“You’re getting awfully stressed, Jeffrey.”

Cyd took his hand and squeezed. “I know just the antidote.” The moment she’d been waiting for. The chance to take his mind off business.

Jeffrey pulled his hand from hers and started pacing. “You don’t understand. This could make my career.”

While he walked away from her, she quickly doffed her robe. And when he turned around…Honestly, she’d never seen a man stare at her like that. His eyes were shiny, focused right on her.

She placed her hands behind her head, the way she’d seen a pinup poster girl do. For extra effect, Cyd thrust out one hip.

Jeffrey’s hot gaze traveled along her arms, down to that thrust-out hip, then back.

“What are you doing?” he said in a choked voice.

“Taking a hot bath. You should, too. It’s the perfect way to relax,” she answered, trying to sound coy and suggestive. She swiveled ever so slowly and walked toward the tub, hoping that he’d follow her.

And the squeak in the floorboard told her he was doing just that.

Dear Reader,

Too Close for Comfort and its sequel, Too Close To Call, Temptation #940 by Barbara Dunlop, are the result of a brainstorming session where Barbara and I gleefully latched on to the idea of a “Parent Trap for adults” story. Two guys from totally different backgrounds—one’s a rugged Alaskan, the other a sophisticated big-city executive—discover they’re twins and, as a last-stop ploy to ensure the success of a major business venture, swap places.

In my book, Jeffrey Bradshaw, senior executive for Argonaut Studios in Los Angeles, takes a trip to a remote region of Alaska to research the location for a TV series…and gets stuck there! Think James Bond stuck in Fargo. No martinis, no five-star hotels…But Jeffrey’s greatest challenge is matching wits with a feisty, wild-hearted bush pilot named Cyd Thompson who’s more woman than Jeffrey has ever handled. Hey, when it gets too close for comfort, maybe the best thing to do is just get closer….

To read about my upcoming books, as well as enter contest for prizes, please visit my Web site at http://www.colleencollins.net.

Happy reading,

Colleen Collins

Books by Colleen Collins

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

867—JOYRIDE

899—TONGUE-TIED

913—LIGHTNING STRIKES

HARLEQUIN DUETS

10—MARRIED AFTER BREAKFAST

22—ROUGH AND RUGGED

30—IN BED WITH THE PIRATE

39—SHE’S GOT MAIL!

107—LET IT BREE CAN’T BUY ME LOUIE

Too Close for Comfort

Colleen Collins

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To Barbara Dunlop, who made brainstorming this series too much fun!

Acknowledgments:

Special thank-yous to Jay Kelley, Fly Alaska, who walked (flew?) me through the world of being a bush pilot in Alaska; Sara “the Stove Princess” at the Good Time Stove Company for educating me about oil stoves; Matt Carolan for letting me pick his brain about life in the Alaskan interior; and Shaun for the writing cheers during deadline.

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

1

JEFFREY BRADSHAW STEPPED FROM the mind-numbing outdoors into the heated reception area, glad his breaths no longer emitted clouds of vapor. He flicked his wrist and checked his Rolex. Almost 4:00 p.m. He looked up. No monitors to announce if his four o’clock flight was on time. And if he glanced out the window outside, no commuter planes on the tarmac. Jeffrey looked around at the Alpine “Airport,” which consisted of a pop machine, an assortment of chairs and a counter. He headed toward the latter, pounding his hands together and wishing to hell it would stun the blood to start pumping again. So this was autumn in Alaska. Frozen land. Frigid air. What I’d give for a hot tub, a hot toddy and a very, very hot woman.

“Can I help you?” The guy behind the counter was fiddling with his computer.

“True North Airlines?”

The fellow did a funny salute. “You got it. I’m Wally.”

Jeffrey smiled while trying not to stare at Wally’s blazing red plaid shirt. Maybe all Alaskans wore such shirts in case they got stuck in a snowstorm. “Flight to Arctic Luck,” Jeffrey said. “Four p.m.” He reached into the inner pocket of his Italian cashmere suit jacket, pulled out his wallet and extracted a credit card. “One. Jeffrey Bradshaw.”

Wally took the credit card, giving Jeffrey an odd look. In certain circles, Jeffrey was accustomed to people recognizing him. At thirty-four, he’d held prominent executive positions at several global corporations, the most recent being Acquisitions Director at Argonaut Studios in Los Angeles. Just last month Forbes had done an article on how Jeffrey increased Argonaut’s profits in the third quarter by a phenomenal fifteen percent due to his innovative business ideas. The article even made Jeffrey look like a damn movie star by plastering a photo of him and a hot new television actor, Gordon Tork, on the cover.

Not bad for a kid who grew up on the streets. But growing up tough had been a bonus for Jeffrey. He had both street savvy and business savvy, which meant he could deal with just about any type of personality thrown at him, from cons to CEOs.

And this Wally fell somewhere in-between. A decent guy, probably born and raised in Alaska. So it would surprise Jeffrey if Wally, working at a one-person airport counter in remote Alpine, Alaska, had seen the Forbes article and recognized Jeffrey.

As the card cleared, Wally continued staring at Jeffrey, then glanced behind his shoulder, then back to Jeffrey.

Jeffrey looked over Wally’s shoulder into a square mirror where he caught his reflection. Strange. His neatly trimmed dark brown hair curled over his collar in the mirror. That’s when he realized it was no mirror, but a window. And he was staring into some guy’s face who was looking back at him, his hazel eyes flashing surprise.

It was like looking into some kind of distorted reflection, as though Jeffrey were seeing a more craggy, weathered version of himself.

Hell, it was like looking at himself. There was that damn cowlick he’d wrestled with his entire life, right at the crown of his—well, that guy’s—head. Even the size of his—well, that guy’s, too—ears. Jeffrey never thought his ears were that big, but several girlfriends had giggled they were the biggest, sexiest ears they’d ever whispered into.

Jeffrey squinted.

Yeah, that guy definitely had his ears.

What were the odds that two men, in a chance encounter, looked alike, had matching cowlicks and the same big, sexy ears? Had to be less than one percent of the population of the entire world. No, even less than that.

I’m losing it.

He wiped his hand across his face, welcoming the cold jolt of snow crystals that still clung to his leather glove. Seeing transmutations of himself had to be the effects of the long flight from New York to Anchorage, then the commuter hop here to Alpine. Throw in some stale airline peanuts, and anyone would see things.

Outside, the roar of an engine distracted him. His gaze shifted to another window, through which he saw a Cessna barreling at some insane angle toward the ground. Jeffrey was always aware of the impression he was making, but nothing could have stopped him from yelling an expletive and pointing toward the impending crash.

“Looks like Thompson’s right on time,” said Wally.

Stunned, Jeffrey watched as the plane jerked up at the last moment, its wheels miraculously touching the tarmac before the machine shuddered to a stop with mere feet of asphalt to spare.

Jeffrey waited until his pounding heart leveled off. “Is Thompson the pilot flying to Arctic Luck?”

“You bet.”

“I want another flight.” No way in hell was he getting into some stunt pilot’s death-wish plane.

“No other flights to Arctic Luck today.”

“Is this an airport?”

Wally paused, his clear blue eyes taking in Jeffrey. “It is.”

“Then call whoever’s in charge. Get another flight here.” Jeffrey hadn’t graduated Princeton’s business school summa cum laude, and been a successful business maverick, without learning a few tricks about managing people. He glanced at a handwritten sign taped onto Wally’s computer. Keep The Customer Satisfied. “Because I’m a customer and I want satisfaction.”

Wally tapped a key on the computer, then shifted his weight so he faced Jeffrey. “We’d be more than happy, Mr. Bradshaw, to get you another flight, but our most recent weather bulletin says there’s a storm building off the Gulf. Thompson’s our best bush pilot and, right now, your only option for a flight to Arctic Luck.”

On cue, a wiry teenage boy dressed in jeans and a parka pushed open the swinging door from the hangar. Pausing, he shoved back his baseball cap and raked fingers through his short, black hair. Upon seeing Jeffrey, his big brown eyes widened, then swerved to look at the guy in the window.

Wally waved a paper at the boy, who did another doubletake at Jeffrey and the guy in the window before accepting the paper. He promptly looked at it, then back at Jeffrey with a broad grin. “Howdy.”

The voice was…softer than Jeffrey expected. “Hello.”

The kid held out his hand.

Jeffrey paused, then offered his. For such a small hand, this teenager sure had a hearty shake. “You’re Thompson?”

“Yes. You’re heading to Arctic Luck?”

Was this kid even old enough for a pilot’s license? Wonderful. An illegal, daredevil pilot. Jeffrey learned long ago to never accept “no” for an answer. Keep stalling, asking for another flight to Arctic Luck, and things could happen. “I’m taking another flight.”

The boy released the handshake. “Then you’re going to be waiting for a long time.” He held up the paper. “Storm’s coming in.”

“So I’ve heard.”

The boy grinned again, then swaggered off to the pop machine. But instead of inserting coins, he gave it a calculated punch that released a drink.

“Are you canceling or taking the flight?” asked Wally.

Jeffrey weighed his odds. He could forego this trip to Arctic Luck, which meant he wouldn’t have the first-hand data he needed at the Argonaut board meeting early Monday morning. A key meeting where Harold Gauthier, chairman of the board, was making a special appearance to hear the pros and cons for the Alaskan film series Jeffrey was pitching, a romantic comedy along the lines of Ed meets Northern Exposure to be called Sixty Below. Not only was Jeffrey overseeing this deal, he’d written the story, which he’d set in a hypothetical Alaskan town. But now that the deal was nearing closure, it was imperative Jeffrey actually see the proposed location so he could speak formidably about how this frontier town was integral to the success of the series.

He had originally planned on flying in today, Saturday, then researching Arctic Luck tonight and tomorrow. Later on Sunday, he’d scheduled flights back to Alpine, then Anchorage, with a final flight to Los Angeles late Sunday night. He’d then catch some shut-eye and be ready for Monday morning’s meeting.

His alternative plan? To not fly to Artic Luck because he had a ten percent chance of dying thanks to Thompson’s death-defying flying tactics.

And then there was the issue of his promotion from acquisitions director to vice president of development at Argonaut Studios. Cinching this series would cinch the title.

“Yes, I still want to take the flight.” Jeffrey took in a sobering breath of air and hoped it wasn’t his last.

CYD THOMPSON WAITED at the door to the hangar for Mr. Big City to hustle over his smug self so she could usher him to the plane. As he sauntered toward her, she checked him out. Pretty fancy clothes, there. Fancy and damn impractical. Hadn’t anybody warned him that those leather loafers wouldn’t prevent his feet from freezing if the snow was sticking to the ground in Arctic Luck? And that coat—it would keep him warm for, oh, maybe three seconds. Give or take a second.

She stared at his face. Eerie how he looked like her boss, Jordan, who owned True North Airlines. Cyd rarely got unnerved, but seeing the resemblance had definitely thrown her off.

She glanced at the window to Jordan’s office. Damn amazing how these two guys shared the same hair—rich molasses color with that funky wave at the crown. And although Mr. City Slicker had barely smiled a greeting, something about his and Jordan’s smiles were alike, too. The way their lips crooked a little to the side, kinda like Harrison Ford.

“Ready?” Mr. City Slicker, tucking his wallet neatly into the inside of his jacket, looked questioningly at her.

Jeez, even their voices were similar. Rock-bottom husky. Although Mr. City Slicker definitely had more of an edge to his. But then, most city people did.

“Yes, but you aren’t.”

He paused, his hazel eyes flashing her a look she couldn’t decipher. “I’m ready,” he responded, that edge in his voice sharpening.

Didn’t anybody ever disagree with this guy? Or did he carry a permanent chip on that fancy jacket shoulder?

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.

Cyd turned to Jeffrey. “Time to get out.”

But time played a trick on her.

It stopped.

Or maybe it had stopped minutes ago, somewhere on the sled ride from the landing strip to this lodge while their bodies had been molded together in this one-person basket. Yes, it had stopped then, wrapping the world around them, creating a place where only the two of them existed.

That’s when she’d tried not to notice how nicely his body conformed to hers. Tried not to admire his strength, or how his arm had wrapped around her, holding her close, as though protecting her.

Nobody, especially no man, needed to protect Cyd Thompson.

But she hadn’t budged from Jeffrey’s embrace.

And, if she were perfectly honest with herself, she still didn’t want to budge. Which irked her as much as excited her. Maybe it was because she was accustomed to fighting the elements and competing with the guys. Add to that her role as head of the household since her dad died, and Cyd Thompson was a one-woman force who bowed to no one.

But at this precarious moment, Cyd felt all those attributes turning on her. Sharing that tight space with Jeffrey, she’d felt his power, sensed his manliness. And dammit all to hell, the experience left her feeling…womanly.

He’s a city slicker, she reminded herself. Out to destroy your world.

She turned and boldly met Jeffrey’s gaze, ready to say something “rough around the edges.”

But she got lost in his eyes.

They looked like Jordan’s. A deep reddish brown, intelligent. But Jordan’s eyes didn’t flash with specks of green and gold. And Jordan sure didn’t look back at her the way Jeffrey did, with a mixture of surprise and interest.

Interest?

She shifted in the basket, too aware of his solid thigh muscle molded against her hip. A city boy with muscles? Her mind reeled with how he came by those…and worse, her imagination joined the free-for-all and flashed an image of what he probably looked like naked. All muscle and sinew and dark, curly hair…

City Boy. Big business. End of the world.

“I said it’s time to go!” she barked, grabbing the edge of the basket and blowing out a gust of air as though that would also blow out these crazy thoughts.

But she made a serious mistake when she paused and glanced into Jeffrey’s face again.

He still had that look of interest, but this time she also saw…amusement?

“What’s so funny?” she snapped.

He blinked in exaggeration. “Just wondered why you’re taking your time.”

“It’s cold.”

“But you live in Alaska. You’re used to it.”

He had a point. But before she could muster some sassy response, he spoke again.

“But I don’t mind if you want to stay wrapped around my body. I like it. It’s keeping me warm.” He grinned. A sexy, “gotcha” grin that did funny things to her insides.

Had to be the basket. Throwing two bodies into a space that was supposed to only hold one had messed up their equilibrium. Had created a world where body heat got mistaken for something more.

And that look in Jeffrey’s eyes told her he felt that “something more,” too. Time to get her footing back, literally. Time to take control, let him know who’s boss.

“Time to get out,” she said, or meant to say. Her words had escaped on a breathy stream of air. And she may have forgotten to say the last two words. Which meant she’d just whispered a suggestive, “Time to…” to this hunk of big-city hot love.

Heat surged to her cheeks.

Jeffrey’s eyes did a slow perusal of her face, taking it all in. Then he nodded. A slow, knowing nod. Damn the man. Not breaking eye contact, either. As though willing her, no defying her, to admit that this sizzling, out-of-control moment was happening.

Well, she’d break this crazy moment, now.

Maneuvering herself to get out, her cheek brushed against Jeffrey’s. Ooooo. He smelled deliciously spicy and musky. No northern guy smelled like that.

Stop smelling, keep moving.

She hoisted herself up to a crouched position. When the hell is he going to break eye contact? It was a matter of pride, but she wanted him to be the first. Had to be the first.

“Problem?” Jeffrey asked, his voice spicier than that damn cologne he wore.

She was hunched over, her butt in the air, her feet still in the basket. “You always stare like that?”

“Like what?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Well, you’re staring at me, too, you know.” He winked.

With a huff of indignation, and anger because she was breaking the all-important stare-down, Cyd hurled herself out of the basket and landed with a splash in a hole of snow and slush.

She turned, her hands fisted on her hips, waiting to see how Mr. City Slicker landed on the icy snow with those plushy leather shoes. She just prayed he hit a hole big enough to sink him knee-deep in wet snow. What a shame, it would mess up those fancy slacks, too.

Jeffrey, still staring at her, cocked an eyebrow as though reading her mind and accepting the challenge. He stood—giving her an eyeful of his six-foot-plus being—swung one leg, then the other, over the side of the basket. He landed in slush, without the messy splash she’d made, and stepped neatly onto a path of crusty snow.

“You’re gonna need boots,” she said sharply, turning and trudging toward the door of the Mush Lodge.

“Wait,” called out Jeffrey.

She barely turned, her feet still walking. “What?”

“I have a problem.”

About time he admitted it. Feeling more in control, she turned. “What is it?”

He stopped, his feet spread apart, a lazy grin creasing his lips. “Don’t know your name.”

“Thompson.”

“I know that one. Do you have a first name, or do you go by one name only. Like Cher and Madonna do.”

Cher? Madonna? She glared at him. “Cyd Thompson.”

He bowed a little, and damn if he didn’t look like the ultimate gentleman paying his respects. The snow fell on his dark hair, sprinkling him with a little Alaskan magic. “Nice to meet you, Cyd Thompson.”

Harry strolled past, letting roll a loud guffaw as he tucked away his mobile radiophone. “You two gonna keep playin’ Romeo and Juliet in the snow, or come inside where it’s warm?”

Juliet? Whatever had happened in the basket, Cyd wanted to leave it there. Jeffrey Bradshaw was bad news. Plus, now that Harry had seen that little bowing number, she’d never hear the end of it.

But worse was Jeffrey’s reason for being here. He wanted to bring a frigging television series to her beloved Alaska, and Cyd reminded herself that she had to do whatever it took to stop him and his big-business, people-destroying machine. It destroyed her dad, and no way in hell would she let it destroy her family, her world.

“No more bowing,” she muttered in Jeffrey’s direction, avoiding his eyes.

Jeffrey grinned as Cyd spun on her heel and began marching toward the lodge. So he’d gotten to her, again. Chalk that up as a point against me.

Jeffrey followed her, their chilly silence broken by the crunch of the snow and the barking dogs. He let his gaze slide down her parka to that cute little jean-clad behind that bounced provocatively as she marched along. He liked her size—small and compact—and he had to admit, he liked her attitude, too. Reminded him of the tough girls he’d known growing up. The kind you could let down your guard with, smoke a cig, see the world for what it really was.

He hadn’t known a woman like that in years.

No, since then, the women he’d known were at the opposite end of the spectrum. And they all had temperaments that ranged from a little rainfall to a little sunshine.

Cyd, on the other hand, was an entire weather system unto herself. A raging snowstorm one moment—and if he pegged her right in that hot little moment back in the sled—a sizzling heat wave the next.

She took the steps two at a time onto the porch, then swung open a heavy wooden door over which hung a sign that read Mush Lodge.

Jeffrey barely caught the door before she let it slam shut behind her.

As he stepped inside the golden-hazed interior of what appeared to be a cabin-turned-tavern, he guessed that Weather Cyd was at the moment a tornado. Hell-bent to blast her way to what she wanted, and best of luck to Jeffrey if he got in her path.

He had no idea what irked her so much about him, but he had one hundred percent confidence in his charm factor. He’d get her to warm up.

Pulling the door shut behind him, he inhaled the scents. Coffee. Grilled meat and onions. The sounds of laughter and talking competed with background music—an old Neil Young tune about a cinnamon girl. Several big dogs slept in front of a large crackling fire to his right. A line of burly guys, with more hair than Jeffrey had seen since the rerelease of the movie Woodstock, lined the bar, swigging beer.

In the corner of the bar was a teenage boy, reading a book. A memory flashed through Jeffrey’s mind. He’d been sixteen, living with a foster family in Philadelphia. A local bartender had befriended him, letting him visit whenever Jeffrey needed an escape. He’d been underage, but nobody questioned his being there because he kept to himself, minded his own business. He’d spent hours in that bar, reading authors like Bradbury and Kerouac who helped him escape his world.

Something clunked at his feet.

Cyd stood before him, a gleam in her dark chocolate eyes. “Put those on.”

He looked down. A pair of scuffed, whiskey-colored boots lay on the floor. He looked back up into those chocolate eyes. She didn’t fool him for a millisecond with that brusque attitude. This lady might be tough on the outside, but he’d seen beyond her exterior back at the sled. Inside, Cyd was soft and vulnerable.

Or maybe he understood that about her because once upon a time he’d known what it felt like to wear a chip on your shoulder and an ache in your heart.

“Thanks.” He picked up the boots by their thick laces.

“Put them on while I radio Jordan back at Alpine. Need to file my report and tell him we didn’t make Arctic Luck, and we’re weathered in here.” She started walking away across the rough-hewn floor, ignoring one of the guy’s calling out “Hey, Juliet!” while another added, “Somebody protect the mirror and chairs!” Both comments were followed by raucous laughter.

“Wait.”

Cyd turned.

“What do you mean, we’re ‘weathered in’?”

A corner of her pert mouth turned upward. “I mean we ain’t goin’ nowhere soon.” She turned and continued walking.

With a shake of his head, Jeffrey followed. He had twenty-four hours to do research in Arctic Luck, not Kati-whatever.

He followed her into a small room that housed some bookshelves, a hot plate and a radio on a thick wooden table. The scent of coffee lingered in the air. Cyd was sitting on a metal folding chair at the table and fiddling dials on the radio.

“Operator, this is Mush Lodge calling YJ17546, True North Airlines on the Alpine Channel,” she said into the mike.

This woman impressed him at the damnedest moments. Just when she’d irritated him to the point of his wanting to throttle her, she took life by the reins in an admirable display of focus and determination. When other women stomped away, he usually found them pouting in some corner. Not Cyd. If she ended up in a corner, she’d be figuring out how to fight her way back out.

“This is Alpine YJ17546,” answered a man’s voice through the radio static.

“Hey, Jordan, Cyd here.”

“Everything okay?”

“It’s fine. Had to land in Katimuk due to the storm.”

“Roger, that. I’ll change your flight plan. You get lost?”

“Uh, not really.”

“How’d you end up in Katimuk?”

“Uh, yeah. I guess I did lose a few landmarks.”

Jeffrey felt his antennae waving. He’d heard the truth in her voice. She could have landed in Arctic Luck, but flew here instead.

“Who’re you talking to?” Jeffrey demanded.

She glanced over her shoulder, shooting him a “don’t butt in” look.

Which had the opposite effect on Jeffrey. Nobody told him what not to do. He crossed the room in two strides and picked up the microphone. “Who is this?”

“Jordan Adamson, True North Airlines,” a man responded. “Who’s this?”

“Jeffrey Bradshaw. This is a disaster. I’m the passenger who paid to be flown to Arctic Luck, but I was flown to Kati-Kati—”

“Katimuk,” said Cyd sweetly.

Jeffrey shot her a look.

There was a pause. “Sorry about that,” said Jordan. “Can’t fight the weather. But we’ll get you to Arctic Luck as soon as possible.”

“I need to get there immediately.”

“Afraid we can’t do that,” said Jordan.

“That’s impossible,” said Cyd at the same time.

“Nothing’s impossible,” said Jeffrey. “I’ll contact my office, have them call another airline.”

“You can call,” answered Jordan, “but nobody’s going to fly in this.”

“Why?” asked Jeffrey, eyeing Cyd while still talking into the microphone.

Cyd started to speak, but let Jordan answer. “Weathered in is weathered in,” he explained calmly. “Nobody will risk an aircraft, and I’m sure you don’t want to risk your life. Stick with Cyd. She knows what she’s doing. She’ll get you out as soon as possible.”

Jeffrey didn’t buy into her “so sorry” look. She was up to something.

“Let me get this straight,” said Jeffrey, sitting on the table and lifting the microphone to speak into it. “Your pilot could have landed me in Artic Luck, but she flew me to Katimuk instead?”

Cyd pursed her lips.

“She landed where she felt the plane and passengers would be safe,” Jordan said.

“Bull.” Jeffrey glared at Cyd. She’d pulled a fast one, although he was clueless as to why. He’d get Jordan to fix this.

“Again, I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” said Jordan. “True North Airlines will be happy to offer you a free round-trip passage to any city in the interior after the weather clears.”

“I only want to go to Artic Luck. When will the weather clear?”

“No way to predict that,” Jordan answered calmly. “My best guess is two days minimum, possibly a week.”

“Neither option is acceptable.” Jeffrey maintained eye contact with Cyd, who looked back at him with big eyes filled with concern and innocence. What a little actress. “I have a critical meeting in Los Angeles Monday morning which I must attend. My career depends on it. This ‘weathered in’ is not my problem, it’s yours, and I expect you to come up with a solution.”

There was a long silence in the room, broken only by the sounds of laughter and music from the tavern.

Jeffrey was accustomed to such situations in business. Person A created a problem and expected person B to solve it. Jeffrey never accepted such blame passing and always put the responsibility where it lay.

And at this moment, it lay with Jordan Adamson of True North Airlines.

“I’ll call you back in an hour,” said Jeffrey, “to hear how you’re going to fix this situation.” In New York or L.A., an hour was always plenty of time to get someone’s brain cells fired up with ideas.

“The situation will be the same in an hour,” said Jordan. “You’re right in the path of the storm front.”

Now it was Jeffrey’s turn to pause. Jordan, he had to admit, was a worthy opponent. Cool-headed, informed. He could use more managers like this back at Argonaut. “Then I’ll call you first thing in the morning, at which time we’ll discuss your solutions.”

He handed the microphone back to Cyd, wondering what the two of them would do for the rest of the night.

And wondering how to deal with this little dynamo who seemed determined to screw up his plans.

CYD TOSSED BACK A WHISKEY, then slammed the shot glass on the bar. She swiped her mouth with the back of her hand, savoring the alcohol’s stinging warmth as it worked a path down her throat.

“Tough flight, Juliet?” asked Harry, his blue-green eyes glistening in a face that was all beard with room for a nose.

“You’ve known me for years, and suddenly you’ve forgotten my name?” She motioned to Charlie, the owner of the Mush Lodge, who was working the bar.

“Yep, known you for years, but never seen you have so much trouble getting out of a damn sled….” Harry let the sentence dangle as he took another sip of beer.

“Yeah?” Charlie said, wiping his hands on a towel. Charlie had been in these parts as long as Cyd could remember. Some people said he’d landed here in the sixties in a psychedelic-painted school bus. Others said he’d gone to Canada to avoid being drafted into the Vietnam war, then relocated to this remote region of Alaska when he met May, his wife.

He never explained his past. Or his future, for that matter. He seemed pretty content to just live in the here and now, tend the bar, play his favorite music. Grateful Dead, Neil Young, the Stones.

“Coffee, don’t be stingy with the cream,” Cyd said. “Please.” She’d gotten so riled up over the last few hours, she was losing her manners. Again. If she didn’t stay in practice, try to be polite, she’d get another of those etiquette lessons from Jordan.

“Coffee, white. You got it, hon.” Charlie nodded and turned away.

“Jul-i-et,” Harry sang under his breath before taking another swig.

Cyd fought the urge to give him a piece of her mind. She was one of the guys, dammit, not some girly Juliet. One of the items on Jordan’s customer relations cheat sheet flashed through her mind. Don’t respond to criticism or taunts. Stay focused on the problem. Stay calm.

She’d never thought about it before, but those rules were good for real life, too. She’d let Harry’s comment go…but damn, it was hard trying to be good. If Jordan didn’t want to win that Alaskan Tourism thing so bad, she’d blow off practicing being “polished” and just be her usual, feisty self.

Charlie set a steaming mug of coffee in front of her. “Hungry?”

“What’re you grilling?”

“You,” Harry chortled. Several of the guys laughed.

Cyd pursed her lips, determined to ignore him.

“Got some moose steak,” answered Charlie, darting a glance at Harry, then back to Cyd.

“Get me some. Don’t be stingy with the fries, either. And a salad.” She almost forgot. “Please.”

“Please?” Harry guffawed. “Where the hell you pick up them manners?”

That did it. Cyd swiveled on her bar stool and faced Harry. But just as she opened her mouth, Charlie cut in.

“Harry, May baked your favorite apple pie,” said Charlie. “Wanna slice?”

Harry groaned like a bear. “May’s apple pie? I’ve died and gone to heaven. Make that two slices.”

“You got it.” Charlie turned to go.

“Wait, Charlie,” Cyd called out. “You seen Geraldine?” Geraldine, her aunt, lived on the outskirts of Katimuk.

“Yeah,” Charlie answered over his shoulder. “About two hours ago. She picked up supplies and headed back to her place.”

Great. That meant Aunt Geri was home. Cyd wrapped her hands around the coffee mug, letting the warmth seep into her hands as she contemplated the carved names in the old oak bar top. Once upon a time, Harry had carved their names here, although both of them pretended to have forgotten.

The bar grew oddly silent.

She turned her head and looked down the stretch of worn oak.

Jeffrey stood at the end of the bar, looking like some kind of fancy thoroughbred surrounded by buffalo. He’d doffed his parka so everyone got an eyeful of his blue-and-white pin-striped, button-down shirt. She squinted. Were those cuff links?

“What’ll you have?” asked Charlie. He’d paused halfway through the swinging kitchen door.

“Mind if I run a tab?”

“Brother, half of Katimuk does. What’ll you have?”

“I could use a double martini, up, Bombay, twist.”

“Bombay?” One of the guys snorted. “You got the wrong part of the world, buddy.”

Everybody laughed. Somebody slapped the surface so hard, the entire bar rattled.

Charlie released the door and stepped back to the bar. Picking up a bottle of whiskey, he poured a shot and set it in front of Jeffrey. “Best I can do for a martini,” he said, “unless you’re a beer man.”

“Thanks, this’ll be great.” Jeffrey downed it, then glanced down the bar and made friendly, but direct, eye contact with each man.

Cyd released a pent-up breath. It appeared Jeffrey was up to the challenge and could handle this group.

“Anyone know where I can get a hotel room?” he asked.

On second thought, he couldn’t.

As though a dam had burst, the entire group erupted in laughter and more table slapping.

“Yeah, there’s a Hilton right down the road.”

“Wait, let me call you a taxi.”

“No, a limo!”

“Neither option is acceptable!” a guy yelled, evoking another explosion of laughter.

Jeffrey frowned in confusion. “Did you guys overhear?”

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.

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