Kiss the Sky Read online

  Love can move mountains . . .

  Strong, athletic, and driven, Tristan Sinclair is determined to fulfill his late brother’s wish to climb Pakistan’s K2, the world’s second-highest mountain. He never expects part of the challenge will be getting along with one of his fellow climbers—or that the greatest peril may lie beyond the summit . . .

  A passionate, life-long climber, Pakistan-born Farah Nawaz is skeptical of the hotshot from North Carolina. But as she and Tristan help each other conquer obstacle after obstacle, they find they have more in common than they thought—including a simmering attraction. And when suspicious deaths put them in the sights of a ruthless killer, they’ll have to cover their tracks long enough to find out why—and stay alive for a future together . . .

  Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Books by MK Schiller

  Unwanted Girl

  Where the Lotus Flowers Grow

  Eight Days in the Sun

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Kiss the Sky

  MK Schiller

  LYRICAL PRESS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Copyright

  Lyrical Press books are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 by MK Schiller

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, and educational or institutional use.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

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  Attn. Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  LYRICAL PRESS Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  First Electronic Edition: January 2018

  eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0069-9

  eISBN-10: 1-5161-0069-7

  First Print Edition: January 2018

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0071-2

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0071-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To Patrick for his support and always bringing home a pizza when I needed it most

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to the wonderful folks at Kensington Publishing, who have supported my work, especially my fearless editor and friend, Corinne DeMaagd.

  Prologue

  Drew Sinclair woke up, shivering and alone on a narrow hospital bed. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there. Even turning his head required great effort. The old linoleum and dated equipment told him he was still in Askole, a small village in Northern Pakistan. The cold, dark room suffocated him. He took a deep breath that turned into a violent cough. His head pounded, and his mouth tasted of desert sand. He closed his eyes. The last thing he remembered was talking to Tristan.

  He’d told his brother how he hadn’t made it. How he would try again next season. They would try together. He was going to tell him what he saw on the Savage Mountain, but he’d decided to wait. He was so messed up he wondered if the conversation had even happened.

  He’d had headaches for three days now. They turned his thoughts into long-winding tangles, about as sturdy as strands of wet spaghetti.

  The doctor came in then.

  “You’re up, Mr. Sinclair. You should rest.” An American doctor? Here?

  “I need to speak with my uncle. He’s the general counsel to the US Embassy.”

  The man ignored him. He prepared a long silver syringe.

  Drew’s eyes widened as he saw the dark substance inside. “Did you hear me?”

  “For now, you must rest. You’re a special case.”

  He reached his arm up to push the man away. That was when he realized his wrists were bound to the bed.

  Chapter 1

  As young boys, the Sinclair brothers were fascinated with Spider-Man. So fascinated they spent entire summers challenging each other to climbing contests. It started with the old oak tree in their backyard and continued to the drain pipes of four-story office buildings. Eventually, their climbs graduated to mountain summits. Tristan, being older and fitter, usually beat Drew. When the brothers eventually opted for elevations even helicopters could not manage, their mom had made the boys stand in front of her, hand over heart, to take a solemn oath they would not die before she did. She could not bear to attend her own child’s funeral.

  Melinda Sinclair died of cancer eight months ago.

  Drew died on K2 twelve months ago.

  Tristan often thought it wasn’t the cancer, but the broken promise and shattered heart that killed his mother. Now, he had his own promise to fulfill. A promise made via satellite phone to a dying man. But for all his hard work and preparations, he’d never imagined the most difficult part of summiting the elusive K2 was the fucking paperwork.

  He checked his watch once more, confirming he still had a few hours before his appeal meeting with the permit office in downtown Islamabad. He might as well spend the time searching for souvenirs. If he managed to climb the mountain, he doubted he’d be in the mood when he arrived back. He planned to head to the States after this climb. They would not expect him; he hadn’t been home for a long time. He missed the smell of smoky barbeque and the feel of a fishing rod in his hand. Most of all, he missed his grandmother and sister.

  He’d strolled around the modern mall in the city center for hours before realizing he wasn’t going to find the right gifts here. For all his trouble, he might as well have been shopping at the Promenade Retail Outlets in Richmond.

  He decided to try his luck at the local marketplace. Aggressive salespeople swarmed him like flies on a sugar trail. His six-foot-two frame, sandy blond hair, and bright green eyes made him the ideal target, the kind who might pay four times the going rate of an item, especially since the local market, unlike the mall, had no price tags and bartering became an art form.

  “Come into this store, sir,” a man in a colorful silk shirt called out as Tristan passed.

  “Here, sir! We have western items,” an older bearded man next to him said, pushing the first man out of the way.

  They yelled out the names of brands and products as if the lines had been rehearsed for just such an occasion. “Gillette shaving cream. Oreo cookies. Ralph Lauren cologne. Prada purses.”

  He searched for the exact opposite of the objects they advertised.

  Okay, so this wasn’t working.

  He ducked into a small nondescript store. Blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he breathed in a lungful of sandalwood smoke. Every inch of space inside the shop was crammed with display shelves covered in jewelry, figurines, and clothing. An older woman looked up from behind a long wooden table. She tugged on her head scarf and uttered a few words, possibly giving him a lackluster sales pitch or maybe telling him to get the hell out.

  “I’m sorry, I don�
��t understand,” Tristan said, bumping his head on the sloping ceiling. He’d learned some Hindi and Nepali over the years. Urdu was similar, but nothing she said rang any bells. She held her arms out toward the small expanse of the store. The gesture most likely meant, please look around. So he did.

  He didn’t expect to find anything, but the books stacked on a bowing shelf caught his interest. He flipped through a small hardcover of Urdu poems translated into English. It looked used, the pages frayed and yellowed. This was exactly the kind of gift his Grandma El would treasure. She collected books, from rare first printings she would handle with white archival gloves to old garage-sale mass-market paperbacks she’d relish in one sitting. This fit somewhere in between.

  She’d always told him there was a privilege in holding a book, in turning pages, in reading inked words written by people who were very different from him, and yet not different at all. She’d let him explore the library in her home with the plush blue carpet that sank down when he walked on it and the tall mahogany bookcases lined with every kind of book. As a kid, he hadn’t appreciated it. Hell, he’d hardly been able to sit still. The only thing that kept a shred of his interest was his grandfather’s chessboard, an antique set done in rosewood from the House of Staunton. His Uncle Elliot taught him and Drew how to play chess on that board, often recounting tales of his adventures in the East while showing the boys moves and countermoves. Tristan’s methodical approach to climbing required similar skills as chess. The pursuits were as different as night and day, but they had intertwined in his mind from those afternoons spent with Elliot and Drew in his grandfather’s library.

  Picking up the book for Grandma El, he made a mental note to call his uncle soon. He added a few colorful bangles and a scarf for his sister, Julie. He was careful to step sideways as the aisle grew smaller. Heavy fabric drapes closed the lone window in the shop, keeping the space dim enough to see the rise of swirling dust motes. Several fans hummed, one with yellow and pink ribbons tied to the grill, a visual reminder the air was circulating even though the oppressive August heat gave no reprieve. He breathed in, inhaling another helping of heady incense.

  A soft tune swirled around him. A feminine voice hummed a song he recognized but could not place. The melody, soothing and beautiful, reminded him of the ancient oak tree in the backyard of his childhood home, summer barbeques, and cans of cold beer straight from the cooler. Regardless of the flood of memories, the title escaped him, and the possibility of placing the song was fading faster than a winter sunset.

  He looked around for the owner of the voice, wanting to make a visual connection. He wove through the packed aisles until he saw her standing in front of a shelf lined with jeweled boxes. Her back was to him. Still, how had he missed her? She wore a plain blue cotton scarf over her shoulders, a loose-fitting, gray tunic over jeans, and scruffy tennis shoes that had seen better days. She could be mistaken for a boy if not for the melodic voice. Well that and the soft sway of her hips.

  He shook his head. It had been too long since he’d been with a woman. Not only was he guilty of leering, which was wrong in itself, but he was leering in a country where leering wasn’t just discouraged, it was prohibited.

  He brought his items to the wooden counter so the saleswoman could add them up. He smiled at the old lady. She pulled her headscarf tighter and ducked her head down, carefully inventorying each item. That wasn’t an uncommon reaction. Tristan wished she’d hurry up.

  Scratch that. What he really wished for was the damn permit to climb the Savage Mountain.

  Scratch again. No, what he really wanted was for Drew to be alive.

  Right now, he could only control one of those things.

  He’d settle just to know the name of the damn song the girl hummed. That would be enough. Just one goddamn win.

  He glanced at the painting of the familiar mountain range on the far wall as the saleswoman tallied his purchases on a piece of paper. The artist had used muted water colors on an old parchment scroll. The saleswoman held up several fingers to indicate the price for his items. Tristan took out the appropriate rupee notes from his wallet. She wrapped the bangles in old newspaper to protect them and placed everything in a plastic bag. The transaction was complete. That should have been it. Would have been it. Except for that damn tune ringing in his ears, causing his curiosity to rebel against his better judgment. He wanted to hear the rest of the song.

  He pointed to the watercolor. “How much?” He managed one of the few Urdu phrases he knew.

  The song stopped. The sales woman looked at the scroll and back at him. She rattled off several quick sentences he could not understand. He sighed in frustration. He should have hired a guide. Then again, most of the people he encountered in Islamabad spoke English.

  “She says it’s fifty-two thousand rupees,” the woman who’d been humming said in impeccable English. She had an accent, but it sounded closer to East London than the Far East.

  Definitely not a boy. She was young, maybe a few years younger than him. Twenty-five or so? Her plump pink lips curved into a saucy smile. Her ebony, shoulder-length hair defied the popular long, silky styles adopted by most women in the region. The curls went in every direction as if challenging convention simply by existing. A thick tendril fell against her forehead. Her hair skirted the line between unruly and messy.

  For some odd reason, she reminded him of the Karakorum mountain range itself. He’d always been obsessed with Karakorum, of which K2 was a part. They had fascinated him even as a child. There was a stark unadorned beauty about them. He’d never thought the same term could apply to a person, but he found himself making the comparison. She wasn’t beautiful in a classical sense. There was no make-up, no jewelry, and her clothes were masculine. But she was intriguing nonetheless.

  Her eyes though. There was nothing ordinary about those eyes. They were almost startling in color. At first, he thought they were a very deep blue, but the closer he looked, he realized they were violet. He was no geneticist, but violet eyes had to be extremely rare in general, and especially in this region. Long, thick eyelashes framed them, the kind of eyelashes most women removed every night, but he had a feeling they were permanent on her.

  She stared right at him, almost rebelliously, as if taunting him to look away. Definitely unusual in his experience, no matter what side of the world he was on. Most women did not lock eyes with him without there being an element of seduction. But that was not the vibe she gave. It was as if they were having a contest to see who would look away first. He loved a challenge, but her eyes were so piercing, she just might be able to read his explicit thoughts. This was one game he would lose. Damn, Bright Eyes, you’re making me squirm, and I don’t squirm.

  “Thank you,” Tristan said after he realized his silent stare had slipped into the territory of awkward. He shifted his gaze back to the painting.

  “You are welcome.”

  He placed his wallet in his back pocket and gathered the plastic bags with his purchases.

  “Shukria,” he said to the saleswomen before heading toward the exit.

  “Are you not interested?” Bright Eyes asked.

  He halted. Did she read minds?

  Oh shit, she was talking about the painting.

  Tristan almost laughed at his stupid assumption.

  “Not today.” The painting of the Karakorum mountain range tempted his interest, but just like her, it was impractical. As a career climber, he only packed the essentials. He didn’t believe in mementos and souvenirs. At least not for himself. He didn’t even have a permanent address to store a painting, let alone a blank wall to hang it on.

  Besides, the cost exchanged out to just over five hundred American dollars, a hefty amount for a shop like this. He could well enough afford it, but Tristan preferred to save his money for mountaineering equipment and permits and the million other expenses associated with the life he’d chosen.
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  She drummed her fingers on the counter. “You’re American.”

  Tristan cleared his throat. “Canadian.”

  “Where in Canada?”

  Shit. He’d been instructed to say he was Canadian when asked by strangers…just in case. He’d had no trouble, but not everyone was friendly toward Americans. Until now, he hadn’t encountered any strangers that asked him for specifics.

  “Quebec.”

  “Comment vous appelez-vous?”

  “Oui.” He uttered the only French word he knew.

  She laughed, making it clear his response wasn’t quite right. “Well, nice to meet you, Quebec.” She pointed to the picture. “She says there is a story to the painting if you want to hear it.”

  He couldn’t help but grin. “A story, eh?”

  She nodded, her sassy smile inching up enough to reveal a deep dimple on her left cheek. Grandma El always told him to go for the girl with sass. Sass was just backbone spilling out. Everyone needed a strong backbone. Grandma would know. She had plenty of sass herself.

  “I can translate for you. I’m also curious.” She spoke slowly. He detected the slightest Urdu accent. Bright eyes, deep dimples, and a seductive mouth—a surefire recipe for heartburn and bad decisions.

  He gestured to the painting. “You know what this is?”

  The smile curved a little more, exposing an almost identical dimple on the right cheek. “You can’t live in Pakistan and not know Karakorum.”

  “You live here? Your accent doesn’t quite match.”

  She shrugged. “That’s an interesting observation, Quebec.”

  “Touché.”

  “So you do know some French.”

  Damn, the girl had a mouth as sharp as a razor blade.

  “I suppose I do. Where are you from?”

  “I’m Pakistani, born here, but I’ve lived abroad for a few years.”