It's so small. Doesn't he realize size matters? What if
he can't get it up, what am I going to do
then?
Alexandra Tulane swallowed nervously and
forced a confident smile to her lips while she tried to
figure out the best way of getting the job done. Climb
aboard, close her eyes and pray for the quickest ride ever?
Or take things nice and slow?
Slow won't get it
up. And isn't the saying, It's not the size but what the guy
can do with it?
Her inner voice snickered.
Oh, if that's the case, you'd better hope he's
really good.
Alex pressed her fingers
to her lips to hold back a near-hysterical laugh. She'd gone
off the deep end. No doubt about it, the stress had finally
gotten to her. What else could explain her standing here
having a complete conversation with herself?
She tore
her attention from the dark-haired pilot striding away from
the pathetically small plane outside the terminal window and
looked around the airport, trying to stomp down the fear
churning inside her. She didn't do small planes and
the one tied to the pier and floating beneath the
cloudy late-October sky was just short of matchbox
size.
No way would everyone in the waiting area fit
on there. What were they thinking? Even she knew planes
couldn't fly too heavy or they would—she
gulped—crash.
In all of her travels she'd
been very blessed to avoid puddle jumpers holding fewer than
fifty people. That is, until now. From what she could see
the Deadwood Mountain Lodge logoed plane only had four,
maybe six, seats. It gave new meaning to the word
tiny.
Her destination was located along
Chakachama Lake and touted as being Alaska's guy paradise,
"froufrou-less, rustic and lacking fluff." As a
writer/reviewer for Traveling Single, she'd reviewed
everything from B and B's and inns to five-star hotels and
resorts, and had a fabulous time doing it.
But to get
to the lodge, was she really going to have to get on
that?
David tried to warn you but you
refused to listen.
Yeah, well, what could her
boss really know about it? David was a great
businessman and had seen the magazine through hard economic
times by adding an online subscription e-zine, but he was an
armchair traveler. One who rarely left his home state unless
it involved Ohio State University football.
Quit
complaining. So it's small. Good things come in small
packages. Ferraris are small. So are little blue Tiffany
boxes. It's even red, your favorite color. How bad could it
be?
You'll be riding a scooter in midair—and
red just makes it easier for the rescue people to find the
debris. That bad enough for you?
Alex shoved the
mental argument as far away as possible and focused on the
here and now. She could do this. Had to do this.
After all, she was a professional and professionals didn't
balk when met with a challenge. Besides, David would be
thoroughly ticked if he'd sent one of his reviewers halfway
around the world only to have them protest a plane ride this
close to the end.
But you know, considering your
vacation plans have been canceled, there's only one way this
day could get worse.
Alex winced. She wasn't
going to think about crashing.
The important
thing was to not let her feelings of guilt over missing
Thanksgiving with her family get to her.
And how
are you going to avoid the lectures come
Christmas?
She was an adult. She had every right
to skip Thanksgiving in Tennessee if she chose to
do so. In the meantime, she'd just thank God she would be
out of cell range so she wouldn't have to listen to her
family's calls of complaint that she wasn't there when the
turkey was carved.
Since your plans were canceled
you could go home after the week's up and avoid the
sermons.
No. Uh-uh, no way. She wasn't going to
do that. Her canceled plans and pitifully small means of
transportation to Deadwood Mountain were not some
sort of cosmic curse. She'd get there, stay for a week,
write a review and spend her two weeks' vacation touring
Alaska as intended.
It's an itsy-bitsy,
teeny-weeny, red-and-white striped—
A combined
panic and frustration-fueled whimper escaped her, echoing
off the glass in front of her face.
"Sorry to keep
you waiting, folks."
The pilot who'd emerged from the
Deadwood Mountain Lodge plane greeted the group with a lift
of his gloved hand. He gave them a brief, lopsided smile,
and Alex frowned. Why did he strike her as
familiar?
The man had a collar-length mop of dark
hair raked back from his forehead in a messy,
I'm-a-guy-and-it's-just-hair kind of style. A short, neatly
trimmed beard covered the lower half of his face and held a
distinguished hint of gray on his chin beneath his lower
lip.
Never fond of beards, Alex had to admit the
facial hair didn't detract from the pilot's looks. He was
ruggedly handsome and considering the tiny lines that fanned
out from his eyes like he did his share of squinting in the
sun, she guessed him to be in his
late-thirties.
"Hey, Dylan. How have you
been?"
The pilot's expression warmed at the greeting
called by one of two older gentlemen waiting by the
gate.
"Ansel, good to see you again. Walter." He
shook hands with both gentlemen, his tone lowering as he
said a few words Alex couldn't make out.
Shifting
away from the men, the pilot raised his voice again. "Could
I have everyone's attention? Thanks. First off, welcome to
Alaska. My name's Dylan Bower, and I'm your pilot as well as
your fishing and bear viewing guide during your stay at
Deadwood Mountain Lodge. I, ah, just noticed we're missing
someone. Well, we'll find him shortly, but until he shows
let's get down to business. You three," he said to three men
standing off to the side, "are going with Samhere." Dylan
indicated another man standing in the background near the
gate door. "Sam, will fly you to the spike camp, introduce
you to the hunting guide who will be with you the three days
you're there, then fly you back to the lodge to finish out
the week. So, if you'd like to come introduce yourselves to
Sam…"
Dressed in camouflage pants and carrying thick
coats, the three men stepped forward. Their luggage included
rifles in soft black cases.
From the research she'd
done in preparation for her article and review, Alex knew
hunting was not permitted in the vicinity of the lodges so
as not to attract bear or other animals. A spike camp was
typically a series of tents or cabinlike structures set up
in a specified hunting area forty-five to sixty minutes away
from the lodge. Once the kill was made under the license of
a trained guide or assistant guide, the hunters would fly
back to their lodge and their prize transported for them for
processing. Businesses here had the act down to a science.
No meat was wasted, and no animal population overly
hunted.
Alex waited patiently for the instructions to
continue, and prayed for their pilot to say Sam and the
hunters would be taking the red plane outside, that there
was a nice, large plane to transport the remaining
guests to the lodge.
While the hunters and Sam
talked, Dylan Bower scanned the terminal again, skimming
over her position near one of the airport's metal support
beams. In an instant his gaze jerked back to her, and the
furrow between his eyebrows deepened at whatever thought
shot through his head.
Hmm, not a good sign, that.
Instead of the friendly smile of welcome he'd used with the
older men, Dylan looked at her as though he could instantly
tell she was going to be a nervous flier. No pilot liked
that confidence killer.
Tell him size matters,
that oughta help.
Squirming beneath the
intensity of his gaze because it was so direct, her
heart picked up speed when Dylan extracted himself from the
men and moved toward her with a purposeful
stride.
Alex straightened from her slouched position
and tried to smile even though her stomach was knotted up
like a hangman's noose.
She had to do this. With her
family in Tennessee having a baby boom and her mother trying
to set Alex up with every single guy she knew—or else
badgering Alex to agree to date her lovely but boring, couch
potato boss—reviewing the lodge was the perfect way to avoid
yet another confrontation about why she wasn't married and
pregnant since her brothers had recently discovered love or
the joys of fatherhood.
Still, Lord help them all if
she died before giving her mother grandchildren!
Her
pilot's long legs carried him across the coffee-stained
carpet at a rapid pace and when Dylan finally stopped in
front of her, Alex had to tip her head back quite a bit to
maintain eye contact. He was a tall drink of water. Not to
mention attractive. Looking at him wasn't a bad way to spend
the week. So maybe if she focused on him instead of the size
of the plane, she could get through this?
He gave her
a slight smile, one she returned with way too much nervous
enthusiasm considering she had a rule about getting involved
with anyone associated with the business being
reviewed.
"You're not what I expected."
As a
greeting, the comment stumped her. Traveling Single
never announced their visits. In fact, until the review
was printed, more often than not the businesses never knew
the magazine's personnel had been on-site, which gave the
owners or trustee board members or whomever had requested
the review of the accommodations true insight from a guest's
eyes as well as an unbiased review from one of America's
most trusted vacation sources. "I'm not?"
He shook
his head and the hint of a smile disappeared. "I thought
you'd be older and…"
His gaze slipped lower and in
response her body warmed. All from a look. She'd heard about
that happening and read about experiencing such a thing in
her favorite beach reads but it had never actually happened
to her. And despite the thrill, a sense of unease
followed it because the good girl in her knew mixing
business with pleasure wasn't smart.
Alex shifted her
weight and tried to regain a friendly yet professional
demeanor versus the one inside her shrieking, Go for it,
he's soooo hot! "Excuse me? I'm afraid I'm not
following you."
His gaze narrowed even more at her
obvious confusion before he scanned the terminal once again,
his eyes searching every nook and cranny before finally
focusing on the clipboard in his hand. Several seconds
passed before he said, "You're not her." A somewhat heavy
sigh escaped him. "Says here she graduated high school in
'84 and you're not—Well, sorry to bother you. My
mistake."
"Wait." He'd turned to go and she reached
out to stop him, laying her hand on his forearm. In the
process his coat sleeve scrunched up above his glove,
revealing a red patch of skin covered in painful-looking
scars.
Alex froze. She'd spent every summer of her
teen years volunteering at the hospital in Tennessee where
her father practiced medicine, and she recognized burn
wounds when she saw them.
Dylan shrugged off her
touch and yanked the sleeve down.
Oh, the poor guy.
One glance told her he wasn't comfortable with what had just
happened and an apology would be met with great unease. In
an instant she decided it better to pretend the incident
hadn't occurred, that she hadn't seen the scars and
therefore couldn't acknowledge them. And why would she? A
few scars didn't make or break a man. "Not her, who?"
she asked. "Who are you looking for?"
He
hesitated a long, tension-filled moment before answering.
"The housekeeper-nanny, Ms. Johnson."
Alex was struck
by the beautiful hazel color of his eyes before she focused
on one word—nanny. Her brother Ethan had recently
hired a nanny. Maybe it was an assumption, but the only
reason for Dylan searching the small terminal for one was if
he had a child.
The smidge of interest she'd felt at
spending the week hanging around the lodge with him dimmed
at the news. No doubt Dylan Bower had a cute kid and an
adoring wife waiting for him at home, and unlike others in
her profession who hooked up whenever, wherever and with
whomever regardless of marital status, she wasn't the type
to encroach on another woman's man. "Ah, I see. No, I'm not
Ms. Johnson."
Something darkened his eyes. "Like I
said, sorry about the mix-up."
Just like that he left
her standing there. No word of goodbye, not even a request
to join the other guests.
Taken aback, she blinked.
How strange. Then again, maybe he'd seen her interest wane
at the mention of his nanny? Or maybe she should have
acknowledged his scars? Who knew?
The man had his
hands full, and was obviously worried about his missing
housekeeper as well as the other lodge guests. He didn't
need her fussing over a silly blunder when he was
undoubtedly feeling the impact of the delay on his
schedule.
"Folks? Do me a favor and stay in this area
while I try to round up a couple missing people." Dylan
snagged something off his clipboard and handed the sheets to
the men, instructing them to fill out the papers and sign
them before he moved on to hunt for his elusive
passengers.
Her inner child huffed at the slight.
What about her? He'd had those slips when he'd approached
her. Didn't she need to sign one of those
papers?
It probably confirms your next of kin.
You really wanna sign that?
She shook her head
at her sarcastic inner self. She really needed to start
focusing more on positive self-talk.
Her gaze landed
on Dylan once more. Or rather his nice, tight tush as he
stepped off the carpeted waiting area onto the concourse
floor, his head high and footsteps ringing with the sharp
sound of authority and—niiice. She recognized the
maker of those boots.
Years ago she and her four
older brothers had gone together to purchase a pair of
Lucchese boots for her father for Christmas after he'd read
about the boots and admired them. She'd taken a crash course
on leather-work and the nuances of their distinctive style.
Like those her father now wore for family gatherings or
special events, the boots on Dylan's feet were Western,
hand-tooled, expensive and totally at odds with the
waterproof boots, sneakers and loafers she'd seen worn by
men here so far. But why would an Alaskan bush pilot
catering to fishing expeditions have boots like
that?
Maybe for the same reason a doctor in
Tennessee has them? Because he likes them? Wanted
them?
Dylan spoke briefly with the airline
attendant at the closest desk. The attendant searched her
counter then handed him a note along with a smile Dylan
seemed to ignore.
After reading the note, Dylan
crumpled the paper in his gloved fist before tossing it into
the closest waste can. Whatever had been in that note hadn't
been good news.