Under The Midnight Sun

by Marilyn Cunningham

She didn’t resist. In fact, she melded herself against him, her breasts pressing insistently against his chest. His loins caught fire, his embrace tightened. He wanted her, wanted to impress himself on every part of her. He deepened his kiss, insistent, demanding, and felt fiery exultation as she opened her lips to him.

  The scent of jasmine engulfed him, and something more—the sweet essence of her femininity welcomed him. For an endless minute he clung to her, desire building to a crescendo.

  With an obvious effort, she pulled away, her whisper sounding husky and reluctant in his ears. “I—Brian—no.”

  Immediately, he released her. The swift sense of loss was so keen he had to exert every ounce of willpower not to pull her to him again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take advantage…” What had he meant to do, then? he thought, cursing his weakness. The truth was, he hadn’t thought at all. She was just there, irresistible, calling to the male in him.

  “You didn’t take advantage,” she whispered, still breathless, clutching at the chair back to regain her composure. “But it mustn’t happen again.”

  His gaze followed hers to the single bed, and he sighed. “I know. I just forgot myself for a minute.” He turned as though pursued by demons and rushed out the door. In a few minutes he was back, bringing his sleeping bag with him. He spread it on the floor on the far side of the room.

  Later, although the oil stove heated the room, Malinche felt cold as she lay in her narrow bed. She admitted she wanted Brian’s arms around her, his legs intertwined with hers. She wanted to rest her face against the moist, hard muscles of his chest, smell the masculine aroma that would rise from his heated skin. And she had to fight her body’s demand. It could only be sexual attraction; Brian wasn’t the kind of man she could commit to for life. He was a hard masculine force who would always threaten her desire for autonomy, her need to be an equal. He treated her with a kind of patronizing kindness that let her know what he thought of her.

  She listened for his breathing. He was awake, too, perhaps having as hard a time as she at forgetting the dizzying moment of passion between them. When sleep finally came, it was broken with dreams of a strong, controlling man pushing her toward a precipice.

  “WHAT IS IT?” Brian mumbled, fighting up out of the sleep that had finally come to him.

  “There! Don’t you hear it?”

  The panic in her voice jarred him wide awake. He stilled his breathing, straining to hear. There was something—a whisper of stealthy footsteps, the creak of leather on frozen sod.

  He grabbed his Smith & Wesson revolver from beneath his bag and crept to the door, flinging it open.

  The sharp crack of a pistol split the arctic silence. A bullet slammed into the doorjamb. He sprang back.

  “Stay down, Malinche!”

  He kicked the door shut and inched to the window and peered out, careful to keep out of the line of vision of whoever was outside. At this time of year, above the arctic circle, the sun never set, and daylight illuminated the landscape. He saw no one, but the attacker could be behind a hillock. Or he might have taken one shot and ran like hell.

  He cracked the window and shot into the air. The echo reverberated, but there was no other sound.

  Malinche clutched his arm, her eyes on the weapon in his hand. “I didn’t know you had a gun with you.”

  “You were supposed to stay down! You’d better learn to follow orders if you want to survive! And you didn’t think I’d be dumb enough to come unarmed looking for a killer?”

  “But you shot in the air.”

  “Because I don’t know where he is. I hope that shot warned him off. He’ll know we’re not defenseless.”

  She was holding him firmly around the waist. It felt good. Too good. He knew the tendency, when in danger, to search for safety, for comfort, in someone’s arms. That was all her embrace meant.

  Gently, he guided Malinche back to the bed and convinced her to lie down. With a sigh, she relaxed against the pillow, her hair dark against the pale material, her body soft and yielding. If he were a different kind of man he would take advantage of her dependency, her need for comfort. Even knowing she would hate him for it, almost as much as he would hate himself, it still took all his willpower not to join her.

  And he couldn’t afford a distraction, not with a killer loose. This was not the time to be caught with his pants down.

  Chapter Five

  Malinche awoke to the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee, and stifled the impulse to pull the comforter up over her head. Last night’s attack had replayed in her mind until she had thought she would never get to sleep. For hours she had lain awake, heart pounding, listening for footsteps outside the door.

  It was annoying to hear Brian’s deep, even breathing. Had the man no sensitivity at all? Eventually, though, she had fallen into a druggedlike sleep.

  Turning her head, she saw Brian’s back, watched as he reached into the cupboard for mugs. Her heart skipped a beat. The sight chased away any remnants of sleep. In his faded jeans and chamois shirt, his thick blond hair tousled from sleep, he looked lean and powerful, a man in control of his environment.

  He was a puzzle. The kiss they had shared still pulsed in her blood. It was difficult to think he had anything to hide. But why had he refused to help her and then changed his mind so quickly? What wasn’t he telling her?

  She guessed she should ask him this question. But he was helping her, and if he had anything to hide, he certainly wasn’t likely to tell her.

  “Time to wake up, sleepyhead.”

  “I’m awake. Barely.” She had slept in her silk long johns. Now she swung her legs over the side of the bed, brushed her hair from her eyes, and reached for the coffee.

  “It’s nine o’clock. After last night’s drama, I thought you’d better sleep a little.”

  She fumbled for her cup, her hand brushing his Calling on willpower he didn’t know he had, Brian didn’t flinch, although her touch traveled up his arm like warm honey. God, she was beautiful, rising from sleep like Aphrodite from the waves.

  He caught his breath. Desire burned all along his veins. How much longer could he go on pretending this was nothing but physical need? He no longer thought she was involved with the CIA, but he was quite sure she didn’t belong in his world. He’d heard of her father, Buck Adams. When things got tough, she would run to Daddy.

  But knowing that didn’t help him now. She lifted worried eyes to him, sending shivers all along his spine. It would be easy to forget that he must keep his distance.

  “Brian—who shot at us last night?”

  “Could have been anyone. Probably trying to scare us.”

  “Well, he succeeded.”

  He walked to the door, ostensibly to examine the bullet hole, but in reality to give himself time to think. He had to get Malinche out of this situation, send her home to Seattle, while he continued to investigate. There was a phantom out there, determined to stop them, and he could handle that much better without having her around to worry about. Although she was holding up better than he had thought she would.

  “Get dressed,” he said abruptly. “I’ll check outside.”

  He didn’t expect to find anything, and he didn’t. In the tundra, footsteps would never show up. The scant vegetation appeared undisturbed. The shooter could have walked from one of the houses, visible several hundred yards away, or he could have parked a vehicle down the road. One thing was sure—he was still out there.

  He stiffened at the sound of a motor, then relaxed as he recognized George’s battered Jeep.

  “Got any coffee?” George pulled up, splashing gravel, and jumped out beside him.

  “Sure. Come inside.”

  At the sound of the door opening, Malinche glanced up from the frying pan in which hash sizzled enticingly. In jeans, a soft mauve turtleneck sweater and Italian leather boots, she looked as though she’d be right at home in Seattle. Not here.

  “Hi, guys. How about breakfast?”

  “Wow. If tha
t tastes as good as it smells, you could have a permanent job.” Brian immediately regretted his words. It was a casual remark, but he didn’t even want to joke about permanency where Malinche was concerned.

  George gulped the hot strong coffee. His face wrinkled with perplexity when Brian told him about their nighttime visitor.

  “No idea who it could have been,” he said, rubbing his chin with a square, strong hand. “This is a small town…people sometimes get a little too much to drink and cause a little trouble, but there’s no reason a local would shoot up the place.”

  “Have any strangers been around recently?”

  “Some. Always are in the summer. Early June is our busiest time. I hang out at the airport picking up a few bucks driving people to the hotel, but I don’t see everybody. Lots of them have convertible planes like yours—they can land most anyplace.”

  That avenue led nowhere. Brian pulled the empty envelope from his pocket. “Do you know anything about this?”

  “An empty envelope?”

  “It’s from the Department of the Army in Washington. Why would Dimitri have a letter from them?”

  “He was writing to the army about something,” George said slowly. “All winter he seemed distracted, upset. He wouldn’t say much, but he seemed to be thinking a lot about the time he spent at Ward Cove. He was just a kid, you know, and I gathered it was pretty bad. His mother died there. He seemed more obsessed than ever with dragons. What’s the date on that letter?”

  Brian handed him the envelope, and George scanned the date. “He left for Kotzebue a couple of days after he got that letter. He was real excited about something, but he wouldn’t tell me what. Just said he was getting close, and he had to see somebody there.” He glanced at Malinche. “And if he didn’t come back, I was to send you that package.”

  “He knew he was in danger, then. Why would he go to Kotzebue?”

  “No idea. Every year since the cold war ended the Eskimos from here and Siberia have been meeting along the coast like they used to do. You know—relatives seeing each other, old friends meeting. It’s a good place for gossip. This year the gathering was near Kotzebue.”

  And a good place to pass information if you’re a spy. “I found his body midway between Kotzebue and Prudhoe Bay,” Brian said. “I guess Kotzebue is the next stop.”

  Malinche, who had already tidied up the dishes, was packing her bag. Brian frowned. She didn’t realize what she was getting into. Nothing in her experience had prepared her for the kind of danger they might face.

  “I want you to go back to Seattle,” he said sternly. “A shuttle leaves for Anchorage today. I’ll go on to Kotzebue—”

  Her mutinous look stopped him in the middle of the sentence. Okay, so she wouldn’t listen to reason. Stubborn. Malinche continued her silence as she got in the Jeep and they traversed the bumpy road to the airport.

  Several minutes later George pulled his Jeep up beside Brian’s Cessna. “I gassed up for you yesterday in case you wanted to leave in a hurry. It’s a long drag to Kotzebue.”

  “Well…thanks,” Brian said uneasily. George’s action was only one of friendly help, and Brian convinced himself he was getting too suspicious of everyone. He peeled some bills from his pocket and handed them to George. “This should take care of everything.”

  George pocketed the money. “Sure you’ve got enough of everything? You can reach me on the radio if you have any trouble.”

  “I’m not a Cheechako,” Brian said dryly. “I’m prepared for emergencies. Thanks for everything.” Brian walked slowly around the plane. Everything seemed in order.

  A few minutes later the plane lifted smoothly from the ground and Brian pointed it toward Kotzebue.

  When they reached cruising altitude, Malinche leaned back and ran her hands through her long hair. She hadn’t braided it this morning, and it felt sensuous on her skin, caressing the back of her neck—as Brian’s hand had done so recently. Disconcerting how the feel of his touch still lingered.

  “George seemed strange,” she said slowly, glancing down at the endless rolling tundra cut here and there by small rivulets “Do you suppose he’s not telling us everything he knows?”

  “Who ever is?” Brian retorted.

  They were silent, as below them the tundra stretched forever. Here and there washes of color indicated the brief arctic summer had finally arrived.

  “It seems such an inhospitable land,” Malinche said softly. “To think my ancestors actually lived here, killed game, raised families—such a primitive life ..” Her voice trailed away.

  “Some of your ancestors lived here,” Brian retorted. “The rest were in Europe, busy hacking up enemies with broadaxes, painting themselves blue before they went into battle.”

  She smiled. “I get your point. My Scotch-Irish side could be primitive, too. Sometimes I wonder where I fit in all this—what my world really is.”

  “Your world is what you make it. Forget about the past. The present is all you have.”

  “Is that what you do, live in the present? Don’t you ever think of the future, of having a family?”

  “I never think much about it.”

  She glanced at his rock-hard profile. He was so sure of himself, so confident of his place in the world, while she was constantly searching for something she might not recognize even if she found it.

  Since leaving Barrow they had not seen one human habitation. They’d flown over a herd of caribou and a herd of musk ox, but the humans who had been here once had left no trace. She felt uneasy, lonely, vulnerable in the fragile plane. This was nothing compared with what her hunter ancestors had faced, following the animals across the Bering Strait into a harsh, unknown land, yet it took all her courage to merely fly above it.

  Thinking of those long-ago people, she felt the tug of kinship, of continuity. Had some woman, her age perhaps, with children in tow, followed her man into this wilderness? Where one mishap would be the last? That was something she, shielded by civilization, would never know.

  The drone of the engine, the monotonous vibration of the aircraft, made her drowsy. She felt nearly at peace, with Brian’s competent hand on the wheel. Would it be so bad to be taken care of? Immediately she rejected the thought. That was what she was running from. “How much longer?”

  “We’re about halfway. Try to get a little more sleep.”

  “That’s a good—” She broke off, alarmed by a slight sputter in the engine. “Is something wrong?”

  “No—” Brian’s expression belied the word, and she was instantly fully awake.

  The engine coughed, and Brian pulled out the throttle to give it more fuel. Incredulous, he glanced at the gauge. It had shown full when they left Barrow, but for the last few minutes it had been dropping alarmingly. Now, impossibly, the needle rested on empty.

  He repressed his surge of alarm, as he sought and rejected several alternatives. He didn’t want to frighten Malinche, but things didn’t look good. He had checked the plane himself before leaving Anchorage, and it was in perfect condition. Since then no one had been near it—

  Except George. And anyone else who happened to be wandering around the airport while he slept. Yet everything had looked all right when he made his quick check.

  The engine, after one last ineffectual sputter, quit entirely.

  “Brian!” Malinche gazed at him with wide, frightened eyes. “What’s the matter?”

  “I have to take her down. Put your head down!”

  Thank God she didn’t scream or distract him with frantic questions. This plane could land on most anything—snow, water, land—when he put the wheels down, but without power it was going to be tricky

  He concentrated on the controls, using every bit of skill he possessed. There was no reason to pick a spot; one place looked about the same as another. “Here goes! Hang on!”

  With a bump that jarred him down to the soles of his feet, they came to a crashing stop.

  He sat there, not even bothering to brush
the sweat from his face. They were upright, the plane was intact, but without gas it didn’t make a great deal of difference.

  “Are you all right?” He turned to Malinche, his chest tight with fear. If anything happened to her, it would be his fault.

  She was slumped in her seat, her eyes scrunched shut. She opened them slowly and took a long, shaky breath. “All right? I’m not dead, if that’s what you mean. What happened?”

  Relief flooded him. Thank God, she was safe, and it didn’t appear she was going to have hysterics. “You’re not going to believe this—but we ran out of gas.” He felt as shaky as she looked, but he could still make a joke.

  “That old story. If you’re expecting me to say I’ll walk home, forget it!”

  It was unreal, she thought. A moment ago she had been looking down on this barren landscape wondering how her ancient ancestors had felt and now here she was, stranded.

  The silence, after the drone of the plane, was deafening. Oppressive. It awoke the atavistic fear of the unknown, and frightened her more than anything else. It reminded her that they were uncounted miles from any other humans, any possible help. They were alone in a bleak and unforgiving land.

  Without conscious volition, she reached out to touch Brian. His hand closed over hers, bringing comfort and strength. “What do we do now?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know. But I better take a look at the plane.” Reluctantly, he released her hand and swung from the plane. He knew where to look for trouble. The gas line. It didn’t take long to find it. A tiny slit had been drilled in the line, and the vibration of the plane had widened it enough to let the gas pour out in a steady stream. Someone had sabotaged the plane. Someone had wanted them to plunge into the most isolated land in the state.

  His mouth tightened. The same person who had sabotaged his Jeep. This confirmed that they were being followed.

  Malinche had climbed down and stood beside him. “Can you fix it?” she asked.

  “I can fix the cut—but I can’t manufacture gas.”

  “Then we’re stuck here,” she said, shivering. “What will we do?”