Page 1 of Mountain Summons

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Tristan

Tristan Devallé absently swirled the dehydrated lemon in his soda water and studied the impressive collection of liquor bottles behind the bar. He wondered, not for the first time that evening, why he’d chosen L’Alibi, of all places. It was all gleaming wood and glass, one of the fancier bars in Chamonix, and far, far removed from the grungy, grimy Bar d’Up Lena had suggested for their first date.

Because this is much more your style, and you wanted to impress her. Well, that wasn’t going to happen, not unless she showed. He settled back into the comfortable leather seat and popped another green olive into his mouth. At least the olives were good—smooth and almost buttery in flavor. The waitress had been kind enough to replace the first little bowl once he’d emptied it, and Tristan was well on his way to getting through the second one.Hell. He could sit here and munch on olives allevening, but, at some point, he was going to have to accept that Lena wasn’t coming.

He struggled against a wave of disappointment. He’d been looking forward to tonight. He and Lena had first met in one of the central supermarkets, when they’d both reached for the last can of tuna in olive oil at exactly the same moment. He’d be damned it if hadn’t felt like serendipity—the two of them and the fish conserve.

Even in a mismatched tracksuit, she’d been gorgeous, with lean curves, long auburn hair cascading over her shoulders like a waterfall of burnished copper, hazel eyes that seemed flecked with gold, and generous lips that hinted at a natural smile. Small freckles dusted her nose and cheeks, adding a touch of imperfection to her striking beauty. Young. In her early twenties. Too young for Tristan, but he hadn’t been paying attention to the signs that day.

Tristan wasn’t sure who’d spoken first. He’d handed over the can. He remembered that much. And, somehow, they’d started talking, and she’d asked him out. The bar she’d chosen, small and cramped, its low ceiling heavy with decades of cigarette smoke that clung to the air like a ghost of nights past, was not Tristan’s style. But, still star-struck over their meeting in the fish conserve aisle, he would have gone anywhere to meet her.

It turned out, Lena was funny, as well as beautiful. That had been a surprise. In Tristan’s experience, beautiful women weren’t usually funny. But she was funny, and witty, and smelled so right. When they’d kissed at the end of the evening, out on the glistening, cobbled street corner, Tristan had glimpsed a corner of heaven.

That had been a month ago, and he hadn’t heard from her again until today, when she’d suddenly called to say she was back in town, and would he like to meet. She’d said this time it was his turn to choose the place.

Fuck, but he’d been looking forward to seeing her again.

His phone buzzed loudly in his pocket. Hope soared in his chest. He pulled it out only to see his father’s name flashing on the screen. He set it face-down on the table and let it buzz away to voicemail. He wasn’t about to make a bad evening worse by speaking to his father.

He was being a complete knob, but some childish, bitter part of him got a kick out of making the great Amaury Levallé wait—like Tristan had waited all his childhood. Guilt assuaged him at the immature thought, but not enough to actually pick up the phone. Amaury wasn’t Tristan’s biological father, but he was the only father he’d ever known, since his biological father, who’d worked with the PGHM in its early days, had died in an accident before Tristan was even born.

Tristan didn’t begrudge his mother her second chance at love. And her second husband, Tristan’s adoptive father was fantastic. Everybody who knew him said so. He was smart, charming, a savvy businessman, and one of the greatest living watchmakers. A lesser man might have been intimidated by the situation, but not Amaury. He had adopted Tristan within months of his birth. His only flaw, perhaps, was that he cared about his craft much more than he cared about living beings, and that included his wife and son.

Tristan’s mother had always seemed content with that second place in her husband’s heart. She often told the story of how the two of them had met—she, a beautiful English widow with a young son, and him, a budding watchmaker with big dreams. It was a match made in heaven. She’d given everything up for Amaury Devallé, devoting all her energies from that day to him, and he’d been happy enough to accept her devotion. Tristan had grown up as one more satellite orbiting around the immense gravity of his father’s ambitions, a tiny presence in a system where all light and attention were drawn to the central star.Unlike his mother, for whom that had been enough, Tristan had always hoped for more from his father.Moreattention. Moreinterest. Morelove.

He sipped his soda water, wishing it were something stronger, then chuckled quietly. He had to get over himself. He was thirty years old and had nothing to complain about. In the scale of shitty childhoods, his barely registered—a mild, forgettable storm in a world full of hurricanes.

He sighed, turning the phone over again to check the time. He purposefully didn’t wear a watch—hadn’t since the day of his eighteenth birthday, when, after missing his birthday dinner, his father had presented him with a special, fully handmade piece, representing thousands of hours of meticulous craftsmanship by someone in his father’satelier. What he hadn’t been able to understand is that Tristan hadn’t wanted a watch—just an evening with his father. A few days later, when he’d left home for university, Tristan had pointedly left the watch on the dresser of his bedroom. It had still been there last Easter, the last time Tristan had visited. A cool half-million Swiss francs, gathering dust on top of a dresser for twelve years. Nobody would ever accuse the Devallés of not holding grudges well.

Eight forty-six. She was officially three quarters of an hour late. He might as well pay and leave. If he waited for the waitress to bring him a third little bowl of olives, Lena still wouldn’t be here, and he’d end up going home with indigestion.

His phone buzzed again.What the hell is wrong with?—

It wasn’t his father this time, but his boss, Beau Fontaine. He flicked the screen and brought the phone up to his ear. “Tristan. I know you’re off tonight.”

“No worries.” Tristan popped one more olive into his mouth as he listened.

“Have you had anything to drink?”

“A glass of soda water,” he answered.

“If we had another pilot, I wouldn’t call you in,” Beau said, and Tristan heard what his boss wasn’t saying. There had been a lot of emergencies in the mountains lately, and Tristan had gotten little downtime. That was fine with him. Piloting helicopters was what he did best in life. Getting paid to do it was just a bonus. “Kat’s babies have both been sick with gastroenteritis, and now it seems Luc has caught it as well. They’re all okay, but she can’t come in.”

Tristan wrinkled his nose. That was a lot of info he didn’t need. Tristan knew he was a selfish man, by far the least honorable among his PGHM colleagues, but he’d have to be a real bastard to say no. And it’s not like he had anything better to do. He signaled the friendly waitress for the check. “It’s fine. I’m not doing anything.”

“Thank you. How soon can you be at the hangar?”

Tristan didn’t need to look that one up. He could map the distance between anywhere in Chamonix and the helicopter hangar to within a minute’s deviation. And he kept spare uniforms there, so he didn’t even need to go home and change out of his Paige jeans beforehand. “Twenty minutes.”

He mouthed his thanks as the waitress brought him the check, paid with his phone, and stood up, leaving a generous tip for her in cash. When it came to tips, cash was still king in Chamonix. On his way out, he stopped to see the bartender, glad that at least the man knew him. Because Tristan was about to make an ass of himself.

“Charles,” Tristan began, in rapid French. “Could you do me a favor? If a young woman comes in …” Shit, how to describe her. “Blond, beautiful, and looking for me, could you please tell her I had to leave, and to … to call me?”

Charles nodded his agreement, his expression perfectly neutral. Tristan wondered how often the man heard variations of this same request. “Sure thing, Tristan.” Tristan and thankedhim and walked out. Eight-fifty. He didn’t have any time to waste.

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