Freefall. Jill Sorenson

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      CHAPTER TWO

      SAM TOOK THE path toward the High Sierra Trail, feeling like a fool.

      He hadn’t known Hope was a park ranger. The night they’d slept together, he’d assumed she was a slope bunny on vacation. In hindsight, he’d been careless. Seducing a woman he didn’t intend to see again only worked if they didn’t see each other again. He should have made sure she wasn’t local.

      A quick glance behind him revealed that she wasn’t having any trouble matching his longer strides. It figured. She’d been an energetic bed partner, too. He remembered her strong, slender thighs, gripping him like a vise.

      Giving himself a mental shake, he pushed aside the memory and picked up speed, setting a relentless pace. He’d never been able to outrun his problems, but physical exertion soothed him in a way nothing else could. The day was already warm, the sun peeking over the tall treetops. After twenty minutes, he was sweating.

      Hope used her radio to call the whitewater rafting guide. “Go ahead without me,” she said, signing off.

      “You’re missing a rafting trip?” he asked over his shoulder.

      “Yes. We were planning to spend three days on the Kaweah.”

      “We?”

      “My sister and I.”

      “Does she live around here?”

      “No. She’s from L.A.”

      He heard the telltale inflection in her tone. Los Angeles was a dirty word in the Sierras. How could he have mistaken her for a tourist? He’d really been thinking with his dick that night. “Where are you from?”

      “Ojai.”

      Now that he thought about it, he remembered her sharing that detail at the bar. Ojai, pronounced Oh-hi, was a sleepy town near the coast. They’d laughed together over its hippie nickname, Get-high.

      No wonder he hadn’t realized she was local. Maybe she’d kept him in the dark on purpose. It wasn’t a secret that he didn’t date climbing groupies or park residents. He didn’t date at all, since Melissa.

      Sam couldn’t fault Hope for the miscommunication. Even if she’d lied to him, which he doubted, it didn’t matter. They’d had anonymous sex. Honesty wasn’t required. He hadn’t exactly given her a full disclosure, either.

      Concentrating on the climb, he adjusted his gait along a steep incline. His legs moved forward at a steady clip, step after step. Hope didn’t slow down or complain, so he continued to push hard. When he was in the zone, his thoughts drifted away, leaving nothing but the moment. They were making good time.

      Two hours later, at midmorning, the sun was blazing, and his shirt was damp with sweat. She stumbled behind him, her breathing labored.

      He stopped under the next shady tree to rest. “We should eat lunch,” he said. “You don’t want to get light-headed on the climb.”

      She agreed, reaching into her pack for two protein bars and two apples. He accepted her offering without complaint. His dehydrated meals weren’t half as tasty. The crisp apple awakened his senses.

      Although he tried not to stare, he couldn’t avoid glancing at her. She was even lovelier than he remembered.

      The night they met, he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her. The moment she walked into the bar, his pulse had kicked up and his throat had gone dry. After more than a year of his feeling next to nothing at the most challenging, dangerous summits, this flood of sensation left him breathless.

      She’d been wearing a dark blue thermal with a cute snowflake pattern. It was about as sexy as a reindeer sweater, not revealing in the least, but he’d ignored the good-girl giveaway and focused on the body underneath. He’d been mesmerized by her bright smile, smooth skin and shiny dark hair.

      Why hadn’t he left her alone? She’d looked disgustingly sweet, innocent and healthy. Easy pickings.

      They’d both been drinking. She sipped white wine like a teetotaler while he knocked back shots. He’d waited until she was tipsy to make his move. At that point, he’d been drunk enough to go through with it, but not too drunk to perform.

      He knew Hope wasn’t a no-strings type, and he hadn’t cared. He hadn’t cared about her name, or her profession, or her feelings.

      And the way he’d acted afterward—Jesus. He couldn’t get rid of her fast enough.

      Since then, he’d tried not to think about her. He’d convinced himself that she wasn’t special; any woman would feel fantastic after a long stint of abstinence. She wasn’t beautiful; he’d had beer goggles on.

      He’d really been kidding himself.

      Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her bite into the apple. Her white teeth pierced the fruit’s ruddy skin. She was flushed from the hike, dewy with perspiration, her tank top plastered to her chest. No, he didn’t need alcohol to find her attractive.

      “How do you know Owen?” she asked.

      “Owen?”

      “Owen Jackson.”

      He blinked a few times to dispel the sexual voodoo. “We met in San Diego during the earthquake.”

      She arched a curious brow, crunching on another bite of apple. He hadn’t spoken to the media about the incident, but it was widely reported that he’d almost died in a freeway collapse. “You were in a coma.”

      “Most of the time,” he agreed. “A group of us were trapped in the rubble. Owen used my climbing equipment to get out and find help.”

      “Really?”

      “Yes.”

      “And now you’re friends?”

      Sam wouldn’t go that far. Even his close friends didn’t talk to him anymore, and he avoided his family. He’d alienated everyone who loved him. “We’re friendly enough,” СКАЧАТЬ