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  Riley realized that their youth and inexperience made it difficult for Riley to gain satisfaction, but later that night, she insisted on her own explosions, telling him what felt good and how to use his strong athlete’s fingers on her clit and how to penetrate her to bring her release.

  The first time he fingered her, he groaned. “I don’t think I can hold back. Have to—”

  She was so close to exploding, she almost couldn’t speak. “Like hell you do. Think about math class until I go over the edge.”

  He obviously did, and once she had her pleasure, her fill of him, she held his butt cheeks tight as she rhythmically tightened and relaxed her “sweet cunt,” as he’d called it. Free to find his own spectacular reach for the stars, he drove into her hard and fast until, once again, it was good for him. For both of them.

  They slept part of the night, and when they awakened to use the bathroom, she surprised him and herself when they returned to bed by pulling up her knees and dropping them open. She pushed down his head, making his mouth suck her.

  Only later would she learn that, even for him, it could have been about more than release. But they didn’t know better, and it hadn’t mattered. Riley had wanted him inside her, slick and hot and driving. She thought he’d wanted to be inside her, only her, enclosed in her wet, welcoming warmth.

  Chapter 5

  Once out of school, they suddenly represented the United States of America, not Mountain Senior High. While the little ceremony at the state level had been an important milestone in their journey to Worlds and the Olympics, it seemed paltry once they were on the biggest stages in their sport.

  They were in love, and they loved what they were doing. But when they tried out for their first World Cup, Jean was selected for the team, but Riley didn’t make the cut. Black-haired seductress Margo Watson, whose arrogant pushiness Riley couldn’t stand, did.

  The humiliation devastated and numbed her. It wasn’t just because she wasn’t on the US team, but the woman who’d taken her spot for the downhill was the poorest skier on it. Riley was by far the best. Why had this happened to her?

  Jean exploded, whirling around in a circle and slapping a hand to his forehead. “Damn it! Who made that cock shit decision! You just watch…she won’t even make it through the qualifying rounds. You’re better than all the women on the team.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Oh, yes, you are! You know you are! That choice was either political or she’s sleeping with one of the coaches.”

  The minute Jean said it, scenes of Jack Donley, the assistant coach—forty, bearded, and beginning to bald—getting a little too close to Margo, running a finger down her jaw line or whispering in her ear while she giggled, flashed in Riley’s memory.

  Lordy, Lordy, I think maybe I’ve answered my own question.

  In truth, the assistant coach had made overtures to Riley—nothing outright, just hints—and she had avoided him, especially after she’d felt his hand touch her butt as if by mistake. Once, as she’d exited the women’s dressing lounge, he’d zipped up her snow jacket the last two inches and his hand had paused just a moment as it brushed across a nipple when he released the pull. Another time, he’d caught Riley alone near the lockers and had tried to kiss her. She’d turned her head so he missed her mouth, and made contact with her cheek instead.

  She’d pushed him away and escaped.

  He’d laughed, calling out, “What’s the matter little girl? Hasn’t he made you a woman yet?”

  “He,” she knew, was Jean. Frightened and scared, she hadn’t told anyone about this, especially Jean, for fear he might attack the man. She had just avoided ever being alone with Donley…unsuccessfully, as it turned out.

  Usually the teams ate together or went out in groups, but Donley had seemed to stalk her until he’d finally caught her alone. He’d asked her out for a beer, and when she’d said she didn’t drink during competitions and reminded him she wasn’t of legal drinking age, he’d changed it to coffee. Nausea had rolled through her, but she politely declined, despite the terror she’d felt. His jaw had tightened and his eyes had flashed in a split second of anger, as if it wasn’t her choice to refuse him—

  Now, thankfully, Jean interrupted those memories by wrapping his arms around her in the strongest embrace anyone could offer in her disappointment and pain. Turning his head, he kissed her temple and brushed away her tears with his gloved fingers. She called it watching her back, “having her six.”

  Love for him welled up the moment his arms had closed about her and she remembered the sweetness she’d felt the first time they’d had sex.

  He shouted and fumed on her behalf again when Margo failed to qualify to compete in the downhill. “Came in at the bottom of the score sheets. I told you so!”

  Riley’s stomach turned over. She could have brought home a medal, possibly even a gold one, for her country. As she walked away from watching Margo’s run, Donley appeared. As she sped up to get away from him, she heard him laughing behind her. And she knew he’d deliberately removed her from the team because she wouldn’t let him touch her.

  Riley fled the games. Didn’t even tell Jean why she decided to do so. He hugged and kissed her. “I understand. This was rough on you and totally unfair. I’ll see you back home.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “I’ll watch you ski on TV.”

  Back home, she told her father, a former Olympic skater, about what had happened, including Donley’s behavior.

  In his true role as a father protecting his daughter, Sean O’Ryan was even angrier than Jean had been. When he calmed down, he said, “You have to get your own private coach, Rile. You shunned Donley’s advances, and he’ll do this again to you. You can bet he’s tried this with other women on the team, but unless they file a complaint, he’ll just say you’re young and misunderstood his actions. He could’ve taken his dick out and waved it at you and no one would believe you.”

  Embarrassed by her father’s frankness, and wanting to shut out the immediate vision she’d had of what the coach’s penis might look like, she said, “But, Dad—”

  “Trust me on this. Having your own personal coach with you should stop the pervert from messing with you…and maybe some other young women, too.”

  He’d been right, of course. Her dad usually was, but because he’d been an Olympian she was even more inclined to trust his judgment in this matter.

  * * * *

  The problem was, having a private coach separated her from Jean-Claude too much, especially when they were training or competing in different venues in different towns. When they did happen to get together, Margo Watson was often there, too, clinging to his arm and gazing starry-eyed into his face.

  Riley was never sure when she realized Jean was losing interest in her. As training and meets took over their lives, suddenly he just wasn’t there for her.

  Over the next three years, they medaled in World and other competitions. Then their first Olympics came up, and they again medaled, but in different towns. She received her bronze award first. She said to her new private coach, “I want to see Jean receive his medal. Can we get there?”

  Sean Murphy, a man about ten years older than her father, pulled out his cell phone. He had the maps to the various venues on it, with the miles separating them listed. “Ay, we can,” he said with his mild Irish brogue. “We’ll hire a car. We’ll be there in plenty o’ time.”

  The crowd in front of the medal stand was unbelievably large, and suddenly Riley felt too small to manage it.

  Murphy elbowed his way through the crowd with her in his wake to get near the award’s stand. She did get close enough to snap some shots of Jean with the other medalists, especially as he held his hand over his heart when they played the “Star Spangled Banner”. Afterward, he wiped away a tear or two with one gloved finger.

  He had earned the top accolade in his sport, and happiness for him sent tears of love and joy down Riley’s cheeks. She didn’t brush them away.

&
nbsp; Unfortunately, they couldn’t get near enough for him to hear or see her even though she waved, jumped up and down, and called his name.

  Hundreds of reporters and fans followed the men all the way to the area of their dressing rooms, crowding the champions so close that Jean was suddenly swallowed up in the chaos.

  Coach put a hand on Riley’s shoulder. “I think this is as far as ya go, lassie.”

  When she saw the Olympic police roughly blocking anyone determined to get on the path to where the conquering heroes were going, she knew it wasn’t safe. She tamped down her eagerness to connect with Jean so they could share their successes with each other and stopped.

  “Here,” Murphy said, handing her his phone. “Call the lad.”

  She punched in Jean’s European cell number, but he didn’t answer and she wasn’t able to leave a voice message.

  “He’s nah’ answerin’?”

  “I couldn’t even leave a voicemail. Probably too many calls. I’ll try later.” She returned the phone. “My phone’s in my room.”

  He flagged down another car to drive them back to the Olympic Village and their hotel. The night had turned bitterly cold, and the damp streets had iced over. Riley hoped the snow would still be good for those due to ski tomorrow.

  As fatigue crept in, she settled back in the cushioned warmth of the car.

  “If ya don’t get a call in, ya’ll be seein’ him at closing ceremonies tomorrow night.”

  She nodded. That was going to be as fantastic as opening ceremonies had been.

  When she was back in her room and Jean still didn’t answer his phone, she suddenly felt like someone had pricked her balloon, deflating her. Her emotions were on a downhill slide, but her spirits picked up again when the rest of the women’s team pounded on her door, insisted she wear her medal over her down jacket, then hefted her onto their shoulders and headed for the cafeteria for athletes.

  Bellies full, they made final rounds to purchase souvenirs. They could hardly walk for all the athletes there, and although Riley looked around frantically in hopes of seeing Jean, she didn’t spot anyone on their men’s team.

  * * * *

  Riley slept later than usual the next morning. Dressed and on her way to the cafeteria, she ran into the silver medalist in the giant slalom, a young Canadian woman.

  “Hi, Sheila. Want some company for breakfast?”

  “That would be nice.”

  Sheila had come close to taking gold, and Riley enjoyed talking with her as they ate.

  Afterward, she phoned Jean’s cell, finding it no longer in service. She inquired with the hotel and learned he’d checked out.

  He didn’t even show up for closing ceremonies.

  That took some of the shine off the event for Riley, but she would see him back in the states.

  When she did, locked nude and hungry for sex in his arms again, she convinced herself she’d been wrong about his feelings for her.

  He buried his face in her hair. “I watched the video of your incredible race. I cried when I saw the awards ceremony. I wanted to stand up and shout to the whole world, ‘That’s my woman!’”

  Laughing, she kissed him and teased his mouth open as their tongues tasted each other in an erotic dance. Fully aroused, she slid her hand impatiently down to the full erection in his groin. “Oh, my. What is this?”

  Jean groaned. “Something to fuck you good with, my dear.”

  To her, that meant to make love to you with. Only later, after she read about him in the skiing newsletter, did she realize he’d meant exactly what he’d said. She was now just a convenient fuck buddy for him when a certain bitch wasn’t available.

  Pain knifed through her, and she cried for what seemed like hours.

  Chapter 6

  Three years ago…

  Although Jean had to have known when she’d crashed in the giant slalom event and had torn her left ACL, there’d been no word from him in the long months of her recovery. Everyone else in the world, it seemed, even fans who didn’t know her personally, had sent flowers, cards, candy, or telephoned her. Vulnerable, in severe pain, and with her skiing livelihood and future threatened, she’d cried herself to sleep too many nights over Jean’s silence.

  Still recovering, but in her dad’s home instead of her apartment, Skiing News was the lifeline to her sport. That was how she learned Jean had married Margo Watson, the very skier he’d said shouldn’t have made the World Cup team the year she had not. Angry at this betrayal, she tore out the article.

  Unfortunately, her dad walked into her room when she started yelling at the paper. He not only saw her wad up that section of the paper and heave it across the room, he had to dodge it almost hitting him in the face.

  “Jeez, Rile. What’s wrong?”

  The hurt of it hit, and she sobbed. “No wonder I never heard from Jean. He married Margo Watson.”

  She couldn’t stop crying as she explained who he’d married, even though she knew her pain was breaking her father’s heart. She still loved Jean. Would always love him.

  * * * *

  Two years ago…

  A year later, Skiing News reported his impending divorce. They listed “irreconcilable differences” as the cause, but Riley received word from the winter skiing community that Margo had cheated on him. Donley had also been kicked off the team when it became known he was one of the several men involved with her and, at last, two other women skiers had complained about him sexually harassing them.

  Riley’s elation that Donley had received his comeuppance did nothing to temper her pain at losing Jean. She ached for what he’d gone through with Margo, even though he should have known her true character.

  * * * *

  Present day…

  Well, I’ve learned to live my life without you, Mr. Merseau. Now here you are, kissing me as if we were still lovers and friends. No way will I reopen that door and let you shatter my heart again.

  The next morning, a smiling Jean stood waiting, poles and skis stabbed into the snow, arms crossed as he leaned one shoulder against the door to the lift mechanism.

  Riley felt the usual sensual rush when seeing him, then irritation replaced it at the nerve he had in coming here. As if things would be the same as before he’d dumped—no, abandoned—her.

  Holding in check the tongue-lashing she wanted to pour on him, she answered his question of last night. “Yes, I sure as hell yelled at you yesterday. You ignored the sign saying the trails were closed. None of them had been groomed and no one told any of us we’d have an Olympian training here. I didn’t recognize it was you from that distance, but I’d have shouted anyway.”

  He laughed. “Such a tigress you were, defending your territory.”

  She bristled. “That’s my job. You know damn well, if you’d been hurt, the resort would’ve been liable…sign or not.”

  “Hey. I apologize. I was eager to get out there because I hadn’t trained for a while.”

  Because she couldn’t not look up, she did. He was dressed in red and blue again. Large, expensive sunglasses hid his amazing eyes, but wisps of dark hair had escaped the woolen under-helmet cap that covered his head and ears, and the creases on his face deepened as Jean smiled again, taking her breath away.

  He ran a finger down her jawline. And she thought her legs would melt at the gentle touch. His voice softened. “Ski with me, Riley.”

  Lord knew she wanted to satisfy the sudden, overwhelming need to do that very thing, to be a teen again and experience the joy of flying down the mountain beside him, with winter’s icy breath stamping color in their faces and exhilaration triggering laughter as they slowed and swished in a half-circle, snow flying from their skis in an arc, as they came to a stop.

  Temptation almost ripped her in half before she shook her head. She no longer skied at his level and their relationship was broken. It would never be the same. “I have to work.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “You are not an employee.” She kept he
r voice firm.

  He grinned as he leaned down, sending a spark of electric desire through her when he kissed her cheek near her mouth. “Ah, but I’m a special guest. Sam has given me carte blanche.”

  Sam, is it? Jean’s natural charm was still there.

  She sighed and stepped back. Charm was manipulative, and what it accomplished didn’t last. “Sorry. Can’t let you. And please don’t kiss me.” Or touch me.

  Before she could stop him, he’d relieved her of her box of donuts, confiscated the key in her hand, and opened the door to the offices. Inside, his slender, strong hands nimbly added grounds to the coffeepot filter, filled the water reservoir, and started it all while her nerves caused her fingers to fumble while turning up the thermostat.

  She opened the cupboard for the mugs.

  “I’ll get them.”

  Her brain swirled as he put one hand on the counter beside her and reached around her with the other for the cups. Enclosed in his arms, feeling the curves of his body where his groin melded with her tush, she almost wept from longing.

  He kissed the top of her head and whispered against her hair. “I’ve missed you.”

  That killed her mood. Missed me? Like hell you did! She ducked under his arm and slapped a stack of cheap white napkins beside the donuts. “The big trail is good to go, so you can do the double-black again. Paul came before I did and groomed it. He’s in an information meeting with the other leaders of various programs. Maybe he’ll find out why no one told us you’d be here.”

  “Because I asked them not to tell. I wanted it to be a surprise. I didn’t want the media here shooting photos and interviewing me when I showed up. Besides, I wanted to surprise you.”

  “Oh.” She felt stupid. “The media thing makes sense.”

  A short time later, she couldn’t stop him from hopping on the lift and sitting beside her, his firm thigh touching hers—warm even through his ski suit—but she didn’t have to carry on a conversation with him, so she didn’t. As they exited the ride, she turned her back on him and pushed off on the single black. She checked the others while he skied the double repeatedly.