Wild Women of Alaska Collection

by Tiffinie Helmer

  “Try this.” He sprinkled pine nuts on her pasta, adding some to his.

  She took a bite, and her eyes rolled back in her head.

  He wanted to see her look that way in his bed.

  His heart pounded hard in his chest. Tonight, he’d make it happen. Her being in his bed would become a reality. It had to happen…or had already happened? He narrowed his eyes. He’d seen her look that way before. He knew he had. But…when?

  Either his imagination was really, really good, or he’d just experienced a very real déjà-vu moment.

  Chapter Eight

  The dishes were done—not that there had been many—and put away. The kitchen had been set back to rights. Jesse tried to peer through the rain and snow smacking the windows. The rain had turned to snow as the sun set and the temperature dropped. The storm raged outside, cocooning her inside the warm, cozy cabin. She and Sloan might as well have been the only two people left on earth. Though Sloan had disappeared into the fury under the pretense that he needed to ‘check on things’. He might be doing just that, but Jesse would put money down on him needing space from her.

  Really? She was likable enough. He should be so lucky as to be graced with her company. Damn it, where is he? He’s been gone too long.

  Since he was crazy enough to go out in that weather, she’d asked him to grab the bag that held her essentials. She’d wanted to go with him and check on her plane, but he wouldn’t let her, promising he’d test the ties securing her airplane and make sure they were holding strong in the wind.

  She’d like to know who was going to keep him from blowing away in that screaming storm.

  The front door crashed open, and Sloan skidded in, all bundled in his parka and hood. He looked like a Nordic warrior carrying the spoils of war. Turning, he struggled to close the door behind him. Jesse rushed over to help. They got it shut and Sloan latched it closed.

  Snow flurries drifted around them like confetti, melting as they landed.

  Sloan straightened and knocked back his hood, his hair a wild mess. His enraged brown eyes speared her in place against the door.

  Brown eyes were supposed to be warm and inviting, bringing thoughts of chocolate and coffee to the surface. Not Sloan’s. His were hard as stone as they stared at her. Hidden within the depths flickered flecks of gold flaming with fury.

  “That’s a bitch of a storm,” he grated out, his jaw clenched. “Why did you even try to fly out here today knowing that was in the forecast? If you weren’t grounded here, you’d be up there in it fighting for your life.”

  His hands clenched into fists at his sides, and he dragged air into his lungs as though he couldn’t get enough.

  Oh, yeah, he was worked up, and she needed to tread carefully. “Why don’t you take your jacket off and sit down?”

  He threw her bag onto the table, where it slid across the top and fell off the other side to thump hard on the floor. Next, he yanked off his parka and tossed it to the floor. Then he grabbed her by the shoulders and pinned her to the door.

  “I don’t want to fucking sit down. Answer me, goddamn it! Why? Why would you risk your life like that?” he ground out through clenched teeth, his voice raspy.

  She had to swallow before answering. “Sloan, I already told you the storm wasn’t predicted to be this big or to come this direction. I would’ve had plenty of time to get back to Homer if my engine hadn’t died. I’m an experienced pilot. I’ve been flying longer than I’ve been driving.”

  “Don’t…” He paused and shook his head, obviously trying to get himself under control.

  His body shook against hers, his fingers biting into her upper arms. She had the sudden desire to enfold him in her embrace and tell him that everything was all right. But she couldn’t move if she wanted to. Not with him pressing her tight against the door and his rigid body locked in front of hers.

  Whatever had happened to her plane could be fixed. Nothing had happened to her. Yet. But by the crazed look in his eyes, the jury was still out on that. Her heart pounded loud enough in her chest that she was surprised he couldn’t hear it.

  “Don’t you ever risk your life for me,” he growled. “For groceries, supplies, whatever, you never fly in here if there is a chance of bad weather, you got that?”

  “Yes, got it.”

  “Good.”

  They stood very close, their breaths mingling. His head bent toward hers as his chest rose and fell, grazing against her breasts. He was clearly aroused, as his hips were perfectly aligned against hers. She wanted to arch her lower body into his, but didn’t dare move. The frenzy in his eyes shifted, heated.

  His gaze flickered to her lips, and she couldn’t help but lick them. He groaned, the sound tortured, and his mouth swooped down and took hers. His lips were hard and demanding—nothing soft or coaxing about the way he kissed her. His hands released her arms and clamped on the sides of her head so she couldn’t move and he could plunder. There was no other word for what his mouth did to hers. He took, captured. Claimed.

  Senses on overload, she hung onto his wrists, hoping she didn’t melt like the snow flurries in a puddle at his feet.

  He overwhelmed her, took her on a trip that no arctic wind could compete with, no freefall, or soaring into the sky, compared. In all her need for thrills in her life, nothing topped Erich Sloan’s kiss. She was inside out and upside down, twirling in a vortex as her world exploded and then realigned into a different pattern, a tapestry of rich textures and vibrant colors.

  Abruptly his mouth softened on hers, his fingers burrowed into her hair, cradling her head as he tilted her face up and to the side, giving him more access to explore. He dragged her completely under. His tongue slowly stroked hers, learning her, discovering what made her shiver, sigh, and arch helplessly into him.

  She moaned and melted against him, and he suddenly broke the kiss.

  “It wasn’t a dream, was it?” He stared deep into her eyes. “I’ve kissed you before.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sloan released her and stepped back. “When?”

  Jesse held onto the doorknob with one hand, hoping she wouldn’t slide down the plank of wood and make a fool of herself. Talking was beyond her after that kiss. He’d just kissed her into another realm.

  “When, woman?” His brow furrowed into one. He looked scary as all get out as if at any minute he was going to rip her heart to ribbons.

  Actually, he’d already kind of done that. He just didn’t remember, and she sure as hell didn’t want to remind him of how naive and gullible she’d been. Or how innocent. She needed to create a distraction.

  “My name is Jesse, not woman.” She gathered up her bravado and combined it with her hurt feelings—the ones that never seemed to leave where he was concerned—and pushed at his chest. He didn’t budge. Fine, she had more to fight with. “Or would you rather call me Jack? That’s right, Erich Sloan, famous New York Times bestselling author, I know.”

  He stepped a few paces back on his own accord. But then seeming to realize what he was doing, he planted his feet. “What do you know?”

  “Your assassin, Jack—you based her on me. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

  “I didn’t think you read.”

  That verbally slapped her back. “You think I’m illiterate?”

  “No. Hell no. That isn’t what I meant. You’re putting words in my mouth.”

  “You’re doing that on your own.”

  Sloan ran his hands through his hair and gathered it back up, securing it with the leather binding. He made a sound of frustration and turned, walking toward the fireplace under the guise of stirring the flames.

  Oh, he’d stirred the flames all right. Didn’t think she read, did he?

  “I’ll have you know,” she said, following him, “I’ve read every single one of your books.”

  “Why?” He picked up the poker and encouraged the coals to spark and flare.

  “Why what?”

  “Why have you read all my
books?”

  “Because I like them.” Loved them was more like it. She couldn’t wait for the next one and always bought them in hardcover and owned every title in digital. That didn’t make her an obsessed fan. She loved his books, not him.

  “You are not Jack,” Sloan said.

  “Liar.” She liked the eye twitch that he quickly banked. Nice to be on the other side of this. The aggressor. Now don’t let it go to your head. Sloan was wily, creative, and the most intelligent man she’d ever met. “The way you described her, she looks like me.”

  “So she’s blond. Big deal. That doesn’t make her you.” His voice rose at the end.

  Yeah, she had him on the ropes.

  “All right, explain why Jack and I have so much in common? Other than her being the mirror image of me, that is. She walks like me, talks like me. I’ve even heard my own dialogue in your books. Come on. Sell it to me, Sloan. Make me believe you aren’t using me as inspiration for her.”

  “Do you kill people? She’s an assassin, remember.”

  “That’s just her job. You take that out of the equation and she’s me.” Don’t get cocky.

  He holstered the fireplace poker in the stand of tools and faced her.

  Uh-oh. He was getting worked up again. She’d wanted him distracted, not needing to prove something to her.

  Right. She liked how her blood raced when Sloan looked at her like he wanted to know her inside and out. Wanted to teach her things. She really was her own worst enemy. If she kept this up Sloan would know everything, and then where would she be?

  “Jack lives for the job,” Sloan said.

  “No, she doesn’t,” Jesse scoffed.

  “What do you know about it? She’s my character. I fucking wrote her. I know her better than anyone.”

  “Jack wants to be loved. She used to live for the job. It was all that fueled her when her family died, but then you introduced Logan. Now she lives for him.”

  Sloan blinked at her. “You’re wrong,” he said through clenched teeth.

  No, she wasn’t. Jesse knew it in her heart, but maybe this wasn’t the road to head down right now. Sloan seemed…raw.

  “Besides,” Sloan said, “she’s going to kill Logan.”

  “What? No!” Jesse advanced toward him. “Don’t you dare.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “If Jack kills Logan, she’s finished and so is your series.”

  Maybe that’s why I can’t make Jack do it.

  Sloan had been stuck with writer’s block for longer than he ever had. Hell, he’d built a freaking hot tub with his bare hands. Who needed a hot tub out in the bush of Alaska? When the hot tub wasn’t enough, he’d built a sauna. He had eggplant growing in his greenhouse, and he didn’t even like eggplant. His whole summer had been nothing but project after project, with only fifty or so pages written. Most of it was sex, and he wasn’t known for writing sex. He couldn’t bring himself to rewrite them, couldn’t destroy them either. And he’d tried. Tried to burn them in the very fireplace that was heating the inside of the cabin to scorching levels. Either that, or Jesse was to blame.

  Damn woman.

  She wasn’t right. He’d used her physical appearance as a muse for Jack—the way she moved, and even some of her witty dialogue. Jesse was charming, though he didn’t want to be charmed by her. But she wasn’t Jack.

  He was.

  He needed a break. Going back outside wasn’t an option. That tempest had teeth and he’d prefer other ways of dying. That left him stuck inside with Jesse. So either he had to hide in the bathroom to get away from her, or he needed to find her something to do. And he did not entertain.

  “Need a drink?” He found himself asking.

  “God, yes.”

  He grunted. It was about as close as he could come to a laugh any more. He entered the kitchen and reached up to the top shelf where he kept the hard liquor. He pulled down the bottle of ouzo and found two shot glasses. He’d get her drunk off her ass. Then maybe he’d get some peace.

  Sloan set the bottle on the table and slid a shot glass her direction as though in a dare. Her brow rose, but she accepted by pulling out a chair.

  “What’s that?” she asked, pointing at the bottle.

  He filled her shot glass and then his own before taking a seat across from her. This was going to be too easy. “Ouzo. From Greece. I can dilute it with water, if you’d prefer.”

  “I’ll drink it like you do.”

  He shared a look with her. Yeah, she was done for. As innocent as she appeared, one, maybe two shots and she’d be under the table. He held up his glass and waited for her to pick up hers before clicking her glass. He tossed his back, swallowed, and waited. The anise-flavored alcohol burned down his throat.

  Jesse didn’t hesitate. She tossed hers back much the way he did, though her eyes widened and a gasp escaped her when she set her glass on the table next to his.

  “Another?” he challenged.

  “Sure.” She coughed. “Why not?” she asked, her voice raspy.

  He had to bite back a smile.

  “But let’s make it interesting,” she suggested.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Since there isn’t a lot to do—” she indicated the blizzard outside the windows “—why don’t we play ‘I’ve never’. You have to make a true statement that starts with I’ve never—fill in the blank—and then if the other person hasn’t done ‘whatever’…for example I’ve never eaten calamari. If you’ve eaten calamari, then you have to drink.”

  He shook his head. “Won’t work. There isn’t anything I haven’t done.”

  “Come on, I bet you haven’t done it all.”

  He gave her a look.

  “You have a better idea?” she asked.

  “Yes, ‘Truth or Drink’. I ask a question. If you refuse to answer the question, you must drink.” He’d get to know if they’d kissed before. She’d distracted him earlier, and very cleverly. Well, he could be clever too. He’d made a very profitable career of it.

  Her eyelids flickered, but she didn’t blink. “Does that mean I get to ask you questions too?”

  Crap, this hadn’t just backfired on him, had it? He slowly nodded.

  “Okay, how do we decide who goes first?”

  “Ladies always go first.” He refilled their glasses, the silence between them suddenly thick with tension.

  “Who was she?” Jesse asked. “The woman you lost, who made you hide all the way out here?”

  He had to give her props. She didn’t pull punches. “It wasn’t a woman.”

  “Who then?” She leaned forward, elbows on the table.

  “Asked and answered. It’s my turn.”

  She tightened her lips, and his eyes focused in on them. “When did I kiss you?” he asked, his body tightening as he waited for her answer.

  “Earlier, by the door.”

  “Before, when have I kissed you before?”

  “Asked and answered. What drove you to live out here off the grid?”

  Shit, she’s good. He’d underestimated her. He picked up his drink, tossed it back, and then refilled it. “Have I ever kissed you before tonight?”

  He watched her struggle. If she drank, the question was answered. If she didn’t drink, he got the same result. A goddamn answer.

  She drank.

  His heart hammered hard in his chest. “When did I kiss you before?”

  She shook her head. “My turn. Have you killed anyone before?”

  “Many times.” He topped off her glass, his hand sweating as it gripped the bottle. “Did I do more than kiss you?”

  She picked up her glass and drank.

  “Fuck, woman,” he growled. “You’d better goddamn tell me.”

  She shook her head and motioned for him to refill their glasses. “Have you ever been in love?”

  He drank, slammed his glass down, and refilled them both. “Have I had sex with you?”

  She stood, the chai
r scraping back on the floor. “I don’t want to play this game anymore.”

  “You suggested it.”

  “I suggested ‘I’ve Never’, not this.”

  “But you agreed, and why in the hell aren’t you drunk?”

  “Was that your intention?” she accused. “I’m a pilot, a flyboy. I can drink anyone I know under the table. And that includes you.” She held out her hand and showed how steady it was. “Nerves of steel, buddy.”

  “Have we ever had sex?”

  “I’ve had sex. I can’t answer that for you.”

  He stood and advanced toward her. “Sex, you and me, with each other? Tell me the truth.”

  Chapter Ten

  You can’t handle the truth, Jesse wanted to fire back, but in reality, she was the one who couldn’t handle him knowing the truth. Though he’d pretty much just guessed part of it. Or thought he had. He didn’t know the full truth and she didn’t think she’d survive the embarrassment of it all. Once was enough.

  “We kissed,” she admitted, running her hand through her hair. He followed the way her hair flowed and settled around her shoulders. “When you were dying.”

  “You kissed me because I was dying?” He frowned.

  Did he do anything other than frown? She couldn’t remember if she’d ever seen him smile. “No. You kissed me.” It was important the distinction be made. He’d started this. All of it.

  “Because I was dying?” His frowned deepened.

  “Your words were, ‘I can’t die until I’ve kissed you.’” And they’d melted her heart. Her emotions had been riding high from nursing him from the brink of death. She’d looked into his feverish eyes and couldn’t resist him. Hadn’t wanted to. She’d known she should have resisted. He hadn’t been in his right mind. He’d done things that weekend he normally never would have, and said things she knew he would regret.

  Sloan’s frown turned puzzled. “That doesn’t sound like something I would say.”

  “Yeah, well, you weren’t really yourself. You’re much sweeter when you’re dying.” And romantic. He’d been so incredibly romantic. So gentle. Not the asshole she’d come to expect.