Pathways - Jeri Taylor [106]
She also had the most amazing green eyes, two large emeralds set in an oval face as milky white as a pearl, offset by a cloud of hair that was somewhere between blond and red, and which Odile referred to, laughing, as “jaune commes les fraises,” or strawberry blond.
Tom was determined to develop no feelings for her other than the camaraderie of fellow team members. He could admire her skiing, respect her determination on the slopes, and enjoy her thoughtful analysis of their practice runs.
But he would not think about those eyes, or about the full pink lips which she would bite from time to time when she was concentrating, kittenish white teeth making a dark pink indentation which sometimes stayed on her mouth for minutes.
He would not even notice things like that.
“You could cut tenths of a second off your time if you would only work on your prejumping,” she would observe, with that delectable accent that Tom could have listened to all day. “You are so stubborn, Tommy. Pourquoi?”
“Maybe I need a strong woman to show me the error of my ways.” He grinned, and was gratified when she didn’t look away, but rather lowered her lashes slightly, so that she seemed to be peering up at him through a fringe. He felt his legs become uncertain.
“You are saying that you want me to coach you?” she inquired innocently.
He sighed. How would he last for a year keeping his distance from this delightful person? “Yes, dearest Odile, I would love for you to coach me—in skiing, in French, in life and love and all good things.”
She eyed him with bemusement, her adorable nose wrinkling slightly, tender mouth pursed. “You can take nothing seriously, Tom. How will we succeed if you have no commitment to the skiing?”
“I am committed, I swear I am. More than you could ever imagine.”
And he tried to keep his concentration on the sport, but as he followed Odile down the practice runs of Andermatt or Chamonix or Whistler or Crackenback, her lithe body in the formfitting ski suit made his pulse quicken.
I need, he thought, les douches froides.
The fledgling ski team didn’t particularly distinguish itself that first year, but it didn’t embarrass itself, either. The women fared best, placing third in four of their meets and almost taking second in one. Odile actually had the fastest time in several of her runs.
Four of the men focused on slalom, while Tom and a gentle but powerful Finn, Brunolf Katajavuori, were the downhillers. Tom and Bruno had a friendly but ardent competition, each pushing the other to the limit, topping and retopping each other with neither one gaining the clear edge.
Bruno was a tall, big-boned man with sand-colored hair, pale brown eyes, and a fair complexion with permanently ruddy cheeks. His thighs were the size of small tree trunks, giving him plenty of muscle strength to steer turns confidently at high speed.
“How’d you get legs like that, Bruno?” Tom asked enviously. “You could kick holes through titanium with those things.”
“You were raised soft,” joshed Bruno. “We lived in the mountains, and my parents made us ski to school every day. It wasn’t so bad going, because it was downhill. But it was miserable climbing back.” He whacked his hand on his massive thigh. “It did great things for the legs, though.”
For the final meet of the season the team transported to Wengen, in the Jungfrau district of the Swiss Alps. It was the site of the legendary downhill course known as the Lauberhorn, which Tom and Bruno would ski in competition with seven other schools from around the world. It was just over forty-six hundred meters long, with a drop of slightly more than a thousand meters. This gave it a vertical gradient which averaged about twenty-seven percent, or fifteen degrees. However, there were sections with a gradient of almost ninety percent, or forty-two degrees. This was like skiing straight down.
The day of the competition dawned gray and raw, with an icy wind that snapped nastily at exposed skin. Tom didn’t like skiing in these conditions, but he accepted the fact that if you chose a winter sport you’d better