Нора Робертс - Chasing Fire

She sauntered over. “How’s the leg?” she asked Cards.

“Not bad. Knee’s a little puffy yet. I’m going to ice it down again.” He patted the hood beside Gull’s hip. “That’s some ride, Fast Feet. Some hot ride. Today’s word’s got to be virile, ’cause that machine’s got balls. You kids have fun.” He winked at Rowan and, still limping, went back in.

Hands on her hips, Rowan took a stroll around the hot ride. “This is Iron Man’s car.”

“Since I doubt you’re claiming I stole it from your father, I conclude you’re a woman who knows her superheroes and her motor vehicles.”

She stopped in front of him. “Where’s the suit?”

“In an undisclosed location. Villainy is everywhere.”

“Too true.” She angled her head, skimming a finger over the gleaming fender while she studied Gull. “Iron Man’s a rich superhero. That’s why he can afford the car.”

“Tony Stark has many cars.”

“Also true. I’m thinking, smoke jumping pays pretty well, in season. But I can’t see selling tokens and tracking games at an arcade’s something that pays for a car like this.”

“But it’s entertaining, and I get free pizza. It’s my car,” he said when she just kept staring at him. “Do you want to see the registration? My portfolio?”

“That means you have a portfolio, and I’m damned if you built one working an arcade.” Considering, she pursed her lips. “Maybe if you owned a piece of it.”

“You have remarkable deductive powers. You can be Pepper Potts.” He stepped over, opened her door. She slid in, looked up.

“How big a piece?”

“I’ll give you the life story while we eat if you want it.”

She thought it over as he skirted the hood, got behind the wheel. And decided she did.

He drove fast, had a smooth, competent hand on the stick shift—both of which she appreciated.

And God, she did love a slick machine.

“Do I have to sleep with you before you let me drive this machine?”

He spared her a single, mild glance. “Of course.”

“Seems fair.” Enjoying herself, she tipped her face up to the wind and sky, then lifted her hands up to both. “Riding in it’s a pretty decent compromise. How did you manage to get this all set up?”

“Staggering organizational skills. Plus I figured I’d grab a few hours while I had them. The food was the easy part. All I had to do was tell Marg I was taking you on a picnic, and she handled the rest of that section. She’s in love with you.”

“It’s mutual. Still, I’d’ve had a hard time planning anything when I managed to crawl out of bed.”

“I have staggering recuperative powers to go with the organizational skills.”

She tipped down her sunglasses to eye him over them. “I know sex bragging when I hear it.”

“Then I probably shouldn’t add that I woke up feeling like I’d been run over by a sixteen-wheeler after I hauled a two-hundred-pound bag of bricks fifty miles. Through mud.”

“Yeah. And it’s barely June.”

When he turned off on Bass Creek Road, she nodded. “Nice choice.”

“It’s not a bad hike, and it ought to be pretty.”

“It is. I’ve lived here all my life,” she added as he pulled into the parking area at the end of the road. “Hiking the trails was what I did. It kept me in shape, gave me a good sense of the areas I’d jump one day—and gave me an appreciation for why I would.”

“We crossed into the black yesterday.” He hit the button to bring up the roof. “It’s harsh, and it’s hard. But you know it’s going to come back.”

They got out, and he opened the hood with its marginal storage space.

“Jesus, Gull, you weren’t kidding about big-ass hamper.”

“Getting it in was an exercise in geometry.” He hefted it out.

“There’s just two of us. What does that thing weigh?”

“A lot less than my gear. I think I can make it a mile on a trail.”

“We can switch off.”

He looked at her as they crossed to the trailhead. “I’m all about equal pay for equal work. A firm believer in ability, determination, brains having nothing to do with gender. I’m even cautiously open to women players in the MLB. Cautiously open, I repeat. But there are lines.”

“Carting a picnic hamper is a line?”

“Yeah.”

She slid her hands into her pockets, hummed a little as she strolled with a smirk on her face. “It’s a stupid line.”

“Maybe. But that doesn’t make it less of a line.”

They walked through the forested canyon. She heard what she’d missed during the fire. The birdsong, the rustles—the life. Sun shimmered through the canopy, struck the bubbling, tumbling waters of the creek as they followed the curve of the water.

“Is this why you were studying maps?” she asked him. “Looking for a picnic spot?”

“That was a happy by-product. I haven’t lived here all my life, and I want to know where I am.” He scanned the canyon, the spills of water as they walked up the rising trail. “I like where I am.”

“Was it always Northern California? Is there any reason we have to wait for the food to start the life story?”

“I guess not. No, I started out in LA. My parents were in the entertainment industry. He was a cinematographer, she was a costume designer. They met on a set, and clicked.”

The creek fell below as they climbed higher on the hillside.

“So,” he continued, “they got married, had me a couple years later. I was four when they were killed in a plane crash. Little twin engine they were taking to the location for a movie.”

Her heart cracked a little. “Gull, I’m so sorry.”

“Me too. They didn’t take me, and they usually did if they were on the same project. But I had an ear infection, so they left me back with the nanny until it cleared up.”

“It’s hard, losing parents.”

“Vicious. There’s the log dam,” he announced. “Just as advertised.”

She let it go as the trail approached the creek once more. She could hardly blame him for not wanting to revisit a little boy’s grief.

“This is worth a lot more than a mile-and-a-half hike,” he said while the pond behind the dam sparkled as if strewn with jewels.

Beyond it the valley opened like a gift, and rolled to the ring of mountains.

“And the hamper’s going to be a lot lighter on the mile-and-a-half back.”

Near the pond, under the massive blue sky, he set it down.

“I worked a fire out there, the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness.” He stood, looking out. “Standing here, on a day like this, you’d never believe any of that could burn.”

“Jumping one’s different.”

“It’s sure a faster way in.” He flipped open the lid of the hamper, took out the blanket folded on top. She helped him spread it open, then sat on it cross-legged.

“What’s on the menu?”

He pulled out a bottle of champagne snugged in a cold sleeve. Surprised, touched, she laughed. “That’s a hell of a start—and you just don’t miss a trick.”

“You said champagne picnic. For our entrée, we have the traditional fried chicken à la Marg.”

“Best there is.”

“I’m told you favor thighs. I’m a breast man myself.”

“I’ve never known a man who isn’t.” She began to unload. “Oh, yeah, her red potato and green bean salad, and look at this cheese, the bread. We’ve got berries, deviled eggs. Fudge cake! Marg gave us damn near half of one of her fudge cakes.” She glanced up. “Maybe she’s in love with you .”

“I can only hope.” He popped the cork. “Hold out your glass.”

She reached for it, then caught the label on the bottle. “Dom Pérignon. Iron Man’s car and James Bond’s champagne.”