret. I'd admire you more if you just told the truth.”

Andy clenched his fists, as if he were fighting to keep from grabbing her. “How often do I have to tell you? Frau Campbell is you. You're my wife. We're married.”

The pang of longing that shot through her almost brought her to her knees, but she wasn't going to give in. Damn it, she had her standards, and she would not be lied to. She held out her ring-less left hand.

“Oh yeah? Good try. You almost fooled me.”

Andy took her hand in both of his, and the touch of his careful fingers was shattering. He turned it over, feeling the spot where a wedding ring would have been. “They must have taken it off in the hospital. You have one that matches mine.”

He held his hand up, displaying a rose-gold ring on his third finger. “Look at the engraving.” He tugged at it, trying to get it off.

Roz backed away. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He was married. Andy McTavish was married. No, it wasn't possible. She had almost made love with a married man. She stumbled, sick to her stomach.

She had to get out of here. Roz picked up the abandoned woollen tunic and pulled it over her head. Ignoring his order to stop, she grabbed her jacket and dashed for the door. Bile rose in her throat and she held her hand against her mouth to prevent the crepes spewing up all over the fur rug.

“Roz, stop,” Andy called when he realised she was leaving. He snatched up his shirt and was shrugging into it when the sound of a Tardis stopped him. “Roz, wait.”

She slammed the heavy door of his suite and ran down the corridor, trying desperately not to cry.

Fuck him, he wasn’t the first married man who had made a play for her, but he was the first who had made her want to give in. Even now, even knowing he was a liar, with a wife at home who had no idea he was screwing around with Frau Campbell, she wanted to go back and climb into that bed. She wanted to lick her way down his body and reduce him to a stuttering boneless puddle of lust.

Roz headed for the stairs, flying down them four at a time and it wasn't fast enough. An elderly man blocked her escape route, so she gripped the banister and allowed herself to tip over to the rail below. He gasped but she kept going, moving as fast as possible until she reached the ground floor.

She could hear Andy running behind her, his steps loud even on the carpeted marble. The vast foyer of the hotel looked endless. Would she be able to get away before he caught her?

From the corner of her eye, she saw a door opening and a dozen skiers in gaudy jackets poured into the lobby, laughing about the amazing day they had spent on the slopes.

That must be the way to the ski room. Roz ducked in through the crowd, wiggling her way between them, and flew down the wooden steps. She ignored the skiers still struggling to get out of snow-covered ski boots and smiled at the sight of the open door leading outside.

Her escape route.

Stepping onto melted snow made her realise that she was still in stocking feet. She had left her boots and ski poles upstairs, so she grabbed a pair of snowboarding boots and shoved her feet into them. They were three sizes too big for her, but at least they were warm.

Roz climbed the rubber-matted slope that bought her to the side of the hotel, and headed to the street. She risked a glance over her shoulder – was that Andy on the other side of the hotel doors?

She dashed up the steps of the Catholic Church and stepped inside. The interior was all high gothic and dark seats, with a golden altar that belonged in a museum, and a ceiling painted with a modern version of the seven deadly sins.

Roz stared up at the skeleton grinning at her from a TV screen and wondered how many sins she had committed? An elderly nun puttered around on the altar, changing candles and watering flowers, but she didn’t bother Roz.

She had no idea how long she sat there before the dimming of the light told her that night was drawing in. It was time to leave.

She stepped outside – and felt an arm tighten around her neck.

“Hello, Red. Fancy meeting you here. Now, where the hell is my painting?”

Gorev. Oh, fuck!

She wriggled in his grasp, trying to get free until the hard point jammed into her side told her that he was armed. Roz stopped struggling.

“Good girl,” Vadim said. “We don’t want to cause a scene, do we? Someone might get hurt.”

The nun emerged from the dim interior, the keys to the church jangling on her belt.

“Gutten abend,” she greeted them with a smile as she locked the door. Any urge Roz had to shout for help, died in her throat. She had seen what Gorev was capable of. He would have no problem killing the grey-haired nun where she stood. Roz couldn’t be responsible for that.

Roz nodded politely and allowed Gorev to walk her up the street toward the mountains and out of Zermatt.

Where was he taking her? Was he going to kill her? The questions buzzed inside her head like a hive of angry bees. Why hadn’t she stayed at the hotel with Andy? She would have been safe there. Or maybe he would have hurt Andy.

“This way.” Gorev nudged her towards an old chalet. Unlocking the door, he shoved her inside. Roz stumbled and fell to her knees.

“Take off your boots,” he ordered.

Somehow, she knew that it wasn’t because he was worried about dirtying the polished wooden floor. She obeyed quickly and handed the boots over. She wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.

“Inside.” He gestured to the kitchen.

Roz glanced at the knife block on the counter and winced. The lethal selection of Victorinox kitchen knives made her feel ill.

Gorev dragged a straight-backed chair into the middle of the room and pushed Roz onto it. A rope was tied around her body, holding her in place. This was going to be bad.

“Where is the painting?” he demanded.

She tried for levity. “Aren’t you going to offer me coffee first?”

The blow that struck her the cheek made her head jerk back.

His eyes narrowed. “Let me tell you how this is going to be, Red. I will ask the questions and you will answer them. Otherwise there will be pain. A lot of pain. Do you understand?”

Roz swallowed hard before nodding.

“Good.” He rubbed his hands together, warming them up. “Let us begin. Where is my painting?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

He raised his fist to strike her again.

“Please. I don’t know. You have to believe me. I hit my head during the avalanche. I don’t remember anything.”

“What a pity,” he said, without a trace of sympathy and hit her again.

Roz lost track of time. The same questions over and over, interspersed with blows to her face and abdomen. A splash of cold water against her bruised flesh told her that pretending to black out hadn’t worked.

Gorev tugged on her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Can’t damage the goods too much or maybe he won’t want you back.”

Who was he talking about? Who wouldn’t want her back?

He pulled his phone from his pocket and punched in a number. “Give me the Matterhorn suite.”

He drummed his fingers on the table top while he waited for the connection. Not a good sign.

“You know who this is. I have Red. Bring me the painting or I’ll kill her. I’ll phone you in the morning with instructions.”

Roz could have sworn that she heard Andy’s Irish burr in response. Fuck. Andy couldn’t possibly know where the painting was. He had only tracked her down at the hospital. The Van Gogh had been stolen before then.

“Do you take me for a fool?” Gorev snapped. “The painting is missing and Red is in town. You will find it.”

Without warning, Gorev struck her again and she cried out. Knowing that Andy must have heard her scream only added to her misery.

“I think we understand each other,” Gorev said quietly into the receiver. “Get it or Red dies.”

Gorev untied her and dragged her to her feet. Roz stumbled as he pushed her along the hallway and up the steep wooden staircase. The doorway at the end of the corridor must have been a teenager’s room. Posters of One Direction hung over the bed. Oh great - her last night on Earth and she got to spend it with Harry Styles.

Gorev shoved her onto the single bed. Roz waited until she heard the door being locked and the sound of his footsteps on the stairs before she rolled onto the floor. A glimpse of her face in the mirror made her wince.

Gorev had added to the bruises she had collected in the avalanche. Despite her aches and pains, she carried out a quick search of the room. Roz checked the window. She was on the first floor and there was quite a drop and the ground dropped away from the chalet steeply. Impossible for most people, but she had done harder stunts than this, and without an airbag. She would manage, but she needed footwear or she would freeze.

The shoes in the wardrobe and beneath the bed were all too small for her, but she found some thick socks and pulled them on. They would have to do. With a last glance around the room, Roz climbed onto the window ledge and dropped into the snow.

The ground hurtled towards her at alarming speed. She hit the earth and rolled. It was a textbook landing, the snow almost making up for the lack of an airbag, but it was icy cold. Roz lay panting on the ground for endless seconds, not quite believing that she was free. Now she had to find Andy.

She headed for the road. Someone would help her. In the distance she heard the sound of a skidoo. The small snowmobiles were popular in Zermatt. Sliding on the snow, Roz stumbled into the middle of the road and waved her arms at the approaching vehicle. “Stop. Please stop.”

The vehicle skidded to a halt and the female driver pulled off her helmet. “Frau Campbell, what are you doing here?”

Roz wanted to scream her relief. It was the receptionist from the hotel. “Oh, thank god. I’ve been kidnapped. Can you give me a ride?”

“Of course.” She nodded. With typical Swiss efficiency, she produced a spare helmet and insisted that Roz put it on.

Relief washed over her as the skidoo started up again, the sound of the engine loud on the quiet lane. When she realized they were heading in the direction of the chalet, Roz tapped her on the shoulder. “We’re going the wrong way.”

“Short cut,” the receptionist said and Roz relaxed a little. The woman lived in Zermatt; she knew where she was going.

Up ahead a parka-clad figure stepped out on the road. No. it couldn’t be. “Don’t stop. Keep going,” Roz shouted.

The woman ignored her, pulling to a halt beside Vadim Gorev. “You idiot,” she snarled at him. “She almost got away.”

Despite her struggles, they bundled Roz inside the chalet once more and up the stairs to her room. Harry Styles grinned down at her from the wall as they tied her to the wooden bed frame.