Mountain Challenge (Mont Blanc Rescue #9)

Chapter 3

3

Ry

R y looked around at the small waiting room. It was different from other tattoo studios he’d been to over the years. He remembered the tattoo studio back home, in Perth, where he’d gotten his first tattoo. A traditional, no-frills establishment, with black walls, colorful art pinned on the walls and a strong smell of antiseptic.

He sniffed the air. He guessed that was one similarity, though here there was something else in the air as well, something almost floral. The space was cozy, welcoming, with light-colored walls and no pinned drawings in sight. Instead, art was displayed in elegant frames, highlighting the tattoo artist’s talent.

And the man was talented. Just looking at the designs, Ry knew he’d been right to trust Gael and come here, rather than driving all the way to Annecy to the studio he used to visit before his PGHM team moved to Chamonix.

Ry turned to look at the couple who’d walked in ahead of him. They were both young, really young, and looked nervous. Maybe it was their first tattoo. He leaned back, crossing an ankle over his knee, knowing this might take a while. His first time, he’d been sixteen. It’d taken him three weeks to gather the courage to walk inside the store, and then a further two weeks to settle on the design he wanted. He’d been a pimply pain in the ass, full of questions and misconceptions, but the tattoo artist had been nothing but kind and professional, making it clear no needle would touch his skin until Ry was one hundred percent certain of what he wanted.

He glanced at the door to the inner studio, which hadn’t opened once since they’d come in. Apparently he was happy to let the young receptionist do most of the work.

Now that she was busy talking to the couple, Ry allowed his gaze to fall back on the woman. He was finding it hard to take his eyes off her. Which was odd, because she wasn’t his type at all. He usually went for tall, voluptuous women, women he wouldn’t crush in bed by mistake. This woman was the exact opposite. About his age, or maybe a couple of years younger, dressed simply in jeans, a black T-shirt and well-worn black boots. She looked comfortable in her skin, confident, and absolutely unconcerned with what anybody else might think. Her hair, dark with blue streaks, fell to her chin in the front but was shorter around the back. There had to be a name for that cut, though damned if Ry knew what it was. Her hair looked soft. Perhaps the only soft thing about her, when the rest of her looked sharp, almost elfin. His gaze moved to her heart-shaped mouth—and those plump lips that looked like they should be painted in bright red, but instead were the softest shade of pink. Another contradiction. Fuck, but she was pretty.

She was talking to the couple, her expression carefully neutral as they described matching sculptures of hearts, roses and thorns.

Ry sighed, settling back to wait. He should have known better than to come in on Valentine’s Day. But he was off work tonight, and there was a gap in his heart that waited to be filled. It was hard enough, living so far away from his family, and the family tree tattooed on his upper chest made him feel closer to them—a visual reminder of the enduring bond that time and distance couldn’t shatter.

Except it was incomplete—had been incomplete since the birth of his baby niece, Ava Grace, two weeks earlier. His sister’s child and, according to Ry’s mother, the most beautiful child in the world. Ry was tempted to agree. He couldn’t wait to meet her in person but, until he could fly there in a few months’ time for his vacation, this would have to do. The design he’d drawn the day his niece was born burned a hole in his pocket. He couldn’t wait to have her initials on his skin. His family, complete again, close to his heart.

He went through the form quickly. No surprise in the first few questions, though they got a bit more interesting half-way down. What are the motives behind the piece? What would you like to transmit or say with it?

A sharp voice made him look up from his writing. The discussion between the young man and the receptionist was getting heated. After years of living in France, Ry’s French was excellent, but he didn’t think he’d be able to speak half as fast as the man was talking—in any language.

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said calmly. Her French r’s sounded guttural to Ry’s ear. If he had to guess, he’d say Belgian, but he couldn’t be sure. “If you don’t have ID to show you’re eighteen, I’m going to need this form filled in by your parents or tutors. I can leave copies with you for you to bring back when you’re ready.”

Right . These two were nowhere near eighteen. Sixteen, tops. Maybe younger .

The young girl grasped her boyfriend’s hand, her expression beseeching, her body language clear. She wanted to get out of there. For a moment, it seemed to Ry the young man softened to his date’s unspoken request. Then something hard entered his eyes, and he straightened his bony shoulders, taking a step forward into the receptionist’s personal space.

Ry tensed.

Wrong choice, asshole.

To her credit, the woman stood her ground, though the young man towered over her. Her expression still calm, she raised her chin to meet the young man’s eyes. “If you prefer to come back with ID another day, that’s also?—“

“We want to get the tattoos today,” the man whined, getting even closer to the receptionist’s personal space. “We’re not leaving until you do them.”

Ry looked at the closed door, wondering why the hell her boss wasn’t coming out to help.

“I’m sorry, but that’s not going to happen.” For the first time, a note of frustration entered her voice. “Not until I see ID for both of you, or get the signed parental authorization.”

“ écoute, salope ,” the boy hissed. So many words for slut in French . Ry wasn’t above swearing—hell, he came from Perth. He’d read once the average Sandgroper dropped fourteen profanities per day, and he was pretty sure he did better than that most days. But he didn’t swear at women, and he certainly didn’t threaten them or allow other people to do so in his presence.

He stood to his full height, towering over the juvenile jerk. See how you like this . “Is there a problem?”

Isla

Isla almost jumped at the growled question. She’d forgotten about the sexy stranger.

She snuck a look at him—yes, he was still hot, even hotter now that he looked pissed off. He didn’t say anything else, but glared at the teenager with a look that would have made Isla quake if it’d been directed at her.

For a long instant, they all remained still, a silent tableau. Standing in the middle, Isla readied herself. This could go either way. The stranger stepping in might actually make things worse. Not that the young man looked the type to attack her. She was pretty confident he was only trying to intimidate her. But one could never be sure, particularly if the sexy stranger made the young man feel inadequate in front of his girlfriend.

The young man looked sideways at the stranger—then looked again. Something in that second look told Isla the teenager was backing down. Smart move . Moments later, the teenager took a step back, his gaze still on the other man.

Isla looked as well—after all, she had an excuse now. It might have been the stranger’s height, or the scowl on his face, or … it was only now that Isla noticed the dark blue uniform the man was wearing. Four letters stood out white on blue on the man’s uniform. PGHM . A cop?

The stranger—and she should know his name from her reservation book, but couldn’t for the life of her remember—stood up straighter but stayed very still, those deep green eyes shining a clear warning.

“Let’s go,” the young man said, fairly dragging his girlfriend out behind him. The girl looked back, sending a relieved, apologetic smile their way right before the door clanged shut behind them.

Isla breathed out.

Wow .

“Are you okay?” Not a growl this time, but damn, the man’s voice was strong and deep. Isla nodded quickly to cover the shiver that ran through her at the sound. What was wrong with her?

“You’re a policeman?” she asked, speaking in English, assuming that was his native language.

He nodded, offering her his large hand, looking relieved to be able to speak English with her. “Lieutenant Ry Harrison. Peloton de Gendarmerie de Haute Montagne .”

She’d heard of the valley’s mountain rescue gendarmes. But surely they didn’t all look like this … this sun-kissed Adonis standing in front of her.

Isla shook his hand, surprised at the tingle on her skin where his fingers wrapped around hers. She recognized it for what it was— lust, pure and unadulterated —but the recognition didn’t make it any less unexpected.

The man—Ry, she corrected herself, since she now knew his name—held her hand until she let go, then took a quick step back, which meant she no longer had to raise her head to look at him. Considerate, too .

“I’m Isla. Isla Bernard. Thank you for your help just now,” she said, only just stopping herself from telling him she’d had it all under control. That wouldn’t be gracious .

He smiled, as if he could read her mind—as if he’d heard the words she hadn’t said. And of course, he had to have a beautiful smile, those full lips pulling back to show straight, white teeth. No dimples, but she hadn’t expected them. There was nothing cute about this man.

“Give me a second,” he said, pulling out his phone. “I’m going to have somebody check on those two. I want to make sure the girl’s okay.”

Damn . She should have thought of that. She thought back to the smile the girl had given them on her way out. She hadn’t felt any worrying vibes, but the way her boyfriend had stepped in to crowd Isla was a red flag, for sure. She was glad the gendarme had thought to look into it.

“So. You’re here for a tattoo,” Isla said once the phone was back in his pocket.

Ry nodded, stealing a look at the door behind him. It wasn’t the first time he’d looked that way. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” he said, too quickly.

Isla moved back to the low table next to them, pulling out the album, still open to the hearts section. “Do you already know what you’d like, or would you like to talk through some ideas?”

“Here?” he asked, once again looking towards the closed door. And just like that, the missing pieces clicked into place for her. Ah . The gendarme was waiting for the tattooist to come outside.

Her amusement must have shown before she could school her face back into a neutral expression. “There’s nobody inside that room, right?” he asked softly, his cheeks going a warm pink as he looked around the room at the designs on the wall.

Isla shook her head, allowing herself a small smile. Okay, so maybe he was a bit cute, as well as sexy as hell.

“Those are your designs.”

“They’re my designs,” she confirmed quietly. “Some of my favorites.”

He paused. “I’m sorry. I’m not normally a sexist asshole.”

Not afraid to apologize, either. This man’s a freaking unicorn .

Isla shrugged lightly. No harm done. Her eyes went back to the album, still open to the hearts section. She had to admit, she was kind of curious about the kind of tattoo a man like him would choose. He didn’t strike her as the heart type, but who knew, maybe he was in a long distance relationship. “So … you have an idea of what you’d like, Mr. Harrison?”

He visibly pulled himself together, bringing out a folded piece of paper out of his breast pocket. “Ry, please. And yes, I know what I want.”

A tingle went through her as he handed her the paper. Wow . Just wow .

This was unexpected. It didn’t often happen that a client brought a design that made her want to weep. The artist had used one single ink color, but by varying the angle and pressure had managed to add depth and fierceness to the trees and the mountains woven into the paper. Her hand itched to trace through the strong, bold lines. “Who drew this?” she asked sharply.

His eyebrows drew up. “I did. Why?”

“It’s … striking.” Understatement of the year . “Come inside,” she said, opening the door to her inner studio. “Let’s go through the details.”

She pulled the drawing onto the wall at the far side, lighting it up. Damn, but it was a beautiful design. Tucked inside the bold lines, she could make out two small letters. AG. Wife? Girlfriend? Focus, Isla. That bit’s none of your business . She’d learned early on not to ask too many questions. There were things she needed to know in order to do her best work, so she made sure to ask those questions. Sometimes, clients wanted to share more. That was fine. She didn’t mind silence while she worked, but she also didn’t mind when clients wanted to chat. What she did not do—ever—was pry.

She stepped back to look at the design from further away. “You want it just like this, in black?”

He nodded. “In black, yes. Take the design as inspiration. I don’t expect you to copy it exactly.”

Isla nodded distractedly, tracing the design with her finger. The more she looked at it, the more she felt something was wrong with it. It made no sense, that something this beautiful would also look so … unbalanced .

“You’re left-handed.”

“Huh? Yes.” She cocked her head sideways, trying to get some distance from the design. To make it fit in her mind. “There’s something missing.”

His eyes opened in what looked like surprise. Then his hands moved to grab the bottom of his long-sleeved Henley, pulling it upwards. Isla forgot to breathe as his hard, ridged stomach muscles were revealed. Her hand itched to trace the golden skin, that perfect eight-pack that rippled as the shirt went higher—upwards and upwards—until his full chest was visible to her. Her mouth went dry.

Holy tat .

The rest of the tattoo—because there was no doubt in her mind that’s exactly what it was—was etched in dark ink on the left side of his chest, right over his heart. Seeing it now, the complete design, she realized the design she’d been looking at earlier was only one branch of a larger tree.

A family tree .

“It’s for my niece,” he explained. “Ava Grace. Born a couple weeks ago.”

“It’s beautiful,” Isla said sincerely, struggling to find her voice.