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Ross was his other partner in the business—a great guy, but not for a homebody like Callie. Besides, Ross had gotten burned by his ex-wife and had avoided women ever since. He definitely wasn’t interested in getting married.
Callie bit her lip to keep from laughing. Poor Mike. He didn’t look at all happy. “I met Ross in Anchorage. He was taking a load of fresh veggies to Nome, so he stopped by to say hi. I like Ross. He’s really cute and he’s awfully charming.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“That’s because you’re not a woman. He said I could go to the Arctic Circle on one of his junkets. We might even land on the ice floe so I can get some pictures of polar bears.”
“Terrific. Sounds like you’re all set.” Mike sounded quite disgruntled and she hid another smile.
“Yeah, I’m going to have a great time. At least Donovan and Ross and Travis are glad I’m here, even if you’re not.”
“They think they can get away with more…that I’ll let them because you’re not my sister.”
Callie stretched languidly, aware of Mike’s long sideways gaze. For the first time in her life she felt entirely feminine and sexy.
“You worry too much. They won’t get away with anything I don’t want them to.”
“Oh? How much is that?”
She mused for a moment. “Enough, Mike. Enough.”
“I see.”
From the iron set to his jaw, Callie didn’t think he liked her answer very much…which pleased her to no end.
Chapter Two
Enough?
What did she mean by that?
Remembering Callie’s old-as-Eve smile, Mike was afraid he knew. She hadn’t come to catch him as a husband; she’d come to spread her wings. It was natural, really. He’d never realized it before, but Callie was rather attractive. And thirty-odd years of living in Crockett as “the preacher’s daughter” would have been frustrating for anyone.
Swell. Now he’d have to spend his summer making sure she didn’t do something he knew she’d regret. It was instinctive to protect her. Even the toughest kids in Crockett had watched their mouths around Callie. He’d seen street toughs pummel their buddies for stepping out of line around Preacher Webster’s daughter.
Don’t say that. She’s holy, you jerk.
And there was Callie…looking utterly disgusted at being called holy.
Mike had to grin, remembering those days. He’d done it, too, cleaning up his language, making sure nobody stepped out of line with little Callie, and lumping her into the same category as kid sisters who were more trouble than they were necessarily worth.
He could strangle Elaine for doing this to him. He’d phoned her right after getting back to the house, and received an innocent “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Callie is doing us both a favor. And this way she gets to see part of Alaska.”
Favor?
Right. His baby sister was matchmaking and he didn’t want any part of her little plan. Of course…it was nice that Callie could have a trip. She probably didn’t get a chance to travel very much.
Sighing, Mike continued working. He’d been cutting the next winter’s supply of firewood before leaving to meet Elaine…and getting Callie instead. He would have flown to Anchorage himself, but Donovan had been returning from a hop to Fairbanks, so it hadn’t made sense to make an extra trip. Now he wished he’d gone. He could have turned Callie around and put her on a flight back to Seattle. But no, instead she was here, taking a nap in one of his bedrooms.
Mike positioned a section of log on the chopping block and lifted his ax. It took a lot of wood to get through an Alaskan winter, though the weather wasn’t as harsh in Kachelak as it was farther north.
Thwunk.
The piece split in two, one of which was still too large to fit into the woodstove. He took the larger half and positioned it again, wishing his other problems were so easily solved.
Sending Callie back to Seattle still seemed desirable, except there wasn’t much hope of replacing their office manager. Kachelak was a great location, but the population was small and already dedicated to their own pursuits; individuality flourished in the frozen north.
He’d jokingly suggested that one of his partners get married and solve their labor dilemma that way. They hadn’t been amused, since they felt the same about marriage that he did.
He swung the ax down.
Thwack.
The wood divided neatly and Mike tossed the two pieces onto a pile, then heaved another log to the block. He hammered a wedge into the grain and used a maul to do the initial split. The physical effort of cutting firewood usually helped focus his thoughts. Only, it wasn’t helping this afternoon.
Callie Webster in a tube top.
His mind still had trouble working around that one. It was blasted inconvenient having her stay in his house. A sister was one thing, an unrelated woman was another. He’d have to watch his mouth, put the lid down on the toilet and be pleasant in the morning.
Mike hated mornings.
He’d rather fly through an ice fog than get up and talk to anyone before 10:00 a.m. On the other hand, Callie probably made delicious coffee. She belonged to that incomprehensible species who rose at the crack of dawn and loved it. And from what Elaine had said, she was a terrific cook, one of her specialties being caramel pecan pancakes.
Caramel pecan pancakes sounded very tasty, and they’d be even better for dinner, than breakfast. Maybe having Callie stay at the house wouldn’t be so bad. Lately he’d gotten real tired of his own cooking.
Callie stepped onto the porch off her bedroom and took a deep breath. The air was fresh, redolent with the scent of the sea and whispering hemlock forests.
Soon after they’d arrived, Mike had gone outside to work, muttering something about her taking a nap. She’d watched him chopping wood from the kitchen window…all masculine grace and power, muscles working fluidly beneath skin slicked with sweat. She still heard the solid thunk and whack of the ax striking, and Callie moaned softly, a restless ache in her breasts and stomach.
Don’t think about it.
Right. Like it was possible to think about anything else. She ought to be asleep, but her mind was too active. And her body…She shivered.
Mike always did that…made her feel things, hot and fast, spinning inside like a whirling top. Inevitably Callie had compared every man to him. They’d always come up short.
“Open your eyes, Michael Fitzpatrick,” she breathed. “You never really came back, so I came to you.”
Finally.
Everything had finally come together like the pieces to a murder mystery—means, motive and opportunity. And a dash of courage, because she’d been raised with the traditional idea that a woman didn’t chase a man; she waited demurely until he noticed her.
Blying Sound glimmered in front of the house, which was perched high above the water out of sight from the town. It was a lovely place—the house old and solidly built, with at least five bedrooms.
Perfect for a family.
Callie smiled and leaned on the railing. Cool air brushed her arms and bare midriff, reminding her of Mike’s reaction to the provocative outfit.
“Serves him right,” she murmured.
It was about time he saw her as a woman, though the tube top might have been a little much. She’d shocked herself when she bought it. Maybe it wasn’t any more revealing than a bikini, but she’d never worn a bikini, either.
She’d expected to blush like crazy the first time she was seen in public, yet it hadn’t worked out that way. The unadulterated male attention had been worth every embarrassed prickle. Not that she wanted to dress like that all the time—just for special occasions.
It had taken her a long time to reach this point. Years of being the sweet-little-girl-next-door, of feeling guilty because she’d never loved Keith the way he deserved. She’d been cast in the role of a tragic, grieving not-quite-a-widow, returned home to care for her father because she had nothing else to live for. Her grief had been genuine, but not the shattering devastation her friends and family supposed.
Another yawn widened her mouth and she strolled inside to inspect the big, comfortable bed. Maybe she should try to sleep. She wanted to look her best for her date with Donovan. Mike mustn’t suspect she had anything on her mind but having a great time with his partners in Triple M Transit.
Besides, if nothing else, she was going to have a great time. They were terrific guys—Mike wouldn’t have gone into business with them if they weren’t.
Still, Mike was her reason for coming to Alaska, and she was gambling a lot on the plot she and Elaine had hatched—her heart most of all.
It was late in the afternoon when Mike sank his ax into the chopping block and decided to call it quits. Summer in Kachelak was pleasantly mild at best, yet perspiration had soaked his hair and body from the long hours of work.
Stopping at the refrigerator, he grabbed a bottle of iced tea and took a long swallow, then stuck his head under the faucet in the sink. Though chilly, it felt good. He scrubbed his upper body, sluicing water over his arms and chest.
“Mike?”
He jumped, bumping his head on the tap and swearing under his breath.
Jeez, he’d almost forgotten about his “houseguest.” A memory of round curves, faithfully outlined by fire-engine-red cotton, rose instantly before his eyes and he groaned. Well, he hadn’t exactly forgotten. But it was tough, reconciling his lifelong image of Callie with the woman who’d hugged him at the airport.
The clothes were a shock, yet the hug had been all Callie. Sweet, affectionate Callie, with the softest heart on the West coast, though as a kid he’d thought it was dumb and disgustingly mushy.
“Mike?” she called again. “Are you here?”
“In the kitchen.” He turned the water off and wiped his face with a dishcloth before turning around. Callie was standing in a pool of gold sunlight only a few feet away. “My God, what the hell are you wearing?” he demanded harshly, forgetting his earlier resolve to watch his mouth around her.
“A dress.”
“That isn’t a dress. It’s another tube top,” he snapped, slapping the towel onto the counter.
She ran the palms of her hand over the clinging black knit. Like the red top, it stayed in place with some kind of invisible magic—no straps, just a sheath of black that exposed her shoulders and a startling expanse of silky thigh encased in sheer black stockings.
“You’re exaggerating,” Callie said, undaunted by his frown. “This is a very stylish dress.”
“Take it off.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Donovan said I didn’t have to dress, but I’d rather have clothes on when he gets here. I don’t want him getting the wrong impression.”
“I…” To his amazement, heat crawled up Mike’s neck and he gritted his teeth. “That’s not what I meant. Go put on something else.”
“Why?”
Why?
What a dumb question.
His gaze traveled over the black “dress.” The fabric was so soft that anything beneath it would be outlined—like the lacy edge of a bra or panties. And except for a faint line about her waist, it was perfectly smooth, which meant she was only wearing those stockings. Mike broke out in another sweat.
No bra. No slip. No panties.
Though she still seemed to be waiting for an answer, Callie opened the refrigerator and bent over, examining its contents. Mike’s lungs froze as he imagined what he’d see if the skirt inched up another two inches. Or what Donovan might see…and touch.
Damn. He was losing his mind and it was all Callie’s fault. He’d been handed a stick of dynamite to protect. Why weren’t her brothers here, guarding her virtue? It wasn’t his job, yet he was stuck with it just the same.
“Do you mind if I have some milk?” she asked, straightening and holding up a carton.
“Sure. After you put on something decent.”
“This is decent,” she said coolly.
“It’s trashy,” Mike shouted furiously.
“Why you narrow-minded chauvinist jerk,” Callie hissed. “You’d think it was perfect if your date wore a dress like this, but it’s unacceptable for me. What a stupid double standard. I won’t be ordered around, not by you or anyone else.”
Mike already regretted his rash words. He knew better than to insult a woman’s clothes. And Callie didn’t look trashy; that was the problem. With her rich abundance of chestnut hair and that creamy complexion she looked like a dream. Classy and sultry at the same time—a combination unsettling to his stomach.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean that. But your father—”
“I’m thirty-one, Mike,” Callie said curtly. “Not a child. My father wouldn’t think of telling me what clothes to wear.”
“Yeah, but…”
Callie’s high heels clicked on the floor as she walked to the cupboard she’d examined earlier. She took down a glass and tried to control her temper. At the moment she was reconsidering the plot she’d hatched with Elaine.
Get married to Michael Fitzpatrick?
Right now she didn’t care if he dropped off the face of the earth, never to be seen again.
Trashy.
Ugh.
He had a lot of nerve. Was he forgetting she’d seen the type of girl he’d dated in high school? Granted, teenage boys weren’t usually attracted to “good” girls—and by all accounts his tastes had improved since then—but that wasn’t the point. If she went stark naked, it wouldn’t make her trashy. That came from the type of person you were.
“For your information,” she said, pouring the milk, “Elaine has practically this same dress, only it’s royal blue. She wore it to your parents’ thirty-fifth wedding anniversary party two years ago. I don’t recall you throwing a fit over her looking trashy.”
“I don’t remember.”
From the expression on Mike’s face, she knew he was lying.
“Really?” Callie prompted. “You said she looked great. And my dad thought she looked charming. You seem to be more judgmental than he is.”
“I said I was sorry,” he muttered. “You don’t have to rub it in.”
Callie had every intention of rubbing it all over him. He wanted to keep seeing her as the prim preacher’s daughter, not as a woman. But she was unmistakably dressed like a woman, so she didn’t fit into the neat little role he’d cast for her to play…just like everyone else in Crockett. It was hard enough exploring the real Callie without him fighting her every step of the way.
She took a swallow of milk. “I just want things to be clear between us.”
