Page 38 of Cloak of Red

“Yes.” She tilts her head as if she’s not believing me. So I nod, emphasizing I understand. My nerves are disarmed and off-kilter. When she took that call, my expectation had been that it would be anyone but Fisher. But he said it had been years since he’d gone heli-skiing.

Gemma jerks my jacket, and I focus on her. “And before we get back. Before I forget. Thank you. Back there.” She jerks her head in the direction we came from. “For listening to me. But say nothing, okay? Rafe would be…”

“Gemma. No worries. I won’t say anything. Promise.”

Satisfied, she releases my arm, and we continue around the bend. Three different SUVs are parked in front of the resort entrance. Stacked luggage blocks the view of the license plates on the Black Chevrolet SUV closest to us.

Five uniformed employees circulate through the front entrance, performing duties like talking to guests, stacking luggage onto push carts, and managing the valet system.

Inside the lobby, Gemma removes her gloves and taps away on her phone. When I approach, she slides her sunglasses on top of her head. “They’re five minutes out.”

She and I choose to remain bundled up and stand just inside the lobby entrance doors. Fisher is obviously fine. There’s nothing to be worked up over. If he’s being an idiot, I’ll insist he goes to a doctor. A heli-skiing accident could’ve been a lot worse.

These are all things I repeat to myself on a loop for much longer than five minutes. Gemma’s incessant tapping on her phone eventually jars my awareness that I too have a phone. I pull it out and text Fisher. I probably should’ve done that earlier. The men might think it’s odd Damian’s wife hasn’t texted, but me and phones… There’s no response.

I hold the phone out, alternating between scanning the road out in front of the hotel and the absence of three dots on my screen.

Two white SUVs turn on the road in front of the hotel, and instantly I know it’s them. They would’ve hired drivers from the same company to take them to the heli-skiing company. Or maybe the heli-skiing company provides transportation for its customers. I never thought to ask this morning.

God, if he’d been seriously injured… it’s unfathomable. He’s a force. A wall of impenetrable muscle and skill. A CIA legend. But people die heli-skiing. He’s a badass, but he’s not infallible.

Wheels crunch over ice as the lead SUV pulls to a stop in front of the lobby entrance. Black glass conceals the backseat passengers from view. A bellman rushes to the driver, attempting to tell him he can’t park in that location. The passenger door opens, and Ivan jumps out and opens the passenger side back door.

Ivan offers his arm to Fisher, and he puts weight on it, sliding out of the vehicle. The second his feet hit the ground, he grimaces.

“What did you do?” I rush to him, searching for an injury. His coat lies across his shoulders, but neither arm is in the sleeves. His left arm is at an angle, and he’s holding it with his right arm.

Fisher’s lips are tight with strain. He grits out, “Old injury. Stupid.”

Like a good wife, I sidle up beside him. “Do you need to put weight on my shoulder?”

“It’s my shoulder that’s injured. I can walk fine.” He plows forward without a second glance my way.

“You’re in for a fun night,” Ivan jokes. “He’s a pissy patient.”

“Ah.” I’m not sure pissy is a word, but I get Ivan’s meaning.

“Guess you guys won’t be joining us for dinner?” Gemma asks. She made reservations for all of us to eat dinner together in the village tonight. I study Fisher’s retreating rear. Even if we wanted to, it would look odd if I cajoled my pissy husband to go out.

I give Gemma a quick hug and tell her I’ll text her to let her know how he’s doing. She nods and pats my back.

When I catch up to Fisher, he’s stepping into an elevator.

“You okay?” It’s a stupid question, but it’s the one that rolls out.

He presses his back against the elevator wall and closes his eyes. “Just need some pain meds. I’ll be fine.”

“They didn’t have anything to give you?”

“Didn’t trust anything they’d give me.” I nod, knowing where he’s coming from, but in this case, his paranoia probably cost him in pain.

Back in the room, he ducks directly into the bathroom and opens his travel bag and a pill container. He pops four white pills.

When he sits down on the sofa, I kneel before him.

“What’re you doing?” His cheekbones above the line on his beard are bright red from either wind or sun burn. The creases around his blue eyes deepen through his scowl.

“Helping you.” I tap his boot. He obediently lifts his leg, and I remove the boot, then do the other one. He never flinches. “What, exactly, is injured?”

---