Chapter One

Isabelle Marcano was hard up.

She freely admitted as much as she clung to her rattling armrests and clenched her equally rattling back teeth. She hadn’t participated in two-party, sheet-tangling, flesh-slapping sex in so long that her best friend Danny insisted she’d attained a second virginity.

But no amount of dick, not even copious amounts of “bear-daddy dick” Danny had promised would be as rugged, untamed, and plentiful as the land in which it allegedly roamed free, was worth this…this…

She couldn’t even call it a flight.

This slingshot ride through seven levels of hell.

While the cloud-packed horizon tilted sharply to the left, her mind flashed back to her discussion with Danny that morning after a client meeting. Before she’d rushed to LAX to catch her solid, safety-feature-laden commercial flight for the Los Angeles to Seattle leg of her journey.

Danny, I object, on principle, to any phrase that includes the words “daddy” and “dick” in close proximity.

Oh, honey, relax. A bear daddy is an archetype, not an actual father. He’s a big, bearded beast who will bend you into whatever position you like best and have you screaming “Daddy!” by the time he’s done with you. A place like Captivity, Alaska? That’s bear daddy central, Izzy. You could trap yourself a fresh one every night of the week. Go wild in Captivity.

It had sounded too good to be true at the time, but a mere eight hours later she would happily forfeit Danny’s wildest bear daddy fantasies for solid ground. They weren’t worth the risk of becoming a small aircraft fatality statistic.

Nor is a promotion, her frantic mind added as the horizon reeled back to the right. Not even a promotion to junior partner at the Los Angeles law firm where she’d dutifully put in eighty billable-hour weeks for the last five years.

The vibrating sardine-can of a bush plane took a hard bounce, launching her stomach into her chest, then suddenly dropped, as if whatever magical forces which enabled flight had instantly and decisively evaporated, and the stunning freefall lodged her heart into her throat, choking off a scream.

Sweet magnetic Jesus on the dashboard! A card-carrying member of all the major airline clubs didn’t scream out loud from turbulence. She might sweat through her favorite Max Mara suit. She might ruin her one-day-old manicure. And as soon as she could reach her purse, she would sure as hell dry swallow the ashwagandha-based natural anti-anxiety tablets she’d bought at the airport store in L.A. But she would not scream.

The man at the controls beside her cursed under his breath, as if their plummet to earth amounted to a minor annoyance. He did something that shot them out of the downward funnel and put the craft into a shivering climb. She risked a full breath and a glance in his direction.

Danny was the expert, but to her admittedly untrained eye, her pilot checked all the bear daddy boxes. His scent, an unapologetic combination of bar soap and testosterone, dominated her senses. His thick, black hair had missed more than one trim, and waved over an angled forehead, complimenting a complexion that boasted the all-season tan of someone who spent a great deal of time outdoors. A strong, straight nose punctuated his profile, and a beard-darkened jaw closed the deal. The man oozed bear daddy. Even the silver-rimmed aviators hiding his glacier-blue eyes failed to add a veneer of urbanity. His lumberjack build filled the cockpit just as fully as his air of raw masculinity.

Unfortunately, he was her firm’s client and Captivity Air’s CEO, Trace Shanahan, which put him off-limits according to professional ethics. Also, when he’d met up with her in Anchorage to fly her to their final destination of remote Captivity, he’d looked her up and down with that riveting gaze that had struck her as a little sad. Then, his eyes had narrowed, filled with consternation and—unless she’d read it wrong—disapproval.

What he might disapprove of, she couldn’t fathom. They’d only exchanged enough words to confirm each other’s identities and get her and her large, monogrammed trunk loaded into the winged coffin he currently labored to keep airborne.

Maybe Trace distrusted a female attorney to handle his side of the proposed sale of his interest in Captivity Air and Freight to the larger, California-based carrier, Skyline Air? Whatever the reason for his forbidding demeanor, it factored into her determination not to scream, or otherwise embarrass herself, as she confronted her doom.

It was a crying shame. A shame he was a client, possibly a chauvinist, and she was about to die a reclaimed virgin, because inhaling his down-market soap, or pheromones, or both, while watching him manhandle the little plane, made her imagine brawny, uncivilized Shanahan manhandling her. He wouldn’t even have to speak. He could just grunt heavily while fucking her brains out.

All of the men in her world were highly civilized. They fell into two categories—attorney at law, gay, or, like Danny, they occupied that overlapping segment of the Venn diagram encompassing both. Such was her life as a single girl in West Hollywood.

The plane leveled out with a nauseating shimmy.

Thanks to Trace’s rush to depart ahead of the storm now threatening to spit them out of the sky, she just might hurl a gluten-free, dairy-free, vegetarian Alaskan Airlines business class lunch all over the limited edition suit she’d planned to exchange for casual traveling clothes after her breakfast meeting. Sadly, the meeting ran long. Then she’d hoped to change upon arriving in Anchorage, but her flight had hit delays. Shanahan had stressed the need to get back in the air ahead of the blizzard, so she’d let it go. Assuming she survived this death-spiral into the Great North, she hoped her white-glove dry cleaner could erase an afternoon’s worth of abject panic from the suit.

Another air pocket sucked the plane downward in two bone jarring drops.

This is it, Izzy. Your abrupt and tragic end. She peered out the side window. A couple jagged, snowcapped peaks jutted through roiling gray clouds. You don’t want to be here for it.

She didn’t. Eyes squeezed shut, she dug through the slouchy Gucci bag that had gobbled up a ridiculous chunk of her first-year bonus, now shoved unceremoniously under her seat. Finally, she snagged the supplement bottle. She didn’t need to read the label to recall the dosage instructions—one tablet, as needed, to restore natural calm and balance to the body. True, she’d consumed a glass of cabernet on her prior flight and the makers of the product probably didn’t recommend enhancing the effects with alcohol, but all bets were off in the face of impending death. Especially painful, terrifying impending death. She wrenched the cap open, brought the bottle to her lips, and let the jostling of the plane tumble a tablet into her mouth. The next sudden drop had her gulping it down with barely a gasp. She screwed the cap on and tossed the bottle into the purse that had once been a trophy of her hard work and accomplishments. Soon to be a burned, battered artifact of a bush plane crash on the crest of some godforsaken mountain.

The aircraft went into another dive, perhaps deliberate this time, since the maneuver felt slower and more measured. Over the rattle and hum of the engines she realized Shanahan spoke. To her?

She forced her eyes open and, from behind the protection of her polarized Persols, looked at his profile. “What?”

The word came out a thin whisper, inaudible over the noise of the plane, but it didn’t matter because he’d been speaking into his headset, rather than to her.

His deep voice and unhurried words seemed too calm for a mayday call. Was he speaking with a tower somewhere? Please God. Perhaps radioing their coordinates so a search party could eventually recover their bodies and give her loved ones the comfort of a proper funeral?

For some reason the thought gave rise to an image of Danny standing at the head of the large conference table at the firm, delivering her eulogy to a packed house of staff, associates and partners. He wore a tuxedo—weird—and held a flute of champagne as he addressed the room with his patented look of dry amusement.

Many of you claim you’d die to make partner, but our lovely, overachieving Isabelle actually did it. That fact might lead you to believe professional ambition guided her life, but Izzy had other goals and other reasons for making the journey to Captivity. She wasn’t just a top-flight lawyer, she was a woman, with a woman’s hopes. A woman’s dreams. A woman’s…needs. Needs that drove her all the way to the frozen north for the most prized and elusive of rewards—rugged, tireless sex with rugged, tireless men. We can only pray that somewhere in heaven she’s finally found the bear daddy of her dreams.

He raised his glass. To bear-daddy dick.

Everyone lifted their glasses.

To bear-daddy dick.

…

As Trace finished giving Captivity Airstrip his who, what, and where, he heard an unexpected noise coming from his cockpit. Laughter? He glanced over at the little lawyer the firm had sent to help him navigate due diligence for the proposed sale. Yep, the Ariana Grande lookalike in the Devil Wears Prada wardrobe giggled, caught him watching, covered her mouth with her hand and giggled again.

He cocked a brow. “Problem?”

She shook her head, then firmed her lips into a serious line and dropped her hand. “Nope. No problem here. Please, don’t let me distract you from…” She gestured to the controls.

Okaaay. She’d held her shit together the whole way through the kind of flight that left free-climbers, big-game hunters, and other wilderness thrill seekers clutching the airsick bag and crying for mommy, but apparently even a city-slick transactional attorney from the esteemed firm of Hecker, Hiltz & Reynolds had her limits.

Still, not a problem. He’d flown in worse than the leading edge of the kind of late-breaking March blizzard Mother Nature occasionally decided to dump on them. They’d be on the ground shortly. That’s when his problems would start. Today’s problems, at any rate.

He snuck another look at his passenger seat, where problem number one currently sat, and thought back to the conversation he’d had last week with Chuck Reynolds—longtime family friend and a founding partner of the law firm. Chuck understood how quickly news traveled in a town the size of Captivity and supported his desire to keep the prospective sale off the local radar until he’d come to a definitive go/no-go decision. Chuck had promised him an associate who would blend in and pass for one of those outdoor adventure enthusiasts Captivity attracted.

The fashionista beside him did not blend in. From his position at the foot of the escalator at the Anchorage Airport, she’d caught his eye. He’d taken her in from the tips of her glossy, black heels that showed off truly spectacular legs, to the mouthwatering curves and hint of cleavage revealed by her sleek, red suit, to her Instagram-perfect makeup and smooth twist of thick, dark hair. And he’d enjoyed every second of the visual feast—more than he’d enjoyed anything for months—until she’d approached close enough for him to pick up her sophisticated, ruthlessly sexy scent, and asked, “Mr. Shanahan?” in a voice just as sophisticated and ruthlessly sexy.

He’d considered asking her to change into something more appropriate, but their window of time for making the run from Anchorage to Captivity was simply too tight, given the coming storm. Besides, after getting a look at her oversized piece of designer luggage and the cashmere coat draped over her arm, he strongly doubted she had anything more appropriate. He doubted she knew the meaning of the word.

So now, in mere minutes, they’d arrive at the airfield where a handful of staff would get a good look at Isabelle Marcano, extreme Alaska adventure seeker, and know something didn’t add up. At no time during their hour-and-thirty-minute flight had any flash of inspiration struck. He didn’t know how he was going to explain her to his team. Half the town already wondered about the purpose of his recent spate of trips to the City of Los Angeles.

According to fellow pilot Maddox “Mad Dog” Douglas, the odds were two-to-one at The Tipsy Goose on Trace having a hot-and-heavy affair with at least one member of the bachelorette party that had spent time in Captivity last summer on a roundabout tour of Glacier Bay National Park. A party of seven twenty-something women—six of them unattached—garnered a legendary amount of interest around these parts. He honestly couldn’t remember a single one of them, probably because they’d known how to blend in, but he’d thought about dropping by the bar and putting a hundred on the hot-and-heavy affair option.

At least Bridget had gotten stuck overnight in Anchorage on account of the storm, so his sister wouldn’t be the first in line calling bullshit on whatever explanation he offered for his guest, but still.

He was screwed.

Trace nudged his worry aside to concentrate on the landing. The plane cut through the lowest layer of clouds like a samurai sword through silk, bringing his hometown into sight. Though still shy of seven p.m. the coming storm brought an early, dense dusk to mute the view. Instead of a deeply blue curve of water ringed by a thin rim of sand the color of the littleneck clamshells that littered the beach, Captivity Cove was a gray, churning soup. Lights from the small boat harbor, the standalone dock for the cruise ship shore boats, and the Captivity Air and Freight dock floated near shore. All those docks and everything else along the fringes of the cove would likely be coated in ice by morning.

Streetlights dotted the perimeter of the cove, following the slightly meandering route of Coveside Drive. Smaller, dimmer lights sprinkled the hills overlooking the cove, where, on a clear day, passengers could see the painted ladies of Captivity. Those brightly colored, historic wooden storefronts in town mixed Old West durability with Victorian flourishes. Larger, equally colorful and historic—or built to look that way—homes nestled amongst the spruce-lined slopes that eventually climbed toward a five-thousand-foot mountain the locals dubbed Kat’s Peak. Their ancient and mighty corner of the Chilkat range backstopped everything.

Normally, he spent this time pointing out the various attractions to his passengers, but visibility wasn’t optimal this evening, and the woman beside him wasn’t a tourist. He looked over to where she sat, staring straight ahead through unnecessary sunglasses, smoothing a hand over her sleek hairdo and licking the vestiges of red gloss from her lips with the tip of her tongue. She probably didn’t give a damn about any destination that didn’t have a Saks Fifth Avenue outpost and a five-star spa, but as he watched her pink tongue slide over those Cupid’s bow lips, he discovered his dick didn’t give a damn that she didn’t give a damn.

Mentally, he sighed. What excellent timing for this particular bear to come out of hibernation now, at the most improbable of provocations. High-maintenance women weren’t his type, and everything about Isabelle Marcano, Esq. screamed high-maintenance, from her fitted suit and impractical shoes, right down to that absurdly sexy scent filling his cockpit.

He banked the plane a few degrees westward, so Captivity Air filled his windshield. Beyond the dock, where they embarked and disembarked for water or ice landings, stretched the tidy Y-shaped runways, the red-shingled terminal capped by its distinctive crow’s nest, and metal hangars of the air and freight company his great-grandparents had founded almost eighty years ago.

Every inch of the operation was as familiar as the back of his hand, but after last fall, most of the pride and joy of this family legacy had vanished for him. Worse, he doubted he’d ever get it back. He wanted out. Bridget just wanted to fly. Getting her to complete the bare minimum of paperwork associated with those flights pretty much exhausted both their stores of patience. The less administrative burdens of running the company that landed on her, the happier she’d be.

He thought.

But she was just twenty-five to his thirty. In five years, she might be more amenable to spending some portion of her time behind a desk, doing boss-type stuff. Only problem? He didn’t have five more years of doing boss-type stuff in him. Ultimate responsibility for the safety and well-being of every pilot and passenger in his care sat too heavily on his shoulders.

Unqualified shoulders, as it turned out. Last fall had proven as much, decisively and permanently. Nobody needed a broken-down burnout helming the company. Especially not a broken-down burnout who might be losing his mind. Sane people didn’t suddenly take up sleepwalking at thirty. They didn’t wander into the kitchen at three in the morning to find a brother they’d just buried sitting at the island, grinning like he’d stumbled in from a lucky night out. They sure as shit didn’t imagine hearing his voice, bell-clear, lingering like an echo as the dream, hallucination, or whatever the hell, faded.

Right. Sane people didn’t do that.

This sale represented the best solution for everyone. They just didn’t know it yet. Done properly, he would keep Bridget flying, keep his team employed, and keep the air service the townspeople both wanted and needed, right there in Captivity.

The runways were all his at this time of evening, he knew, but nonetheless decided to check with Mad Dog, who was holding down the fort with Wyatt “Wingnut” Jensen. Right about now, he wished he’d told them to just leave the lights on and head home, or to their favorite table at the Goose, or anywhere else in the world that would eliminate the need to come up with an explanation for the obviously-not-a-tourist occupying his cockpit. But considering her true purpose for being there, the need to run the airfield strictly by the books took on new precedence.

“Captivity Air, this is Beaver N2326G, 2 miles southwest, 800 feet, inbound for landing on A. Over.”

“Beaver N2326G? Awfully formal tonight, Shanahan. Are we on a first date?”

Trace mentally counted to ten. “The correct reply is ‘clear’ or ‘not clear.’ And say, ‘over,’ at the end of your communication, Mad. Over.”

“Okay, stud. You’re all clear. Over.”

He stifled a long-suffering sigh. “Roger. Any wind or weather conditions I should know about? Maybe give me the ground temperature? Over.”

“Jesus. Now he wants foreplay.” Wingnut’s appreciation of Mad’s sense of humor carried audibly across the open comm. “Blizzard’s coming in behind you, which you already know,” Mad went on. “Crosswind down here is providing occasional gusts up to 20mph, just to keep things interesting. Ground temp is…uh…a balmy 28 degrees. Baby, it’s all good down there.” In the background, he heard K’eyush bark what sounded exactly like “Over.” Apparently Mad thought so too, because, as if prompted, he added, “Over.”

“Roger. Over and out.”

He shot a look at his passenger, who leaned forward now, her sunglasses perched atop her head, squinting at the airfield. Thank God she was an attorney and not an inspector from the FAA.

Opting for some levity of his own, he turned to her. “Ladies and gentlemen, please return your seatbacks and tray tables to their full upright positions.”

She didn’t look away from the airfield. Didn’t smile. Didn’t so much as blink. “Hey,” she whispered. “Does that runway seem kind of…short?”

Not an uncommon first reaction, for the uninitiated. “The craft is designed for short takeoffs and landings. We’ve got 3,000 feet of runway, but I’m only going to need 1,000 of them.”

She turned now, too. Round, glassy eyes slowly focused on him. “Huh?”

Maybe there were more nerves fraying beneath her seamless exterior than he’d picked up on. Shame on him. Just because he hadn’t expected someone so polished and emphatically urban didn’t mean she was as impervious as she appeared. “Don’t worry. It’s big enough to get the job done.”

She laughed—a little frantic, to his ears—and shook her head. “That’s what they all say.”

Well, not all of them, he begged to differ. His equipment might be slightly rusty, but it had never generated any complaints. Her joke, however, had blood rushing to his groin for the first time in…a while. His mind raced back to his initial glimpse of her coming down the airport escalator, and he endured a quick fantasy involving stripping that tight, tailored suit off her tight, curvy body and showing her precisely how well he could get the job done. Even her underwear would be fancy. Silky or lacy, he imagined, and, somehow, that only added to the appeal.

The entirely unlikely scenario, bolstered by her dick-torturing scent, kept his imagination busy and his cock highly entertained through the landing. His passenger sucked in one sharp breath when they kangarooed off a wind gust just before touchdown, but he wove the uncensored little noise into the fantasy, which probably made him a sick perv in addition to an inconsiderate ass, but also proved his imagination didn’t take orders from his conscience.

Once they’d taxied close to the terminal and come to a complete stop, he powered the plane down and released his seat belt. She didn’t immediately reach for hers, just sagged in her seat, taking quick, shallow sips of air, so he reached over and undid her belt as well. Overly familiar of him? Maybe, but perhaps his imaginary exchange of orgasms with her during their landing left him feeling overly familiar.

She offered him a belated, “Thank you,” and then, “How do I…?”

“You wait for me,” he told her, and reached behind him to the empty seats where two more passengers normally sat, found her coat, and held it for her. “First, put this on. It’s freezing out there.” Working her arms into her coat sleeves took more effort than the chore normally required and suggested to him that despite her silence during the flight, the rough ride had taken a toll on her. A choppy flight in a small plane could reduce an experienced adventure flyer to a minimally functional zombie. Given the circumstances, he tried not to wonder what the nape of her neck would taste like if he ran his tongue over the tempting line of smooth, bare skin visible over the collar of her suit. The thought had him wishing he could open the door a crack. It suddenly felt too hot in the cockpit.

By the time they managed to get her into her outerwear, sweat coated his forehead. He shrugged into his parka and stashed his sunglasses in one padded pocket. Once she’d finished buttoning up, he opened his door and hopped down. Air a good twenty degrees cooler than what they’d left in Anchorage enfolded him in a blissfully chilly embrace. He wrenched the cargo door open to retrieve her extra-large trunk. Having loaded it onto the Beaver less than two hours ago, he knew it was every ounce of her declared ninety-five pounds. He hefted it to the ground, placed it on the small wheels some luggage designer had been kind enough to include, and rolled it with him to the other side of the plane. As instructed, she still sat inside the plane. A lot of passengers would have opened the door, but she waited for him to do the honors.

Which meant she was either great at following instructions, or high maintenance.

Time would tell.

He opened the door, held out a hand for hers, and expected her to do as he’d done and brace one foot on the wheel strut while lowering the other to the ground. Instead, the smooth toe of her sky-high heel slipped off the strut. With a startled scream she tumbled toward the tarmac. Moving quickly, he caught her on the way down, wrapping his arms around her hips and pinning her against him before she slid right through his arms. For one long, still moment, he simply held her, dangling there, while they both caught their breath. Wide, brown eyes looked down at him. “Good catch,” she gasped. “Thank you.”

“Door-to-door service,” he managed, a little too affected by her scent and the feminine hips beneath the layers of clothes and coat. Belatedly, he realized his hold on her had bundled her clothes and coat high on her thighs, leaving slender, shapely legs on full display.

From a hundred feet away, he sensed Mad Dog and Wingnut staring through the terminal windows, devouring the sight of said slender, shapely legs with the same eager attention they might give a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. Unhappy with the idea of them getting an eyeful of her from the anonymity of the terminal, as well as uncomfortably aware of how intimate their embrace might look to their no doubt curious audience—and a little afraid of how good she felt in his arms—he lowered her to solid ground. When her stance steadied, he made himself let go. She gave him a smile as wobbly as her legs, turned to retrieve her purse from beneath the seat, and slid it onto her shoulder.

Frigid wind blew between them. Once she cleared, he closed the door and gestured toward the terminal. “This way.”

He reached for her trunk, but she beat him to it. “No. The handle has a delicate release. I’ve got it.” To demonstrate, she depressed some hidden button, extended the pull handle, then started rolling the trunk behind her as she took careful steps across the tarmac.

Delicate release, his ass. He got the distinct feeling she didn’t trust him with her precious designer trunk, which irked him because he dealt with passenger baggage and cargo all the damn time.

One more point for high maintenance.

It was easy to keep up with her shorter strides, especially as they approached the ramp leading to the terminal. Consideration of the physics between the weight of the trunk, her weight, and the angle of the incline had him speaking up again. “Sure you don’t want me to handle it on the ramp?”

“I’ve got it,” she repeated and huffed her way to the top, looking more like a beauty and fashion editor embarking on a luxury transatlantic cruise than an outdoorswoman arriving for an Alaskan adventure. Mad and Wing wouldn’t know what to make of her, but they’d know for sure she wasn’t their run-of-the-mill, cusp-of-spring tourist looking to hike Big Kat while it still wore a snowy blanket, explore Glacier Bay, or pitch a tent and live off the land.

She paused to brush at something on the lapel of her coat. Her very expensive, very designer coat.

Any hopes he’d had of disguising a big city lawyer in Captivity swirled off like snowflakes in the wind. He was screwed. Very screwed. He needed a plausible explanation for her presence, and he needed it now.

The automatic doors to the terminal opened when she hit the pressure plate, and a whoosh of air accompanied them into the warm, quiet arrival and departure lounge of Captivity Air.

Mad Dog, Wingnut, and K’eyush all advanced like desperate puppies, eager to jump all over their new arrival. Isabelle stopped short in the face of the onslaught, and Trace had to hit the brakes fast to avoid slamming into her.

“Hey, guys, back off.” To the dog, he ordered, “Sit.”

Key dropped his fluffy butt obediently to the floor. The dog, at least, responded to commands.

The men, not so much. He aimed a warning look at both, which they both ignored.

“Oh, hey,” Mad said, flipping his blond hair out of his eyes, “let me get that for you.”

“Back off, man. I can get it,” Wing insisted and slipped the handle from Isabelle’s grasp.

She reached for it. “Thanks, but I can handle my luggage just fine. Really.”

Mad, however, wasn’t giving up that easily. “I said I’ve got it.” He grabbed the handle as well, attempting to jostle Wing out of the way.

Walking ahead to get out of the fray, Trace said, “Guys, she’s fine.” Then repeated “Guys!” in a louder voice as they tussled over the bag for several long, stupid seconds, with Isabelle making absolutely no progress trying to get it back. Finally, Wing tore the handle from Mad’s grip, but lost his hold as well. The trunk overbalanced and landed on the floor like the proverbial ton of bricks.

The clasps popped on impact and a Victoria’s Secret storeroom’s worth of silky, frilly, feminine attire flew across the linoleum tile. But the thing that slid to a stop at the toes of his battle-scarred negative-forty-rated boots wasn’t frilly or feminine. It was a supersized box of condoms, with a sticky note attached that read, “Surprise!”

Three sets of eyes, besides his own, focused on the box. Her purse slid off her arm and hit the floor with a plop. Then silence deafened everything except the wind outside.

Wing found his voice first. “Shit. Sorry, lady.”

Inspiration chose that moment to strike. Trace picked up the box of condoms and went with it.

“She’s not just any lady. She’s the woman I plan to marry.”

Isabelle froze in the process of stooping to gather to bras and panties, and yes, he’d been right—silky, lacy, frilly, and feminine—and he felt himself go hard as he contemplated them decorating her body instead of the terminal floor.

She blew a wave of hair from her face that had escaped her fancy updo and looked up at him. “Huh?”

He followed the trail of clothes to where she knelt, reached out a hand to help her to her feet, all the while sending her the most conspiratorial look he could manage without coming right out and saying, I’m about to lie my ass off, and I need you to go along me here.

Her eyes narrowed, telling him she picked up on the fact that he sent her some kind of unspoken message, but not the specifics. How could she? Reaching for the condom box, she asked, “What are you—?”

“Assuming I can convince her.” He gathered her into his arms, almost too desperate to note she fit as snugly in his embrace this time as when she’d fallen into him outside. Locking eyes with her, he silently begged for help. “What do you say, Isabelle? Can I convince you?”

She studied him, a cute little furrow between her brows. Then, in a flash of understanding, her expression shifted to something far sultrier that he was expecting.

Her lips curved into a teasing smile. “I don’t know. This is so sudden. Maybe start with a kiss?”

Worked for him. The suggestion barely cleared her tempting lips before he took her up on it and covered them with his own.