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Or maybe she was being too brusque. Jordan had coached her about this, over and over, asking her to please be less rough around the edges. In all her twenty-five years, nobody had ever told her to be “less rough” as though she were some kind of lump of coal with the remote potential to be a diamond.
But Jordan seemed hell-bound to polish her, give her etiquette lessons, all the while saying she wasn’t to take it personally. “It’s not about you,” he’d remind her. “It’s about the customer. Remember, the customer is king.”
And making the customer king meant more business for True North Airlines.
“I, uh, meant do you have everything you need?” She plastered on one of those syrupy-sweet smiles like those cover girl types on magazines.
Mr. Big City did a double take, then frowned a little. “My luggage is on its way to L.A., so I’m carrying everything I need.”
L.A. Figured. “I didn’t catch your name,” she said, forcing herself to sound polite, interested. Man, this customer relations stuff was exhausting. Good thing this was a short flight.
“Jeffrey.”
She waited for more.
“Bradshaw.”
This conversation made small talk seem downright itsy-bitsy. “And you’re from L.A.?”
He gave her another of those indecipherable looks. “No, New York. For the past year, anyway.”
“Going back to live in L.A.?”
“Do you always ask so many questions?”
Only while Jordan is on this customer relations kick. “Only when I’m interested.” Or sort of interested. Besides, if she got employee of the month, that little bonus check would come in real handy.
“Yes, I’m going back to L.A. I’m in Alaska checking out a location for a potential television series.”
“In Arctic Luck?” she blurted.
He nodded.
Shock raced through her. She’d spent years of her life loving this pristine wilderness, especially her hometown of Arctic Luck. No way some big-city business was going to destroy the land she called home, be that Arctic Luck or anywhere in Alaska for that matter. Especially the kind of business that had destroyed her father.
To hell with customer relations. Screw the bonus. She glared at the city slicker. “Follow me,” she snapped, opening the hangar door. “The plane’s ready.”
As they headed toward the Cessna, she paused next to a wheeled rack that normally held passengers’ luggage. Considering this was the time of year when fierce snowstorms started moving in, with tourism dropping more dramatically than the temperatures, these carts were used for things other than luggage—such as food, supplies, propane—things that bush planes flew to remote, snow-locked communities.
She grabbed a parka off the rack and tossed it to the guy. “Put this on.”
He caught the heavy parka with one hand, not looking strained at all. Cyd fought the urge to be impressed.
“I don’t need this,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Fine with me if you want to freeze off your tush.”
He cocked one eyebrow.
“If you think it’s cold on the ground, just wait till we’re at a thousand feet. Men have been known to get frostbite on their nose, ears and—”
“I’ll wear it.” He set down his carry-on and began unbuttoning his coat.
With a shake of her head, Cyd kept walking to the plane. Wouldn’t that be her luck, to be carting some city jerk to her hometown. She shouldn’t help him anymore. Not an iota. Because every time she did, she was aiding and abetting the enemy.
“Just hurry up,” she snapped, putting a bit more “rough around the edges” in her voice than usual. “I have a run to Eagle Nest after Arctic Luck and the weather’s kicking up.”
But another plan was already forming in Cyd’s mind.
THE WEATHER KICKING UP? Ten minutes later, Jeffrey thought his heart was kicking up, and out of his body. From what he could see outside the cockpit window, snowflakes were thickening, swirling in the wind. It was like flying through a messy potato soup. A very, very cold potato soup. He tried to stop looking at the temperature gauge, but he had a head for numbers. And thirty below zero was a mind-numbing number.
“Cold?” asked Thompson.
“You b-bet my tush.” Damn if his teeth weren’t chattering. Even with this fur-lined, Paul-Bunyon-size parka on.
The plane lurched again.
“Weather sucks,” said Thompson, “but even if we’re forced down, it would be a smooth crash landing because of the flat terrain, Johnny—”
“Jeffrey.” If he was going to die, he wanted to be called by his right name.
“Lousy visibility,” Thompson muttered, tapping one of the gauges with a finger. He shot a look at Jeffrey. “Don’t worry. Sometimes the instruments freeze up a bit, but I can still manage. This is a piece of cake.”
He hated cake. Hated this plane. Hated potato soup.
Thompson muttered something else under his breath. It sounded like “damn snow squall” and Jeffrey wished he wasn’t so attuned to words. From an early age, his greatest escape was reading novels and listening to music. Being bumped from foster home to foster home, how often had he escaped feeling like the outsider by cracking open a book or slapping on a pair of headphones? With music, the heavier the lyrics, the better.
His love of words had extended to his business life as well. While others analyzed body language, he analyzed the tone of people’s voices, how they used words, and eighty percent of the time, he had a person pegged.
But at this moment, he hated words. Especially ones like “damn snow squall” and “lousy visibility.” Thompson had an attitude three times his body size. And although Jeffrey had had his fair share of threats in his life, he’d never been threatened by a pilot, for God’s sake. That’s how it felt, anyway, with Thompson’s insinuations about a potential crash landing.
Jeffrey shifted in his seat, wondering if his jaw would ever unclench. And wishing to hell he had something to distract him. “Got any music?” he asked tightly.
Thompson nodded and flicked a switch. A throbbing bass filled the cockpit, followed by Bruce Spring-steen’s gravelly voice, wailing about tramps and being born to run. Jeffrey shot Thompson a look. Was this kid crazy, playing a searing rock tune at a time like this? Jeffrey eased out a stream of air. Well, if now’s my time to die, might as well be with The Boss.
“Katimuk area traffic, this is Cessna 4747sierra.” Thompson spoke loudly, clearly into the headset mouthpiece while checking the GPS on the dashboard.
Katimuk? Jeffrey frowned. Must be a town near Arctic Luck.
“Nine miles west of Katimuk over the river. Eastbound for Katimuk landing strip. Visibility limited. Flying at one thousand.”
Katimuk landing strip. Maybe Arctic Luck shared the same landing area. Or maybe weather was forcing them down. God, wish I hadn’t had that last thought. Shoot me now. Jeffrey leaned his head back against the head-rest, grateful for something solid.
The plane plunged.
Jeffrey’s stomach plummeted.
Springsteen wailed about sex.
Danger, death and sex had never been Jeffrey’s calling card, but suddenly he was living it, moment by moment. Maybe he should have done the predictable things in life. Like gotten married, had children. Then he’d have heirs to his New York loft, L.A. condo, cars, stocks, investments. But when the women’s faces whom he dated flashed through his mind, it was a blur of greedy eyes and sculpted cheeks. A montage of arm-candy dates, the kind of feminine assets that enhanced a guy’s business allure at social functions.
Not a one of them the type to bake cookies, raise kids, grow old with.
For a fleeting moment, Jeffrey wondered if he’d made the right choices in life. He’d been so desperate to escape the streets, he’d worked hard to earn good grades, earn a college scholarship, land in a profession where he could make the big bucks.
But at this moment, maybe his last moment, he wondered what the big bucks really bought him. An expensive funeral?
“Katimuk traffic,” continued Thompson, “Cessna 4747sierra is over the town entering a left downwind for landing to the west. Tell Harry to be there.”
Harry? The thought flew from his mind as the plane careened. Jeffrey swore his internal organs swapped places as the aircraft dropped and dipped. In the background, Bruce rasped about some girl wrapping her legs around velvet rims.
Thompson was flicking switches, tugging the stick.
A clunking sound. The nose of the plane pitched up.
“Flaps,” Thompson calmly explained, pulling on the yoke.
Jeffrey swallowed, hard. Flaps. Good.
Thompson reached for the ceiling and pulled something. “Trimming.”
Trimming. Good. Whatever the hell that meant.
A runway appeared through a break in the fog. Jeffrey had never been so damn glad to see a strip of snowflaked dirt in his entire life. Something dark and bulky trotted across it. A moose?
Bruce was crooning about madness in his soul while Jeffrey prayed his last image on earth wouldn’t be a close-up of a moose. Fortunately the beast jogged off the landing strip, disappearing into a white expanse of fog and snow.
The wheels hit solid ground.
Jeffrey released a pent-up breath, debating who ruled the world. Springsteen or Thompson.
And when the plane eased to a smooth stop, the answer was evident. Thompson.
“WE’RE WHERE?” Ten minutes ago, they’d landed. Jeffrey would have kissed the ground, but didn’t want to end up with his lips frozen to it. He’d helped Thompson tie down the plane, then made the fatal mistake of asking where, exactly, they were.
“Katimuk.”
That’s what he thought Thompson had said the first time. Jeffrey chose his battles carefully, and had the common sense to not argue in body-freezing weather, but at the moment he had an issue to chew and didn’t give a damn if his words froze midsentence.
“I need to go to Arctic Luck.” Hell, he needed a lot more than that. A hot drink, for starters. His throat felt like he’d swallowed a block of ice.
“Good for you,” yelled Thompson, marching away from him. “Say hello when you get there.”
Where was Thompson going? Jeffrey jogged a few feet to catch up, tripping and sliding over icy patches. “I demand you take me to Arctic Luck,” he yelled, his words escaping in plumes of vapor. “I paid to go to Arctic Luck.”
Thompson stopped, turned, and fisted his hands on his slim hips. “I, I, I! You big-city types never think of others, only yourselves.”
This conversation was taking a bigger turn than some of those insane plane maneuvers Thompson had made. Thompson, definitely no longer ruled the world. “My jacket is still on the plane. I need to get it.”
“Where on the plane?”
Jeffrey blew out another gust of vapor. “I left it on the convenience luggage rack with my carry-on, to be loaded onto the plane.”
“Convenience?” Thompson paused, then barked a laugh. “What’d you think? That some flight attendant would conveniently transport your stuff onto the plane? I don’t think so.”
“That jacket has my ID, my money—”
“Those fancy shoes of yours are gonna freeze to the ground if we don’t keep walking.” Thompson turned and started marching away.
Jeffrey glanced down, but only briefly. Better to keep walking than staring at his feet which might become one with the earth at any moment. He kept up a brisk pace behind Thompson. In the dense fog, he swore he heard the barking of dogs.
“Yo, Harry, over here!” Thompson yelled.
Through the fog, Jeffrey spied a line of dogs—looked to be twelve, maybe fourteen—hitched to a sled.
A beefy guy dressed in a regulation parka waved. “Storm’s on its way.”
Thompson stopped next to what looked like some kind of basket seat on the sled. Harry stood on board runners behind the basket.
“Get in,” Thompson ordered.
On closer inspection, the basket looked small. Too small for two people. “How do we do this?” asked Jeffrey.
Thompson made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a snort. “Now’s not the time to analyze options, city boy. Just get in.”
Harry laughed.
One of the dogs howled.
Jeffrey wished he were back in the plane. Suddenly it seemed far preferable to be risking death in the sky than death with a pack of dogs and two surly parka people. But as now wasn’t the time to be analyzing options or death, he swung one leg, then the other, into the basket and sat down.
Thompson stepped one jean-clad leg inside, then slid into a sitting position on Jeffrey’s lap. “Let’s go!”
A whip cracked. The dog team lurched forward, suddenly silent and all business. Harry yelled commands.
Thompson shifted, pressing against Jeffrey.
Before now, he had been stunned by the cold. Then by Mr. Toad’s wild plane ride. Followed by this adventure with a traveling dog team.
But nothing was as stunning as the feel of a curvy rump molded against his stomach and the undeniable roundness of a breast pressed against his cheek.
Thompson, he realized, was a woman.
2
THE DOG SLED PULLED UP in front of a rustic, oversize cabin and stopped. The lead Husky uttered a sharp whine of satisfaction and crouched low in the snow. Other team dogs started yelping and barking, some showing impatience with the restraint of the harnesses, some sniffing the air.
Amid the cacophony, the snow fell silently from a darkening sky in large, white flakes.
