Love In Translation

Three

F letch watched Rheo’s round, delicious-looking ass until she was out of sight, and then blew air into his cheeks. He needed a moment to regroup. He was in Gilmartin, an area he’d always wanted to visit, in Carrie’s grandmother’s house. A house that wasn’t, as assumed, unoccupied.

Fact: Carrie’s cousin was living here, and Carrie didn’t know.

Fact: Rheo was hot and he wanted her.

Yeah, they had chemistry in spades; it crackled and snapped, but nothing like that would happen with Rheo Whitlock. Fletch scrubbed his face. Jesus Christ. His fierce, immediate attraction to Carrie’s prickly, pretty cousin was a ball ache he didn’t need. If he was smart, he’d turn around, retrace his steps, and head back to Portland, his current base. Chances of him doing that? Roughly the same as him getting pregnant.

By immaculate conception.

Gilmartin, brimming with all the things he loved to do the most, intrigued him, and the Pink House was interesting and spacious. Unfortunately, his new housemate was a tiny meteor strike in human form. Earlier, he’d clocked her triangular, gamine face through the open bay window, and his mouth watered. Then she opened the door, and it took all his willpower not to drop to his knees.

She wasn’t conventionally pretty but, God, she packed a punch. Her long hair was rope-thick, as brown as deep, rich, untreated Nepali coffee beans, and her pale skin reminded him of the champagne-colored bubble coral he’d seen diving a reef in the Philippines. He’d had to remind himself not to stare at her shapely legs in those denim cutoffs.

Her eyes, a startling, crystal-clear blue, made his brains leak from his ears. He hadn’t felt this instinctive I-want-to-take-her-to-bed-immediately reaction to any woman since...well, forever. Before and after his expeditions—because he was a guy and not a monk—he’d taken what he could get: one-night stands, casual encounters, hookups with old friends. He was excellent at walking away. His reaction to Rheo was unusual; he was a little out of breath, a lot horny.

Fletch pulled in a breath, held it, released it in a long stream and rolled his shoulders. He was hot for his new housemate, and he’d agreed to keep her presence in the house, in this town, a secret.

You’ve been in town an hour, Wright. Excellent work.

His phone rang and Fletch scowled at the ceiling. He hated being constantly connected and available. He explored Earth’s wild places because they were wild . There was so much to learn about the natural world, and himself, and he suffered extreme deprivations to gain that knowledge. Not always having a phone tucked into his back pocket was the biggest perk of his job.

He squinted at the screen and frowned. He’d made the mistake of telling Seb Michaels, the doctor on his expeditions and his closest friend, that he felt tired and unenergetic. Seb had insisted on giving him a thorough checkup. The ghoul drew blood and ordered a barrage of blood tests. Since Seb was calling from his office—Fletch recognized the old anatomical sketches on the wall behind him—he figured his results were back.

Feeling anxious—blood tests always made his neuroses kick in—Fletch sat on the edge of the big bed and swiped his screen to answer the video call. He frowned at Seb’s muted greeting and far too serious expression.

“Your iron, folic acid, and magnesium levels are low. We can increase them by putting you on a good multivitamin.”

Well, that sounded easy enough.

“Great. I’m thinking about a quickish solo trip to the Danakil Depression after I leave Gilmartin.”

The area in the northeast corner of Ethiopia, often called the gateway to hell, was one of only four living lava lakes in the world. One of the hottest places on the planet and somewhere he longed to visit. When he returned, he’d start planning his next expedition—he was considering hiking, rafting, and skiing Alaska’s most rugged wilderness, a five-thousand-mile route of mostly unexplored territory. Or climbing ten of the world’s highest peaks. There was so much to do and see, and so little time.

Seb shook his head. “I’m not done, Fletch.”

Fear tiptoed up his spine. Fletch was, routinely, a calm person and never overreacted. It was necessary because, in his line of work, if you panicked, you died. But when it came to his health, his legendary composure evaporated. Did he have cancer? Motor neuron disease? ALS? His stomach knotted.

As a teenager, he’d spent a year moving from his bed to the couch, mostly housebound and unable to do much more than lift the remote control. After leading such an active life for the past twenty years, he couldn’t go back to that. The inactivity would kill him long before any disease did.

“What’s wrong with me, Seb?” he demanded, annoyed to hear the tremor in his voice. His fears about getting sick again, and his medical history, were closely guarded secrets, and Seb—both doctor and best friend—was the only one he’d told.

“You’re suffering from physical exhaustion, Fletch.”

“CFS?” he demanded. At fifteen, he’d had strep throat, then rheumatic fever, and for the next nine months suffered from chronic fatigue syndrome. All he wanted to do, could do, was sleep. Exhaustion, dizziness, muscle and joint pain were all he remembered from that year.

People feared spiders and flying, his monster under the bed was being confined, being made to sit and stay.

“No, just run of the mill, normal tiredness.”

Oh. Right.

“I’ve suggested that you take a break, and now I’m insisting,” Seb stated in his scary doctor voice. His expression also suggested Fletch shouldn’t argue. “One of the reasons we work well together is because I don’t overreact and I’m not overly cautious. I trust you to know the limits of your own body, what you can and can’t endure.”

Seb, like him, wasn’t a fusser, so when he looked stern and sounded resolute, Fletch had no choice but to listen.

“Your body needs a proper break, Fletch. You’ve had two bouts of malaria in three years. You’ve just recovered from a bout of pneumonia that was worse than you’ll admit. You’ve had septicemia and frostbite. You’ve recovered from all of them and, I admit, you’ve recovered well.”

There was a damn big but in there somewhere.

“But—”

There it was.

“—I insist you take a three-month break. You need to switch off. I don’t want you doing any physical training. And I sure as hell do not want you going to the Danakil Depression.”

Yeah, not happening. Nobody told him where he could and couldn’t go. He’d made that unbreakable promise to himself when he was a teenager, and it was sacrosanct.

“And do not let Mick and Sam tempt you into joining them on one of their endurance hikes or runs,” Seb told him.

Mick and Sam were nephews of their cameraman, Louie, who he’d met at a cookout a couple of summers ago. When Louie heard he was heading to Gilmartin, he’d told Mick and Sam—who owned a company that provided customers with outdoor experiences—to expect him to pop in. They’d already emailed him their company brochure and told him they could mix and match his adventures.

“I’m fine, Seb. And you know I can’t afford to take so much time off or to stop training. I’m scheduled to be in Gilmartin for three weeks, and then I’ll head to Ethiopia for a week. A you know, an expedition takes months to plan, and I hate delays.”

Seb’s expression remained stern and unyielding. “You seem to be forgetting you won’t be able to get cover for any future expeditions without the certificate of health your insurers require from me. Without insurance, you won’t get any sponsorship, and the producers of your documentaries won’t touch you.”

Fletch didn’t need him to draw him a picture. “And you won’t sign off unless I take a break? That’s blackmail, Seb!”

Seb’s bulldogged expression didn’t change. “You say potato...”

Fletch glared at his oldest friend. “C’mon, Seb, you’re going overboard. Can’t we compromise on me taking three weeks off?”

“Uh...let me think...” Seb briefly looked away. “ No. months . Or, if you prefer, we can make it four.”

Right, he’d hit the line in Seb’s sand. His friend wasn’t going to budge, and there was no point in arguing with him any longer, so he cut the call. Shit. Tossing his phone from hand to hand, he considered firing Seb and hiring another doctor who’d greenlight him.

Shame washed over him. He was being a self-centered, spoiled prick. Seb had accompanied him on his last three expeditions and saved his life once. And—Fletcher was reluctant to admit this—Seb had a point. He was tired, mentally and physically.

But the thought of doing nothing for three months made his lungs constrict. When he’d recovered from CFS, he’d vowed to fill every moment living and not lying around. Back in Aberdeen, he’d sworn he’d delve into the world, discover every hidden nook and cranny, and he’d push himself, mentally and physically, to his limits. Every expedition he completed, every new stamp in his passport, visiting a strange town or place, was a victory against his past limitations. Unfortunately, his body was paying the price for his quest for adventure. He felt sluggish, and he wasn’t sleeping properly.

Fletch shoved his fingers into his hair, frustrated. He expected to be caught flat-footed in mangrove swamps and on glaciers, in sandstorms and blizzards—places where nature flexed her muscles—but he objected to feeling disconcerted and off-balance in an old house in a small town in Washington State.

What was that old John Lennon quote, something about life happening when you were busy making other plans? Driving into Gilmartin earlier, Fletch had congratulated himself on his decision to visit this stunningly beautiful area. weeks of hiking, kayaking, and climbing—that was his ideal vacation. Having Carrie join him was a no-brainer. Her love of the outdoors, knowledge of the area, and their lack of chemistry made her the perfect companion.

No fuss, no drama.

But then he found Rheo.

And during their brief introduction, he’d discovered she hated all the things he loved and kept secrets from her family.

Other questions buzzed, as unrelenting as midges enjoying a warm summer evening in the Scottish Highlands. How many languages did she speak? Why was she taking a sabbatical? Why was he so bloody intrigued by her?

Irritated by Seb’s pronouncement, Carrie’s delayed arrival, and his unwelcome attraction to Rheo, Fletch walked over to the wide windows. Despite having stood on the summit of some of the world’s highest mountains, watching the northern lights dance across the sky, and witnessing the fierce fury of an African thunderstorm, this view made his soul sigh with appreciation.

The deep, mysterious green of the forest contrasted beautifully with the blinding white snow on the upper reaches of Mount Hood. The sky was such a thick blue, dense enough to push his fist through it. The blue lakes glinted in the summer sun.

Man, he couldn’t wait to get out there. Nature, somehow, always managed to soothe his soul, to smooth away his jagged edges, to give him a little perspective. He’d wake up to that view every morning for the next few weeks. A soft, warm breeze wafted into the room, tinged with a hint of roses and wildflowers and sweet, hot summer air.

“God, amazing,” he muttered.

“Glad you like it.” Rheo stood next to the bed, a pile of soft-looking towels in her hands.

She smiled, and his heart flip-flopped around his chest like a hooked rainbow trout.

She gestured to the door to her right. “There’s a small en suite bathroom through there. It’s not big, but it’s got everything you need.”

He nodded his thanks. He spent most of his year in cramped tents, and an en suite bathroom was an unexpected luxury. As was the wide bed, roomy enough for his long frame. At six four, his feet often hung off the ends of hotel beds, and he appreciated one he could stretch out in.

“The kitchen is downstairs to your right. Help yourself to coffee or anything in the fridge.”

Fletch suspected Rheo was running through a mental checklist, trying to remember how to be a good hostess.

“There’s a sitting room as well, with a TV.”

Yeah, he wasn’t a big TV watcher; he preferred to read. He’d caught a glimpse of an old-fashioned library earlier, complete with ceiling-high shelves stacked with books and ladders to reach the top. Would there be any books detailing long-ago expeditions?

“Can I use the library?”

Rheo looked at him as if he’d asked whether aliens were on the roof. “Of course you can. It’s a library , the books are supposed to be read.”

He’d visited houses where libraries were just for show, where books—special editions and collector’s pieces—were seldom handled, sometimes never touched. No matter the cost or how rare, if he bought a book for his collection, he always read it. Oftentimes, he read it again.

“Thank you.”

She pushed a tendril of thick hair behind her ear and nodded. “Sure. Um—” Her eyes landed on the bed, and a bright splash of pink hit her cheekbones.

Her eyes met his and skittered away. When she spoke again, her words tumbled over each other. “I’ll leave you to unpack, and settle in.”

He assumed he wouldn’t see her again that day, and he cursed the wave of disappointment rolling over him. She wasn’t more than a B and B host, an innkeeper. They were sharing a house, but he wasn’t entitled to her company. Or to share her bed.

And why did he want to? While he liked people and could throw back a couple of beers in a bar or join the guys for a pick-up game, he was equally content to spend time on his own. He’d done numerous unsupported expeditions in his early years—without a backup of any sort, filming his own trials and tribulations—and was comfortable in his own company.

He should take a walk, explore the town, and grab some food. He needed to give Rheo time to get used to him—he was little more than a stranger.

Rheo sent him a tight smile and whirled on her heel, but her foot caught the edge of the rug. She stumbled and, despite being across the room, he lunged to grab her but missed by a foot. She hit the deck, her arms still at her sides. Her forehead bounced off the rug and she let out an inelegant whoof . She lay there on her stomach, her fantastic butt in the air, her head turned to the side. Her mouth opened and closed like a drowning fish.

Fletcher dropped to his haunches, rolled her over onto her back, and immediately clocked the panic in her eyes.

“Keep calm, you’ve just had the wind knocked out of you. Your breath will come back when you relax.”

Her eyes narrowed. Irritation and embarrassment swirled.

“Better?”

Rheo nodded. “Getting there.”

Fletcher winced at the graze on her forehead. It was a typical carpet burn, and he noticed another on her chin. He touched it gently and frowned at a smear of blood on the tip of his finger. “Why the hell didn’t you use your hands to break your fall?” he demanded.

“I have no damn idea. Stupid.” Color flooded back into her face, thank God.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“I’m fine, but my pride is in tatters.”

Fletch pulled her into a sitting position, and Rheo bent her legs and rested her wrists on her knees. She looked at the ceiling, then at a spot past his shoulder, her feet—anywhere but at him.

“So, it’s pretty obvious I have no eye, hand, and body coordination.”

He’d noticed. “Do you do this kind of thing often?” he asked, easily keeping his balance while squatting. He inhaled a hit of her, a combination of shower gel and shampoo, and his pants tightened. Jesus.

Rheo wrinkled her nose. God, adorable .

“Often enough. I once stepped onto a train, stumbled, and caused a row of people to topple like upright dominoes doing a nosedive. I’m a complete klutz.”

“You can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, I can. I once ran into a hotel, desperate to use the restroom. I ran straight into a mirrored wall. The bathroom was across the hallway, and I ran into the reflection.”

He scrubbed his hand over his mouth to hide his grin. Okay, he was starting to believe her. “You’re also a klutz with a carpet burn on your forehead and chin,” he told her, pushing to his feet. He held out his hand. “Next time, put your hands out to break your fall.”

“I know that,” she shot back. “But the thought came too late. It’s like my brain doesn’t get those messages. But I can translate—speak and listen to the next sentence in four languages and not so fluently in another two.”

She spoke six languages? Holy crap. Astounding. Fletcher tightened his grip on her hand and launched her to her feet. But he put too much heft into his pull—accidently on purpose?—and she shot up. This time she remembered to put her hands out and they bounced off his chest.

He gripped her hips—she was as unbalanced as a baby foal—and every nerve in his body went on high alert.

Rheo lowered her hands to hold his wrists, and her thumb drifted over his skin, sneaking under the leather and copper bracelets he wore on his right wrist. Was the skin on her neck as silky as it looked? Was her hair as soft as he imagined? He lifted his hand and ran his knuckle along the cord of her neck and over her jawbone, stopping to wrap a strand of her hair around his finger. Rheo’s eyes remained on his chest, so he tipped her chin and her eyes smashed into his.

He’d only seen that shade of blue once before, in Poco Azul, a cave pool in the Bahia region of Brazil. Like that South American pool, her eyes held secrets, as well as confusion and a healthy dose of Oh, shit—what’s happening? But when his thumb drifted over her full bottom lip, he caught a flash of lust, hot and bright.

He needed her closer, so Fletch placed his hand on her lower back and pulled her to him. Thigh to thigh, chest to chest, a sweet bundle smelling of wildflowers. She tensed, just a little, and he loosened his grip to allow her to push off him, to put some space between them. If that was what she wanted to do.

Rheo’s eyes stayed on his, and when she tipped her hips and pushed her stomach into his pipe-hard cock, he couldn’t wait a millisecond longer. His mouth covered hers in a move that was far from smooth. As his lips touched hers, his brain signed off, and instinct kicked in.

In all the world, there was only Rheo—she was all that mattered. Her body, soft, feminine, and fragrant, pressed against his, was all he needed.

Fletch tasted strawberry lip balm on her lips as his tongue traced the seam of her mouth, before gently sucking her lower lip between his. She shuddered, gripped and twisted his shirt in her small fist, and sighed, her hot breath hitting his lips. He took the opportunity to slip his tongue into the spice of her mouth. Rheo made a sexy sound in the back of her throat and pushed her hard nipples into his chest, her stomach even more into his throbbing dick.

So good, so freakin’ good.

Her fingers streaked through his hair, down his back, but he could only concentrate on her sexy, hot mouth moving under his, demanding more. Demanding everything ...

A klaxon went off in his head, DANGER written in six-foot-high neon letters.

He was an experienced guy, but her hot response made him want to dive into her, to lose himself.

He was a master of situational awareness—his life depended on it—but Rheo made the world narrow to only her and what they were doing, how she made him feel.

Reckless, impetuous, thoughtless...everything he usually wasn’t, and everything he couldn’t afford to be. He knew how to compartmentalize, could keep pieces of himself apart, but this woman, with her smooth legs and curves and gorgeous wildflower smell and sexy mouth had his synapses misfiring.

One small hand drifted over his hip, came to rest on his pec directly above his heart. For some bullshit reason, her action was too much, too intense, so he lifted her hand off his body and held it.

Lust, attraction, sex...those were easy to handle. And that was all this was, all it could ever be.

God, he’d met her an hour ago. Why the fuck were these thoughts even running through his head?

Knowing he was on the brink of stripping her and using that big bed, Fletch dialed his passion down, and peppered her jaw with small kisses, before placing his lips on her temple and keeping it there while he waited for blood to reach his brain.

In high-stakes environments, whether it was the Okavongo Swamps of Botswana or pulling a sled across marrow-freezing windswept Antarctica, good decision-making was the difference between life and death. Standing with a sexy woman in his arms wasn’t a life-or-death situation, but the rule of making good choices still applied. Sleeping with his new roommate just an hour after meeting her was not, in any scenario, a wise decision.

Not only was she going to be living here and sharing his space for a couple of weeks, but she was also Carrie’s cousin, and he didn’t want to risk complicating his relationship with a good friend just to get his rocks off.

And, as a few hard expeditions had taught him, when the terrain was too easy and life was too good, that’s when he had to pull back and reevaluate. Life had a way of becoming a shit show very quickly.

Pulling away from her took more willpower than it did to pitch his tent in a howling minus-sixty-degree blizzard, but Fletch managed to do it. The sound of their ragged breathing filled the room, and Fletch, who’d hacked his way through impenetrable jungles and survived crazy ice storms, reluctantly admitted he’d never experienced emotional disorientation to this degree.

He’d only just met her, but there was still the lingering worry that if Rheo gave him the smallest hint she wanted to dive back in for more, he’d have her naked so fast her head would spin.

Rheo, thank God, slowly backed away, those extraordinary eyes wider than before. She closed them, shook her head, and ran her fingers across her forehead—was that something she did when she felt off-balance?—and winced when she touched her graze.

She met his eyes and bit her lip. “Well, that was...”

He waited for her to finish her sentence, trying to fill in the blanks. Hot? Unexpected?

“Um... shit .”

Did “shit” after a hot kiss mean she was pissed? Could he have read her wrong?

Fuck, he never second-guessed himself, and he’d never, ever spent this much time self-analyzing or fixating over what was nothing more than a hot grope and a deep kiss.

Maybe he needed rest and relaxation, and to slow down, more than he thought. It could be that Seb was right.

He could think about that later; right now he needed to make sure Rheo was okay. He hoped she knew he’d never ask for more than she could give. If she had any doubts about him, those needed to be alleviated right damn now. If she wanted to forget about the kiss, they could do that. If she wanted a reset, that was okay too. If she wanted him to leave, he’d be pissed, but he’d pick up his duffel and keys and drive away.

But he’d leave her to explain to her grandmother why his rent wasn’t reflecting in her bank account.

He wasn’t a complete bastard, but neither was he a saint.

“I—”

Rheo held up her hand, her cheeks red. Why was she blushing? “I’m so sorry if I took our kiss further than you meant to go,” she said, her tone measured. “Please forget it happened.”

What. The. Crap?

Fletch couldn’t make sense of her words, but before he could respond, she walked out of the room.

He stroked his jaw, shook his head, and closed his eyes. Well, hell.

It was obvious her mind worked faster than his, and she’d beaten him in the race to see who spoke first. He’d needed more time to boot up his brain, to unfreeze his tongue and rewire his shorted-out circuits.

But unlike him, she’d jumped to conclusions quite quickly. Why was she taking all the responsibility for their out-of-control kiss? It had been a two-way street, both giving, both taking, both feasting .

Fletch scrubbed his face with his open palms, linked his fingers behind his neck and tipped his head back to look at the ceiling. Well, fuck.

Her effect on him wasn’t good.

But their kiss had been absolutely fan-fucking-tastic.