Primal Calling (2 page)

“What's his name?” Her berry-red lips seemed to move in slow motion.

“Miki Nanuq.”

Her eyes were the deepest cobalt blue. “What does it mean?”

“Little polar bear.”

Her eyebrows rose and she flashed those perfect white teeth again. “How fitting.” With a tiny shiver, she rubbed her arms and glanced at the door to the bar and then back at him. “Join me for a drink?”

Warning bells pealed in his head, but Max ignored them. He shrugged and swung his arm toward the door. “After you.” He'd discover what she wanted soon enough. And in the meantime, why not enjoy the view?

And what a view it was. He and the bartender, even the native elder, stared at her very fine butt and swaying hips as her heels clicked on the dirty linoleum. She hopped onto a stool, crossed her legs and planted her forearms on the bar. “A beer, please. Anything light.”

Max slid in next to her and reached for his empty tumbler.

While the bartender popped the cap off a brown bottle and set it in front of the lady, she unzipped her
jacket. It was a decent enough winter coat—if she were skiing in Aspen, maybe.

When she pulled it off, Max's jaw went slack. He fumbled his glass. She had the figure of a swimsuit model. His body reacted, hot and pulsing. She picked up her beer and turned to him, clearing her throat.

Returning his attention to her face, he caught her smirk.

Busted. All he lacked was his tongue hanging out and he'd be slobbering over her like Mickey. Maybe he should roll over on his back and let her rub
his
belly.

Down, boy.

She extended her right hand. “I'm Serena.”

“Max.” He shook her hand.

“Ooh, your hands are so warm.” She held on when he would have let go, set down her beer and cupped her other hand over his. “Brr, I don't know how you keep your hands so warm in weather like this.”

Her hands were like two elegant blocks of very soft ice with long, polished nails. “You're not from Alaska, I take it.”

She shook her head. “L.A.”

If she didn't stop rubbing his hand between hers he might be tempted to do something stupid like bring her fingertips to his mouth. “Oh!” She snatched her hands away. “Sorry.”

“I'm not.” He gave her a pointed look, staring right into her dark blue eyes. Not a gold fleck to be found, but pure cobalt, like the Arctic Sea in the summer. Her
lashes were thick, but not overly long. And she had a few freckles across the bridge of her nose.

She licked her lips and a sharp ache hit him hard and low. He pictured himself scooping her up and carrying her to his room.

Then she blinked and retrieved her beer, sipping it as she looked straight ahead at nothing. Amazing. She'd been staring back. There'd been something between them for a second, but his suspicious mind severed the thought. What was she doing here? Just slumming? And what was her business in Anchorage?

“So, what do you do, Max?”

He grabbed his tumbler, knocked back the last drops of his whiskey and signaled for another. “I fly cargo.”

“Oh? Where to?”

“Barrow.” He turned to face her. “I'm only here for tonight.”

Her beer halted halfway to her mouth for a brief instant and then continued. “Me, too. I was here for the Iditarod.”

Oh yeah, it was that time of year. But she sure as hell hadn't been a contestant. “Got a man who entered?”

“No.” She started picking at the label on the beer bottle with a ringless left hand.

“Don't tell me you're a musher.”

She grinned and shook her head. “No.” She glanced at him and then back down to peeling her bottle label.

“So, what do you do in L.A.?”

Deep concentration on the label peeling. “I don't really live there, actually. I mean, I own a condo there, but
I travel all over the world for business and I'm hardly ever home.”

Interesting. She hadn't actually answered the question. Something didn't add up, but he let it go. Who cared what she did for a living? Or why she was slumming tonight. It wasn't any of his business. Live and let live. For whatever reason, he had a beautiful woman sitting next to him sharing a drink.

He cleared his throat. “Have you eaten dinner?”

She looked surprised at the change of subject. “No, I—no.”

“Well, don't eat here, whatever you do.”

A feminine chuckle accompanied the flash of perfect white teeth as she turned to him. “Shall we go eat somewhere else?”

We? He scrutinized the sincerity in her eyes. Maybe she'd made a bet with a girlfriend to sleep with a native on her last night in Alaska. Would a half-breed count? Glancing around the bar, he spied his only competition: the old native in the last booth. He swung back to face her. “Sure, why not?”

“Anywhere specific you recommend?” She took her ski jacket and pushed her arms through the sleeves.

It was on the tip of his tongue to say,
Your hotel,
but he refrained. “Nowhere you'd care to go,” he answered, taking a last swig of his drink.

Her eyebrows drew together and her eyes sparked. “The restaurant in my hotel is good.”

He choked as he swallowed. She must have to do the deed in front of witnesses to win the bet.

“Fine.” What did he care what her motives were? He grabbed his parka and slipped it on. “We can catch a cab a few blocks from here. But let me leave Mickey in my room.”

In the middle of zipping up her parka, she froze. “Uh…”

She didn't trust him. If she only knew… “You can wait here.” He pulled a few bills from his wallet and tossed them on the bar.

She waved a dismissive hand. “No, that's okay.”

Interesting. There was definitely something unusual about this woman. He shrugged and held the door open for her.

It was less than twenty steps to his room. Her heels clicked fast, keeping up with him as he led Mickey around the corner. He unlocked his door and let Mick inside with instructions to be good. When he turned back to her, she was shivering. “Here, I have some gloves.” He stepped inside and dug into his duffel, grabbing the thick leather pair he rarely wore.

“Oh, uh.” She hesitated inside the doorway, and then stepped inside, closing the door. “Thank you.” She took them from him and then drew a deep breath. “I should tell you, I'm—”

“It doesn't matter.” She'd be gone tomorrow and so would he. He was close enough to smell her light flowery scent. He closed his eyes briefly and inhaled.

“It doesn't?” She was gazing up at him, her eyes wide and her lips parted. Then her attention dropped to his mouth.

His blood heated and he could feel it pulsing in other parts of his body. The bed was only a few feet away. It'd been so damn long since he'd been with someone. “I'm the last person to pass judgment.”

She tilted her head and gave him a quizzical look like Mickey did sometimes. He leaned in and ran his knuckles down her cheek, then touched his lips to hers.

At first she stilled as if she hadn't expected it, then with a sigh she opened to him and cupped his cheek with her palm.

It was as if the Northern Lights exploded in his head as her soft mouth moved over his. When her tongue dipped in he groaned and angled his head to deepen the kiss.

With a small cry, she pushed away. He gritted his teeth. He'd known this was too good to be true. “You're free to go,” he told her.

“No!” Her eyes wide, she seemed alarmed at the thought.

“Look, Serena, or whatever your real name is. It's okay. I know what this is about.”

Her gaze darted to him, a panicked look in her eyes. “You do?”

He nodded. He didn't belong with a woman like her, but he didn't really belong anywhere, with anyone. “You made a bet with someone. Or thought you had something to prove. But now you can't go through with it. It's okay.”

She let out a quick laugh and then covered her mouth. “No, I—” She worried her bottom lip. “I want to do a
story on you. I want to know about you rescuing that man when your plane crashed. And what happened to the other passengers.”

He blinked at her, not comprehending at first. She was a reporter? Anger boiled up from his core and spewed into a rage that shook his whole body. He took her arm and yanked open his door. “I don't give interviews. Not even for sex.”

“Wait!” Bracing her palm against the door frame, she held her ground when he would have shoved her out. “Don't you want a chance to tell—”

“I thought I'd seen every trick you reporters had. But this is a new low. Now, if you don't get out of my room, I might decide you really do want to screw me.”

Bile rose in his throat. He'd humiliated himself. For a pretty piece of ass.

“I know I should have—”

Propelling her outside, he slammed the door in her face.

H
E THOUGHT
she wanted to use sex to buy his story?

Serena ran to the cabstand, clutching her coat tightly around her throat. The fury that had glittered in Max's eyes stalked her. Her arm still stung where he'd gripped it. And yet, she hadn't really been afraid.

Hailing a cab, she got in, banged her head against the backseat and ran her hands through her hair. She should've told Max who she was and what she wanted right from the start.

The cabdriver watched her warily in his rearview mirror.

“The Seaside Hotel, please.”

And what had happened to her professionalism? Had she completely lost her mind? Letting him kiss her? No,
wanting
him to kiss her. And enjoying it.
Way to stay objective, Sandstone.

But there'd been something about him that drew her in. And it wasn't just his wide shoulders beneath that
thick, cable-knit sweater. There'd been a primal look in his coffee-colored eyes. A hunger…

Oh, good grief. In a minute she'd be waxing poetic about sexy loners. Obviously she needed to get laid more often than every year or so if this was how she reacted to being alone with a guy.

What was she going to do now? She'd missed her flight for nothing. It'd been an impulsive decision. One made more out of desperation than rational thinking. If the bush pilot had refused to be interviewed all these years, why had she thought he'd talk to her? But isn't that why it would've been such a scoop? To get the ungettable interview? Now, more than ever, she wanted to know what he was covering up.

By the time she trudged into the Seaside's lobby she still didn't have a plan.

“Ms. Sandstone, welcome back,” said one of the concierges, heading her off before she could reach the reservations desk.

“Thank you. I don't have a reservation for tonight, but I was hoping—”

“Absolutely no problem,” he interrupted. “Right this way.”

While the concierge checked her in and programmed her card key, she compared the luxurious lobby around her to the run-down motel where Max was staying. He obviously earned some sort of living flying supplies. So, was he a bad businessman, or did he choose to live like a derelict with that scruffy beard?

Funny how his appearance hadn't turned her off at all.

“Shall I have a steward bring up your luggage, Ms. Sandstone?” The concierge handed her the room key.

“Er, no. Thank you.” It'd been too late to retrieve it from the plane. But she was nothing if not a veteran traveler. She kept everything from Anbesol to Zantac—including an emergency outfit and toiletries—in her huge purse. She'd used a portion of her emergency cash bribing the clerks for information on how to find the White Wolf, but she should have enough to last her a week, give or take, plus her charge cards.

She took the key. “Is Eric here this evening?”

“I believe he's just leaving. I'll try to catch him, if you'd like to wait?” He gestured toward the plush sofas around the piano bar.

“Thank you.” She settled into a club chair, pulled out her laptop and found the next flight to L.A. via Seattle. Then on impulse she checked flights into Barrow. There was one tomorrow morning with a layover in Fairbanks. She closed her laptop without booking either.

What if her father had given up at the first roadblock to his investigation?

“Ms. Sandstone?” Eric, her favorite concierge, strode up, a grin on his face. He was younger than Serena's twenty-eight years, tall and lean, and if there were any rumors flying around, he heard them.

“How can I help this time?” He sat in the chair next to hers, folded his hands and crossed his legs.

Serena leaned forward. “What can you tell me about
a mysterious plane crash a few years ago, where the man came into the emergency room pulling the other man on a sled?”

“Ah, the White Wolf. He's practically become an urban legend.”

“Really?”

Eric nodded, leaning forward as well. “They say he runs drugs.”

“Drugs?” Serena's stomach dropped in disappointment. “Why would people say that?”

Eric shrugged casually. “Too many things don't add up. First, the day of the crash, the weather was clear. And, the missing men were said to be, not fishermen, but drug runners. Also, how is it that he has a new plane now? Even though the insurance has refused to pay out as long as he's under investigation. And how was he able to retain his pilot's license? What other answer is there?”

She hadn't thought of that. How could he afford a new plane? “The newspaper called him Taggert. And he introduced himself to me as Max. Why is he called White Wolf?”

Eyes wide, Eric sat forward. “You've met him?”

“I asked him for an interview, but he, um…turned me down.”

“Serena.” Eric placed his hand over hers. “You should be really careful. He could be dangerous.”

Yes. She'd seen a taste of that tonight. But he'd also seemed…lonely.

“White Wolf is his native name,” Eric continued.
“He's half Iñupiat. Some say he's a powerful shaman.” Eric laughed. “Maybe he used Inuit witchcraft to get his new plane.” He stood and buttoned his suit coat. “But, really, be careful.” He extended his hand and she shook it.

“Thank you.”

He nodded and strode off.

“Eric, one more thing,” she called after him.

He stopped and spun back to her. “Anything.”

“Do you know any other bush pilots that fly into Anchorage International I could speak with?”

Eric smiled. “If I don't, I'll find someone who does.”

Serena's mind whirled as she made her way to the bank of elevators. Drug running? Inuit shamans? Native witchcraft? This could be a story of international intrigue.

Grabbing a notepad and pen from her purse, she started making a list. There must be a way to prove the identity of his passengers that day. If he'd been transporting drug lords, or anyone else, there had to be records of that.

The clear weather was another mystery. If the plane hadn't really crashed, wouldn't the sole surviving passenger's injuries have revealed that? And why fake a plane crash to kill drug lords, and then drag one with him all the way to the hospital in Nome? She jotted a note to look up the exact date of the crash again and check the weather history.

But one thing she knew for fact. He did have a
plane. And there was one thing she couldn't do from a computer.

Taggert had said he was only here for one night. So, if someone wanted to search his plane's cargo before he left, the window of opportunity was quickly closing.

Not giving herself time to rethink her decision, she took a cab to a discount department store and bought black jeans, a black turtleneck and some black boots. Just what all the trendiest spies were wearing this spring. Hopefully she could hide in Taggert's plane until he loaded it.

When she returned, Eric had the name and number of a pilot who flew a small one-propeller plane into the Anchorage airport all the time. Once in her room, Serena pulled out her cell and called him. Using her show as an excuse for research, she asked the pilot if he could arrange for temporary clearance as his guest. She winced when he readily agreed, feeling guilty for using him to snoop. But she wasn't going to harm or steal anything. And real investigative reporters sometimes had to use unconventional ways to gain access to information. Didn't they?

Since she hadn't eaten, she ordered room service and tried soaking in the tub to calm her stomach. Failing miserably, she got into her pj's, laid out the new outfit and then sat down to send an email to Roberta. Then she went over the plan in her head one more time.

Could she really sneak onto someone's plane and search through their stuff? If she was caught, she could be facing jail time.

She remembered the story her father told of getting dragged into a black Caddy by some goons. It was 1972 and the EPA had been established a couple years earlier. Simon Sandstone had just published his first exposé on a major company dumping toxic waste. The corrupt corporation had tried intimidating him into giving up his secret informant.

He'd come home bloodied and bruised, but he hadn't revealed his source. If Serena's mother hadn't had friends in high places he might not have come home at all.

Her dad had risked his life to help save the environment. Surely she could risk arrest to get the scoop on a drug running operation in Alaska.

If
Max was a drug runner.

But if he had nothing to hide, why refuse to give interviews?

Still, he hadn't seemed the type.
Way to be objective, Sandstone.
What exactly was the type? Street-corner thugs? Mafia hit men? Slick, rich kids? Just because the guy had a dog and wore a traditional Inuit coat with his jeans didn't mean he couldn't have been meeting his supplier tonight.

She bolted up from the bed. Had he thought
she
was his drug contact? Or had she interrupted his meeting when she'd had that drink in the bar with him? If that were the case, would he have taken her to his room and loaned her his gloves? And kissed her so deliciously?

Running a finger over her lips, she sat back down and closed her eyes. His beard had been soft and his lips had moved over hers with the perfect combination
of tenderness and purpose. If she'd met him at some boring celeb party in L.A. would she have still felt that overwhelming attraction?

She didn't remember falling asleep, but the harsh blare of the alarm jerked her awake. Bleary-eyed, she slammed the snooze button—5:00 a.m.

Within thirty minutes she was dressed and in a cab headed for Anchorage International. She instructed the cabbie to drop her off at the General Aviation Hangar.

Once in the office, there was a desk with a security guard. He looked up as she approached. Through the office window she could see the hangar with a couple of planes inside.

“I'm Serena Sandstone. There should be a clearance badge waiting for me?”

The guard checked a clipboard of papers, then nodded and stood to unlock the door to the hangar for her. “You want to know about a particular plane?”

“Uh, no. I wanted to look at all the different types of prop planes, if that's okay. Just to get a feel for their size and how they land and take off.”

He stared at her as if she were a ditzy airhead, but he waved her through the door.

“Thanks.” Releasing her pent up breath, she smiled and took her badge. “Is it okay if I look at the planes outside, too?”

The guard shrugged. “Be my guest.”

Faking an air of confidence, she strolled through the door into the hangar, then checking through the win
dow that the guard had returned to his desk and wasn't looking, she slipped out the door to the tie-down ramp.

Outside, it was still dark and freezing cold. Only one lone light overhead cast shadows around the small aircrafts. And the wind made an eerie sound as it blew over and under their wings and turned propellers. She shivered and hugged her arms.

She spied the weathered white Cessna she'd seen Max Taggert jump out of yesterday and made straight for it. It sat higher than it looked from far away. With one last glance around, she grabbed hold of the pole running between the body of the plane and wing, climbed up onto the foothold and tugged on the door.

It opened.

Jeez, her heart was thudding so hard she could feel it pounding against her rib cage. She hadn't even considered what she'd do if the door had been locked. Which she should have. What kind of drug runner left his plane unlocked?

She took in a fortifying breath of Arctic air.
Just do it.

She climbed in and crawled behind the pilot's seat into the cargo space. Digging out a flashlight from her purse, she shone the light around and spied a large toolbox, a slatted crate next to it and a wadded-up tarp in the very back. Other than that, the interior was empty.

She rifled through the crate and found a butane lantern, some canned goods and other camping type items. Only tools in the toolbox. Nothing under the tarp. That left hidden compartments in the walls.

She'd finished feeling one side when she heard men's voices carried on the wind. Someone was out there. The door. She'd left it open. On her hands and knees she scrambled to the pilot's seat and saw two men talking just outside the hangar entrance. One of them was Max Taggert.

Thankfully, neither man was facing the plane. She slowly closed the door, then crawled back to the cargo area and hid under the tarp, curling into a tight ball.

She didn't hear anything else until the plane's door opened. Serena held her breath.

“—talked to the tower and visibility is four miles,” Max said to someone. She'd recognize that deep, smooth voice anywhere. There was a soft thud as the plane bounced under the weight of whatever was being loaded.

“Need to sign your flight plan and you're ready to go,” the other guy said, and she heard metal clanking on the ground. They were untying it.

Another thud and the plane bounced again. The first item was shoved farther back into the cargo area. Two more heavy items were loaded and Serena feared she might be blocked in.

Finally she heard the plane's door close and there was silence. Sounded as if she only had a few minutes. She threw off the tarp and turned on her flashlight. Two duct-taped coolers and a couple cardboard boxes sat ominously around her. Before she could rethink her actions, she stuck the flashlight between her teeth, slowly peeled the duct tape off one cooler, and peeked inside.

Meat?

She dug underneath the top layer. Frozen packages of steaks, chicken, pork chops, roast beef, ground round.

No drugs.

Unless they were hidden in the meat. And how could she tell?

She closed the cooler and replaced the tape, then pried open one of the cardboard boxes. Gourmet food. Fancy soaps. Egyptian cotton bed linens?