“Fuck, it’s freezing. Couldn’t you have decided to solve the mystery of the Bermuda Triangle instead?”
Linking arms with Andrew, Nat smiled, huddling closer to her producer for warmth. “Maybe that should be our reward for surviving this.”
If you survive it.
That nasty voice in her head again, the one that kept insisting she’d made a mistake. But of course they’d survive it. Why wouldn’t they? They had the best team, the most sophisticated equipment. Whatever had happened to Lyudmila and her friends back in the 1950s had to have had a rational explanation. Her job was to find it, not to die trying.
“Vasily gives me the creeps,” Andrew said.
“He’s not the most amiable fellow, is he? But consider things from his point of view. His way of life is dying out, and to feed his family, he has to drag a group of ill-prepared tourists up one of the region’s most dangerous mountains. If he’s a little grumpy, can’t say I blame him.”
“Ill-prepared tourists? I take offense to that.”
“You know what I mean. Just looking at it from his perspective. He has no idea how amazing our team is.”
“That’s better.”
As they followed the rest of the group to the restaurant, Nat tried to pinpoint what was bothering her. Was it Vasily’s doom-and-gloom demeanor? The eeriness of following in the footsteps of nine people who’d died horrible, unexplained deaths? Or something more?
“We’re going to be okay, right?”
The concern in Andrew’s voice echoed her own thoughts. She squeezed his arm. “Of course we’re going to be okay. We’re going to be sitting in the sun with margaritas, laughing about this, before you know it.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Me too.
The Russians who welcomed them to dinner were friendly and cheerful, passing around generous glasses of homemade vodka as soon as their group arrived. Lana looked doubtfully at her share as it slid down the worn wooden table into her hand.
“I’m not sure we should be drinking. We’re going to need to be on top of our game tomorrow.”
“A little vodka never hurt anyone,” Igor said, downing his shot with a hearty “Na zdorovie!” He grinned, clinking his empty glass against hers before grabbing another. “It warms the blood. Try it.”
Nat held her breath as she waited for the Olympian’s response. She wasn’t sure about Russia, but in many countries, refusing a drink was considered an insult.
“I guess one wouldn’t hurt.” With a tentative smile, Lana took a small sip that immediately set off a coughing fit. She clutched her chest, her eyes streaming. “Wow, that’s strong.”
Everyone laughed as Igor pounded her on the back. “You see? It’s good stuff. Puts hair on your chest.”
“Well now, that’s exactly what I need.” Wiping her eyes, Lana sat beside the Russian, leaving the rest of her glass untouched, but the ice had been broken. Nat could breathe again. From this brief exchange, it appeared their group was going to get along fine.
She was surprised when Steven took the chair next to hers. He was the one she knew the least about. He’d been a last-minute addition, but Andrew had said the mountaineer’s credentials were so extraordinary he couldn’t refuse. Nat suspected the man’s dark good looks and startlingly blue eyes hadn’t hurt.
Their hosts refilled the glasses and passed stoneware bowls of soup down the table, along with thick slices of dark rye bread. Nat leaned over the bowl so the steam could caress her face, thawing her still-frozen nose. The soup was a lovely, if surprisingly vivid, shade of magenta. Borscht.
“Nervous about tomorrow?”
Steven watched her with an intensity she found unnerving, as if those turquoise eyes of his could see right through her. She considered lying, but decided on a half-truth. “A little. You?”
“Nah. I survived Everest. What these guys call a Category III is nothing.” He buttered his slice of bread, but his attention remained focused on her. It was everything she could do to keep from squirming. Beautiful men had always made her uncomfortable. Why on earth had she left a gay man in charge of choosing the team?
“You climbed Everest? What was that like?” She’d never met anyone who’d braved the world’s highest mountain before. Though she didn’t have similar aspirations, people who did fascinated her. There was so much risk, both personally and financially. Climbers had to pay at least thirty-five thousand dollars just to have a go at it, with no guarantee they’d ever make it to the top. And even if the weather cooperated enough to make an attempt at the summit, the mountain was littered with the bodies of those who had failed.
“Phenomenal. It’s one of the greatest experiences the world has to offer. I highly recommend it.”
His unwavering gaze made her uneasy. Nat concentrated on her soup, focusing on spooning the warm beet-and-beef concoction into her mouth. Spiked with a hint of fresh dill, it managed to be hearty and refreshing at the same time. “Oh, I’m not at that level. I probably wouldn’t make it to Base Camp.”
Never mind not being able to afford it. Her podcast did well, but not well enough she could throw away thirty-five grand on a single experience, and a gamble at that.
“Don’t sell yourself short. I bet you can do anything you set your mind to.”
Nat looked up, startled at the compliment. “Thank you. That’s a nice thing to say, especially considering you hardly know me.”
“How’s it going?” Andrew whispered on her other side, probably jealous Steven had chosen to sit beside her. Her producer had already taken to calling the mountaineer “McDreamy” behind his back. She bumped his leg under the table, their universal signal for Not now.
“Oh, I know you better than you think. I’ve listened to every episode of Nat’s Mysterious World.”
“You have?” She knew she had loyal listeners, but every episode? A weekly cast for five years added up to… well, a lot of episodes.
“Yes, I have.” Was that a glimmer of amusement in his eyes? “Didn’t your producer tell you I’m a fan? I think that’s what convinced him to let me come.”
“He must have forgotten to mention it.” She gave Andrew a kick under the table, more for pure enjoyment than retribution.
Huge platters of food arrived and Igor stood to address the group. He was beaming, clearly in his element. Nat was warming to him. Every team needed a life of the party.
“You are in for a treat, my good friends. These are blini, otherwise known as Russian pancakes. They are better than what you are used to in the West, yah? Made of buckwheat.” He spoke to their hosts in his native language before continuing. “Elena says there is smoked salmon, homemade sour cream, and caviar. If you don’t like the fish, try the mushrooms. Yours to enjoy. Priyatnogo appetita!”
Another platter, this time of chicken, lamb, and beef skewers, needed no explanation, nor did the Russian potato salad. Nat’s stomach rumbled as she piled her plate high, forgetting to worry about her dinner companion for a moment.
“How did you get interested in this stuff?”
“Umph?” Nat mumbled around a mouthful of smoked salmon and buckwheat. Mmm, bliss. She normally wasn’t a fan of sour cream, but this homemade version bore no resemblance to the tasteless stuff found in grocery stores.