Too Close For Comfort

More laughter and bar thumping.

And Cyd thought the sled dogs made a hell of a racket.

Charlie returned from the kitchen, holding two plates of steaming apple pie in one hand. With the other, he poured more whiskey into Jeffrey’s glass. “This one’s on the house.”

Jeffrey raised his drink. “To the great North.” He tossed back the whiskey.

One by one, the guys raised their drinks, some muttering “to the North,” some nodding solemnly. Cyd smiled. Mr. Jeffrey Bradshaw was showing that a thoroughbred could run with the pack. Damn if she wasn’t more than a bit impressed. He might be all city slicker on the outside, but he almost seemed to have the soul of a Northerner. As though he knew what it was like to be fierce, independent, tough.

Jeffrey strolled down the bar and sat on the stool at the very end of the bar, next to Cyd.

Harry, sitting on the other side of Cyd, glanced over, but before he could say anything, Charlie plunked down the plates of pie in front of him. Harry inhaled as though he’d never sucked in a decent breath in his life, groaned something about May deserving sainthood, then dug in.

Relieved that Harry was distracted for the time being, Cyd turned to Jeffrey. She glanced down. “Got the boots on, I see.”

He just looked at her, a twinkle in his eye. “Took me a while to figure them out.”

She shot him a questioning look.

“I never have to lace up my Italian loafers.”

She continued to stare at him, unblinking.

“I’m joking, Cyd.”

She rolled back her shoulders. “I knew that.” Her insides did a funny fluttering thing when Jeffrey flashed her that crooked, Harrison Ford-like smile.

Fortunately dinner arrived. The aroma of grilled meat and fries almost brought tears to Cyd’s eyes. She hadn’t eaten in hours, and it was all she could do to pick up a knife and fork and not dig into the meal with her bare hands.

“Looks good,” Jeffrey commented. “What is it?”

“Mooth,” she said with a full mouth.

Jeffrey gave her one of those quizzical looks, then nodded.

She swallowed. “Want some? Charlie makes killer homemade fries, too.”

“Uh, I’ll pass.”

Jeffrey checked out the back of the bar, his eyes landing on a Crock-Pot. “Got some soup there?” he asked Charlie.

“Caribou stew.”

Jeffrey paused. “Nothing with chicken or fish?” He didn’t dare ask if they had a vegetarian plate. Not unless he wanted to be attacked by a horde of moose-men.

Charlie, rubbing a glass with a red-checkered cloth, shook his head.

“I’ll take a bowl of that, then.” He lifted his empty shot glass. “And hit me again.” If he numbed himself enough, he wouldn’t think about what he was eating. Or that he should have packed his vitamins for this trip.

Or why Cyd seemed to have a love-hate relationship with him. He’d prefer more of the former and less of the latter.

He watched Cyd eat. She ate with the gusto of a lumberjack. She’d cut off a slab of meat, stack it with some fries and salad, then shoved the mess into her pretty little mouth and chew with a glazed look that bordered on blissful.

A woman who ate like that could probably kill a man in bed.

Charlie poured another whiskey into Jeffrey’s glass. Jeffrey noticed the older guy had a red-white-and-blue peace symbol tattoo on his forearm.

Jeffrey raised the glass, toasted him, then downed the drink. The stuff hit like a hot jolt. Swallowing, hard, he thought back to how just last week he’d been in his New York loft, whipping up his specialty dish—Rock Cornish game hen in apricot sauce—and washing it down with an elegant, buttery chardonnay.

And mere days later, here he was deep in Moose World, numbing himself with mind-altering whiskey.

Charlie leaned closer to Jeffrey. “Brother, I have a cot that can be set up in the back, but my cousin-in-law has dibs on it for tonight. But if you don’t mind sleeping with a few dogs, we can throw a sleeping bag in front of the fireplace tonight.”

“That’d be great. I have an important radio call in the morning—”

“Wait!” Cyd yelled, her mouth full. She gripped her fork and knife in her fists. She flashed Jeffrey a look that bordered on panic.

Cyd Thompson, panicked? Jeffrey’s antennae started waving.

“You can’t sleep here, not in this room. Those dogs will be all over you. By morning, you’ll be covered head to toe in their hair—and smell like…” She wrinkled her nose, indicating the word she meant to use.

The lady flies me to the wrong town, and is now concerned about where I sleep?

The concern was compelling.

Too compelling.

Cyd Thompson was definitely up to something, but exactly what wasn’t yet clear to Jeffrey. Funny how it had always been tougher to read the intentions of someone who had street savvy versus business sharp. Then it hit him how Alaska was just a different version of the streets. A damn sight prettier, but just as tough because it was a world where people had to fight the elements and outwit the beasts to survive.

And that was Cyd to a T. An Alaskan street-savvy woman. No wonder he was having a hell of a time figuring what she was up to.

“Yes, you’d probably smell pretty damn bad,” Charlie concurred with a chuckle, “not to mention you’d be part dog by the mornin’.”

Cyd turned her attention to the room. “Hey,” she yelled, “anyone got a snowmobile I can borrow? Gotta get to Geraldine’s tonight.”

Jeffrey was glad he’d just downed a whiskey—it helped him weather the blast of energy Cyd had just emitted. He looked at her perched on that bar stool, her back rigid as she glanced around the room. When had she last combed her hair? It looked like one of those “in” hairdos one saw on the streets of New York, all spiky and sassy. But Jeffrey had no doubt that Cyd’s hair was the result of efficiency and practicality. He’d bet she just took a pair of scissors, chopped off a bit here and there, and slapped on a baseball cap.

“You can borrow my machine for a few days,” said Harry, sliding a glance from Cyd to Jeffrey and back. “I just loaned it to George, who lives next door.”

“And what am I suppos’d to do?” asked a baritone voice, who Jeffrey guessed to be George. “Mine’s not fixed yet.”

“You got a team and me to cart you wherever you need,” Harry answered gruffly.

Jeffrey noticed it was the end of that discussion. If Jeffrey had his group dynamics pegged in this room, Harry was the lead Husky.

Cyd cut off another hunk of meat. “Thanks, Harry.” She shoveled some fries and salad onto the meat. “We got a ride to Geri’s,” she said, glancing at Jeffrey before chomping down on a bite of food that could be a meal unto itself.

He waited until she swallowed. “And there’s a place for me to stay at Geri’s?” Considering Cyd had promised to take him places before, he didn’t want to take anything for granted.

“You got a bed, a roof, free grub.”

He fought the urge to smile. He’d had ladies lure him into bedrooms with everything from promises of a “good time” to a bottle of French champagne on ice. But “a bed, a roof, free grub” was a new one.

Of course, Cyd wasn’t luring him anywhere…or was she?

“I’ll take it,” he answered. Better than waking up part dog. “And a ride back here tomorrow morning?”

“No problem,” said Cyd sweetly between bites, shooting him that same big-eyed look she’d given him in the radio room.

Which left him wondering why she’d bothered to say the word “no” because he sensed the other word, problem, loomed in his immediate future.

3

CYD CUT THE ENGINE of the snowmobile. “We’re here,” she said. “Time to get off.”

Under different circumstances, Jeffrey would have grinned at a lady saying it was time to “get off.” But after careening over miles of snow in the gut-chilling Alaskan wilderness with nothing but moonlight as a guide, he wasn’t sure if he could even move, much less smile.

Cyd had parked in front of a log cabin, its windows ablaze with light, smoke from the chimney disappearing into the snow-laden sky. An animal’s howl punctured the night.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Babette.” Cyd leaned over the back of the machine, untying a pouch filled with jerky Harry had insisted she take. Jeffrey hadn’t asked, but figured it was in case they got stuck en route.

“Babette?”

“Aunt Geri’s dog.”

It howled again. A long, mournful sound unlike any dog Jeffrey had known.

He stared at the log cabin, which had at first appeared like some kind of Norman Rockwell painting, but was rapidly taking on the sinister image of a Steven King novel. “Dog? Sounds more like a wolf.”

“Wolf?” Cyd muttered something under her breath that sounded like “city slicker.” “You better start walking to the cabin. If you keep standing there, your feet will stick to the ice and we’ll have to chop them off.”

“Anyone ever told you to try stand-up comedy?”

She giggled as she brushed ice off the pouch. “No, but if you’re good, maybe I’ll sing a few bars.”

Her comeback took him aback for a moment. Rough and tumble Cyd had a sense of humor, too?

Jeffrey started heading toward the cabin, his feet crunching through the snow. The air smelled smoky, traced with the tang of evergreen. Just as he reached the door, it shook with the weight of something heavy hitting it from the other side. Sniffling and scratching followed, along with a guttural growl.

Jeffrey stared at the door, wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into. Having street smarts didn’t exactly prepare one on how to deal with Cujo.

“Just go in!” Cyd yelled. “Babette’s a pussycat.”

He looked back at the expanse of moon-glazed, glittering snow that stretched as far as the eye could see. Maybe retracing his steps and having his feet chopped off wasn’t such a bad thing.

A huffing, stomping sound distracted him. “Doesn’t anybody in New York or L.A. know when to get out of the cold?” With a roll of her eyes, Cyd nudged past him, grabbed the door handle and pushed it open. “Aunt Geri?” she called out.

He followed Cyd inside, blinking into the haze of light. A woodstove, the fire crackling behind its glass door, sat across the room. The scents of baked bread and coffee wove around him, lulling him out of his mood.

“Hi there, big girl,” Cyd cooed, scratching and patting a big, furry head.

He should’ve known that Cyd and wild beasts would be best pals.

“This is Jeffrey,” she said, pointing the furry beast’s face at Jeffrey.

“Hi,” he said, his eyes adjusting to the light. Babette’s yellow eyes took in Jeffrey. She barked, loudly. He put his hand down for her to sniff, hoping she’d eaten something recently. She rubbed her wet nose against his hand, her tail swinging wildly.

Cyd looked up at Jeffrey. “She likes you.”

“Good.” He’d outwitted death, again. “What kind of dog is she?”

“Mongrel. Part Shepherd, part Husky, and something else.”

“Moose?”

Cyd looked at Jeffrey. “City Slicker,” she teased, her chocolate brown eyes twinkling.

“Northern Rowdy,” he countered.

“Rowdy?” She looked surprised, then burst into laughter. He liked the sound. Loud, infectious. “Sounds about right,” she said, pulling the hood of her parka down.

Her face emerged all pink, touched with flakes of snow. Add those devilish brown eyes and wild mass of cropped raven hair, and she looked like sweetness and sin all rolled into one. She was still laughing to herself, repeating the word “rowdy” as she pulled off her parka. Jeffrey felt like leaning over and kissing those pretty lips that curved so deliciously when she smiled. He had the crazy thought that kissing Cyd would be like tasting life itself.

She hung her parka on one of the hooks mounted on the wall next to the front door. “What’re you staring at?”

“Your face—” He reached over and brushed some flakes of snow off her cheeks. His gloves were bulky, cold. He pulled them off, tossed them aside and continued brushing her flushed cheeks. Most women needed makeup to look pretty, but not Cyd. Her beauty was like this land. Wild, clean. As though she’d been forged from the sky, the earth.

“We need to get you closer to the fire, warm you up,” he said.

She flashed him a look that bordered on shy, which was almost more stunning that her usual tough, don’t-mess-with-me attitude. Was she unaccustomed to a man showing tenderness, offering concern for her well-being? A jolt of sadness shot through Jeffrey.

“First, off with our boots,” she said softly, looking away. She leaned over and began unlacing hers. “Just toss them here next to the front door.”

As Cyd worked on her boots, she called out again, “Aunt Geri?”

Babette barked.

“She’ll probably be back in a minute,” Cyd commented, pulling off her socks and laying them across her boots. After putting on one of several pairs of slippers piled in a heap on the floor, she walked to the woodstove.

Jeffrey pulled off a wet, heavy boot and looked around the cabin. His first thought was “cozy.” His second was “eclectic.” The cozy part was the old leather couch topped with a fur pelt, the high-back wooden chairs in front of the woodstove, the multicolored braided rug on the hardwood floor. The eclectic was the assortment of fishing gear and ski equipment in one corner, the pile of miscellaneous tools in another. It was as though someone could walk through the living room and grab whatever they needed on their way out to go fishing, skiing or fixing.

To the left, through a sliding glass door, he spied a glassed-in porch with a covered hot tub. At first he thought the walls were painted white until he realized the glass ceiling and walls were caked with snow.

Cyd stood in front of the woodstove, holding her hands to the heat. She wriggled her toes and moaned pleasurably.

Jeffrey, pulling off his parka, looked up. He hadn’t had a quiet minute with her since they’d met, and he took advantage of the moment to look at this little rowdy who had become his cohort. And his opponent, yet she didn’t seem so preoccupied with that aspect at the moment.

She looked to be five-four, maybe more, although she had the attitude of someone seven foot. She wore a bulky, white knit sweater with bright red, yellow and pink flowers embroidered along the neckline. Cyd wearing flowers? Not that the sweater wasn’t pretty, it’s just that flowers seemed so…un-Cyd. She seemed more the type to have wild animals crocheted into her clothes, not dainty blossoms.

Her jeans were faded. And tight. He settled on that compact behind, remembering how it undulated with great purpose as she marched in front of him. It had looked round and firm and…

She turned to warm her backside.

His gaze shot up to her face.

“What’re you thinking about?” Cyd asked.

“I, uh, was thinking about things with great purpose.”

She ran her hands through her damp hair. “You city types worry too much about the wrong things.”

“It’s all a matter of semantics.”

She stopped fussing with her hair and shot him a look. “Huh?”

“Semantics. How words go together.”

She rolled her eyes. “Like I said, you worry about the wrong things.”

He laughed, more than willing to let her win this battle. Besides, he liked looking at her taut body. Liked how her wet, black hair had a mind of its own. Unmanageable, wild. Just like Cyd. And those lips. Damn if they didn’t have the lush pink color of a rose, although she’d probably kill him if she knew he thought that. Hard to believe those rose-petal lips could devour a slab of moose.

She pulled off her bulky sweater.

A hot wave swept through his belly.

She wore a black long-sleeved T-shirt that outlined her breasts just oh so fine. Round, pert…and when she turned just right in the light, he could see the hardened tips of her nipples…

“Now what’re you thinking about?” She tossed her sweater over the back of a chair.

He didn’t answer. What words could sum up the cascade of feelings that rushed through him, firing his blood? His mind tried to step in and say it was her fault for kick-starting his libido with that rub-a-thon back in the sled basket, but he knew differently. Ever since he’d met Cyd—or more specifically, since he’d realized she wasn’t a he—his gut told him he’d met his match. She was sharp, tough and hot.

Sweetly, daringly hot.

The kind of woman you didn’t make love to, but with whom you embarked on a fiery sexual adventure.

Cyd held Jeffrey’s gaze. Her eyes darkened. Her cheeks flushed crimson. Self-consciously, she turned away and stared at the golden and red flames. “The fire’s good,” she whispered.

“Sure is,” Jeffrey murmured, moving forward and standing next to her. Far away enough to give her room, show her respect. Close enough to sense her heat, catch her scent. Fresh and sweet, the way the world smelled after a spring rain.

They stood side by side, the only sound the crackling of the fire. Babette lay on the edge of the hearth, next to a bone and a plastic squeaky toy that had seen better days.

When Cyd slid Jeffrey a sideways glance, he saw how her long, black eyelashes cast spiky shadows on her cheeks. Caught a look of longing in her eyes that flamed his needs even higher. Was she feeling what he felt? Or did she view him as another of her competitions. Maybe that was what was behind some of her antagonistic actions. She was accustomed to competing, not communing with guys.

If so, tonight he’d let her win. He’d let her have anything if she’d reward him with a kiss, a touch…

He blinked and turned his gaze to the flames. What in the hell am I thinking? I’m here on business not pleasure. Top priority is to research Arctic Luck, then fly back to L.A. tomorrow. The last thing I need to think about is a roll in the sack with Cyd. One hundred percent of his focus needed to be on Monday morning’s meeting, which would cinch him a promotion and a better career if he played his cards right.

He cleared his throat, as though that would clear his mind, and looked around for something to distract his libido. His gaze landed on an assortment of pictures on the wall. Several photos were of a burly man and a woman, who appeared to be outdoors, some school pictures of children, and a large group photo.

The latter, especially, drew his attention. He stepped forward for a better look.

“Is this you?” he asked incredulously, pointing to a young girl with long black hair curled prettily around her shoulders.

“Yes.”

He would have recognized those big chocolate brown eyes anywhere, but not the dress, the long styled hair. Interesting. Whereas he’d gone from street tough to executive, she’d gone from sweet girl to tough independent. They’d both started out one way, and somewhere along the road of life, taken a sharp one-eighty.

He wondered what her one-eighty was…and why they chose almost completely different paths. But even if they’d ended up in such different lifestyles, they shared a fundamental knowledge about survival that one learned only on the streets or in the wilderness.

Maybe the city slicker and the northern rowdy weren’t so different, after all.

“When was this picture taken?” he asked.

“When I was fourteen.”

Jeffrey stared intently at the picture, then back to Cyd. “It’s not in Alaska.”

“Seattle.”

“You look very happy.”

“I was.”

Cyd stared at the picture, remembering how life had been way back when. How her dad loved managing the movie theater, and how her mom laughed a lot, even though she spent most of her time chasing down two toddlers, Cyd’s younger siblings. Cyd, being older and being her daddy’s girl, had spent her free time tagging along with him to the theater, watching him thread the big reels of film or helping out at the ticket booth and snack bar.

She didn’t like the memories that had just been resurrected. Memories of a sweeter life, one where her family had been whole.

She stared at Jeffrey, long and hard, fighting more memories. How her dad changed when he lost his theater to some big-business movie chain. He’d always been such a fun, gregarious guy, but after he’d had to close down the theater, he’d grown tired, sadder. Then one day he moved his family to Alaska, the last “safe place in the world” her dad had claimed.

And then…

She didn’t want to think about that.

“I don’t want your film series to come to Alaska,” she blurted.

The front door creaked open.

A big body, swathed in an even bigger blue coat, clumped into the room. Babette leaped to her feet and started barking energetically, her tail thumping double-time. The person stopped, took one look at Cyd and opened her arms wide. “Sweetie girl!”

With a laugh, Cyd rushed forward into the hug. After some back-thumping and greetings, Cyd turned to Jeffrey. “This is my aunt Geri. Geri, Jeffrey.”

“Jeffrey,” Geri said with a smile, removing her beaver cap. A long silver braid fell over her shoulder. “Nice to meet ya.” She pulled off a red mitten and shook his hand heartily. She gave Babette a rub behind the ear.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.