by Jianne Carlo
Why?
The spring she'd turned ten, Mona, her stepmother, had bought her first bra, a B-cup cotton utilitarian harness that hurt her budding breasts. She grew into a C-cup before Christmas. Her stepmother had snapped something about the hormones in chicken, taken her to the doctor who pronounced her an early developer, and told Mona not to worry.
Just after her thirteenth birthday, a grown man, tall and bearded, asked her if she'd like to grab a cup of coffee. Destiny hadn't really understood he was trying to pick her up, but her stepmother sure had, and she'd hit the roof.
When they got home, her stepmother threw a hissy fit, accusing Destiny of behaving like a tart, a common slut. When her boobs graduated to a D-cup, Destiny had been mortified.
In her second year of college, she took Psych 101 and discovered a phenomenon called “self-fulfilling prophecy.”
Why had her mother given her a stripper name, not the name of a female pioneer like Linc's sisters? What would his family think when they heard her name?
“Okay?” He tucked a wayward curl behind her ear, and smoldering desire throbbed between her legs, the bathwater sweet friction to suddenly sensitive labia.
Sex was definitely addictive.
“Yes.”
“I'll bring in a couple of fresh candles in a few. Relax.” He kissed her forehead, and his thick quadriceps bunched and lengthened when he straightened and stood.
Destiny's gaze trailed Linc's tall, muscular body, sleek ripples curving with each swing of his arms, each long stride of his powerful legs. What happened when the snow stopped falling? Would Nadine, aka Angel, cooperate? Destiny knew her own career had tanked, and Nadine’s book would be her last shot at the brass ring.
Drawing her legs up, she rested her chin on one knee; images from the last few months waltzed through her brain.
After years of slogging and putting in seventy- and eighty-hour weeks, after months spent holed up reading and working on the PC either at work or in the tiny Manhattan rent-controlled loft inherited from a burned-out predecessor she'd never met, Destiny's career seemed poised for takeoff.
Juanita Sender submitted her first novel to St. Paul's, specifically to Destiny, because they had roomed together their first year at college and were BFFs—or so Destiny thought at the time. Beautiful, Vassar-educated Juanita, one parent a U.S. ambassador, the other a high-powered pharmaceutical lobbyist, had contacts everywhere, and during the nine months leading to the publication of Juanita's novel, the industry buzz about her talent and the hype and secrecy about her book had grown to presidential-campaign proportions.
The manuscript Destiny edited topped the New York Times best-seller list a week after release and remained in the top ten for seventeen consecutive weeks. Producers lined up for the movie rights. Juanita included Destiny and her new boyfriend, Kenny, in all the freebies, the dinners at exclusive restaurants, the swank cocktail parties, the celebrity-studded clubs.
Then some as-yet-unidentified person posted Kenny and Juanita's sex tape on the Internet. Free-falling without a parachute couldn't begin to describe how Destiny's reputation had plummeted. She'd been poised for ascension to the stars, to editorial heaven, to ayeing and naying the words of the best of the best. One day, one implied headline, that's all it took, and her reputation went from sharp and focused to stupid and unaware.
All at once, the authors who'd sought her advice, who'd begged to be on her list, evaporated. Within an hour, her cell stopped singing Nickelback's “Rockstar.” Oblivious when editing, she figured the unusual early spring heat had driven everyone to the Hamptons. Then someone, no caller ID, sent her a shot from the tape, which at fifty excruciating minutes could hardly be termed a “trailer.”
A gust, which must have lingered on a glacier before slipping into the house, cavorted over one shoulder not enveloped in the warm bathwater. A shudder slithered up her spine, that things-are-too-good-to-be-true warning, prickling each vertebra until the ends snaked and coiled around her neck.
He's too perfect, too manly, too everything.
Is this all a dream? Some fantasy that will crush me senseless?
The bleak days after the tape aired spewed like vomit up her throat.
Juanita's betrayal.
Kenny, who she'd thought her prince.
The animalistic way he'd screwed Juanita. The lackluster way he'd had sex with her.
Only the support of her mentor, Senior Editor Jess Blaine, had saved her job. Jess had stuck by her, glaring at anyone who dared a comment on the situation. She'd been terrific, making Destiny attend industry events when all she wanted to do was cower under a desk. She'd been terrific, making Destiny attend industry events when all she wanted to do was cower under a desk. When Nadine had dumped her last editor, and requested Destiny—she’d jumped at the opportunity.
You warned me, Jess.
You said it would be purgatory. You were wrong. It's hell. Pure, unadulterated hell.
Destiny hissed out a breath through gritted teeth.
You are not going to upend my career, Nadine Rowland. No way. I'm going to fix your damned book, and you're going to hit the number-one spot on the Times bestseller list the first week of release.
Linc's deep voice rumbled in the distance, and she made out the static crackle each time he stopped speaking. Had she jumped headfirst into the flames?
She so yearned to believe him. But what man that looked like him would ask a slightly overweight, okay, maybe more-than-slightly overweight, strange woman to live with him with marriage as a goal?
Eons too good to be true.
All at once the water temperature nose-dived from tepid to cold. She sighed and attributed the dip to her souring mood. Destiny rose, reached for a towel, stepped out of the tub, and dried off.
Linc would have to like it or lump it, but she intended to wear clothes. She pulled on the fleece sweatpants and a lavender V-neck sweatshirt; then thick socks followed. The pink bird slippers seemed too playful for her current discordant mood.
If it sounds too good to be true, ten'll get you one, it is. Wise up, Destiny Driven. There's a serpent lying in wait.
Even his siblings' names sounded like some Little House on the Prairie script. Not even Juanita, who she'd once considered her best friend, knew of her past. Up until Juanita and Kenny, she'd kept her business and personal lives strictly segregated.
Why on earth had she told Linc about her parents?
You are so going to regret Alaska.
As she padded through the main cabin, the radio erupted, spouting and fracturing the silence, an earsplitting squeal surfing the cresting and receding static.
Mouthing, Ow, she covered her ears, halting just before the turn into the freezer alcove when she remembered the devil's food cake they'd spoken about yesterday. She would make him one. As a celebration for their time in Alaska.
Better preheat the oven.
She pivoted, about to rush back to the kitchen, when Linc's urgent, whispered words reached her ears.
“Born on December twenty-ninth, nineteen eighty-two, in Derby, Connecticut.”
Whaaat?
Dread had her neck in some sort of paralysis, her ears and face pointed to the kitchen, but every other cell in her body turned to face the other way.
He's talking about me.
“Lived in Derby until she left for college. Moved to New York City on graduation. Works at St. Paul's Publishing.”
Panic fizzed up her throat. Destiny fisted both hands over her mouth.
Stop. Stop. There must be a logical explanation. It doesn't sound like he's gloating.
Some quality in his tone played a haunting tease at the corners of her mind.
“Background checks on both of her parents and one Juanita Sender. I want to know who sneezed when. Dig into the details. And I want every single minute of her father's life on file. The same for her stepmother.”
Static faded in and out, grew to a deafening proportion, and then magically faded away.
“I'll get Lucifer started on it pronto. Chopper's ETA is in ten, Sinner. Blades should be churning in a few. The fire's jumped our line. You have to get out of there, pronto.”
She didn't recognize the voice of the man who spoke over the radio.
Blades?
“Crap. Over and out.”
“Over and out.”
The chair scraped a ringing dissonance in the sudden hush.
Background checks?
She turned, noticing a long scratch on the far wall, her mind hovering above her brain, the wiring between thought, action, and reaction disconnected.
Move—she glared at her frozen legs—move. Run—get away from here.
Neither limb obeyed her command; she remained planted in her obvious eavesdropping position.
Linc, in full commando motion, halted mid step when he caught sight of her.
For a second she saw his face pinch, saw regret sluice his features; then his normal charismatic expression morphed into an enigmatic mask.
“Background checks?”
Chapter Eight
How much had she overheard?
If only he'd been on time for Satan's scheduled broadcast.
Destiny looked sucker punched. She wore that startled, hurt expression he'd seen in countless unsuspecting civilians when violence penetrated their ordered, sheltered worlds. And he was the cause. And time had become the enemy.
“They want to airlift us to safety, Destiny. A chopper's on its way. It should be landing any minute.” Framing her frigid cheeks with his hands, he searched her glazed eyes. “Are you listening to me? Do you understand what I'm saying?”
“A chopper's on the way,” she repeated, prying his fingers off her flesh. “I'm not stupid, Linc. I'll go pack.”
“Don't bother. Stuff the necessities into my backpack in the bedroom. Two complete changes of clothing, that's it. We're on a ten-minute countdown before the chopper arrives.”
“I see.”
She felt betrayed. And had a right to, if she'd overheard the whole conversation.
What exactly had he and Satan said about Nadine and the snowed-in two days?
Fucking rotten timing.
He allowed himself the luxury of twenty-five seconds of railing at the unfairness of the world before years of training assailed any lingering emotion and honed reflexes drove his actions.
In quick succession he shoved anything faintly flammable into the duffel bag he'd retrieved from the shed yesterday, disconnected the gas line from the stove, and pulled all plugs out of sockets.
Glancing at his watch when he heard the faint whir of the chopper's blades, Linc hurried into the bedroom.
Destiny, dressed in jeans and wearing sandals, had donned several layers of clothes and tucked a hand towel around her neck scarf-style into her buttoned denim jacket. She sat on the edge of the mattress.
He gave her a thumbs-up, marched to the dresser, and separated two items from his clothes. “Did you find Ziploc bags and rubber bands in the kitchen?”
She blinked, her former funereal expression transforming as three tiny furrows grooved her forehead. Black eyebrows gathered. “Ziploc bags? Rubber bands?”
Her eyes went distant for a second. She nodded. “Yes. I saw them—”
“Put on these socks.” Linc threw her the balled footwear.
One arm stretched and captured the missile, but her gaze never left his face.
“Try to layer two or three Ziploc bags over them, then use the rubber bands to keep them in place.” Crouching, he crammed clothes into his backpack and used his forearm to slide all the crap they'd littered the bedside table with into the canvas sack.
“Oh. Why didn't I think of that?”
She unhooked her sandals, fitted the socks on her feet, and hopped off the bed.
Linc reached her in one giant step.
“Destiny.” He cupped her jaw. “Don't make the rubber bands too tight. Restricted blood flow leads to frostbite. Got that?”
Her eyes twinkled like coal diamonds, and she smiled and tipped him a salute. “Got that, sir.”
He knew the instant she remembered her anger. Those luscious lips canted into a sullen pout, and she swiveled in the other direction.
As Destiny left the room, he yelled, “Don't go anywhere without first informing me. That includes the facilities—got that?”
“Yeah, yeah.” The faint grouch barely registered.
The neon red sparkle of the words “Deep Throat” drew his attention; he grabbed the five porn DVDs and tucked them into a side pocket of the bag. Chopper blades roared, exploding the silence. Reflex had him glancing at the roof.
“Crap.” He snatched the backpack and jog-walked to the main room, to find Destiny rising from the sofa, her feet encased in socks and Ziploc bags. “Hang on to me, Destiny. Those Ziplocs are going to be slippery. Ah heck. Forget that. Hold the backpack.”
He thrust the bag at her, gave her no time to blink, and scooped her against this chest. “Hold the bag tight. We're not going to be able to talk once we're outside. Just do what I tell you—got that?”
“You're the boss.” She flashed him a grin that went crooked when he carried her to the door.
He opened the door and shoved his shoulder against the sturdy oak to prevent its blowing shut. The chopper's blades churned the wind, and the wooden door slammed his butt and his booted calves. Linc stumbled, catching his balance after a couple of shaky steps. The black helicopter did a slow three-sixty of the clearing, banked, and Satan hovered for long seconds. Snow whipped every which way. Destiny cuddled closer, burying her face in his jacket. He rounded his back and shoulders over her, taking the force of the icy gust.
Less than three minutes later he bellowed into her ear above the clamor and blast of the overhead chopper, “Keep your head down.”
She nodded and mouthed, Got that.
Even with two of his squad team mates as witnesses, Linc couldn't resist sliding his hand over the back of her neck and giving her an encouraging squeeze.
The helicopter drifted left before touching down.
Most civilians didn't like the constant roar of the blades and seemed to shrink physically into themselves when a chopper approached. Not his Destiny. Save for her widening and narrowing eyes, she didn't flinch, not once, and pride puffed and distended his rib cage.
Lucifer hopped over the landing skid.
Linc hugged Destiny closer.
Satan gave him a thumbs-up.
Linc grinned and marched faster. He ducked, maneuvered around to the rear of the chopper's cabin, buckled Destiny securely into the seat, unhooked two helmet headsets, and strapped one on. Then he carefully fitted the heavy gear over Destiny's hair, securing her chin strap and arranging the microphone so it curved over her mouth.
“Seems like only hours ago, you were performing the reverse procedure for me.” When he started speaking, her head snapped in his direction and their helmets impacted.
“Ouch,” she yelped. “Is there a built-in system or something?”
“Yeah, I'll explain later. If you want to say anything or ask a question, precede it with ’Sinner one'—”
“Got that.” A faint smile played at the corner of her mouth, but she quickly narrowed her eyes and flattened her lips.
Still pissed.
Linc heaved a sigh.
All bets were off.
He faced an uphill battle when they landed in Healy.
Linc sat in the front passenger seat next to Satan and belted in. He glanced over his shoulder when the chopper lifted. Lucifer had taken the seat next to Destiny’s, shook her forearm to get her attention, and then tucked the mitts Linc had requested into one palm, curling her fingers over the material.
Startled, she peered and poked between her fingers, smiled, looked up at Lucifer, and mouthed, Thank you.
Angling his chin in Linc's direction, Lucifer hooked a thumb at him.
Her bright smile vanished. A sullen pout held sway as her chin lifted.
>
A fucking Himalayan climb.
That turned out to be the understatement of the year.
She never uttered a word to Linc when he helped her out of the chopper, but thanked both Satan and Lucifer. Refused to respond to Linc’s explanation that he had to return to the squad until the fire had been contained. She maintained a stubborn silence on the short drive through Healy. Didn’t express a morsel of gratitude when he secured her a room at Motel Nord Haven, eight miles north of Healy.
Holding on to her pissed stance, she almost let him leave without a good-bye kiss, changed her mind when he opened the door, threw her arms around his waist, and declared, “Be careful out there.”
“We'll talk when I get back, okay?” Forefinger lifting her chin, he added, “It's not what you think. I'm overprotective by nature. The five sisters, remember?”
•●•
They lost control of the fire the minute the snow stopped falling. Arctic gusts swept the area. Denali's forests smoldered. The fire line bounced from east to west. Every single able-bodied resident of Healy was roped into the battle.
Barely having time to sleep between drops, Linc tried to keep track of Destiny, but after his third deployment, he couldn't locate her anywhere in town. The whole squad functioned on bare minimum levels; he hadn't had more than five minutes with any team member.
Three volunteer squads arrived two days later.
Linc carved five hours of free time.
Satan, the only recent civilian of the bunch, manned the communications from “De Bar,” which boasted the only all-reggae band in Alaska. Linc's cousin Shifty, the captain of the 2010 Jamaican bobsled team, owned the bar. The center of Healy, De Bar acted as a de facto one-stop gossip station.
Linc marched to the two-storied wooden structure, which looked more like a beach hut than an Alaskan cabin.
Shadowed and cozy, twenty tables scattered around a high dais, and large conch lamps flickered fake electrical flames. De Bar hid a fortune in communication equipment. Satan had set up shop above the restaurant when he retired from the forces. The plan was for the squad to regroup there on breaks.
“Sinner,” Shifty called out the minute Linc stepped foot through the swinging interior double doors. “You looking for your luscious woman?” He outlined an hourglass with his hands. “Man, sweet, sweet. Juicy tits and that ass. You one lucky man.”
