Chapter Three

Izzy let Trace steer her and her bag into the elevator. Her mind raced ahead, to her suite. It was a detail she should have thought of. All work and no play had turned her into a dull girl. If she planned to follow Danny’s advice and go wild in Captivity, a king-sized bed and a few romantic touches to set the mood would be helpful. This wasn’t the Ritz, by any means, but she could get behind a little rustic, rim-of-the-world charm.

How should she go about enticing someone to share it with her? Was there a bar in the inn? On autopilot, she followed Trace out of the elevator and down a carpet-lined hallway. If so, that would be the most convenient place to see and be seen, assuming local guys hung out there. Maybe guys like the two hotties from the terminal? Unless Jorg from the elevator represented an example of the local men on tap at the inn. She’d been hoping for a bear daddy with a little more bear going on and a little less daddy. Or grand-daddy. Frankly, her client fit the bill superbly—a bear daddy beyond her wildest fantasies—except for the tiny drawback that sleeping with one’s client had the potential to get one disbarred. And fired. Or—

Oof. She ran into Trace.

And bounced off his monumental frame like a baseball bouncing off a brick wall.

Though in the process of lifting the keycard to the sensor of the door at the very end of the hall, he spun, grabbed a handful of the front of her coat, and caught her.

Quick moves for such a big guy.

He stared down at her. “Are you okay?” Very slowly, he released his grasp on her coat. As he did, his fingers brushed the swell of her breasts through layers of cashmere and wool, and suddenly her favorite power suit felt many sizes too small across her chest. “Huh?”

“Isabelle?”

Okay, staring wasn’t the right word for what those electric blue eyes were doing. No, he assessed her from under dark, furrowed brows. Something about the look left her with the weirdest notion her sex-starved thoughts had been too loud, and he’d overheard them. “I’m fine.”

His mouth—the very one he’d kissed her with—firmed into a doubtful line. “Are you sure? You seem kind of…” He opened the door and gestured her inside. “Distracted.”

“Hmm. Well.” Yes, Trace, my head’s been in my pants for the last five minutes, spending more time than decent contemplating getting in yours, which, frustratingly, can never happen, and it’s all your fault for planting that kiss on me and making me crave what I can’t have. She tried to take control of her bag once he rolled it into the room, but he handed her the keycard, then rotated his finger in a where-do-you-want-it? gesture.

This prompted her to look around the room, and, holy love nest, Batman, what a room it was. “Oh. Wow.” She slid the keycard into the lower left pocket of her suit jacket. “This is amazing.” Rustic charm? Sure, if the definition of rustic charm included a dark leather sofa centered on a plush, polar-white rug, in front of an oversized fireplace trimmed in burled wood. She shrugged out of her coat and tossed it over the back of the sofa. In a nod to modernity, whomever had decorated the room had placed a flatscreen TV above the fireplace, but it wasn’t obtrusive. The opposite wall hosted a huge, hand-turned four-poster bed that had to be antique, covered in a mountain of pillows, a snuggly white cloud of a comforter, with a sable-toned furry throw—please don’t let that be real fur—draped over the foot. The third wall was bumped out to accommodate a small round table and two upholstered chairs. They sat tucked in front of a massive window flanked by multipaned transoms, which framed what was probably a breathtaking view of the mountains on a clear night. Tonight, a curtain of falling snow blew diagonally across the panes, obscuring everything.

Was that a lot of snow? She was no expert, but it seemed like a lot. How much were they supposed to get?

Trace cleared his throat, and she tore her gaze away from the window. He stood in the middle of the room, in the generous space between the bed and the sitting area, with her trunk parked beside him.

“Oh, right. Um…” She walked down the small hallway to the right of the door and found it bisected a large closet area and dead-ended in a white, tile-and-marble bathroom, complete with a soaking tub and spacious glass-enclosed shower. “Over here.”

When he appeared, she noticed he’d shed his parka. Instead of diminishing him, the loss of the bulky outer layer only highlighted just how tall and broad he was au naturel, or, in this case, in a blue Captivity Air fleece pullover that turned his eyes to sapphires and jeans that hugged thighs roughly the size of tree trunks.

What would it be like to have one of those bad boys lodged between hers?

Let it go, Izzy. That bear daddy must remain in the wild.

She swallowed hard and waved a hand toward the closet. “Thanks,” she managed to say when he set it on a luggage bench for her, treating her to a show of flexing thighs and glutes beneath wash-softened denim, back and shoulder muscles rippling beneath the fleece, and forearms traversed by veins and dusted with dark hair. He even peeled the tape back for her.

Too bad he was her client.

He straightened, turned, and very possibly caught her checking out his ass. One dark eyebrow winged up.

Really too bad.

He cleared his throat again, looked around the elaborate closet, and finally, back to her. “If you’ve got a couple more minutes to spare, maybe I can get around to that explanation I owe you?”

“Anything for my groom-to-be.” She turned and retraced her steps to the main room of the suite, looked around, then crossed to the sofa and sat.

“About that.” He dropped into one of the chairs by the table and ran a hand through his hair. “I apologize for springing that on you like I did. Captivity Air and Freight employs Maddox and Wyatt.” He rested his forearms on his knees and stared at the floor between his feet. Really big feet. “I don’t want them—or anyone else—knowing I’m considering selling my interest in the business until we’re ready to pull the trigger on the deal.”

“That makes sense.” She kicked off her shoes and tucked her legs under her. Settling into the corner of the sofa closest to the table, she turned to face him. “In fact, the firm would consider it best practice. For certain things, transparency is too disruptive. But I don’t travel with my mergers and acquisitions credentials pinned to my shirtfront.”

“You might as well have.” He turned those blue eyes on her. “Chuck promised me someone who would blend in and pass for a tourist, and then you show up looking like a big city corporate attorney. I didn’t know what to do about it, but then your luggage exploded with all the”—he moved his hands over his chest—“and the”—he opened his palms and did a quick V-hands at his lap—“and the big box of condoms comes skidding out, and I thought it looked like everything a woman would pack to visit her, uh, significant other, and I just blurted it out.” He winced. “Sorry.”

“All right. I get it. It’s okay, I guess. I didn’t plan to be dressed like this when I arrived in Captivity, but everything worked against me.” She considered the ethics, but, frankly, she hadn’t lied to anyone. Nor had Trace, in a strictly literal sense. He hadn’t said they’d known each other or been seeing each other. He’d said he planned to marry her if he could convince her. That he didn’t honestly mean to try, and she had no intention of being convinced didn’t, technically, make the statement any less true. “I don’t care if a few people at Captivity Air think we’re involved. I wouldn’t have voted to create an elaborate cover story, but this one works to our advantage and undoing it now would create wrinkles in something we both want to go very smoothly.”

He let out a breath. “I appreciate you playing along, but—”

“It’s not completely selfless on my part,” she hastened to assure him. “Believe it or not, the stakes for me to complete this deal are almost as high as they are for you. So, if you, as my client, are more comfortable with a minor fabrication, then who am I to—?”

A knock on the door interrupted her. “One minute.” She got up and padded over to the door. A peek through the peephole showed the girl who had joined Rose behind the desk, holding something. She opened the door.

“A very special welcome to Captivity, from management.” The girl smiled, complete with adorable twin dimples, as she presented a silver ice bucket containing an uncorked bottle of chilled champagne and two glasses.

“Oh. Goodness.” At a loss, she turned to Trace, whose face remained impassive. No wiser, she turned back to the girl. “Thank you.” She took the bucket, and the glasses. “Lilah, right? Hold on just a second. Let me put this down and find my purse.”

“No, no.” The girl reached for the door handle. “Please enjoy the gift. Compliments of the Captivity Inn.” With that, and a last smile, she backed out and closed the door behind her.

“Well, dang.” Izzy brought the bounty over to the sofa and set the bucket and glasses on the small, hand-hewn wood table before returning to her corner of the sofa. “Why is the management of the Captivity Inn specially welcoming me?”

Trace stared at her a long moment, like she’d just missed a really obvious answer on a test. Without answering, he got up, walked over and lifted the bottle. After pouring her a glass, then him, and sinking the bottle back into the ice, he settled himself at the other end of the sofa. When he held his flute aloft toward her she tapped hers against his and watched him lift the glass to his lips. Just one sip, she promised herself, since she’d already had the wine on the flight to Anchorage, and then the supplement. He swallowed, looking absurdly attractive with the fragile flute in his manly hand.

“They’re welcoming you as my prospective fiancée.”

A cough of shock sent her single sip of champagne on a sudden reverse course. It sprayed at high velocity into his face.

Holy shit. She unwrapped the linen napkin tied around the neck of the bottle and handed it to him. “Oh my God. I’m sorry,” she said as he wiped his face, “but why would they assume anything about us? You didn’t tell Rose or Lilah about”—she lowered her voice—“convincing me to marry you.”

“No.” He tossed the napkin on the table. “But I told Mad and Wing, so…”

“So? What are you saying?” She put her glass on the table and battled a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “One of them told Rose or Lilah? Why would they do that?”

“Uh, Isabelle, this isn’t Los Angeles. In a place the size of Captivity, a local getting serious with an outsider causes a big ripple. News like that travels fast. I hadn’t counted on it traveling quite this fast, but—”

“Wait. Wait. Wait.” She held up her hand, palm out. “Are you trying to tell me the whole town thinks we’re involved?”

“Well, I don’t know if the whole town knows yet, but I’d say by noon tomorrow most everyone will have heard the news.”

“Everyone?” Her voice went high and thin at the end of the word. She heard it. There’s no way he’d miss it. So much for the calming powers of ashwagandha. Based on the way her chest tightened, she’d wasted thirty bucks on over-the-counter stress relief.

He put his glass down on the table and turned a wary look on her. “You said you were okay with the cover story. So, two people or two thousand shouldn’t matter. What’s the problem?”

The problem? “The problem is…I…I…” She folded her arms across her chest while all her fantasies of going wild in Captivity popped just like bubbles in the champagne. Pride and a shred of professionalism prevented her from confessing. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. There’s no problem.”

He studied her in a way that made her heart stumble like a clumsy sprinter. “Tell me the problem. You can trust me.”

No. Just no. This conversation needed to be over. She got up and walked to the window, stared out at a whole lot of white. Someone had given the snow globe known as Captivity, Alaska a hearty shake. “Jeez, it’s really coming down out there.”

Trace moved to stand beside her and look out at the curtain of snow falling beyond the glass. “That’s why they call it a blizzard.”

“I’ve never seen so much snow in my entire life. How much are they calling for?”

“A few feet.”

“What?” She pressed a hand to the glass. “As in, at least twenty-four inches?”

He tipped his head, considering. “The drifts will get a lot deeper.”

She looked over at him. “How far away is your house? Are you going to be able to drive home?”

He shook his head. “No. Plows can’t keep up with this. The roads won’t be safe until sometime tomorrow. But I keep a go-bag in the Yukon. I’ll just get a room, and… Oh. Shit.” Now his eyes sought hers.

“That would look weird, wouldn’t it? How long would news like we didn’t share a room take to circulate?”

“Not long,” he admitted. “Sorry. I didn’t think this part through. If I brought you here, stuck around long enough for us to”—he raised a brow and gestured at the champagne for two set out on the table—“and then headed home with Key, that probably wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows since I share a house with my younger sister, Bridget. I wouldn’t spring a surprise guest on her, especially not my hot and heavy girlfriend she’s never met. But for us both to stay at the inn and not share a room? That might cause some speculation about the overall, ah, health of our relationship.”

Raising speculation amongst the locals about her true purpose for being in Captivity contravened her goal of bringing this deal to a quick, clean close. The sooner she accomplished that goal, the sooner she could return to L.A. to order new business cards. Some that bore the title “partner” under her name.

She savored that vision for a moment. First person in her family to graduate from college. First to attain a secondary degree. First to embark on a professional career. And last but certainly not least? First to ascend to the upper echelon of said career.

Nope, she did not want to cause any unnecessary ripples during her time in Captivity. “It’s a big suite. We can share for a night.”

He thought about her offer for a second, then nodded. “That would probably be the simplest solution, but only if you’re sure you’re okay with it.”

“I’m sure. I can sleep on the sofa.” She wandered over and ran her hand along the smooth, espresso-colored leather. “It’s plenty big for me, and—”

“No. I backed us into this corner. I’ll take the sofa.”

“That’s silly. You’re too big to be comfortable sleeping there.”

“Still—”

“Trace.” She sat, then stretched out over the cushions to demonstrate how sufficient it was for her smaller frame. “I have a couch in my office at least a foot shorter than this. I don’t even want to tell you how many nights I’ve snuck a few hours of sleep in on it when I’ve been in the thick of a project.”

He simply stared at her for a long moment, then rubbed a hand over his face. “Okay, we’ll figure out the sleeping situation later. I’m going to go down to the garage and get my bag, probably stop on the way and check on Key. Make sure he’s good for the night. Are you hungry? I can put in a room service order while I’m downstairs or pick up some burgers to-go from The Tipsy Goose—the bar and grill attached to the hotel.”

Food had kind of slipped off her radar during their death-defying flight to Captivity. Even now, the thought of dinner didn’t wake an appetite. “Either one.” She sat up and retrieved her shoes. “Whichever you prefer. I’m not picky.”

He shrugged. “Burgers, then.”

She carried her shoes and coat with her as she crossed the room toward the hallway leading to the closets. “Do you want me to go with you? I only need a couple minutes to change into something more comfortable.”

“Nah. I’ve got this. Just tell me what you’d like.”

“’Kay. I’ll have a burger, medium—a true medium, not too pink in the center—but only if the beef is at least 85 percent lean.” She deposited her pumps in a closet cubby and padded into the bathroom to wash her hands. “If not, then grill it ’til it’s well done. No bun. No cheese. Just lettuce and tomato. Hold the pickle, hold the onion, hold the mayo, ketchup and any other condiments they usually slather on. Dijon mustard on the side, if they have it. Otherwise, nothing, and—”

“Nothing at all, or no mustard?”

“No mustard.” She wandered back into the main room in time to catch him wearing a dazed expression. “Do you want me to write this down?”

“No, ‘Not Picky,’ I think I got it.” His lips lifted in the crooked grin. “One burger, take all the fun out of it.”

Fun was subjective. Trying to sleep with a belly full of grease and acid too often proved un-fun for her, especially considering sleep tended to elude her under the best of circumstances. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

Maybe that came out a little chillier than she intended because his grin faded. “Of course not.” He sank his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and blew out a breath. “Thanks for being so understanding about, well, everything.”

The hands-in-pockets stance did illicit things to the front of his jeans and left her feeling a bit oxygen deprived. God, he really was a strapping mountain of manliness, standing there a little awkwardly, with his hair falling over his forehead and his beard not quite hiding his chagrin. She braced her shoulder against the wall by the door and found a smile for him. “You’re the client. I’m here to make this diligence effort as efficient and painless as possible. Trust me, I take that duty to heart.”

He walked to the door but stopped in front of her, looked down at her with a brow arched. “I do trust you, Isabelle. Key?”

“What about him?”

For some reason she couldn’t fathom, that made him smile. Holding her gaze with his unexpectedly compassionate one, he dipped his fingers into her suit pocket and pulled out the keycard she’d stashed there. “I’ll be back in a few.”

Before she could so much as swallow, he eased away, turned, and walked out the door.