He’d come to her rescue…

Max was clearly prepared to fight off whatever might have hurt her in the dark woods. Check off number two on her sexy he-man list. She quickly looked straight into his eyes. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

His face was unreadable. He had a grease smear on his left temple. But his gaze, it gave away his true feelings.

She rose up on her toes and kissed his lips.

He pulled away, his eyes flared in surprise. Then, with a hoarse groan, he swept her up into his arms again and headed double time for the shelter of the airplane. She kissed his neck, behind his ear, along his jaw and finally covered his mouth.

The ferocity of his lips as he took control of the kiss stunned her, but only for a split second. There was a frantic tangling of arms and clothes and mouths as he yanked his parka from his shoulders. She gripped the sides of his face and matched his passion with her own.

Dear Reader,

I’ve always loved to travel. My bucket list of places to see is longer than my arm, and I can’t resist watching travel shows. What a job to have—visiting gorgeous architecture and historic sites. Thus, my travel-show hostess, Serena, was born. And, though I’ve never been to Alaska, it’s definitely on my list.

Most places in Alaska are only accessible by plane. And only a few commercial airlines fly into the larger cities, so people rely on bush pilots for their travel. Guys like my handsome yet grouchy bush pilot Max.

Add a number of quirky characters, and the town of Barrow, United States’ northernmost city, 300 miles above the Arctic Circle, on the edge of the arctic sea, and I had the beginnings of Primal Calling!

I hope Serena and Max’s romance takes you away to a more primal place, like it did for me. I love to hear from readers. Please write to me and check out the details of upcoming releases at my website, www.jillianburns.com.

Jillian Burns

Primal Calling
Jillian Burns

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jillian Burns has always read romance, and spent her teens immersed in the worlds of Jane Eyre and Elizabeth Bennett. She lives in Texas with her husband of twenty years and their three active kids. Jillian likes to think her emotional nature—sometimes referred to as moodiness—has found the perfect outlet in writing stories filled with passion and romance. She believes romance novels have the power to change lives with their message of eternal love and hope.

There are so many people without whom this book would never have been possible. First, I wouldn’t have had a plot without my wonderful Uncle Les—pilot extraordinaire, who’s given me rides in his Cessnas throughout my life and inspired my romance with the concept of the lone bush pilot. His information about flying a prop plane in Alaska, how to make it stall, how to land on a frozen lake and all about the Anchorage airport was invaluable. Thank you also to my brother-in-law, Gary—plane mechanic extraordinaire, who late one night patiently explained all about landing-gear repair. And to Rebecca Lees and Jerry Lees (a real Alaskan bush pilot) and Jenny Bernard for their unwavering aid in answering my questions regarding all things Alaska, especially Barrow. Any mistakes are entirely my own.

As always, huge thanks to my critique partners, Pam and Linda. I don’t know how you put up with me.

And to my superlative editor Kathryn, for her encouragement and support.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

1

“FOR THREE WEEKS we’ve followed the intrepid mushers of the Iditarod as they raced their sled dogs over a thousand miles of the most unforgiving yet awe-inspiring terrain on earth. The same perilous journey one brave man and his dogs made to deliver medicine to the sick townspeople of Nome eighty-five years ago.”

Serena turned, following the camera’s movement to pan the landscape behind her. “Now we’ve returned once again to Anchorage, where we say goodbye to the Land of the Midnight Sun, and take with us unforgettable memories of the thrill and danger of the ‘Last Great Race on Earth,’ and of the friendly people of Alaska.

“This is Serena Sandstone, with no reservations about making reservations. Join us next week when we travel to sunny Buenos Aires. And remember, no matter where you go, you can always Travel in Style!” Serena held her TV-personality smile while the camera lens zoomed out to the spectacular view of the Chugach Mountains.

“And cut!” Roberta, her producer, yelled. “Okay, Serena, that’s a wrap.” Roberta turned and headed back into the Seaside Hotel from the outdoor pavilion. “God, I can’t wait to get back to L.A. It’s freakin’ cold here!”

Roberta had a gift for stating the obvious. It was the last week of March. It was Alaska.

“Come on, people. Let’s get this equipment loaded. I don’t want to miss the one flight out of here tonight,” Roberta called behind her.

Serena took a determined breath and then hurried to catch up to her producer while the camera and sound crew packed their equipment. “Roberta, I wanted to talk to you about that piece I gave you last month.”

“What piece?” Roberta continued her brisk pace toward the elevators. “Oh. The genocide investigation? Yeah, yeah, I sent that up to the network execs.”

A tiny jolt of excitement hit Serena’s stomach. Maybe her dream was about to come true. “And?”

Roberta barked orders to her assistant about the arrangements in South America, and then focused on Serena with an impatient sigh. “Let’s get a drink.”

Nervous, Serena followed her into the hotel bar.

They slid into a booth and Roberta ordered two glasses of Chardonnay and cleared her throat. “Serena, I’ve told you before, you’re too valuable at Travel TV. We can’t let you put yourself in a risky situation. Even if they had the budget for an investigative piece, they’d send someone else.”

“But, it was my idea. My research. When I signed on to do Travel in Style five years ago, they promised—”

“Serena, your show has the highest ratings on this cable network. Why not stick to what you do best? Let someone else get their hands dirty.”

Serena looked up as the waitress set their wine down, then back at Roberta. “But, I can do both. I can—”

“But why should you?” Roberta took a long gulp of wine and stood. “Now, I’ll be in postproduction on this show, but you’ve got a couple of weeks until we leave for Argentina. Please try to rest.”

“But—”

“The camera is never forgiving of dark circles under those gorgeous eyes of yours.” Roberta patted Serena’s shoulder and strode off.

Serena wanted to pound her fist on the table, or better yet, pitch her wineglass at the back of Roberta’s head. The network execs at TRTV were never going to give her the chance they’d promised her. She’d pitched three serious story ideas and every time, they sent someone else to investigate. They were never going to consider her as anything but a pretty face.

Hosting this travel show was always meant to be a foot in the door to a career in meaningful investigative reporting. But her foot had been permanently forced into an expensive and purely ornamental high-heeled Prada. She appreciated that her looks had gotten her this far, but now they were holding her back.

She’d decided when she gave Roberta this piece, if the execs didn’t give her a chance, when her contract was up in July, she wasn’t renewing. It was a great gig, but anyone with a pretty smile could do this job. She needed something more. Something that would make a difference in the world.

The investigation of the genocide she’d heard rumors of was probably lost to her now. Even if she could afford to pay a crew to go with her, the execs had probably already sent someone from their cable news division to cover it.

Doing the story would have made those fat cats sit up and take notice of her. Too bad she’d played by the rules. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

As her limo pulled up, the manager of the Seaside Hotel appeared at her side.

“Ms. Sandstone, may I say once more how honored we are to have you stay with us and recommend our humble establishment on your show.” He took Serena’s hand between both of his. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bancroft.” Serena smiled warmly. His concierge, Eric, had been a fount of information and gossip during her stay, introducing her to insiders and officials of the Iditarod race, and arranging her accommodations when she visited Nome to film the race’s winner. “Your staff has been the absolute best.”

He beamed and she hugged him, having to bend over a bit. With a last wave, she sank into the limo.

On the way to the airport, she considered taking a trip to investigate the genocide story on her own. Maybe she could scoop the cable news guys. She’d take her own video camera and hire a guide once she got there.

Her father would’ve done that. How many times had she heard the stories about the threats to his life while he investigated the largest industrial waste scandal of the twentieth century?

It wasn’t easy living in the shadow of a reporter with a Pulitzer.

Dad’s snide remark from Thanksgiving three years ago still stung. Maybe if she pulled this off she could finally convince him she had something to offer the world besides travel tips.

Before she knew it, the limo rolled up to the North Terminal of Ted Stevens Anchorage International Airport and she was standing in front of a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows staring out at the runway.

The Anchorage airport was relatively small, and air traffic included almost as many small planes as it did commercial jets. She probably wouldn’t have paid attention to the bright yellow prop plane that taxied up to the General Aviation Hangar across the landing strip, except that when the pilot’s door opened, a large dog bounded out.

He was huge, more wolf than dog. Part black, part tan with white legs and tail, he turned and sat, waiting for the pilot to climb down from the plane. Long, jean-clad legs emerged, followed by, incongruously, a traditional Inuit parka. The hood was down to reveal a long-haired, bearded man. After tying down the plane, he crawled back in and began unloading boxes and hauling them into the hangar.

Serena was instantly intrigued, already making up stories about the man, his dog and the plane. Perhaps like the first mushers along the Iditarod trail, he was transporting lifesaving medicine to his people, who lived in a remote little town. Or maybe he was—

A woman’s gasp cut off Serena’s thoughts. Serena glanced over at the ticket agent’s desk.

“It’s the White Wolf,” the woman whispered to her fellow airline employee. She was staring out the window at the mountain man, who was striding into the hangar, his dog loping beside him.

“Mmm, too bad I’m working all night,” the other woman murmured.

“Janice! I can’t believe you aren’t scared to be alone with him,” the first woman said. “They say he left two men for dead.”

“Oh, Bren, come on. You don’t believe all those rumors, do you?”

Serena was totally intrigued now. Pretending not to notice the two women, she pulled out her cell phone, held it to her ear and moved behind a post.

“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, girl.”

“Yeah, well, he can stoke my flames anytime. Mmm, what a man.”

Interesting information for gossip, maybe, but Serena wanted to hear more about the two men left for dead. What had the first woman called him? The White Wolf. She had to get Bren alone.

Serena thought for a moment and then approached Jake, her cameraman, sitting in their gate’s waiting area. “Hey, Jake.”

“Hey, what’s going on?” He put down his PSP.

“See the taller, dark-haired ticket agent?”

“Yeah?”

“Think you could distract her? I need to talk to the other one.”

Jake raised a brow. “What’s in it for me?”

“What do you want?”

“A hundred ought to do.”

Serena stared at Jake. He’d been the show’s cameraman for five years and was constantly in need of cash. But then, everything in this business was all about the bottom line. “Tell you what, I won’t tell Christine you slept with Caitlin and we’ll call it even.”

Serena kept her poker face, praying Jake wouldn’t call her bluff. If her hairdresser and her makeup lady ever discovered the other had slept with Jake, she’d probably lose both of them. Or worse, they’d make working together miserable.

“Okay, okay.” Jake stood. “The taller one?”

Serena smiled. “Yes, give me ten minutes.”

Jake sauntered over, his smooth dark skin making his smile even brighter. Soon, Janice dimpled and Jake pointed to the coffee shop down the way.

Serena wasted no time moving in. “Hi.”

Brenda smiled, and within five minutes Serena knew everything Brenda did about the “White Wolf.”

He’d been in all the Alaskan papers a few years ago after appearing in a Nome emergency room pulling a rigged-up sled—made from pieces of a plane—carrying a badly injured man. The hospital staff had told the newspaper reporter that in all the rush to care for the injured man, the mysterious man—who was bleeding and limping—had disappeared.

Serena pulled out her laptop and searched for “Nome + plane crash.” She found several articles in the Juneau, Fairbanks and Anchorage papers. Some were dated three years ago, a couple dated about two years ago.

The injured man had survived and eventually regained consciousness, but all he could tell them was the pilot, Mr. Taggert, had been transporting him and his buddies to Nome for a fishing trip when the plane crashed. He didn’t know any more.

Authorities had sent out search-and-rescue teams as far as twenty miles around Nome. Parts of the plane had turned up a year later over twenty-five miles away, and the two other passengers’ remains had been… Serena gulped. Eaten.

Investigators had hunted down Mr. Taggert at his home in Barrow and questioned him, but no cause for the plane crash had been determined yet. The investigation was still “ongoing.”

Taggert had stayed holed up in his small cabin for months refusing to speak to reporters. The follow-up article dated two years ago stated that while the investigation was still open, Mr. Taggert had never been charged with a crime. But he remained a suspect. And the families of the missing men were pursuing legal action.

That’s all there was.

Serena closed her laptop. My God. What a story.

Maybe now that three years had passed he’d be willing to talk about the crash. Surely he wanted to clear his name. Maybe he could even lead her to the crash site. She could get an exclusive. Maybe she could convince Roberta—no. She’d showed her hand on all her previous ideas and look what had happened.

She’d have to do this alone. Unless she could convince Jake to come with her and film the interview… But the camera might scare Mr. Taggert off. She’d do some reconnaissance first, and then perhaps she could hire Jake to come back and—

“Serena, they’re boarding our flight.”

Serena looked up from her laptop to find Roberta standing in front of her. “At the layover in Seattle—”

“I’m not going, Roberta. I’ve decided to stay a while to try to see the Northern Lights.”

MAX TAGGERT TOOK his room key from the desk clerk. The old motel where he stayed every month was outdated by a half century, but he didn’t choose it for the ambience. The motel was cheap, close to the airport and they let him keep Mickey in the room with him. It also, conveniently, sat next door to a bar.

Rubbing his hands together against the chilly temperature, Max got to his room, threw his duffel on the sagging bed and headed straight for the run-down joint. He instructed Mickey to wait outside and then found his favorite stool. Dark and smoky, with a jukebox quietly playing some Merle, this place met all his requirements.

He ordered his usual, scanning the booths along the wall as he sipped his Jameson. Other than the toothless native elder in the back, he had the place to himself.

Good.

He shrugged out of his coat, ordered what passed for a burger and fries and then took the same out to Mickey along with a bowl of water. Over the next hour a few more patrons straggled in as he stared at the soundless television behind the bar and downed three more tumblers of Jameson whiskey. Almost enough to ease the emptiness inside.

At a lull in the music, he heard Mickey whining. What the… He slipped off his stool and stepped outside.

“Yes, you are. What a beautiful boy.” A woman was stooped over cooing and rubbing her hands in Mickey’s thick fur. And the normally standoffish malamute was lapping up the attention.

Max glanced down at the woman’s sleek, bare legs. The sun was just setting and the temperature had to be no warmer than mid-twenties. No native Alaskan wore such a skirt in March. And she seemed oblivious that her fine clothes were amassing a thick coat of dog hair. She looked up and smiled and Max almost pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. She was gorgeous.

“Is this your dog?” She straightened, tucking a long strand of glossy brunette hair behind her ear. She was tall. With the heels, she almost matched his height of six feet.

Max swallowed. “Uh, yeah.” His brain finally kicked into gear. Fancy suit. Expensive ski jacket. Stylish heels. And she had a huge purse on one shoulder, and a laptop case slung over the other. What was someone like her doing at a dive like this? And why was she smiling at him when he probably looked as if he’d just lurched out of a cave dragging his knuckles? Damn, he wished now he’d shaved and maybe bothered to get a haircut.

“What’s his name?” Her berry-red lips seemed to move in slow motion.

“Miki Nanuq.”

Her eyes were the deepest cobalt blue. “What does it mean?”

“Little polar bear.”

Her eyebrows rose and she flashed those perfect white teeth again. “How fitting.” With a tiny shiver, she rubbed her arms and glanced at the door to the bar and then back at him. “Join me for a drink?”

Warning bells pealed in his head, but Max ignored them. He shrugged and swung his arm toward the door. “After you.” He’d discover what she wanted soon enough. And in the meantime, why not enjoy the view?

And what a view it was. He and the bartender, even the native elder, stared at her very fine butt and swaying hips as her heels clicked on the dirty linoleum. She hopped onto a stool, crossed her legs and planted her forearms on the bar. “A beer, please. Anything light.”

Max slid in next to her and reached for his empty tumbler.

While the bartender popped the cap off a brown bottle and set it in front of the lady, she unzipped her jacket. It was a decent enough winter coat—if she were skiing in Aspen, maybe.

When she pulled it off, Max’s jaw went slack. He fumbled his glass. She had the figure of a swimsuit model. His body reacted, hot and pulsing. She picked up her beer and turned to him, clearing her throat.

Returning his attention to her face, he caught her smirk.

Busted. All he lacked was his tongue hanging out and he’d be slobbering over her like Mickey. Maybe he should roll over on his back and let her rub his belly.

Down, boy.

She extended her right hand. “I’m Serena.”

“Max.” He shook her hand.

“Ooh, your hands are so warm.” She held on when he would have let go, set down her beer and cupped her other hand over his. “Brr, I don’t know how you keep your hands so warm in weather like this.”

Her hands were like two elegant blocks of very soft ice with long, polished nails. “You’re not from Alaska, I take it.”

She shook her head. “L.A.”

If she didn’t stop rubbing his hand between hers he might be tempted to do something stupid like bring her fingertips to his mouth. “Oh!” She snatched her hands away. “Sorry.”

“I’m not.” He gave her a pointed look, staring right into her dark blue eyes. Not a gold fleck to be found, but pure cobalt, like the Arctic Sea in the summer. Her lashes were thick, but not overly long. And she had a few freckles across the bridge of her nose.

She licked her lips and a sharp ache hit him hard and low. He pictured himself scooping her up and carrying her to his room.

Then she blinked and retrieved her beer, sipping it as she looked straight ahead at nothing. Amazing. She’d been staring back. There’d been something between them for a second, but his suspicious mind severed the thought. What was she doing here? Just slumming? And what was her business in Anchorage?

“So, what do you do, Max?”

He grabbed his tumbler, knocked back the last drops of his whiskey and signaled for another. “I fly cargo.”

“Oh? Where to?”

“Barrow.” He turned to face her. “I’m only here for tonight.”

Her beer halted halfway to her mouth for a brief instant and then continued. “Me, too. I was here for the Iditarod.”

Oh yeah, it was that time of year. But she sure as hell hadn’t been a contestant. “Got a man who entered?”

“No.” She started picking at the label on the beer bottle with a ringless left hand.

“Don’t tell me you’re a musher.”

She grinned and shook her head. “No.” She glanced at him and then back down to peeling her bottle label.

“So, what do you do in L.A.?”

Deep concentration on the label peeling. “I don’t really live there, actually. I mean, I own a condo there, but I travel all over the world for business and I’m hardly ever home.”

Interesting. She hadn’t actually answered the question. Something didn’t add up, but he let it go. Who cared what she did for a living? Or why she was slumming tonight. It wasn’t any of his business. Live and let live. For whatever reason, he had a beautiful woman sitting next to him sharing a drink.

He cleared his throat. “Have you eaten dinner?”

She looked surprised at the change of subject. “No, I—no.”

“Well, don’t eat here, whatever you do.”

A feminine chuckle accompanied the flash of perfect white teeth as she turned to him. “Shall we go eat somewhere else?”

We? He scrutinized the sincerity in her eyes. Maybe she’d made a bet with a girlfriend to sleep with a native on her last night in Alaska. Would a half-breed count? Glancing around the bar, he spied his only competition: the old native in the last booth. He swung back to face her. “Sure, why not?”

“Anywhere specific you recommend?” She took her ski jacket and pushed her arms through the sleeves.

It was on the tip of his tongue to say, Your hotel, but he refrained. “Nowhere you’d care to go,” he answered, taking a last swig of his drink.

Her eyebrows drew together and her eyes sparked. “The restaurant in my hotel is good.”

He choked as he swallowed. She must have to do the deed in front of witnesses to win the bet.

“Fine.” What did he care what her motives were? He grabbed his parka and slipped it on. “We can catch a cab a few blocks from here. But let me leave Mickey in my room.”

In the middle of zipping up her parka, she froze. “Uh…”

She didn’t trust him. If she only knew… “You can wait here.” He pulled a few bills from his wallet and tossed them on the bar.

She waved a dismissive hand. “No, that’s okay.”

Interesting. There was definitely something unusual about this woman. He shrugged and held the door open for her.

It was less than twenty steps to his room. Her heels clicked fast, keeping up with him as he led Mickey around the corner. He unlocked his door and let Mick inside with instructions to be good. When he turned back to her, she was shivering. “Here, I have some gloves.” He stepped inside and dug into his duffel, grabbing the thick leather pair he rarely wore.

“Oh, uh.” She hesitated inside the doorway, and then stepped inside, closing the door. “Thank you.” She took them from him and then drew a deep breath. “I should tell you, I’m—”

“It doesn’t matter.” She’d be gone tomorrow and so would he. He was close enough to smell her light flowery scent. He closed his eyes briefly and inhaled.

“It doesn’t?” She was gazing up at him, her eyes wide and her lips parted. Then her attention dropped to his mouth.

His blood heated and he could feel it pulsing in other parts of his body. The bed was only a few feet away. It’d been so damn long since he’d been with someone. “I’m the last person to pass judgment.”

She tilted her head and gave him a quizzical look like Mickey did sometimes. He leaned in and ran his knuckles down her cheek, then touched his lips to hers.

At first she stilled as if she hadn’t expected it, then with a sigh she opened to him and cupped his cheek with her palm.

It was as if the Northern Lights exploded in his head as her soft mouth moved over his. When her tongue dipped in he groaned and angled his head to deepen the kiss.

With a small cry, she pushed away. He gritted his teeth. He’d known this was too good to be true. “You’re free to go,” he told her.

“No!” Her eyes wide, she seemed alarmed at the thought.

“Look, Serena, or whatever your real name is. It’s okay. I know what this is about.”

Her gaze darted to him, a panicked look in her eyes. “You do?”

He nodded. He didn’t belong with a woman like her, but he didn’t really belong anywhere, with anyone. “You made a bet with someone. Or thought you had something to prove. But now you can’t go through with it. It’s okay.”

She let out a quick laugh and then covered her mouth. “No, I—” She worried her bottom lip. “I want to do a story on you. I want to know about you rescuing that man when your plane crashed. And what happened to the other passengers.”

He blinked at her, not comprehending at first. She was a reporter? Anger boiled up from his core and spewed into a rage that shook his whole body. He took her arm and yanked open his door. “I don’t give interviews. Not even for sex.”

“Wait!” Bracing her palm against the door frame, she held her ground when he would have shoved her out. “Don’t you want a chance to tell—”

“I thought I’d seen every trick you reporters had. But this is a new low. Now, if you don’t get out of my room, I might decide you really do want to screw me.”

Bile rose in his throat. He’d humiliated himself. For a pretty piece of ass.

“I know I should have—”

Propelling her outside, he slammed the door in her face.

2

HE THOUGHT she wanted to use sex to buy his story?

Serena ran to the cabstand, clutching her coat tightly around her throat. The fury that had glittered in Max’s eyes stalked her. Her arm still stung where he’d gripped it. And yet, she hadn’t really been afraid.

Hailing a cab, she got in, banged her head against the backseat and ran her hands through her hair. She should’ve told Max who she was and what she wanted right from the start.

The cabdriver watched her warily in his rearview mirror.

“The Seaside Hotel, please.”

And what had happened to her professionalism? Had she completely lost her mind? Letting him kiss her? No, wanting him to kiss her. And enjoying it. Way to stay objective, Sandstone.

But there’d been something about him that drew her in. And it wasn’t just his wide shoulders beneath that thick, cable-knit sweater. There’d been a primal look in his coffee-colored eyes. A hunger…

Oh, good grief. In a minute she’d be waxing poetic about sexy loners. Obviously she needed to get laid more often than every year or so if this was how she reacted to being alone with a guy.

What was she going to do now? She’d missed her flight for nothing. It’d been an impulsive decision. One made more out of desperation than rational thinking. If the bush pilot had refused to be interviewed all these years, why had she thought he’d talk to her? But isn’t that why it would’ve been such a scoop? To get the ungettable interview? Now, more than ever, she wanted to know what he was covering up.

By the time she trudged into the Seaside’s lobby she still didn’t have a plan.

“Ms. Sandstone, welcome back,” said one of the concierges, heading her off before she could reach the reservations desk.

“Thank you. I don’t have a reservation for tonight, but I was hoping—”

“Absolutely no problem,” he interrupted. “Right this way.”

While the concierge checked her in and programmed her card key, she compared the luxurious lobby around her to the run-down motel where Max was staying. He obviously earned some sort of living flying supplies. So, was he a bad businessman, or did he choose to live like a derelict with that scruffy beard?

Funny how his appearance hadn’t turned her off at all.

“Shall I have a steward bring up your luggage, Ms. Sandstone?” The concierge handed her the room key.

“Er, no. Thank you.” It’d been too late to retrieve it from the plane. But she was nothing if not a veteran traveler. She kept everything from Anbesol to Zantac—including an emergency outfit and toiletries—in her huge purse. She’d used a portion of her emergency cash bribing the clerks for information on how to find the White Wolf, but she should have enough to last her a week, give or take, plus her charge cards.

She took the key. “Is Eric here this evening?”

“I believe he’s just leaving. I’ll try to catch him, if you’d like to wait?” He gestured toward the plush sofas around the piano bar.

“Thank you.” She settled into a club chair, pulled out her laptop and found the next flight to L.A. via Seattle. Then on impulse she checked flights into Barrow. There was one tomorrow morning with a layover in Fairbanks. She closed her laptop without booking either.

What if her father had given up at the first roadblock to his investigation?

“Ms. Sandstone?” Eric, her favorite concierge, strode up, a grin on his face. He was younger than Serena’s twenty-eight years, tall and lean, and if there were any rumors flying around, he heard them.

“How can I help this time?” He sat in the chair next to hers, folded his hands and crossed his legs.

Serena leaned forward. “What can you tell me about a mysterious plane crash a few years ago, where the man came into the emergency room pulling the other man on a sled?”

“Ah, the White Wolf. He’s practically become an urban legend.”

“Really?”

Eric nodded, leaning forward as well. “They say he runs drugs.”

“Drugs?” Serena’s stomach dropped in disappointment. “Why would people say that?”

Eric shrugged casually. “Too many things don’t add up. First, the day of the crash, the weather was clear. And, the missing men were said to be, not fishermen, but drug runners. Also, how is it that he has a new plane now? Even though the insurance has refused to pay out as long as he’s under investigation. And how was he able to retain his pilot’s license? What other answer is there?”

She hadn’t thought of that. How could he afford a new plane? “The newspaper called him Taggert. And he introduced himself to me as Max. Why is he called White Wolf?”

Eyes wide, Eric sat forward. “You’ve met him?”

“I asked him for an interview, but he, um…turned me down.”

“Serena.” Eric placed his hand over hers. “You should be really careful. He could be dangerous.”

Yes. She’d seen a taste of that tonight. But he’d also seemed…lonely.

“White Wolf is his native name,” Eric continued. “He’s half Iñupiat. Some say he’s a powerful shaman.” Eric laughed. “Maybe he used Inuit witchcraft to get his new plane.” He stood and buttoned his suit coat. “But, really, be careful.” He extended his hand and she shook it.

“Thank you.”

He nodded and strode off.

“Eric, one more thing,” she called after him.

He stopped and spun back to her. “Anything.”

“Do you know any other bush pilots that fly into Anchorage International I could speak with?”

Eric smiled. “If I don’t, I’ll find someone who does.”

Serena’s mind whirled as she made her way to the bank of elevators. Drug running? Inuit shamans? Native witchcraft? This could be a story of international intrigue.

Grabbing a notepad and pen from her purse, she started making a list. There must be a way to prove the identity of his passengers that day. If he’d been transporting drug lords, or anyone else, there had to be records of that.

The clear weather was another mystery. If the plane hadn’t really crashed, wouldn’t the sole surviving passenger’s injuries have revealed that? And why fake a plane crash to kill drug lords, and then drag one with him all the way to the hospital in Nome? She jotted a note to look up the exact date of the crash again and check the weather history.

But one thing she knew for fact. He did have a plane. And there was one thing she couldn’t do from a computer.

Taggert had said he was only here for one night. So, if someone wanted to search his plane’s cargo before he left, the window of opportunity was quickly closing.

Not giving herself time to rethink her decision, she took a cab to a discount department store and bought black jeans, a black turtleneck and some black boots. Just what all the trendiest spies were wearing this spring. Hopefully she could hide in Taggert’s plane until he loaded it.

When she returned, Eric had the name and number of a pilot who flew a small one-propeller plane into the Anchorage airport all the time. Once in her room, Serena pulled out her cell and called him. Using her show as an excuse for research, she asked the pilot if he could arrange for temporary clearance as his guest. She winced when he readily agreed, feeling guilty for using him to snoop. But she wasn’t going to harm or steal anything. And real investigative reporters sometimes had to use unconventional ways to gain access to information. Didn’t they?

Since she hadn’t eaten, she ordered room service and tried soaking in the tub to calm her stomach. Failing miserably, she got into her pj’s, laid out the new outfit and then sat down to send an email to Roberta. Then she went over the plan in her head one more time.

Could she really sneak onto someone’s plane and search through their stuff? If she was caught, she could be facing jail time.

She remembered the story her father told of getting dragged into a black Caddy by some goons. It was 1972 and the EPA had been established a couple years earlier. Simon Sandstone had just published his first exposé on a major company dumping toxic waste. The corrupt corporation had tried intimidating him into giving up his secret informant.

He’d come home bloodied and bruised, but he hadn’t revealed his source. If Serena’s mother hadn’t had friends in high places he might not have come home at all.

Her dad had risked his life to help save the environment. Surely she could risk arrest to get the scoop on a drug running operation in Alaska.

If Max was a drug runner.

But if he had nothing to hide, why refuse to give interviews?

Still, he hadn’t seemed the type. Way to be objective, Sandstone. What exactly was the type? Street-corner thugs? Mafia hit men? Slick, rich kids? Just because the guy had a dog and wore a traditional Inuit coat with his jeans didn’t mean he couldn’t have been meeting his supplier tonight.

She bolted up from the bed. Had he thought she was his drug contact? Or had she interrupted his meeting when she’d had that drink in the bar with him? If that were the case, would he have taken her to his room and loaned her his gloves? And kissed her so deliciously?

Running a finger over her lips, she sat back down and closed her eyes. His beard had been soft and his lips had moved over hers with the perfect combination of tenderness and purpose. If she’d met him at some boring celeb party in L.A. would she have still felt that overwhelming attraction?

She didn’t remember falling asleep, but the harsh blare of the alarm jerked her awake. Bleary-eyed, she slammed the snooze button—5:00 a.m.

Within thirty minutes she was dressed and in a cab headed for Anchorage International. She instructed the cabbie to drop her off at the General Aviation Hangar.

Once in the office, there was a desk with a security guard. He looked up as she approached. Through the office window she could see the hangar with a couple of planes inside.

“I’m Serena Sandstone. There should be a clearance badge waiting for me?”

The guard checked a clipboard of papers, then nodded and stood to unlock the door to the hangar for her. “You want to know about a particular plane?”

“Uh, no. I wanted to look at all the different types of prop planes, if that’s okay. Just to get a feel for their size and how they land and take off.”

He stared at her as if she were a ditzy airhead, but he waved her through the door.

“Thanks.” Releasing her pent up breath, she smiled and took her badge. “Is it okay if I look at the planes outside, too?”

The guard shrugged. “Be my guest.”

Faking an air of confidence, she strolled through the door into the hangar, then checking through the window that the guard had returned to his desk and wasn’t looking, she slipped out the door to the tie-down ramp.

Outside, it was still dark and freezing cold. Only one lone light overhead cast shadows around the small aircrafts. And the wind made an eerie sound as it blew over and under their wings and turned propellers. She shivered and hugged her arms.

She spied the weathered white Cessna she’d seen Max Taggert jump out of yesterday and made straight for it. It sat higher than it looked from far away. With one last glance around, she grabbed hold of the pole running between the body of the plane and wing, climbed up onto the foothold and tugged on the door.

It opened.

Jeez, her heart was thudding so hard she could feel it pounding against her rib cage. She hadn’t even considered what she’d do if the door had been locked. Which she should have. What kind of drug runner left his plane unlocked?

She took in a fortifying breath of Arctic air. Just do it.

She climbed in and crawled behind the pilot’s seat into the cargo space. Digging out a flashlight from her purse, she shone the light around and spied a large toolbox, a slatted crate next to it and a wadded-up tarp in the very back. Other than that, the interior was empty.

She rifled through the crate and found a butane lantern, some canned goods and other camping type items. Only tools in the toolbox. Nothing under the tarp. That left hidden compartments in the walls.

She’d finished feeling one side when she heard men’s voices carried on the wind. Someone was out there. The door. She’d left it open. On her hands and knees she scrambled to the pilot’s seat and saw two men talking just outside the hangar entrance. One of them was Max Taggert.

Thankfully, neither man was facing the plane. She slowly closed the door, then crawled back to the cargo area and hid under the tarp, curling into a tight ball.

She didn’t hear anything else until the plane’s door opened. Serena held her breath.

“—talked to the tower and visibility is four miles,” Max said to someone. She’d recognize that deep, smooth voice anywhere. There was a soft thud as the plane bounced under the weight of whatever was being loaded.

“Need to sign your flight plan and you’re ready to go,” the other guy said, and she heard metal clanking on the ground. They were untying it.

Another thud and the plane bounced again. The first item was shoved farther back into the cargo area. Two more heavy items were loaded and Serena feared she might be blocked in.

Finally she heard the plane’s door close and there was silence. Sounded as if she only had a few minutes. She threw off the tarp and turned on her flashlight. Two duct-taped coolers and a couple cardboard boxes sat ominously around her. Before she could rethink her actions, she stuck the flashlight between her teeth, slowly peeled the duct tape off one cooler, and peeked inside.

Meat?

She dug underneath the top layer. Frozen packages of steaks, chicken, pork chops, roast beef, ground round.

No drugs.

Unless they were hidden in the meat. And how could she tell?

She closed the cooler and replaced the tape, then pried open one of the cardboard boxes. Gourmet food. Fancy soaps. Egyptian cotton bed linens?

If this guy was transporting drugs, would they be hid den inside soaps and jars of truffles? If so, she couldn’t see them.

Time to go.

Breathing heavily, she picked her way around the coolers and boxes, squeezing between while trying to move them as little as possible. Grasping the door handle, she turned it slowly and lifted outward.

“Woof!” The dog was sitting on the asphalt outside the plane. He leaped up and scratched his paws on the pilot’s door.

Serena barely suppressed a scream with her hand over her mouth and jumped backward, knocking into the passenger seat. She couldn’t breathe. Her whole body shook. The hangar door opened. She grabbed the plane’s door and clicked it shut, and then scrambled back behind the two tall coolers just as the door opened.

“What is it, Mick?” Max sounded as if he stood just outside.

The dog whined and then barked again.

“Are you hungry, boy? I know. You want that steak, don’t you?”

Mick continued barking and scratching, pawing at the plane.

“No, Mick. Come on. Get in.”

Serena would have laughed if it hadn’t been so disastrous. Outwitted by a dog. The one thing she hadn’t thought of. All he had to do was shift a cooler or reach back here for something and he’d see her.

Before she realized it, Max shouted something and started the engine. With a jolt, the plane began rolling back. Maybe she should just surrender and give him the returning the gloves story. But that felt too much like giving up.

And if he was dangerous, he could do worse than press charges for trespassing.

Just stay calm. She had two choices: reveal herself now and risk jail. Or ride to Barrow. She could sneak off after he unloaded his plane, and then catch a commercial flight back.

She’d never been to Barrow. If he was selling drugs there, maybe the local police force would have some information. Or she could tail him and see if he met anyone.

The plane turned and picked up a little speed, taxiing down the runway. Then the engine roared louder and the plane sped up and her stomach dipped as it lifted off.

Too late now.

Afraid to move for fear he’d hear her, she laid her head on her arm and resigned herself to a long ride.

She must have slept some, but she woke up shivering. The temperature had dropped substantially. How long was the flight to Barrow? Fear curled around her throat. Could she freeze to death back here? She zipped up her parka and slowly scooted to the back of the plane to fish out Max’s gloves from her purse and slip them on.

The tarp! She lifted it, crawled under, and then curled up and tried to get back to sleep. Then the engine sputtered.

That wasn’t good.

It sputtered again, and then the front of the plane lowered and leveled out. Oh God, what was going on?

The engine sputtered again and, again, the plane’s nose lowered, and then leveled.

Then the engine stopped completely. And there was nothing but silence.

3

“SONUVABITCH!” Max checked his instruments. Everything was normal. His fuel was good. He lowered the nose again and restarted the engine.

Somehow the center of gravity had shifted to the rear of the plane. He hadn’t noticed any of the cargo sliding backward. But that’s the only thing it could be. If he didn’t keep his nose down, the engine stalled. Which meant losing altitude. Which meant landing. And fast.

He scanned the ground below for a decent place to set down. The middle of freakin’ nowhere. Again. Memories flashed through his mind’s eye and panic settled in his gut. No. He shook his head, pushed it down. Concentrate, dammit.

He was about forty miles outside Nome. Not much here but tundra. And he wouldn’t be able to take off from tundra.

There. At two o’clock. A frozen lake. He banked to the right and fought to keep the nose down and the flaps steady.

He turned to Mickey, who was strapped in better than Max was. “Brace for impact, buddy. Here goes.”

The wheels touched down and he braked and immediately started to spin over the ice. It took every bit of strength in his left arm to hold the wheel while working the rudder with his right to minimize the spin and keep both wheels down so the plane wouldn’t flip. It was a small lake. He’d run out of ice soon. After three spins, the plane skidded into the embankment and he heard metal snap as the pilot’s side collapsed. Dammit!

Shutting down the engine, he opened the door and climbed out to inspect the damage. The long string of curse words he yelled would have made his grandmother cover her ears and offer up prayers to the spirits. The damn wheel strut was bent. He wasn’t sure he could repair it.

Flashbacks of the crash three years ago hammered his psyche and his vision got jittery. The sound of his friends screaming in pain. The blood. The death. The days-long walk in frigid temperatures. He couldn’t survive another ordeal like that.

Suck it up, Taggert. This was nothing like last time. The plane was mostly intact, including the radio. He glanced at his watch. Ten forty-seven. He was due in Nome for refueling right about now.

Hoisting himself back in, he got on the radio and contacted Nome, giving them his situation and coordinates. He’d have a better idea of his expected arrival time after he tried to make the repairs. He flipped the pilot’s seat forward and jerked his sunglasses off to check the cargo.

As if possessed, the tarp in the tail of the fuselage moved and then a head poked out from under it.

“You!”

The woman from last night flinched and bit her lip.

He truly was cursed.

So that’s what Mickey had been barking at. He looked over at his faithful companion and unbuckled the malamute’s seat belt. “Sorry I didn’t pay attention, boy.”

“Um, I can expla—”

“What the hell is wrong with you? Do you know what you’ve done? We’ll be lucky if we make it back to civilization alive.” Okay, so he might be exaggerating slightly.

Her face paled and there was fear in her wide eyes.

“We’re out in the middle of nowhere and my damn landing gear is busted thanks to you! Are you insane? Even if I can fix it, I ought to make you walk back to Anchorage, you conniving little—”

“How is your plane breaking down my fault?”

Max ground his teeth. “Your extra weight in the back of the plane made the engine stall.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip again.

“Oh?” he roared. “I should sue you! By the time I’m through with you, you’ll be looking at federal charges.”

“If you’ll stop yelling I’ll explain.”

“Just get out.” He needed to pound something, but he settled for grabbing the closest box and hauling it up to the snowy embankment. Even with the worn leather on the soles of his caribou-skinned boots, his footing slipped on the ice.

He whistled for Mickey. “Come on, boy. Take care of business and keep an eye out for wolves.”

Mickey barked his answer and leaped out, loping across the ice and out into the snow. There was a line of trees about a hundred yards to the north, mountains to the west, and nothing but tundra to the south and east.

He went back for another box as the woman was climbing out.

She slipped as she set her high-heeled boot down on the ice. “Did you say wolves?” She glanced around nervously.

“Yeah, there’re probably several packs close by.” He stopped beside her and leaned into her face. “And they get real hungry in the winter.” He brushed past and grabbed the other box. “Aren’t you more afraid of being out in the middle of nowhere with an alleged murderer?”

“I don’t think you killed anyone.” But she didn’t sound quite sure.

He set the box down at the edge of the lake and turned to face her. “Yeah. I did.”

Her eyes widened and she blinked a couple times. “Who?”

“Hoping to get information for your story?”

“I get it. You could tell me, but then you’d have to kill me?” She spun on her heel and scrambled back into the plane.

What the hell did she think she was going to do in there? He hurried over the ice toward his plane.

A minute later she came out the pilot’s door tugging on one of the coolers.

“Here.” He pushed on her shoulder. “Let me get it before you break something else.”

“I can do it.” She tugged again and lifted the cooler into her arms. She turned to give him a triumphant look and for the first time he saw her up close in sunlight. Her deep blue eyes sparked defiantly, but her full red lips trembled. The sun turned her brunette hair a deep rich mahogany. Something about her beauty made him want to drag her into his arms and claim possession.

What was he doing? Going all soft—or hard—over a pretty face? He grabbed the cooler from her and snarled, “You want a medal?”

By the time he’d set the cooler down in the snow and headed back, she had the last one in her arms. He took it from her. “Get my toolbox.”

“Isn’t someone sending out help?”

“No.” He walked cautiously over the ice and then set the cooler down.

“But, I heard you on the radio.”

“You want me to leave you here, just keep arguing.”

Her eyes widened and she dashed inside the plane.

He approached the Cessna just as she was climbing out with his toolbox in hand.

“I’m not calling for help over a damned bent strut.” Not unless he was forced to. He took the toolbox from her and recognized the gloves she wore as his. The ones he’d given her last night. Just before he’d kissed her. He glanced up, meeting her gaze.

The woman cleared her throat. “Here are your gloves back.” She held them out in front of him.

He spun and hunkered down to take a closer look at the broken gear. Dammit, she’d almost sucked him in again. Concentrate, you moron. Landing gear.

“Keep ’em.” He looked up at her, one eye closed against the bright sun. “For now.” He couldn’t really work with them on anyway. And he still had a traditional sealskin pair his grandmother had made him if he needed them. For now it wasn’t that cold.

He returned his attention to the job at hand. The wheel was sitting at an angle, the steel bar connecting it, bent. He could probably bend it back, but there was no guarantee it would hold through takeoff, much less another landing. He needed a new strut, and they probably didn’t even carry landing gear for a C-206 this old. Well, if he could get it good enough for now, he could probably find one at a junk sale online once he made it home to Barrow. If he couldn’t fix this, he’d be forced to radio to Nome for rescue.

“What can I do to help?”

“You mean besides never coming into my life to begin with?” He reached into his toolbox and pulled out a hammer.

“Yes.” From the corner of his eye he saw her cross her arms. “Besides that.”

“Nothing.”

“Fine.” She turned and walked away.

“Careful of the—”

She screamed and went down on her butt.

Max chuckled. “The ice.” His chuckle turned into a full out laugh as she tried to get up and rubbed her behind.

“Very funny.”

“Yeah, it is.” He hadn’t laughed out loud like that in…he didn’t know how long. “Maybe you could cut a hole in the ice with that glare of yours and catch us a fish for dinner.”

“Dinner? Are we going to be here that long?”

“Maybe longer. I don’t know.” He examined the busted gear. Might be able to use the oxyacetylene torch to heat the strut enough to hammer it straight. But he needed a way to keep the wheel elevated.

“Where are we?”

“About forty miles southeast of Nome. If you’re going to bug me asking a million questions, make yourself useful and grab that crate from the plane.”

“You ever heard of please?” But she was already moving.

He concentrated on how he was going to jack up the fuselage. “And you can bring me my sunglasses from the visor when you’re done with that.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she quipped from inside the plane. He tried not to smile. Didn’t she know killers don’t appreciate sarcasm?

He didn’t have a jack. He could forage for wood, but, what if…

She climbed out and set the crate beside him, then pulled his sunglasses off the top of her head and handed them to him.

“Ahem, your sunglasses, my liege.” She was bent over at the waist, holding his Ray-Bans in her palms with her arms extended. She had guts, he had to give her that. He took the glasses and she straightened and plunked her hands on her hips. “Will that be all, master?”

She had one brow raised and her ski jacket was unzipped, revealing a tight sweater beneath. It was cold enough her nipples were two tight little points through the sweater. Her bra must be thin. Or she wasn’t wearing one. The thought got him all riled up below the belt.

Her lips tightened into a thin line again and she zipped up her coat.

Dammit. His face heated and he brought his gaze to hers. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

For the first time he wondered why she was here. Sneaking into his plane, hiding out. Chasing after a years-old story. She must be desperate. Surely there were hundreds of other more important things happening in the world she could be reporting on.

“So, can you fix it?”

He pulled the oxyacetylene torch kit out of the crate and prayed he had enough propane. Then he unloaded the rest of the stuff, turned the crate upside down and sat on it. At least one of them would have a dry butt.

“How much do you weigh?”

She sputtered. “Excuse me?”

“Enough to unbalance the center of gravity in my plane and stall the engine? Say, one-twenty? One twenty-five?”

“Gee, you sure know how to charm a girl.”

He just raised a brow.

She pursed her lips. “That’s close enough.”

“Here’s what we’re going to do.” He stood and went to retrieve one of the coolers. “I’m going to tip the plane over.”

“What?”

“Just listen.” He set the cooler next to the wing opposite the bent strut and went back for the second cooler. “When I tip the plane, you’re going to climb onto the wing over there with a cooler on either side of you.”

When he turned with the other cooler in his arms she’d narrowed her eyes at him. “And when you yank down the other wing I go flying off, never to be seen again?”

Never to be seen again. Like his friends.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Bad joke.”

He came back to the present, the heavy cooler straining the muscles in his arms. He carried it around to join the other, and the woman followed him.

“Is your name really Serena?”

She nodded. “Serena Sandstone. Named after my paternal grandmother.”

“If this doesn’t work, I’ll have to go into the forest and cut some timber to act as a jack. That could take hours.”

“Well, let’s get started then.” She dusted her hands together.

SERENA BIT her lip and clenched her hands into fists as soon as Max turned away from her. She wasn’t sure how long she could keep up the pretense of undaunted confidence. She had a feeling she wasn’t fooling anyone but herself, anyway.

Max went around, squatted beside the bent wheel and positioned his hands under the fuselage. “Ready?” he shouted.

“Ready,” she shouted back.

As he pushed up, Serena looked her fill of bulging thigh muscles beneath his jeans. His teeth shone as he gritted them, grunting as he strained to lift the side of the plane. Was it antifeminist to be totally impressed with his he-man strength?

The passenger side wing lowered and she lifted first one cooler on and then the other, doing a bit of straining herself. Then she searched for a handhold, found a raised steel bar under the fiberglass, hoisted herself up and twisted to sit on her already wet butt.

“I think that’s going to work,” he called.

“Good,” she yelled back.

She heard a click and a whoosh and assumed he was lighting that welder-looking thing attached to the two tiny fuel tanks. He didn’t speak and every so often she’d hear him hammering on the metal. She drew her knees up, pulled her hood over her head and stuck her gloved hands under her armpits. It seemed as if hours passed.

She wished she had her purse up here. There was a candy bar in there, for sure, and a package of peanut butter crackers. Her mouth started watering.

Max never spoke except for an occasional curse.

She didn’t remember when she started shivering, but the sun had traveled way to the other side of noon. Daylight lasted about as long as the night this time of year. Her stomach had been growling since he’d mentioned dinner, and she’d swear her butt was frozen to the wing. He’d probably have to bring that welder over here and melt her ass just to detach it.

Her eyelids felt heavy, and she laid her head on her knees.

“Okay. I think it’s good.” Was that Max? Serena raised her head. He came around the nose of the plane, his stride sure and his gaze steady, a tall handsome Inuit in his fur parka and boots come to rescue her from the cold.

“Hold on.” He pulled one cooler down, then the other. His hands were red and raw. The wing started rising and he reached up to catch her as she slid off.

But her legs wouldn’t hold her and she would have fallen to her knees except he caught her against him, his arms a powerful vise around her. Their lips were almost touching and despite her shivering she felt something stir inside her, in her chest and between her thighs. The heat from his body surrounded her and the heat in his eyes scorched her.

For a moment she thought he would kiss her again.

“Mags.” Why was she slurring her words?

He pulled back and scowled. “Your lips are blue. Why didn’t you say something?” He swung her up into his arms, carried her to the passenger door and opened it. “Get inside.” He set her down in the seat, then tugged his parka off over his head. “Put this on.” He tossed it at her and marched away.

“But—”

“Just put it on and crawl into the back, get on the tarp.” As she slid the warm parka on, he loaded the toolbox and crate through the driver’s side door. From the crate he pulled a lantern, lit it and handed it to her. “This should heat you up. You have hypothermia.”

The coolers and boxes got shoved back into the plane. Max whistled and Mickey barked and came running. Then man and dog both jumped into the plane. But the man crawled into the back with her.

“Look at me,” he commanded as he held her chin between his thumb and fingers. His stare was intense as he examined her face. He pulled a large knife from his boot.

Her eyes widened on the knife and then on him.

Catching her look, he snarled. “It’s to open a can.” He twisted around, dug into the crate and pulled out a big can of stew. “You need to eat.” He punctured a hole in the metal and began cutting it open.

Now she felt like an idiot for doubting him. Why was he being so nice? Taking care of her, after what she’d done? This was all her fault. “I’ll d-do it.” Her voice, her whole body, was shaking uncontrollably. “You g-go ahead and f-fly the plane.”

He grunted. “We’ll leave in the morning.”

“We c-can’t leave now? I thought you s-said it was fixed?”

“The sun’s almost down. If the gear doesn’t hold during takeoff we could break something else. Something I really can’t repair.”

Resolved to spending the night here, she nodded. She was shivering less now. She was so hungry she’d eat the stew cold. But Max replaced the top of the lantern with a flat attachment and set the can on top of that to heat. Then he reached into the crate and pulled out a silver flask.

“Drink.” He shoved the flask into her hands.

“What is it?” She unscrewed the lid and sniffed.

“Whiskey.” He stirred the stew with his knife and raised an eyebrow at her.

Giving him a fake smile, she took a swig. And gasped. She wasn’t used to the hard stuff. White wine was her idea of booze. But she felt it travel all the way down and heat curled in her belly. She took another swig and tried not to make a face while she swallowed it this time.

“Thanks.” She handed the flask to him and he took a long swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing just above the collar of his faded sweatshirt. “Texas State Technical College?” She gestured to the words on his shirt. “That’s a long way from Alaska.”

Glancing down at his shirt, he shrugged. “My father lives there.”

“So, you stayed with him while you got your degree?”

“Stew’s hot.” Using a grease rag as an oven mitt, he lifted the can off the lantern top and poured three helpings onto metal plates from the crate. He produced two metal spoons, handed her one and then gave the third plate to Mickey, who wolfed it down.

Wolfing it down would be a fair description of how she ate it, as well. It was good and filling. “Delicious. Thank you again.”

He nodded, gathering up the plates and giving them to Mickey, who licked theirs clean too.

“What kind of dog is Mickey?”

“Part malamute, part something else. A mixed breed. Like me.” He drank from the flask again.

“Your mother’s Iñupiat?”

“You need to know that for your story?” He glared at her.

Whoa. Touchy subject. “I was just making conversation.”

“What the hell’d you think you were going to learn sneaking aboard my plane?”

“I was—” she focused on her hands and gripped the soft fur of his parka, ashamed to look him in the eyes “—following up on a rumor.” It seemed ludicrous now, wearing his parka, eating his food, to accuse him of drug trafficking. She just wasn’t capable of being objective when it came to him. Or maybe she wouldn’t ever be capable.

“Which one? The drugs? The murders, or the Russian spy?”

“Oh, I hadn’t heard the Russian spy one.”

He snorted. “Some reporter you are.”

If he only knew. “I’m not.”

“What?”

“I’m not a reporter. I’m the hostess of a cable show called Travel in Style. I was filming a show on the Iditarod.”

He blinked. “You’re a…TV personality?”

“Yes. You could call me that.”

“Huh.” He rubbed a palm across his beard. “So, what? You’re doing a piece on how not to travel?”

“No.” She cringed. “Not at all. I wanted to do this piece on genocide, but the network execs won’t let me and every time I try to do a real investigative report they give it to someone else and I need to find a way to make them take me serious—” realizing she’d been rambling, she looked up at him “—ly.”

He was staring at her as if she were a three-headed walrus.

“I really am sorry about all this.” She reached a hand out to cover his white-knuckled fist. “But wouldn’t you like a chance to prove all those rumors false?”

“No.” He jerked his hand from hers, took the lantern and turned to crawl into the front of the plane and open the door.

“Wait.”

He paused but didn’t look back.

“I, um, I need to…”

His gaze cut to hers. “Come on then.” Mumbling to himself something about troublesome females, he swung down to the ground and then as she tried to follow him out the door, he handed her the lantern, grabbed her around her back and under her legs and lifted her out. And didn’t put her down.

“I can walk now.”

“The hypothermia can make you weak and lethargic.”

But truth be told, she didn’t mind being snuggled like this in his arms. It was full dark out now and here in the middle of nowhere the blackness seemed to cut them off from everyone. As if they were on their own planet. But she wasn’t scared at all. In fact she felt safer here, with Max, than in her condo in L.A. No way he was a cold-blooded killer. The man might be cranky, but there was grief in his dark eyes.

There was a story here. She’d just pursue it later.

His faded sweatshirt was soft and hugged his firm chest. He smelled clean and crisp, slightly of oil, but with just the right amount of musky man sweat. With a sigh, she laid her head down on his shoulder and nuzzled her cold nose into his warm neck.

He stopped midstride. “Don’t.”

No doubt he intended to sound threatening. But right now all she heard was the hunger in his voice, and the promise in his tone. And her body answered with its own primal need. She raised her head.

He started walking again.

Well. That put her in her place.

He set her gently on her feet behind a short shrub, walked a few paces away and turned his back.

Mortification filled her. She just couldn’t. “I have some tissues and wet wipes in my purse. Would you mind?”

“What about the wolves?”

She had to think about that. Which was worse? No contest. “I’ll take my chances with the wolves.”

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