had phoned his office and suggested meeting for lunch at their favourite downtown café. ‘Do you think that’s wise when you’re just getting over the flu?’
‘Mountain air’s healthy, they say. And there’s a special deal going at Whakapapa, with accommodation at the Chateau.’
‘Well, at least you’d be comfortable, in a decent hotel.’
More than decent, Katrien thought. The wonderful old hotel offered luxury on the ski fields. ‘With all the rumbling Mount Ruapehu’s been doing in the last couple of seasons, I guess they have to get as many people down there as they can.’ The volcano had created havoc by spreading ash on the snow and many tourists had been frightened away by the danger of eruptions, although others had enjoyed the thrill of watching the mountain throw fire and rocks into the sky. The ski fields had not opened on schedule and the operators had lost a lot of money.
‘You’ll get cold and wet,’ Callum fussed. ‘Suppose you have a relapse?’
‘I’ll be careful, and with the proper gear I won’t get cold—or wet.’
‘I wish I could come with you, but the bank wouldn’t look kindly on a request for leave right now.’ He was a senior bank executive and his job was much too important for him to go on holiday at a moment’s notice.
‘I wish you could come too,’ Katrien assured him, disturbed to find that it was a lie. ‘But you don’t ski, and it’s only for a week. You’ll hardly know I’m gone.’
‘Not true. I’ll miss you every day.’
Katrien gave him an absent smile. ‘That’s sweet. I’ll miss you too.’ Surely it was the aftermath of her illness that had caused this odd lethargy of her emotions. When she was really over it the warm, loving feelings would come back. She reached out for his hand and his fingers closed around hers. ‘I love you,’ she murmured.
His clasp tightened and a flush came into his cheeks. He raised her hand to his face and pressed his lips into her palm. His voice muffled, he said, ‘And I love you!’
Her heart contracted, shrinking. Gooseflesh chilled her arms. She looked away, and was relieved when Callum lowered their joined hands to the table. Feeling guilty and bothered, she let her fingers lie slackly in his grasp. ‘I’ve already made a booking,’ she told him. ‘I leave tomorrow morning.’
‘That…’ He cleared his throat. ‘That was quick.’
‘Once I’d made up my mind—’ Katrien shrugged.
‘Yes, well… You’ll be packing tonight, then?’
Katrien forced herself to look at him regretfully, apologetically. ‘I’ve got a lot to do.’
‘When you get back…’ Callum smiled hopefully.
‘I’ll be fully recovered then,’ she promised. ‘As soon as I’m home I’ll let you know.’
The ski slopes were magnificent, the snow glinting like spun sugar in the wintry sun. Tiny figures zigzagged down the mountain, far below the adzed peaks veiled in snow and a drift of lazy cloud.
Looking forward to joining them, Katrien idled up the slope in the chairlift, the cold air numbing her nose even as the sun warmed her cheeks. She raised her eyes to the mountain top, and found herself speculating on what drove men like Zachary Ballantine. Going up with the object of skiing down again with the wind in her face and the snow sliding away beneath her skis was one thing. Climbing laboriously over sheer rock faces and across treacherous ice fields and skirting hidden crevasses with the sole aim of reaching the top was another, totally alien concept.
Her first skiing lesson had been during a photo shoot for a travel magazine. She’d been playing the part of a beginner—and played it convincingly because she was. Later she’d paid for more lessons, partly because she’d found it enjoyable and a challenge, and partly because she figured it might be a useful skill to add to her portfolio, just as it was handy to be able to sit on a horse without falling off. It had paid off. She’d gained a couple of assignments modelling winter sportswear on the strength of her ability to provide genuine action shots on skis.
The chairlift deposited her at the intermediate slope, a level at which she was quite confident now.
The snow was already crisscrossed with the marks of those who had gone before her. As she adjusted her goggles and took off, someone far below in a red jacket wavered, fell and landed in a flurry of snow, then picked themselves up again. The snow swished under her skis as she gathered momentum, her knees bent, her body perfectly balanced, the stretchy fabric of her bright pink body-hugging ski pants allowing her freedom of movement.
By the time she’d made the run a few times she was exhilarated. She’d taken a tumble once but had landed unhurt and untangled herself to complete the course with ease. The rest of the time she’d skied smoothly and well.
On her last run of the day down the milky incline, she saw a blur of dark blue and bright yellow to one side as another skier swooped past.
A man, slim-hipped, broad-shouldered, and skiing with such speed and grace that she couldn’t help but admire his style. Surely he belonged on the uppermost slopes where the real experts hung out.
When she reached the end of the run she found herself looking around for him, but there was no blue and yellow ski suit in sight. She caught a bus back to the hotel and had an early meal and a leisurely hot soak, gave her skin a thorough moisturising treatment to combat the effects of sun and wind, and retired to her bed with a book, later slipping into a dreamless sleep.
The next day she decided to go to the third level and think about testing herself out on it. If the run looked too difficult on close inspection she could ride down again to the familiar, less difficult slopes.
The summit appeared much nearer from where the chairlift left her this time. Today no cloud obscured the peak, and there was no sign of its recent volcanic activity. It looked remote and beautiful and unattainable. She remembered that in Maori legend the mountain was a woman, squabbled over by her jealous lovers, the other mountains nearby. One, Taranaki, had retired in dudgeon to the coast and now reigned there in splendid isolation. His rival Tongariro remained nearby, occasionally huffing and puffing his displeasure in clouds of volcanic steam.
Katrien watched a couple of skiers take off and gather speed while she stood by, still a little uncertain.
Deciding to have a cup of coffee first, she turned away from the ski field to the nearby café, leaving her skis with all the others leaning against the building before going in.
She was sipping coffee and contemplating the ski run when she heard the voice. ‘Thanks a lot.’
That was all, but it brought her head whipping round, in time to see the back of a blue-and-yellow-clad figure disappear through the doorway. Tall, dark-haired.
No, she told herself. You’re imagining things.
But she had hastily clattered her half-finished cup of coffee back into its saucer and was on her way to the door before she even realised what she was doing.
She’d look silly retracing her steps, so she kept walking out onto the deck.
He was bent over, doing up the buckles on his boots. She watched fatalistically
