“They want me because I can ski!” she said.
“And they wanted Grable because she could knit, I suppose? Or Sheridan because she could hemstitch.” He grabbed her shoulders and shook her and shouted down into her face, “You’re the most beautiful thing I ever saw in my life, Wiel, and that’s why they want you — because there isn’t enough beauty to go around in this hungry old world.”
“I like you when you’re angry!” she said.
“I... uh... what?”
“Would you work on the picture too, George?”
He swallowed hard. “That could go into the contract.”
“Because by the time the picture was done I’d have you skiing as though you knew how, George.”
“You... you’ll sign?”
“Now that you’ve given me a reason. I just didn’t want to be hired to ski. But if you can think I’m beautiful, maybe some other people will, too.”
His hands were still on her shoulders, the ski poles looped over his wrists. He wanted to be able to compose several symphonies and a half-dozen tone poems about the way the moonlight touched her lips. He bent toward those lips.
She wriggled away and scooted under his arm, headed directly down the slope. “You’ve got to catch me first, George,” her voice came back, fading on the wind.
George angled grimly down the slope, his knees well bent, weight forward, taking the turns in stride. Far below, Christina moved swiftly out onto the flats toward the inn. He saw her stop abruptly, tumbling with a smother of snow.
George Barker turned directly down the last of the slope. The wind cut his face and he felt eight feet tall.
She didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get up.
“Yeee-ow!” howled George into the teeth of the wind.
