Snowbound Heart (11 page)

“Logan?” Beverly asked.

“Logan.” Clare’s tone was laconic. Turning back to the saleswoman, she said, “I don’t care what the gentleman told you, I would rather pay for my own clothes.”

“I couldn’t let you do that, miss. He expressly told me not to tell you how much it was, or accept payment.”

“Is it the policy of this store to refuse cash when it is offered?”

“No, no. But I would hate to disappoint the gentleman, considering who he is, and especially since he asked me so nicely, as a favor to him, to send the bill on.”

Another woman under Logan’s spell! The sales slip attached to the bag she held had only a list of the items inside; there was no total. Clare drew a deep, calming breath. “Could I see the manager?”

“Certainly. I am the manager,” the woman answered, and smiled.

Taking a firmer grip on her package, Clare stepped back to wait while Beverly paid for her knitwear. As soon as she had finished, Clare moved toward the door. She pushed through, with Beverly close behind her, marched to the waiting car, and pulled the door open on the passenger side.

Logan turned toward her, a smile curving his mouth. “Through already?”

“What is the idea of having my clothes charged to you?”

“I told you — “

“My skiing clothes were not part of the bargain,” Clare interrupted.

“No? I don’t very well see how you intend to do without them. The spectacle would be interesting, I will admit, but I have the feeling you would be just a little cold.”

She glared at him. “You know what I mean. I intended to go skiing while I was here anyway; I would have had to buy an outfit of some kind.”

“Just like the one you have in that bag you are clutching?”

She looked away, unable to sustain his brilliant blue gaze. “I would prefer not to be obligated to you.”

“Possibly, but since I am already indebted to you, I prefer to make the situation mutual. Now, are you going to stand there all day, or are you ready to go back to the hotel?”

“Beverly and I,” she said distinctly, “have more shopping to do.”

“Is this Beverly?” Logan inquired, nodding to Clare’s friend, who stood well back, trying not to listen to their conversation, though there was a gleam of repressed amusement in her brown eyes. As Clare made a hurried introduction, Logan sent Beverly one of his heartstopping smiles by way of acknowledgment.

“You ladies go ahead, then. If you will leave your packages here, I will watch them; then, when you are through, we can have lunch.”

Clare, listening to Beverly’s quick, almost breathless acceptance of the invitation, watched the exchange with narrowed eyes. It seemed Logan had set himself to please. At this stage it was difficult to tell who his target was, Beverly or herself. If it was the former, then his object might be to discover just how much of Clare’s story about her background was true, by questioning her friend over lunch. If he was being so nice for Clare’s sake, then she was at a loss to see the reason, unless he was already practicing for his role as fiancee. He must realize, however, that the effort would be wasted on Beverly. Since Beverly knew Clare’s movements and schedule so well, it would have been impossible for Clare to keep the truth from her, even if she had wanted to. For that matter, it would also be too much of a strain to keep up the fiction of more shopping, especially in the face of Beverly’s rooted reluctance to move on.

When Beverly fell quiet, Clare spoke. “The other things were not important. I can pick them up anytime. We can eat now, if you like.”

“I don’t mind waiting,” Logan said.

“I wouldn’t think of it.” Clare got into the car and slid across the seat, making room for Beverly. Logan reached for the package she held rather awkwardly in her lap, and turning, placed it on the rear seat. As he settled back, her gray eyes met his in a look of mute suspicion. The audacious grin he gave her did nothing to reassure her.

For luncheon, despite the luxury of their surrounding in the hotel dining room, they chose chili, hot and spicy, with saltine crackers. The hearty fare seemed to go with the snowy view beyond the windows.

Logan, breaking crackers into his bowl, glanced at Beverly. With offhand casualness he said, “I understand your husband is a ski instructor; the GLM method, I suppose?”

“Yes, the graduated-length method of instruction is fairly basic here at Aspen, though the ATM, the American teaching method, is also used, of course, and the basic-turn approach.”

“He taught you, I think Clare said?”

“That’s how we met.”

“I’m sure he is well qualified, but that doesn’t mean he is a good teacher. I don’t suppose it would help to ask your opinion on that question.”

“No,” Beverly said on a laugh. “I’m not exactly unbiased. There are those who say he is the best in the area, however. He takes his work seriously. He is an admirer of the techniques of Georges Joubert and the modem French school, especially as they are applied to racing.”

“Racing? Does he prefer to work with advanced skiers, then, rather than beginners?”

“No, I don’t think so. I know he likes to teach children. He says they are natural skiers. They don’t worry about people watching them or what their form looks like; they just do it. But he really enjoys teaching people to overcome their fears, to relax and take pleasure in what they are doing. According to John, that is the first step in learning to ski really well.”

Logan nodded. “It sounds like it will be safe to leave Clare’s lessons in his hands, then.”

Beverly smiled as if he had just bestowed a great gift upon her. To an inquiry about Clare starting lessons late that afternoon, she gave a quick affirmative, promising to call John as soon as she had finished lunch.

“I will leave you to it, then, this afternoon, while I go back to the house for clothes for a more extended stay,” Logan said. “That is, if you have no objections, Clare?”

“None in the world,” Clare said.

It was true. She was anxious to get started, and Logan had seen to it that she would do it at least a day earlier than she had thought she might, considering the move from the hotel to the ski lodge this afternoon. Regardless, his highhanded methods annoyed her, and she did not trouble to hide the fact.

Logan, if he noticed, ignored it. Turning back to Beverly, he asked, “Have you known Clare long?”

“Forever,” Beverly answered. “We went to high school and secretarial college together, had our first job together at desks not six feet apart.”

“What kind of job was that?”

Beverly answered, and the questions went on. They seemed idle, interspersed with rambling stories of his own boyhood, and yet their purpose could not have been more clear. Clare had been right. Logan had set out to gain information, and that was exactly what he was getting. From the glances she threw at her now and then, Clare thought her friend realized it well enough, but she seemed at a loss as to how to put a stop to the pleasant inquisition.

Clare was not. Quietly seething, she put down her spoon, touched her napkin to her lips, and placed it on the table.

“Are you satisfied now?” she asked, her voice quiet but the gray of her eyes dark as they rested upon Logan.

“Not quite,” he said lightly. “I thought hot apple strudel for dessert. How does that sound to you? I recommend it It’s good here, and you are going to need all the energy you can get this afternoon.”

He sat watching her with one brow lifted, waiting to see if she meant to challenge his deliberate misunderstanding of her question, or if she would accept the compromise he offered and call a truce. She would accept, but on her own terms.

“The strudel sounds delicious. As you say, I expect I will need energy. I don’t doubt I will also need that roaring fire and hot spiced wine we nonskiers are always hearing about, later on this evening. And I am sure that if they have to put up with my clumsiness for long this afternoon, Beverly and John will be glad of a little refreshment. I hope you don’t mind if I bring them back with me to the lodge this evening when the lesson is over?”

“A great idea. I was just going to suggest it myself, only I hope they will stay for dinner as well.”

Beverly looked from one to the other. “I’m sure John would love to,” she said, “if it isn’t going to be too formal. My John is a lovely man, but he was something of a hippie in his mad youth, and though he will dress for dinner, he is never too thrilled with the idea.”

“Informal it will be. That’s settled, then,” Logan said.

“Yes, it’s settled,” Clare agreed, and did not look away as she met his mocking blue gaze.

The ski area to which Aspen gave its name included an awesome collection of slopes and trails ranging over four different mountains. Each mountain had its own resort community. There was Aspen Mountain, Aspen Highlands, Buttermilk, and finally, Snowmass. The last of the four resorts to be built, Snowmass was also the most exclusive. It was not for the beginning skier, the timid, or those on a budget It was famed for its size, covering 1,400 acres, for its vertical drop of 3,500 feet, and for its extended deep powder runs, the longest being three and a half miles. It was here that the lodge Janine Hobbs had chosen was located.

Though Beverly had described the resort where her husband sometimes gave private lessons to famous people, Clare was not prepared for the sheer size and scope of it Built at the foot of Snowmass Mountain, it climbed the slope in neat terraces that followed the winding, well-kept roads. Composed primarily of condominiums, town-house apartments, and ski lodges designed with natural-wood exteriors, cedar shingles, and wide expanses of glass, it exuded an air of planned peace and seclusion. With the ski lifts running and bright ski clothing and equipment everywhere, there was also a sense of subdued excitement. Above the snow-covered roofs towered Snowmass Mountain, over fourteen thousand feet high, with the snaking trails of its ski runs descending all the way from near its summit to what appeared to be the back door of the lodges, each run distinct as it cut a swath through evergreens and gray, bare-branched aspens.

Driving along the curving entrance road with the snow piled on its shoulders by the plows, Clare could see skiers on the slopes, made tiny by the distance, as they flashed down the mountainside with incredible speed and dexterity. That she would ever be able to do that seemed to Clare improbable, if not impossible.

The style of the lodge, like the other buildings of the resort, was eclectic, a blend of modem natural and rustic designs. It was built in a large square with an attached portico reminiscent of a Bavarian hunting lodge. Inside, it opened into a large area centered with a heated swimming pool edged with green plants, covered overhead by a reinforced Plexiglas dome. The water steamed gently in the bright daylight from above, almost obscuring the tables and chairs set in a small open area at the far end. The rooms rose in tiers around the pool, each of the several floors with its protecting balustrade, so that guests, as they made their way to and from their rooms along the carpeted balconies, could look down into the pool or across the open space to the doors lining the walls of the enclosing sides.

Marvin Hobbs, in what Clare was coming to recognize as his usual highhanded manner, had called to make reservations for the rooms. Janine was accommodated on the floor of rooms lust above the pool, since she had been making vigorous use of it, and her husband had managed to secure the suite next door. Clare and Logan found themselves in adjoining rooms two floors higher on the opposite side of the pool.

Logan, entering Clare’s room with her to be certain she would be comfortable, noticed the look on her face as she flicked a glance at the convenient connecting door between his room and her own. He tipped the bellhop and closed the door behind him.

“I can have the room changed, if you like,” he offered, turning to Clare, a smile lurking at the back of his eyes, though his tone was courteous.

Clare hesitated a moment, then shook her head. “If you are not worried that I will make a nuisance of myself, there is no reason for a change.”

He stared down at her. “Am I supposed to be flattered at your confidence in me?”

“Not really, not so long as there is a nice stout lock on this side of the door.”

“I see,” he answered.

The strong brooding sound he injected into his voice made her look up. “Of course, if your ego is wounded, I can make a point of banging on your door now and then. You could then have the satisfaction of refusing to let me in.”

Turning, he strode to the outside door and pulled it open. “Never mind,” he said, “I might be tempted to do just the opposite.” Stepping out onto the interior balcony, he closed the door quietly behind him.

By the time Clare had donned her ski togs, Beverly had retrieved her four-wheel-drive jeep from in front of the dress shop, where she had left it during lunch, and followed after them. John would have a couple of hours before dark to teach Clare the basics, but in the meantime, Clare was to rent her equipment and get out onto the snow. The best slopes for beginners at Snowmass, according to Beverly’s most often quoted authority, her John, were at the golf course of the Snowmass Country Club. The gentle ups and downs and frequent flat stretches of the course were ideal for the first straight runs at walking speed that would help her find her balance.

John found them on the golf course. A sandy-haired, bearded young man of medium height, he had a keen look in his brown eyes as he took note of Clare’s size and shape, the length of her skis, and the type of boots and bindings she had been given. When introductions were done, he gave Clare a nod and a friendly smile.

“You seem to be in good shape,” he said.

“He means as far as health and equipment are concerned,” Beverly explained as Clare blinked and glanced down at her stance upon her skis.

“She thinks that’s what I mean,” John said with a droll smile and a tilt of his head in the direction of his wife, who was scowling in mock jealousy.

And then the lessons began in earnest, Clare learned how to stand, relaxed with the knees slightly flexed and the soles of her feet pressed firmly against the inner soles of her boots from toes to heels. She discovered how to feel the snow beneath her sliding skis, and how to assume a low position at the end of a run to stop herself. The slopes she was allowed to schuss — ski down in a straight, swift run — grew higher and longer. She advanced to a stepped turn, to a gliding snowplow as a means of slowing or stopping, leading up to the sliding, twisting natural stop she had seen so often employed by professional skiers on television. Her confidence and sense of exhilaration increased as she learned. The cold, thin mountain air, the possibility of onlookers, did not trouble her. Nothing mattered but the glinting white powder beneath her fast-traveling skis. It was with something like shock that she looked up and saw the light fading from the sky and the pink afterglow of the twilight casting lavender shadows across the snow fields.