ON THE EDGE

She had no idea what to expect when he unlocked his door and pushed it inward. What met her eyes surprised her. Everywhere she glanced, from the hall to the alcove serving as a kitchen to the spacious living room and beyond to what must have been a bedroom was climbing gear. Mountains of it. There were spread-out maps, and rolled up nylon tents and sleeping bags and camp stoves. There were colorful parkas and vests and gloves and boots and backpacks. Ice axes, crampons, pitons, orange nylon ropes coiled like snakes, carabineers, goggles, skis.

"Oh," she said.

"Yeah," he said. "The tools of my profession."

"Oh," she said again.

"I have beer or red wine."

"Ah, wine, please."

"I'll get you some."

But he didn't move. He simply looked at her until she couldn't breathe, his eyes glacial blue, so sharp and clear she was mesmerized, a doe caught in headlights.

Then he helped her with her coat, coming around behind her as she slipped it off her arms. She could feel his breath on her neck. She didn't move, neither did he. The universe narrowed to his scent, his exhalations that tickled the fine hairs on her skin. Her breast rising and falling, the drumbeat of her heart.

Eventually he went to find two glasses and the wine. She embraced the reprieve, trying to collect herself. It was no good. Her head filled with images of Erik hauling the gear up snowy slopes to the craggy heavens. Had that bright blue parka been atop Mt. Everest?

There was a unique smell to his lair. Not a single odor. But a combination. There was wood smoke and camping fuel and man sweat and something exotic, something foreign like a spice that she couldn't quite decipher. Tea? Jasmine or smoky Lapsang Souchong?

What was she doing here?

Bridget, yes, she was here to confront this egotistical god about his role in her patient's death. She clung desperately to the thought.

Then he was back, handing her the wine. He didn't offer to clear the cluttered couch so she could sit. He merely stared at her till her flesh rose in bumps, and then he clinked his glass to hers.

"To you, Meredith," he said, pinioning her with his eyes, and he drank.

She sipped. She sipped carefully, and she thought, of course, he'd known all along who she was and exactly what she wanted to say to him.

Then he stole her thunder. "To answer your question," he said, so matter of factly she gasped, "Bridget slipped on an ice chute. When you challenge the mountains it can happen. It was an accident."

She started to say something then cleared her throat and spoke again. "Accidents are avoidable."

"Sometimes they are."

"But not that time?"

"No, not that time." He met her look unflinchingly, unapologetically.

"And that's all you have to say about it?"

"Yes."

She couldn't believe it. All these long months and weeks and hours with the questions beating at her and that was it? Bridget slipped and died and it was an accident?

My God, he was just like her father. What was it about these men that made them refuse to accept responsibility?

"Bridget pointed you out to me last summer. Were you aware of that?"

"No, she never mentioned it."

"I suppose this will shock you," he went on, "but the minute I first saw you I wanted you."

It took a time for his statement to sink in. She couldn't find a thing to say. Not a word.

"We belong together."

"You don't even know me."

"I know you," he said, then he reached out and took her glass and set it along with his on a bookshelf. Her mind was frozen, and her body began to shake, to tremble with a mixture of fear and shock and a wild animal need that she did not recognize.

Panic assaulted her suddenly. She had to get away from this strange man who read her mind and controlled her thoughts. She moved aside, but he moved with her and held her arms, his eyes devouring her.

He spoke, soft words that rumbled in his chest, the way you'd calm a frightened horse. "You're trembling. Don't be afraid. It was only a matter of time until we were together. I won't hurt you, Meredith. I will worship you if you let me."

And he began to kiss her.

She pulled back terrified, her eyes meeting his, pleading, telling him, begging him not to do this. But he kissed her again, this time thoroughly, and she sagged shamelessly into his arms and felt hot stabs of desire pierce her body, her very core, her soul. She felt her control peel away like dead skin. She was open, vulnerable, and the risk she took gave her a power she'd never experienced. She opened like a flower.

No man had ever fully undressed her. And certainly not standing awash in lamplight in the middle of a living room.

She let him strip her clothes away, piece by slow piece, until dress and bra and panties lay in a sighing heap at her feet. He stripped her and touched her reverently and looked on her nakedness as if she were a goddess. His words were soft and coaxing and his tone became low and gravelly with need.

She trembled. Oh God, she could hear her inner voice cry, what's happening to me? What's happening? But she didn't stop him.