'Didn't this man play the drill sergeant in one of those old B-movies,' Cherry quipped, obviously not intimidated by her husband-to-be. The group laughed and, surprisingly, so did Gallagher.

  'OK, I can be a tough man to work for.' He briefly sought out Charlie's eyes, and moved on. 'But I'll tell you why I'm tough. Because I have a goal. To be the best, and to give the best heli-skiing experience in the world.

  'What you have to remember is that what we're really doing is running a summer camp for kids—only it's not summer and we're dealing with adults.'

  'Exactly like summer camp for kids,' Leon offered, and the high-spirited group laughed again. Charlie felt herself beginning to feel at home with these people, beginning to really look forward to working with them.

  Gallagher leaned forward, his expression deadly serious. He dragged a hand through his heavy curls. 'High Heaven succeeds, even though it's small and independent, by providing exactly that essence—the spirit of camp.' Once again his eyes sought Charlie's. 'Did you ever go to camp?'

  'Yes,' she said with a smile.

  'That's it!' he exclaimed with soft triumph. 'That smile you just smiled is exactly what we're working towards. It was full of fond memories, and just a trace of wistfulness. For what? For days that were endless and perfect and laughter-filled. For camaraderie and a feeling of family, for that sensation of being bonded to nature and the earth. For days that began with exhilaration, and ended with a pleasant kind of exhaustion.

  'I've been accused of pandering to a spoiled people,' he continued, a certain ferocious spark in his eyes. 'I've been accused of spending my life glorifying the pursuit of hedonism. But I don't believe that. What I believe is that, if we do our jobs right, we're dealing in the most special of commodities. Joy. It doesn't matter if it's a one-day trip, or a three-or four-day excursion. I want people to leave the High Heaven experience feeling revitalised, hopeful, in touch again with some lost part of themselves, in touch with the world they inhabit.'

  Charlie stared at Gallagher incredulously. This couldn't be the same man who had bickered about a few minutes of tardiness this morning. How many sides did he have? And how many of them were this likeable, this admirable? She was aware that he held the group in the palm of his hand. They were totally surrounded by his spell, sitting on the edge of their chairs to catch his next words.

  Suddenly she wondered why he was doing this. Why had he tied up a million dollars or more in a helicopter when, with that kind of money and his charisma, his ability to persuade, he could be doing anything? Personal feelings aside, she knew that she was seeing the kind of dynamic and powerful man who could change the world if he set his mind to it.

  'People come here to ski. They come for what is probably the best skiing in the world, and they pay big money for the experience.. So our greatest challenge is when the weather turns sour. We have to work against intense disappointment, even anger. But that's where we really become a team. Everybody does their part. Nobody is just a guide or just a pilot. You'll be out at my place harnessing horses for sleigh-rides, building snowmen, cross-country skiing. We'll give them memories that will take some of the sting out of not receiving hundred-and-fifty-thousand-feet pins.

  'The social side of this experience is every bit as important as the physical side. Remember that. Be prepared to get involved. We don't give people a chance to go back to their rooms and brood about the problems they've left behind. At night we have spectacular dinners, either here or at a special little place called Snuggles. We go to nightclubs, or out to my place to roast marshmallows over an open fire, use the hot-tub, go for sleigh-rides under the moon.

  'It really adds something for the clients if they feel that the staff like them, and enjoy spending time with them. I expect everybody to get involved in our social activities.'

  Charlie felt her enthusiasm leave her with a dismal hiss, like the air rushing from a balloon. She wanted to. She wanted to play an integral part in every aspect of this magic spell Gallagher Cole was weaving. But she knew she had to draw lines. She couldn't be away all day for two weeks, and then all night, too. She didn't have the option of calling up a teenage girl to baby-sit every now and then. And Kenny was demanding of her time. He resented her leaving him in the mornings. How would he feel if she started deserting him every night as well? She owed him more than that.

  She felt left behind and left out as she watched Gallagher expound on the social events he had planned. She would have to tell him, but how much? People rarely understood Kenny's special problems, and Charlie had developed defences against their insensitivity. Their staring, their snickering, their kind remarks that had a cruel twist, their unintentional condescension.

  She felt a need to protect Kenny from the reactions that he was sometimes never even aware of. Protect him, and protect herself.

  'And that's the pep talk,' Gallagher concluded. 'Questions?' His eyes found hers as the group was breaking up. 'Stay a minute.'

  'Well, what do you think?' he asked when they were alone. He lifted a mug of beer, watched her over its frosty rim. 'It's slightly more than you bargained for, isn't it?'

  She could only nod, not the least surprised at how those sharp eyes had been subtly monitoring reactions, and had picked up her distress.

  She took a breath and plunged. 'Gallagher, the flying sounds great, and I'm eager to get going. But I can't commit myself to the social side.' She saw a quick flash in his eyes. Disappointment in her. But also relief.

  Did he really dislike her that much? She wondered bleakly if maybe she hadn't made a mistake. Coerced him into hiring her on a principle, when personality was going to have so much to do with this job. She hesitated. 'You can start looking for someone else, if the social side is that essential to what you're trying to do.'

  She held her breath, afraid that she had acted on pure impulse—made an offer she did not want to have to live up to. It had been different this morning, before she had become fired by his enthusiasm. Now she cared. Still, after this morning there was a good possibility that he was shopping around for her replacement, anyway. They might as well get it out in the open.

  His eyes searched her face. 'I thought we'd resolved this this morning. I need a pilot. You need a job. I was aware you had other responsibilities when I hired you. And I hired you anyway. My primary need is for a good pilot, not for a social convener, and not for somebody who kowtows to my every wish, as pleasant as I might find that.

  Still, I think it's obvious that I have some reservations. But I can't very well ask you to commit yourself to my company unless I'm prepared to commit myself to you. So why don't we give it until the end of December? We'll reevaluate the situation then. Until then, consider yourself in. As a pilot. The others can do the social side. I don't really need you for that.'

  The last line was spoken quite vehemently, and again Charlie got the impression he was relieved that she wouldn't be playing too large a role in his organisation. ?

  'Anyway, 1 asked you to stay behind because I wanted to talk to you about pressure. Not because you're a woman,' he stated sarcastically when her mouth opened in automatic protest, 'but because this business has some unique pressures that don't have a thing to do with flying.'

  Charlie allowed her mouth to snap closed.

  'I probably don't have to tell you that, when it comes to the weather, your word is final. You'll get no argument from me, no matter how many clients are howling their disgust. But it might help you to deal with them if you know how our clients break down.

  'They come from all over the world. About twenty per cent Canadian, thirty to forty per cent American, the rest European, with a smattering of Japanese. With the exception of the Japanese, they divide pretty neatly into three groups. We get the very wealthy old-rich. They're basically half-day skiers, who aren't out to prove anything. They come strictly for enjoyment. They like to be treated well, but they also treat others well. They won't be a problem to you, or anybody else.

  'On the other end of the scale we have the "ski-nuts". These people are barely better than poverty-stricken. This is a once in a lifetime experience for them. They've saved their money for a long time for it. They're good skiers, dedicated to the sport, and they're easy to please as long as you make every minute count.

  'And right in the middle is another group. They can be downright dangerous. The nouveau riche. They're in it for the thrill. They talk a better show than they ski. They show off. They're rude and demanding. Nothing is ever good enough and nothing is ever right.'

  'I'm not much of a diplomat,' Charlie interceded.

  'I think I might have seen that first hand,' he commented drily, 'and actually, at some level, I'm sure it's part of the reason I overcame my reservations and hired you.' He shook his head slightly, as if to say, And look what I've let myself in for.

  'Part of the reason you hired me is because we go off like flint against rock?' Charlie asked with disbelief.

  Gallagher laughed, and she was uneasily aware of how she enjoyed the sound of it, the sight of it. It was a robust laugh, that put the sun to shame, that erased a vague world-weariness from his features, that made him seem dangerously warm and approachable.

  'I wouldn't say that, exactly. You have a certain stern, no-nonsense attitude I admire—as much as I don't expect it in a woman. When I push, you push back. Now, I may not like it personally, but that's exactly what some of our clients need. Expect to be pushed. And be prepared to push back.'

  Stern? No-nonsense? Hardly appealing, Charlie thought, unconsciously giving her head a shake that made her hair cascade around her face, and made her feel slightly less like a pinch-faced, old-maid librarian.

  'Maybe strong is the word I'm looking for,' he said absently, and Charlie felt slightly vindicated that he had to pull his straying gaze from her hair.

  'The point being?' she asked, a little tersely. She knew that she came on stronger than most women. It was from living out her professional life in a predominantly male world. But she wasn't sure that she wanted to appear strong. The way he had said it, it had conjured up visions of fat, sweating men, grunting mightily under the weight of thousand-pound barbells.

  'The point being that skiers can be a difficult bunch to deal with. You have to let them know from second one that you won't stand for any nonsense. They have to know that, as far as that helicopter goes, you're the boss. And you'll have to stay on them. All day, every day. I just wanted you to know I'll be standing behind you. Even on those days—and there will be plenty of them—when you're the last in line for the popularity contest.'

  'I appreciate that,' she said with surprised sincerity, and then couldn't resist adding, deadpan, 'And don't worry. My feminine sensitivities won't be in the least offended if I don't win the popularity contest.'

  'Good girl,' he said, and saw her wince. 'Your feminine sensitivities are showing,' he remarked.

  'I am not a girl,' she stated firmly, 'any more than you are a boy.'

  He regarded her thoughtfully. 'You really are a new breed of woman, aren't you? I think that'll be OK as long as you're flying a helicopter. I don't think it's a quality I'd like if you were warming my bed, though.'

  The uneasy peace between them was shattered. 'That,' she managed to hiss, 'is an event that is about as likely as pigs being invited to dinner with the Queen --'

  'Darn right,' he muttered.

  'And what's more,' she continued as if he hadn't interrupted, 'you are exactly the kind of man I despise in my personal life. You lower everything between a man and a woman to its lowest and most base level. You see women as objects—whose only useful purpose on this earth is to warm your bed. Well --'

  His eyes were glittering with infuriating amusement. 'I kind of like making you mad,' he admitted softly.

  Charlie realised that he had made the remark deliberately, to goad her. She was intensely sorry that she had risen to the bait, but she was also willing to bet that it didn't hide his real attitude by much.

  She eyed him narrowly, then changed the subject. 'Why do you do this, anyway? Why would anybody with a million dollars invest in a helicopter? And a lot of hard work? The interest on that money alone could keep you well-heeled for life.'

  'But what kind of life?' he returned quietly. 'A life of sitting-by-the-pool-sipping-Scotch leisure wouldn't suit me very well.'

  'No, it wouldn't,' Charlie admitted. 'But I know what it costs to maintain a helicopter. Add to that four employees. I also know that, despite a very dear cost to the skier, heli-skiing isn't an enormous money-maker.'

  'Worried about your job security?' he asked pointedly.

  She shrugged. Let him take it that way if he wanted. In fact, the more time she spent with this man, the more he became a complete enigma. She found herself liking him one minute, questioning her sanity for that liking in the next. What made him tick? If she knew, she could parry his thrusts more effectively.

  'We're solvent. I make a decent living. I guarantee your job . . . until December. As for making big money—well, I've done that. It's not what it's cracked up to be.'

  The mystery grew again. She reluctantly admired the fact that he had other motivations in life besides money. Maybe, she conceded, watching him, he changed the world after all. In his own way.

  'Besides, I never had a million dollars. The helicopter was left to me.' A brief flash of agony passed through his eyes, then was gone. Again, it answered nothing about him, only intensified the mystery.

  'Someone left you a helicopter?' she pressed, puzzled.

  'A helicopter. A dream.' He stood up, his eyes far away, his words so soft, and so odd, that she could not be sure that she heard him correctly.

  'There is more than one way to beat death.'

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Over the next week, Gallagher proved to be a hard and relentless taskmaster. He accepted nothing less than perfection from any of them. And yet, despite that, there was a spirit of fun about the group, an excited air of anticipation, as they worked towards becoming the well-oiled team that would be able to present themselves to their clients as calm, professional and competent. Charlie liked the job immensely. And, with everyone working towards a common goal, that animosity that she and Gallagher seemed to spark off each other had disappeared—or been buried for the sake of group unity.

  And Charlie's respect for Gallagher grew. His demands and his high expectations pulled them together and brought out the best in all of them. He was a born leader, if a trifle high-handed, and Charlie noted that he inspired something that approached dogged devotion from the people who worked for him. She had also noticed that he worked ten times as hard as any of them. When they were all going home at night, exhausted, the light in his office was still burning. Yes, he was earning her respect. Professionally, any way.

  Charlie waited now, in the helicopter, at the bottom of a hill where two separate runs joined. Rob and Cherry were checking out one, and Gallagher the other. She expected it would be at least ten minutes before she saw either party, and so she was stunned when Gallagher broke over the rise high above her.

  She had seen him ski many times in the last week. She knew he was good. No, not just good—superb. A symphony of muscle and motion, in perfect harmony with the mountain. But his power, when he ski'd with others, was leashed. It was only when he ski'd alone, like now, that she saw him unleash that awesome power. It was a sight that never failed to make her heart hammer in her throat. He ski'd the razor's edge, pushing the limits of human capability.

  She watched, wide-eyed, as he hurtled down the mountain, hell for leather, crouched, doing nothing to check his speed. The snow boiled up in clouds behind the cutting edge of his skis. The wind grabbed his toque from his head, and tossed it away. For a split second his dark curls sprang free, and then were flattened against his skull.

  'He's never going to be able to stop,' she murmured, and shut her eyes. A second later, the eerie silence forced her to open them.

  He had stopped, and was now turning, looking back at the slope in silent salute, his broad shoulders heaving. He slipped from his skis, threw them effortlessly over his shoulder, and ambled over to the helicopter.

  She felt an inexplicable anger with him, and glared at him when he hopped into the helicopter.

  'Is that what you meant by "there's more than one way to beat death"?' she snapped, aware suddenly that the phrase had bothered her all week.

  He looked at her with faint surprise, ran his fingers through thick hair that sparkled with tiny diamonds of ice and sweat.

  'No. What made you think so?'

  Her voice was strained. 'Because that's how you act out there when you're on your own. Reckless. Devil-may-care. As if you're challenging death, and winning . . . for now.'

  'Do I?' he asked mildly. His blue eyes settled on her with faint mockery, asking why she cared.

  'I don't have a lot of respect for people who will risk everything for a thrill,' she informed him coldly. She told herself that she did not care how he ski'd at all. She just didn't want to be the one left to pick up the mutilated wreckage of that magnificent body when he pressed too far and ended up smeared all over a rock-face. That was what made her angry, and that was all.

  Well, maybe there was a bit more involved. He was a very vital man to be around when he ski'd. He exuded energy, and power; he exuded that mysterious force that was life itself. And that force washed over her, and in those moments she cared about him. Not as a woman to a man. Not on a romantic or sexual level. Oh, hell, she thought, there were just times, as few and far between as they might be, when he stopped being arrogant and obnoxious for long enough that he was a little bit likeable. So what?

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Cherry and Rob making their way down the second run. She turned her attention to. the red-clad figure bobbing gracefully down the slope. She liked Cherry. She had been surprised to learn that the younger woman was twenty-two. She looked sixteen and, in Charlie's mind, acted it, too. Irrepressible, high-spirited, bubbly. Nice, but not the woman for Gallagher. He needed something different. Maturity. Depth. Strength. He needed someone who wouldn't be completely overpowered by his arrogance. Someone who wouldn't be afraid to keep him in line. And she heartily pitied anyone foolish enough to take on that task—particularly Cherry, since she seemed so ill-equipped for the job.