The Right Mr. Wrong. Cindi Myers

helped stow Julie’s skis in the back, then Eric and Scott set out, Eric pulling the sled while Scott towed him with the snowmobile. Maddie and Hagan would follow on skis to handle the paperwork.

      “She will be all right,” Hagan said as he watched the snowmobile pull away.

      “I’m sure she will.” And she’d no doubt be telling all her friends about the “amazing” ski patroller who had “rescued” her. And she wouldn’t be talking about Maddie. She glanced at Hagan. “Is it my imagination, or does your accent get thicker whenever you talk to a pretty woman?”

      He turned and swept her with a slow, head-to-toe gaze. The look wasn’t exactly insulting—more as if he was assessing her. She stiffened, prepared for some comment about her own appearance. She knew she wasn’t ugly, but she wasn’t a glamour girl like Julie, either. Her years as a pro had stressed practicality over prettiness. Today she wore no makeup and her brown hair was pulled back in a single braid that trailed down between her shoulder blades.

      But no insult came her way. Instead, the corners of his mouth turned up in what might have been a smile, which only made him more handsome. “Must be your imagination,” he said.

      The comment threw her off balance emotionally, the way everything about the man seemed to do. Her first day on patrol no less than three other women on the team had made reference to Hagan as the local Don Juan. They’d said this with the affection one might use to refer to a bratty younger brother, as if it was merely part of his charm. They’d further explained he exclusively pursued tourists and other temporary visitors to the area, therefore she had nothing to worry about from him—the implication being she had no chance of winning him for herself.

      As if she wanted him. She knew all about handsome playboys. She’d once dated a slalom racer known as the Italian Stallion, and her first season as a pro skier she’d had her heart broken by an Austrian who later bragged to Sports Illustrated that he’d slept with every female racer on the U.S. Olympic Team.

      It was bad enough she was working as a ski patroller; she didn’t need to put up with any hassle from a player like Hagan.

      They hiked up the slope to where their skis were planted in the snow. “What were you snickering about when I asked her how the accident happened?” Hagan asked as they clicked boots into bindings once more.

      “She told you she didn’t know how the accident happened, but the truth is, she was ogling some guy and not paying attention to where she was going.”

      “I thought men were the only ones who ogled.” He sounded amused by the idea.

      “Ha!” As if he wasn’t perfectly aware of the women who stared after him wherever he went.

      They skied to the bottom of the East River lift. They’d ride back up and from there head to the front side of the mountain and the main village clinic. Hagan pulled out in front of her and Maddie took this as a challenge. He might have longer legs, but she was willing to bet no one on the patrol team was faster than her.

      Sure enough, she soon overtook him. There was nothing like the feeling of flying over the snow, the white noise of rushing wind in her ears and the sensation of being suspended in time. She wove effortlessly around slower skiers and arrived well ahead of Hagan at the lift line.

      She grinned at his approach, ready to tease him for his slowness, but he silenced her with a stern look and sterner words. “You think you are still racing?” he asked, as he slid beside her in line.

      She couldn’t think of an answer that wouldn’t be an admission that she’d been trying to stay ahead of him, so she remained silent and looked over her shoulder for the approaching chair.

      He waited until they were on the chair and headed up the slope before he spoke. “We pull people’s passes for skiing that fast,” he said. “You are no longer a ski racer.”

      The reprimand galled. As if she needed a refresher course in ski safety from this two-bit Don Juan. “I don’t need you to remind me I’m no longer a racer,” she snapped. “It’s not something I’m likely to forget.” Every morning when she awoke the reality hit her anew; the one thing she had wanted most in life was out of her reach forever, stolen by one miscalculated move on an icy slope in Switzerland.

      “I am only reminding you to slow down. That is all.” His voice was surprisingly gentle.

      She ducked her head. His calmness was even more annoying than the reprimand. But she was woman enough to admit she was wrong. She wasn’t on a race course and she probably should slow down. Much as she hated to. “I’ll be more careful in the future,” she said stiffly.

      Not for the first time, she’d let her impulsiveness make her lose her focus and forget her purpose. She would have thought by now she’d be over that, but maybe there were some lessons a person never learned.

      

      HAGAN STUDIED the woman next to him as she stared straight ahead. He considered himself an expert on the ever-changing nature of women, but Maddie Alexander was more mercurial than most. In the space of a few minutes she’d gone from teasing to defiant to contrite. As the newest member of the patrol, she had endured the good-natured harassment of her fellow team members with grace, but something he had said—or maybe the very fact of his presence—had set her off.

      “What is it about me—exactly—that you do not like?” he asked when they reached the top of the lift.

      She whirled to face him, almost falling as she did so. She managed to recover her balance and ski away from the top of the lift before she stopped and turned to him again with what passed for composure. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t know you well enough to dislike you.”

      “Then maybe you should get to know me better.”

      It was a glib line, one he had used before, but as soon as it rolled off his tongue he knew it was the wrong approach to take with her. She glared at him, then planted her pole and skied away.

      He watched her go, admiring the curve of her hips and her expert form as she skied down a small hill and across an open flat. He would bet she was beautiful on a race course, gliding gracefully around turns, clipping gates with efficient speed.

      He shook his head to dispel the image. Maddie was beautiful all right, but she was also a coworker, and a local. Someone he was likely to see every day, therefore off his list as a potential date. He had learned long ago to stick with tourists—they allowed for an enjoyable short-term affair and a quick, neat exit. No complications.

      He skied down and joined her as she propped her skis in the rack outside the clinic. He stepped forward and held the door open for her. She glanced up at him and mumbled her thanks, then slipped by, careful not to brush against him.

      So much for worrying he might have to watch his step around her to keep her from getting too interested in him. For whatever reason, she wanted nothing to do with him. Not the usual reaction he got from women—and why?

      And why was he letting her rejection bother him so much?

      They found their patient, Julie, sitting up on an exam table, her injured knee wrapped in towels and ice. Hagan’s friend, Dr. Ben Romney, examined her X-rays. “Your turn on the mountain today?” Hagan asked.

      “That’s right,” Ben said. He turned to Julie. “You’ve got a little tear in your meniscus, but you’re going to be fine. I don’t even think you’ll need surgery.”

      “Thanks to Hagan.” Julie beamed at him. “I’m sure I’d be much worse off if he hadn’t arrived so quickly to take care of me.”

      He smiled automatically. Julie was pretty, with expensive ski clothes and a flirtatious manner. But with her knee banged up she wouldn’t be doing much partying for a few weeks. And while he was not opposed to taking advantage of his job to meet women, he shied away from involvement with those who were physically injured on his watch.

      Some—Maddie perhaps—would say this was skewed ethics on