Whiteout

by Adriana Anders

  She turned from the percolating coffee to look at him now, sleeping, and had to swallow back a hot, mixed-up wave of feelings.

  Crap. This wasn’t supposed to happen. None of it, obviously, was supposed to happen, but this least of all.

  Because this was going to hurt.

  She poured a cup and went to one of the plastic chairs by the metal table, grabbed a blanket, and wrapped herself in it. It was a rough plaid, a little dusty, left by some previous traveler. A researcher like Ford, maybe.

  Except not. Because nobody was like him.

  Oh geez. Shut up!

  For a few self-pitying seconds, she couldn’t decide which was worse: the idea of the two of them dying in this place together or the certainty that they’d make it out—somehow—and this thing they had would fizzle to nothing. She’d head back to Pittsburgh to start over. And he’d stay.

  “Drama queen,” she whispered, sitting up straight.

  How crazy was it to realize, in the middle of nowhere, at the ass end of the world, that happiness couldn’t be measured in financial success or critics’ reviews or stars. It was something else entirely.

  It wasn’t until Ford had said the words that she’d truly understood: Happiness, for her, was making meals for people. For people who appreciated her food, not just to ooh and ahh over absurdly hard-to-get ingredients—although, she thought with humor, that was certainly the case here—but for people who needed the sustenance. Feeding people. Their souls, their bodies. Their hearts. And helping them to feed their people.

  Sounds emerged from the cot, where Ford stirred in the sleeping bag.

  She counted silently to three, preparing for the impact before giving in to her urge to look his way.

  Didn’t work. At all. His sleepy smile hit her like a fist to the belly.

  His eyes, a little puffy from a full night’s sleep, were adorable. In fact, he’d never looked so soft and sweet. But even as she thought that, her gaze traveled over those thick, hard-looking shoulders, the muscles flexing with a raw-boned, lupine grace as he stretched. Even through the base layer he’d eventually put on, she could make out the deep divots and thick curves of his strong body.

  They were so constrained in here, stuck in the cots, since the floor was frigid. She wanted to taste him everywhere, from that big slab of a chest, over each individual stomach muscle, then down that dark trail of hair to his…erection.

  Her eyes flew up to meet his. They were focused and intense now, not exactly his usual remote expression, but neither was he the soft, just-woken-up Ford she’d been lucky enough to catch seconds earlier.

  “When you look at me like that…” Only half his words were vocalized, the rest carried out on a dark growl.

  “What? What happens?” What do you feel? Tell me.

  “Come here. I’ll show you.” Of course she couldn’t deny him. Or this. The pull between them, so unbelievably shocking after the coolness from before.

  She stood and walked the few steps, dropping the plaid and stripping off her pants as she went.

  The chill enveloped her like an old friend, delivering shivers of cold mixed with pleasure. Would she feel this need, this ache in her soul, every winter for the rest of her life?

  And maybe this pull wasn’t shocking, actually. Maybe he had known, on some level, that this would happen if they got together. This explosive nuclear attraction that even two weeks on the ice couldn’t kill. It was stronger than anything she’d felt—ever. And maybe he’d been afraid of it. Afraid like she was, now that she’d experienced it.

  She pulled the sleeping bag from him, straddled his thighs, and tugged at his pants just enough to release his erection, which was—

  Uh-oh. She had it bad when she thought a man’s penis was beautiful, right? Penises weren’t beautiful. They were floppy and ridiculous or weirdly slanted or too thick, too thin, too aggressive. But this one… She sighed and, rather than take him into her body as she’d planned, scooted lower to put her mouth on him.

  He was half-hard now, not as big and stiff as he’d been pretty much all night, and she liked that, too. Liked every state of him. Each kiss and lick, each gentle suck sent blood to fill him, turned him to steel against her cheek, her lips. It made her feel softer, more delicate.

  He tasted so human here, like sex, like her, the way he’d smelled in the tent—a scent specially blended for her.

  She took him deep, enjoying the helpless, low, raspy sounds he let out. With a groan of her own, she took him in down, then back, until she wasn’t thinking, just giving and taking pleasure. Though she wasn’t sure at any specific moment who took and who received. She reached down and wasn’t surprised to find herself soaking wet.

  Even sucking him satisfied something inside her. His hand pushed her hair out of her face and held it there, gently. Tighter, she begged internally, harder.

  Maybe she pulled away from him, because he complied by gripping her hair. That forced more sounds from her mouth, made her rub herself faster, and made her twist her head in his grip.

  When his other hand urged her up, she let him go with a frown and he laughed. Or at least, he would have if he could make any noise.

  “Come here,” he mouthed, as he nudged her up and over him, so perfectly aligned that when she dropped her pelvis, she found him ready, right where she wanted.

  Her eyes captured by his, she lowered her body as slowly as she could, needing to feel every second, every millimeter of this coming together. To hold on to, to remember, to unpack it later when she was gone and this man was just a memory carved out of the ice.

  * * *

  Sex with Angel was a whole new experience for Coop. Oh, the movements were the same—the in and out, the kissing and licking and rubbing and stroking—but the feelings were different.

  She flexed over him, sliding up and down him as if she had all the time in the world.

  Clearly, the situation had gotten to him. Fighting for survival, he understood, would do that to a person. It made emotions spring up from out of nowhere. It inspired sensations, even in his body, that he hadn’t previously experienced. Thoughts, even.

  Thoughts about the future. Like, maybe they had one.

  Which was utter crap. He knew this, she no doubt knew it, but the part of him that he preferred to leave buried, the part she’d forced him to acknowledge, couldn’t seem to get the picture.

  He envisioned sharing a room together back at Burke-Ruhe. Or another station. Hell, he’d settle for the crowds at McMurdo, if she were a part of it. Maybe.

  Jesus, he was doing this. He was considering changing his life for a woman. For this woman, the one who’d made him feel so threatened he couldn’t talk to her.

  Suddenly over this slow, sliding thing, he tightened his hands on her waist and pushed down hard, lifting his hips to get as deep as he could.

  He needed to cut the hopeful bullshit. She wouldn’t move here permanently.

  And absolutely no way in hell would he leave this place for more than his yearly vacation to New Zealand and the States. Maybe, for that month or so, they could…what? Hang out?

  He pressed harder, that thing inside him growing hopeless and grim. No. It won’t work.

  When she bent forward, probably to kiss him, he took over, turning it into a rough, harsh joining, rather than the sultry one she’d started. Their teeth clashed, their tongues battled, but then she pulled away, looking…hurt, maybe?

  No. Angel was tough. She’d be fine.

  In fact, she probably hadn’t thought once about a future with him. She’d told him often enough that he was cold or whatever. The Ice Man, she called him.

  She did a twisty thing with her pelvis, and rather than think about going back to civilization, he lost another little chunk of control, grabbed her body, and pivoted so he was on top.

  This was better. He slowed, caught his breath,
made his movements measured and deliberate. Okay. Okay.

  He could do this. A few long, slow strokes to recenter himself. Good.

  A hand on her breast. Hot and soft… He dipped, sucked her nipple into his mouth, and gasped at the way she tightened around him. A quick nip, then on to the other breast. He barely noticed his hips picking up speed, hardly felt the way his heartbeat went with it.

  When he bent to meet her lush lips with a frantic kiss, it occurred to him that he’d sunk back into her siren’s pull. She was so precious beneath him, her eyes full of life and affection and a good dose of challenge.

  I can take you on, the look said. I can turn you inside out and make you like it.

  And it was true. The problem was that he didn’t know how he’d find himself again when this was all over.

  Chapter 40

  Day 15—Norwegian Field Research Camp, 142 Miles from Volkov Station

  What was that?

  Angel awoke with a gasp, mouth open, heart thudding.

  The beep came again, loud as a siren in the absolute quiet of the hut.

  When it happened a third time, she shook Ford, who sprang awake immediately.

  “Something beeped.” The tension in his face made her add, “Like a phone. Maybe a phone.”

  Without a second’s hesitation, he was up and out of their bed, racing to the communication console in the corner, with no care for his feet. She followed him, slower, grabbing shoes, warmer tops, and a blanket to put over his shoulders.

  Apparently fully awake, he fiddled with buttons on what she’d have bet might have been the oldest communication system in the world. Was it a shortwave radio or something? No idea. It was hard to look away from his face and the sweet cowlick that had sprung up from the top of his head. She wanted to reach out—not to smooth it into submission, but just to feel the soft slide of it.

  He let out an irritated breath and turned. “Where’d it come from?”

  “What?” She blinked blearily at him before understanding kicked in. “Oh. Over here, definitely. I’m not sure whe—”

  When it came again, he turned and snatched up his sat phone, which, miraculously, lit up when he hit a button. “Goddammit! No signal.”

  “Cloud cover, maybe. Is it even the right time of day?”

  “No idea.” He squinted at the screen. It was an almost impossible-to-read jumble of letters and numbers. “Got some charge, at least.” He shook it and caught her side-eye. “What? Scientific method.”

  “Right.” She stood and headed toward the pantry shelves, favoring her knee. “Coffee?”

  He nodded and went back to fiddling with the phone while she heated water, doing her best to ignore the tightness in her abdomen.

  Why did she feel like throwing up? It took a few seconds for the realization to happen.

  Real life. The outside world.

  They were saved!

  Too soon. The guilty little thought threaded through her brain like a serpent, making her wish for all the wrong things.

  She’d imagined them stuck here for a while, making love, eating crappy food, talking. Getting to know each other, at least until their fuel ran out. Then they could set off to join other people.

  A glance showed him pushing buttons and muttering silently to himself. The sweetness of that cowlick twisted her insides in a way that wasn’t sweet anymore. It hurt.

  Pathetic. Stop it.

  Right. So they’d leave here, get to safety—preferably away from this continent, although he might not agree—and then it would all be over. An end in sight. Okay, good. This would make it easier.

  “Got it!” He dialed, put the phone to his ear, and waited. “Shit,” he muttered, then cleared his throat and spoke, loudly, pushing the sound out through tight-sounding vocal cords. “Eric. Need your help. Burke-Ruhe was attacked. I think they’re linked to the Chronos Corporation. The company I told you funded some of my research. We’re headed to Volkov Station. You’ve got to find out what they’re doing.” He pulled the phone away, glanced at it, and shoved it back to his ear. “Can you hear me? Shit. Volkov. Call Volkov Station. Tell them we’re less than one hundred fifty miles out, at the old Norwegian Field Research site. The Russians know it. We could use help. And hey, could you figure out what Chronos Corp wants with my fucking virus?” He yelled for a second but went quiet as he wrapped up the call. “Love you, Bro, whatever happens. Love you.”

  With a hard expelled breath, he met her eyes, managing to look both hopeless and feverish with energy. “Can’t stay here forever.”

  The words probably weren’t meant as an accusation, but they felt like one nonetheless. Like she wanted to stay here—which wasn’t a lie—and he was blaming her, somehow, for enjoying it.

  It all hit pretty close to home.

  “Can you call—”

  He lifted the phone, pushed a couple buttons, checked the charger, and dropped it again. “Dead.”

  “Battery?”

  “Probably. Didn’t always keep it warm while we were out there.”

  “You were otherwise occupied.”

  “Yeah.” His smile was tight. “Lucky I could call out at all.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Listen, Angel.”

  Uh-oh. Why did she think she wouldn’t like what he was about to say?

  “We need to go.”

  “I know.”

  “With the sun going down every night, we’re gonna lose degrees fast. And—What?”

  “The food won’t last forever, either.” Tears ghosted over her eyes, disappearing just as quickly. “Right?”

  At his nod, she turned to look at everything they’d be leaving behind. Rusty metal walls, the mismatched collection of folding chairs around a flimsy, scarred wood table. Fluttering overhead was a multicolored streamer of pennant flags. Along one side, lopsided shelves contained a random assortment of comic books in languages she’d never learn, but she could spend hours looking at the pictures, so bright and interesting after all these days on the ice. The same way she’d enjoyed the novelty of sipping coffee from an enormous mug that said BEER in bold letters.

  “I’ll miss this place.” She went for light, but she couldn’t help the hint of sadness in her voice.

  In the slow beat of silence that followed, she lifted her eyes and caught her breath at the unguarded hunger on Ford’s face. “So will I, Angel,” he said before turning away.

  * * *

  Day 15—Harper Research and Testing Facility, East Antarctic Ice Sheet

  Someone thumped at the lab door.

  “Hm?” Clive pulled off his headphones and turned slowly from his laptop. The connection was too crap to watch porn, so he’d downloaded a Russian language program. Anything to keep busy.

  He counted five long seconds as he walked to the door and fiddled at the handle for a few more, just to watch Sampson’s face redden. Over the past week, the man’s smirk had disappeared, along with his movie-star good looks. He’d grown surlier by the day, while his face got puffy, chapped, and sunburned. His overgrown scruff couldn’t hide the herpes sore at the corner of his mouth. His knuckles were swollen, scabbed, and purple, which made sense given the dents Clive had spotted around the facility’s walls—a visible trail of rage left in his wake.

  Bradley Sampson was falling apart.

  Unsurprising, given the week he’d had. Clive wasn’t the only one who’d fallen out of the director’s favor. After the big storm, frozen fuel had stopped the plane from going back out, then not one, but two of Sampson’s men had injured themselves during their daily searches. Sampson himself had suffered a fall, leaving him with a noticeable limp. To top it off, a mysterious virus had put three of them out of commission, leaving them vomiting and feverish for a good portion of that time.

  That would teach the bastard not to mess with a virologist.


  Maybe he wouldn’t have to fall back on his bigger contingency plan after all. If he played his cards right, the man would anger himself into cardiac arrest.

  But then Clive remembered the bruises on his neck, still visible more than a week after Sampson’s barbaric manhandling. No. He wanted the man to suffer.

  Pasting an interested smile on his face, Clive asked, “What can I—”

  “They’ve been spotted. Just got the call.”

  Ah, that would explain the almost feverish light in the man’s gaze, the frenetic aura of excitement.

  He didn’t even glance at his own sat phone to see if he’d somehow missed a call from the director. He hadn’t. “I’ll be here,” he sang. Not holding my breath.

  “Yeah. You’re so useful.” The dickwad looked over Clive’s shoulder at the living space he’d created right here in the lab, then slowly scanned the crowded holding cells beyond with an oily smile. “What? You just watching ’em now?” He leaned in. “Enjoying their fear? Didn’t take you for the type.”

  “Ha-ha.” Clive moved to close the door but was halted by Sampson’s booted foot.

  For one long, hate-imbued moment, they watched each other.

  Oh yes, they’d moved on from wary to outright hostile. While Clive realized that a frustrated, caged Sampson wasn’t a beast to be toyed with, the idiot didn’t seem to understand that he too had crossed a line.

  “You feeling all right?” Clive asked lightly, his eyes skimming over Sampson’s pasty features, the pallor behind the sunburn, the bloodshot eyes. Was that a slight tremor in his hands?

  “Great,” the man lied, narrowing his eyes.

  Though he didn’t move, something in his stance changed, almost imperceptibly. He was a brute, but he wasn’t stupid exactly, which Clive would do well to remember. He tightened his hand on the hypodermic needle he kept hidden in his pocket.

  “Are you taking all the men?”

  “Yep. Everyone wants a piece of these guys.” Still, he didn’t move.

  Just leave, dammit. “You waiting for me to bid you Godspeed, or something?”