A Matter of Trust(15)

Her face broke the surface, and she hauled in air. But she coughed it out, retching as her rescuer hauled her to the edge of the pool.

Hands pulled her up and out, and she sat on the deck, gulping air.

“Give her room!” someone yelled a second before a man crouched in front of her. He cut his voice low. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”

Water dripped from his brown, curly hair, which was nearly shoulder length and pushed back from his forehead. He was in his jeans and wore a dark shirt that was now plastered to his lean torso, outlining his sculpted shoulders. A platinum snowboarder pendant hung gleaming from his neck, the Freeriding World Championship logo imprinted on the front.

And if that wasn’t the first clue, the layer of brown whiskers that outlined those enticing lips, the dark brown eyes, filled with mystery and danger, and the tiny cut over his left eyebrow told her exactly who’d rescued her.

Gage Watson.

She couldn’t speak, and Gage took her hands in his. “You’re shaking.”

More than that, her entire body trembled, so violently it shook her grip right out of his.

He somehow procured a towel, wrapped it around her.

Then, he didn’t even ask before he bent down and simply picked her up.

Just like that. Holding her against his sopping chest as he headed through the deck doors toward the two-story fireplace of the Outlaw lounge.

Now, she really couldn’t breathe. Because she’d harbored a crazy fan crush on Gage Watson since he’d taken that run down Heaven’s Peak, posted it on YouTube, landed on the cover of Snowboarder magazine, and with those brown eyes and renegade smile pretty much cajoled her heart right out of her chest and around his little finger.

He set her down on a worn leather sofa, tucked the towel in around her, and motioned to someone nearby. “Can we get some hot cocoa here?”

Then he turned back to her and smiled. “Are you going to live?”

With the warmth igniting inside her? Um, probably. She swallowed, her hand on her chest, finally able to nod.

“I was looking for you when I saw you go in the water,” he said. “I’m sorry I was late. I got your note but had a little trouble finding you in the crowd.”

A waitress arrived with the cocoa, and he took it, then handed it to her. He wrapped her hands around the mug, holding his on top. “Take it slow.”

She took a sip of the cocoa, let it soothe her raw throat.

“Better?”

She nodded, and he let go of her hands and rested one muscular arm along the top of the sofa, his wet jeans dripping onto the leather. Every once in a while, a shiver rippled through him, although he didn’t in the least acknowledge it. But she felt like an idiot now, remembering the panic that took her, the way she’d thrashed. In fact . . .

She spied a welt on his cheek. “Did I hit you?”

“I’ve had worse,” he said, and winked. “But you did pack a wallop.”

“I panicked.”

“Yes. Yes, you did.” He grinned, though, a pretty smirk. He had such enchanting eyes, and for a second she simply forgot where she was.

Until.

“So, what did you want to see me about? It seemed like a pretty desperate note—something about life or death?” His gaze trailed over her. “I’m hoping that wasn’t a suicide attempt.”

“No—no.” And now she just wanted to crawl away. Why was she always so dramatic? “I was . . . I’m here to ask you for a favor.”

“A favor. Really.” He raised a shoulder. “Okay, I’m game. Shoot it at me.”

“Please don’t ski Terminator Wall.”

His smile dimmed. A frown dipped across his forehead. “Uh . . . you know that’s why I’m here, right? There’d be a horde of disappointed people, not to mention my sponsors, a few magazines, and a couple hundred thousand YouTube subscribers if I didn’t shred the Terminator. So, maybe you could give me a good reason why I should decimate my entire career?”

When he put it like that . . .

“Because you want to save a life?”

He considered her a long moment, his lips curling up one side.

“Whose life? Because if it’s yours—”

“Dylan McMahon.”

His smile dimmed. “Oh. Him.” He scraped his hair back from his head. “Don’t tell me he’s your boyfriend.”

“What—no! No. He’s just a friend. Actually . . . I put the stupid idea in his head, and now . . . I just know that if you go, he’ll go and—”

He held up his hand. “Pump the brakes. I’m not letting Dylan McMahon follow me down the T-wall, so just take a breath, okay? He’s not ready. And I don’t need anyone getting killed following my line.”