Читать книгу Too Close For Comfort - Colleen Collins - Страница 10

JEFFREY BRADSHAW STEPPED FROM the mind-numbing outdoors into the heated reception area, glad his breaths no longer emitted clouds of vapor. He flicked his wrist and checked his Rolex. Almost 4:00 p.m. He looked up. No monitors to announce if his four o’clock flight was on time. And if he glanced out the window outside, no commuter planes on the tarmac. Jeffrey looked around at the Alpine “Airport,” which consisted of a pop machine, an assortment of chairs and a counter. He headed toward the latter, pounding his hands together and wishing to hell it would stun the blood to start pumping again. So this was autumn in Alaska. Frozen land. Frigid air. What I’d give for a hot tub, a hot toddy and a very, very hot woman.

“Can I help you?” The guy behind the counter was fiddling with his computer.

“True North Airlines?”

The fellow did a funny salute. “You got it. I’m Wally.”

Jeffrey smiled while trying not to stare at Wally’s blazing red plaid shirt. Maybe all Alaskans wore such shirts in case they got stuck in a snowstorm. “Flight to Arctic Luck,” Jeffrey said. “Four p.m.” He reached into the inner pocket of his Italian cashmere suit jacket, pulled out his wallet and extracted a credit card. “One. Jeffrey Bradshaw.”

Wally took the credit card, giving Jeffrey an odd look. In certain circles, Jeffrey was accustomed to people recognizing him. At thirty-four, he’d held prominent executive positions at several global corporations, the most recent being Acquisitions Director at Argonaut Studios in Los Angeles. Just last month Forbes had done an article on how Jeffrey increased Argonaut’s profits in the third quarter by a phenomenal fifteen percent due to his innovative business ideas. The article even made Jeffrey look like a damn movie star by plastering a photo of him and a hot new television actor, Gordon Tork, on the cover.

Not bad for a kid who grew up on the streets. But growing up tough had been a bonus for Jeffrey. He had both street savvy and business savvy, which meant he could deal with just about any type of personality thrown at him, from cons to CEOs.

And this Wally fell somewhere in-between. A decent guy, probably born and raised in Alaska. So it would surprise Jeffrey if Wally, working at a one-person airport counter in remote Alpine, Alaska, had seen the Forbes article and recognized Jeffrey.

As the card cleared, Wally continued staring at Jeffrey, then glanced behind his shoulder, then back to Jeffrey.

Jeffrey looked over Wally’s shoulder into a square mirror where he caught his reflection. Strange. His neatly trimmed dark brown hair curled over his collar in the mirror. That’s when he realized it was no mirror, but a window. And he was staring into some guy’s face who was looking back at him, his hazel eyes flashing surprise.

It was like looking into some kind of distorted reflection, as though Jeffrey were seeing a more craggy, weathered version of himself.

Hell, it was like looking at himself. There was that damn cowlick he’d wrestled with his entire life, right at the crown of his—well, that guy’s—head. Even the size of his—well, that guy’s, too—ears. Jeffrey never thought his ears were that big, but several girlfriends had giggled they were the biggest, sexiest ears they’d ever whispered into.

Jeffrey squinted.

Yeah, that guy definitely had his ears.

What were the odds that two men, in a chance encounter, looked alike, had matching cowlicks and the same big, sexy ears? Had to be less than one percent of the population of the entire world. No, even less than that.

I’m losing it.

He wiped his hand across his face, welcoming the cold jolt of snow crystals that still clung to his leather glove. Seeing transmutations of himself had to be the effects of the long flight from New York to Anchorage, then the commuter hop here to Alpine. Throw in some stale airline peanuts, and anyone would see things.

Outside, the roar of an engine distracted him. His gaze shifted to another window, through which he saw a Cessna barreling at some insane angle toward the ground. Jeffrey was always aware of the impression he was making, but nothing could have stopped him from yelling an expletive and pointing toward the impending crash.

“Looks like Thompson’s right on time,” said Wally.

Stunned, Jeffrey watched as the plane jerked up at the last moment, its wheels miraculously touching the tarmac before the machine shuddered to a stop with mere feet of asphalt to spare.

Jeffrey waited until his pounding heart leveled off. “Is Thompson the pilot flying to Arctic Luck?”

“You bet.”

“I want another flight.” No way in hell was he getting into some stunt pilot’s death-wish plane.

“No other flights to Arctic Luck today.”

“Is this an airport?”

Wally paused, his clear blue eyes taking in Jeffrey. “It is.”

“Then call whoever’s in charge. Get another flight here.” Jeffrey hadn’t graduated Princeton’s business school summa cum laude, and been a successful business maverick, without learning a few tricks about managing people. He glanced at a handwritten sign taped onto Wally’s computer. Keep The Customer Satisfied. “Because I’m a customer and I want satisfaction.”

Wally tapped a key on the computer, then shifted his weight so he faced Jeffrey. “We’d be more than happy, Mr. Bradshaw, to get you another flight, but our most recent weather bulletin says there’s a storm building off the Gulf. Thompson’s our best bush pilot and, right now, your only option for a flight to Arctic Luck.”

On cue, a wiry teenage boy dressed in jeans and a parka pushed open the swinging door from the hangar. Pausing, he shoved back his baseball cap and raked fingers through his short, black hair. Upon seeing Jeffrey, his big brown eyes widened, then swerved to look at the guy in the window.

Wally waved a paper at the boy, who did another doubletake at Jeffrey and the guy in the window before accepting the paper. He promptly looked at it, then back at Jeffrey with a broad grin. “Howdy.”

The voice was…softer than Jeffrey expected. “Hello.”

The kid held out his hand.

Jeffrey paused, then offered his. For such a small hand, this teenager sure had a hearty shake. “You’re Thompson?”

“Yes. You’re heading to Arctic Luck?”

Was this kid even old enough for a pilot’s license? Wonderful. An illegal, daredevil pilot. Jeffrey learned long ago to never accept “no” for an answer. Keep stalling, asking for another flight to Arctic Luck, and things could happen. “I’m taking another flight.”

The boy released the handshake. “Then you’re going to be waiting for a long time.” He held up the paper. “Storm’s coming in.”

“So I’ve heard.”

The boy grinned again, then swaggered off to the pop machine. But instead of inserting coins, he gave it a calculated punch that released a drink.

“Are you canceling or taking the flight?” asked Wally.

Jeffrey weighed his odds. He could forego this trip to Arctic Luck, which meant he wouldn’t have the first-hand data he needed at the Argonaut board meeting early Monday morning. A key meeting where Harold Gauthier, chairman of the board, was making a special appearance to hear the pros and cons for the Alaskan film series Jeffrey was pitching, a romantic comedy along the lines of Ed meets Northern Exposure to be called Sixty Below. Not only was Jeffrey overseeing this deal, he’d written the story, which he’d set in a hypothetical Alaskan town. But now that the deal was nearing closure, it was imperative Jeffrey actually see the proposed location so he could speak formidably about how this frontier town was integral to the success of the series.

He had originally planned on flying in today, Saturday, then researching Arctic Luck tonight and tomorrow. Later on Sunday, he’d scheduled flights back to Alpine, then Anchorage, with a final flight to Los Angeles late Sunday night. He’d then catch some shut-eye and be ready for Monday morning’s meeting.

His alternative plan? To not fly to Artic Luck because he had a ten percent chance of dying thanks to Thompson’s death-defying flying tactics.

And then there was the issue of his promotion from acquisitions director to vice president of development at Argonaut Studios. Cinching this series would cinch the title.

“Yes, I still want to take the flight.” Jeffrey took in a sobering breath of air and hoped it wasn’t his last.

CYD THOMPSON WAITED at the door to the hangar for Mr. Big City to hustle over his smug self so she could usher him to the plane. As he sauntered toward her, she checked him out. Pretty fancy clothes, there. Fancy and damn impractical. Hadn’t anybody warned him that those leather loafers wouldn’t prevent his feet from freezing if the snow was sticking to the ground in Arctic Luck? And that coat—it would keep him warm for, oh, maybe three seconds. Give or take a second.

She stared at his face. Eerie how he looked like her boss, Jordan, who owned True North Airlines. Cyd rarely got unnerved, but seeing the resemblance had definitely thrown her off.

She glanced at the window to Jordan’s office. Damn amazing how these two guys shared the same hair—rich molasses color with that funky wave at the crown. And although Mr. City Slicker had barely smiled a greeting, something about his and Jordan’s smiles were alike, too. The way their lips crooked a little to the side, kinda like Harrison Ford.

“Ready?” Mr. City Slicker, tucking his wallet neatly into the inside of his jacket, looked questioningly at her.

Jeez, even their voices were similar. Rock-bottom husky. Although Mr. City Slicker definitely had more of an edge to his. But then, most city people did.

“Yes, but you aren’t.”

He paused, his hazel eyes flashing her a look she couldn’t decipher. “I’m ready,” he responded, that edge in his voice sharpening.

Didn’t anybody ever disagree with this guy? Or did he carry a permanent chip on that fancy jacket shoulder?

Or maybe she was being too brusque. Jordan had coached her about this, over and over, asking her to please be less rough around the edges. In all her twenty-five years, nobody had ever told her to be “less rough” as though she were some kind of lump of coal with the remote potential to be a diamond.

But Jordan seemed hell-bound to polish her, give her etiquette lessons, all the while saying she wasn’t to take it personally. “It’s not about you,” he’d remind her. “It’s about the customer. Remember, the customer is king.”

And making the customer king meant more business for True North Airlines.

“I, uh, meant do you have everything you need?” She plastered on one of those syrupy-sweet smiles like those cover girl types on magazines.

Mr. Big City did a double take, then frowned a little. “My luggage is on its way to L.A., so I’m carrying everything I need.”

L.A. Figured. “I didn’t catch your name,” she said, forcing herself to sound polite, interested. Man, this customer relations stuff was exhausting. Good thing this was a short flight.

“Jeffrey.”

She waited for more.

“Bradshaw.”

This conversation made small talk seem downright itsy-bitsy. “And you’re from L.A.?”

He gave her another of those indecipherable looks. “No, New York. For the past year, anyway.”

“Going back to live in L.A.?”

“Do you always ask so many questions?”

Only while Jordan is on this customer relations kick. “Only when I’m interested.” Or sort of interested. Besides, if she got employee of the month, that little bonus check would come in real handy.

“Yes, I’m going back to L.A. I’m in Alaska checking out a location for a potential television series.”

“In Arctic Luck?” she blurted.

He nodded.

Shock raced through her. She’d spent years of her life loving this pristine wilderness, especially her hometown of Arctic Luck. No way some big-city business was going to destroy the land she called home, be that Arctic Luck or anywhere in Alaska for that matter. Especially the kind of business that had destroyed her father.

To hell with customer relations. Screw the bonus. She glared at the city slicker. “Follow me,” she snapped, opening the hangar door. “The plane’s ready.”

As they headed toward the Cessna, she paused next to a wheeled rack that normally held passengers’ luggage. Considering this was the time of year when fierce snowstorms started moving in, with tourism dropping more dramatically than the temperatures, these carts were used for things other than luggage—such as food, supplies, propane—things that bush planes flew to remote, snow-locked communities.

She grabbed a parka off the rack and tossed it to the guy. “Put this on.”

He caught the heavy parka with one hand, not looking strained at all. Cyd fought the urge to be impressed.

“I don’t need this,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Fine with me if you want to freeze off your tush.”

He cocked one eyebrow.

“If you think it’s cold on the ground, just wait till we’re at a thousand feet. Men have been known to get frostbite on their nose, ears and—”

“I’ll wear it.” He set down his carry-on and began unbuttoning his coat.

With a shake of her head, Cyd kept walking to the plane. Wouldn’t that be her luck, to be carting some city jerk to her hometown. She shouldn’t help him anymore. Not an iota. Because every time she did, she was aiding and abetting the enemy.

“Just hurry up,” she snapped, putting a bit more “rough around the edges” in her voice than usual. “I have a run to Eagle Nest after Arctic Luck and the weather’s kicking up.”

But another plan was already forming in Cyd’s mind.

THE WEATHER KICKING UP? Ten minutes later, Jeffrey thought his heart was kicking up, and out of his body. From what he could see outside the cockpit window, snowflakes were thickening, swirling in the wind. It was like flying through a messy potato soup. A very, very cold potato soup. He tried to stop looking at the temperature gauge, but he had a head for numbers. And thirty below zero was a mind-numbing number.

“Cold?” asked Thompson.

“You b-bet my tush.” Damn if his teeth weren’t chattering. Even with this fur-lined, Paul-Bunyon-size parka on.

The plane lurched again.

“Weather sucks,” said Thompson, “but even if we’re forced down, it would be a smooth crash landing because of the flat terrain, Johnny—”

“Jeffrey.” If he was going to die, he wanted to be called by his right name.

“Lousy visibility,” Thompson muttered, tapping one of the gauges with a finger. He shot a look at Jeffrey. “Don’t worry. Sometimes the instruments freeze up a bit, but I can still manage. This is a piece of cake.”

He hated cake. Hated this plane. Hated potato soup.

Thompson muttered something else under his breath. It sounded like “damn snow squall” and Jeffrey wished he wasn’t so attuned to words. From an early age, his greatest escape was reading novels and listening to music. Being bumped from foster home to foster home, how often had he escaped feeling like the outsider by cracking open a book or slapping on a pair of headphones? With music, the heavier the lyrics, the better.

His love of words had extended to his business life as well. While others analyzed body language, he analyzed the tone of people’s voices, how they used words, and eighty percent of the time, he had a person pegged.

But at this moment, he hated words. Especially ones like “damn snow squall” and “lousy visibility.” Thompson had an attitude three times his body size. And although Jeffrey had had his fair share of threats in his life, he’d never been threatened by a pilot, for God’s sake. That’s how it felt, anyway, with Thompson’s insinuations about a potential crash landing.

Jeffrey shifted in his seat, wondering if his jaw would ever unclench. And wishing to hell he had something to distract him. “Got any music?” he asked tightly.

Thompson nodded and flicked a switch. A throbbing bass filled the cockpit, followed by Bruce Spring-steen’s gravelly voice, wailing about tramps and being born to run. Jeffrey shot Thompson a look. Was this kid crazy, playing a searing rock tune at a time like this? Jeffrey eased out a stream of air. Well, if now’s my time to die, might as well be with The Boss.

“Katimuk area traffic, this is Cessna 4747sierra.” Thompson spoke loudly, clearly into the headset mouthpiece while checking the GPS on the dashboard.

Katimuk? Jeffrey frowned. Must be a town near Arctic Luck.

“Nine miles west of Katimuk over the river. Eastbound for Katimuk landing strip. Visibility limited. Flying at one thousand.”

Katimuk landing strip. Maybe Arctic Luck shared the same landing area. Or maybe weather was forcing them down. God, wish I hadn’t had that last thought. Shoot me now. Jeffrey leaned his head back against the head-rest, grateful for something solid.

The plane plunged.

Jeffrey’s stomach plummeted.

Springsteen wailed about sex.

Danger, death and sex had never been Jeffrey’s calling card, but suddenly he was living it, moment by moment. Maybe he should have done the predictable things in life. Like gotten married, had children. Then he’d have heirs to his New York loft, L.A. condo, cars, stocks, investments. But when the women’s faces whom he dated flashed through his mind, it was a blur of greedy eyes and sculpted cheeks. A montage of arm-candy dates, the kind of feminine assets that enhanced a guy’s business allure at social functions.

Not a one of them the type to bake cookies, raise kids, grow old with.

For a fleeting moment, Jeffrey wondered if he’d made the right choices in life. He’d been so desperate to escape the streets, he’d worked hard to earn good grades, earn a college scholarship, land in a profession where he could make the big bucks.

But at this moment, maybe his last moment, he wondered what the big bucks really bought him. An expensive funeral?

“Katimuk traffic,” continued Thompson, “Cessna 4747sierra is over the town entering a left downwind for landing to the west. Tell Harry to be there.”

Harry? The thought flew from his mind as the plane careened. Jeffrey swore his internal organs swapped places as the aircraft dropped and dipped. In the background, Bruce rasped about some girl wrapping her legs around velvet rims.

Thompson was flicking switches, tugging the stick.

A clunking sound. The nose of the plane pitched up.

“Flaps,” Thompson calmly explained, pulling on the yoke.

Jeffrey swallowed, hard. Flaps. Good.

Thompson reached for the ceiling and pulled something. “Trimming.”

Trimming. Good. Whatever the hell that meant.

A runway appeared through a break in the fog. Jeffrey had never been so damn glad to see a strip of snowflaked dirt in his entire life. Something dark and bulky trotted across it. A moose?

Bruce was crooning about madness in his soul while Jeffrey prayed his last image on earth wouldn’t be a close-up of a moose. Fortunately the beast jogged off the landing strip, disappearing into a white expanse of fog and snow.

The wheels hit solid ground.

Jeffrey released a pent-up breath, debating who ruled the world. Springsteen or Thompson.

And when the plane eased to a smooth stop, the answer was evident. Thompson.

“WE’RE WHERE?” Ten minutes ago, they’d landed. Jeffrey would have kissed the ground, but didn’t want to end up with his lips frozen to it. He’d helped Thompson tie down the plane, then made the fatal mistake of asking where, exactly, they were.

“Katimuk.”

That’s what he thought Thompson had said the first time. Jeffrey chose his battles carefully, and had the common sense to not argue in body-freezing weather, but at the moment he had an issue to chew and didn’t give a damn if his words froze midsentence.

“I need to go to Arctic Luck.” Hell, he needed a lot more than that. A hot drink, for starters. His throat felt like he’d swallowed a block of ice.

“Good for you,” yelled Thompson, marching away from him. “Say hello when you get there.”

Where was Thompson going? Jeffrey jogged a few feet to catch up, tripping and sliding over icy patches. “I demand you take me to Arctic Luck,” he yelled, his words escaping in plumes of vapor. “I paid to go to Arctic Luck.”

Thompson stopped, turned, and fisted his hands on his slim hips. “I, I, I! You big-city types never think of others, only yourselves.”

This conversation was taking a bigger turn than some of those insane plane maneuvers Thompson had made. Thompson, definitely no longer ruled the world. “My jacket is still on the plane. I need to get it.”

“Where on the plane?”

Jeffrey blew out another gust of vapor. “I left it on the convenience luggage rack with my carry-on, to be loaded onto the plane.”

“Convenience?” Thompson paused, then barked a laugh. “What’d you think? That some flight attendant would conveniently transport your stuff onto the plane? I don’t think so.”

“That jacket has my ID, my money—”

“Those fancy shoes of yours are gonna freeze to the ground if we don’t keep walking.” Thompson turned and started marching away.

Jeffrey glanced down, but only briefly. Better to keep walking than staring at his feet which might become one with the earth at any moment. He kept up a brisk pace behind Thompson. In the dense fog, he swore he heard the barking of dogs.

“Yo, Harry, over here!” Thompson yelled.

Through the fog, Jeffrey spied a line of dogs—looked to be twelve, maybe fourteen—hitched to a sled.

A beefy guy dressed in a regulation parka waved. “Storm’s on its way.”

Thompson stopped next to what looked like some kind of basket seat on the sled. Harry stood on board runners behind the basket.

“Get in,” Thompson ordered.

On closer inspection, the basket looked small. Too small for two people. “How do we do this?” asked Jeffrey.

Thompson made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a snort. “Now’s not the time to analyze options, city boy. Just get in.”

Harry laughed.

One of the dogs howled.

Jeffrey wished he were back in the plane. Suddenly it seemed far preferable to be risking death in the sky than death with a pack of dogs and two surly parka people. But as now wasn’t the time to be analyzing options or death, he swung one leg, then the other, into the basket and sat down.

Thompson stepped one jean-clad leg inside, then slid into a sitting position on Jeffrey’s lap. “Let’s go!”

A whip cracked. The dog team lurched forward, suddenly silent and all business. Harry yelled commands.

Thompson shifted, pressing against Jeffrey.

Before now, he had been stunned by the cold. Then by Mr. Toad’s wild plane ride. Followed by this adventure with a traveling dog team.

But nothing was as stunning as the feel of a curvy rump molded against his stomach and the undeniable roundness of a breast pressed against his cheek.

Thompson, he realized, was a woman.