Читать книгу The Mighty Quinns: Malcolm - Kate Hoffmann - Страница 10

1

IT WAS GOOD to be home.

Malcolm Quinn grabbed his duffel from the back of his battered Range Rover and hefted it over his shoulder with a groan. He’d left Greenland three days ago after leading a four-week expedition across the ice cap from east to west, following the Arctic Circle. After boarding a bush flight from Greenland to Iceland, he’d flown from Reykjavik to Copenhagen, then to Dubai, then to Sydney and finally landed in Auckland just that morning after two days in airports. The two-hour drive home to Raglan was the final leg of his trip, and now that he was home, he could finally relax.

To say he was knackered was an understatement. But it was the good kind of exhaustion that he only experienced after a successful expedition. His clients had been thrilled with the experience and were grateful he’d led them on a trip without a single serious hitch.

But it was nice to be able to walk around in a light jacket and shorts. It was early April, spring in the northern hemisphere. But in New Zealand, winter was on its way. Still, the weather felt balmy compared to the constant cold of the Arctic.

The offices for Maximum Adrenaline were located in a low-slung white clapboard building just outside the town limits. For a company that specialized in high adventure, the office was rather unremarkable, distinguished from other nearby businesses by just a small sign above the door. A porch spanned the front facade; weathered wooden furniture was scattered along the wide expanse.

As he slammed the hatch on the SUV, the front door opened and the family dog, Duffy, came bounding out, followed by Mal’s younger sister, Dana. “Hey, Duff, look at you. Hey, Dana.”

The black Lab was so excited he wasn’t sure what to do with himself, and when Mal squatted down, Duffy knocked him off his feet. He surrendered to a thorough tongue bath, laughing as the dog pinned him to the ground. When he finally was able to sit up, Duffy had stretched out across his lap, the dog’s subtle way of keeping him in one spot.

“I can’t move,” Mal said to his sister, “or I’d give you a hug.”

“Welcome home,” Dana said. “I expected you tomorrow.”

“I caught an earlier flight. Martin stayed with our gear to get it through customs. God, it’s good to be home.”

Duffy wriggled in his lap, nuzzling his wet nose under Mal’s chin. “Enough, Duff,” he said, struggling to his feet.

“He’s missed you,” Dana said.

“I’m sure he hasn’t thought of me since I left. Considering the way you baby him, you’re the only one he’d truly miss.”

“I’ve been taking him running every day. And he’s actually lost a bit of weight.”

Mal bent down and patted the dog on his flank. “Ugh, don’t talk about exercise. Right now, I need a stiff drink and a shower. And I’m not sure which I’ll have first. Then, I’m heading into town to kick back and get laid. And I’m not sure which will come first.”

It was an unwritten rule in the guiding business that you didn’t bonk the clients, no matter how attractive they might be. He had one job and one job only—to bring his clients home safely. Sex was a distraction from that responsibility, especially in extreme environments. He was also a bit superstitious. You didn’t disrespect the mountain gods.

That didn’t mean the trekkers and climbers didn’t have sex in their own tents, but Mal turned a blind eye and often made excuses when the locals were offended.

So from the time he left until the time he returned, he lived a celibate life. But when he got back to Raglan, Mal knew a handful of girls that were willing to provide a randy bloke with a night or two in bed, no strings attached. Raglan was a surf capital, a beach town with a plethora of pretty girls.

Though Mal and his brothers were considered attractive, there weren’t many women on the North Island who wanted to settle down with a guy who was gone ten months out of the year, no matter how good he was in the sack. Which was just fine by Mal. He’d never been interested in anything long-term. His life was pretty perfect the way it was. And he wasn’t prepared to alter it to make a woman happy—no matter how good she might be in bed.

Besides, he had his family’s business to keep afloat. Any time wasted on a woman was time he could put to better use building their clientele, getting publicity for Maximum Adrenaline and working out new trips to offer.

“Any important messages for me?” Mal asked his sister as he got up.

He strode toward the door, but Dana stayed glued to the spot at the base of the porch steps. Mal turned to motion to her, then saw the pained expression on her face. A sick fear clutched at his gut and he drew a sharp breath. Something was wrong. “What is it? Is it Ryan? Rogan?”

His younger brother was climbing Lhotse in the Himalayas with an Aussie film crew. And Ryan’s twin, Rogan, was in Alaska, doing a prep course for a Denali climb. Either trip had the potential for trouble. And then there were the other hundred or so guides that they employed on various expeditions throughout the year. “Who is it?”

“It’s Dad,” she murmured.

“Dad?” Their father had died twenty years ago this spring, somewhere near the summit of Mt. Everest. Mal had been ten, the twins seven and Dana only five.

His sister nodded, fighting back tears. “They found his body.”

Mal gasped. “When?”

“Three weeks ago. Gary Branbauer’s expedition. The snow cover has been light this year and as they were descending, they noticed a flash of color in the snow. It was him.”

“How do they know?” Mal asked.

“They took a photo and got a GPS bearing. Roger Innis confirmed it was the right location and gear. The news is out and the media has been calling. It’s been crazy.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” He and Dana had been in contact by satellite phone at least four or five times over the past three weeks. And he’d been a simple email away for the past two days.

“I decided to wait until you got home. I haven’t said anything to Ryan and Rogan either, although considering how the news is spreading, they’ll probably both hear about it before I can tell them in person.”

“Mum,” Mal said. “She knows?”

Dana nodded. “She’s a little upset over all the attention. They’ve been calling and wanting to talk to her, but so far she’s refused to comment. She’s coming to stay with me for the weekend.”

The media attention made sense. Maxwell Quinn had been one of the most renowned climbers of his generation and, in the early ’90s, only one of a handful of men who had completed the Seven Summits in less than a year. Max’s partner, Roger Innis, had used the media coverage after Max’s death to his advantage, claiming that Max had died trying to rescue a client. With all the publicity, Outbound Adventure had suddenly become a high-profile guiding company.

But because of a badly written business agreement, Lydie Quinn had been left with virtually nothing. All the business assets went to Innis, and though Max was supposed to have had a life insurance policy through the company, Innis had stopped paying the premiums a few months before the Everest expedition. So Lydie had been forced to sell their little house in Rotorua and move the family back to Auckland, where they’d lived with Mal’s grandparents.

Though they’d moved away from their childhood home, Max Quinn’s sons couldn’t forget his legacy. So they’d started their own adventure guiding business, the name a nod to their father—Maximum Adrenaline. In deference to their mother, they refused to return to Everest, but with only two eight-thousand-foot expeditions on their trip list, it had been hard to compete with Innis’s company.

The family’s relationship with Roger Innis became almost hostile when they became competitors, with Outbound Adventure doing all it could to win the battle for clients and reputation.

But Innis took chances, sometimes putting his clients at risk in order to get them to the top of a mountain. The Quinns were known to err on the side of caution, and for climbers who paid dearly to get to the summit, this was not always a popular choice. Nor was it flashy enough to get them the media coverage they needed to expand their business.

But they were getting it now, weren’t they?

Mal sat down on the front steps and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m not sure what to say.”

“Well, you’d better come up with something. We’re going to have to make a statement to the media at some point. I didn’t think it was my place, and Mum just refuses to talk about it.”

“All right. The next person who calls, have them ring my mobile and I’ll make a statement.”

“There’s something else,” she murmured.

“Please tell me the business is bankrupt or my house has burned to the ground. I’d be much more equipped to cope.”

“Innis announced that he’s going to mount an expedition to recover Dad’s effects.”

Mal felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach, his breath leaving him. “What the hell? Where does he get off? It’s his fault Dad is dead. Does he think he can make up for that by rescuing him now? He should have done his job twenty years ago.”

There had been whispers all those years ago, comments from other climbers about Innis’s reckless disregard for his partner’s safety. They’d said he’d made decisions that had directly contributed to Max Quinn’s death. But those had only been rumors; no one knew the real story except for Roger Innis and Mal’s father—and neither one of them was talking.

Dana wrapped her arm around Mal’s and leaned against him. “It’s just talk,” she said. “Publicity. You know how he is—he’ll use anything to get his business in the news. Just last month he had the cover story in High Adventure magazine for his Antarctica expedition.”

“The cover?” Mal cursed. “How the hell does he manage that?” Mal had been trying to get a feature in High Adventure for years. Mal was convinced the glossy American magazine was key to capturing more American clientele. “I suppose he’s hoping for another cover with this harebrained scheme of his. The bludger.”

“He can’t mount a trip to Everest until at least next spring, and even then, he’d have to get permits and shuffle his clients around. By then all the interest will have died down and—”

“He wants Dad’s journal,” Mal muttered. “He’s well aware Dad kept it in his climbing suit and he’s afraid of what might be written there. Innis has worked all these years to rebuild his reputation. He’s not going to let it all fall apart now.”

The sound of a phone ringing echoed from the office and Dana stood up. “Probably another reporter.”

“Do you want me to handle it?” Mal asked.

“No. You’re just home. You deserve a chance to relax a bit. I’ll tell them what I’ve been saying for three weeks. No comment. Although that seems to make them even more determined to get a quote.” She paused. “You know, maybe we should give an interview. All of us, Mum, too. The publicity couldn’t hurt. We could beat Innis at his own game.”

“Maybe,” he murmured.

“And High Adventure magazine has rung three times in the past few days. I told the girl you’d be back tomorrow. Maybe you should talk to her.”

A feature article about their father and the Quinn family business might finally bring them out of the shadow of Roger Innis. Especially if they mounted their own expedition. Maybe it was time they learned the truth about that week on Everest.

But did he really want to know? It wouldn’t change anything. His father would still be dead and he’d force his mother to relive the tragedy all over again. And he’d promised her that he and his brothers would never climb Everest. There were so many reasons not to go.

Yet Mal couldn’t help but wonder if learning the truth—his father’s truth—might not put to rest some of the pain he and his family had suffered. Could the answers be found in his father’s journal? Had he written his farewells there before he died on the mountain? There were so many unanswered questions.

“I’m going to go see Mum,” Mal said, pushing to his feet. “And then I’m going home to grab a shower and a drink, and maybe I’ll get myself a haircut.”

“What about the woman?” Dana asked with a wry smile.

“That might have to wait,” he murmured.

Mal gave Duff a rough pet and the dog trotted beside him to the Range Rover. “You want me to take him?”

“No, I’ll keep him.”

He waved at his sister, Duffy at her side, as he drove out to the main road. Life had always been pretty uncomplicated for Mal and he liked it that way. But the reality of their business problems was beginning to weigh on him. There was never extra money; he could barely afford to make rent from month to month. When finances were tight, he bought new equipment instead of food and ate expired rations from their expedition stockpile.

He reached into his pocket and grabbed the wad of cash that he had left over from the client tips he and the other guides had divided amongst themselves. He’d take enough for a single night out. The rest would have to go to pay the bills.

“I’d better make it a bloody good night,” he muttered. “I’ve had enough of living like a damn monk.”

* * *

“HEY, BILLY FINSTER! Set me up with a pint and make it quick. I’ve got myself a powerful thirst!”

The shout echoed through the empty pub and Amy Engalls looked up from her laptop at the tall, lanky man who strode up to the bar. His hair was shaggy and he wore a well-worn T-shirt and faded jeans. The cap on his head was turned backward and his eyes were hidden by a pair of bright blue sunglasses.

He glanced around and his eyes lingered on her for a long moment. Amy grabbed a quick breath and held it. Was this Malcolm Quinn? He wasn’t due back until tomorrow, but she’d studied the photos and it could be him. Word around town was that he and his brothers hung out at Brawley’s Pub near his place on the beach. So she’d decided to stake it out. When he turned away, she quickly pulled a file folder from her bag and searched for a reference.

Her breath slowly escaped as she stared down at the handsome face in the photo, then compared it to the profile of the man at the bar.

An instant later, the barkeeper burst through the swinging kitchen door and confirmed her suspicions. “Mal Quinn, you old dog. I was wonderin’ when you’d roll back in. Where was it you were?”

“Greenland,” Mal said as he slid onto a stool.

The barkeeper drew him a glass of beer and set the pint in front of him. “Bloody hell, what’s in Greenland?”

Mal took off his sunglasses and tossed them on the bar. “Lots of ice. And snow and cold.”

“Any pretty girls?”

Mal laughed. “Not that I saw. The whole expedition was blokes. Not a woman for miles.”

Billy nodded, then slapped his hands on the worn wood surface of the bar. “At that is exactly the reason why you’ll never find me out there, trudging up some mountainside or walking across some bloody glacier. I can’t do without female companionship. And they can’t do without me.”

“You can’t do without your smokes and Foster’s for more than a day,” Mal teased. “It’s hard yakka out there. Not for a piker like you.”

The barkeeper frowned, then patted his stomach. “I could get in shape for it. Give up the ale and the cigs. You could put me with a group of ladies and I’d keep them all entertained.”

Amy listened as they exchanged jibes, silently taking in Mal’s appearance. How would she describe him in her story? Tall, graceful, fit. He was thin but muscular, broad shouldered and narrow hipped. His dark hair was long and shaggy and streaked by the sun, and his tanned face was shadowed by the stubble of a beard.

He was, by all accounts, one of the most gorgeous men she’d ever seen. The pictures she had didn’t come close to conveying the energy that surrounded him. He was powerful and focused, even in casual conversation. Here was a man who lived life to the fullest, a man who wasn’t afraid of danger. A man she wanted.

She shifted uneasily, surprised by the depth of her attraction to him. It wasn’t just his looks. It was something deeper, more perplexing. Maybe she admired his courage because she had never had much of her own. She’d spent her entire life accepting what was tossed her way and had never really stood up for herself.

Until now, she hoped. She was here to change the course of her life. And she wasn’t about to let opportunity slip by, even if it meant approaching an impossibly sexy man and convincing him to do something he wouldn’t want to do.

A phone rang and Billy moved to the end of the bar to answer it. Amy continued to observe Mal Quinn from her spot at her table, wondering how she ought to introduce herself. Should she take the initiative now, or wait until tomorrow? What if she didn’t get another chance?

She’d worked as a copy editor for High Adventure magazine for the past six years, hoping for her big break into feature writing. But most of the feature writers were adventurers themselves, out in the world, doing daring deeds and living to tell their tales. She was just an ordinary girl who could write a really good story. An ordinary girl who just happened to be the publisher’s daughter.

Amy had never wanted to write for an adventure magazine. In truth, she would have been happy working at any one of the numerous women’s publications that her father owned. But with her father’s twisted sense of purpose, he’d put an impossible goal in front of her and challenged her to meet it, all the while assuming she’d fail. That was the way it had always been with Richard Engalls. He wanted his children to prove they were worthy of his valuable attention. Her brother had been a model student and was an adventurer himself. But Amy didn’t seem to possess the Engalls backbone. She was her mother’s daughter, still scarred by her parents’ divorce when she was thirteen, still hoping that her father might notice her and approve.

Which was why she was here. Amy knew a good story when she read one. And just because she’d never been on a big adventure didn’t mean she couldn’t write an adventure story, did it? For the first time in her life, she’d show her father that she had what it took to succeed in publishing. She’d cashed in her savings and wagered it on one bet—that she could land a feature with the Quinn brothers. She’d follow their journey, documenting the story of the three Quinn brothers in regular articles. It had everything her editor looked for in a feature—conflict, emotion, a high-profile location and adventurers with personality.

Her editor had scoffed at the notion that Amy could get an exclusive and convince her father to fund the expedition. But beneath his bluster, she could tell the editor had found her idea intriguing, and she didn’t doubt that he’d go to her father at the first available opportunity and ask for the story himself. But Amy was one step ahead of both of them. She took her two weeks of vacation and, after checking Mal Quinn’s online itinerary, bought a plane ticket from New York to Auckland.

Gathering her courage, she pushed her chair back and walked to the bar. She’d order something to eat and maybe strike up a conversation with Mal. She’d almost reached a spot beside him when his mobile rang. He fished it out of his pocket and then slid off the stool and walked to the front door, stepping out into the afternoon sunshine.

Amy groaned inwardly. She was no good at this. Give her a manuscript and she could make it pulse with excitement. She was better with words than people, and she’d never been comfortable talking to strangers. And now, because of her dithering, she’d lost her chance. Mal Quinn had walked out the door. What if he didn’t come back? Even worse, what if he did?

Talking to a handsome, sexy man wasn’t exactly her forte. Her palms sweated and her heart pounded in her chest and every rational thought just slipped out of her head. It was a wonder she’d managed to have relationships at all. She had, though they were never anything she wanted to make permanent.

When Billy the barkeeper returned from his phone call, Amy slid onto a stool.

“What can I get you, darlin’?” he asked. “Another diet cola?”

“I—I thought I’d have something to eat. Do you have any specials today?”

“Bangers and mash, mussels in cream sauce and a crispy salmon patty. The soup is a crab chowder. The kitchen opens for supper in another half hour. I can probably scratch up a sammie for you or some potato fries if you can’t wait.”

“I’ll just have a bag of crisps,” Amy said. “And a beer. Whatever you have on tap.”

She needed the drink. Diet cola wasn’t going to give her any courage at all. It only made her jittery. She drew a deep breath, then heard the door open behind her. Afraid to look, Amy tried to appear nonchalant.

Billy brought her the beer and crisps. “That’ll be six dollars.”

“I’ll get it.”

She froze as she heard his voice behind her. Slowly, Amy turned, and her gaze met his. Oh, hell, he was even more handsome close up. He had that rugged, outdoorsy thing going on. The kind of man that just oozed masculinity. He probably smelled like fresh air and soap and woodsmoke.

Amy wanted to speak, but she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. She gulped some air and felt the blood rush to her head as he came closer. Oh, he did smell good. But like cologne, subtle and musky.

Was she supposed to accept his gesture? Was that why he was regarding her so strangely? “I—I have money,” Amy finally managed to say.

“So do I,” he said with a crooked smile. “I’m just back from a month away and I’ve got tips burning a hole in my pocket. I reckoned I’d buy the house a drink.”

“There’s only two of us here,” she said.

He leaned closer. “I know. The perfect plan, don’t you think?”

“Thank you,” she murmured, grabbing her beer and crisps. “And—and welcome home.”

She hurried back to her table, needing just a moment to regroup. All right, he was handsome and very charming. And that smile was enough to melt any woman’s resistance. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t act like a professional.

Amy fixed her attention on her computer screen, afraid to risk another glance. The problem was, she really wasn’t a professional journalist. She knew exactly what made for a perfect story, she could even write a perfect story. She’d just never gone out and found a story. There were probably all sorts of tricks that journalists used to get their subject to confess all their deepest secrets. She just had no idea what those tricks were. She’d been more worried about beating her father and her editor to the story than to research journalistic practices.

Should she introduce herself right off the bat or should she get friendly with him first and ease her way into an interview? Maybe she could just get him to talk about his work or his family and he wouldn’t even realize she was interviewing him. Was that ethical? Probably not, but it might be the only way she could get what she needed.

“So what are you staring at? You seem awfully intent on that screen. Let me guess. Porn?”

Amy froze, then slowly looked up. “No, not porn. It’s my work computer. I can’t watch porn on my work computer. That would be against the rules.”

“Do you always follow the rules, then?”

“I—I try to,” Amy murmured. Mal pulled out the chair across from her, turned it around and straddled the seat. He rested his arm across the back and took a slow sip of his beer. “Go ahead. Carry on. I don’t want to interrupt your work.”

Amy’s heart slammed in her chest as she refocused on the screen in front of her. Here he was, ready to talk. Now she just had to keep up her end of the conversation. “Thank you for the drink—and the crisps.” She glanced up to find him grinning at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” Malcolm replied. “I’m just enjoying the view.”

She scanned the room. “I—I don’t understand.” Then she realized he was talking about her. Amy’s face flushed with embarrassment.

“I haven’t seen a beautiful woman in a month, so I’m just going to sit here and stare at you, if you don’t mind. I’ll try not to bother you.”

Pretty? Did he really think she was pretty? She’d never really applied that term to herself. She wasn’t unattractive, just...ordinary.

“You must have been gone longer than a month if you think I’m pretty,” she murmured, unable to keep herself from returning the smile.

“Aw, now, don’t say that. You’re lovely.”

She glanced around the pub. “I don’t have much competition,” she countered.

“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.