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The Right Mr. Wrong
Cindi Myers
MILLS & BOON
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For the people of Crested Butte Mountain Resort.
Thank you.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
Chapter One
Love and skiing don’t mix. Maddie Alexander recalled this advice, given to her once by an older, cynical colleague, as she stood outside a ski patroller’s shack at Crested Butte Mountain Resort and watched an accident in the making. A blonde in a pink jacket was trying to get the attention of a dark-haired guy on twin-tip skis. The sunny day and mild-for-January temperatures had brought out the crowds, including lots of students from nearby Western State College who were still on their winter break. They congregated at the tops of the lifts, checking each other out, enjoying the bright Colorado sun and plentiful snow.
The blonde was so busy eyeing the hunky guy across the slope she neglected to pay attention to where she was skiing. She veered into the mogul field off balance, flailed wildly, caught air as she sailed over a steep bump, and came down in an ungainly heap, while the object of her affections skied on ahead, oblivious.
Memories of other accidents she’d witnessed running through her head, Maddie felt her heart race. The worst situations could start so simply; one minute everything was fine, the next the whole world was full of pain and regret. She clicked into her skis and sped down to the woman, who was lying on her back, moaning. “Are you okay?” Maddie asked.
“My knee.” The blonde tried to sit up, then flopped back, anguish contorting her pretty features. “I think I tore up my knee.” She uttered a few choice curses, then reverted to moaning.
The blonde’s leg was twisted beneath her. Maddie clicked out of her skis and planted them in an X shape on the slope slightly above them. She keyed the mike of her radio and said, “I’m going to need a toboggan over here on Resurrection,” identifying the black diamond run where they were located. “I’ve got a female with a knee injury.”
“Hagan’s on his way,” the voice of Scott Adamson, a fellow patroller, replied.
Maddie frowned. Of course she would draw the one fellow patroller who most rubbed her the wrong way. Not that Hagan Ansdar wasn’t an experienced patroller with excellent skills. But he was also one of those men who was just a little too sure of himself—especially when it came to the opposite sex. The kind of man she’d learned the hard way to avoid.
She knelt beside the blonde. “Can you move your right leg at all?”
The woman shook her head, refusing to even attempt a move.
“How about the left leg?” Maddie asked. That leg appeared uninjured, but it was difficult to tell with the camouflage of bulky ski pants.
The blonde shook her head. “I don’t want to move anything in case it hurts,” she said. Her face crumpled and tears began to flow. “I can’t believe this. This is going to ruin my vacation.”
The woman was working herself up to real hysterics. Maddie stifled a groan. When she’d once promised God she’d do anything as long as she could ski again, this wasn’t what she’d had in mind. She couldn’t believe that she, one of the top ski racers in the world, was now reduced to coddling tourists like this one. She debated the merits of gentle distraction against the expediency of trying to slap some sense into the silly woman. But before she could decide, the woman’s crying ceased. She opened her eyes wide and her cheeks flushed pink. “Oh, my,” she breathed.
Maddie turned to see a tall figure towing an orange plastic rescue sled skiing toward them. Despite her determination to remain immune to his charms, her essential female nature betrayed her with an inner flutter at the sight of Hagan Ansdar—six feet four, broad shouldered, narrow hipped and blond haired. He might have been a Viking charging to the rescue.
He skidded to a stop a little above them in a spray of snow. Maddie stood and walked up to meet him. “What is the trouble here?” he asked, his Norwegian accent more pronounced than usual.
“I’m guessing a torn meniscus or ACL,” Maddie said.
Hagan raised one eyebrow. “They didn’t tell me you have a medical degree.”
She flushed. This was exactly the kind of ribbing other patrollers routinely dished out, but coming from Hagan, it rankled. “I don’t. But I’ve seen enough of these injuries to recognize a classic.” She might be the newest member of Crested Butte ski patrol, but ten years on the World Cup circuit had given her a front-row seat to some truly spectacular crashes. Not to mention she’d suffered an ACL tear herself five years ago. Her knee throbbed now at the memory. “And I saw her fall.”
Hagan frowned and clicked out of his skis. “What is her name?”
“I—I don’t know. I haven’t asked her yet.” She’d been about to when he’d arrived and interrupted her.
He knelt beside the blonde and took her hand. “Hello,” he said in a voice that would have melted butter. “I am Hagan. What is your name?”
The blonde’s eyes widened at the sight of the Norse god looming over her. “Hi.” She flashed a smile of her own. “I’m Julie.”
“Well,
