On Thin Ice

In the back of his mind, in a place he didn’t like to visit very often, he wondered if a woman like Lauren could love someone like him.

A regular guy. A cop.

All at once Seth felt guilty. Here she was spilling her guts to him with no idea who he really was, or why he was here with her now.

“What about you?” she said. “Altex. Your job. I can see you’re good at it. Do you like it?”

He felt uncomfortable lying to her—which was ridiculous. On an undercover job like this, it came with the territory. He had to lie.

On Thin Ice

Debra Lee Brown

DEBRA LEE BROWN

Award-winning author Debra Lee Brown’s ongoing romance with wild and remote locales sparks frequent adventures in the Alps, the Arctic—where she has worked as a geologist—and the Sierra Nevada range of her native California. An avid outdoorswoman, Debra loves nothing better than to strand her heroes and heroines in rugged, often dangerous settings, then let nature take its course. Debra invites readers to visit her Web site at www.debraleebrown.com or to write to her care of Harlequin Reader Service, P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269.

For Michelle

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

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 1

Thirty-six below. Forty-knot winds out of the east. It was gonna be a big one.

Lauren Parker Fotheringay zipped her down survival jacket to her chin, cinched the fur-trimmed hood tight and peered out the chopper’s frosted window across an endless expanse of ice. In the dim winter light she could barely make out where land ended and the Alaskan coastline met the frozen Beaufort Sea.

“Whiteout comin’,” the pilot shouted over the roar of the chopper’s engine. He squinted into the blowing snow threatening to reduce visibility to zero. “Three hours, four tops. You sure you want me to drop you?”

Lauren shot him a wry look. “No, I changed my mind. Let’s turn this thing around and head for Hawaii.”

The pilot laughed, though she couldn’t hear him over the engine noise. She settled back in her seat for the last few minutes of the trip out to Caribou Island, the site of Tiger Petroleum’s latest oil exploration well.

It was simple, or should have been. Drill a ten-thousand-foot hole in the ground, collect rock samples over the target depth, document traces of oil, clean up the mess and come home. Your basic exploration well. Oil companies drilled them all the time on land leased from the government.

Caribou Island was nothing special, really, though it did sit just outside the boundary of a wildlife refuge, an area currently off-limits to oil exploration.

Tiger had leased the island’s drilling rights on an exclusive basis. The rock samples and data collected would be proprietary, giving Tiger an edge in finishing its geologic maps of the area, and when bidding on future land leases. In the oil industry, figuring out where the oil was, was only half the battle. The other half was managing to lease the land overlying it before anyone else did. Land was everything. The only thing. And competition among oil companies was fierce.

As Tiger’s most senior geologist and project manager, Lauren hadn’t done any real fieldwork for years. Her early successes had catapulted her to the top of the technical ladder, and this next promotion would take her even further. She couldn’t let anything screw it up. Especially a last-minute, routine assignment she had no time for, and that should have gone to one of her subordinates.

Both of the geologists originally assigned to Caribou Island had caught a nasty winter flu. Just her luck. Regardless, she was determined to get in, get her rock samples, and get out as quickly as possible. The well was nearly at target depth. A week should do it. Two, at most. She had three other projects to manage besides this one.

And she wanted that promotion. Bad.

Everyone expected her to get it, and she was never one to disappoint.

Lauren gazed out the window just as the chopper’s high beams caught an arctic fox scampering across the tundra on the prowl for lunch. She caught herself smiling. The assignment wasn’t really such a hardship. She was glad to be out of her hose and heels and into some comfortable clothes for a change. And she could breathe again. She’d forgotten how much she loved the Arctic. Untamed, fresh, real. So different from the life she’d been living these past few years.

On the corporate jet from Anchorage to Deadhorse, she’d slipped out of the expensive business suit Crocker had bought her on his last trip to San Francisco. He was always buying her gifts like that. No man had ever treated her with kid gloves before, not like Crocker did.

On board the chopper she’d coiled her carefully styled hair into a knot and stuffed it under her beat-up old hard hat. She felt good. Relaxed, almost. A break from the rat race was exactly what she needed. She grinned, wondering what Crocker would think if he were here with her now.

He’d never seen her in her field clothes: holey jeans, a turtleneck and the moth-eaten cardigan that had been her father’s favorite when he was alive. She twisted her two-carat diamond engagement ring inside her glove, imagining Crocker’s shock and her mother’s disapproval.

There was a whole side of her, come to think of it, that Crocker knew nothing about. They were to be married in New York in the summer. A big, traditional affair. Mother had it all planned, down to the last white rose and swath of expensive silk. Lauren supposed she should be grateful. Her commitment to her career left no time for such details.

Besides, Mother was wild about Crocker. Who wouldn’t be? As VP of finance for Tiger Petroleum, he was quite a catch, and one of the most respected oil company executives in the industry. Everyone liked him.

She was sorry, now, that they’d argued that morning. Crocker hadn’t wanted her to take on the Caribou Island assignment herself. He said he didn’t like the idea of her spending two weeks in close quarters with eighty guys—the type of men her mother called “oil field trash.”

Lauren had dismissed his concerns. The way she saw it, she had no choice. Caribou Island was one of her projects. Besides, the operation had been plagued with nothing but setbacks from the start. All the more reason for her to be on site herself.

“Roger that,” the pilot yelled into his communications headset.

She looked at him, her brows raised in question.

“It’s for you. Here.” He ripped the headset off and handed it to her.

“Me?” Who on earth was calling her out here? If it was Mother, Lauren would have a fit. She didn’t have time to discuss things like who was taking whom to Crocker’s birthday bash at the Fairmont next month, or what she was expected to wear to the latest charity ball.

Lauren’s life had changed radically after her father died and her mother remarried into the wealthy Fotheringay family. Mother had insisted her new husband legally adopt Lauren, so she might enjoy all the privileges associated with carrying the Fotheringay name. Sometimes Lauren wondered if her life had changed too radically.

Exhaling in exasperation, she pushed her hood back and slipped one of the earphones under the flannel lining of her hard hat. “Hello?”

“Hey, babe,” the choppy voice came back.

“Crocker!”

“Just checking on—” Static ripped the end off his sentence.

“Crocker, you’re cutting out.”

“—that everything’s okay.” His voice sounded a million miles away. Still, she’d know it anywhere.

“Everything’s fine, Crocker. Well, except for the weather.” She glanced out the window at the dry snow blowing across the ice. What little light there had been was now obliterated by the onslaught. She could barely see a dozen yards ahead of the chopper.

“Be careful out there, babe.”

“I will. And I’m sorry about this morning.”

“Me, too. It was my fault. Don’t give it another thought. Oh, and have Salvio call me on the satellite uplink as soon as you get there. Phones must be out. I want to—”

Another blast of static cut short his explanation. A deafening gust of wind blew the chopper sideways, and the connection was lost.

She handed the headset back to the pilot. “Guess we’re out of range.”

“Nope. It’s the weather. Damned dangerous to be flying. I’m droppin’ you and I’m outta here.”

“Okay.” She grabbed her duffel bag from the bench seat behind them, fighting a smile.

Crocker was likely going to ask Jack Salvio, Tiger’s “company man” overseeing the Caribou Island operation, to keep an eye on her. Make sure she didn’t run into any snags. Sweet of him, really. Crocker knew she was burned out and growing more and more disillusioned with the whole corporate scene.

Sometimes she wondered why she wanted the promotion at all. She’d even gone so far as to suggest that after they were married they stay in Anchorage instead of moving back to San Francisco like he wanted them to.

Crocker had not been very receptive to the idea, so she hadn’t even broached the subject of her leaving Tiger and the oil business altogether to do something more meaningful with her life. Like teaching, maybe. She could teach earth science to elementary school kids, just like her father had always wanted to do, but never did because of her mother’s objection.

She supposed it was a silly dream. And not at all in keeping with the ambitious edge that was her trademark. Oh, well. Maybe in the next lifetime.

She should make a point to spend more time with Crocker once this assignment was over. Between their two careers and his philanthropic commitments, they hardly had time to see each other. Crocker said all that would change once they were married, but she wasn’t so sure it was even possible given their manic schedules.

When it came right down to it, she wasn’t sure if they even had that much in common outside their jobs. Crocker had convinced her to push their wedding date up nearly a year. Lauren had wanted more time to get to know him, to make sure they were really meant for each other, but Crocker was insistent. He loved her, needed her, he’d said.

And she loved him, too. Didn’t she?

“There she is.” The pilot pointed a gloved finger to the north. Well, she guessed it was north, but couldn’t tell anymore with the blowing snow. “Altex rig 13-E. What a hunk a junk.”

Harsh sodium lights lit the site, bathing the island in a ghostly glow. Lauren’s lips thinned into a hard line as the rusted orange paint of the steel walls housing the tired-looking drilling rig came into view just ahead.

Nothing had changed in the three years since she’d seen it. The last field operation she’d worked had been on that very rig. Against her will, her eyes glassed. She swiped at the tears with a gloved hand.

“Still gets to you, don’t it?” The pilot shot her a compassionate look as he slowed the chopper into a wide arc skirting the site.

She focused on the line of beat-up Suburbans, their engines running to keep from freezing, in front of the prefab buildings that made up the camp. Ninety-foot stands of drilling pipe hung in the oil rig’s derrick, swaying in the near gale force wind. “Yes,” she said. “A little.”

Her father had been killed on 13-E when she was only eleven. He was a geologist just like her, working for a big oil company just like she did. But their reasons were different. He’d done it for the money. Her mother had nagged him incessantly about it. She remembered Mother’s tirades each time her father had talked about giving it up to teach.

Though the work was dangerous and the conditions harsh, there had been only a handful of serious drilling accidents in the few decades since Alaska’s North Slope oil fields were developed. It was a small, tightly knit community. Everyone knew about Hatch Parker and what had happened on 13-E. And everyone knew Lauren was his daughter.

“You’re sure, now?” The pilot set the chopper down smooth as glass on an ice pad built fifty yards from the camp. “Last time we had weather this bad there was no gettin’ in or out for weeks.”

“I’m sure.” Through the blowing snow she caught a glimpse of the brand-new geologist’s trailer out behind the rig, by the big open pit—the “reserve pit”—that acted as an overflow for the oil well’s drilling fluids. She checked her watch. Fourteen hundred. Two o’clock in the afternoon and it was pitch-black out. There was nothing quite like an arctic winter.

“Suit yourself, then. Take care, kid.”

A roustabout, the oil field equivalent of a ranch hand, dressed in a down jumpsuit and white bunny boots, yanked the chopper’s door wide. Lauren sucked in a blast of frigid air. Big mistake. Lung freeze. She’d forgotten you weren’t supposed to do that.

The roustabout grabbed her duffel as she hopped out of the chopper with her overstuffed briefcase. They made a mad dash toward a waiting vehicle. Fifty yards to camp was too far to walk in this weather. Climbing into the Suburban, she waved to the pilot who gave her the thumbs-up before he took off.

For the barest second Lauren wished she was taking off with him. Too late now. She was here and, given the weather, here she would stay for at least a week. In a whiteout nothing could fly, and Caribou Island was over a hundred miles from Deadhorse, Tiger’s outermost base camp. Too far to drive in these conditions, even if Tiger had maintained the ice road, which it hadn’t. Budget constraints, her foot. She’d remember to talk to her boss about that. Not that it really mattered. She had a job to do, and she’d do it. She always did.

Two minutes later the wind blasted her through the main door to the camp and into the break room. A dozen pairs of eyes focused on her as she pushed her hood back, snatched the hard hat from her head, and shook out her shoulder-length hair.

No, nothing had changed at all. There was still that momentary shock in the crew’s eyes that she was a woman. Probably the only one out here.

Nodding at no one in particular, Lauren snaked around the cafeteria-style tables littered with empty cigarette packets, disposable coffee cups and half-eaten glazed doughnuts, then pushed the door open into the mudroom.

A few seconds later, her steel-toed Sorels, hard hat and jacket tucked into an empty corner, she padded in heavy wool socks toward Jack Salvio’s office. It was just like riding a bike. She bet she could traverse every inch of this place blindfolded.

The air was stale, as it always was in these oil field camps. She wrinkled her nose at twenty-odd years of cigarette smoke that clung to prefab walls like the inside of someone’s diseased lung. This was not the Alaska she loved.

She turned into Salvio’s office and did a double take.

“Hiya, Scout.” Paddy O’Connor’s weathered face cracked in a wide smile.

“Paddy!” The old toolpusher rose from the stained Naugahyde sofa that had been there since 13-E was new. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d retired from fieldwork years ago.”

“Oh, no. Still at it, Scout.” He pulled her into a bear hug, and she fought a painful surge of emotion that threatened her composure for the second time that day.

No one called her Scout anymore. No one except Paddy O’Connor, owner of Altex Drilling, a company that had been on its last legs for as long as Lauren could remember.

Most oil companies, Tiger included, didn’t own their own drilling rigs and equipment. Nor did they employ the roughnecks and roustabouts needed to run an operation like Caribou Island. The job was contracted out to outfits like Altex. Only the geologist, an engineer or two, and company men like Jack Salvio who oversaw the whole operation, were Tiger employees.

Lauren’s father had coined the nickname Scout when she was just a kid, tagging along with him on field surveys in the Brooks Range. Paddy had been one of his closest friends. She looked warmly into the toolpusher’s bloodshot eyes and nodded.

His smile faded. “Lauren, we need to talk.”

“Yeah, just as soon as you get that sorry-assed crew a yours back to work.” Jack Salvio brushed past them, dropped into his creaky overstuffed chair and tossed his hard hat onto a desk covered in paperwork.

“How are you, Jack?” Lauren said and extended her hand.

Salvio waved it away. “I been better. We’re behind schedule. And I could do without this frickin’ weather.”

Lauren nodded, glancing at the computer monitors on Salvio’s desk, flashing stats on the weather, drilling depth, and a host of other specifics critical to the oil well’s operation.

Hmm, that’s strange…

Some of the measurements seemed to be off. Then again, these computer systems were always on the fritz. She watched as Salvio narrowed his eyes at the flashing readout on one of the monitors. Swearing under his breath, he abruptly switched it off.

Lauren had never liked Jack Salvio’s nasty disposition and bulldog tactics, but she did respect him. He was the best company man in Tiger’s history. He knew what he was doing, and she’d need his cooperation and his clout in order to get her work done on time.

“Where’s your bag, Scout?” Paddy moved past her into the hallway. “I’ll help you get settled.”

“No.” Salvio shot to his feet. “We got a well to drill. Get one’a your guys to help her.” He grabbed Lauren’s arm and steered her back into the hallway. No use protesting. On Caribou Island Jack Salvio was the boss. When he gave an order, everyone jumped.

The first shift break was over, and a few stragglers sauntered back down the hallway from their sleeping quarters toward the mudroom. Salvio whistled at one of them. “Hey, you there! Nanook.”

Lauren winced. Apparently Jack Salvio had not been paying attention during the series of workshops on ethnic diversity Tiger Petroleum required all its employees to attend.

At the end of the hall an athletic-looking crew hand with roughneck written all over him stopped dead in his tracks, his back to them. He was tall—too tall for a native—and sported a dark, unkempt ponytail.

Lauren’s gaze slid across the muscles barely hidden by his rumpled flannel shirt to the mud-spattered jeans hugging his backside like something off a Calvin Klein billboard. She suppressed the wow forming on her lips. His big, dirty hands fisted at his sides as he turned in response to Salvio’s inappropriate comment.

He was a native.

Lauren knew the shock registered on her face.

“Get your butt over here and take the lady’s bag.” Salvio nodded at her duffel and briefcase sitting in the corridor outside the mudroom.

But then again, maybe he wasn’t. It was hard to tell from this far away.

She guessed him to be in his early thirties, a year or two older than herself. His eyes were dark, his skin bronze, but the rest of his features didn’t fit. He had what her mother would have called an English nose. Narrow and arrow-straight. Mother loved the English. But neither she nor Crocker would love the way Lauren was looking at the roughneck.

Or the way he looked back.

She read a dangerous sort of instability in his eyes as he approached them. His gaze flicked from her to Salvio and back again. He passed her duffel, ignoring it. She fought the strangest urge to step back as he strode right up to Salvio and leveled his gaze at him.

“You talking to me?”

“Yeah.” Salvio had to look up to meet that murderous glare of his. He was tall. But since she was only five-three, everyone seemed tall to her.

“The name’s Adams.”

Adams. Not your everyday Inuit or Yupik name. He was half-native, she suspected. And apparently he’d done something to anger Jack Salvio. Jack wasn’t usually this nasty. Well, he was, but that was part of his nature. No, something else was causing the tension between them.

“I can take her bag out,” Paddy said. As he stooped to retrieve it from the floor, he shot Lauren a loaded look. “Come on, Scout.”

Paddy clearly wanted to talk to her alone. The way he fidgeted around Salvio, the tension in his expression, his bloodshot eyes… Something was wrong.

“No,” Salvio said, not breaking the roughneck’s gaze.

“But, Jack, I—”

“Nanook here will see her to her trailer. Won’tcha, boy?”

This was getting out of hand. Lauren pushed past them and grabbed her duffel and briefcase. “I can carry my own bag, thanks.” Before they could react, she ducked into the mudroom and made a beeline for her jacket and Sorels.

Paddy followed her, Salvio and Adams in his wake. She laced her boots, shaking her head at their ridiculous behavior. This wasn’t exactly the Ritz, and she didn’t need a porter.

Adams plucked her bag from where she’d dropped it. “I’ll take you out there. I’ve got a few minutes left before the shift starts up again.”

“It’s not necessary.” She reached for the bag and, to her surprise, he let her take it. Their hands brushed in the transfer, their gazes locked, and for the barest second she imagined what those big hands would feel like on her body.

What was that about?

She shrugged it off and stepped around him, which wasn’t easy in the close quarters, given Adams’s size and the fact that she was dressed like the Michelin man in full survival gear.

“Suit yourself.” Adams watched her as she snaked her way around the break room tables toward the exit. Her back was to him, but she felt his eyes on her all the same. Black eyes. Black as a winter’s night in the Chugach.

“Scout, about that talk—” The door slammed behind her, cutting off the rest of Paddy’s words. She’d catch up with him later. Right now all she wanted to do was get settled and get to work.

Heading straight for the geologist’s trailer, she sucked in a blast of frigid air. On purpose. The lung freeze felt good this time. Hell, yes. She was back in the field.

She had a job to do. Failure was not an option. Not for the woman who was about to become Tiger Petroleum’s next exploration manager. Not for Hatch Parker’s little Scout.

Chapter 2

Seth Adams wasn’t a betting man, but if he had to guess who the corporate thief was that the Feds had hired him to finger, he’d put all his stakes on Lauren Fotheringay.

Last year, a small, foreign oil company that had never set foot in Alaska before snagged a land deal netting what turned out to be a fortune in oil drilling rights. No way was it just dumb luck. They’d had an inside track. Access to geological data the FBI knew, because of the position of the leases, could have only come from one source—Tiger Petroleum.

The Bureau had already ruled out the possibility that the foreign company simply stole the data. Tiger’s security was renowned in the industry. No, the data had likely been sold to them—and selling proprietary corporate data without that corporation’s knowledge or consent was a crime. A big one.

There was a criminal at work somewhere in the Tiger organization, and the Feds, along with Tiger’s CEO and some high-ranking Wall Street types, wanted that person caught. The Caribou Island operation was as good a place as any to start. Perhaps the thief would strike again. No one at Tiger knew, of course, that they were under surveillance, and the FBI wanted it kept that way.

Oh, yeah, Seth thought, as he watched Lauren Fotheringay out the icy window of the break room, lugging her duffel and briefcase across the site in near whiteout conditions.