The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 5 (135 page)

She walked over, bent down, kissed him on the mouth. “Thanks.”

He wiggled his eyebrows. “It was a big, stinkin’
hell
of a mess.”

This time she drilled her finger into his belly. After walking back to her mat, she stretched out her muscles, soothed her mind with yoga. She’d moved to floor work when Gull came in. Fresh, she thought. He looked fresh and clean, with his gait loose and easy as he crossed to her.

“I heard you’d surfaced.” He crouched down. “You’re looking pretty limber for the morning after.”

“Just need some fine-tuning.”

“And a picnic.”

She lifted her nose from her knee. “I need a picnic?”

“With a big-ass hamper loaded with cuisine by Marg and a fine bottle of adult beverage enjoyed in the company of a charming companion.”

“Janis is going with me on a picnic?”

“I’ve got the big-ass hamper.”

“There’s always a catch.” Danger zone, she warned herself. The man was a walking temptation. “It’s a nice thought, but—”

“We’re not on the jump list, and L.B. cleared us for the day. Now that we’ve been through fire together, I think we can take a short break, have some food and conversation. Unless you’re afraid a little picnic will drive you into uncontrollable lust until you force yourself on me and take advantage of my friendly offer.”

Temptation and challenge—both equally hard to resist. “I’m reasonably sure I can control myself.”

“Okay then. We can leave whenever you’re ready.”

What the hell, she decided. She lived and breathed danger zones. She could certainly handle one appealingly cocky guy on a picnic.

“Give me twenty. And you’d better pick your spot close by because I’m starving.”

“I’ll meet you out front.”

She hunted up Stovic first, gave him the same smack on the lips as Dobie. She paid her debts. She had a report to write and turn in on the fire, but that could wait a couple hours. Check and reorganize her gear, she thought as she pulled on cropped khakis. Deal with her chute, repack her PG bag. She buttoned on a white camp shirt, slapped on some makeup and sunscreen and considered it good enough for a friendly picnic with a fellow jumper.

She shoved on her sunglasses as she walked outside, then narrowed her eyes behind them. Gull leaned on the hood of a snazzy silver convertible chatting it up with Cards.

She sauntered over. “How’s the leg?” she asked Cards.

“Not bad. Knee’s a little puffy yet. I’m going to ice it down again.” He patted the hood beside Gull’s hip. “That’s some ride, Fast Feet. Some hot ride. Today’s word’s got to be virile, ’cause that machine’s got balls. You kids have fun.” He winked at Rowan and, still limping, went back in.

Hands on her hips, Rowan took a stroll around the hot ride. “This is Iron Man’s car.”

“Since I doubt you’re claiming I stole it from your father, I conclude you’re a woman who knows her superheroes and her motor vehicles.”

She stopped in front of him. “Where’s the suit?”

“In an undisclosed location. Villainy is everywhere.”

“Too true.” She angled her head, skimming a finger over the gleaming fender while she studied Gull. “Iron Man’s a rich superhero. That’s why he can afford the car.”

“Tony Stark has many cars.”

“Also true. I’m thinking, smoke jumping pays pretty well, in season. But I can’t see selling tokens and tracking games at an arcade’s something that pays for a car like this.”

“But it’s entertaining, and I get free pizza. It’s my car,” he said when she just kept staring at him. “Do you want to see the registration? My portfolio?”

“That means you
have
a portfolio, and I’m damned if you built one working an arcade.” Considering, she pursed her lips. “Maybe if you owned a piece of it.”

“You have remarkable deductive powers. You can be Pepper Potts.” He stepped over, opened her door. She slid in, looked up.

“How big a piece?”

“I’ll give you the life story while we eat if you want it.”

She thought it over as he skirted the hood, got behind the wheel. And decided she did.

He drove fast, had a smooth, competent hand on the stick shift—both of which she appreciated.

And God, she did love a slick machine.

“Do I have to sleep with you before you let me drive this machine?”

He spared her a single, mild glance. “Of course.”

“Seems fair.” Enjoying herself, she tipped her face up to the wind and sky, then lifted her hands up to both. “Riding in it’s a pretty decent compromise. How did you manage to get this all set up?”

“Staggering organizational skills. Plus I figured I’d grab a few hours while I had them. The food was the easy part. All I had to do was tell Marg I was taking you on a picnic, and she handled the rest of that section. She’s in love with you.”

“It’s mutual. Still, I’d’ve had a hard time planning anything when I managed to crawl out of bed.”

“I have staggering recuperative powers to go with the organizational skills.”

She tipped down her sunglasses to eye him over them. “I know sex bragging when I hear it.”

“Then I probably shouldn’t add that I woke up feeling like I’d been run over by a sixteen-wheeler after I hauled a two-hundred-pound bag of bricks fifty miles. Through mud.”

“Yeah. And it’s barely June.”

When he turned off on Bass Creek Road, she nodded. “Nice choice.”

“It’s not a bad hike, and it ought to be pretty.”

“It is. I’ve lived here all my life,” she added as he pulled into the parking area at the end of the road. “Hiking the trails was what I did. It kept me in shape, gave me a good sense of the areas I’d jump one day—and gave me an appreciation for why I would.”

“We crossed into the black yesterday.” He hit the button to bring up the roof. “It’s harsh, and it’s hard. But you know it’s going to come back.”

They got out, and he opened the hood with its marginal storage space.

“Jesus, Gull, you weren’t kidding about big-ass hamper.”

“Getting it in was an exercise in geometry.” He hefted it out.

“There’s just two of us. What does that thing weigh?”

“A lot less than my gear. I think I can make it a mile on a trail.”

“We can switch off.”

He looked at her as they crossed to the trailhead. “I’m all about equal pay for equal work. A firm believer in ability, determination, brains having nothing to do with gender. I’m even cautiously open to women players in the MLB. Cautiously open, I repeat. But there are lines.”

“Carting a picnic hamper is a line?”

“Yeah.”

She slid her hands into her pockets, hummed a little as she strolled with a smirk on her face. “It’s a stupid line.”

“Maybe. But that doesn’t make it less of a line.”

They walked through the forested canyon. She heard what she’d missed during the fire. The birdsong, the rustles—the life. Sun shimmered through the canopy, struck the bubbling, tumbling waters of the creek as they followed the curve of the water.

“Is this why you were studying maps?” she asked him. “Looking for a picnic spot?”

“That was a happy by-product. I haven’t lived here all my life, and I want to know where I am.” He scanned the canyon, the spills of water as they walked up the rising trail. “I like where I am.”

“Was it always Northern California? Is there any reason we have to wait for the food to start the life story?”

“I guess not. No, I started out in LA. My parents were in the entertainment industry. He was a cinematographer, she was a costume designer. They met on a set, and clicked.”

The creek fell below as they climbed higher on the hillside.

“So,” he continued, “they got married, had me a couple years later. I was four when they were killed in a plane crash. Little twin engine they were taking to the location for a movie.”

Her heart cracked a little. “Gull, I’m so sorry.”

“Me too. They didn’t take me, and they usually did if they were on the same project. But I had an ear infection, so they left me back with the nanny until it cleared up.”

“It’s hard, losing parents.”

“Vicious. There’s the log dam,” he announced. “Just as advertised.”

She let it go as the trail approached the creek once more. She could hardly blame him for not wanting to revisit a little boy’s grief.

“This is worth a lot more than a mile-and-a-half hike,” he said while the pond behind the dam sparkled as if strewn with jewels.

Beyond it the valley opened like a gift, and rolled to the ring of mountains.

“And the hamper’s going to be a lot lighter on the mile-and-a-half back.”

Near the pond, under the massive blue sky, he set it down.

“I worked a fire out there, the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness.” He stood, looking out. “Standing here, on a day like this, you’d never believe any of that could burn.”

“Jumping one’s different.”

“It’s sure a faster way in.” He flipped open the lid of the hamper, took out the blanket folded on top. She helped him spread it open, then sat on it cross-legged.

“What’s on the menu?”

He pulled out a bottle of champagne snugged in a cold sleeve. Surprised, touched, she laughed. “That’s a hell of a start—and you just don’t miss a trick.”

“You said champagne picnic. For our entrée, we have the traditional fried chicken à la Marg.”

“Best there is.”

“I’m told you favor thighs. I’m a breast man myself.”

“I’ve never known a man who isn’t.” She began to unload. “Oh, yeah, her red potato and green bean salad, and look at this cheese, the bread. We’ve got berries, deviled eggs. Fudge cake! Marg gave us damn near half of one of her fudge cakes.” She glanced up. “Maybe she’s in love with
you
.”

“I can only hope.” He popped the cork. “Hold out your glass.”

She reached for it, then caught the label on the bottle. “Dom Pérignon. Iron Man’s car and James Bond’s champagne.”

“I have heroic taste. Hold out the glass, Rowan.” He filled it, then his own. “To wilderness picnics.”

“All right.” She tapped, sipped. “Jesus, this is not cheap tequila at Get a Rope. I see why 007 goes for it. How’d you get this?”

“They carry it in town.”

“You’ve been into town today? What time did you get up?”

“About eight. I never made it to the shower last night, and smelled bad enough to wake myself up this morning.”

He opened one of the containers, and after breaking off a chunk of the baguette, spread it with soft, buttery cheese. Offered it. “I’m not especially rich, I don’t think.”

She studied him as flavors danced on her tongue. Caught in a pretty breeze, his hair danced around his face in an appealing tangle of brown and sun-struck gold.

“I want to know. But I don’t want bad memories to screw your picnic.”

“That’s about it for the bad. I’m not sure I’d remember them, or more than vaguely, if it wasn’t for my aunt and uncle. My mother’s sister,” he explained. “My parents named them as my legal guardians in their wills. They came and got me, took me up north, raised me.”

He took out plates, flatware as he spoke, while she gave him room for the story.

“They talked about my parents all the time, showed me pictures. They were tight, the four of them, and my aunt and uncle wanted me to keep the good memories. I have them.”

“You were lucky. After something horrible, you were lucky.”

His gaze met hers. “Really lucky. They didn’t just take me in. I was theirs, and I always felt that.”

“The difference between being an obligation, even a well-tended one, and belonging.”

“I never had to learn how wide that difference is. My cousins—one’s a year older, one’s a year younger—never made me feel like an outsider.”

That played a part in the balance of him, she decided, in the ease and confidence.

“They sound like great people.”

“They are. When I graduated from college, I had a trust fund, pretty big chunk. The money from my parents’ estate, the insurance, all that. They’d never used a penny, but invested it for me.”

“And you bought an arcade.”

He lifted his champagne. “I like arcades. The best ones are about families. Anyway, my younger cousin mostly runs it, and Jared—the older one—he’s a lawyer, and takes care of that sort of thing. My aunt supervises and helps plan events, and for the last couple years my uncle’s handled the PR.”

“For families by family. It’s a good thing.”

“It works for us.”

“How do they feel about your summers?”

“They’re okay with it. I guess they worry, but they don’t weigh me down with that. You grew up with a smoke jumper.” They added chicken and salad to plates. “How’d you handle it?”

“By thinking he was invincible. Talk about superheroes. Mmm,” she added when she bit through crisp skin to tender meat. “God bless Marg. I really considered him immortal,” Rowan added. “I never worried about him. I was never afraid for him, or myself. He was . . . Iron Man.”

Gull poured two more glasses. “I’ll definitely drink to Iron Man Tripp. He’s why we’re both here.”

“Weird, but true.” She ate, relaxed in the moment and felt easier with him, she realized, than she’d expected to be. “I don’t know how much of the story you’ve heard. About my parents.”

“Some.”

“A lot of some’s glossed over. My father—you’ve probably seen pictures—he was, still is, pretty wow.”

“He passed the wow down to you.”

“In a Valkyrie kind of way.”

“You’re not the sort who decides to die in the battle.”

“You know your Norse mythology.”

“I have many pockets of strange, inexplicable knowledge.”

“So I’ve noticed. In any case, a man who looks like Iron Man, does what he does . . . women flock.”

“I have the same problem. It’s a burden.”

She snorted, ate some potato salad. “But he wasn’t one for coming off a fire, or out of the season, and looking for the handy bang.”