by Jianne Carlo
“And you'll be a bruised man if you refer to her intimate parts once more in my presence.”
“Chill, bro, chill. I'm just admiring your property. Your woman done come and gone.” Shifty, born to Caucasian parents, reared in the UK and Oxford educated, held both English and Jamaican passports, but had opted to compete in the Olympics for the country of his birth. A dialect and speech expert, his Jamaican accent and slang was one of the many hundred or so in his repertoire.
“Destiny was here? How long ago?”
“She just left, man. On the way to Nadine's.”
Linc groaned. His worst nightmare had begun.
Destiny’s rental car was still at the cabin. “How'd she get there?”
“She rented another Focus. I offered her my Jeep, but she doesn't know how to drive a standard.” Shifty lit a stick of cardamom incense, and the spicy aroma swirled under a plantation-style ceiling fan. “She too cute, man. Gets all pink all the time.”
“What the fuck did you say to her to make her blush?”
“Told her she was too cute. Chill, bro. She's your woman, and I value my hide.”
“Remember that.” Linc pivoted and slammed the saloon doors open.
Thirty minutes later, he studied the four cars sitting in Nadine's circular driveway. Satan's Expedition, Nadine's Lexus, Destiny's rented Ford Focus, and a GM Sierra pickup emblazoned with the words National Forest Preserve.
For long seconds, Linc hesitated. The fact that Destiny remained in Healy—was here at Nadine's—could only mean they were working on the book together and making some progress.
But why in fucking hell were Satan and O'Keefe here?
Girding his loins, Linc rode the steep incline leading to Nadine's sprawling mountainside retreat, which to the absolute twittering of the entire population of Healy, she'd named “Angel in Paradise,” a moniker riddled with pretension, since Nadine's deviant sexual proclivities were renowned. Every hair-raising instinct drove him to the back door.
In Healy, Alaska, population eight hundred seventy-five, no one locked their doors. People came and went, and you welcomed them. In many ways Alaska formed the last frontier, and behavior and tenets followed the dictums of the Wild West. Rebels and misfits ruled by a singular us-against-the-rest-of-the-world mentality composed the majority of the state's population. The diversity of the races residing in Alaskan frontier towns always surprised Linc.
He'd worn sneakers, not so much because he planned to surprise her but to allow his feet breathing space after so many hours in cramped boots, so no one heard his approach. Pages littered with comments scrawled in red ink dotted Nadine's living room. Destiny, chewing on the requisite red-tipped Sharpie, studied a page lying between her V-spread jeans-clad legs.
Nadine sat opposite her, back against a plump, tufted couch. No wonder the woman had chosen Angel as a pseudonym. She epitomized the word with her Nordic coloring, straight platinum hair, which fell to her waist, eyes the color of the North Sea, deep blue and startling against her peaches-and-cream complexion. Slender and topping five-ten, Angel had become the darling of the publishing industry.
Linc had heard the buzz emanating from the gossip shows, knew her writing name, but had never associated the name Angel Robinson with the downright vulgar and sexually avaricious Nadine.
“Why not make the attraction between Martin and Fiona obvious from the start?” Destiny asked. “Maybe they met the night before her brother sends him to fix her PC? In a bar in her neighborhood? What do you think?”
Destiny had dark circles under her eyes and wore an air of desperation like a funeral shroud, shoulders hunched together, one hand splayed on the Berber carpet, two fingers pulling a strand of the thick rug. Had she been here all this time?
“In a little town in the middle of nowhere? Get your fucking facts straight.” Nadine didn't even bother to look up, sifting loose pages from one hand to the other.
“Every small town has a bar. Look at Healy and De Bar. Shifty has live reggae bands every week, and he runs that wet T-shirt contest on Wednesdays. Even with the fire, the bar's packed at night. Cripes, I didn't know there were so many women in Alaska. Or men, for that matter.”
Linc leaned a shoulder on the fridge and forced himself to wait for Nadine's response, fighting the urge to barge in and carry Destiny to a remote, solitary cave in the mountains.
Face set, mouth tight, Nadine said in a tone redolent of ice cream, apple pie, and mom softness, “You really don't know fuck about sex, do you? I figured you and Kenny had been at least half as wild as that tape of Juanita and Kenny. Ten to one you've only done it missionary style.”
Coloring like a pack of crayons gone wild on steroids, Destiny stared at the carpet for a few minutes. “There's no sexual tension between Martin and Fiona, and if this book's going to be in the top ten, we have to fix that.”
Nadine's hair billowed when her head whipped up. “You're a fucking editor. Those who can't, teach, isn't that the saying? Fix the holes in my story. Don't fucking tell me how to write. Because you sure as shit can't string a sentence together that would captivate a reader, far less a fucking New York Times reviewer. Stick to what you do best, Destiny—correct grammar mistakes.”
Destiny had that gleam in her flashing black eyes, the one that preceded objects flying.
Linc took one step forward.
Destiny bounded to her feet, sheets of paper flying everywhere. She threw the Sharpie onto a nearby table. “That's it. I'm done. This book is pure crap. There is no sexual tension between the hero and the heroine. I had to force myself to finish
Chapter one. And I'm your goddamned editor, for crying out loud.”
“How fucking dare you?” Nadine sprang to her booted feet. “You're an assistant editor. I fucking rescued you. You think anyone else wants you fucking with their work?”
“Your last book was a flop.”
A hairbreadth separated the women's faces, Nadine topping Destiny by a good four inches.
Fists balled at his sides, Linc ground his teeth, his protective urges rearing and bucking for release.
“What's all the yelling about?” Satan ambled into the room, all lank shoulders and legs, features even, perfect, rugged, male, Armani handsome—the complete opposite of Linc. “You sweethearts having a disagreement?”
“Take her back to Healy,” Nadine demanded. “We're fucking done for today.”
“Aw, sweet darlin', you gotta fix that first chapter. You know Little Miss Editor here has to leave on the noon flight tomorrow.” Satan cupped Nadine's jaw, leaned down, and slanted his lips over hers. Even from the doorway, Linc could see when he did his famous tongue tickle. Nadine's bunched shoulders relaxed, and one hand climbed to Satan's nape.
Shit.
Linc almost spat the word aloud when Satan's eyes opened, even though he continued kissing Nadine, stared right at him, flicked to Destiny, and back to him again. Satan's arm curled around Nadine's slender back, and his pianist fingers flicked, Get outta here.
Not in this lifetime.
Linc retreated to his former concealed position, shoulder jammed on the fridge, one foot crossed over the other.
Satan broke his Nadine lock-lip. “Fix the chapter, darlin'. This morning GMA announced that Juanita got five million for the movie rights to her book.”
“Five million? I bet she got a royalty cut too. That bitch never told me a word. Neither did her agent, who was mine from the first.” Nadine’s glance swept the paper litter on the floor. She crossed her arms and scowled at Destiny. “First, we fix the book. Then I ream both bitches.”
“You two okay for another hour or so? I have to go into town.” Satan shoved both hands into his front jeans pockets.
The women eyed each other.
Destiny chewed her bottom lip.
Nadine's chin tilted, her gaze fixed on Satan, fingers curved on her slender hips. Eyes half shuttered, she paused, then replied, “Bring back jerk pork.”
“Sure thing, darlin'. Yo
u in the mood for a bottle of Jack?” Satan paid attention to Nadine only, wisely ignoring Destiny.
Relaxing hitherto-unknowingly knotted deltoids, Linc cut Satan a thank-you glance.
Satan blinked, the silent communication not witnessed by the two women.
“Call me on my cell if you think of anything else for tonight.” Satan gave Nadine a quick buss on the lips. “Later.”
Both women watched Satan amble to the front door.
Lingering, wanting to ensure Nadine behaved with some level of decorum, Linc's gaze devoured every inch of Destiny's curvaceous body when she sank to the floor, sat yoga style, and picked up a sheet of paper.
Nadine resumed her position, back jammed into the sofa, legs straight in front of her, one boot propped on the other. “What page?”
“Three,” Destiny answered. “Fiona’s green, right? Into conserving the universe, so why not have them meet earlier at some sort of protest? But not refer to the actual meeting until she sees him when she opens the door? I love the phone dialogue before they meet. It's snappy and really sets the mood for the story.”
Nadine's fierce squint relaxed. “It does, doesn't it?” She wriggled her upper body against the sofa.
“And if she recognizes him, then it makes them going to bed right away more believable.”
“Hmm,” Nadine murmured. “That could work.”
Absorbed by her reading her own writing, Nadine never noticed Destiny's half-stifled sigh of relief, her deep inhale and exhale, but Linc did. He was fascinated by this professional side of his woman, prouder than a male peacock fanning his tail, wanting to beat his chest and draw attention to Destiny's mental toughness, to her grit and determination.
In not ten minutes of eavesdropping, he realized Destiny was virtually rewriting Nadine's book while flattering her outrageously. Nadine ate up all the compliments but wrestled each suggestion Destiny made, surrendering only after arguing her position stubbornly.
A shadow flashed across the window kitty-corner to the front door. Linc straightened, caught Satan hovering at the edge of the frame, and dipped his chin in response to Satan's crooking fingers.
Uneasy about leaving the two women alone, Linc made his way out of the house through the kitchen, and eased the back door shut. He picked his way through rocks and foliage to Satan's Expedition.
“You owe me.” Satan braced his hip against the SUV's hood, one booted foot rammed on the running board. “I've been dancing on eggshells for fifty fucking hours. Nadine's itching to claw and scratch.”
Cumulus clouds fluffed and sped across a sky colored to a soft, faded denim. Mt. McKinley rose in the background, the mountain's majesty blinding as the sun splintered white light on the snow-covered peaks. The lower third of the mountain was shaded dark by McKinley's reflection. The normal cloud cover had thinned today, and the north summit's apex strained toward the heavens.
“I saw.” Linc fingered his newly shaven jaw. “Nadine hasn't mentioned anything?”
“So far. She thinks Destiny spent those two days at Nord Haven.”
Satan folded his arms. “It's getting harder and harder to interrupt them when Nadine starts firing questions. Fuck, Sinner. I nearly had to take a Viagra last night.”
Viagra? Satan? Nadine. Linc winced. “Shit. I wouldn’t want anyone, far less you, having to fuck Nadine for the team.”
“Crap, I'm getting old.” Satan shoved his hands through his celebrating-being-a-civilian-again black hair, the ends of which scraped his broad shoulders, and shook his head. “Not eighteen months back, I could fuck twenty-four hours a day.”
“Nadine was frisky?”
Satan rolled his eyes. “And then some. I don't know how much longer I can keep this up.” He waved a hand at his groin. “Literally. D'you remember that pinpricking thing she did when we were holed up with her?”
“Shit, yes.” Linc set one sneaker-clad foot on the car's bumper and rested an elbow on his bent knee. “Weirded me out.”
“Yeah, well, that's tip of the iceberg now. The woman is seriously into pain. She wants me to watch her with another woman. And aw fuck, that's every man's fantasy, but strangely enough, the thought of it makes me queasy.” Satan straightened and narrowed his eyes. “If you breathe a word…”
“As if I would.” Linc sent a glance to the powder blue sky. “Where's O'Keefe?”
“Sleeping. He spent the night.”
“You, O'Keefe, and Nadine?”
“O'Keefe mainly. I spout the charm. Keep the peace. Throw in a fuck every so often. I was serious about the Viagra. Nadine doesn't cut it for me.”
“She's never done it for you.”
“You're serious about Destiny.” Satan made it more a statement than a question.
“Too right. Asked her to move in with me,” Linc murmured.
“And?”
“No answer.” Staring at a holly bush laden with red berries, he added, “She's got some baggage to sort out.”
“How many suitcases?”
“More than a carry-on, less than a full set. Trust issues. Her scumbag father kidnapped her when she was four, and she didn't find out about it until a few years back.”
A breeze circled the asphalt driveway, sifting dried leaves and pine needles, raising dust and dirt. A whiff of fresh pine skipped on the gust, filling his nostrils. Linc inhaled, relishing the smell of the clean, chill Alaskan fragrance.
“No shit. What kind of fucking asshole does stuff like that?”
“The kind who keeps his daughter a virtual prisoner for years. But she still cares about the son of a bitch.” Linc dropped his foot and scrubbed one hand over his face. “Half of me wants to pound the shithead into the ground. The other half knows that's not a smart move.”
“What're you going to do?”
“Fuck if I know.” Linc kneaded the small of his back. “Study the dirt Lucifer uncovers in the background checks and hope something sticks out.”
“The fire should be contained by end of day.”
“You flying Destiny to Fairbanks?”
“Noon flight,” Satan answered. “I take it you'll be along for the ride?”
“Nah, I want to wrap things up here and with the brass completely. Once I follow her to New York, I don't want any distractions.”
“We're due to sign the security contract in Athens in the first week of October. That's not an elective meeting. We all have to be there.” Satan dragged a hand through his hair.
“I know.”
“Well, at least she has a passport. What a name, huh? Destiny Driven. And she has the body of a stripper.”
“You shouldn't have reminded me,” Linc growled, and his fist flew out and connected with Satan's jaw.
The other man grunted and cupped his chin. His hip slid off the vehicle's ash-stained hood, he stumbled a couple of steps, grabbed the front light with one hand, and snapped, “What the fuck was that for?”
“You copped a feel,” Linc snarled, shaking his splayed fingers. “And if you so much as try to tongue her after the wedding, you'll be in hospital for a week.”
“Crap, you got it bad.” Satan grimaced, thumb rubbing a reddening spot to the left of his mouth. “Your sisters are going to have a field day. Going to be painful to watch.”
“Don't I know it.” Linc knew his siblings would dose him with I-told-you-sos forever.
Both men stiffened as a female voice screamed, “You fucking bitch!”
“Nadine.” Linc and Satan uttered the single word at the same exact moment.
“Shit.” In perfect timing, as if choreographed by a Dancing with the Stars instructor, they pivoted and sprinted to the front door, legs pumping, hands echoing the motion with quick jerks.
Linc grabbed the brass doorknob and twisted the cold metal.
“It's locked. Who locks their fricking doors in Healy?” Without waiting for an answer, he spun around and raced to the back door. Kicking it wide, he ate up the distance to the living room.
Destiny straddle
d Nadine, fingers fisted in her hair. She leaned over and spat, “You liar.”
“Get off me, you fucking bitch,” Nadine yelled. Spying Satan and Linc, she barked, “Ask them if you don't believe me. And let me tell you—there ain't nothing like having Satan up your ass and Linc up your—”
Destiny shoved an open hand over Nadine's mouth.
The chicken shit's hit a fucking tornado.
Chapter Nine
“What the hell happened in Alaska?” Jess Blaine asked, fingers draping a classic black sheath-clad hip, her squared, white-tipped nails a stark contrast against the onyx material.
One long-stemmed rose, stripped of thorns and sporting a satin ribbon three inches from the ruby petals, dangled from Jess’ two-fingered grip. She brought the flower to her nostrils and sniffed. “God, it smells like a rose. I can't remember the last time someone sent me flowers that actually had an aroma.”
Jess offered Destiny the rose. “Do tell, honey. At least share the card.”
If Lincoln Abraham Chapman thought he could bribe her with flowers, he was in for a big surprise. Destiny glared at the potential floral inducement, the pit in her belly yawning wider with each inhale. Sighing, she took ahold of the green stem. Fingers shaky, she fumbled with the rectangular envelope, let the rose fall onto her desk, drew the note card free, and flipped the paper over.
I'll do anything you want to make up for my mistake. Anything you want, anything.
We belong together. Forever.
Kenny
“I don't believe it.” Destiny flicked the card hard, picked it up, and crumpled it with one hand. “Kenny.”
She snorted.
Two weeks. Two weeks, thirteen hours, and—she glanced at the clock above the water cooler—thirty-five minutes, and she hadn't heard a peep from Linc. Not a single, fucking peep.
She groaned and covered her face with her open palms. “I'm even thinking the word fucking.”
“Honey.” Jess used the soothing tone she usually reserved for authors with egos of Everest magnitude. “You're not actually considering going back to Kenny, are you?”