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Mara was grateful for the way he was trying to act naturally. “What is at the top?”
He grinned. “Nothing much. Just a USGS marker.”
“What is that?”
“That stands for US Geological Survey. Fourteen thousand two hundred fifty-eight feet. And the highest view you’ll probably ever see. Are you game to try it?” His voice was a definite challenge.
Her eyes narrowed, taking the dare. “I do not like half measures.”
“Then let’s do it.”
* * *
Mara stood at the top of the summit, gasping for breath. Special Agent McKinnon hadn’t lied—the lack of oxygen combined with physical exertion had made climbing the hundred twenty feet seem as if she’d climbed the entire mountain from its base. Without him ahead of her, encouraging her, Mara wasn’t quite sure she would have made it. At one point he’d even taken her hand to help her over a rough patch, but then he’d let go, so she could struggle up the last few feet on her own.
The view was worth it, once she finally caught her breath. She could see in all directions, and when she turned westward Special Agent McKinnon pointed out Mount Bierstadt, Grays Peak and Torreys Peak. “Those are three of what are called Colorado’s fourteeners—mountain peaks that exceed fourteen thousand feet, like Mount Evans,” he told her. “And from up here you can see a good portion of the entire state.”
“What are those mountains to the south?” she asked.
“Those are the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.”
“Blood of Christ,” she translated automatically. “Why?”
“Supposedly because of their red color at sunrise and sunset.”
“What about those mountains to the north? What are they called?”
Special Agent McKinnon laughed. “Would you believe that’s the Never Summer Mountain Range?”
Mara laughed, too, delighted. “Never Summer. How appropriate for mountains.” She rotated slowly, gazing at everything, imprinting the picturesque vistas in her mind. “Thank you,” she said simply. “I will always remember this.”
He looked at her, a quizzical expression on his face. “I just realized you don’t have a camera with you. If you’d told me I could have brought mine.”
Her smile faded. “I do not like cameras,” she said, feeling suddenly so cold she shivered. “Photographs...”
“I don’t get it.”
At first she thought she couldn’t tell him, but there was something about his expression that told her he wasn’t just asking out of idle curiosity—he really wanted to understand. She drew a deep breath. “Ever since I was a little girl, the paparazzi were everywhere I went in public. Even in Zakhar. No privacy. No way to escape. I was their prisoner, and it was as if they felt they owned me. Thousands of photographs have been taken of me against my will.”
She struggled to find the words. “I learned early never to show emotion in public. Never to let them see what I was thinking. Never to display a single vulnerability they could exploit—I was always on display. I would turn around, and there they would be—the paparazzi. Click. Click. Click. I used to have nightmares when I was young, and for a while I was even afraid to take a bath, that is how paranoid I was.”
Her eyes burned with unshed tears as she remembered another princess, hounded by the paparazzi to her death in a Paris tunnel, and she whispered, “I honestly believe if I were being raped or murdered and the paparazzi were there, instead of trying to help me they would just photograph it. That is why I hate cameras.”
She covered her face with her hands, suddenly shaking. Then gentle arms enfolded her, wrapping her protectively in warmth. “Shhh,” a deep voice said over her head. “It’s okay, Princess. I’m sorry I asked. I’m sorry I made you remember.”
Mara knew she should withdraw from his embrace, knew it was dangerous to let herself seek shelter and comfort in his arms. But he was so warm. So strong. So understanding. So much the man she’d dreamed of in her lonely bed. In this instant it was as if she could be herself with him. Just Mara. Not a princess of Zakhar. Not even Dr. Marianescu. Just Mara, no more, no less. A woman with a man.
* * *
They were past the worst of the switchbacks on the way down when storm clouds moved in, shrouding the top of Mount Evans from view. And by the time they reached Summit Lake, an alpine lake nestled in the cirque formed by Mount Evans and Mount Spalding, it had started to snow. Dainty flurries, wind born, that didn’t even require the use of windshield wipers.
“Better not stop,” Special Agent McKinnon said, viewing the Summit Lake parking lot, which was rapidly emptying.
