by Rachel Grant
She’s Dylan’s girl.
Had Dylan told Fiona about him? Probably not. And if he did, he probably wouldn’t have mentioned exactly who Dean was.
Months ago, Dylan had admitted that when he started dating again, he’d learned the hard way that he couldn’t tell his dates his brother was Dean Slater, the wildlife photographer known for his photos of animals in their natural habitats on all seven—yes, seven—continents. According to Dylan, a lowly volcanologist couldn’t compete. His dates were more interested in hearing about the brother who was off exploring the world, not the scientist who studied it.
After that, Dean had been determined to fix Dylan up with a model he knew. She was perfect for his brother and eager to meet him. But once the LA visit was on the calendar and plane tickets were purchased, Dylan had refused the blind date on the grounds that he had a girlfriend. He went on to tell Dean all about the brainy and beautiful archaeologist he’d met while working on Chiksook Island in the spring.
Dean had been happy his brother had met someone, even as he feared Dylan was getting too serious, too fast. Dylan was still raw from his divorce. The guy needed to learn how to casually date. Sex didn’t have to mean commitment.
But then Dylan vanished, and Dean didn’t hear so much as a peep from his brother’s new chick. The one he was wild about and who was wild about him.
Had they broken up? Did she know no one had heard from Dylan in weeks, with the exception of one abrupt email that claimed he was going off the grid?
If, for some unfathomable reason, the email was real and Dylan actually had gone off to find himself, did she know where he was? And even more important, was beautiful and brainy Fiona Carver the cause?
The new ornithologist was hot, but he had an air of full-of-himself that billowed out in waves, like too much aftershave. He was too smooth, and Fiona wasn’t a fan of the I want to photograph you pickup line. She’d heard that one before, also from a scientist hoping for a field fling.
The usual ratio of men to women on the Chiksook expeditions was four to one, with the majority of both genders being heterosexual. Given the ratio, guys looking to hook up didn’t waste time before making the first move, but this had to be a record. The ramp at the back of the plane hadn’t even closed yet.
She glanced at his hand. No ring and no cheater band. At least there was that. A fisheries guy on the last trip had been married and thought that was a selling point. He’d gone so far as to pitch, “What happens on Chiksook stays on Chiksook.”
She told him she preferred to post everything on Facebook and would be happy to tag the guy’s wife. And then she showed him his wife’s page and threatened to send a friend request.
She loved fieldwork, but sometimes people could make the whole experience miserable.
She rolled her shoulders, eager for the jet to take off. The noise of the flight made conversation difficult, and she had a book to read. Plus, she was impatient to get back to the island. They’d been called out of the field abruptly last time, thanks to a problem with the generators. She hadn’t been able to collect the samples she needed for testing and analysis. The quick evacuation had also meant she’d left the prehistoric village site exposed to the elements, and the elements that battered Chiksook were not to be underestimated.
She didn’t think she’d gotten a full night’s sleep in the last month as she agonized over the state of the site. It was possible she’d made a significant find that could alter theories on trade routes during the Iron Age, or she’d found artifacts made with meteoric iron. But it was all speculation without the actual tools and rocks. The site had been buried for over a millennium until she’d uncovered it, and it was now exposed in one of the harshest environments in the United States.
A storm could have compromised the structure. The artifacts could have been washed away, the dwelling flooded.
She frowned at the open cargo-bay door, wondering what the delay was. They needed to get this party started before she completely lost her mind.
She startled when a guy in uniform with a military police armband came running up the ramp. Irrationally, she feared he was there for her. She wouldn’t go to Chiksook today. Wouldn’t return to the site. She’d failed at her one job.
She exhaled to dispel the ridiculous fear, then glanced around the jet interior, catching the look of alarm on the new ornithologist’s face before he managed to hide it.
What is he afraid of?
“Which one of you is Trevor Watson?” the MP asked.
The geologist seated across from her raised his hand. “Me.”
“I need you to come with me, sir.”
“I can’t. We’re about to take off. My job is mission critical.”
“Yes, sir. Orders from the base commander, sir. You must come with me.”
Trevor frowned and unbuckled his straps, then stood. They all knew you didn’t argue with MPs.
“Grab your bag, sir,” the MP said.
Trevor unclipped his duffel bag from the rack above him, then scanned the faces of everyone inside the plane. Fiona held his gaze and shrugged. She was the only navy employee on this flight. Everyone else worked for Pollux Engineering. If this was some kind of internal company issue, she knew nothing about it.
The moment Trevor was off the plane, the ramp began to rise. Several people let out pent-up breaths, including the bird guy.
“That was weird,” Cara said. “Anyone know what that was about?”
“No clue,” Fiona answered. The engines flared to life, making further conversation difficult, and she settled back in her seat. She’d text her boss for an explanation when they landed on Adak. She’d hoped to consult with the geologist about the site stratigraphy.
Her gaze returned to the bird guy, and she found he was studying her with an intense look; then he gave her a confident—maybe even smug—smile.
She shook her head. There was something charming about him. She even almost found the smugness appealing, and that made no sense whatsoever. Ornithologists weren’t usually the big egos in camp. It was the geologists and volcanologists you had to watch out for. Except for that one—Dylan Slater. He’d been kind and smart and a professional to his core.
She glanced around the group again, but she knew what she’d find. Dylan wasn’t here. He wouldn’t be back, which made her belly twist.
There wasn’t a volcanologist on this expedition at all, but maybe one was being flown in with the team from Anchorage. In two days, Fiona’s field assistant would be catching a flight from Elmendorf Air Force Base just outside Anchorage, along with other scientists, but until then, Fiona would be the only archaeologist in the field.
With her on this flight were Roy and John, both engineers of one type or another—she always forgot the exact specialties—and Cara, a marine biologist. Fiona had worked with everyone here except the bird guy with Paul Newman–blue eyes.
Like Newman, Bill’s hair was blond, but his was a bit darker with sun streaks, which made sense if he spent a lot of his time in the field chasing birds. He had lines on his face that gave him a weathered look. Rugged and appealing. Comfortable and confident.
That had to be where the egotistical vibe came from. He knew exactly how good-looking he was. She’d bet his cheesy lines and brooding stare worked like magic to make women’s panties disappear.
They all donned headsets to hear the pilots’ instructions as the plane rolled toward the runway. There would be no flight attendant or refreshments on this flight, except for what Fiona had brought with her. Still, she preferred this to commercial flights any day. Plenty of legroom for her longer-than-average legs and no unexpected overnight layovers in Chicago or Denver. Layovers on Adak—where this flight terminated—happened occasionally, but it wasn’t the same as being stuck in a hotel in the Midwest or Rockies. It was an island that was beautiful and brutal and utterly exhilarating.
She leaned against the headrest and closed her eyes, feeling the rumble of the plane’s engine at her back. Between
the noise of takeoff and her closed eyes, Hot Bird Man wouldn’t be able to get her attention, and she would enjoy a moment of peace knowing she was finally on her way back to Chiksook.
Did he really expect her to help him settle in on the island, like she was some sort of concierge and not a fellow scientist with a job to do?
She wished she’d sat next to Cara. She hadn’t seen her since she’d left the last expedition early and wanted to hear all about the woman’s misadventures in the intervening weeks. They’d have plenty of evening hours over the next fourteen days to catch up, so she hadn’t been concerned with seating on the flight. A mistake, apparently.
The jet aligned with the runway. The engines revved, the plane vibrating beneath and behind her. Fiona opened her eyes a tiny bit and looked askance at Hot Bird Man.
He looked tense. Fear of flying, maybe?
They raced down the runway, and the nose of the turboprop lifted. His shoulders seemed to relax, and he appeared to settle back in his seat as they rose into the air, yet he was strapped in like the rest of them, so the difference was subtle.
Maybe he didn’t suffer fear of flying so much as fear of takeoff?
She opened her eyes all the way and unabashedly studied his profile. While his eyes and hair reminded her of Paul Newman, that’s where the resemblance ended. His nose was broader and his brows were thicker. A trim beard framed his lips and covered his chin and cheeks, and she wondered how those bristles would feel against her skin.
She jolted at the unwelcome thought, and the motion drew his attention. His gaze turned to her, and his intense blue eyes lit with an amused heat. As if he knew exactly what she’d been thinking.
The guy was full of himself.
Except she had been thinking inappropriate thoughts that involved his mouth.
She glanced across the aircraft to where Cara sat. The woman’s gaze bounced from Fiona to Hot Bird Man and back, and she flashed Fiona a speculative and knowing grin.
Fiona rolled her eyes. She didn’t do field flings, and Cara knew it. She had a list of reasons why it was a bad idea, starting with personal experience, but there was also the issue of her professional reputation being jeopardized in a way that male scientists rarely had to fear for doing the same deed.
Cara just grinned. She didn’t share Fiona’s concerns and had in fact hooked up with one of the engineers in May. She’d claimed it was worth it because the nights were darn cold. Fiona had to admit, she had a point there.
Again, her gaze strayed to Hot Bird Man.
No. No way. Nothing good ever came from field flings, even when the guy was a hot birder with Newman eyes.
What happened to Dylan Slater was proof enough of that.
TWO
Dean didn’t think his heart settled to an even beat until they’d reached cruising altitude. The MP’s sudden appearance inside the jet had probably taken five years off his life. But they were in the air now. His fake ID had worked, and they were on their way to the Aleutians and Dylan’s last-known location.
The woman across the fuselage from Fiona’s seat unbuckled her straps and crossed the space, dropping herself into the empty seat between Fiona and himself. She strapped in, then offered her hand to Dean. “Cara Santiago. Marine biologist. You must be the new bird guy.”
The engine noise meant having to pitch their voices a bit higher to be heard, but conversation wasn’t impossible. He smiled and shook her hand. “That’s me. Bill Lowell.” He’d practiced saying the name over and over the last few days so it would sound natural.
“Have you ever worked in the Aleutians before, Bill?”
He’d done several photo shoots on the islands, including the birds of Attu, the bears of Unimak, and the fauna of a few other islands. Five years ago, on one such expedition, he’d been asked to photograph a Unangax̂ elder, one of the two dozen survivors who’d returned to the Aleutians after being taken to Japan to serve as laborers during the war.
The resulting image had run on the cover of National Geographic and had become an iconic image of both the Unangas and their struggles during and after World War II, and the article that accompanied it chronicled their ongoing fight to preserve their culture and language.
Bill’s experience, however, was likely to be far different, so he simply said, “I’ve been to Attu, of course, but haven’t done fieldwork elsewhere on the islands.”
She smiled. “Well, you’re in for a treat, then.”
The diminutive woman was quite pretty, with glossy brown hair, deep-brown eyes, and dark skin that all signified her Hispanic heritage. Dylan had probably mentioned her on one of their many phone calls, but Dean didn’t remember details.
His brother much preferred phone calls to emails, which had proved frustrating when Dean tried to gather all the information he could on the Chiksook project. Emails provided departure and return dates but little in the way of details, such as who had been on each expedition. Fiona’s was the only name Dean could remember, and even then, he’d had only the first name to go on, plus the fact that she was an archaeologist. He hadn’t even known her employer.
The Register of Professional Archaeologists hadn’t listed a single Fiona in Washington State. But then, now he knew she wasn’t a contractor, she was a federal employee, so listing herself there wouldn’t be necessary.
But just because he couldn’t remember if Dylan had ever mentioned Cara didn’t mean they hadn’t been friends. Everyone—with the exception of Dylan’s ex-wife—liked him.
Dean gave Cara his most charming smile. “True, if you like brutal winds, freak storms, bad or nonexistent roads, limited water, and rubberized frame tents for shelter.”
She laughed. “Who doesn’t?”
“Were you on Chiksook when the main generator blew out last month?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No. I left the expedition after a week because I had the data I needed for that round.” She nodded to Fiona on her other side. “Fiona was there at the end, though.”
And there was the piece of information he’d been hoping for. Fiona had been on the island at the end of the last expedition.
“Tell us what happened, Fi,” Cara said.
She grimaced. “I don’t really know. I was on my way to the village site with Christina that morning when we got a call on the radio saying a storm was coming and the generator blew out, and we were to evacuate immediately to beat the storm. We made it back to camp in time to catch the last of two boats.”
He was desperate to know if Dylan had been on that boat. Once he was safely settled on the island and certain he wouldn’t be ejected or arrested, he could risk asking. “That must’ve been scary,” he said.
She shrugged. “We’ve had to evacuate quickly before. The frustrating part was not being able to return within a few days. I waited on Adak for nearly five days for the generator to be repaired, but one thing after another delayed it, and I had no choice but to fly home. I can’t believe it took over a month to fix it.” She sighed. “But here we are. Sometimes I think this project has been cursed.”
“How so?” Dean asked.
“One contract tangle after another. Equipment malfunctions. The contractor in charge of delivering fuel to the island had a fire onboard the barge that could have been catastrophic. Thankfully, no one was hurt, and the barge made it back safely—but that particular shipment was never delivered, which meant we had to cut short the June expedition. Now it’s September, and I’m supposed to be done with fieldwork and writing my report, but instead I’m heading back to finish recording the village site and finally document the World War II base. I’ll be lucky if we can wrap this up in two weeks.”
“You left out the part about the volcanologist,” Cara said. “I’ve been dying to hear what really happened.”
Dean relied on all his deeply trained patience—a necessity when waiting for the perfect shot—and kept his face blank, the same stillness he employed in the wild.
Fiona’s brow furrowed, and she gave a quick
shake of her head. “I don’t have any firsthand information, and I refuse to smear anyone based on rumor alone.”
What the hell does that mean?
“C’mon, Fi. You must know something. Weren’t you two tight?”
“Tight” was one way of putting it. Perhaps the relationship was supposed to be a secret? Were there no-fraternization rules between navy employees and contractors?
“Cara, you know what happens when people repeat rumors. I’m uncomfortable with the whole thing. You want gossip, ask Trevor for the details.”
Cara let out a bitter laugh. “Convenient. And why in the world was he pulled from the jet?”
“No clue.” Fiona frowned. “I wanted him to look at some rocks and artifacts from the village site, since Dylan won’t be able to finish the analysis. Dylan said the metal could be from a meteorite, which would be a pretty big deal. Now we’re going to the field with no geologist and no volcanologist. Have I mentioned this project is cursed?”
“Hopefully Trevor will be able to get another flight. I’m sure Sylvia is losing it at Pollux right now.”
Cara referred to Sylvia Jessup, a midlevel engineer at Pollux Engineering who was Dylan’s boss. Well, and now Dean’s—or rather, Bill’s—and probably Cara’s too.
“I’m going to head back to my seat and catch up on my reading.” She nodded toward Dean. “But I wanted to welcome you to the project and Pollux. Sylvia asked me to look out for you.” She turned to Fiona. “And I wanted to ask if you want to bunk together. Unless I get a better offer.”
With Cara sitting between them, he barely caught Fiona’s smile and the amusement in her eyes as she shook her head, clearly having a good idea of what Cara meant by “better offer.” “Christina arrives the day after tomorrow, so she’ll bunk with me. Maybe if there aren’t any other women on this expedition, you’ll get lucky and get your own tent.”
“Well, that would make it easier if a better offer comes along.” She gave Dean a sideways glance, and he got her message loud and clear.
If this were a photography assignment, he’d eagerly take her up on the offer. He was a fan of short, proximity-driven flings that could go nowhere. But he wasn’t here on a freelance assignment, and getting laid ranked dead last on his list of priorities.