Nobody's Business (Nobody Romances) (5 page)

Oh, she liked Ace-most of the time. But Ace had a reckless streak. Which made him an ideal athlete. Not, however, the
most reliable participant in a program like Ski-Hab. And this
was a friend of Ace's. What were the chances the man would
take the work involved seriously enough to succeed? She'd purposely limited Ski-Hab to members of the armed forces
because they were in excellent physical condition and accustomed to following orders.

Still ...

Ace's time with Ski-Hab must have left a positive mark for
him to refer their first civilian. A civilian who currently flopped
on the snow like a fish pulled out of an ice hole. While she
played Attila the Hun, snapping demands.

"My apologies, Mr....?"

"Sawyer," he replied through the same barely moving lips.
"Doug Sawyer."

Once again, Lyn turned her attention to Kerri-Sue. "Go wait
at the lift."

While Kerri-Sue pushed off toward the rest of the class, the
man on the ground struggled with the length of his skis, fumbling to turn himself around.

"Have you ever skied before, Mr. Sawyer?"

She'd softened her tone, but if the glare he shot in her direction was an indication, he'd snow ski with Satan before he
forgave her.

"With one arm?" he retorted. "No."

"I mean, ever. One arm or two."

"Yes."

Good. Thank God. "So you remember how to get up when
you fall down, right?"

"Yeah, but I'm at a disadvantage since I have no arm on this
side to use for support."

"Then you'll have to flip yourself around to the side that has
an arm, won't you?"

"You could lend a hand, you know."

"I could," she agreed, and folded her arms over her chest.
"But that would defeat the purpose of Ski-Hab. Now flip."

He struggled, but managed to face the other way, positioning his skis parallel and facing upward. Pole planted firmly,
he pulled himself to a standing position. Thunderous applause
and cheers erupted from the circle of people standing on the
sidelines.

At last, the man turned to face Lyn, a relieved grin splitting
his cheeks below the bridge of his goggles.

"Well done, Mr. Sawyer." She clapped her gloved hands in
muted applause. "How do you feel?"

"Better," he said.

"Ready to do it again?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"Good." With one quick shove against his armless shoulder,
she knocked him off-balance.

He teetered for the briefest moment, and then fell right back
into the same patch of snow he'd just managed to escape.

"Do it again."

Michael had disappeared.

Becky stood near their empty table in the lodge and swore
softly. She'd told him to stay put while she took a quick trip to
the ladies room downstairs. But did he listen to her? Of course
not.

Around her, groups of people milled, packing up gear, drying wet garments on the coin-operated bootwarmers, and making plans for the evening. Kids shouted for one last cup of hot
cocoa before the employees closed down the cafeteria area.

But not Michael.

She peered through the scratchy window of what passed as
the resort's arcade room, with its ancient pinball machine and
lone combination-Pac-Man/Ms. Pac-Man/Tetris game.

No Michael.

Okay, don't panic. He's done this before.

With deep, calming inhales, she noted her brother's gloves
neatly framing his empty cocoa cup. His jacket, helmet, and
goggles covered the orange Formica windowsill overlooking
the outdoor deck. Which meant he hadn't gone outside.

A lot of people mistook Michael's disability for stupidity.
But children with Down syndrome weren't stupid. Most of them
were simply slower to develop than other children their age. In
a nutshell, they had the sense to come in out of the rain-or
snow, in this case. No way Michael would have wandered
outside without his coat and gloves. The kid was too smart for
that.

So where would he have gone? To look for Aunt Lyn?
Maybe. But if he'd wanted to find their aunt, he knew how to notify her. All ski lifts had phones in the booths at the top and
bottom of the hills. Chalkboards outside were used to alert
skiers to possible emergencies such as lost children, lift closures, or sudden incoming storms.

Becky's first stop, then, should be the information desk. She
trudged over to the dim alcove beside the game room, her boots
heavy as lead on her feet. The woman in the traditional Mount
Elsie uniform of burgundy and gold shirt with burgundy pants
was currently helping a man wearing a-holy cow-full-length
silver fur coat!

From the snippets of overheard conversation, she concluded
he wanted to change his one-day lift ticket into a multi-day.

On a deep sigh, Becky shifted her weight to one hip and
rubbed the tight knot in her thigh. God, her legs were cramped!
Unlike Aunt Lyn, she didn't spend every frosty day conquering the slopes. And now she paid the price for too much time
playing that stupid bunny game on her laptop instead of getting a little more physical exercise. Evie, her track star dorm
mate, would probably groove on seeing her now.

Once she got back to the inn this afternoon, she'd head
straight outside for a soak in the hot tub. Of course, first, she
had to figure out where her brother had wandered off to.

While she waited her turn in line, she studied the counter
littered with colorful pamphlets for local inns, hotels, and restaurants. Corkboard walls held push-pinned photos of gorgeous
tree-enclosed ski chalets available for weekly or monthly
rental, advertisements for horse-drawn sleigh or dogsled rides,
a giant trail map, and postcards of the nearby mountain vistas.
In a corner behind the counter stood a milk crate overflowing with scarves, hats, and single gloves, marked LOST AND
FOUND.

Well, at least she'd come to the right place.

"What do you mean, you'll only credit me eighty percent?"
The man in the fur coat clamped his fingers onto the edge of
the counter and leaned forward, his bald head jutting out like
a cannonball from his neck.

The woman behind the counter-Jill, according to her burgundy and gold nametag-went into her company policy script. A needle of sympathy stabbed Becky's nerve endings. Three
years of retail customer service experience gave her a pretty
good inkling what Jill would have liked to say instead of the
blah-blah-blah management forced her to spew. Any guy wearing a full-length fur coat certainly wouldn't starve over the
twenty-dollar difference.

"I want to see a manager," the man insisted.

Naturally. Right on cue. Because she was in a rush.

Despite the cramps and exhaustion creeping up her legs, she
stamped her footnot hard, but apparently loud enough for the
two people at the information counter to hear; they then swerved
their attention her way.

"Sorry," she murmured.

After enduring an icy glare from Mr. Fur Coat, Jill picked
up the intercom to page the lodge manager. Becky stifled another sigh. If she planned to find Michael before spring, she'd
be better off without any help from the information booth.

Turning, she opted to ask the staff members who were currently cleaning and scrubbing the lunch tables. Unfortunately,
after stopping every pimple-faced mountain geek in rangeand surviving the pungent odor of stale French fries they
seemed to wear like expensive cologne-Becky remained clueless.

No one remembered seeing Michael. No surprise, really.
With the crowds inside this place, who would remember one
insignificant kid in a navy blue turtleneck and black ski pants?

Another quick glance at the info counter where the guy in
the fur coat still fumed and shouted about his lousy twenty
bucks. Shoot. Aunt Lyn would be back any minute. If she didn't
find Michael soon, she'd have to call Mr. Armstrong to put out
an APB. And then Aunt Lyn would freak. The minute they got
home, she'd tell Mom. And Jeff. Becky shivered.

Jeff already thought she was a screwup. Not that he ever
came right out and said anything. Oh no. He was far too professional for that. But every time she did something he didn't
like, he got this look on his face, like he'd just swallowed drain
cleaner.

Like earlier, when she'd asked Aunt Lyn what there was to do around here. It was supposed to be a joke. Everybody should
have known she was kidding. They'd come up every winter
for the last five years. She knew what there was to do.

But Jeff had leaped all over her with his "Guess again," and
she wound up apologizing like a four-year-old. Over a joke!

Now, if her soon-to-be-stepfather found out Michael had
wandered off on her watch, she'd be branded a loser for all
time.

She drew in a deep breath. Okay. He hadn't gone outside.
And he wasn't in the lunchroom. The only other nearby area
was the bar. Yeah, right. Totally doubtful.

The locker room? With his gear still here? Nope. Not likely.

Downstairs? A good possibility. Between the ski store with its
varied array of snow toys, and the restrooms, there were plenty
of reasons for Michael to head downstairs. Since she'd expected
him to wait up here, she could have easily walked right past him
on the lower level and never noticed.

Time for a quick U-turn. With silent pleas that she'd find him
below, Becky gripped the wooden rail and clumsily thumped
down the stairs. Three steps from the bottom, she stopped and
scanned the numerous heads of the people milling around the
lower floor. Snippets from a hundred different conversations
echoed in the beige-bricked hall. A quick glance over the people seated on the scarred wooden benches on either side of the
staircase brought no relief.

Please, Michael. Please be here somewhere.

And suddenly, there he was-not on a bench, but walking
in the crowd. His pale face and wet eyes glowed ghostly beneath
the overhead florescent lights. Guilt pounded her conscience
like a jackhammer. He looked scared to death.

Your fault, the hammer drummed. Your fault, your fault,
your fault...

She raised a hand, but before she could gain his attention,
Michael turned to look behind him. She tracked his gaze and
spotted a guy pushing his way through the clusters of people,
intent on, in Becky's opinion, keeping Michael in his sights.

Who was that creep? Familiarity tickled her memory. She'd
seen him somewhere before; she was almost positive. She narrowed her eyes and stared harder at the approaching blond
man. Where had she seen his face?

Probably on one of those news programs that trap kiddie
predators.

She veered her attention back to Michael in time to catch
him ducking into the ski shop on his right.

Good boy. Stay with the ski staff. I'll take care of your
stalker.

With heavy thumps, Becky descended the last steps and
plodded to the store's entrance. She hit the doorjamb a boot
step before her target.

"Hold it right there!" she shouted. With her arms spread so
her fingers could clutch either side of the doorway, she blocked
him from moving past her. "That's my brother you're stalking,
so back off. Now."

To her surprise, he burst out laughing. "That's a new one."
He took a step closer.

"I mean it. Back off." Arms still creating a barrier, Becky
shouted over her shoulder, "Somebody call the cops."

People inside and outside the shop stopped in midconversation to stare at Becky, the stranger, and Michael. A
murmur of interest rippled through the crowd.

"Becky!" Michael exclaimed. "Stop! You're embarrassing
me. "

"You think I care?" she demanded, her iciest stare fixed on
the cretin, who seemed more amused than intimidated.

His lake blue eyes twinkled with some secret, which really
stiffened her spine. He was younger than she'd originally assumed. Older than her, but definitely under thirty. His scruffy
jaw flexed as he tossed his shoulder-length golden hair with a
graceful flick of his hand. Her heart went into overdrive. God,
what a shame.

Belying the tingles of attraction warming her insides, she
turned to the dozens of people watching the drama unfold.
"Take a good look at this guy," she announced loudly. "Post his
picture all around the resort so he can't try to kidnap someone
else."

"My picture's already plastered all over the resort," he replied, his voice melodious in its velvet tones.

His self-deprecating grin rekindled a spark of memory inside
her brain. Was it true? Did he really have his image tacked up
all over Mount Elsie? Why else would he look so familiar to
her?

The guy held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'm
Ace Riordan. You know, the Aerial Snowball?"

Ace Riordan. Oh, my God.

Fire bloomed in her face up to her hairline.

Pass the butter. I'm toast.

Thoughts of homicide sizzled through Doug's brain as he stared
up at the villainess intent on torturing him. "Well, Mr. Sawyer?"
Her soft voice contradicted any lupine characteristics. "Shall we
make a mogul out of you? Or do you think you can get up on
your own?"