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, while 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.