The Summit. Kat Martin

in a way she couldn’t quite explain. But she needed his help and she couldn’t think of a reason to say no. “All right.”

      Ben left her to finish her task and she carried her gear back to her locker. She had a couple of private lessons that afternoon then afterward stopped in at Barnes and Noble to pick up a few new paperback books, since she felt at a loss if she ran out of something to read.

      Ben arrived in her lobby at six-thirty, but insisted on coming up instead of letting her come down to meet him.

      “I want to see where you live,” he said over the intercom. “A person’s home says a lot about them.”

      She didn’t like the idea. She didn’t want Ben McKenzie barging into her home—her life—but she didn’t see any other way to get his help. Without it, Molly would never have a chance to be found.

      She was nervous as she opened the door. She loved her cozy apartment, but Ben McKenzie was rich and used to living in far higher style. Since their discussion at Luigi’s on Monday, she had gone back to the library and run his name. Over the past few years, article after article had appeared in the society section, showing Ben at benefits, plays and opening night concerts—escorting some of the most glamorous women in the world. Apparently, he was wildly successful in his business endeavors and equally successful with women.

      He stepped through the open door, his eyes darting into the compact kitchen with its sparkling white countertops and cheerful white-and-rose flowered wallpaper, moving past the breakfast bar that separated the area from the living room. “So this is the place you call home.”

      She managed a smile. “This is it. Would you like a glass of wine or something else? I keep a bottle of Jack Daniels up in the cupboard for my dad. He isn’t really supposed to drink, but he’s pretty hard-headed about it and I figure a little whiskey once in a while isn’t really going to hurt him.”

      “Wine sounds good.”

      “Red or white?”

      He eyed her with interest. “White is good for right now.”

      She pulled out two stemmed wine glasses, took an opened bottle out of the fridge and filled the glasses with chardonnay.

      Ben took a sip and savored it slowly. “Not bad. Local vintner?”

      “Columbia Crest. This is an estate vintage. I guess you figured I’d pour it out of a box?”

      He laughed. “Not at all. You don’t strike me as quite that down-home.”

      He lifted his glass off the breakfast bar and wandered toward the windows overlooking the city, pausing here and there to consider an antique Victorian clock, a porcelain figurine, a hundred-year-old green glass plate she had fallen instantly in love with and bought for practically nothing at a garage sale. The molded ceilings drew his eye, the sheer lace curtains, the floral rugs on the hardwood floors.

      “The place is amazingly feminine,” he said. “I have to admit I’m a little surprised.”

      Her posture tightened defensively. “I like sports. That doesn’t mean I’m not a woman.”

      Those brown eyes drifted over her, seemed to warm with appreciation. She was wearing dark-gray, low-slung bell-bottom pants, a pair of black heeled boots and a deep pink sweater that hugged her curves.

      “No,” he said. “You are definitely a woman.” His rich baritone rolled through her, sent a curl of warmth into her stomach. Autumn forced herself to ignore it and took a steadying sip of her wine.

      Ben glanced into the bedroom, saw the canopied bed with its white eyelet bedspread and matching dust ruffle. “Very pretty. That’s where you’ve been having your dreams?”

      She nodded.

      “Any lately?”

      “Last Monday, after I spoke to you.”

      “None since then?”

      “No.”

      “So you think there’s a connection between me and the dreams.”

      “I think it’s the most likely explanation.”

      He wandered into her bedroom, went into her bathroom and eventually returned to the living room.

      “You know,” she said, “it’s rude to enter a woman’s bedroom uninvited.”

      The edge of his mouth faintly curved. “From the look in your eye, I imagine I’d be waiting a good long while.” The amusement faded. “You know my terms. I find out what I need to know or I’m out of this.”

      Autumn shook her head. “I don’t think you’re going to back out. I don’t think your conscience will let you. Just like mine won’t let me.”

      He said nothing for a while. “Nevertheless. Until I believe I can trust you, I’m going to stick to you like I’m your shadow.”

      Autumn set her glass down a little too hard, making the crystal ring. “What if I say no? What if I just tell you to go away and forget the whole thing?”

      “You won’t. You just said your conscience won’t let you.”

      Autumn bit her lip. He was right—but so was she. They were in this together, whether they liked it or not. She would do what she had to in order to make this easier for both of them.

      They sat at the counter and talked for a while: a little about her family, her father and what sort of parent he was as she grew up but mostly about climbing.

      “You did okay for your first time,” Autumn said, speaking of his morning effort on the wall.

      “I climbed like a buffoon and you know it. I fell three times before I got to the top. Damn good thing I was wearing a harness.”

      “But you got there. You stuck with it. Most people would have quit. And you have the lean muscles and flexible strength to make a good climber.”

      He smiled. “It was challenging. I think I’m going to like it.”

      And Autumn thought that in time—if he was serious about learning the sport—he could become very good. He was strong, limber and athletic. And he had a certain grace of movement that few men had.

      They finished their wine and set the glasses down.

      “Time to go,” Ben said, rising from his stool. “Better get your jacket. It’s always cold in the evenings this time of year.”

      She looked up at him. He was there to learn about her but she had just learned something about him. There was a protective streak in Ben McKenzie. She retrieved her navy-blue jacket from the closet in the entry; Ben took it from her and held it out so she could put it on.

      “Thank you.” She smiled, then remembering he had also helped Dolores Delgato out of her expensive cashmere jacket that night at Luigi’s, the smile slipped away.

      Get a grip, she warned herself, wishing she had never dreamed about Molly, never managed to get herself in this position. But she had agreed to spend time with Ben McKenzie, one of the wealthiest, most desirable bachelors in Seattle.

      She wasn’t a fool. Ben was handsome and powerful. And with that lean, hard-muscled body one of the most sexually attractive men she had ever met. She had to be careful, had to keep her distance, keep her mind fixed on her goal.

      Think of Molly, she told herself and then walked past him as he held open her apartment door.

      The store was posh. Two stories high with a loft that displayed expensive sports clothing. The main floor was sectioned into areas pertaining to different sports, each decorated with huge photos of extreme athletes competing in their areas of expertise: ultimate skiing in deep, untouched powder, snowboarding down triple black-diamond slopes, biking, motocross, hiking, hang gliding. Climbing was no exception. There was a fantastic picture of a climber on an overhang thousands of feet in the air—stuck like a fly, completely