Wild Women of Alaska Collection

by Tiffinie Helmer

  He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and counted to ten. When he slowly opened them, the plane showed in white and red colors under the rain-washed windowpane. He heard the water in the bathroom sink turn on. Which meant Jesse was really here too.

  She’d be sleeping here. Under his roof. Possibly stranded in his company for days.

  How would he keep from tossing her, willing or not, into his bed?

  Chapter Six

  Leaning her hands on the counter, Jesse gazed into the mirror, hoping her reflection would impart some words of wisdom.

  Not many things scared her, but Erich Sloan did. Not physically…well, that wasn’t true. He could easily overpower her and had…once before. He wasn’t burning with fever and out of his mind now. He was healthy. A bit on edge—forget that—a lot on edge, but he was completely aware of what was going on between them this time.

  So was she, just as she had been before.

  What if the storm lasted days? What if it iced her in, keeping her plane stuck here until spring? She had a business to run, a life to get back to in Homer. Plus with that much time in Sloan’s company one of them would probably kill the other…after they slept together.

  Again. Both of them would remember it this time.

  The way he’d stared at her before ordering her into the bathroom, raw with need, had all her repressed sexual desires screaming to be taken, or do some taking of her own.

  She turned on the faucet—marveling at how comfortable Sloan had made living in the wilds of Alaska—and splashed cold water on her face. Sloan had solar panels and a wind generator for power, and a holding tank for rainwater that he’d piped to flow into the cabin. She didn’t know how he managed in the winter, and hoped she wasn’t about to find out.

  She used a towel to dry the rain from her clothes as best as she could. It wasn’t working. They needed to be hung up for a few hours, or stuck in a dryer. He didn’t have a dryer, and if she hung up her clothes, what would she wear? There was a bag in the plane with a change of clothes, but she didn’t relish heading back out into the freezing rain, or for that matter, leaving the safety of the bathroom.

  But a coward she was not. Hanging up the towel, she turned the knob and reentered the bear’s den.

  Sloan was at the window, his hands braced on the frame, his head lowered, dark hair falling forward and seeming a bit defeated. He straightened and turned toward her, the vulnerability replaced by an impenetrable shield.

  “You’re still wet,” he accused.

  “Yeah. Funny how fabric doesn’t magically dry in a period of minutes. I have some clothes in the plane.”

  “You’re not going out there until this dies down.” He frowned at her, or frowned deeper. He’d had a scowl on his face since she’d crash-landed on his doorstep. “I’ll get you something else to wear.”

  She stayed rooted on the spot as he left for the bedroom. The cabin had an open floor plan, with the bathroom and mud room near the back door. The bedroom was off to the left, and an open loft covered half of the upstairs. Windows flanked both front and back of the cabin, while built-in bookcases and a rock fireplace took up the other wall. Sloan had found, carried, and mortared each rock that made up the floor-to-ceiling fireplace. Everything in this cabin, he’d constructed himself. It was more comfortable than most homes in town, and every time she got a glimpse of it she marveled at the time and work Sloan had put into it. But then what did he have other than time? He wrote and published more books in a year than most New York Times bestselling authors. Not that he seemed to care that he dominated the lists every time another of his Justice Angel Contract Killer series was released.

  Jesse was a huge fan and read everything Erich Sloan had out.

  The man who wrote J.A.C.K. couldn’t be this surly recluse. He wrote of exciting places and complicated characters with a protagonist who was a badass female assassin. He made her believable, vulnerable, and someone Jesse would call a friend in real life. For a man who couldn’t string a few words together without pissing her off, she didn’t have a clue how he’d created such a complex woman.

  Sloan returned with a bundle of brown clothes and bumped them into her arms. “Here, now change before you start sniffling and sneezing. I’ll start a fire.”

  “Thanks,” she muttered, returning to the bathroom.

  She set the clothes on the counter. Brown? She held up the faded sweatshirt that was going to dwarf her. It was old and had a few holes worn through. The sweats weren’t much better, but they had a drawstring waist so hopefully they would stay on. She kicked off her shoes and struggled to peel off her top, jeans, and socks. Even though the clothes Sloan provided looked like they were thrift-store worthy, they were comfortable and blissfully dry. She tied the drawstring as tight as she could and rolled down the waistband to ride on her hips. She had to curl up the pant legs not to trip on them. The sweatshirt gapped at the stretched neckline, falling off her shoulder. Not much she could do about that.

  She gathered up her wet items and joined Sloan where he already had a healthy blaze going in the fireplace. He’d also taken time to pull his hair back into another band. She wished he hadn’t. She liked the wild look of it windblown. Draping her clothes in front of the hearth, she looked up at Sloan who seemed even more irate with her.

  “What?” She straightened. What had she done now?

  “Nothing,” he muttered.

  “No, there’s something. Out with it.”

  “You…should look like a sack of potatoes,” he accused, pointing to the getup he’d chosen for her.

  Ah, in other words he’d wanted her to look like a sack of potatoes. She hid a smile. Nice to know she could make ratty clothes look good. “I don’t?”

  He grunted and stomped toward the kitchen. “I guess I have to feed you too?”

  “Damn right.” She followed him. “I’m starved. Remember, I shopped for all that food I delivered, so I know your pantry’s stocked. How about I open a bottle of wine?”

  “Whatever.”

  Oh, she hated that word. It was the equivalent of fuck off. She bit back a retort and instead asked, “Where’s the wine?” A shared bottle would help them both relax. The storm outside had already picked up in volume, shutting out the sun, making it seem more late night than early evening.

  He pointed to the cupboard near the back door. He pointed a lot. Probably didn’t speak much, since he lived alone. She hitched the sweatshirt up on her shoulder and secretly enjoyed his strangled sound as his eyes followed the dip of fabric. She let the shoulder material slide down again. It gave her a small thrill to poke at him. She always did like taking things to the extreme.

  “Corkscrew?” she asked. Having found the bottle, she systematically opened one drawer after another.

  “Give me that.” He took the bottle from her and pointed at the table with it. “Sit.”

  “Fine.” She moved to the table and pulled out one of the log chairs and sat where she could watch him. He quickly located a corkscrew and twisted it into the top of the bottle, his forearms flexing with the action. Who knew that the simple action of opening a bottle of wine could make her mouth go dry? It had nothing to do with thirst, either.

  He grabbed two mugs, filled them with wine, and set one in front of her, before gulping deep from his.

  “Thank you,” she said, picking up her cup and taking a sip. The wine was tart and dry, warming her insides. He grunted and pulled items from the cupboards and small fridge.

  She wanted to ask him questions. Not only was he an author she revered, he was a great example of how someone could live off the grid without leaving much of a footprint. She’d love to actually hold a conversation with him. But maybe it was better to sit here and watch him for a bit. Let him drink more wine. For that matter, she needed some more too. Picking up her mug, she cradled it in her hands and nursed from the rim. She had a feeling this was going to be a really long night unless they formed some sort of truce.

  “What are you cooking?” she a
sked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? Then what did you pull out of the cupboard?”

  He slammed down the bag of pasta. She was surprised when it didn’t bust open and spill everywhere.

  “Are you going to…talk?” he asked.

  “It’s called conversation, and yes, it’s what people do.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes, seriously.” He grabbed a can opener. “I like being alone.”

  “Listen, Sloan. We’re stuck with each other for however long it’s going to take until the weather clears and I can get supplies flown out here to fix my plane. There’s no getting rid of me. So quit pouting and deal with the situation like a man.”

  He dropped the can opener and faced her. His breathing heavy, his eyes dark, he slowly advanced toward her. Planting his hands on the table, he caged her in. “Deal with it like a man? Tell me, woman, what’s a man who hasn’t been around the opposite sex for a very long time supposed to do with you looking wet and sexy and available? You want to know how I want to deal with it?”

  She couldn’t answer if she tried, not with her heart in her throat, but then he didn’t need help as he filled in the blanks for her.

  “I’m torn between locking you in the cockpit of that plane for your own fucking safety or stripping you bare and doing things to you that would get me arrested in most states. So don’t push me.”

  Oh, she wanted to push. Push him so hard he broke.

  Chapter Seven

  Did she know what she was playing at?

  Sloan stared into Jesse’s wide, bewitching blue eyes. Eyes heated with…what? She didn’t really want him to act on his threat, did she?

  He reared back and put some distance between them.

  Shit.

  Grabbing his wine, he drained it. Probably not the best of ideas, but he went ahead and filled it back up, trying to pretend his hand wasn’t shaking.

  Holy fucking shit. He needed to control himself. He’d wanted Jesse for a long time. Pretty much from the moment he’d met her. One look at her and he’d almost canceled the contract. Her dad had flown the route, bringing Jesse along for most of the deliveries, until he died in a car accident. A lifetime of flying, and a drunk driver had killed him. Didn’t seem right.

  Sloan had lived here for five years and had always done business with JB’s Air Delivery Service. But when Jesse had first landed on his lake, he should have sent her flying and hired someone else. Plenty of air delivery services were available, but most might not put up with his enigmatic demands. Then again, they might. He’d be willing to pay extra for it.

  Who am I kidding?

  Normally, he got off on sparring with her. Watching how she moved, how the sun seemed to radiate from within her rather than bounce off her golden hair. Muse-worthy. She was light to his dark.

  Oh hell, am I waxing poetic now?

  He’d been in Special Ops, and had killed. Now he made his living murdering on paper. He did not freaking wax poetic.

  Another heavy gulp of wine and he had the need to strangle her, touch her, fuck her under wraps, but the desire gnawed just under his skin, tempting him. She was here. Under his roof. There was nothing but time to fill.

  Stop it.

  He had a good thing going. Right, like that was keeping him from making a play at her? No, she scared the shit out of him. There was something about her. He knew deep down that if he let himself have her, he’d be lost.

  He’d been lost before, cared too much, and he refused to let that happen again. He wouldn’t survive experiencing that measure of heartache again.

  A good fuck was one thing. But Jesse wasn’t just a good fuck.

  Beg to differ, man.

  Shut it.

  She was…more. She’d make him care. He already thought too much about her. Today, watching helplessly as she landed that plane with no power, had given him a taste of fear he hadn’t felt in a long time. He didn’t want to think about her, worry about her. If that shit started he’d soon be doing things for her like taking out the garbage, cooking her dinner…

  Shit.

  He held the spatula over the pan and stared at the burners of the propane stove. Pasta was already at a slow boil, and fresh trout sautéed in garlic butter and lemon juice. He didn’t even remember adding the fish to the pan. See, she was already making him lose his mind.

  You weren’t far from losing it before.

  How long had he been lost this time? Long enough that dinner was almost done. Had Jesse noticed that he’d taken another trip? He glanced toward the table. She wasn’t there.

  Swiveling toward the living room, he found her at the fireplace, adding more wood to the flickering flames and stirring the coals.

  A mixed sound of frustration and relief escaped him, and she looked up, her brow raised in question.

  “Don’t move around,” he growled. “I told you to sit. You sit.”

  “Get a grip, Sloan.”

  Believe me, I’m trying. “I…don’t do well with people silently moving around me. Just do as I say.” Wind rattled the window panes as though in agreement.

  Something must have registered. “Your time in the military?”

  “What do you know about that?”

  “Pretty much what’s said on the dust jacket of your books.” She looked at him funny. “You okay?”

  He’d forgotten how much of his life was actually out there for the public to access. He’d been off the grid long enough that he figured no one thought about him anymore, and he preferred it that way. He looked out into the dark. Water pelted the glass making it impossible for him to tell what was happening out there. Just like he had no clue what was going on inside the suddenly much-too-cozy cabin.

  “Food’s ready.” He turned the heat to the stove off. He drained the pasta, threw in some jarred pesto that she’d brought and tossed it in with the bowtie pasta and some freshly grated parmesan cheese. Then he threw a few hot pads on the table and set the pans on them along with forks. He pulled out his chair and sat.

  “Plates?” she asked, standing next to the table.

  He looked at her then at the table with the pans placed in front of him. He normally ate right out of the pan. “If you have to have a plate, get one.” He pointed to the open shelf with a few tin plates and bowls.

  She shrugged and sat across from him. “I guess I can eat out of the pan. When in Rome.”

  He scoffed. “Woman, this isn’t Rome.”

  “I know that. I was making a point.”

  “Well, don’t. Just eat.” That would keep her mouth busy.

  She scooped up a bite of fish, tested it and moaned appreciatively. Scooting closer, she leaned over the table to better reach the pan, and he caught the whiff of her. She smelled like dessert. Sweet and tart and refreshing. Suddenly he was helpless to do anything but sit and watch her eat. She speared a piece of bowtie pasta and carried it to her mouth. Her eyes closed, and she licked pesto from her lips and then off the tines of her fork.

  And he went hard as a rock.

  “Good God, woman, don’t eat like that.” His chair scraped back from the table, and he grabbed a plate and spatula, serving her up a healthy portion of food, and dropped it in front of her. “There.”

  “What’s wrong with how I eat?”

  “It’s like you’re having sex.”

  A twinkle entered her eye, and he could kick himself for revealing that.

  “Aren’t food and sex directly related? They’re both pleasurable, satisfying. Fill a need.”

  “That’s enough. No talking.” Wind whistled outside as though amused at his fruitless demand for quiet.

  “This is the best fish and pasta I’ve ever eaten,” she said.

  A warm feeling flushed through him. He grunted and shoveled up a bite. It was good.

  “You really know how to cook. Where did you learn?”

  “Do we really have to do this?”

  �
��Dinner conversation, Sloan. Yes, we really have to do this. Especially if you want me to do the dishes afterward.”

  He hated doing the dishes, but was it worth it?

  She filled her mouth with more pasta and moaned again. If it kept her from doing that, then it might be. He was so hard from watching her enjoy the food he’d cooked that all sorts of other ways he could please her were taking shape in his head. He didn’t want to please her.

  Give it up, man. Yes, you do.

  “I taught myself to cook,” he said.

  “Necessity the mother of invention again?”

  “Something like that. I like to eat good food.”

  “I know. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find some of the items on your grocery list? This is Alaska, remember?”

  “Really? Like what?”

  “Pine nuts for one. And then there were the Castelvetrano olives, gruyere and other artisan cheeses. The Nameko mushrooms were a real bugger to find. Thank goodness for the internet. You probably eat better out here than I do in town. Actually I know you do, as I usually eat things from takeout containers or whatever I can nuke in the microwave.”

  He’d never considered that she took time and effort to locate the things he wanted. And he didn’t like how the realization set with him. “I figured you just went to the store.”

  “Ha, right. You haven’t seen what Homer has to offer then. There’s one grocery store, Safeway. While it’s surprising what they do have, they certainly don’t carry Sesame Tahini, cardamom tea, or thirty-year-old balsamic vinegar.”

  “Well…thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He grunted again and went back to eating, hoping that was the end of their conversation.

  Nope.

  “So what do you cook with pine nuts and the rest of that stuff?”

  He almost told her to stick around and he’d show her, but bit it back just in time. Instead he got up and opened the cupboard and found the bag of pine nuts. As he passed the bottle of wine sitting on the counter, he grabbed that too and topped off her mug. Maybe if she drank more, she’d talk less.