With long, languorous strokes, she brushed her hair until it flowed like a dark river along her cheek and rested on her shoulders like the soft caress of a lover. Removing a silk robe from a hook, she tightened it around her waist and moved down the hall to her bedroom, acutely aware of Brian’s presence.
“Bathroom’s free,” she called, and then shut her door.
BRIAN STOOD in front of the lighted mirror, ruefully rubbing the stubble on his chin and inhaling the light fragrance of jasmine. The scent suited her—subtly mysterious, lush, carrying a haunting hint of possibilities. What was stopping him? He had seen and recognized the heated look in her eyes, the yearning of a woman for physical love.
She wanted him. As much as he wanted her. The thought of her silky skin touched only by smooth sheets seemed a waste of womanhood. With any other woman, he wouldn’t have hesitated.
Perversely, the very strength of his desire kept him decorously on his own side of the door. The urgency that sparked between them could easily turn into a conflagration—and that could get out of hand. Brian had no intention of being out of control.
He liked his life as it was. Oh, he thought about marrying someday, but it would be to a woman wise to the North who could handle hardship and loneliness. Malinche was too weak, soft from affluent living. He wondered how long she could keep up the pace he planned to set without collapsing and calling for Daddy.
He fervently wished he weren’t mixed up in this, but Bettnor’s visit had further convinced him he had no choice. He couldn’t drop it. He wasn’t going to tell Malinche about his own close calls, the threats to his life. He had nothing but her word about anything—that Dimitri was her brother, that she didn’t know a lot more than she was telling.
He didn’t know anything about her but what she had told him.
And what he saw of her. He caught his breath.
With the scent of her perfume still floating tantalizingly around him, invading every pore, every nerve, he rolled out his sleeping bag on the floor and shucked off his jeans and shirt. Wearing only his Jockey shorts, he slipped into the warm, down-filled bag.
He had decided against the couch. He suspected it’s fragile contours might not hold up to the tossing and turning he fully expected to do.
It was going to be a long, painful night. And he doubted that the next week or two would be much better.
Chapter Four
Brian pulled the Jeep into the parking lot near the lake where he kept his plane. As they rolled to a stop, Malinche jumped out and hoisted her bag from the vehicle.
Brian lifted an eyebrow. She was making a point. She’d probably never carried her own bag in her life. She would find soon enough that this trip was going to involve more hardship than lifting a small bag. He tried to ignore the tightness in his chest as he watched the way her jeans clung to her adorable backside. He had to make sure his emotions weren’t also involved.
“What did you do with the dragon?” he asked, lifting out his own bag.
She turned and fingered a delicate gold chain around her neck. “It’s here. I didn’t want to leave it in my apartment. I think someone wants this very much.”
“I suggest you keep your shirt buttoned, then.”
“I’m not a fool. It’s safe here.”
“Maybe. I think you should throw it away.”
“I appreciate everything you’re doing, Brian. But you can’t tell me what to do.”
Brian shrugged and strode after her along the pier. If this was going to become a battle of wills, he would regret allowing her to come along more than he already did.
He slung his bag into the plane and stood back, grinning, while she tossed hers after it. “You’ve got a pretty good swing,” he said, and was rewarded by a brilliant smile. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad after all.
“Hey, Brian!”
Startled, Brian turned toward the voice. A canoe slid across the lake and nudged the pier, and a short, stocky man carrying a fishing pole lumbered up onto the pier. He would have looked more at home in a business suit than the new flannel shirt and dungarees he wore.
“Joe. What are you doing here?” Brian caught the line from the canoe and wrapped it around a pole. “I didn’t know you were a fisherman.”
“You know you can’t be an Alaskan and not fish,” Joe said. “They’d run you out of the state.” He glanced at Malinche, but spoke to Brian. “I’m surprised to see you here, pal. I thought you’d be heading for Mexico, but now I see the attraction in hanging around.”
“Malinche, this is my boss, Joe Pasco.” As Malinche held out her hand, Brian gazed thoughtfully at Joe. He’d known the man a long time, and had never suspected he would be up at dawn casting into a lake. Perhaps he didn’t know the man as well as he thought he did.
“Where are you headed, Brian?” Joe asked. “I thought you just got back from your rustic hideaway.”
“You know me—I love the wilderness,” Brian replied.
“I think I’d like it better myself with the right company.” Pasco smiled at Malinche. “Any place I can get in touch with you in case something comes up?”
There was no reason not to tell Pasco their destination. Joe was a friend; he often checked Brian’s house while he was gone. Come to think of it, he’d had plenty of opportunity to search it, too.
“We’ll be going from place to place,” Brian said. “Good luck with your fishing.”
Joe sketched a salute, and stood on the pier as the two entered the plane and taxied out over the water. When they lifted off Joe was still there, staring after them.
“Your boss seems very interested in our trip,” Malinche remarked, as they gained altitude and left the bowl of Anchorage behind them. “Do you suppose he followed us to the lake?”
Brian shrugged. “His being there was just a coincidence. Why would he follow us?”
“You and I both know that Universal Oil wasn’t happy with Dimitri’s activities. Maybe they don’t want us snooping around.”
“Forget it. My employers may play hardball sometimes, but they aren’t murderers. Besides, it wouldn’t be necessary. Dimitri couldn’t have been that effective—he obviously wasn’t getting far with convincing the other Natives. Universal Oil could get permission to drill without doing away with Dimitri.”
Silence stretched between them. Malinche gazed down at the mountains thrusting jagged peaks toward the tiny plane as though they would like to tear it from the skies. Peak after snowy peak interspersed with stands of conifers, looking from this distance like a dark blanket wrapped around the mountains’ feet. A fierce and rugged land, alien to her after her life in the lower forty-eight. What was she doing here? Why did she have such an obsessive need to find her roots?
And why was she so achingly aware of this man beside her? She sneaked a look at his profile, and found it hard to breathe. No question about where he belonged. If ever a man fit perfectly with his environment, it was he. He sat relaxed and confident, flying this fragile craft across a wilderness. So sure about this, and that he knew what was best for everyone.
Had he known Pasco was going to see them off? Had some signal passed between them? She had known him such a short time, and she couldn’t afford to let her guard down. Still, she had an unreasonable feeling that he could look into her heart. She had wondered last night if he would check her door, and had been unreasonably disappointed that he had not.
She gave up soul-searching and settled in for the long flight to Barrow.
Barrow, although she had seen pictures, was still a surprise. A bleak, flat town of shanties fronted with snowmobiles and dogs, it was like neither the village she had been born in nor the sophistication of Anchorage.
The taxi at the airport was a beat-up Jeep driven by a Native who said his name was George.
George. Wasn’t that the name of Dimitri’s friend, the one who had sent her the package? Still, the name wasn’t unusual. She’d ask him. Short and squat, with the broad face of an Eskimo, George had a cheery smil
e that gave her confidence. Not so the road. Snow and ice still lingered here, so near the Pole, and Malinche held her breath as they skidded on an icy stretch. George, seemingly unconcerned, dodged a pothole and shouted over the roar of the noisy engine. “Where are you staying?” he asked over the engine noise.
“Not sure,” Brian shouted back. “Did you know Dimitri Stanislof?”
George became suddenly very attentive to the road. Perhaps he hadn’t understood.
“We’re looking for someone who knew Dimitri Stanislof,” Malinche echoed. “He was a famous artist who had a studio here.”
George, the cheery smile gone, pulled to the side of the road and cut the engine. “Maybe. Who wants to know?”
A moment ago George’s face had been open and friendly. Now it was as enigmatic as the frozen tundra itself.
“I’m his sister. Malinche Adams. This is Brian Kennedy.”
He stared at her so long she thought he wasn’t going to respond at all. “Malinche Adams,” he finally said. “His sister? You’re the one I sent the package to. You know he’s dead.”
Malinche’s breath caught in her throat. This was indeed the George who had sent her the package and Dimitri’s letter. His friend. She took a deep breath.
“That’s why we’re here, to find out why he died. Can you tell us anything that might help find who killed him?”
George’s expression was blanker than before. “I can’t tell you anything.”
“Perhaps if we could see his studio?” Brian interjected. “He may have left a clue of some kind.”
Again George hesitated, then made up his mind. “I guess it can’t hurt I doubt you’ll find anything. I already looked through it. I have the key. You can stay there, if you like.”
“You must have known him very well,” Malinche ventured.
“As well as anyone, I guess. No one knew him well.” George turned the key in the ignition, and pulled back into the street.
A few minutes later, with a screech of tires, he pulled up in front of a shanty, and leaped to the ground. “Bring your stuff. I’ll open the door.”
Malinche shivered. A chilly wind blew unhindered over the flat landscape, a landscape whose monotony was broken only by a few hillocks of scrawny vegetation. Such openness made her feel vulnerable, uneasy.
George caught her glance and a flash of amusement lit his black eyes. “He liked his privacy.” He pushed open the door and stood aside as Malinche and Brian entered the small room.
Dimitri’s essence met her, engulfed her. She caught her breath, and tears stung her eyes. Her late brother’s studio was vibrant, glowing, filled with his work. How much she had missed by not knowing him.
She moved about, reverently touching each object. Tanned walrus hides covered the plank floor. A baleen sculpture, with musk oxen and wolves boldly etched, crowned the one small window. Bears, seals, eagles, covered most of the other spaces, each lovingly carved from walrus tusks.
And there, in a place of honor on a hand-carved chest, rested a dozen dragons, carved from ivory and jade, the writhing forms ranging from half an inch to a full twelve inches in size, his only departure from traditional Native art.
Brian followed Malinche around the room. “I see what you meant. He was a great artist.”
“The best,” George agreed.
“I almost feel as if he’s still here,” Malinche said softly. “Or his spirit.” She touched the tip of her finger to a large ivory bear The animal felt warm, alive to her touch. Hatred for his killer burst inside her She burned, she lusted, to find out who had stopped this wonderfully creative artist in the midst of his work. Who had robbed her of her birthright?
“Did you know him well?” Malinche asked softly.
“As well as anyone, I guess, but he was a loner. He didn’t tell me much about his past life. I learned he’d been at Ward Cove when he was just a child. I never knew for sure what he did when he got out of there, or where he lived until he came here. By that time he was getting a small reputation as an artist.”
Ward Cove. The name sent shivers down her back. Her mother had been in Ward Cove, too. She shook off the thought.
“Do you want to stay here for the night?” George broke into her thoughts. “I don’t know what you’re looking for, but if it will help find Dimitri’s killer—”
“Then you agree he was murdered?” Malinche spun toward him.
“I don’t see what else it could have been. People say he wandered out in the snow and froze to death, but he wouldn’t do that.”
“He didn’t. We found out he was stabbed,” Brian said tersely.
“Expected so.” George’s face was expressionless. “But you won’t find anything here to prove it. I’ve looked.” He turned to go. “There’s a café down the road, but I don’t think Dimitri would mind if you used his supplies. He won’t be needing them. I’ll stop by in the morning.” With a wave of his hand, he went out the door, and in a moment, she heard the roar of the Jeep’s motor.
Malinche lifted the largest of the jade dragons from the chest. At first glance, they all looked slightly different, but on closer examination, she saw they were all the same type—a heraldic dragon, sinewy tail coiled around four-clawed legs, a ridge of sharp spines stretching from the spiked nose to the forked tail. Fiery, malignant eyes, a barbed tongue protruding from an open mouth. Their ferocity made her shudder.
It seemed incongruous that Dimitri, with his gentle seals and bears and eagles, should carve this ferocious fantasy.
She replaced it on the chest, keenly aware, as always, of Brian’s presence. “What do you think of George? Does he know more than he’s telling?”
“I doubt it,” Brian said. “He wouldn’t have left us here alone if he had anything to hide.”
“I suppose you’re right.” She smiled, looking up into his eyes, eyes that could change from hard steel to warm soft clouds in an instant. Eyes that she could drown in. It was a bad move. His eyes held her, caressed her, and she suspected it had occurred to him, as it had to her, that they would be spending the night alone together.
“We’d better start looking,” she said, hoping her tremulous voice wouldn’t betray her thoughts.
Two hours later she leaned on the file cabinet in the tiny alcove, so close to Brian that with only a shift in weight she would touch him. In spite of the distraction of his nearness, she knew they had searched thoroughly. Nothing.
She shoved a file folder back in an open drawer, and sighed. “He sure was involved in a lot of things, but I don’t see how any of it relates to his death.”
“Me, either.” Brian scanned a letter Dimitri had received from the secretary of a Native corporation. “We’re just confirming what we knew. He stirred up a lot of people—but none of them seem likely to have killed him.”
“What about the CIA agent you said entered your apartment? Could Dimitri really have been a spy?”
“There’s nothing here to confirm it.” He dropped the letter on top of the file cabinet, then swore as it slipped down behind it. He reached down to retrieve it, and pulled out the letter and another envelope along with it. “What’s this?”
Malinche’s quick surge of hope melted into disappointment. “It’s just an empty envelope.”
“But it’s from the Department of the Army in Washington. Why would the army be writing to him?”
“If he were a spy? A double agent?”
“Then I’d expect he’d be dealing with the CIA, not the army. Maybe George can tell us more about it in the morning.”
He glanced at Malinche, and felt such a surge of desire that he forgot about the envelope. She looked so tired, so fragile, that it was all he could do to stop himself from crossing the few inches between them and taking her in his arms, cradling her head against his chest. He wanted to kiss the top of her head where the whiteness of the part showed between the dark wings of her hair, kiss the back of her neck, the soft hollow at her throat…
And that was dangerous. He already
knew she was fragile, unfit for the hardships of his life. She brought out the need to protect and shield, making him forget that in the end it would be he who needed the protection. He’d get his mind off her. He didn’t want to spend tonight tossing as he had last night. He wasn’t going to let his mind wander to her soft full lips, or dream about her silky skin beneath his hands.
“Good luck,” he murmured to himself, suspecting it was already too late. “Maybe we’d better look around for some food,” he said aloud.
“You’re right. I’m hungry. Let’s see what we can find.”
The cupboard yielded several cans of beans, sardines, peaches, and an unopened can of coffee. Brian groaned.
“Don’t be such a sissy.” Malinche laughed, a deep throaty laugh that sent shivers all through Brian. “Aren’t you the man who could eat muktuk?”
“I was lying.”
Malinche bent to pick up a pan, her breasts pushing against her sweater, and heat rushed to his face. Malinche was all wrong for him, and he still didn’t quite trust her. Although George had confirmed that Dimitri had believed her to be his sister. Maybe she was telling the truth. But truth or not, she didn’t belong in his world.
He watched her spoon the beans into a saucepan, her slender body moving gracefully, her sooty eyelashes starkly outlined against her clear skin. A strand of hair had escaped the braid and fell over her ivory cheekbone. Absently, she reached up and pushed it behind her ear. The movement went straight to Brian’s heart. Mesmerized, he watched her. A faint beading of moisture shone above her upper lip. Her full lips parted slightly…
He didn’t know how he got there. He didn’t make a conscious plan, but suddenly his hand was on the back of her neck, his mouth seeking hers. She was warm and pliant in his arms, her soft breath a faint caress on his skin.
Under The Midnight Sun Page 5