Читать книгу Too Close For Comfort - Colleen Collins - Страница 11

THE DOG SLED PULLED UP in front of a rustic, oversize cabin and stopped. The lead Husky uttered a sharp whine of satisfaction and crouched low in the snow. Other team dogs started yelping and barking, some showing impatience with the restraint of the harnesses, some sniffing the air.

Amid the cacophony, the snow fell silently from a darkening sky in large, white flakes.

Cyd turned to Jeffrey. “Time to get out.”

But time played a trick on her.

It stopped.

Or maybe it had stopped minutes ago, somewhere on the sled ride from the landing strip to this lodge while their bodies had been molded together in this one-person basket. Yes, it had stopped then, wrapping the world around them, creating a place where only the two of them existed.

That’s when she’d tried not to notice how nicely his body conformed to hers. Tried not to admire his strength, or how his arm had wrapped around her, holding her close, as though protecting her.

Nobody, especially no man, needed to protect Cyd Thompson.

But she hadn’t budged from Jeffrey’s embrace.

And, if she were perfectly honest with herself, she still didn’t want to budge. Which irked her as much as excited her. Maybe it was because she was accustomed to fighting the elements and competing with the guys. Add to that her role as head of the household since her dad died, and Cyd Thompson was a one-woman force who bowed to no one.

But at this precarious moment, Cyd felt all those attributes turning on her. Sharing that tight space with Jeffrey, she’d felt his power, sensed his manliness. And dammit all to hell, the experience left her feeling…womanly.

He’s a city slicker, she reminded herself. Out to destroy your world.

She turned and boldly met Jeffrey’s gaze, ready to say something “rough around the edges.”

But she got lost in his eyes.

They looked like Jordan’s. A deep reddish brown, intelligent. But Jordan’s eyes didn’t flash with specks of green and gold. And Jordan sure didn’t look back at her the way Jeffrey did, with a mixture of surprise and interest.

Interest?

She shifted in the basket, too aware of his solid thigh muscle molded against her hip. A city boy with muscles? Her mind reeled with how he came by those…and worse, her imagination joined the free-for-all and flashed an image of what he probably looked like naked. All muscle and sinew and dark, curly hair…

City Boy. Big business. End of the world.

“I said it’s time to go!” she barked, grabbing the edge of the basket and blowing out a gust of air as though that would also blow out these crazy thoughts.

But she made a serious mistake when she paused and glanced into Jeffrey’s face again.

He still had that look of interest, but this time she also saw…amusement?

“What’s so funny?” she snapped.

He blinked in exaggeration. “Just wondered why you’re taking your time.”

“It’s cold.”

“But you live in Alaska. You’re used to it.”

He had a point. But before she could muster some sassy response, he spoke again.

“But I don’t mind if you want to stay wrapped around my body. I like it. It’s keeping me warm.” He grinned. A sexy, “gotcha” grin that did funny things to her insides.

Had to be the basket. Throwing two bodies into a space that was supposed to only hold one had messed up their equilibrium. Had created a world where body heat got mistaken for something more.

And that look in Jeffrey’s eyes told her he felt that “something more,” too. Time to get her footing back, literally. Time to take control, let him know who’s boss.

“Time to get out,” she said, or meant to say. Her words had escaped on a breathy stream of air. And she may have forgotten to say the last two words. Which meant she’d just whispered a suggestive, “Time to…” to this hunk of big-city hot love.

Heat surged to her cheeks.

Jeffrey’s eyes did a slow perusal of her face, taking it all in. Then he nodded. A slow, knowing nod. Damn the man. Not breaking eye contact, either. As though willing her, no defying her, to admit that this sizzling, out-of-control moment was happening.

Well, she’d break this crazy moment, now.

Maneuvering herself to get out, her cheek brushed against Jeffrey’s. Ooooo. He smelled deliciously spicy and musky. No northern guy smelled like that.

Stop smelling, keep moving.

She hoisted herself up to a crouched position. When the hell is he going to break eye contact? It was a matter of pride, but she wanted him to be the first. Had to be the first.

“Problem?” Jeffrey asked, his voice spicier than that damn cologne he wore.

She was hunched over, her butt in the air, her feet still in the basket. “You always stare like that?”

“Like what?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Well, you’re staring at me, too, you know.” He winked.

With a huff of indignation, and anger because she was breaking the all-important stare-down, Cyd hurled herself out of the basket and landed with a splash in a hole of snow and slush.

She turned, her hands fisted on her hips, waiting to see how Mr. City Slicker landed on the icy snow with those plushy leather shoes. She just prayed he hit a hole big enough to sink him knee-deep in wet snow. What a shame, it would mess up those fancy slacks, too.

Jeffrey, still staring at her, cocked an eyebrow as though reading her mind and accepting the challenge. He stood—giving her an eyeful of his six-foot-plus being—swung one leg, then the other, over the side of the basket. He landed in slush, without the messy splash she’d made, and stepped neatly onto a path of crusty snow.

“You’re gonna need boots,” she said sharply, turning and trudging toward the door of the Mush Lodge.

“Wait,” called out Jeffrey.

She barely turned, her feet still walking. “What?”

“I have a problem.”

About time he admitted it. Feeling more in control, she turned. “What is it?”

He stopped, his feet spread apart, a lazy grin creasing his lips. “Don’t know your name.”

“Thompson.”

“I know that one. Do you have a first name, or do you go by one name only. Like Cher and Madonna do.”

Cher? Madonna? She glared at him. “Cyd Thompson.”

He bowed a little, and damn if he didn’t look like the ultimate gentleman paying his respects. The snow fell on his dark hair, sprinkling him with a little Alaskan magic. “Nice to meet you, Cyd Thompson.”

Harry strolled past, letting roll a loud guffaw as he tucked away his mobile radiophone. “You two gonna keep playin’ Romeo and Juliet in the snow, or come inside where it’s warm?”

Juliet? Whatever had happened in the basket, Cyd wanted to leave it there. Jeffrey Bradshaw was bad news. Plus, now that Harry had seen that little bowing number, she’d never hear the end of it.

But worse was Jeffrey’s reason for being here. He wanted to bring a frigging television series to her beloved Alaska, and Cyd reminded herself that she had to do whatever it took to stop him and his big-business, people-destroying machine. It destroyed her dad, and no way in hell would she let it destroy her family, her world.

“No more bowing,” she muttered in Jeffrey’s direction, avoiding his eyes.

Jeffrey grinned as Cyd spun on her heel and began marching toward the lodge. So he’d gotten to her, again. Chalk that up as a point against me.

Jeffrey followed her, their chilly silence broken by the crunch of the snow and the barking dogs. He let his gaze slide down her parka to that cute little jean-clad behind that bounced provocatively as she marched along. He liked her size—small and compact—and he had to admit, he liked her attitude, too. Reminded him of the tough girls he’d known growing up. The kind you could let down your guard with, smoke a cig, see the world for what it really was.

He hadn’t known a woman like that in years.

No, since then, the women he’d known were at the opposite end of the spectrum. And they all had temperaments that ranged from a little rainfall to a little sunshine.

Cyd, on the other hand, was an entire weather system unto herself. A raging snowstorm one moment—and if he pegged her right in that hot little moment back in the sled—a sizzling heat wave the next.

She took the steps two at a time onto the porch, then swung open a heavy wooden door over which hung a sign that read Mush Lodge.

Jeffrey barely caught the door before she let it slam shut behind her.

As he stepped inside the golden-hazed interior of what appeared to be a cabin-turned-tavern, he guessed that Weather Cyd was at the moment a tornado. Hell-bent to blast her way to what she wanted, and best of luck to Jeffrey if he got in her path.

He had no idea what irked her so much about him, but he had one hundred percent confidence in his charm factor. He’d get her to warm up.

Pulling the door shut behind him, he inhaled the scents. Coffee. Grilled meat and onions. The sounds of laughter and talking competed with background music—an old Neil Young tune about a cinnamon girl. Several big dogs slept in front of a large crackling fire to his right. A line of burly guys, with more hair than Jeffrey had seen since the rerelease of the movie Woodstock, lined the bar, swigging beer.

In the corner of the bar was a teenage boy, reading a book. A memory flashed through Jeffrey’s mind. He’d been sixteen, living with a foster family in Philadelphia. A local bartender had befriended him, letting him visit whenever Jeffrey needed an escape. He’d been underage, but nobody questioned his being there because he kept to himself, minded his own business. He’d spent hours in that bar, reading authors like Bradbury and Kerouac who helped him escape his world.

Something clunked at his feet.

Cyd stood before him, a gleam in her dark chocolate eyes. “Put those on.”

He looked down. A pair of scuffed, whiskey-colored boots lay on the floor. He looked back up into those chocolate eyes. She didn’t fool him for a millisecond with that brusque attitude. This lady might be tough on the outside, but he’d seen beyond her exterior back at the sled. Inside, Cyd was soft and vulnerable.

Or maybe he understood that about her because once upon a time he’d known what it felt like to wear a chip on your shoulder and an ache in your heart.

“Thanks.” He picked up the boots by their thick laces.

“Put them on while I radio Jordan back at Alpine. Need to file my report and tell him we didn’t make Arctic Luck, and we’re weathered in here.” She started walking away across the rough-hewn floor, ignoring one of the guy’s calling out “Hey, Juliet!” while another added, “Somebody protect the mirror and chairs!” Both comments were followed by raucous laughter.

“Wait.”

Cyd turned.

“What do you mean, we’re ‘weathered in’?”

A corner of her pert mouth turned upward. “I mean we ain’t goin’ nowhere soon.” She turned and continued walking.

With a shake of his head, Jeffrey followed. He had twenty-four hours to do research in Arctic Luck, not Kati-whatever.

He followed her into a small room that housed some bookshelves, a hot plate and a radio on a thick wooden table. The scent of coffee lingered in the air. Cyd was sitting on a metal folding chair at the table and fiddling dials on the radio.

“Operator, this is Mush Lodge calling YJ17546, True North Airlines on the Alpine Channel,” she said into the mike.

This woman impressed him at the damnedest moments. Just when she’d irritated him to the point of his wanting to throttle her, she took life by the reins in an admirable display of focus and determination. When other women stomped away, he usually found them pouting in some corner. Not Cyd. If she ended up in a corner, she’d be figuring out how to fight her way back out.

“This is Alpine YJ17546,” answered a man’s voice through the radio static.

“Hey, Jordan, Cyd here.”

“Everything okay?”

“It’s fine. Had to land in Katimuk due to the storm.”

“Roger, that. I’ll change your flight plan. You get lost?”

“Uh, not really.”

“How’d you end up in Katimuk?”

“Uh, yeah. I guess I did lose a few landmarks.”

Jeffrey felt his antennae waving. He’d heard the truth in her voice. She could have landed in Arctic Luck, but flew here instead.

“Who’re you talking to?” Jeffrey demanded.

She glanced over her shoulder, shooting him a “don’t butt in” look.

Which had the opposite effect on Jeffrey. Nobody told him what not to do. He crossed the room in two strides and picked up the microphone. “Who is this?”

“Jordan Adamson, True North Airlines,” a man responded. “Who’s this?”

“Jeffrey Bradshaw. This is a disaster. I’m the passenger who paid to be flown to Arctic Luck, but I was flown to Kati-Kati—”

“Katimuk,” said Cyd sweetly.

Jeffrey shot her a look.

There was a pause. “Sorry about that,” said Jordan. “Can’t fight the weather. But we’ll get you to Arctic Luck as soon as possible.”

“I need to get there immediately.”

“Afraid we can’t do that,” said Jordan.

“That’s impossible,” said Cyd at the same time.

“Nothing’s impossible,” said Jeffrey. “I’ll contact my office, have them call another airline.”

“You can call,” answered Jordan, “but nobody’s going to fly in this.”

“Why?” asked Jeffrey, eyeing Cyd while still talking into the microphone.

Cyd started to speak, but let Jordan answer. “Weathered in is weathered in,” he explained calmly. “Nobody will risk an aircraft, and I’m sure you don’t want to risk your life. Stick with Cyd. She knows what she’s doing. She’ll get you out as soon as possible.”

Jeffrey didn’t buy into her “so sorry” look. She was up to something.

“Let me get this straight,” said Jeffrey, sitting on the table and lifting the microphone to speak into it. “Your pilot could have landed me in Artic Luck, but she flew me to Katimuk instead?”

Cyd pursed her lips.

“She landed where she felt the plane and passengers would be safe,” Jordan said.

“Bull.” Jeffrey glared at Cyd. She’d pulled a fast one, although he was clueless as to why. He’d get Jordan to fix this.

“Again, I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” said Jordan. “True North Airlines will be happy to offer you a free round-trip passage to any city in the interior after the weather clears.”

“I only want to go to Artic Luck. When will the weather clear?”

“No way to predict that,” Jordan answered calmly. “My best guess is two days minimum, possibly a week.”

“Neither option is acceptable.” Jeffrey maintained eye contact with Cyd, who looked back at him with big eyes filled with concern and innocence. What a little actress. “I have a critical meeting in Los Angeles Monday morning which I must attend. My career depends on it. This ‘weathered in’ is not my problem, it’s yours, and I expect you to come up with a solution.”

There was a long silence in the room, broken only by the sounds of laughter and music from the tavern.

Jeffrey was accustomed to such situations in business. Person A created a problem and expected person B to solve it. Jeffrey never accepted such blame passing and always put the responsibility where it lay.

And at this moment, it lay with Jordan Adamson of True North Airlines.

“I’ll call you back in an hour,” said Jeffrey, “to hear how you’re going to fix this situation.” In New York or L.A., an hour was always plenty of time to get someone’s brain cells fired up with ideas.

“The situation will be the same in an hour,” said Jordan. “You’re right in the path of the storm front.”

Now it was Jeffrey’s turn to pause. Jordan, he had to admit, was a worthy opponent. Cool-headed, informed. He could use more managers like this back at Argonaut. “Then I’ll call you first thing in the morning, at which time we’ll discuss your solutions.”

He handed the microphone back to Cyd, wondering what the two of them would do for the rest of the night.

And wondering how to deal with this little dynamo who seemed determined to screw up his plans.

CYD TOSSED BACK A WHISKEY, then slammed the shot glass on the bar. She swiped her mouth with the back of her hand, savoring the alcohol’s stinging warmth as it worked a path down her throat.

“Tough flight, Juliet?” asked Harry, his blue-green eyes glistening in a face that was all beard with room for a nose.

“You’ve known me for years, and suddenly you’ve forgotten my name?” She motioned to Charlie, the owner of the Mush Lodge, who was working the bar.

“Yep, known you for years, but never seen you have so much trouble getting out of a damn sled….” Harry let the sentence dangle as he took another sip of beer.

“Yeah?” Charlie said, wiping his hands on a towel. Charlie had been in these parts as long as Cyd could remember. Some people said he’d landed here in the sixties in a psychedelic-painted school bus. Others said he’d gone to Canada to avoid being drafted into the Vietnam war, then relocated to this remote region of Alaska when he met May, his wife.

He never explained his past. Or his future, for that matter. He seemed pretty content to just live in the here and now, tend the bar, play his favorite music. Grateful Dead, Neil Young, the Stones.

“Coffee, don’t be stingy with the cream,” Cyd said. “Please.” She’d gotten so riled up over the last few hours, she was losing her manners. Again. If she didn’t stay in practice, try to be polite, she’d get another of those etiquette lessons from Jordan.

“Coffee, white. You got it, hon.” Charlie nodded and turned away.

“Jul-i-et,” Harry sang under his breath before taking another swig.

Cyd fought the urge to give him a piece of her mind. She was one of the guys, dammit, not some girly Juliet. One of the items on Jordan’s customer relations cheat sheet flashed through her mind. Don’t respond to criticism or taunts. Stay focused on the problem. Stay calm.

She’d never thought about it before, but those rules were good for real life, too. She’d let Harry’s comment go…but damn, it was hard trying to be good. If Jordan didn’t want to win that Alaskan Tourism thing so bad, she’d blow off practicing being “polished” and just be her usual, feisty self.

Charlie set a steaming mug of coffee in front of her. “Hungry?”

“What’re you grilling?”

“You,” Harry chortled. Several of the guys laughed.

Cyd pursed her lips, determined to ignore him.

“Got some moose steak,” answered Charlie, darting a glance at Harry, then back to Cyd.

“Get me some. Don’t be stingy with the fries, either. And a salad.” She almost forgot. “Please.”

“Please?” Harry guffawed. “Where the hell you pick up them manners?”

That did it. Cyd swiveled on her bar stool and faced Harry. But just as she opened her mouth, Charlie cut in.

“Harry, May baked your favorite apple pie,” said Charlie. “Wanna slice?”

Harry groaned like a bear. “May’s apple pie? I’ve died and gone to heaven. Make that two slices.”

“You got it.” Charlie turned to go.

“Wait, Charlie,” Cyd called out. “You seen Geraldine?” Geraldine, her aunt, lived on the outskirts of Katimuk.

“Yeah,” Charlie answered over his shoulder. “About two hours ago. She picked up supplies and headed back to her place.”

Great. That meant Aunt Geri was home. Cyd wrapped her hands around the coffee mug, letting the warmth seep into her hands as she contemplated the carved names in the old oak bar top. Once upon a time, Harry had carved their names here, although both of them pretended to have forgotten.

The bar grew oddly silent.

She turned her head and looked down the stretch of worn oak.

Jeffrey stood at the end of the bar, looking like some kind of fancy thoroughbred surrounded by buffalo. He’d doffed his parka so everyone got an eyeful of his blue-and-white pin-striped, button-down shirt. She squinted. Were those cuff links?

“What’ll you have?” asked Charlie. He’d paused halfway through the swinging kitchen door.

“Mind if I run a tab?”

“Brother, half of Katimuk does. What’ll you have?”

“I could use a double martini, up, Bombay, twist.”

“Bombay?” One of the guys snorted. “You got the wrong part of the world, buddy.”

Everybody laughed. Somebody slapped the surface so hard, the entire bar rattled.

Charlie released the door and stepped back to the bar. Picking up a bottle of whiskey, he poured a shot and set it in front of Jeffrey. “Best I can do for a martini,” he said, “unless you’re a beer man.”

“Thanks, this’ll be great.” Jeffrey downed it, then glanced down the bar and made friendly, but direct, eye contact with each man.

Cyd released a pent-up breath. It appeared Jeffrey was up to the challenge and could handle this group.

“Anyone know where I can get a hotel room?” he asked.

On second thought, he couldn’t.

As though a dam had burst, the entire group erupted in laughter and more table slapping.

“Yeah, there’s a Hilton right down the road.”

“Wait, let me call you a taxi.”

“No, a limo!”

“Neither option is acceptable!” a guy yelled, evoking another explosion of laughter.

Jeffrey frowned in confusion. “Did you guys overhear?”

More laughter and bar thumping.

And Cyd thought the sled dogs made a hell of a racket.

Charlie returned from the kitchen, holding two plates of steaming apple pie in one hand. With the other, he poured more whiskey into Jeffrey’s glass. “This one’s on the house.”

Jeffrey raised his drink. “To the great North.” He tossed back the whiskey.

One by one, the guys raised their drinks, some muttering “to the North,” some nodding solemnly. Cyd smiled. Mr. Jeffrey Bradshaw was showing that a thoroughbred could run with the pack. Damn if she wasn’t more than a bit impressed. He might be all city slicker on the outside, but he almost seemed to have the soul of a Northerner. As though he knew what it was like to be fierce, independent, tough.

Jeffrey strolled down the bar and sat on the stool at the very end of the bar, next to Cyd.

Harry, sitting on the other side of Cyd, glanced over, but before he could say anything, Charlie plunked down the plates of pie in front of him. Harry inhaled as though he’d never sucked in a decent breath in his life, groaned something about May deserving sainthood, then dug in.

Relieved that Harry was distracted for the time being, Cyd turned to Jeffrey. She glanced down. “Got the boots on, I see.”

He just looked at her, a twinkle in his eye. “Took me a while to figure them out.”

She shot him a questioning look.

“I never have to lace up my Italian loafers.”

She continued to stare at him, unblinking.

“I’m joking, Cyd.”

She rolled back her shoulders. “I knew that.” Her insides did a funny fluttering thing when Jeffrey flashed her that crooked, Harrison Ford-like smile.

Fortunately dinner arrived. The aroma of grilled meat and fries almost brought tears to Cyd’s eyes. She hadn’t eaten in hours, and it was all she could do to pick up a knife and fork and not dig into the meal with her bare hands.

“Looks good,” Jeffrey commented. “What is it?”

“Mooth,” she said with a full mouth.

Jeffrey gave her one of those quizzical looks, then nodded.

She swallowed. “Want some? Charlie makes killer homemade fries, too.”

“Uh, I’ll pass.”

Jeffrey checked out the back of the bar, his eyes landing on a Crock-Pot. “Got some soup there?” he asked Charlie.

“Caribou stew.”

Jeffrey paused. “Nothing with chicken or fish?” He didn’t dare ask if they had a vegetarian plate. Not unless he wanted to be attacked by a horde of moose-men.

Charlie, rubbing a glass with a red-checkered cloth, shook his head.

“I’ll take a bowl of that, then.” He lifted his empty shot glass. “And hit me again.” If he numbed himself enough, he wouldn’t think about what he was eating. Or that he should have packed his vitamins for this trip.

Or why Cyd seemed to have a love-hate relationship with him. He’d prefer more of the former and less of the latter.

He watched Cyd eat. She ate with the gusto of a lumberjack. She’d cut off a slab of meat, stack it with some fries and salad, then shoved the mess into her pretty little mouth and chew with a glazed look that bordered on blissful.

A woman who ate like that could probably kill a man in bed.

Charlie poured another whiskey into Jeffrey’s glass. Jeffrey noticed the older guy had a red-white-and-blue peace symbol tattoo on his forearm.

Jeffrey raised the glass, toasted him, then downed the drink. The stuff hit like a hot jolt. Swallowing, hard, he thought back to how just last week he’d been in his New York loft, whipping up his specialty dish—Rock Cornish game hen in apricot sauce—and washing it down with an elegant, buttery chardonnay.

And mere days later, here he was deep in Moose World, numbing himself with mind-altering whiskey.

Charlie leaned closer to Jeffrey. “Brother, I have a cot that can be set up in the back, but my cousin-in-law has dibs on it for tonight. But if you don’t mind sleeping with a few dogs, we can throw a sleeping bag in front of the fireplace tonight.”

“That’d be great. I have an important radio call in the morning—”

“Wait!” Cyd yelled, her mouth full. She gripped her fork and knife in her fists. She flashed Jeffrey a look that bordered on panic.

Cyd Thompson, panicked? Jeffrey’s antennae started waving.

“You can’t sleep here, not in this room. Those dogs will be all over you. By morning, you’ll be covered head to toe in their hair—and smell like…” She wrinkled her nose, indicating the word she meant to use.

The lady flies me to the wrong town, and is now concerned about where I sleep?

The concern was compelling.

Too compelling.

Cyd Thompson was definitely up to something, but exactly what wasn’t yet clear to Jeffrey. Funny how it had always been tougher to read the intentions of someone who had street savvy versus business sharp. Then it hit him how Alaska was just a different version of the streets. A damn sight prettier, but just as tough because it was a world where people had to fight the elements and outwit the beasts to survive.

And that was Cyd to a T. An Alaskan street-savvy woman. No wonder he was having a hell of a time figuring what she was up to.

“Yes, you’d probably smell pretty damn bad,” Charlie concurred with a chuckle, “not to mention you’d be part dog by the mornin’.”

Cyd turned her attention to the room. “Hey,” she yelled, “anyone got a snowmobile I can borrow? Gotta get to Geraldine’s tonight.”

Jeffrey was glad he’d just downed a whiskey—it helped him weather the blast of energy Cyd had just emitted. He looked at her perched on that bar stool, her back rigid as she glanced around the room. When had she last combed her hair? It looked like one of those “in” hairdos one saw on the streets of New York, all spiky and sassy. But Jeffrey had no doubt that Cyd’s hair was the result of efficiency and practicality. He’d bet she just took a pair of scissors, chopped off a bit here and there, and slapped on a baseball cap.

“You can borrow my machine for a few days,” said Harry, sliding a glance from Cyd to Jeffrey and back. “I just loaned it to George, who lives next door.”

“And what am I suppos’d to do?” asked a baritone voice, who Jeffrey guessed to be George. “Mine’s not fixed yet.”

“You got a team and me to cart you wherever you need,” Harry answered gruffly.

Jeffrey noticed it was the end of that discussion. If Jeffrey had his group dynamics pegged in this room, Harry was the lead Husky.

Cyd cut off another hunk of meat. “Thanks, Harry.” She shoveled some fries and salad onto the meat. “We got a ride to Geri’s,” she said, glancing at Jeffrey before chomping down on a bite of food that could be a meal unto itself.

He waited until she swallowed. “And there’s a place for me to stay at Geri’s?” Considering Cyd had promised to take him places before, he didn’t want to take anything for granted.

“You got a bed, a roof, free grub.”

He fought the urge to smile. He’d had ladies lure him into bedrooms with everything from promises of a “good time” to a bottle of French champagne on ice. But “a bed, a roof, free grub” was a new one.

Of course, Cyd wasn’t luring him anywhere…or was she?

“I’ll take it,” he answered. Better than waking up part dog. “And a ride back here tomorrow morning?”

“No problem,” said Cyd sweetly between bites, shooting him that same big-eyed look she’d given him in the radio room.

Which left him wondering why she’d bothered to say the word “no” because he sensed the other word, problem, loomed in his immediate future.