Wild in Captivity (The Captivity Alaska Series) Read online

  Every inch of the operation was as familiar as the back of his hand, but after last fall, most of the pride and joy of this family legacy had vanished for him. Worse, he doubted he’d ever get it back. He wanted out. Bridget just wanted to fly. Getting her to complete the bare minimum of paperwork associated with those flights pretty much exhausted both their stores of patience. The less administrative burdens of running the company that landed on her, the happier she’d be.

  He thought.

  But she was just twenty-five to his thirty. In five years, she might be more amenable to spending some portion of her time behind a desk, doing boss-type stuff. Only problem? He didn’t have five more years of doing boss-type stuff in him. Ultimate responsibility for the safety and well-being of every pilot and passenger in his care sat too heavily on his shoulders.

  Unqualified shoulders, as it turned out. Last fall had proven as much, decisively and permanently. Nobody needed a broken-down burnout helming the company. Especially not a broken-down burnout who might be losing his mind. Sane people didn’t suddenly take up sleepwalking at thirty. They didn’t wander into the kitchen at three in the morning to find a brother they’d just buried sitting at the island, grinning like he’d stumbled in from a lucky night out. They sure as shit didn’t imagine hearing his voice, bell-clear, lingering like an echo as the dream, hallucination, or whatever the hell, faded.

  Right. Sane people didn’t do that.

  This sale represented the best solution for everyone. They just didn’t know it yet. Done properly, he would keep Bridget flying, keep his team employed, and keep the air service the townspeople both wanted and needed, right there in Captivity.

  The runways were all his at this time of evening, he knew, but nonetheless decided to check with Mad Dog, who was holding down the fort with Wyatt “Wingnut” Jensen. Right about now, he wished he’d told them to just leave the lights on and head home, or to their favorite table at the Goose, or anywhere else in the world that would eliminate the need to come up with an explanation for the obviously-not-a-tourist occupying his cockpit. But considering her true purpose for being there, the need to run the airfield strictly by the books took on new precedence.

  “Captivity Air, this is Beaver N2326G, 2 miles southwest, 800 feet, inbound for landing on A. Over.”

  “Beaver N2326G? Awfully formal tonight, Shanahan. Are we on a first date?”

  Trace mentally counted to ten. “The correct reply is ‘clear’ or ‘not clear.’ And say, ‘over,’ at the end of your communication, Mad. Over.”

  “Okay, stud. You’re all clear. Over.”

  He stifled a long-suffering sigh. “Roger. Any wind or weather conditions I should know about? Maybe give me the ground temperature? Over.”

  “Jesus. Now he wants foreplay.” Wingnut’s appreciation of Mad’s sense of humor carried audibly across the open comm. “Blizzard’s coming in behind you, which you already know,” Mad went on. “Crosswind down here is providing occasional gusts up to 20mph, just to keep things interesting. Ground temp is…uh…a balmy 28 degrees. Baby, it’s all good down there.” In the background, he heard K’eyush bark what sounded exactly like “Over.” Apparently Mad thought so too, because, as if prompted, he added, “Over.”

  “Roger. Over and out.”

  He shot a look at his passenger, who leaned forward now, her sunglasses perched atop her head, squinting at the airfield. Thank God she was an attorney and not an inspector from the FAA.

  Opting for some levity of his own, he turned to her. “Ladies and gentlemen, please return your seatbacks and tray tables to their full upright positions.”

  She didn’t look away from the airfield. Didn’t smile. Didn’t so much as blink. “Hey,” she whispered. “Does that runway seem kind of…short?”

  Not an uncommon first reaction, for the uninitiated. “The craft is designed for short takeoffs and landings. We’ve got 3,000 feet of runway, but I’m only going to need 1,000 of them.”

  She turned now, too. Round, glassy eyes slowly focused on him. “Huh?”

  Maybe there were more nerves fraying beneath her seamless exterior than he’d picked up on. Shame on him. Just because he hadn’t expected someone so polished and emphatically urban didn’t mean she was as impervious as she appeared. “Don’t worry. It’s big enough to get the job done.”

  She laughed—a little frantic, to his ears—and shook her head. “That’s what they all say.”

  Well, not all of them, he begged to differ. His equipment might be slightly rusty, but it had never generated any complaints. Her joke, however, had blood rushing to his groin for the first time in…a while. His mind raced back to his initial glimpse of her coming down the airport escalator, and he endured a quick fantasy involving stripping that tight, tailored suit off her tight, curvy body and showing her precisely how well he could get the job done. Even her underwear would be fancy. Silky or lacy, he imagined, and, somehow, that only added to the appeal.

  The entirely unlikely scenario, bolstered by her dick-torturing scent, kept his imagination busy and his cock highly entertained through the landing. His passenger sucked in one sharp breath when they kangarooed off a wind gust just before touchdown, but he wove the uncensored little noise into the fantasy, which probably made him a sick perv in addition to an inconsiderate ass, but also proved his imagination didn’t take orders from his conscience.

  Once they’d taxied close to the terminal and come to a complete stop, he powered the plane down and released his seat belt. She didn’t immediately reach for hers, just sagged in her seat, taking quick, shallow sips of air, so he reached over and undid her belt as well. Overly familiar of him? Maybe, but perhaps his imaginary exchange of orgasms with her during their landing left him feeling overly familiar.

  She offered him a belated, “Thank you,” and then, “How do I…?”

  “You wait for me,” he told her, and reached behind him to the empty seats where two more passengers normally sat, found her coat, and held it for her. “First, put this on. It’s freezing out there.” Working her arms into her coat sleeves took more effort than the chore normally required and suggested to him that despite her silence during the flight, the rough ride had taken a toll on her. A choppy flight in a small plane could reduce an experienced adventure flyer to a minimally functional zombie. Given the circumstances, he tried not to wonder what the nape of her neck would taste like if he ran his tongue over the tempting line of smooth, bare skin visible over the collar of her suit. The thought had him wishing he could open the door a crack. It suddenly felt too hot in the cockpit.

  By the time they managed to get her into her outerwear, sweat coated his forehead. He shrugged into his parka and stashed his sunglasses in one padded pocket. Once she’d finished buttoning up, he opened his door and hopped down. Air a good twenty degrees cooler than what they’d left in Anchorage enfolded him in a blissfully chilly embrace. He wrenched the cargo door open to retrieve her extra-large trunk. Having loaded it onto the Beaver less than two hours ago, he knew it was every ounce of her declared ninety-five pounds. He hefted it to the ground, placed it on the small wheels some luggage designer had been kind enough to include, and rolled it with him to the other side of the plane. As instructed, she still sat inside the plane. A lot of passengers would have opened the door, but she waited for him to do the honors.

  Which meant she was either great at following instructions, or high maintenance.

  Time would tell.

  He opened the door, held out a hand for hers, and expected her to do as he’d done and brace one foot on the wheel strut while lowering the other to the ground. Instead, the smooth toe of her sky-high heel slipped off the strut. With a startled scream she tumbled toward the tarmac. Moving quickly, he caught her on the way down, wrapping his arms around her hips and pinning her against him before she slid right through his arms. For one long, still moment, he simply held her, dangling there, w
hile they both caught their breath. Wide, brown eyes looked down at him. “Good catch,” she gasped. “Thank you.”

  “Door-to-door service,” he managed, a little too affected by her scent and the feminine hips beneath the layers of clothes and coat. Belatedly, he realized his hold on her had bundled her clothes and coat high on her thighs, leaving slender, shapely legs on full display.

  From a hundred feet away, he sensed Mad Dog and Wingnut staring through the terminal windows, devouring the sight of said slender, shapely legs with the same eager attention they might give a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. Unhappy with the idea of them getting an eyeful of her from the anonymity of the terminal, as well as uncomfortably aware of how intimate their embrace might look to their no doubt curious audience—and a little afraid of how good she felt in his arms—he lowered her to solid ground. When her stance steadied, he made himself let go. She gave him a smile as wobbly as her legs, turned to retrieve her purse from beneath the seat, and slid it onto her shoulder.

  Frigid wind blew between them. Once she cleared, he closed the door and gestured toward the terminal. “This way.”

  He reached for her trunk, but she beat him to it. “No. The handle has a delicate release. I’ve got it.” To demonstrate, she depressed some hidden button, extended the pull handle, then started rolling the trunk behind her as she took careful steps across the tarmac.

  Delicate release, his ass. He got the distinct feeling she didn’t trust him with her precious designer trunk, which irked him because he dealt with passenger baggage and cargo all the damn time.

  One more point for high maintenance.

  It was easy to keep up with her shorter strides, especially as they approached the ramp leading to the terminal. Consideration of the physics between the weight of the trunk, her weight, and the angle of the incline had him speaking up again. “Sure you don’t want me to handle it on the ramp?”

  “I’ve got it,” she repeated and huffed her way to the top, looking more like a beauty and fashion editor embarking on a luxury transatlantic cruise than an outdoorswoman arriving for an Alaskan adventure. Mad and Wing wouldn’t know what to make of her, but they’d know for sure she wasn’t their run-of-the-mill, cusp-of-spring tourist looking to hike Big Kat while it still wore a snowy blanket, explore Glacier Bay, or pitch a tent and live off the land.

  She paused to brush at something on the lapel of her coat. Her very expensive, very designer coat.

  Any hopes he’d had of disguising a big city lawyer in Captivity swirled off like snowflakes in the wind. He was screwed. Very screwed. He needed a plausible explanation for her presence, and he needed it now.

  The automatic doors to the terminal opened when she hit the pressure plate, and a whoosh of air accompanied them into the warm, quiet arrival and departure lounge of Captivity Air.

  Mad Dog, Wingnut, and K’eyush all advanced like desperate puppies, eager to jump all over their new arrival. Isabelle stopped short in the face of the onslaught, and Trace had to hit the brakes fast to avoid slamming into her.

  “Hey, guys, back off.” To the dog, he ordered, “Sit.”

  Key dropped his fluffy butt obediently to the floor. The dog, at least, responded to commands.

  The men, not so much. He aimed a warning look at both, which they both ignored.

  “Oh, hey,” Mad said, flipping his blond hair out of his eyes, “let me get that for you.”

  “Back off, man. I can get it,” Wing insisted and slipped the handle from Isabelle’s grasp.

  She reached for it. “Thanks, but I can handle my luggage just fine. Really.”

  Mad, however, wasn’t giving up that easily. “I said I’ve got it.” He grabbed the handle as well, attempting to jostle Wing out of the way.

  Walking ahead to get out of the fray, Trace said, “Guys, she’s fine.” Then repeated “Guys!” in a louder voice as they tussled over the bag for several long, stupid seconds, with Isabelle making absolutely no progress trying to get it back. Finally, Wing tore the handle from Mad’s grip, but lost his hold as well. The trunk overbalanced and landed on the floor like the proverbial ton of bricks.

  The clasps popped on impact and a Victoria’s Secret storeroom’s worth of silky, frilly, feminine attire flew across the linoleum tile. But the thing that slid to a stop at the toes of his battle-scarred negative-forty-rated boots wasn’t frilly or feminine. It was a supersized box of condoms, with a sticky note attached that read, “Surprise!”

  Three sets of eyes, besides his own, focused on the box. Her purse slid off her arm and hit the floor with a plop. Then silence deafened everything except the wind outside.

  Wing found his voice first. “Shit. Sorry, lady.”

  Inspiration chose that moment to strike. Trace picked up the box of condoms and went with it.

  “She’s not just any lady. She’s the woman I plan to marry.”

  Isabelle froze in the process of stooping to gather to bras and panties, and yes, he’d been right—silky, lacy, frilly, and feminine—and he felt himself go hard as he contemplated them decorating her body instead of the terminal floor.

  She blew a wave of hair from her face that had escaped her fancy updo and looked up at him. “Huh?”

  He followed the trail of clothes to where she knelt, reached out a hand to help her to her feet, all the while sending her the most conspiratorial look he could manage without coming right out and saying, I’m about to lie my ass off, and I need you to go along me here.

  Her eyes narrowed, telling him she picked up on the fact that he sent her some kind of unspoken message, but not the specifics. How could she? Reaching for the condom box, she asked, “What are you—?”

  “Assuming I can convince her.” He gathered her into his arms, almost too desperate to note she fit as snugly in his embrace this time as when she’d fallen into him outside. Locking eyes with her, he silently begged for help. “What do you say, Isabelle? Can I convince you?”

  She studied him, a cute little furrow between her brows. Then, in a flash of understanding, her expression shifted to something far sultrier that he was expecting.

  Her lips curved into a teasing smile. “I don’t know. This is so sudden. Maybe start with a kiss?”

  Worked for him. The suggestion barely cleared her tempting lips before he took her up on it and covered them with his own.

  Chapter Two

  Holy bear daddy hotness…

  Trace’s beard tickled her skin in a way that set off other tickles in every nerve ending her body possessed. Whoa. Had she ever kissed a man with a beard before? Izzy’s reeling mind came up blank. Nope. Never. And as new experiences went, this one ranked high.

  It also ranked high as one of her most bizarre experiences—having a man she’d just met suddenly declare matrimonial intentions—but something in his urgent stare had implored her to play along, and her hormones, fresh off a near-death experience, decided to play. And now, that decision was paying off in spades.

  His warm, firm lips stayed sealed to hers for a long, suspended moment, and then—good lord—big, blunt fingertips danced gently across her cheek. The cheek touch, somehow both absent and reverent, melted places inside her entirely separate from her tingling nerve endings. Wanting more, she surged up onto her tiptoes, and nearly groaned when he eased back.

  She blinked her eyes open to find his shockingly-blue ones staring down at her with more than that work-with-me-please message. What lurked in their depths now looked a heck of a lot like…lust. Real lust. Not an act.

  Before she could get a word out, his lips reclaimed hers, crashing down with hot, hungry urgency. Right. Who needed conversation? Conversation was overrated. Highly overrated, she mentally added when a big hand cupped her ass and pulled her closer. Without hesitation, she let go of everything she’d picked up so she could sink her fingers into his thick, unkempt hair. Heat came off the man in wave after addic
tive wave, sending a grateful shiver down her body while banishing chills she didn’t even know she had.

  From somewhere very far away, a voice said, “Okay then. Good luck with that. We’ll just…go…put the Beaver in the hangar.”

  Was there a whoosh of the door? A rush of cold air? She heard nothing except the happy noises coming from her throat, felt nothing but his scorching mouth, the solid strength of him, and…yes. Sweet baby Jesus, yes. Hard, hot, and heavy against her stomach, through God knew how many layers of clothing—a long, unmistakable ridge of bear-daddy dick.

  It surged against her, attaining yet more impressive stature, and her inner muscles fluttered like new butterflies preparing to try their wings. Unable to resist, she skimmed her hand over his chest, down his flannel-padded brickwork of abs, and went questing between their bodies as best she could. Almost there. Almost. Her fingers literally itched to trace his dimensions. She stretched, and reached, and…

  He released her, instantly, as if he’d been burned.

  What the…? She opened her eyes and leveled them on him.

  “I’m…Jesus…” He expelled a breath and ran his hand through his hair, pushing it away from his forehead. The sad, tired eyes were back in full force. “Sorry.”

  Sorry? Was her mouth hanging open? Possibly. The man just planted on her the best kiss she’d had the thrill of experiencing in, well, her entire life, and then said sorry?

  “I’d rather have an explanation than an apology.” Maybe that sounded a little terse, but the “sorry” stung. Especially since he’d spent most of their time together shooting her disapproving looks or ignoring her, but as soon as they arrived, he introduced her to two mouthwatering specimens of local bear daddies as the woman he hoped to marry and pinned her with a look full of dire importance. When she’d cooperated and suggested the kiss, he’d put his hands and mouth on her like he owned her. Kissed her like he couldn’t get enough of her. Generated so much heat between them that they’d both gone up in flames. Which apparently made him “sorry”? Fine. Great. Peachy. She thought back to a pink T-shirt she’d seen in a terminal shop in Anchorage. Alaskan Men: The odds are good, but the goods are odd. This particular example appeared completely on-brand.