Under The Midnight Sun

by Marilyn Cunningham

  Although of medium height, the intruder was strongly muscled. At his apparent age, he’d obviously lived an active life. Something about him didn’t seem to go with the expensive gray-striped suit that was obviously custom-made.

  It was the eyes, though, that riveted Brian’s attention. Pale blue, almost colorless. Looking into them was like peering into fathomless depths of—nothing. Brian had faced many dangers in his various assignments around the world, but he had never felt this uneasiness prickling along his spine. It wasn’t the man’s physical appearance that made him appear so lethal. Brian sensed something dangerous in his manner, something that made him think this man was no stranger to violence.

  To dispel his uneasiness or to prove he wasn’t intimidated—he took a step toward the man, hands on hips. “I don’t like people busting in on me. You’ve got some explaining to do.”

  “I just came to offer you some advice, Kennedy.”

  “I like to know who I’m talking to.”

  “It’s not important.”

  “To me it is,” Brian replied. “Start talking, beginning with who in the hell you are—or get out.”

  The man rose from his chair, eyes slitted. “You’re in no position to demand anything—”

  Brian sprang forward. One fist connected with the square chin, making a satisfying thud. The man fell backward, his expression registering surprise as he stumbled to his knees.

  He rose slowly, frowning, but made no move to retaliate. “You’ve got guts. Too bad you don’t also have a lick of sense.”

  Glancing at Brian’s set jaw, he sank back down in his chair. “You’ve made your point. Maybe I didn’t need to make such a dramatic entrance. I wanted to get your attention, convince you that what I have to say is important.”

  “Which is?”

  “You’ve been nosing around some dangerous places.” He paused, then shot the words out between thin lips. “What’s your interest in Dimitri Stanislof?”

  Dimitri Stanislof again, Brian thought. A lot of interest in an ordinary Native, even if he was—or had been—a well-known artist. “What business is it of yours?”

  “You’ve been asking questions. It could get dangerous,” the man said softly.

  Brian suspected this man knew it already had gotten dangerous. “I found the body, brought it to the authorities. That’s all I know.”

  “Not quite, I think. You’d do well to tell me everything.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “I’m warning you, for your own good. You’ve already discovered that the man was killed. It could be contagious.”

  “Get out.”

  The man rose slowly to his feet. “Okay, so you don’t scare. I was afraid of that. I didn’t want to tell you any more than you had to know. But you’re a patriotic man, and I’m sure you wouldn’t do anything to harm your country.”

  He flipped open a wallet and held it in front of Brian’s eyes. “Carl Bettnor, CIA.”

  Brian’s mouth dropped open. So, this was an official visit. He suspected the man was acting true to form and wasn’t an immediate threat. Brian had worked all over the world. He’d run into CIA types before. This man’s tactics of surprise and intimidation weren’t unusual.

  And CIA involvement explained a few things—the evasiveness, the denials. Everyone would keep a low profile, try to stay out of trouble.

  Thinking back on his conversation with his boss, he realized that Pasco might have been trying to warn him. Why? Because Pasco knew of CIA involvement and didn’t want trouble? Or because Dimitri was a threat that Universal Oil itself had taken care of?

  “What’s any of that got to do with me, Bettnor?”

  “This Stanislof was involved in some pretty dirty business. And whoever killed him is still out there.”

  “What was he involved in? From what I heard, he was a harmless artist. I might not agree with his efforts to stop oil drilling, but as a ‘patriot,’ I know it’s within the law to protest.”

  “He was into a lot more than that.”

  “Like what?”

  “It’s government business,” Bettnor said firmly. “It involves national security. And remember—whoever killed him is still loose and dangerous. So stay out of it. That’s an order.”

  Bettnor paused, his mouth tightening. “And keep that Adams woman on a short rein, if you have any regard for her.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Bettnor strode to the door. With his hand on the knob, he turned. “There are people out there who aren’t playing games. I think you know that by now. You’d be wise to cooperate, tell what you know.” He shut the door firmly behind him.

  Brian moved to the door and turned the lock, cold anger growing inside him. CIA or not, the guy had no right to burst in here, spouting threats. The whole scene was designed to intimidate him, nothing else.

  Well, it wasn’t going to work. No one was going to push him around. But what did he know that someone would kill for? Did they think he had reached Dimitri while he was still alive? Or was it the dragon? That didn’t make sense. It seemed identical to all the others the artist had crafted.

  Moving to the window, he pushed aside the venetian blind and scanned the street. Bettnor had vanished. The whole business was infuriating. Maybe he should follow his original plans and go to Mexico, lie on a beach and forget all this But that probably wouldn’t work. Whatever someone thought he knew now, they’d still be sure he knew it when he got back.

  And if his company was involved, he wanted to know it

  He mulled over Bettnor’s last words. Keep Malinche on a short rein. Someone had already tried to harm her. Could he just walk away and leave her to face things alone? Or was she herself involved in this up to her pretty little neck?

  A picture flashed through his mind. Malinche gazing up at him, her expression betraying her fear. There was more danger here than Carl Bettnor represented. He’d never had any trouble putting his feelings for a woman in the background. What made Malinche different? Especially when he knew she was the kind of woman who would never fit into his life? Bettnor was after something, possibly the dragon. And Brian had stupidly given it to Malinche. He might have placed her in more danger than she was in already.

  He glanced at his watch, and grabbed his jacket from a peg in the foyer. If Bettnor was as thorough as he seemed to be, he might be heading for Malinche’s apartment right now.

  MALINCHE LISTENED to the strident ringing at the other end of the line, and sighed with relief when her father’s voice boomed into the phone. “Hello?”

  “Dad. I’m glad I caught you at home.” Just hearing his voice made her feel less vulnerable. How could she be so ambivalent about Buck? She wanted autonomy, freedom, but he was the one she always called when she was in trouble.

  “Is something wrong, angel?”

  “You always could see right through me. I do have something to ask you. But I miss you, too,” she insisted.

  “Then come on home where you belong.”

  Malinche sighed. Her desire to find her roots, stand on her own two feet was a running argument between them. She knew her father didn’t understand. He had ordered her not to come to Alaska, puzzled by her desire to delve back into her history, and she had defied him for perhaps the first time. There was no reason to resume the old argument.

  “Dad, I’ve been thinking of Dimitri. I’m sure now he was murdered. You said that you were told that both he and his mother died during World War II. Just what were you told? And my mother? What really happened to her?”

  Buck’s voice came choked and husky over the line. “Just as I told you, sweetheart, she died when you were born. Your birth was hard. She was in her late thirties. Perhaps too old.” His voice trailed away, then strengthened. “As to Marie and—my son—you remember hearing about the detention camp at Ward Cove, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” She knew a little about it. At about the time the Japanese were involved at Midway, they attacked the Aleutian Islands. About 1400 Aleuts were
living there, and to protect them the United States interned them at Ward Cove—a case of taking them from the frying pan to the fire.

  “Marie and Dimitri were taken there. Your mother was there too, for a short time. She was a child. Twelve or thirteen. No wonder she wouldn’t talk about it—it must have been hell. I only learned later how bad it was,” Buck continued. “No heat, no food—while the fiercest battle of the war was waged on the Aleutians, the Aleuts were forgotten. When the war was over, over half the Aleuts were dead. I thought Marie—and my son—were among them.”

  “Marie may have died, but Dimitri didn’t. I’ve got to help—”

  “You shouldn’t be worrying about it,” Buck said. “Dimitri lived up there for years. He’s bound to have friends who will do whatever is necessary.”

  “He was your son. My brother.” The statement was an accusation.

  “Yes. And if I’d have known that while he was alive, it would have been different. But it’s in the past, Malinche.”

  She hung up, glad she hadn’t told Buck about the threats to her life. He’d have been on the next plane to Alaska.

  The sound of footsteps running upstairs alerted her Apprehension fluttered along her spine. She held very still, every cell listening.

  She peered through the window just in time to see Brian reaching for the bell.

  Her heart gave a glad leap and she threw open the door, a smile on her face. “Didn’t I just say good-night to you?”

  He looked like a thundercloud ready to shoot a bolt of lightning her way. “Do you always open your door without knowing who’s out there?”

  She lifted her chin. “I knew it was you. Besides, who appointed you my guardian?”

  He moved past her, his sharp gray gaze moving quickly around the room. “Are you alone?”

  “I’m not hiding a man in my closet, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Sorry.” He didn’t look in the least sorry. He walked into the kitchen, then into her bedroom. She heard the door to the bedroom open and close before he finally came back into the living room.

  Exasperation colored her voice. “Brian, what’s going on? You left a couple of hours ago, saying you’d check a few things. I got the impression I wasn’t at the top of your priorities. Now you come charging back, search my apartment and won’t even tell me why.”

  He gave her a slow smile, a smile that turned her knees to jelly. She tried to ignore the tingle that ran along her arms, the shiver down her spine. Still, that wasn’t reason enough to let him off the hook.

  “Well?”

  “I just wanted to make sure no one was here.”

  “And if someone was, what’s it to you?”

  He grinned then, a maddening grin. “Oh, I’m not worried about your love life. But I just had a very determined visitor, and I thought he might have come here. Believe me, he wasn’t the kind I wanted hiding out with a gun pointed at me.”

  She stared back at him. “You came back because you were worried about me?”

  “I know—you can take care of yourself.”

  He sprawled in a chair, his fingers laced together behind his head, and regarded her through smoky, hooded eyes. Their gazes met, held. A slow, warm current flowed through her, heating her blood, flooding her chest, coalescing in a point deep in her abdomen. She wanted him closer…

  Her cheeks flushed. She was almost sure he knew exactly what she was thinking. She needed to break the connection, but should she slap his face or throw herself into his arms?

  Neither, of course. She was reading too much into the moment. He was a healthy, sexy man, and he’d proven he was a take-charge kind. And he had some explaining to do. Was it just a coincidence that he, an employee of a company that had every reason to wish Dimitri out of the way, had been the one to find him?

  She forced her gaze away from his. “Someone came to your apartment? What did they want?”

  He shrugged. “To make very sure that questions about Dimitri stop. I thought I’d find out why.”

  “Does that mean you’ll help me?”

  He answered her question with one of his own. “Do you know Carl Bettnor?”

  “Bettnor?” She shook her head. “No. Should I?”

  “He certainly knows about you, and the questions you’ve been asking.” He paused. She felt he was judging her, weighing every word she said. “Have you ever been involved with the CIA?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Don’t look so indignant. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve used a beautiful woman. But I truly don’t see how you’d fit. Anyway, Bettnor hinted that Dimitri was a threat to the government. Would you know anything about that?”

  “Dimitri a spy?” She broke off. What did she really know about her brother? “I don’t think it’s likely,” she said slowly. “From everything I’ve heard he was only interested in art.”

  “We seem to have a mystery here,” Brian said. “Was Dimitri an artist, devoted only to his craft, or was he up to his neck in intrigue? I think I’d better find out.”

  “You mean we. I’m involved in this, don’t forget.”

  “Oh, I don’t forget that.” Was there a double meaning in his words. “Anyway, no. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Forget it! I won’t be pushed aside.”

  He let it go, but she knew the argument wasn’t over.

  “There’s one thing I’m sure of,” Brian said. “People get murdered for a reason. Dimitri was either doing something or knew something that threatened someone. So the thing to do is find out who that someone was. I’ll backtrack, talk to his friends, trace his movements all the way back to the time he was born if I have to. Do you know where he lived recently?”

  He was ignoring everything she’d just said. “I’m not sure he had a permanent home,” she replied icily. “But he had a studio and friends in Barrow. And you’re not going there without me. I’ll follow you if I have to.” She’d had enough of being ordered around, treated like a child.

  Brian hesitated, obviously mulling something over in his mind. “If you go with me, you’re exposing yourself to danger. But you don’t seem to be too safe here, either. All right. But don’t slow me down. And remember, it’s going to be tough. I’m not sure you can handle it.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said coldly. “But you’d better go home and get some sleep. We can start early in the morning—”

  “I’m not going home.”

  Her eyes widened. “We can’t start for Barrow right now—”

  “I mean I’m spending the night here. You’re not safe alone.”

  “Of course I’ll be safe. I’ll lock the door. Just because we’re going to be together for a while doesn’t mean you’re going to be paid by—”

  “Paid?” His voice was dangerously low. “Relax. I have no designs on your body.”

  She blushed furiously. Why had she jumped to such a conclusion? Because she had been thinking in those terms herself, wondering what he would be like?

  “I appreciate the thought, but I’m afraid you can’t stay,” she muttered. “I have only one bed.”

  Brian’s eyes went to the slim Edwardian couch. “That’ll do. My bedroll’s in the Jeep. I’ll bring it in.”

  Malinche spent the short time he was gone desperately thinking of a way to dissuade him. It was all the more difficult because she was torn between fear of being alone and of Brian’s being too close for comfort. Certainly all this macho protectiveness wasn’t necessary. It was just the kind of man he was. The kind she didn’t want.

  But someone had been watching her apartment. Someone who might have different designs on her than the one’s Brian said he didn’t have.

  He could deny it, but every feminine nerve ending told her Brian wasn’t immune to this raging sexual awareness that had her trembling when he so much as looked at her.

  Brian came through the door, his sleeping bag over his shoulder, his backpack on his arm.

  “Looks like you came prepared,” she said dryl
y.

  “Always. That’s the secret to survival in Alaska, as anyone but a Cheechako would know.”

  “Cheechako? You’re referring to me?”

  “Cheechako, newcomer, someone who never spent a winter up here. I’d say you qualify.”

  “I’d say you don’t know what you’re talking about. Remember, I spent the first few years of my life in an Indian village.”

  “But you forget quickly when the living is soft. How long since you’ve eaten muktuk?” he said, referring to the whale fat with skin attached which the Eskimos considered a delicacy.

  “Probably about the last time you did.”

  “You’ve got me there,” he said, grinning. “Still, you look like you belong in the lower forty-eight. Designer jeans, silk brocade—not a fingernail broken.”

  “And you can tell all about me just by looking at me?”

  His eyes darkened. “I can tell a lot.”

  She sighed. “If you know where I belong, you’re ahead of me.”

  The silence stretched between them, full of possibilities neither would acknowledge. Finally Malinche spoke.

  “If there’s nothing you need, I’ll go on to bed.” She gave him a wry smile. “I didn’t realize it was so late. This constant daylight always makes it seem like the middle of the afternoon.”

  She took her time in the bathroom, smoothing fragrant lotion over her skin and inhaling the faint scent of jasmine. She had always loved that fragrance. It reminded her of balmy nights by a warm ocean, of a tropical moon in a black velvet sky…

  What was she doing here at the frigid top of the world, where the wind brought the biting scent of glacier ice?

  And especially what was she doing here with a devastatingly attractive and sexy man on the other side of the door? A man whom she sensed could show her all the things she had been missing in relationships. At a cost, of course. Of her autonomy.

  She had long known there was an emptiness at her core. An aching void she had to fill herself. She had nothing to give until she solved her own dilemma. She had come to Alaska looking for a way to unite the two warring parts of herself.

  She knew what she wanted in a man. She sensed in herself a great passion, a deep capacity to love, and she wanted the same capacity in a man. But she wanted him to treat her as an equal, trust her judgment. The man on the other side of the door wasn’t like that. There was no possibility of anything but physical passion between them.