Primal Calling. Jillian Burns

of the lantern with a flat attachment and set the can on top of that to heat. Then he reached into the crate and pulled out a silver flask.

      “Drink.” He shoved the flask into her hands.

      “What is it?” She unscrewed the lid and sniffed.

      “Whiskey.” He stirred the stew with his knife and raised an eyebrow at her.

      Giving him a fake smile, she took a swig. And gasped. She wasn’t used to the hard stuff. White wine was her idea of booze. But she felt it travel all the way down and heat curled in her belly. She took another swig and tried not to make a face while she swallowed it this time.

      “Thanks.” She handed the flask to him and he took a long swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing just above the collar of his faded sweatshirt. “Texas State Technical College?” She gestured to the words on his shirt. “That’s a long way from Alaska.”

      Glancing down at his shirt, he shrugged. “My father lives there.”

      “So, you stayed with him while you got your degree?”

      “Stew’s hot.” Using a grease rag as an oven mitt, he lifted the can off the lantern top and poured three helpings onto metal plates from the crate. He produced two metal spoons, handed her one and then gave the third plate to Mickey, who wolfed it down.

      Wolfing it down would be a fair description of how she ate it, as well. It was good and filling. “Delicious. Thank you again.”

      He nodded, gathering up the plates and giving them to Mickey, who licked theirs clean too.

      “What kind of dog is Mickey?”

      “Part malamute, part something else. A mixed breed. Like me.” He drank from the flask again.

      “Your mother’s Iñupiat?”

      “You need to know that for your story?” He glared at her.

      Whoa. Touchy subject. “I was just making conversation.”

      “What the hell’d you think you were going to learn sneaking aboard my plane?”

      “I was—” she focused on her hands and gripped the soft fur of his parka, ashamed to look him in the eyes “—following up on a rumor.” It seemed ludicrous now, wearing his parka, eating his food, to accuse him of drug trafficking. She just wasn’t capable of being objective when it came to him. Or maybe she wouldn’t ever be capable.

      “Which one? The drugs? The murders, or the Russian spy?”

      “Oh, I hadn’t heard the Russian spy one.”

      He snorted. “Some reporter you are.”

      If he only knew. “I’m not.”

      “What?”

      “I’m not a reporter. I’m the hostess of a cable show called Travel in Style. I was filming a show on the Iditarod.”

      He blinked. “You’re a…TV personality?”

      “Yes. You could call me that.”

      “Huh.” He rubbed a palm across his beard. “So, what? You’re doing a piece on how not to travel?”

      “No.” She cringed. “Not at all. I wanted to do this piece on genocide, but the network execs won’t let me and every time I try to do a real investigative report they give it to someone else and I need to find a way to make them take me serious—” realizing she’d been rambling, she looked up at him “—ly.”

      He was staring at her as if she were a three-headed walrus.

      “I really am sorry about all this.” She reached a hand out to cover his white-knuckled fist. “But wouldn’t you like a chance to prove all those rumors false?”

      “No.” He jerked his hand from hers, took the lantern and turned to crawl into the front of the plane and open the door.

      “Wait.”

      He paused but didn’t look back.

      “I, um, I need to…”

      His gaze cut to hers. “Come on then.” Mumbling to himself something about troublesome females, he swung down to the ground and then as she tried to follow him out the door, he handed her the lantern, grabbed her around her back and under her legs and lifted her out. And didn’t put her down.

      “I can walk now.”

      “The hypothermia can make you weak and lethargic.”

      But truth be told, she didn’t mind being snuggled like this in his arms. It was full dark out now and here in the middle of nowhere the blackness seemed to cut them off from everyone. As if they were on their own planet. But she wasn’t scared at all. In fact she felt safer here, with Max, than in her condo in L.A. No way he was a cold-blooded killer. The man might be cranky, but there was grief in his dark eyes.

      There was a story here. She’d just pursue it later.

      His faded sweatshirt was soft and hugged his firm chest. He smelled clean and crisp, slightly of oil, but with just the right amount of musky man sweat. With a sigh, she laid her head down on his shoulder and nuzzled her cold nose into his warm neck.

      He stopped midstride. “Don’t.”

      No doubt he intended to sound threatening. But right now all she heard was the hunger in his voice, and the promise in his tone. And her body answered with its own primal need. She raised her head.

      He started walking again.

      Well. That put her in her place.

      He set her gently on her feet behind a short shrub, walked a few paces away and turned his back.

      Mortification filled her. She just couldn’t. “I have some tissues and wet wipes in my purse. Would you mind?”

      “What about the wolves?”

      She had to think about that. Which was worse? No contest. “I’ll take my chances with the wolves.”