Primal Calling

As he pushed up, Serena looked her fill of bulging thigh muscles beneath his jeans. His teeth shone as he gritted them, grunting as he strained to lift the side of the plane. Was it antifeminist to be totally impressed with his he-man strength?

The passenger side wing lowered and she lifted first one cooler on and then the other, doing a bit of straining herself. Then she searched for a handhold, found a raised steel bar under the fiberglass, hoisted herself up and twisted to sit on her already wet butt.

“I think that’s going to work,” he called.

“Good,” she yelled back.

She heard a click and a whoosh and assumed he was lighting that welder-looking thing attached to the two tiny fuel tanks. He didn’t speak and every so often she’d hear him hammering on the metal. She drew her knees up, pulled her hood over her head and stuck her gloved hands under her armpits. It seemed as if hours passed.

She wished she had her purse up here. There was a candy bar in there, for sure, and a package of peanut butter crackers. Her mouth started watering.

Max never spoke except for an occasional curse.

She didn’t remember when she started shivering, but the sun had traveled way to the other side of noon. Daylight lasted about as long as the night this time of year. Her stomach had been growling since he’d mentioned dinner, and she’d swear her butt was frozen to the wing. He’d probably have to bring that welder over here and melt her ass just to detach it.

Her eyelids felt heavy, and she laid her head on her knees.

“Okay. I think it’s good.” Was that Max? Serena raised her head. He came around the nose of the plane, his stride sure and his gaze steady, a tall handsome Inuit in his fur parka and boots come to rescue her from the cold.

“Hold on.” He pulled one cooler down, then the other. His hands were red and raw. The wing started rising and he reached up to catch her as she slid off.

But her legs wouldn’t hold her and she would have fallen to her knees except he caught her against him, his arms a powerful vise around her. Their lips were almost touching and despite her shivering she felt something stir inside her, in her chest and between her thighs. The heat from his body surrounded her and the heat in his eyes scorched her.

For a moment she thought he would kiss her again.

“Mags.” Why was she slurring her words?

He pulled back and scowled. “Your lips are blue. Why didn’t you say something?” He swung her up into his arms, carried her to the passenger door and opened it. “Get inside.” He set her down in the seat, then tugged his parka off over his head. “Put this on.” He tossed it at her and marched away.

“But—”

“Just put it on and crawl into the back, get on the tarp.” As she slid the warm parka on, he loaded the toolbox and crate through the driver’s side door. From the crate he pulled a lantern, lit it and handed it to her. “This should heat you up. You have hypothermia.”

The coolers and boxes got shoved back into the plane. Max whistled and Mickey barked and came running. Then man and dog both jumped into the plane. But the man crawled into the back with her.

“Look at me,” he commanded as he held her chin between his thumb and fingers. His stare was intense as he examined her face. He pulled a large knife from his boot.

Her eyes widened on the knife and then on him.

Catching her look, he snarled. “It’s to open a can.” He twisted around, dug into the crate and pulled out a big can of stew. “You need to eat.” He punctured a hole in the metal and began cutting it open.

Now she felt like an idiot for doubting him. Why was he being so nice? Taking care of her, after what she’d done? This was all her fault. “I’ll d-do it.” Her voice, her whole body, was shaking uncontrollably. “You g-go ahead and f-fly the plane.”

He grunted. “We’ll leave in the morning.”

“We c-can’t leave now? I thought you s-said it was fixed?”

“The sun’s almost down. If the gear doesn’t hold during takeoff we could break something else. Something I really can’t repair.”

Resolved to spending the night here, she nodded. She was shivering less now. She was so hungry she’d eat the stew cold. But Max replaced the top of the lantern with a flat attachment and set the can on top of that to heat. Then he reached into the crate and pulled out a silver flask.

“Drink.” He shoved the flask into her hands.

“What is it?” She unscrewed the lid and sniffed.

“Whiskey.” He stirred the stew with his knife and raised an eyebrow at her.

Giving him a fake smile, she took a swig. And gasped. She wasn’t used to the hard stuff. White wine was her idea of booze. But she felt it travel all the way down and heat curled in her belly. She took another swig and tried not to make a face while she swallowed it this time.

“Thanks.” She handed the flask to him and he took a long swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing just above the collar of his faded sweatshirt. “Texas State Technical College?” She gestured to the words on his shirt. “That’s a long way from Alaska.”

Glancing down at his shirt, he shrugged. “My father lives there.”

“So, you stayed with him while you got your degree?”

“Stew’s hot.” Using a grease rag as an oven mitt, he lifted the can off the lantern top and poured three helpings onto metal plates from the crate. He produced two metal spoons, handed her one and then gave the third plate to Mickey, who wolfed it down.

Wolfing it down would be a fair description of how she ate it, as well. It was good and filling. “Delicious. Thank you again.”

He nodded, gathering up the plates and giving them to Mickey, who licked theirs clean too.

“What kind of dog is Mickey?”

“Part malamute, part something else. A mixed breed. Like me.” He drank from the flask again.

“Your mother’s Iñupiat?”

“You need to know that for your story?” He glared at her.

Whoa. Touchy subject. “I was just making conversation.”

“What the hell’d you think you were going to learn sneaking aboard my plane?”

“I was—” she focused on her hands and gripped the soft fur of his parka, ashamed to look him in the eyes “—following up on a rumor.” It seemed ludicrous now, wearing his parka, eating his food, to accuse him of drug trafficking. She just wasn’t capable of being objective when it came to him. Or maybe she wouldn’t ever be capable.

“Which one? The drugs? The murders, or the Russian spy?”

“Oh, I hadn’t heard the Russian spy one.”

He snorted. “Some reporter you are.”

If he only knew. “I’m not.”

“What?”

“I’m not a reporter. I’m the hostess of a cable show called Travel in Style. I was filming a show on the Iditarod.”

He blinked. “You’re a…TV personality?”