His vision sharpened on an old Seth Thomas clock clinging to one wall. He had set and wound the clock the previous night; it had seemed the thing to do. Next he focused on the massive cobwebbed head of an elk that stared down at him through dusty glass eyes. Slightly beyond the elk was a picture window that offered a breathtaking vista of the craggy Sawatch mountain range, deep in the Colorado Rockies.
As the last strands of sleep receded, Pitt found himself faced with his first decision of the day: whether to allow his eyes to bask in the majesty °f the scenery or to feast them on the smoothly contoured body of Colorado congresswoman Loren Smith, who sat naked on a quilted rug, engrossed in yoga exercises.
Pitt discerningly opted for Congresswoman Smith.
She was sitting cross-legged, in the lotus position, leaning back and resting her elbows and head on the rug. The exposed nest between her thighs and the small tautened mounds on her chest, Pitt decided, put the granite summits of the Sawatch to shame.
"What do you call that unladylike contortion?" he asked.
"The Fish," she replied, without moving. "It's for firming up the bosom."
"Speaking as a man," Pitt said with mock pompousness, "I do not approve of rock-hard boobs."
"Would you prefer them limp and saggy?" Her violet eyes angled in his direction.
"Well . . . not exactly. But perhaps a little silicone here and a little silicone there . . ."
"That's the trouble with the masculine mind," she snapped, sitting up and brushing back her long cinnamon hair. "You think all women should have balloon-sized mammaries like those insipid drones on the cen-terfolds of chauvinist magazines."
"Wishing will make it so."
She threw him a pouting look. "Too bad. You'll have to make do with my thirty-four B-cuppers. They're all I've got."
He reached out, wrapped an iron arm around her torso, and dragged her half on, half off the bed. "Colossal or petite"-he leaned down and lightly kissed each nipple-"let no woman accuse Dirk Pitt of discrimination."
She arched up and bit his ear. "Four whole days alone together. No phones, no committee meetings, no cocktail parties, no aides to hassle me. It's almost too good to be true." Her hand crept under the covers and she caressed his stomach. "How about a little sport before breakfast?"
5
"Ah, the magic word."
She threw him a crooked smile. " 'Sport' or 'breakfast'?"
"What you said before, your yoga position." Pitt leaped out of bed, sending Loren sprawling backward onto her sculptured bottom. "Which way is the nearest lake?"
"Lake?"
"Sure." Pitt laughed at her confused expression. "Where there's a lake, there's fish. We can't waste the day dallying in bed when a juicy rainbow trout lies in breathless anticipation of biting a hook."
She tilted her head questioningly and looked up at him. He stood tall, over six foot three, his trim body tanned except for the white band around his hips. His shaggy black hair framed a face that seemed eternally grim and yet was capable of providing a smile that could warm a crowded room. He was not smiling now, but Loren knew Pitt well enough to read the mirth in the crinkles around his incredibly green eyes.
"You big conceited jock," she lashed out. "You're putting me on."
She launched herself off the floor, ramming her head into his stomach, shoving him backward onto the bed. She wasn't fooling herself for a second with her seemingly super strength. If Pitt hadn't relaxed and accepted her momentum, she would have bounced off him like a volleyball.
Before he could fake a protest, Loren climbed over his chest and straddled him, her hands pressing against his shoulders. He tensed himself, circled his hands behind her, and squeezed her soft cheek bottoms. She felt him grow beneath her and his heat seemed to radiate through her skin.
"Fishing," she said in a husky voice. "The only rod you know how to use doesn't have a reel."
They had breakfast at noon. Pitt showered and dressed and returned to the kitchen. Loren was bent over the sink, vigorously scrubbing a blackened pan. She wore an apron and nothing else. He stood in the doorway, watching her small breasts jiggle, taking his time about button-ing his shirt.
"I wonder what your constituency would say if they could see you now," he said.
"Screw my constituency," she said, grinning devilishly. "My private life is none of their damned business."
" 'Screw my constituency,' " Pitt repeated solemnly, gesturing as though he were taking notes. "Another entry in the scandalous life of little Loren Smith, congressional representative of Colorado's graft-ridden seventh district."
"You're not funny." She turned and threatened him with the dishpan. "There is no political hanky-panky in the seventh district, and I am the last one on Capitol Hill who can be accused of being on the take."