All That You Are

by Stef Ann Holm

Mark would have given anything to be able to read her mind. He watched her face, the different expressions that played into her eyes and caught on her mouth.

  At length, she said tartly, “I could have handled Bruce.”

  “I’m sure of it,” he scoffed, her words not the ones he would have liked to hear. “He’s got to be pushing two-sixty, wears a triple XL and you’re what—ninety pounds soaking wet, and five feet on tiptoes?”

  The comment had her bristling, something he’d probably set out to do only he didn’t want to admit it. But her lack of falling all over him in gratitude for saving her from a construction moron who had ground beef for a brain put a dent in Mark’s male pride. Women had always gone out of their way to appreciate him.

  “Five foot three, and a hundred and eight.” A blush crept over her cheeks as if she’d said too much. Apparently sensitive about her petite stature, a mixture of distress and irritation crossed her face.

  Disarming her with a smile, he simply stared. He fought the urge to compare her to the women he’d dated in the past. But there was no help for it. She was a tiny package with a quick wit and a hot temper that could ignite him. She was nothing like the women he usually felt himself drawn to; he couldn’t be more attracted to Dana if she walked naked in front of him.

  And that was a thought worth thinking about.

  He liked the print shirt she wore. The colors and artwork had attitude. Just like her. White knit fabric caressed her waist and emphasized her slender shape.

  Taking in a sharp breath, she folded her arms over small but attractive breasts.

  The defensiveness had to have been perfected over the years. While all people had a history, hers had to have been tough. He wondered what she’d be like without hidden scars. She must have been hurt pretty bad to be so protective of her emotions.

  Moving past him, she said, “I’ve got a key to Fish Tail.”

  She went to unlock the door, and he laid his hand over hers on the knob.

  This close, he absorbed her body heat, and her fragrance filled his senses. His shoulder width and height devoured her, but she didn’t move. Her lips, delicately made, looked soft and full. He fought the urge to pull her into his arms and kiss her, stroke her glossy hair and keep her close.

  “I’ll go first.” Gravelly and thick, his voice didn’t sound like his own in his ears. When she narrowed her eyes, he clarified, “In case Paul Bunyan’s still around.”

  Outside, the evening had turned damp and cold. The harbor lights were like fuzzy yellow orbs bathing the Blue Note’s entry in a pale glow. Shadows cast murky shapes on the walkway. You’d have to be a cat to see clearly and know if anyone was moving in on you.

  In earnest concern, he took her fingers, knitting them within his own. Surprise widened her eyes, but a swift jerk couldn’t get rid of his protective gesture. He held fast. “You walk to your car alone after you close?”

  She no longer flinched, but turned loosely toward the aviation office and continued to head that direction. Her stiff posture begged him to release her. “Usually.”

  A buffered anger welled inside him. “You shouldn’t do that. Anything could happen to you.”

  “I’m still standing. So far, so good.” And then she slid out of his grasp to open the floatplane building.

  She switched the light on, and the booking desk came into view, strewn with brochures and paperwork piles. It was the airplane model that caught his attention.

  “Your pilot make that?” he asked, wondering about the connection between the two of them.

  Casually responding, she spoke while heading for the back. “Yes, it’s Sam’s.”

  “Cozy that he gave you a key to his office,” Mark said, unable to contain an unwanted jealous note.

  “It’s not his office. It’s mine.” Then she smiled, as if gloating that she’d gotten the better of him. Surprise must have marked his eyes, giving him away. “I own Fish Tail Air. The three airplanes and this building. Sam and two other pilots fly for me.”

  Mark digested her news. She spoke with an emotional pride; he felt a tenderness in her words, as if there were more meaning to the place than what she let on.

  Contrary to her tough talk, she had a softness inside that came to light. He’d only seen traces of this emotion in her before. The layer added yet another complexity about her he found interesting.

  “Well, aren’t you the complex woman,” he remarked after a long moment.

  While Dana shifted things in the back room, Mark gazed at the surroundings. Framed photos on the wall drew his eyes. Celebrities standing next to a floatplane. He recognized some of the actors from a hit television show. With strings of salmon and halibut raised behind them on scales, they mugged for the camera with a pilot—not Sam. Someone else. Looked like Sam though. Had the same eyes.

  One photo demanded his attention and he zeroed in on it. An African-American man stood with his arm around another guy. The younger of the two men resembled Dana in many ways. Lifting the frame off the wall, he angled it toward the light to study the images closer.

  “Put it back.” Dana’s voice held a strong note of reproach.

  He held on to the picture, neither looking further nor replacing it on the wall.

  The next thing he knew, Dana was lunging toward him, trying to swipe it out of his hand. He drew back, the photo high in the air with his arm extended.

  Tackling his chest with a body thrust, she knocked him into the door’s edge, her breath heated against his neck. Hands grappled to take the picture from him, but her sloppy effort was only a minor nuisance. He could take her down over his knee before she had the chance to suck in another breath.

  Mildly confused by her outburst, with one hand he angled her in a different position away from his shirtfront. With her energetic charge, the hard point of her elbow had been dangerously close to a certain area.

  With a husky whisper, he informed, “Simmer down, Dana. I’ll put it back.”

  He slowly released her and she didn’t fight him anymore.

  The photograph resumed its spot on the cluttered wall. Using his knuckle, he corrected the tilt. Getting the top level, he skimmed the photo for clues. He couldn’t figure out why she’d gotten so bent out of shape.

  Turning to Dana, he asked, “If you don’t want anyone looking at it, why do you have it hanging on the wall?”

  The steady rise and fall of her breasts, the soft sucking of her wet lips trying to catch her breath, almost made him forget what he questioned her about. Black hair fell around her face, a tangle of sexy wisps. Raking it back, she took in a gulp of air.

  “There’s all your stuff.” She pointed to gear piled on the floor. “And your ice chest.”

  “I take it you’re not going to answer.” It was a curiosity to find a woman so damned standoffish, yet fascinating.

  Going around her, he hoisted two ditty bags on his shoulder, then grabbed the tackle boxes and rods. He couldn’t manage the Igloo at the same time. “I’ll have to make another trip.”

  Silently, she gathered the ice chest and followed behind him to Jeff’s rental truck. They’d gotten it back late that afternoon and Jeff’s wallet had been on the truck floor. A credit to Spivey’s integrity, no money had been taken—until Earl asked for the impound fee, and handed over the ticket from the police department.

  Jeff had been so irritated by the amount it cost him to park in a public lot he went back to the condo to have a beer and mess with the software on his laptop. At that point, Mark volunteered to get their fishing equipment.

  The parking lot’s asphalt glittered with busted glass pieces by the Dumpster.

  “Watch where you’re walking,” he cautioned over his shoulder. “You’re going to step on glass and cut your foot.”

  “Not hardly.”

  Settling the tackle into the truck’s bed, he snorted. “So we’re doing that dance again—the ‘I say one thing and you say another’?”

  “I walk in this parking lot with my flip-flops on al
l the time and I’ve never had a problem.”

  “You should have a problem with it.” He frowned, glancing at the black-cloaked veil of the parking lot. Set off from Dock Street, a person would have to scream at the top of their lungs to be heard. “It’s dark out here. Any degenerate might be sitting around waiting to jump you. That potbellied quarterback could be hunkered down behind the wheel of his four-by-four, pumped up to rush you.”

  She gave the area a furtive glance, biting her lip as if he’d made an impression on her to be—at the very least—momentarily concerned.

  As if to validate her lack of concern, she declared, “There’s nobody here.”

  Lowering his mouth intimately close to her ear, he whispered, “I am.”

  NOT SINCE COOPER TOOK HER to court over his visitation rights had Dana felt such frustration, compounded by the feeling of total lack of control.

  A glance out the window, and she saw Mark’s truck was still there.

  For the past thirty minutes, she’d holed herself up inside the Blue Note, hoping he’d drive away and leave her alone. Trapped with only her thoughts to pass the time, she was going stir-crazy. The harder she tried to ignore the truth, the more it persisted.

  Tonight had been a turning point.

  Mark had touched her, held her hand within his own. She’d fought to disguise the internal tremble she’d felt over the smooth warmth of his flesh. No man who came to the bar was allowed to get physically close. While it wasn’t something she’d made an announcement about, everyone knew Danalee Jackson was off-limits.

  She’d never gotten involved with a customer. Nor would she. As the owner, she set herself apart from the crowd. She didn’t mind if Presley or Leo and Walt made connections. She just felt that as the proprietor, people ought to have propriety around her. It was all about respect.

  But there were times when a good-looking man came in, and she wanted to amend her personal rule. Many had tried to get her to change her mind. She had never yielded.

  She’d dated plenty before Terran, and while not so much after his birth, she wasn’t seriously looking. If the right guy happened to come along, it happened. She wouldn’t shut the door. There had been a few guys who’d been nice enough, but the spark just hadn’t been there. Not even in their good-night kisses…Kisses she’d hungered for, had put her best effort into, but she’d felt nothing more than a crackle—not a snap and pop.

  There was something to be said about a hot kiss that could curl her toes, make her want to fuse herself into the man delivering it. Too bad she hadn’t felt that since…

  Damn.

  Stupid Cooper Boyd.

  Dana checked the time, then glanced out the window. The watchdog was still out there. Didn’t he have anyplace to go? The loser.

  With that, she laughed at her false misnomer.

  Mark Moretti was anything but a loser.

  The contact of his hand, the strong feel of his fingers wrapped around hers, had done strange things to her insides. She’d felt as if her blood sped in different directions. The second he touched her, a cocktail of emotions invaded her body.

  That he could evoke such a strong awareness in her, and by only taking her hand—God help her if he ever tried to do anything else physical. If a simple touch could affect her, how would she react to his kiss?

  Dana groaned.

  Her wildly beating heart was the only sound in the bar. She’d shut off the jukebox long ago. All the lights were off except the one at the back bar. Everything was good to go. Just like she was.

  Another glance out the window. Still there.

  Leave, Moretti! she screamed inside her head.

  His talk about the parking lot being a danger zone had given her a mild case of paranoia. She had never had a moment’s trouble leaving the bar at night. Usually Leo or Walt was walking out with her, and on those nights they weren’t, she hadn’t felt afraid to head for her car.

  Ketchikan had its fair share of transient drunks who tried to stay dry in various buildings. For the most part, they were harmless. And the crimes were more often to property and not people. Although assaults occurred. She wasn’t stupid. She’d got into the habit of carrying a can of mace in her purse, as well as a whistle on her key chain.

  Tired and stressed, she wanted to go home. But she had the sinking feeling that Mark would wait her out. And win.

  There was no point in stalling any longer.

  So, on a resigned sigh, Dana locked the bar, then headed for her 1989 blue S-10 Chevy pickup.

  Ignoring Mark, she walked past him with her gaze straight ahead. But she could make him out in her peripheral vision. Muscular and on the alert, he stood with big arms folded over his chest and leaned into the tailgate of his truck.

  She didn’t want to talk to him anymore.

  Trying to fit her key into the lock, she didn’t like that her aim was unsteady. What was it about this man that could unhinge her so badly? Her response toward him encompassed more than chaos in her heart. His presence rattled her thoughts, her actions. She couldn’t prevent her pulse from triggering swiftly and misfiring.

  Glancing at Mark, she tossed her purse onto the bench seat then turned over the engine, anxious to be out of here.

  Only the engine didn’t start.

  She tried once more. Nothing.

  And again. Nothing, not even a click.

  Dead, dead, dead.

  Of all the unbelievable luck. Her battery was dead.

  Her hands on the steering wheel, she saw Mark push away from the full-size truck, his tall figure heading toward her. Under the low lights, his hair seemed blacker. A recollection of the faint strands of silver caught in her mind.

  He had on a lightweight black jacket that remained unzipped, displaying his broad chest and the crew-neck T-shirt underneath. Boot-cut jeans fit him nicely in the legs and hips. And everywhere else.

  She was digging inside her purse for her cell to call Leo when a soft rap on her window made her stop. Mark stood directly outside and motioned with his hand to lower the glass.

  Dread over the inevitable filled her as she cranked the window down a few inches.

  “Pop the hood,” he commanded, and she was all but ready to tell him no. But the heavy-lidded look in his eyes was serious—he meant business.

  She felt for the release and pulled it.

  Mark leaned over the engine, fiddling with wires.

  She gave him a few seconds to feel macho about trying, then she slipped out of the S-10 to stand beside him.

  “It’s dead,” she announced with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “It’s been touchy lately.”

  Turning toward her, he cocked his head. “And you’re driving it knowing it’s not reliable?”

  Indignance furrowed her brows. “Hey—it starts most of the time and when it doesn’t, a jump will get it going.”

  Raking his hair back from his forehead, he smirked. “Now if that isn’t just like a woman.”

  Rather than say another word, she released a slow and deep breath. Closing her eyes, she began to count to ten, something she did when she got angry with Terran when he did something wrong. Usually, that ten-count gave her enough of a lapse that she calmed down to talk reasonably with him.

  Three…four…

  Thinking about anything else but her truck, she let her mind drift. Seven. The aviation office. The photograph. Yes, anyone could see it. She loved that picture.

  But she didn’t want Mark asking questions about her dad and her brother, Terrance. She hadn’t been up for the inquiry…and the inevitable “I’m sorry.” Nobody was more sorry than her, but it had happened long enough ago that she’d moved on the best she’d been able to. She wasn’t healed. She didn’t think she’d ever be.

  Eight…nine…

  Ten.

  She opened her eyes, watching Mark’s wristwatch glint under the parking-lot light as he moved something over the battery. Her concentration to keep herself in check shattered as she caught a hint of his
insufferable grin.

  “What are you doing?” Against her will, she peeked over his shoulder to see what he was up to.

  Facing her, he stated his observation. “You’ve got yourself a problem.”

  “You?”

  The response was uttered before she could take it back, and she had to admit, watching his smile disappear did add a slight satisfaction.

  “No, smarty. Your battery cable’s corroded. You got any tools in that box behind your cab?”

  The diamond-plated toolbox had seen better days. It was the catchall for stuff she didn’t want getting wet from the rain. To her credit, she did keep a small tool kit in there, but nothing fancy.

  Without answering, she pushed the button latch and one of the sides popped up. Rummaging around in the dim light, she felt for the tool chest and handed it to Mark.

  He lifted the lid and examined the contents, then gazed at her. “This all you have?”

  She didn’t care for the way he made her feel inept. She didn’t have an inadequate bone in her body. She was an unfailing survivor and always managed to figure out a plan. “A hotshot like you should be able to make something in there work.”

  He stood to his full height, dominating the space around them. She no longer felt the night’s chill. To the contrary, warmth seeped through the barriers of her clothing, touching her skin and making her feel hot. Not only towering in size, his shoulders were wide and powerful. Just looking at him caused her throat to go dry.

  His height dwarfing her, he said, “I can use the pliers, but you don’t have a wire brush in here. How about in the truck?”

  All rational thought escaped her and she couldn’t seem to work out a response. “What about the truck? It won’t start.”

  Placing hands on either side of her arms, he turned her to face him. With his knuckle, he notched her chin upward to make her look him directly in the eyes. Her entire being shivered. Mortified, she willed herself to be still.

  His intent eyes watched her, studying every facet of her fragile features. Brown and fathomless, his pupils were large as he drank in the entire fullness of her mouth. Ever so slightly, his thumbs ran across her skin. She could feel the calluses on his fingertips, the rough-warm sensation of the raw strength he possessed.