'Look, it's Kenny or me,' Paul had said.

  Her first obligation then, her first obligation now, was to Kenny. There hadn't really been a choice. But it had still felt like she was making one, and it had still torn her apart inside.

  She knew she had no right to be bitter about Paul's ultimatum. She knew it hadn't been fair to ask a man eager to start his own family to take on the burden of Kenny. She knew Paul had only been honest about his own limitations. But she could never quite dismiss the feeling that, if he had loved her enough . . .

  She knew, now, that Paul's reaction had been a typical one. She had dated other men since Paul had disappeared from her life. As soon as it had become apparent that she and Kenny came part and parcel, interest in her had waned. And it had always hurt. She was bound to Kenny. She did not need the fresh pain of making an old decision over and over again. It had been over three years, now, since she had encouraged any kind of relationship. She accepted that that was how life was. Sometimes, she would meet a man who made her feel a moment's regret, which she hard-heartedly snuffed. A moment's regret now was better than a bucketful of tears later.

  Gallagher Cole was not one of those men who made her feel regret, anyway. It was purely coincidence that these thoughts followed so closely on the heels of having met him.

  Gallagher Cole. Kenny. What would Gallagher make of a request to take Kenny up on one of those days when they weren't flying full. What would a man like Gallagher make of Kenny, full stop?

  The thought made her shiver. She was tired of leaving herself and Kenny open to the sting of other people's judgements, and Gallagher was ruthlessly judgemental, even if he had managed to overcome it this once. No, it would be better to keep her life in neat compartments. A personal one. A professional one. Kenny would not be flying—but then he would not be subjected to Gallagher Cole, either.

  Kenny was wide-eyed with awe. 'Gee, look at the snow, Chuckie.'

  Charlie was looking at the snow. She couldn't believe it. In the three short weeks since she had been there last, Revelstoke had turned into a winter wonderland. Before, there had been a faint dusting of snow covering the town and surrounding mountains, but ; now it was astonishingly deep. The paths were beginning to look like tunnels, with the snow banked high on either side. She now understood that the strange sandwich-boards which she had noticed over tiny trees and shrubs protected them from the tremendous weight of snow. The house that she had rented was completely surrounded with heaps that had been sliding off the slippery metal roof. The snow was touching the window-sills. Kenny and Charlie both jumped as a huge slice broke from the roof, hissed down the metal, and landed with a muffled boom just to their right.

  Kenny laughed uproariously, and then looked at the house, his eyes growing even wider. 'Is this really ours?'

  She nodded, pleased with his reaction. The house was tiny, but exquisite, especially in all the snow. It was an English-cottage style, the tiny window-panes framed from the inside with the big loops of lacy Priscilla curtains. It looked like a haven of warmth and cosiness nestled among the snow, and they went up the path and let themselves in.

  'Oh, boy! A fireplace!' Kenny crowed, peeking into the living-room from the entrance hall.

  'Take off your boots,' she reminded automatically, looking around. She was pleased anew at how fortunate she had been. The couple that she had rented the house from were going overseas for a year, and had been eager to have someone in who would take good care of their warmly furnished little nest for them.

  Charlie and Kenny toured the tiny house from top to bottom.

  'I like it,' he announced when the short tour was done.

  'Me, too.'

  'OK. I think I'll go outside and do something now.' He hopped off his bed, where he had flopped contentedly for a few seconds. He had to duck his head to keep it from hitting the steeply slanting roof, and Charlie felt an unexpected pang of sadness. He looked so tall and handsome, so normal, standing there.

  She brushed the unwanted thought away. 'I think you'll help me bring in some things from the car, and then we have boxes to unpack.'

  'I don't want to,' he said, but without much conviction.

  'Tough,' she replied.

  He grinned endearingly at her, and she felt guilty for having wished a moment ago that he was any different.

  It took them several days to get settled and feeling at home. Charlie was aware of the excitement mounting in her as her first day of work drew closer. The excitement, she was sure, was because she really and truly loved her work. And she loved new experiences, and new challenges. And yet it was none of those things that caused her stomach to flutter with the sensation of a thousand butterflies taking off. Oddly enough, it was the stray thought of brooding sapphire eyes that did that. And probably only because she wondered if Gallagher would be watching her like a hawk, eager to validate his low opinion of professional women by catching her in a mistake. Well, that would only add to the challenge.

  Besides, she didn't make mistakes. There was very little margin for error; when you flew a helicopter for a living.

  CHAPTER THREE

  GALLAGHER COLE impaled Charlie with a glance, and put his hand over the telephone receiver. 'You're late,' he bit out, then turned that broad back to her and continued his conversation, his tone to the other party annoyingly civil.

  Charlie felt a quiver of anger, which she squelched. His arrogance was slightly justified. She was late. Kenny had decided to be difficult this morning. The new housekeeper, a gypsy of a young woman named Tanya, had won Kenny's confidence—and lost Charlie's—by reading Charlie's palm and assuring Kenny that there was no crashed helicopter on the horizon. Charlie had debated all the way to work—a long trip, since she was stuck behind a snow-plough—whether the hocus-pocus was harmless, or whether Kenny, who latched on to goofy ideas rather readily, would be unduly influenced by it.

  And she admitted reluctantly that, for some reason, she had expected a bit of a 'welcome aboard' greeting from Gallagher. She had been unprepared for downright rudeness. She wasn't that late.

  She studied his back momentarily, and found the study disconcerting. He was a supremely made man, for all his character defects. Which, she reminded herself sternly, would far outnumber even his considerable physical assets. She turned abruptly and feigned rapt interest in the weather chart on the wall behind her.

  'Well?'

  She had forgotten his voice and the gravelled sensuality of it. When she swivelled slowly and looked at him, she realised that she'd forgotten him. Forgotten the intimidating coolness of his eyes, the intimidating strength of his stature.

  'I apologise for being late. I wasn't expecting the roads to be in such horrendous condition.' She gave herself a little mental pat for the friendly professionalism of her tone.

  'Well, from now on you can expect it,' he retorted coldly. 'You should have been expecting snow. Probably fiddling with your face or some damn thing.'

  Her attitude of friendly professionalism deserted her. She stared at him, appalled. She had also managed to forget his utter arrogance in a few short weeks!

  'I was not "fiddling with my face",' she returned with thinly veiled fury. 'I do not "fiddle with my face". I apologised for being late, and that's all I can do. It won't happen again.' She knew she should stop there, but her temper had grabbed the reins. 'What's more, I severely doubt that you would ever accuse a male pilot of being late because he was "fiddling with his face".'

  'In my experience, men don't have quite the same cavalier attitude towards time that women have,' he shot back, not the least apology in those glittering eyes.

  'A cavalier attitude towards time?' she gasped. 'I happened to get caught behind a snow-plough. What does a man do in those circumstances? Hop into the nearest phone booth to change into his Superman outfit so he can fly to work? Besides, you can't tell me that a male member of your staff has never been late.'

  'Of course I can't,' he replied. 'Look,' his voice was impatient, 'I'm not an easy man to deal with at this time of year. I've got all kinds of last-minute details to work out. I don't have the time or the inclination to pander to your feminine sensitivities. Just let it slide off your back, OK?'

  'Fine,' she managed to croak. It was hardly an apology, after all. Fiddling with her face? Feminine sensitivities? Well, thank heaven that Gallagher Cole was a sexist boor! She was glad he was a chauvinist brute—it would make it ridiculously easy to keep her life in its appropriate compartments.

  Gallagher was looking at his watch. 'Something's come up. I have to run. The crew is meeting at the One-Twelve at noon for lunch. Be there.'

  She stared at him with utter disbelief, then reacted to his tyrannical tone. 'Let me get this straight. You're annoyed with me for being late for work, and we aren't going to work? You're insufferable.' Too late she realised that her temper was really overcoming her good judgement, and that her tone wasn't one a new employee should practise on the boss.

  'So quit,' he challenged silkily.

  Her anger died as suddenly as it had risen. She regarded him thoughtfully and sombrely. 'You'd like that, wouldn't you?' she guessed. 'It would validate all those second thoughts you've had about hiring a woman if I were to quit in a fit of pique at the first sign of your ugly temper. Plus, then you could guiltlessly do what you wanted to do in the first place—hire a man. Well, I'm not quitting before I've started. If you don't want me here, you should have the guts to fire me. Right now.'

  He stared at her incredulously. 'My ugly temper?' he finally sputtered. 'It seems to me that you have your fair share of temper.'

  'I do,' she admitted, her voice level despite her inner quaking. 'I'm a professional. I won't tolerate being treated like an errant schoolgirl for being a few minutes late. And I won't take kindly to being patronised for what you imagine to be my feminine sensitivities!'

  OK, it wasn't a tone one should use on a new boss but, as the saying went, start as you mean to go on. And with a man like Gallagher Cole you laid down the ground rules, or found your working conditions intolerable.

  'Now,' her voice did not betray the fact that she was shaking uncontrollably inside, 'do I still have a job?' She met his blazing gaze unflinchingly.

  For a moment, he looked quite capable of strangling her. But then he shook his head, with a surprising trace of self-mockery. 'I really shouldn't have made that crack about quitting. I need a pilot.'

  'Fine. I need a job.'

  He shook his head slowly. 'I don't know about this. We need each other, but I don't like personality conflicts on the job, and you and I do not seem to mesh.' He looked at her thoughtfully. 'I wonder if it's because we're different, or because we're the same?'

  'Different!' she exclaimed forcefully. 'Very different.'

  'I'm not so sure. I have the uneasy feeling that you might be as pig-headed as I am. I'm not used to that.'

  She wasn't sure whether to feel flattered or insulted, and he didn't give her time to make up her mind.

  'I've got to run. See you at the One-Twelve. At noon. Sharp.'

  She turned abruptly away from him. The man did not know how to be civil, even when he was working at it. Sharp, indeed!

  Still, she sat in her car for a moment, trying to regain her composure. She was hardly going to be put up for a civility award herself, after her performance this morning. She didn't know what had got into her. She was generally calm and even-tempered to a fault. What was it about that dratted man that got her back so far up that she'd risked a job she needed and had staked her future on to make a point?

  At a soft tap on her window, her head jerked up. Gallagher looked through at her, a formidable expression on his face.

  Her heart climbed into her throat. He was going to fire her. And not, she admitted, entirely without cause. Not that she didn't feel that she had the right to be treated with respect, but she knew from experience that you couldn't demand it. You had to earn it, particularly as a woman in a man's world. And it was important that people working together felt a certain affinity towards each other.

  She wound down her window with dread.

  'My truck won't start!' he snapped.

  She managed, just barely, to suppress a hoot of laughter. Partly because she was relieved that her imaginary scenarios were not coming true, and partly because justice felt wonderful in a world that was not just. She resisted the temptation to point to the phone booth and suggest he change into Superman togs, but she could not resist a sweet smile.

  'Can I give you a lift somewhere? I certainly wouldn't want you to be late for an appointment.'

  'Don't rub it in,' he growled, coming around to the passenger side. He climbed in and slammed the door so hard that she winced.

  'Where to?' she asked, straight-faced.

  'Actually I have a number of places where I have to be this morning.' He was looking straight ahead, his face expressionless.

  She decided it would be too cruel to make him beg. Besides, her animosity towards him had dissolved somewhat.

  'I'll drive you around.'

  'Thanks,' he said gruffly, and. a trifle gratefully—the gratefulness, she suspected, was because she was not making the most of the situation to humble him. She decided to use the opportunity to patch some fences.

  'Gallagher, we got off on the wrong foot this morning. I apologise for the part I played in that. I do think it's important that we make an effort to get along. I mean, the fact that we're two pigheaded people doesn't have to be such a bad thing. Imagine how invincible we'd be if we ever found something we agreed on.'

  He chuckled, and out of the corner of her eye she could see some of the proud stiffness leave him. 'I have a feeling it might be a long time before you and I found any common ground.'

  'On a personal level, I agree. But on a professional level you may have been right in suggesting we're more the same than different. I'm a perfectionist, a stickler for detail, committed to being the best at my job that I can be.'

  She could tell that she had struck a chord with him, because he gave her a startled look.

  'That's me to a T,' he admitted cautiously.

  And caution seemed to be the key word for the rest of the morning. They got along fine, but there was a fine tension present, as if both of them were aware how tenuous the peace was, how easy it would be to say the word or express the view that would re-ignite their enmity towards each other. It wasn't entirely comfortable, but it wasn't open warfare, either. Their relationship was already improving, Charlie thought with wry optimism.

  At noon Charlie and Gallagher joined a boisterous group at the One-Twelve, a hotel restaurant and lounge which reflected Revelstoke's character in its decor—from old railway pictures on the walls to giant soapstone carvings of grizzly bears.

  Charlie was introduced to Leon, the other pilot, Smitty, the engineer, and Rob, one of the ski guides. The other ski guide was a young woman, peachy-complexioned and impish with her hair done in short brown braids.

  Gallagher's hand came to rest on the young woman's shoulder as he introduced her. Charlie was taken aback at the open affection that mellowed his eyes when they rested on that upturned pixie face.

  'This is Cherry Hillsborough—soon to be a Mrs Cole.'

  Charlie had to fight to keep her mouth from dropping open. A Mrs Cole, as if there were a long string of Mrs Coles? And why did she feel both surprised and disappointed that Gallagher had been married, planned to marry again? Men of his age, and particularly of his ilk, came with histories. The girl was far too young for him, but then she should have realised that he had that typical male penchant for sweet young things, from some of the remarks he had made at her interview.

  Charlie slipped into the empty chair beside Cherry, trying to put aside her distressing thoughts and concentrate on what Gallagher was saying.

  'He's such a sweetie, isn't he?' Cherry murmured in her ear.

  A sweetie? The girl was naive as well as young. Charlie was aware that she had a whole list of things she thought Gallagher was. Overbearing. Stubborn. Insensitive. Chauvinistic. But sweet? Never!

  'Charlie, you and Leon will fly together this week. He can introduce you to the area while you're flagging landing sites. Even though I know you're aware of the unique perils of helicopter-skiing, maybe you can learn a thing or two from Leon. He's been with us from the beginning.'

  Charlie silently added sarcastic to her growing list.

  Gallagher moved on to discuss the intricacies of scheduling. Three groups were often booked.

  They would be sorted out according to ability, then one group would be dropped, and the helicopter would return for group two. By the time group three was deposited at their first run, group one should be ready to be picked up for their second. Charlie was glad that the guides would be doing dry runs all week, so that the timing could be worked out.

  Her list of Gallagher's traits expanded as he spoke, though she reluctantly had to add a few that were less derogatory. He was dedicated. Enthusiastic. Committed. So much so that she found herself dismissing him at a personal level, and allowing herself to become ignited by his energy at a professional one.

  A fire of passion crept into his eyes as he spoke, the velvet timbre of his voice was entrancing. He radiated an intensity and a vitality that made his abrasive pig-headedness easy to dismiss as an outer layer. Beneath that rough exterior was a man who dared to dream, who was deeply involved and committed to his way of life. As he spoke, the last faint traces of his sardonic manner were erased from those rugged features, and Charlie allowed herself to feel hope for her future with High Heaven. She wasn't sure that she could ever really like Gallagher, but at least now she was entirely sure that she could respect him.

  'We have to get the technical details down so off pat,' he was saying intently, 'that we're the only ones aware that there is a technical side to this business. In other words, I don't want equipment failures. I don't want beginners in the expert groups. I don't want tedious waits at the bottom of runs. I don't want cold lunch. This week we'll be oiling the machine—imagining every possible foul-up, so we can work on prevention now.'