The Near & Far Series

by Serena Clarke

  But Bengt—suffering from no Swedish reserve at all—was untroubled by Jakob’s lack of enthusiasm. He was probably used to it, she guessed.

  “Hej, hej,” he said, giving Jakob a slap on the back. “I have company for you. Zoe is very keen to get started.”

  Jakob regarded her. Evidently, he was not at all keen for her to get started. “Okay.”

  At least he’d brought her heart to a halt. “Yes, I’m looking forward to it,” she replied, with pointed good manners.

  “Great,” he said, and turned back to his computer screen.

  Apparently their short and scintillating conversation was over.

  Well, he’d have to talk to her eventually, considering that part of her role here was helping with his own conservation work. And part of that (the clandestine part) was finding, amongst his research, evidence that would count against the wolves and in favour of Vertex’s clients in Scotland. So she’d have to get him talking, one way or another.

  She suppressed the urge to poke her tongue out at his long, straight back, and avoided noticing how broad his shoulders were. And how his dark hair stuck up just a little there at the back, as though he’d pulled his sweater off and left it tousled. And how…ahem. She turned her attention to Bengt. “So what will I be doing for you?”

  He pulled another chair over to the second computer and opened a fat red folder. “Everything you need to know is in here.”

  With Jakob’s back still firmly turned, she and Bengt went through the guide for volunteer conservationists, her job for the next three weeks. It wasn’t complicated. As well as assisting with the wolf project, helping Greta in the guesthouse as needed, and recording data from the weather station outside the office (to contribute to climate change monitoring), every day she would visit the golden eagle nesting site closest to the lodge. Bengt had already pointed it out on their tour that morning—an enormous construction of sticks high up in a birch tree.

  At this time of year, towards the end of winter, the eagles could be starting to think about mating, he told her. On each visit, she was to make note of any birds she saw and the behaviour they were exhibiting, check the surrounding area, and take photos of anything unusual or interesting. If the birds chose to settle in—they would most often re-use an existing nest, rather than build a new one—Jakob would set up a webcam. Back at the office, all the data was entered into the computer, and any photos uploaded and labelled by date and location. Experts in the government’s conservation department would take it from there.

  She nodded. “So…I can take the snowmobile?”

  “Yes, if you want to,” Bengt said. “Some of our volunteers prefer to go on skis, but you can choose. And Greta can go with you for the first couple of days. But the snowmobile has a GPS, and the path is marked, so you can’t get lost.”

  She considered it. “Well, I wouldn’t get far on skis…but then I might never come back on the snowmobile! You’ll have to show me how to use the GPS.”

  At that, she thought she heard Jakob laugh to himself, and she wondered if he was wishing she would get lost, so he could have the office to himself again.

  Bengt waved a hand. “You’ll be fine. Jakob will show you—he teaches all the volunteers to drive, when he’s here.”

  Jakob looked up then. “Maybe you won’t be the worst student I’ve had.”

  Really? She gave him her best PR faux-smile. “Maybe you won’t be the worst teacher I’ve had.”

  There was a moment’s silence as they regarded each other, then Jakob turned back to his work. This lesson would obviously be a laugh a minute.

  Bengt chuckled. “Ah, joking already, that’s good.”

  She couldn’t tell whether he was oblivious to the tension in the room, or purposefully smoothing it over. Maybe Jakob was like this with every volunteer…although probably not, given Greta’s comment about how they all liked him. She suppressed a sigh and looked out the window, where a small bird was hopping across the snow. What on earth could it be finding to eat in this snowbound landscape? Life obviously continued through the frozen days and nights, until spring came again.

  Bengt seemed to read her thoughts.

  “There isn’t much to see in the winter months. But the government’s rules for funding are very clear—the programme must be all year round. We’re lucky to have people like you, who come and help. And it makes a big difference for Greta.”

  She blushed a little, guiltily aware that her motivations weren’t as altruistic as he thought.

  “Oh, well…thank you for having me.”

  He smiled. “You can start tomorrow. When the work is finished in the guesthouse too, you can do whatever you like each afternoon. Take the spare car into Lillavik, or ski, or ice-skate…but carefully.”

  He grinned at his own humour, and she laughed.

  “I’ll try, I promise.”

  She was keen to get back into Lillavik, and visit Defrost Digital, to see if she could find anything of Claire. If she had ever come here, she’d most likely gone again long ago. But with no other real leads, it was worth a try, and Paul would be waiting for news.

  Bengt stood up. “Now I must go and look after our guests, so I’ll leave you with the instructions,” he said. “Jakob can tell you about his work. There’s a coffee machine there, please help yourself. Then you can have your snowmobile lesson.”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  “Take care of her, Jakob,” Bengt told him as he left.

  She stifled a snort. Sure.

  But as the door closed, leaving them alone, Jakob turned and looked at her. “I think you can take care of yourself,” he said.

  It could have been a brush-off, or an insult, except that—for the briefest moment—he smiled.

  And there was that speeding heart again, a surge of unexpected attraction. If he could shake off the surly, he might actually be good company. In that instant of a smile, the weight seemed to lift from his forehead, and his face cleared and became even more attractive. Maybe he wouldn’t be teaching her to drive off the nearest cliff, after all.

  Danger, her subconscious whispered. This is the man you’re lying to. Just being here is a lie. Don’t even think about it…

  But she ignored it. She could take care of herself. She knew what she was doing. Get in, get the info, and get out, back to London to make her point. And a promotion, if she had her way. Well, why not? It was amazing how attempted humiliation could make you suddenly interested in your career. One moody but handsome man would not get in the way of wiping that sarky smile off The Shark’s face.

  Six

  Throttle on the right, brake on the left. Feet in the slots. Lean with the machine as it corners. Jakob’s instructions were fast and to the point, and she listened carefully, determined not to be his worst student so far. Next, the hand signals. Left arm up in an L—prepare to stop. Left arm waving up and down—pay attention. Pump the left arm: let’s go.

  Once she’d repeated everything to his satisfaction, he grabbed the starter cord of her snowmobile and pulled once, twice, putting the weight of his body behind the action. The engine sprang into life, and he stood back and indicated that she should get on.

  She wasted no time. Astride the seat, the vibration ran through her body, charging her with energy. She took hold of the hand grips, and even through her gloves she could feel the warmth.

  “Are they heated?” she asked him.

  “Nothing but the best,” he replied, but his tone was so dry she couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. Well, whatever—the warmth was blissful.

  He started his own snowmobile, and they drove slowly away from the lodge in single file, along a path that ran behind his cabin and towards the lake. She left a large gap between them, as instructed, and concentrated on getting a feel for the machine and how it handled the snow-covered terrain. It was surprisingly easy, and soon she wished they could go faster. But Jakob was riding safe and steady ahead, so she tamped down the urge to be a girl racer and focused
on enjoying the scenery. He hadn’t wanted to talk about his research, instead suggesting that they go for the lesson straight away, and now they were out in the bright crisp day she could see why.

  They followed a well-defined path through woods and clearings, obviously in the tracks of earlier riders. She was able to relax and look around a little at the sapphire-and-diamond landscape of cool turquoise blue sky and sun-glittery snow. Peering into the trees, she wondered if she might see a deer, even though she knew the noise of the snowmobiles would surely scare them off.

  They finally came down to the lake, at a different spot from where she and Bengt had seen him that morning. A tiny boathouse stood tucked into bare-branched trees by the shore, and a narrow jetty jutted out over the frozen water. It looked like a good place for swimming and fishing in the summer.

  They turned off their engines, and the sudden quiet was so absolute that for a second she wondered if her ears were even working at all. Then a trill and chirp came from the trees behind them, breaking the spell. They both looked up as a little bird swooped down and past them, its red chest a vivid flash against the crystal landscape.

  “Bullfinch,” he said.

  She looked at him as they got off the snowmobiles. “You must know this place really well.”

  He shrugged. “I do.”

  “I didn’t have a chance to ask you much last night,” she said. “Sorry I fell asleep.”

  “It’s fine,” he said. “You were tired.”

  He started towards the lake, his footsteps making a crunch, crunch sound as his boots broke through the firm top layer of snow.

  “I was.” She hesitated, then followed, lurching a bit as she worked to keep her footing in the deeper spots. “So, are you from around here?”

  He stopped and waited for her to catch up. “I am.”

  This was obviously going to be like blood from a stone, but she ploughed on. She was curious to know more about him. Just for research purposes, naturally.

  “But you’ve been overseas, you said?” That much she already knew.

  “I spend a lot of time in Scotland. In the north.” His focus was on the horizon across the lake, as if trying to see all the way back to the Highlands.

  Of course. But she couldn’t give anything away. “I thought your accent was a bit different. Did you like it? It must be beautiful up there too.”

  Even though she’d been around the world as a kid, from Doha to Dallas, she hadn’t been further north in the UK than Edinburgh. Family holidays were few and far between, but always somewhere warm—Anthony and Madeline (she hardly thought of them as ‘Mum’ and ‘Dad’) were believers in sand, sun and Bellinis on their rare breaks.

  “It is beautiful,” he said. “Cold too. You wouldn’t like it.”

  She frowned, irritated at the implication in his words. “I’m not that soft. I’m just not used to it. London temperatures are nothing like this…”

  Then she noticed the slightest glimmer in his eyes, and realised that he was teasing her, and wished she hadn’t leapt so earnestly to her own defence. While she was still trying to decide whether she was more annoyed at being played than the insinuation that she was feeble, he turned away from the water, back towards the snowmobiles.

  Already? She turned to follow him, cautiously picking her way through the snow. Then she stopped, looking at the boathouse. It would be a gorgeous place for a party in the summer. She could picture it strung with bunting and fairy lights, music playing, and people laughing and picnicking on the grass.

  “Is there a boat in there?” she asked.

  “No.” He kept walking.

  “Oh, it’s empty then?”

  “No.”

  The edge to his tone made her prick up her ears. “What’s in there?”

  “Nothing.”

  “But you just said it wasn’t empty.”

  He narrowed his eyes as he looked at her, assessing her in some way she couldn’t fathom, and she shifted under his gaze.

  Then he seemed to come to a decision. He led her over to the boathouse, and reached up to retrieve a key from a nook just under the roof. It opened a creaky, narrow side door with a wrought iron handle. He gestured for her to go in, then ducked down to follow her through, and pulled the door closed behind him.

  Inside it was hazy-dark, the light filtering through small windows dusted with ice on the outside and actual dust on the inside. The air was still, and smelled like the hay that was in bales along the back wall and sprinkled on the floor. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she realised that just as he’d said, the vehicle housed inside wasn’t a boat. Instead, it was a sleigh. A sleigh beautiful enough to be Santa’s ride in The Night Before Christmas, or an escape for a fairy-tale princess fleeing a cursed castle. The red paint on the woodwork was faded, but she ran her finger across the gold trim, and it glowed in the dim light. The black metal runners curved gracefully up and around at the front, and inside, the seats were pin-tucked and velvety.

  “This is gorgeous,” she breathed, feeling like anything more than a whisper would break some enchantment.

  That self-contained, cautious measurement was still in his eyes. “It was my mother’s. I don’t know what to do with it now.”

  That first sentence, combined with his expression, told her everything. “You lost your mum,” she said gently. “I’m sorry.”

  He nodded, and shrugged, and busied himself pulling wisps of hay from the floor of the sleigh.

  She took his cue, and didn’t ask any more. “It seems a shame for it to be in here, when it’s so beautiful,” she said, wiping dust from the runner. “It needs to be out in the sunlight, pulled by a reindeer.”

  He smiled at that, and his expression made her feel like she’d passed the test, whatever it was. He pointed to the harness hanging at the back of the shed. “She had Icelandic horses. Smaller than reindeer, but strong.”

  “Icelandic horses are almost as romantic as reindeer.”

  As soon as she said it, she blushed. Would he think she was trying to force some kind of romantic moment? Because she wasn’t. Even though in the half-dark, now with his usual guard down, he was undeniably gorgeous. Not the pale-blond Scandinavian kind of good-looking, the sort that featured in Volvo ads and modelled Norwegian knitwear. There was something more unexpected about him, a kind of complicated, compelling attractiveness that she couldn’t pin down. It seemed appropriate, given that she couldn’t pin him down either.

  He shook his head. “Reindeer are not romantic. They taste good though.”

  “Oh, no. Tell me you don’t.”

  “Oh yes,” he replied. “We do.”

  She grimaced. “Christmas will never be the same again.”

  “We have worse things. Rotten herring, goose-blood soup…”

  Well, if there had been even the briefest danger of a romantic moment, it was gone. She held up a hand. “I’m only here for three weeks, so I’m happy to say I probably won’t have time to try those.”

  He smiled, and his teeth flashed white in the dusky light. “Someone could arrange it.”

  “Is that a promise or a threat?”

  “Whatever you think.”

  She turned her attention back to the sleigh. “I think your mum would probably really like this to be back out on the snow one day.”

  His face sobered again. “I think so too.” Then he held out a hand, inviting her up onto the seat. “After you.”

  She put her gloved hand into his, and stepped up. There was less room than she thought there’d be. When he sat down next to her, she felt the sleigh dip to his side, and the angle of the seat made her tilt towards him. He smelled surprisingly good for a guy who spent his days tramping around in the wilderness. Oh, it was tempting to just let herself slip a little to the left, just a little, and see what happened next.

  But she looked up at him, and his expression was unreadable, his brow heavy again. There was nothing to show that he felt any romance in this moment, with or without reindeer or ponies
or princesses. Oh heck, he was probably thinking of his mother. How inappropriate was it for her to be veering into sexy thoughts, when he’d just shared something so sad and beautiful?

  Three weeks, she reminded herself. That was all. Do what she’d come for, then back to London.

  The length of his body pressed against hers from shoulder to knee, and despite her thick pants and puffy jacket, she was aware of his warmth. He took off his gloves, and she found herself looking at his bare hands, their fingers long and agile-looking. In the quiet, she hesitated, then peeled off her own suede gloves. It felt weirdly intimate, each of them dressed in the most impenetrable items of clothing, exposing just the body parts that could reach out to one another and...

  Even in this chill, her imagination knew what to do with a tempting man, in a sleigh, in a boathouse by a lake.

  She kept quiet, not wanting to give away her train of thought, but not wanting to disrupt the moment either. His right hand lay on his right knee, this close to her left hand, hesitating on her left leg. He looked down, and she held her breath. All he had to do was stretch his little finger across, and the connection would be made…

  “You must be cold,” he said.

  She looked again at her own hands, and saw that her fingernails had turned an unattractive shade of purple, while the tips of her fingers were mortuary-mottled blue and white. She stuffed her hands in her pockets.

  “No, no, I’m fine.” So much for that romantic little scenario she had going in her own mind. Served her right. Stick to why you’re here, she told herself. Then she regrouped, changing the subject.

  “So…you’re studying the wolves?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bengt said you’re doing a PhD, but some other work too.” Here was a chance to get his own description of what she already knew. “Is that for the university, or…?”

  He shook his head. “No, it’s a group of people in Scotland who have created their own organisation. They believe that the native animals should still be welcome in their own country.” He turned towards her a little more, making the sleigh creak, and a new energy was in his voice as he continued. “They want to let the wolves come back to Scotland, and I’m helping them.”