Chapter Six

Hands. Huge hands slid down her body, dragging long, blunt-tipped fingers over her skin, lighting up nerve endings as they gently raked her chest, grazed her nipples, then swept along the sensitive undersides of her breasts.

Did that take care of the itch, Izzy? A low, disembodied voice echoed in her ears. Strangely familiar. Enticingly familiar. Dangerously familiar.

No. It’s good, but I need more.

Those hands went back to work, scrubbing down her sides, her hips, taking long strokes down her legs.

Better now? Strong fingers shackled her ankles.

She shook her head. More. I’m aching now. Aching like nobody’s business.

The unseen hands parted her oddly weightless legs—parted them from ankle to thigh. Short, smooth fingernails scraped up her shins, over her knees and along the insides of her thighs. Up. Up. Up. Her breath came in gasps under the heavy weight of pleasure in her chest.

Izzy? Fingers paused at the nethermost regions of her splayed thighs.

Uh-huh? Words were suddenly so difficult.

Is the ache…inside you?

Oh, yes. Yes, it is.

Would you like me to ease it for you?

Please, Trace.

I respect your decision.

The words echoed in her ears, waking her with a guilty jerk. Swallowing the needy groan forming in her throat, she flopped back on the sofa and lay there, panting, damp, and yes, aching, in utter darkness while reality rushed in to slap some sense into her.

She was on the sofa in her hotel room in Captivity, having sex dreams starring her client. Was he there? Had he heard?

Jeez. Hopefully not. Hadn’t she humiliated herself enough tonight?

Last night, she silently corrected after lifting her cell phone from the coffee table and squinting at the screen. Surprise widened her eyes. She’d slept clean through from, like, nine last night ’til six thirty in the morning. She never conked out that long, or that deeply. Whatever sleep did manage to overtake her generally ebbed away by four thirty or five, and she usually got up by quarter to six.

Maybe the effort of tamping down on rampant lust for an off-limits bear daddy willing to provide fringe benefits knocked a girl out. If so, she could toss her Tylenol PM for the duration of her time in Captivity.

As the thunder of her own overexcited pulse rushing in her ears subsided, she listened to the quiet room. The whisper of vents blowing heat into the suite, the hum of the minibar, and—yes, there it was—the slow, steady breaths of a sleeping human male.

So close, and yet so far.

Returning to sleep was wishful thinking. Risky thinking, too, since entering dreamland left her vulnerable to the whims of her subconscious. Better to get up, get dressed, and get moving.

Using her phone for light, she tiptoed to the bathroom, stopping at the closet to grab clothes she’d unpacked last night. He’d hung his parka on a hanger next to her coat and stowed his boots next to the shiny, black pumps she’d worn yesterday. His duffel bag sat on the floor just below the luggage rack that held her trunk. It startled her a little, seeing the incongruously masculine items amongst the carefully curated subset of her possessions she’d chosen for this trip. Something about the juxtaposition of Trace’s big, scarred boots and her glossy, French-made pumps shot a new, painfully sharp jolt of lust through her. For a protracted moment her hand loitered over her trunk where her mini-wand remained packed in an interior pocket. She was sorely tempted to use it to take the edge off. But no, the idea of resorting to self-service in the shower while the man who’d worked her into such an uncomfortable state without even trying slept in the next room seemed a bit pathetic.

Not a man, Isabelle, a client. Please remember that small fact.

Oh, hey, check that out. Staring down professional suicide took the edge off pretty well. She continued into the bathroom. After showering and completing the rest of her morning routine, she felt steadier.

Actually—she eyed herself critically in the mirror as she added a finishing touch of mascara to what she considered to be her dialed-down weekend work makeup—she looked steadier as well. Amazing what a solid nine hours of sleep could do for a person. Undoing the topknot she’d gathered her hair into before her shower, she reached for her brush, then paused. Weekend work, she reminded herself, to be accomplished discretely while she posed as a woman visiting her lover’s hometown for the first time. She swept her hair into a smooth ponytail and secured it with one of the elastics she kept on the handle of her brush.

Yes. Better than yesterday’s updo, this said, “I’m here to relax.”

The tan, cashmere fisherman’s sweater, dark jeans, and brown, suede, shearling-lined boots with stacked heels said the same. Minimal jewelry, she strategized, and went with thin, gold hoop earrings.

Last, but not least, she rubbed moisturizer on her hands, frowning as she considered her bare fingers. No ring yet. What were people going to make of that?

She and Trace ought to pin down a few key details of their cover story before she circulated too widely around town. When and where had they met? They also needed to exchange some personal details—family history, upbringing, education—stuff a couple on the brink of getting engaged would know about each other.

As if you would have any clue.

Well, she had common sense, didn’t she? They weren’t going to sit down for a heart-to-heart with anybody. They just had to exchange pertinent information and synch up their fake courtship. Get their story straight.

With that goal in mind, she walked back into the main room, surprised to find it now filled with hazy daylight. The seven a.m. sunrise had snuck up on her. Trace, too, judging by the motionless form on the bed.

She approached, hoping to gauge how deeply asleep he was, and then just…stared. Stood over the enormous four-poster and stared at her nearly naked, sleeping man—client—like someone well on her way to getting slapped with her first restraining order.

You should go. Turn yourself around right now, get out of here, and call his cell to wake him when you’re a safe distance away. Yes, she should give him a wake-up call from the lobby. Or from the parking garage. Or better yet, from Los Angeles.

What she absolutely, positively should not do was continue to stand there, drinking in the sight of his alluringly relaxed face, or the fascinating changes in shade and texture created by his beard thinning out to stubble under his jaw and giving way to smooth bronze skin along his throat. She certainly should not peruse the terrain of his body, starting with the long collarbones framing his wide, bare chest—a chest liberally covered with dark hair that fanned out across his bulging pecs and the hollow of his diaphragm, then narrowed down to a thinner, sparser trail that bisected rugged hills and valleys of abs and nearly disappeared above his belly button, only to spread like a river emptying into a delta just below, and then flow out of sight beneath the waistband of blue gym shorts.

At that point, her eyes stalled, and she choked on her own spit. The sheet curtained the lower half of his shorts, but nothing could hide the proud ridge bulging diagonally under the flimsy shield of fabrics. It rose and fell enticingly as he shifted one densely muscled thigh, sliding the sheet lower still. And then, as if awakening to her gaze, it surged, lengthening and thickening to mouthwatering new dimensions.

“’Morning, Izzy,” a gravelly voice murmured.

“Good morning,” she whispered, completely focused on the… Oh, shit. She jerked her attention away from his groin and, without stopping to consider better options, met his hooded, blue stare.

One dark brow arched. “Something catch your eye?”

“I…uh. Aren’t you cold?”

He laughed. “It’s seventy-some degrees in here.” Her focus followed like a puppy on a leash as he ran his hand down his chest, his abs, all the way down below the sheet, and, have mercy, adjusted himself. “No. I’m not cold.”

She licked a line of sweat beading above her upper lip. “I wanted to see if you were awake.”

His hand retreated to rest low across his abdomen. “I am now. What do you need?”

“I thought we should get to know each other…”

His lips curved into the off-center smile that quickened her pulse. “That’s a great idea.” With a breathtaking display of crunching abs, he sat up. A warm, calloused palm cupped her cheek. Long fingers threaded into her hair and slowly drew her face closer to his.

With her lips hovering over his, near enough that the tips of their noses almost touched, her rational mind kicked in. “No.” She jolted back, rubbed a hand over her forehead. “I mean, we should get our cover story nailed down, so we respond consistently when people ask us, you know”—she looked around, feeling hopelessly out of her depth—“stuff.”

He eased away, lay back against the pillows, and folded his arms behind his head. “Stuff like?”

Did he know what the position did for his shoulders and biceps? Was he deliberately testing her willpower? “Who am I? Where am I from? What do I do for a living?”

“You’re Isabelle Marcano, attorney at law, from L.A. Despite how I’ve come off in our short association, I actually don’t like to lie. We should stick with the truth as much as possible, don’t you think?”

“That’s fine, but there are some fictions required. How did we meet? How long have we been seeing each other? When did we know it was love?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “We met through a mutual friend, and we haven’t been seeing each other long, but”—his laser blue stare burned into her—“I knew it was love the first time I kissed you.”

Something jumped around in her stomach. “You’re good at this.”

Both big shoulders lifted and lowered. “I had a decent chunk of time last night to consider things. When I went downstairs to order dinner, I overheard a few people talking and realized there’s a blizzard of speculation swirling that would put last night’s whiteout to shame. Because our relationship has implications for the airfield, they’re invested.” His expression sobered. “Very invested.”

“That’s understandable,” she said, gently. “From mid-October through mid-February, the airfield often provides the only way in or out of Captivity. Hence, the name.” At his raised brows, she added, “I did my homework before I came.”

“Guess it’s time I did mine.”

“How about I order us up some breakfast, and we complete the rest of our homework together before we head to the airfield?” She stepped over to the nightstand and picked up the phone. “What can I get for you?”

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, sort of hemming her in by the nightstand and dragged a hand absently through his hair. The outside of his knee brushed her jeans, and she swore she felt the heat of his skin through the denim. “Just order breakfast for Trace. They’ll know.”

That gave her pause. He had a standing breakfast order at the only inn in town. Come here often, big guy? “Oh. Okay.” She depressed the button for the front desk.

Still sitting on the edge of the bed, he ran his hand down the back of his neck, and around to scratch his pec through a springy mat of chest hair. Scratching an itch. Her fingers wanted to take over the task. She tightened her grip on the phone, belatedly realizing he’d spoken to her.

“Huh?”

“Okay if I borrow the bathroom while you do that?”

“Uh-huh.” Nice going, Izzy. Really showing off seven years of higher education with those responses.

“Great. Back soon.” He stood, and suddenly she was face-to-chest with the man. A lot of chest. A lot of man. Swallowing, she managed a very husky, “Take your time.”

He grinned, turned, and walked away, treating her to a view of his bare back. She bit her lip while her eyes slowly toured smooth slabs of shoulder muscles, sloping erectors, the long line of his spine that ran all the way down between two shallow dimples and disappeared below the waistband of his shorts. Shorts that did nothing to disguise the perfect contours of his glutes.

“Good morning. How can I help you?”

“Sorry…?”

“Good morning, Isabelle.” The voice on the other end of the line warmed. “Rose speaking. Can I help you with something?”

“Breakfast,” she managed, but in truth, no one could help her. Not with her real problem. Namely, she was going to burn in professional purgatory for entertaining illicit thoughts about her client.

…

Trace took a slightly torturous walk down the short hallway to the bathroom. He stopped to grab his bag as he passed through the closet area, and tried to ignore his rock-hard cock by listening to Izzy order, “Just an omelet,” and then proceed to specify egg-whites and spinach—but only if the spinach was organic—no cheese, no…

Shutting the bathroom door ended his eavesdropping on her breakfast order. He turned to the mirror, surprised to find a smile on his face. He probably shouldn’t be so entertained by her formidable powers of self-restraint, but he couldn’t help himself. No good food, no good sex, no sensible shoes? Where were the limits to her determination to make her life as uncomfortable as possible? And what compelled him to want to push at those limits?

The smile disappeared. God knew he was no poster boy for how to live one’s best life. There’d been a time when he thought different, but he’d learned. And that late-breaking realization accounted for her presence in Captivity. That, and a late-breaking tendency of seeing his dead brother materialize out of thin air, wanting to have a word with him.

Probably an important thing to remember. He drew in a deep breath.

The room smelled like a woman. Like temptation and salvation.

Like Izzy.

And it stirred something in him that had awakened last night when she’d confessed her secret intention to cut loose in Captivity. He didn’t want to glorify the emotion too much, because a lot of what he felt came down to simple, basic lust, but hope sparked in there too. Hope that maybe an eyes-on-the-prize attorney and a burnt-out bush pilot could bring each other a few desperately needed perks during the course of doing what they had to do.

He closed his eyes and inhaled again. Oh yeah. That right there? Definitely the scent of hope. He imagined her smoothing body lotion into her skin, or spritzing perfume on her pulse points, or… He opened his eyes and took in the staggering array of personal products neatly arranged on the counter like expensive sentinels. Holy shit. No wonder she’d needed a damn trunk. Okay, the room smelled like high-maintenance hope, but hope, nonetheless.

By the time he’d changed into the jeans and sweater he kept in the go-bag, and returned to the main room, the suite smelled like breakfast. Izzy sat at the table by the window, sipping coffee and scrolling on her phone. She put it aside as he walked over. “Hi.” She smiled, a little tentatively, and gestured at the assortment of covered plates on the table, along with her single, small plate with the lonely half-moon of pale omelet. “I think maybe they brought up a double order of your regular breakfast.”

He lifted metal warming covers off the plates, stacking them as he went. Green chili omelet, breakfast potatoes and a side of bacon, a short stack of pancakes. Rose had also thrown in a couple of raspberry scones, which were kind of a house specialty. “Nope. This looks right.”

He placed the stack of lids on the coffee table and took the other seat at the table.

“You can eat all this?”

“Sure.” He shrugged. “I don’t do it every morning, but if I get stuck in town for some reason, it’s definitely an upside of staying at the inn.”

They ate in silence for a few moments. More accurately, he ate, and she pushed her omelet around on her plate and tried to pretend she wasn’t watching him. Finally, she put her fork down and stared openly. “Do you have some kind of deal with Satan?”

“’Scuse me?”

“Where do you put all the food? If I ate like that, I’d have an ass as big as Alaska. But you? You have a six-pack, and—” She put her hands in a V-shape at her hips, where his obliques cut in.

Nice of her to notice. The flame of hope burned a little brighter. “I doubt one big meal would impact your ass in the slightest, but then again, I doubt you could eat this much. I’m 6’5”, I weigh 230 pounds, and I live in a place where, some days—today, for instance—the only way to get from point A to point B is to snowshoe or cross-country ski. At work I load and unload a shit-ton of cargo and luggage. Key has to be exercised.” He pointed to fire flickering away in the gas fireplace. “If I want to burn a fire at my house, I have to fell the trees, chop the wood, stack it. It takes a lot of calories to fuel this life.”

She regarded him over the brim of her coffee cup. “Do you ever just want to fly somewhere warm and sit on a beach for a month?”

I don’t know, would be the honest answer, but he said, “Sometimes.” In an effort to steer the subject in another direction, he asked, “How’s your omelet?” before taking another a bite of his.

“Fine.” She sounded a bit forlorn but forked a bite between her lips.

“Help yourself to any of this.”

She shook her head. “Carbs. Fat. Dairy. Sugar. I can’t.”

“On account of your ass? Which is perfect, by the way.”

“Not precisely.” Her eyes drifted from his.

“So?”

Her gaze bounced back, then away again. “It’s sort of personal.”

He put his fork down and looked at her. “We’re supposed to be getting to know each other.”

“Well, I don’t think my diet would ever be a topic of conversation around town…”

“Don’t be too sure. Have you heard yourself order a meal?”

She rolled her eyes. “All right. Fine. I got a stomach ulcer for my twenty-sixth birthday.” Her hand slipped protectively over her middle. “It was not fun. I don’t want another one. Ever.”

He reached over and covered the hand she’d left on the table. “That sucks. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” She slid her hand out from under his. “I’m much better now. I allow myself one of these”—she lifted her coffee cup—“every morning, and an occasional cocktail, but otherwise, I try to be good.”

Okay, important to know. One facet of her self-restraint stemmed from necessity. “I can understand that.” Now he felt bad, parading a bunch of forbidden food in front of her. But aside from some low-level guilt, the information also raised another question. The sort of question a man didn’t generally ask a woman, but one a serious boyfriend would know. He chewed on how to pose it while he finished his omelet and decided to simply ask. “I probably should know, when is your birthday?”

“Ah.” She leaned back in her chair and smiled up at the ceiling. “I’ll be twenty-nine on November thirtieth. The clock on my twenties is winding down. I’m a Sagittarius, though I don’t buy into the whole astrology thing.” She gestured to him. “You?”

He intended to answer, but his quick mental math on her age didn’t add up. He held up a hand. “Hold on. Wait. So, first off, you don’t look a day over twenty-five, but I know you’re a fifth-year associate at Hecker, Hiltz & Reynolds. You spent four years in undergrad and…what? Three or four years in law school? I can’t make the numbers work.”

She tipped her head to the side and smiled. “I graduated from high school early, with two years’ worth of advance placement college credits in my backpack.”

“Smart girl.”

“I had a goal.”

“To be a lawyer?”

“Yep.”

He picked up his coffee, frowned trying to imagine limiting himself to one cup a day. “Why law?”

“That’s a long story. I guess the simplest answer is, I wanted to go as far as I could. I grew up in a rural town in southern Nevada, not so far, geographically, from the bright lights and urban sprawl of Vegas, but worlds away in terms of demographics, economics, and opportunities. Do you know how many girls in my town graduate high school and go on to college?”

He shook his head. “No clue.”

“Less than fifty percent. An even smaller percentage graduate from college. And the percentage with graduate or professional degrees is in the single digits. I wanted to up the numbers, and my parents wanted that for me. I’m an only child, so I got their undivided encouragement, but we weren’t rich, so money to fund an advanced education presented an issue. Luckily, those lousy statistics worked in my favor. I was able to get a scholarship to UCLA for undergrad, and a full ride to USC for law school.”

“Impressive.” He meant it. Though he thought about her current sexual desert, and her stomach ulcer at twenty-six, and wondered about the things she’d sacrificed while going Mach 10 down the fast track. “You’re a Nevada native?”

After swallowing another bite of omelet, she said, “Yes, and both my parents. They were high school sweethearts. Married before either turned twenty. The rest, as they say, is history.”

“Do they still live there?”

“They do.” She lifted her napkin from her lap, folded it, and placed it on her plate. “They’ve been through some tough times over the years, but…” She shrugged. “It’s home. They’d never want to leave.”

“And you? Do you miss it?”

“Sometimes.” She laughed. “My first fall at UCLA, I thought I was going to die. The city felt so overwhelming. So different. I missed my family and my home a lot.”

“But you stayed.”

Her eyes found his. “I couldn’t get where I needed to go without leaving home.”

Something in his chest tightened. “I understand. Completely.” Except he didn’t know where the hell he was going. He just needed to go. Because understanding left a bitter taste in his mouth, he poured maple syrup over his pancakes and forked up a triple-layer mouthful.

“Okay, my turn.” She leaned forward. “Birthday.”

“My birthday is August twenty-first. I’m told that makes me a Leo on the cusp, but I have absolutely no idea what that means. Since I’ve managed to survive thirty years without finding out, I guess I’m in the don’t-buy-into-it camp, too.”

“You grew up here, in Captivity?”

“Uh-huh.” He swallowed another bite of pancake before elaborating. “Born and raised in Captivity.”

Her smile told him she got the joke. “Was that as limiting as it sounds?”

To be honest, he’d never though so, until recently. Growing up in a small, tight-knit community where he’d never questioned his place provided a level of comfort and stability he’d never fully realized, much less appreciated. It simply…was. He’d been confident of the utter rightness of it. Until it wasn’t. Until things went so fucking wrong, and now everyone and everything felt too close, and too heavy, and the tightness of the knit something he needed to escape, before he really did lose his mind. He wished he could say he’d outgrown the place, but that skirted the truth. “It has its pros and cons.”

She cocked a thumb toward the window. “Cons like blizzards in March?”

Now it was his turn to smile. “Unpredictable spring weather is just one of Captivity’s many charms. Snow’s not such an issue when you’re used to it.” But it would be for her, he imagined, having grown up surrounded by sand, sunshine, and no precipitation. She’d traded cacti for palm trees and added an ocean by relocating to Los Angeles, but still—sand and sunshine. Life in a place like Captivity probably seemed inconceivable to someone like Izzy.

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” she replied. “But, okay, Mr. Born and Bred, what about your family? Parents? Siblings?”

He should have thought faster and gotten in front of the question, but he hadn’t. Now a knot twisted in his gut. He pushed his plate away. “My parents retired at fifty and followed a lifelong dream to travel the world.”

Her brows rose. “Fifty’s young for retirement.”

“Running the only airfield in town, and a small one at that, means the day-to-day operations are difficult to delegate. The business kept them tied to Captivity for the better part of twenty-five years. They worked hard—seven days a week in the high season—and they’ve more than earned the opportunity to step away and have some fun while they’re still young enough to enjoy it. They bought a condo in Denver, a Cessna—their version of an RV—and fly it where and when the mood takes them, and are, by all accounts, having the adventure of their lives. When the time comes, I’ll let them know my plans for the airfield, but when they announced their retirement, they meant it. Signed their interest over before they left, so they don’t need to be involved in the sale. As far as siblings”—he swallowed to ease the tightness in his throat—“there’s my sister, Bridget. She’s twenty-five and spends as much time as possible with her head in the clouds.”

Izzy frowned. “She’s flighty?”

“Literally. She’s a pilot for Captivity Air.”

“Is she going to be okay with us pretending to be involved?”

“I think we’ll just let that ride where she’s concerned.”

Long eyelashes fluttered wide. “You want to mislead your sister about us? About my true reason for being here? If she doesn’t go ballistic when you spring a potential new sister-in-law on her out of nowhere, she will when you tell her about the proposed sale. I think you should level with her and swear her to secrecy. After all, Captivity Air is hers, too, isn’t it?”

“Technically, she owns a third…sorry”—his heart clenched at the error—“half the business, but she doesn’t have a voting interest until she turns thirty. As far as our out-of-the-blue relationship goes, Bridge and I have a little understanding about our personal lives. I don’t drag her into the details of mine, and she doesn’t parade every guy-of-the-minute past me. Considering we share a house, that arrangement works pretty well, all around.” He paused for a sip of coffee. “With the sale, I’d just as soon not debate the thing with her until it’s ready to be inked. So long as the deal allows her to keep flying, keeps her administrative hassles to a minimum, and basically lets her continue living her life the way she’s living it, she’ll be fine with whatever.” Not to mention two million dollars richer.

Izzy’s pretty brown eyes narrowed at that. “Are you sure?”

“Yep.” Mostly. Probably.

“And you?” She tipped her head. A loose tendril of hair flowed over the big collar of her sweater, and he battled an urge to twine the silky length around his finger. “What makes you want to do this deal? A pot of money from Skyline? Or is the operation losing viability?”

It wasn’t, and she’d discover that soon enough once she started crawling through the financials, so he couldn’t use that excuse. Instead, he resorted to the same reasons he’d given Chuck. Although Chuck had cause to doubt his explanations, Izzy didn’t. And wouldn’t. He took a deep breath. “The operation remains viable, but”—he shrugged, trying to feign a casualness he didn’t feel—“I think the whole community could benefit from us becoming part of a larger enterprise, and the infusion of new resources and opportunities. Skyline put together an interesting proposal.”

An escape hatch. An eject button. A way out of a role he couldn’t handle anymore.

“I agree, based on what I reviewed.” She tipped her head the other way, as if easing a kink in her neck, and aimed what he could only call a determined look at him. “But the proposal was nonbinding, and those documents sometimes get a little fluffy, a little sales-y. When we put this deal together, I’ll make sure they deliver what they’re offering. You’re on both sides of the transaction. Are you going to be comfortable taking orders from the new owner?”

“I’m only on the other side of the transaction for twelve months according to the proposal, and I’m looking to negotiate that down.” He drank the last of his coffee. “Way down.”

Her coffee cup froze on the way to her lips. “How far down?”

“Three months. Six, max.”

She placed her cup on the table. “You want out of Captivity. Why?”

Well, shit. He walked into that. “I’ve outgrown it.”