Rescuing Christine (Harlequin Temptation) Read online

  “What about men?” Alec asked

  About the Author

  Books by Alyssa Dean

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Copyright

  “What about men?” Alec asked

  “The rescuer has to know everything there is to know about the rescuee,” he insisted. “It’s one of the rules.”

  Christine studied his expression, then sighed and gave up. It was clear he wasn’t going to drop this line of questioning. “Jeffrey Thurbern about four years ago. And last year there was...” She struggled trying to remember. “Bruce Davidson.”

  Alec wrote that down, then looked expectantly at her. “Go on:”

  Christine shook her head.

  “Are you telling me that you haven’t been with a man for over a year? Is there some problem?”

  His gaze searched her face, his expression that of quizzical astonishment, and then he slid an arm around her waist and pulled her to him. “I’ll find out for myself.”

  Christine was stunned by a multitude of sensations. His hand against her back so warm she could feel his fingers through her thin silk blouse. His scent filling her nostrils. His breath against her face. His body pressing hard against her own.

  She made a small sound that was half objection, half appreciation. He slid his tongue across her bottom lip, then stroked it into her mouth, while the hand on her back caressed lower, urging her hips forward. It felt erotic and wicked and sinful and...absolutely wonderful.

  Finally the kiss ended. Alec smiled. “I’m pleased to report that there isn’t anything wrong with you.”

  “Writing a romance novel can be as exhilarating as a moonlight gallop, as exciting as a passionate kiss and, sometimes, as painful as a root canal. But it’s never boring,” says Calgary, Alberta, native Alyssa Dean.

  That’s why she writes romance. Alyssa finds something wildly exciting about bringing imaginary people to life, putting them in an almost impossible situation, and trying desperately to think their way out of it. Her characters become so real to her that they seem like actual people, and when they finally ride off together into the sunset, she feels as if her best friends have left forever. But then Alyssa begins again, bringing new characters to life, dreaming up another adventure, and starting a new romance.

  Look for Alyssa’s next book, Mistletoe Mischief, available from Harlequin Love & Laughter in December 1997!

  Books by Alyssa Dean

  HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

  624—MAD ABOUT YOU

  651—THE LAST HERO

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  RESCUING CHRISTINE

  Alyssa Dean

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN

  MADRID WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  For my dad, Archie

  and my brother and pal, Brian

  love you lots, guys

  1

  IF THAT GUY was a paid assassin, he wasn’t getting rich doing it.

  Christine held the living-room curtains aside a cautious inch and peered through the rain-spattered windowpane. The front of the cottage property was a green mass of wild grass and trees, with a narrow driveway at the side leading to the back. That driveway was now occupied by an ancient, rusting blue sports car Christine had never seen before.

  She didn’t recognize the sandy-haired man who’d just emerged from it, either. He was medium height, dressed in wrinkled tan pants, a black, untucked T-shirt and a brown blazer—all of which looked like they’d been acquired at a thrift shop. The distance between them, the drizzling rain and his unnecessary sunglasses made it impossible to clearly see his features. However, he seemed more dishevelled than sinister. Unless he worked for Rent-a-Loser Hit Man Agency, there was a strong possibility that he was harmless.

  Then again, maybe that harmless, dishevelled look was a standard hit-man disguise.

  “Oh, for goodness sake,” Christine exclaimed. She let the curtain drop and took a quick step backward. There was no reason to suspect the man out there had a sinister purpose.

  Except for the twitch in her left thumb.

  Christine tucked the thumb under the other fingers of her left hand and held it steady. According to her friend, that twitch was nothing more than a sign she’d been working too hard. Estelle believed Christine’s uneasiness was the result of a “slight case of paranoia.”

  She took another peek out the window. Because of the angle, she could no longer see the man. She could hear him, though, climbing the stairs to the front porch. There was silence, followed by the squeak of the top step, then the hollow sound of knuckles striking the wooden door.

  Christine took a step toward it, then stopped. Maybe she was being paranoid. On the other hand, there was no reason for a stranger to be here. The Calypso Canyon ski resort was probably a hub of activity during the winter. However, in the middle of August, it was more like a ghost town. It was remotely located, half an hour outside of Banff, Alberta. The road to it didn’t lead anywhere else, and there wasn’t anything to do here in the summer. The lodge at the base of the ski hill was closed, as was the attached convenience store. There were a few private cottages like this one around, but not many were occupied. Christine hadn’t seen much of the other people stay ing here, but she had seen cars—and none of them were decrepit, rusty blue sports cars.

  Therefore, this man wasn’t a neighbor, dropping by to borrow a cup of sugar. She didn’t think he could be a friend of her brother, Keith, who owned this cot tage. Keith was spending the summer in Europe. Surely all his friends knew that

  “You are acting paranoid,” she scolded herself. The man could have a simple reason for his visit. Perhaps he’d stopped to ask directions to the nearest auto wrecked, or to borrow a respectable wardrobe.

  There was another bang at the door, followed by a man’s impatient voice. “Come on, Miss McKinley. I know you’re here.”

  Christine’s stomach fluttered with alarm, and she spread her hand over it. So much for the asking-for-directions theory.

  Suddenly, coming out here didn’t seem as brilliant an idea as it had two days ago. Then, she’d just wanted to go someplace quiet and safe, where she could relax and figure out what was going on. Her condo in Florida didn’t meet those requirements. The family home in Calgary had been sold after Christine’s father passed away. Her mother had moved into an apartment, but she wasn’t there right now; she was spending the summer in France with Keith. Christine had briefly considered joining them, then decided that traipsing around a foreign country, studying medieval architecture, was no way to deal with her problem. The family ski chalet, currently owned by Keith, had seemed like a better solution.

  Now it seemed less like a solution and more like a really bad idea. There was no phone here. The nearest police station was miles away. There were hardly any neighbors, and the ones there probably knew more about ski wax and Lycra than they did about self-defense.

  The man knocked again. There was silence, accompanied by Christine’s almost audible
heartbeats. He might not be dangerous, but Christine couldn’t think of a safe way to find out. She wasn’t about to open the door and politely ask if he was here to do her in.

  He banged once more. Then the doorknob began to turn.

  Christine watched it in mesmerized horror. How strong was that lock? Could he...?

  He couldn’t. The doorknob rattled again. Then there was the creak of wooden stairs, followed by unmistakable sounds of footsteps heading not toward the car, but toward the back of the cottage.

  Christine frantically ran through her options. Her rental car was parked back there. It couldn’t be seen from the road, but that man would see it as soon as he rounded the corner. Then he’d know for certain she was here. She could just stay inside and...

  And what? Hope he’d go away. What if he didn’t?

  Christine took a deep breath and raised her chin. She wasn’t going to just cower in here. She was going to find out what was going on, and she was not, repeat not, going to get killed in the process.

  She tiptoed toward the back door, where she’d placed her green-and-gray golf bag.

  Which club would be best for a hit man? A nine iron?

  Or the graphite-shaft, metal three wood?

  WAS THIS WHERE Chrissy McKinley was hiding out?

  Alec O’Brian strolled around the side of the deserted-looking cottage, checking for some sign of life. He wouldn’t be surprised if Chrissy wasn’t here. After all, there wasn’t a bean sprout in sight—or a golf course, either. However, when Chrissy had abruptly canceled all her scheduled public appearances and dropped out of sight, he’d suspected she might be headed for home. There was no one at either her mother’s or her brother’s place, but when he’d ferreted out the information that her brother owned a ski chalet, he’d decided to check it out.

  Normally Alec didn’t go to this much trouble to get material for his sports column. He didn’t usually bother with retired professional athletes, either, especially when the career they’d retired from was golf! However, Chrissy McKinley’s recent peculiar behavior had him curious.

  Christine McKinley had been a minor sensation a few years ago, when she’d been playing professional golf. She’d won a fair number of tournaments, although the last two years she’d played she’d been less than spectacular. She’d finally left the sport a couple of years ago, to take a marketing position with HoleSum Foods, a U.S.-based health-food company.

  Alec had always suspected Chrissy’s retirement had more to do with her nerves than with a deep desire to sell health food. She’d been one of those athletes who took her sport far too seriously. As a matter of fact, she was one of the most driven players he’d ever seen.

  And, actually, he’d seen her play quite often. That wasn’t because he was fascinated by professional female golfers. He wasn’t. They were a well-mannered, well-dressed bunch—-not bad qualities, perhaps, but not something that made for good copy. However, Chrissy had been born and raised in Calgary, so there was a great deal of local interest in her. Because of this, Alec had made a small effort to follow her career. He’d even interviewed her a few times, and saw her every so often at local charity events. She was a slender redhead, with a figure as uninspired as her game and a manner that was as controlled and introverted in person as it had been on the golf course.

  Recently Chrissy had started acting peculiar. First she’d claimed a car had tried to run her down in a hotel parking lot. Then she’d insisted she’d found a man in her condo, although there was no evidence to substantiate that. Finally, last week, during a charity golf tournament in Colorado, some no-brained yahoo had fired a gun, and Christine had gone ballistic.

  No one had suggested that that gun had been aimed at Christine—or anyone else in particular. The gunman had evaded capture, but the general consensus was that he was simply an idiot trying to stir up trouble.

  That wasn’t Miss McKinley’s theory, though. She’d suggested to the police that she was the intended victim. Then she’d canceled her scheduled public appearances and had dropped out of sight.

  Her actions had taken everyone by surprise, including Alec. The most emotion he’d seen Chrissy exhibit was a tight-lipped frown when things weren’t going her way. Were those nerves of hers giving her problems again? Or was this whole thing a new marketing strategy of HoleSum Foods?

  Alec was unusually curious about it. He rounded the back corner of the cottage, experiencing a small surge of satisfaction as he caught sight of the pale green sedan parked behind it. Someone was definitely here.

  He took a step toward it. As he did, something hard tangled with his ankles. Alec struggled to maintain his balance, failed and fell headlong into the mud. His sunglasses bounced off his nose, and when he tried to grab them, both they and his hand landed in the mud as well. “Damn!”

  “Don’t move,” warned a female voice.

  Alec glanced to his right and found himself staring at a pair of white knees. His gaze traveled up the legs to the brown shorts, then to a beige sweatshirt, and finally to the face of the gray-eyed woman standing beside him. She had shoulder-length red hair that was falling out of a loosely pinned barrette at the side of her head. Her hands were clutched around a golf club that was aimed directly at his head. “Don’t move,” she warned again. “I’ve got a three wood and I know how to...”

  Her voice trailed off as their gazes met. Her eyes widened with recognition.

  Alec suddenly remembered every word he’d written about this woman.

  Our own Chrissy McKinley relived her tendency to choke under pressure, blowing an easy two-foot putt to place seventh. You’re still in the money, Chrissy, babe. Couldn’t you muster up one tiny smile?

  Perhaps Chrissy McKinley should try wearing short shorts. It might not improve her game, but it could make it more fun to watch.

  You can either watch Chrissy McKinley meander down the green or catch celebrity trout fishing on cable. The celebes will be more interesting, folks.

  He ducked.

  “IT’S NOT ENTIRELY my fault,” Christine said defensively.

  She studied the man now attempting to wipe the mud off his jacket, unsure whether she felt relieved or dismayed by his identity. At least he wasn’t a crazed killer here to do her in. On the other hand, he wasn’t exactly one of the good guys, either. “You were sneaking around,” she continued. “And—”

  “I was sneaking around?” Alec O’Brian’s eyes were a lively combination of brilliant blue and sparkling green. Right now, the blue part showed avid curiosity, while the green portion hinted strongly at amusement. “What do you call what you were doing?” He gave his jacket a final swipe and straightened. “Is that the way you usually greet visitors? Or is it something you do just for me?”

  Christine’s spine stiffened indignantly. “No, of course not. I had no idea who you were. I—”

  “There are other ways of discerning a person’s identity.” One side of his mouth rose in a wicked half smirk. “You could, for example, have opened the door and asked.”

  Christine shifted uncomfortably and tried not to stare at his face. There were several things wrong with Alec O’Brian, but his looks weren’t one of them. Even now, with mud streaked down his cheek and a chin that hadn’t fraternized with a razor for a good two days, he was immensely good-looking. “There’s no need to be sarcastic,” she admonished. “I’ve already apologized.”

  “I don’t call ‘oh, sorry’ an adequate apology for a brutal attack on my bod.” He leered suggestively. “However, I can think of a few ways you can make it up to me.”

  Christine tightened her grip on the three wood, along with her lips. He was getting a real kick out of this, wasn’t he? “What are you doing here, Mr. O’Brian?”

  Alec rolled his eyes toward the heavens. “I’m a reporter, Chrissy. What do you think I’m doing here?”

  Christine sighed heavily and glanced around for inspiration on how to handle this. She’d never suspected her mysterious visitor might be from the press. Even
during her more famous years reporters hadn’t paid that much attention to her—and they’d never made any attempt to track her down. She really wished this one hadn’t bothered.

  She refocused on his face. “How did you find me?”

  “Incredible intelligence, outstanding charm and fifty bucks.” His teeth flashed white against his tanned face as he grinned. “How about if we finish this conversation inside? It must be drier, it has to be warmer and I’d like to clean up a little.”

  Christine hesitated, then reluctantly nodded. She didn’t want him inside, but the mud on him was her fault. She could scarcely deny him the opportunity to wash up. “Of course. Come in.”

  “Thanks.” He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and wandered toward the cottage, with Christine trailing after him.

  She made a face at his back. If she had to pick someone to demonstrate her paranoia to, she really wished she’d picked someone else. It wasn’t that she had anything against reporters. Some of them were actually quite nice people. Alec O’Brian just didn’t fall into that category. His column was gossipy, rude, chauvinistic and, unfortunately, extremely readable. Any comment he’d made about her had been less than complimentary—and that was before she’d aimed a golf club at his head.

  Normally Christine wouldn’t have bothered reading what he wrote. However, her own mother was an Alec O’Brian fan. She also thought any mention of Christine had to be saved for posterity. She had carefully clipped out every one of his comments, highlighted it in fluorescent pink marker and placed it in a scrapbook Her doing so was very sweet, but every time Christine opened the book, she would read that condescending “Chrissy” and her jaw would start aching.