“Unbelievable, isn’t it?” Betsy said, following Mm out.
“Mm.” Mitch nodded energetically, not trusting himself to speak.
“Good luck with Ally. I’ll probably be over there in a little while, myself. Most everyone in Porcupine usually ends up at the Top Hat before the night is through.”
Mitch cleared his throat. “Then I’ll see you later, Betsy.” Bracing himself, he opened the door. The wind cut right through him and it felt as if icicles were piercing his eyeballs. The temperature had dropped at least another twenty degrees since he was out here last.
With great effort he closed the door behind him, located the Top Hat by the jaunty neon sign, and started toward it. He hated cold weather, hated snow, hated sleet, ice, cold wind—all that winter nonsense. That’s why he’d moved from Chicago to L.A. eight years ago.
Then he’d struggled to build his investigative and personal protection business in sunny Southern California because he simply could not tolerate the idea of going back to cold weather. Now look at him. Freezing his ass off in Alaska, for God’s sake.
The job wasn’t supposed to be like this. When Madeline had hired him, he’d pictured keeping an eye on Ally in Southern California. Where it was warm. He hadn’t known about this Kurt Jarrett/Alaska angle.
Grumbling to himself, Mitch took off his glasses because they were crusted with ice. The clear-lens glasses were only for show, anyway, part of his nerd disguise. He wore contacts. He couldn’t afford to go with prescription glasses because if they happened to come off in a tight situation he’d be nearly blind.
The door to the Top Hat opened out, and he had to give it a mighty pull to conquer the wind wanting to keep it closed. When he jumped inside, the door slammed behind him with a loud whack.
Nobody noticed. Everyone was too busy clapping and cheering for the woman dancing on top of the bar. The woman was Ally.
Chapter Three
After three Irish coffees, Ally had decided it was the best drink in the world. What other combo could hype you up and drown your inhibitions, all in one fell swoop? And as for the jukebox in the corner of the Top Hat, it had the most brilliant selections she’d ever heard. When “Louie Louie” had come on, what was a girl supposed to do? She’d started to shake her booty.
Then Rudy, the red-haired, substantially bearded guy who raised chickens and transported people to and from the Fairbanks airport in a truck called Slewfoot Sue, had lifted her up on the bar so everyone could see what a great dancer she was. After three Irish coffees, she was one amazing dancer. She tossed her hair around and gave them the old bump-and-grind like a pro.
Apparently they loved it, because the clapping and cheering drowned out “Louie Louie.” That was okay, because she’d found her own personal rhythm. She was smokin’.
Or at least she was smokin’ until her heart began racing a little too fast and she found herself short of breath. So she wound up for a big finish that included a few breast shimmies and nearly made her fall off the bar. But she regained her balance and swept both arms out in a low bow. The whistles and stomping were extremely gratifying.
Feeling a wee bit dizzy, she looked out over the audience, which was comprised of maybe six or eight lumberjack types like Rudy. What a terrific bunch of guys. She blew them all kisses and did her Elvis impersonation. “Thankyou. Thankyouverymuch.”
Then her gaze drifted from the smiling faces of her fans as she sensed another presence in the room. Her attention was drawn like a moth to the flame of a giant orange parka positioned right by the door. Oh, crap. Mitchell J. Carruthers, Jr., the Terminator of All Things Joyful, had arrived.
She glanced down at Clyde, bartender, owner of the Top Hat, and the man who would love to get into something or other belonging to Betsy. Betsy would make two of him, so the pairing would be like Jack Sprat and his wife.
But it was not her place to judge. It was her place to drink, especially now that an orange Popsicle man was standing by the door. “ ‘Nother Irish coffee, Clyde, if you please.”
“Comin’ up, Ally. Nice dancing for an amateur.”
“Thanks. I’m sure you can do better. You wanna be next?”
“Nah, at least not until Dave shows up to help out. Somebody has to mix drinks, or the boys will turn ugly.”
Her tongue felt a little thicker than usual. “Those boys could never turn ugly. They’re sweetie pies.”
“Deny them their booze and they’ll go from sweetie pies to shitheads in no time.”
“No!” She couldn’t believe it.
“Yep.” Clyde put whipped cream on her drink with a whoosh from a pressurized can. “You drinking this standing up or sitting down?”
Ally glanced over at the orange Popsicle man. He was on the move. She decided sitting down was a prudent idea. “Sitting.” She just wasn’t sure how to accomplish that, being so wobbly and all.
Suddenly the orange Popsicle man was standing right by the bar. He even spoke. “Let me give you a hand.”
She gazed down at Mitchell. “Does a Popsicle man have hands?” Then she giggled at her own joke.
“Come on, Ally. I don’t want you to fall off.”
She frowned, thoroughly insulted. “You’re doing it. Hovering.”
Rudy appeared next to Mitchell. “Need some help down, Ally?”
“Thank you, kind sir.” She put her hand in Rudy’s, gave a haughty glance in Mitchell’s direction, and allowed Rudy to grab her around the waist and swing her effortlessly to the ground.
She couldn’t be sure because her vision was a little blurry, but she thought that Mitchell looked annoyed. Good. He’d come to Alaska uninvited and he dressed funny. He deserved to be annoyed. She was annoyed, too, dammit. And more than slightly dizzy.
Grabbing the nearest chair, she plopped into it. To her dismay, Mitchell sat in a chair at the same table and proceeded to take off his orange hat and orange coat. Worse yet, when Clyde brought her drink over, he stopped to ask Mitchell what he was having and Mitchell ordered a draft.
If she’d felt up to it, Ally would have changed tables. But then Rudy pulled up a chair, too, and grabbed his beer from another table, reaching out one long arm to snag it. So he sloshed some on the floor. So what? Ally was still impressed by his manly actions, and even more by his red beard, which hung down to the fourth button on his flannel shirt.
Ignoring Mitchell, Ally leaned toward Rudy. “Awesome beard you have there.”
Rudy smiled, which also made for an interesting sight. Rudy hadn’t managed to keep very many of his teeth. “Glad you like it, Ally.”
“What happened to your teeth?” Dimly she realized that might not be a polite question to ask, but she had sipped her way right past polite and was now in the neighbourhood of total honesty.
“Bar fights, mostly,” Rudy said.
“Outstanding.” That made him even more of a manly man, in Ally’s estimation. She’d bet Mitchell had never been in a bar fight. This might be his first visit to a bar, for all she knew. He might be a bar virgin. The thought made her giggle again.
Speaking of Mitchell, he seemed to be trying to get her attention by clearing his throat and saying her name. She continued to ignore him and picked up her Irish coffee to lick the whipped cream off the top. Yummy.
“Ally,” Rudy said, “your friend Mitchell wants to say somethin’ to you.”
Ally licked a hole in the whipped cream and took a drink of her Irish coffee. “He’s not my friend.”
“Well, maybe not, but he did come all the way up here from L.A. just to see you. I know that, on account of I’m the one who drove him here from the Fairbanks airport.”
“Ally.” Mitchell sounded determined. “We do have something to discuss. It’s about the Loose Moose Lodge.”
Ally sighed and turned to him. Maybe if she found out what was on his mind, he’d go away. “What about it?” She took note of Mitchell’s outfit—an out-of-date tan sport coat and a brown and orange tie. Then she remembered that she’d been
hoping Betsy would seduce him. Mitchell did not look seduced, though. His ugly tie was still in place.
She peered at him. “Did Betsy take you into her parlor?”
“Yes, but I—”
Rudy started to laugh. “That parlor’s something, ain’t it? All them naked women, and the red walls and the mirror in the ceiling. Looks like there should be one of them orgies going on in there.”
Ally studied Mitchell to see if he’d start to blush, which might mean something had happened in the parlor. “What did you think of it, Mitchell?”
He gazed at her. “Interesting.”
She had to admit that Mitchell had a sensuous mouth, a point she hadn’t noticed about him before. He had a decent chin, too, with a Dudley Do-Right cleft. A chin like that would be tricky to shave unless you were careful, but Mitchell was the kind of man who would be careful.
She watched his mouth move while he said the word interesting and imagined those lips doing lovely things to a woman, providing the guy working the equipment knew how to use it. Mitchell probably didn’t.
“Did the bed and mirror turn you on?” She hoped so. She hoped he planned to go back and spend the whole night with Betsy. Maybe Betsy could teach him how to employ his lips to best advantage.
“No. But I wanted to let you know that—”
“Well, shoot. I was hoping it would. Betsy needs company, you know.”
“She’s always needing company,” Rudy said. “She tried to get me in that parlor once, but Betsy’s not my type. My type’s more like you, Ally.”
She beamed at him. “Why, thank you, Rudy. I like you, too.” She thought she heard Mitchell groan, and out of common decency she turned to him. Besides, if he was sick, they’d have to get him out of here to a hospital far, far away. “Mitchell, do you hurt somewhere?”
“I’m fine,” he said. “Just ducky.” Then his beer arrived.
To Ally’s surprise, he took a good long swallow of it. She watched Mm in amazement. He ended up with a little droplet of beer on his top lip, and he licked it off. A funny little jolt hit her. A sexual jolt. Now that was ridiculous. She must be really drunk.
“Wow, Mitchell,” she said. “I guess you were thirsty.”
“Yeah.” He set his beer down and looked her in the eye.
She knew he had brown eyes, but she couldn’t see them very well at the moment because one of the neon signs behind the bar reflected in his glasses. Wearing the knit cap had tousled his hair, which partly disguised an essentially boring haircut. His hair was thick, though, and a nice shade of brown. Queer Eye for the Straight Guy could do wonders for Mitchell.
“We need to talk about something,” he said. “You know how at the Loose Moose there’s a connecting bathroom between two bedrooms?”
“Um, yes, I guess.” She tried to think why he’d be telling her this. Then it hit her. “No! Don’t you dare say we’re sharing!”
“At Betsy’s request. She—”
“You asked her, didn’t you? So you could hover!”
He sighed. “No, I didn’t ask. She set it up that way because she doesn’t want to heat and clean two bathrooms. She said you’d understand.”
She glared at him, wishing she could call him a liar. But what he’d said didn’t sound like a lie. It sounded exactly like the sort of thing Betsy would do, for the sake of efficiency.
Ally could demand her own bathroom, of course, but she wasn’t the sort of person to do that. She especially didn’t want to do that now that Mitchell had partially let the cat out of the bag about her inheritance. Demanding her own bathroom would make her look spoiled, the kind of woman who was used to luxury. She didn’t want anyone here to know that.
She might be stuck with this bathroom situation. Taking another fortifying swig of her Irish coffee, she turned to Mitchell. “How soon do you expect to be leaving?”
“I guess that depends a lot on the weather.”
Ally appealed to Rudy. “You’ve lived here a long time, right?”
“Since I was just a little guy.”
Ally didn’t think Rudy had ever been little. “So what about this blizzard? Could it let up by tomorrow?”
Rudy shrugged his massive shoulders. “It’s possible. Then again, it could blow clear into next week. My chickens might be able to tell me.”
Mitchell put down his almost-empty beer glass. “Your chickens?”
Ally nodded, smiling fondly at her new best friend Rudy. “Rudy is tuned in to his chickens. And chickens are tuned in to the universe. Right, Rudy?”
“Chickens lay nature’s perfect food, the egg.”
“Exactly.” Ally shot Mitchell a triumphant look. “You see?”
“I don’t see what eggs have to do with weather.”
“I was gettin’ to that,” Rudy said. “Go ahead and laugh, but I live with chickens, and chickens know what’s goin’ on. When I got up, they were all restless, hoppin’ around on the kitchen counter, wouldn’t settle down under the table, where they usually nest, so I knew that blizzard was headed our way.” He sighed. “I love those chickens.”
“They really live in your kitchen?” Mitchell eyed Rudy over the rim of his beer glass. “I thought Betsy was exaggerating.”
“In the winter they live there, on account of the cold. Which is the reason Lurleen gave for takin’ off right after Christmas, but I don’t think that was the reason at all. I think it’s because she found a guy who gave her multis.”
“Multis?” Ally wondered if that was some rare Alaskan gemstone.
“Multiple orgasms.” Rudy gulped his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “She was always goin’ on about how that’s what she wanted, and I wasn’t providin’ them.”
“Well, now, that’s sad,” Ally said, “because she’s the one in charge of her orgasms, not you.” She could have sworn Mitchell made a choking sound, but when she looked over at him, he was drinking the last of his beer like nothing was wrong.
“How do you mean?” Rudy asked. “I thought it was my fault whether she had just one or more than one.”
Ally tapped her head. “It’s all up here.”
“Gee, I thought it was all down there.” Rudy pointed toward his crotch.
“The most important sexual organ is the brain.” Feeling very wise, indeed, Ally took a sip of her Irish coffee. Not only was she an excellent dancer tonight, but suddenly she realized how much she intuitively knew about sex, even though she hadn’t had a whole lot of it in her life. Two brief affairs wasn’t much to brag about. But she’d read Cosmo for like, forever.
“In that case, I’m in trouble,” Rudy said. “I’m not that smart.”
“No, no, we’re talking about her brain. Oh, I’m not saying that it doesn’t help if a guy can last more than twenty seconds, and if he’s good at foreplay, but basically, the woman has to put herself in the right frame of mind.”
She glanced at Mitchell, who probably didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. “Isn’t that true, Mitchell?” Yeah, like he’d really know. If he made love the way he dressed, she pitied his girlfriend.
“Absolutely,” Mitchell said, with an air of authority.
She challenged him with a long, hard stare. But eventually her stare slipped down to that excellent mouth of his. Besides having very erotic contours, his mouth looked exceptional when he smiled, like now.
With a tiny shiver of appreciation, she glanced away. Those hps might be nice to look at, but they were attached to Mitchell, the man who seemed determined to clip her wings before she’d even had a chance to take a test flight. And he’d be hovering around making her life miserable until the blizzard ended. Bummer.
* * *
Mitch wanted another beer. Or six. Ally Jarrett had been overprotected all her life, and now he was the poor schmuck who had to handle her first taste of freedom. Oh, joy. She’d seemed relatively easy to deal with back in L.A. Obviously she’d been waiting until she was in the middle of nowhere to cut loose.
Danci
ng on the bar, drinking like a fish, and making cow eyes at the natives—he didn’t know how in hell he’d rein her in without causing her to explode in fury. She already hated every interfering move he made.
Meanwhile he had to pretend to be unaffected by her actions. He had to ignore the wave of lust that had swamped him when he’d witnessed her shimmy-and-shake routine on top of the bar. And she kept looking at his mouth with this dreamy expression. Women who did that generally wanted to be kissed.
He would control the urge to grant her unspoken wish, but if she felt like kissing somebody, she might settle for Rudy, instead. Now there was a prospect that really would have Madeline spinning in her grave—her precious granddaughter and sole heir to the Jarrett fortune making out with a backwoods lumberjack who was missing several teeth and allowed chickens to live in his house.
Fortunately Rudy seemed like an unassuming type. So far he hadn’t shown any inclination to take advantage of Ally. Mitch wouldn’t bet that all the other men in the room had Rudy’s temperament, though, and if Ally had decided to turn into a barfly, she’d get into trouble sooner or later.
As Mitch calculated his next move, Ally continued to educate Rudy on the mysteries of female sexuality. Mitch had checked into her background months ago and knew that her sexual experience was as limited as every other area of her life. There’d been one serious boyfriend in college and another semi-serious one since then.
Both guys were now married to other women. Recently, Ally hadn’t dated at all. Her grandmother’s illness and then grief over her death had seemed to absorb the bulk of Ally’s attention.
Which meant she was ripe for attaching herself to a guy, any guy. Still, he had a hard time imagining her choosing Rudy once she sobered up. Even so, there would be others hanging around the new girl in town, and Mitch had been charged with keeping her from making a terrible mistake. Until now he hadn’t realized how impossible that might be.
Ally drained the last of her drink and pushed herself unsteadily to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to visit the ladies’ room.”
Mitch stood automatically. “Do you need any—”
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