A Touch of Spring (4 page)

She wouldn’t be going anywhere tonight.

In the darkness, Roz gave in to the tears which had threatened for hours. Why couldn’t she remember stealing the painting? She would give it to them just to get free.

The receptionist, Frida, must have tipped Gorev off that she had been there with Andy. Now he was being dragged into the mess. When he was unable to produce the painting, she would die and they would probably kill Andy too.

They were both going to die and it was all her fault.

By morning she was so stiff that she couldn’t move, but her bursting bladder insisted that she must. Frida stuck her head into the bedroom to see if she was okay.

“Please, let me go to the bathroom,” Roz asked. She was hoarse and she desperately needed a drink. As soon as she had peed.

Frida, damn her, laughed and untied Roz's legs.

Roz tried to stand up, but her legs were frozen and her arms, tied at her side, would not support her. She toppled back on the bed. “Help me, please.”

She hated begging. But the idea of making a mess in front of this woman horrified her. Even though it was barely dawn, Frida looked tidy and wholesome. Her blonde hair was braided neatly, and her ski thermals were crisp and matching.

Frida looked at Roz's hands and exclaimed in horror. Roz tried to see over her shoulder to see what was wrong. She could feel nothing.

Gorev sauntered in, masculine and menacing, eating a pastry. His expression changed when Frida spun Roz around to display her hands. “Hmm, I must have tied them too tightly,” he said, and pulled out a knife from his pocket.

It was a Swiss army knife, complete with attachments and multiple blades. Roz flinched when he opened one, checked its edge, and then flashed down with it. She was aware of a sensation of movement, but her hands were still numb.

With the final slice, they flopped uselessly at her sides. She was horrified to see they were black and swollen. She tried to open her fingers and they refused to respond.

“The Irishman will be upset. You were not supposed to damage her,” Frida said.

Gorev shrugged. “I doubt that he wants her for her hands.”

Frida helped her to the bathroom and left her alone for a few blessed minutes while she tried to force her useless hands to pull down her pants. They refused to cooperate, and in the end, she had to wedge herself against a tap so that she could pull them down.

The relief of being able to use the toilet was almost enough to make up for her dismay at the state of her hands. With difficulty, she managed to get her trousers back up again, and washed her hands, but she couldn’t feel the water or do more than swipe them clumsily against the towel afterwards. Showering was out of the question.

Frida was waiting outside the bathroom and looked with distaste at her messy mop of hair. “You have time to eat, and then we go.”

Roz would have killed for coffee, but couldn’t manage to hold a cup. Gorev stuck a straw in a glass of orange juice and allowed her to drink it dry. He even topped it up again for her. “Thank you,” she said grudgingly.

He shrugged. “Orange juice is cheap.”

She went back to hating him. How had she got into such a mess? Whatever chance she had to escape had disappeared. She couldn't open the latch on the front door even they left her alone. She was as helpless as a baby.

After Gorev and Frida had flirted with each other over a breakfast of boiled eggs, cheese, toast, honey and coffee, they bundled Roz into her ski jacket, with Frida zipping it up for her, like a mother with a toddler, before pulling on a helmet.

There were two skidoos outside, and Gorev lifted her onto one of them before climbing on behind her. She hated to admit it, but she needed the support of his arms to stay on the damn machine. His warmth surrounded her and she could smell him. Not bad, he had clearly showered this morning. Just not right.

Not like Andy McTavish. What was it about the Irishman? Something about him fitted perfectly with her. His mouth was just right for her skin. His scent teased her nose. His hair tempted her fingers. His cock... Roz stamped down on that thought. She didn't know about his cock. Thinking it was the perfect fit for her pussy was just a delusion.

But as the little machine laboured its way over to the Klein-Matterhorn cable car, she wished she hadn’t rushed out of his hotel room so quickly. She was under no illusions. There was a good chance she was going to die here, and she would be going to her death wondering what it would have been like to make love to Andy McTavish. She wished she had taken the chance that had been offered to her.

What a pity there were no do-overs in life. Andy was one she would certainly have done over.

Gorev and Frida both wore goggles as well as helmets, but Roz’s eyes were unprotected from the icy air. That was why they were watering. No other reason, she told herself firmly.

She forced movement into her hands, but they were still numb.

Gorev must have felt something. He shouted, to be heard over the engine of the skidoo, “They will hurt when the blood comes back.” And he smiled.

Bastard.

Frida got to the cable-car first. The sign said the first ascent was at 9am, and it was only 8.30, but she led them up the stairs. “Don't worry,” she said. “My uncle works in the restaurant at the top. I've got his lift pass; we can go up with the staff.”

To Roz's dismay, Frida flashed her pass and they walked into the cable car unopposed. There were a couple of men wheeling on crates of bottled water and wine, three waitresses already in their uniforms under a warm jacket, and a piste patroller with long skis and grizzled grey goatee.

Any urge Roz felt to call for help disappeared when the point of a knife stuck into her side. Gorev leaned into her. “No fuss, no muss. Do we understand each other?”

She nodded.

He pulled out his phone and dialled. “Take the cable car to the top of the Klein-Matterhorn on the first ascent of the day. No cops, no security. And bring the goods.” He hung up at once.

Roz had to admire the plan. The only way up was the cable car. Andy wouldn’t have time to get any back-up into position in time to help. Either he did what they told him, or she was dead. Life sucked.

The ascent was breath-taking, in all senses. They were already high up the mountain, and going higher at an alarming rate. Roz's ears popped as the cable car climbed. When it swung going over a support pylon, she lost her balance and stumbled. Gorev caught her arm and she hissed in pain.

Agony streaked up and down her arms and she clenched her teeth to hold back the cries of pain. The point of his knife remained stuck in her side, warning her to silence.

Frida chatted to the waitresses, and it was obvious Roz could expect no help from them. The glacier passed beneath them, blue ice showing hard and lethal beneath the snow.

A bump signalled their arrival at the top station, and they got out. Roz's breath fogged in the freezing air, and she shivered, not entirely from the cold. The panoramic view deserved her attention, but all she could think of was the throb of blood returning to her hands. They felt huge and swollen, but her efforts to flex her fingers produced only tiny twitches.

Gorev and Frida, still chatting and keeping an apparently casual grip on her arm, stood where they could see the cable car departing on its way back to the town.

When it returned, would Andy be on it? Roz realised she was breathing faster, and it wasn't just fear. They were at the highest point in Europe it was possible to get to without climbing gear, and the air was thin enough to make breathing difficult.

She forced herself to take slow, even breaths as she waited for the cable car to return. Please let Andy be on it. Please Andy, don't let her down.

The cable car emerged from the clouds, swinging over the last support pylon and heading to the top station. It was packed, helmets and skis obstructing her view of the people on it.

It docked and the skiers streaming out through the doors, lumbering onto the snow. A noisy crowd of children sorted themselves into ski school classes, put on their skis and slid off down the mountain.

Roz waited, even more tense than the two behind her, for Andy to appear. Another couple of skiers straggled out, clipping up their boots when they reached the snow. No sign of anyone else.

“Go and look,” Gorev told Frida. She glared at him, but obeyed, disappearing into the building.

Roz held her breath, but Frida emerged shaking her head. “No sign, the cable car is empty.”

Gorev cursed. “The bastard has double-crossed us. He's taken the painting and gone off with it. Damn him.” His accent sharpened as he spoke, betraying his origins.

“The roads are open again,” Frida said. “He must have abandoned her. She’s no use to us now.”

She looked at Roz with all the emotion of a bug collector about to dissect a beetle. “We need to get rid of her.”

Gorev opened his mouth as if to protest, then nodded. “You are right. She can identify us. There is no point being stupid.”

He gripped her arm, and even though the padded jacket, the touch sent a jolt of pain through her. She struggled to get away from him, but he had no trouble holding her.

“Bring her,” Frida said, pointing to the cable car.

Roz's spirits lifted a little. If they went down to the town, she had a chance to get away. Her arms might actually be working by then.

They were the only ones in the cable car, and as they got in, the operator closed the door and pressed the mechanism to head back down the valley.

“What is your plan?” Gorev asked Frida. It was clear who was in control. But Roz had no illusions that taking out Frida would get rid of Gorev. He wasn't one of the most feared members of the Russian mafia for nothing.

And how could she remember that, but not remember stealing the painting?

“That’s easy,” said Frida. “We throw her out of the cable-car. Her body won't be found for months. We'll be far away by then.”

“What about the operator?” Gorev asked, gesturing at the parka-clad driver and keeping his voice low enough that he didn't hear.

“Point a gun at him and he'll do what he's told.”

“And if he doesn't?”

She shrugged. “A tragic accident, two bodies.”

Gorev smiled a smile that chilled Roz's blood. This was a man who had no problem with tossing an innocent driver out of his own cable-car. He glided over, gun concealed by his body, until he was right behind the operator.

“Öffnen die Tür,” he said, in halting German, and jammed the gun into the operator's side. Frida had taken hold of Roz's throbbing arm and was holding her ready.

Open the door.

Would the driver obey? Roz was too scared to hope. She had no doubt that Gorev would shoot him if necessary and she couldn’t bear to bring harm to the old man. But she didn't want that door open either.

She had no illusions about her ability to fight off the conspirators in her present state.

The operator didn't reply, didn't obey.

“Didn't you hear me? Open the damn door.” Gorev poked him with the gun.

“You forgot say to the magic word,” said a familiar Irish voice, and a long muscular arm whipped out at the gun.

Andy! He had come for her. Relief and something else made Roz light-headed. She barely registered the violent scuffle as joy and delight flooded her. Andy was there. He hadn't left her to die alone.

And he never would. She had only met him a few times, but somehow, she knew this man. Whatever he promised, he would do. And he would never let her down. Never.

A smile curved her mouth, and she didn't care that she must look like an idiot, grinning away while her man was rolling around on the floor, trying to wrench the gun off a muscular Russian with murder in his eyes.

Roz took a step forward, planning to help him. A good kick at the right time could go a long way towards deciding the fight. A yank on her arm jerked her back.

“Come with me, you stupid bitch,” Frida hissed. She yanked Roz towards the control panel. “Men are useless.”

Roz pulled back, but the pain almost knocked her over. Her arms felt three times their real size and throbbed with a sick vicious pulse.

Frida dragged her over to the door and peered at the operator’s panel. “My first boyfriend showed me how to do this,” she told Roz, and stabbed a button. With a hiss, the doors slid apart, allowing the glacial Alpine air into the cable-car.

Roz realised that Frida intended to push her out, and Andy couldn’t help her. He was still rolling across the floor with Gorev.

Frida dragged her closer to the door, which yawed open almost the width of the cable-car. Far below, the frozen glacier gleamed, pristine and deadly. No amount of parkour skills would enable her to survive a drop like that.

Adrenaline flooded her, so that it seemed she moved in slow motion when she hooked a foot around the bar beside the door and yanked her arm free from Frida's grip. Roz lashed out, and though pain flared brightly, her blow landed. Frida staggered, her goggles askew and a snarl on her perfect mouth.

“You bitch,” she said, before she rushed at Roz and pushed her.

The force behind it almost rocked Roz off her feet, and she struggled to keep her footing, all too aware of the sheer drop behind her. Although there was a rail all around the cable-car, as well as posts and hand straps dangling from the roof, she couldn’t trust her poor abused hands to grip any of them securely.

The cable car reached a support pylon and swung forwards before crossing it and dropping backwards with a stomach churning drop. But the momentum of the swing was all Roz needed to let her shift position and move away from the door.