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—”
“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
