Abrutal sun cut across the icy Alaskan landscape with a defiant glare, brightening instead of warming the frozen runway outside. Mountains rose all around, their jagged peaks rocky through the barren snow, an invitation from Mother Nature to challenge her and lose.
FBI Special Agent Ophelia Spilazi rubbed her arms through her leather jacket, safely ensconced in the warming hut. The silent, empty, lonely warming hut that truly didn’t provide warmth. A wooden bench ran alongside one wall, the only furniture in the rickety structure. Icicles hung from the eaves outside, several long enough to touch the ground, while the meager sun warmed them, making the ice sparkle like diamonds.
The sheer isolation of the area was both intriguing and ominous.
A low hum pierced the thundering silence outside, and her breath quickened in natural response. She craned her neck to see out the frozen, crud-covered window to the unreal blue sky, her shoulders tensing even more as a dot of a plane dipped over the nearest mountain and dropped fast to land.
She blinked.
The small plane hit hard, bounced several times, and skidded back and forth before lurching to a drunken halt to the right of the so-called runway.
The plane shuddered and the engine silenced, the machine looking miniature against the wild mountains that served as a backdrop. Her stomach lurched. She wanted to take another Valium, but she had to at least appear professional to these nomads who chose to live in the middle of absolutely nowhere.
The pilot jumped out, and she stopped breathing at her first sight of him. Wavy black hair framed a hard-cut face, scruff covered his rugged jaw, and aviator glasses shielded his eyes. His ancestry was difficult to gauge, but his features were native and strong. Possibly some Inuit or Indigenous American heritage. He had to be well over six feet tall, muscular and oddly graceful—even with a slight limp.
She zeroed in on his left leg. He favored it slightly but didn’t allow it to shorten his stride.
Interesting.
He wore a heavy leather jacket, jeans, and dark boots, his shielded gaze having a punch of power, even through the dingy window.
She swallowed, grateful that sunglasses hid her eyes, which had to be wide and full of doubt after witnessing that excruciating landing on the ice. The man approaching her wasn’t anything close to the old, grizzly, and bearded pilot who’d brought her from Anchorage, the one who had said—repeatedly—that she was nuts to keep going west with a late but devastating winter coming. She’d imagined someone similar picking her up today.
This guy was beyond imagination.
He pulled open the door and paused, instant heat rippling from him. “Special Agent Spilazi?” That voice. A slow, deep roll that contrasted with the stark beauty around them.
“Call me Ophelia.” She held out a hand, still feeling off-balance. She was tall for a
woman, very, but he towered over her.
His dark eyebrows rose, and he shook with her after a brief pause that almost went on too long. His hand was warm, big, and gentle, the shake to the point. “Your title suits you better.”
Electricity zipped along her wrist from the contact. It took her a moment to digest his comment and then hide her surprise, again glad she wore the sunglasses to protect her eyes and expression. Nobody in DC would’ve been so forward upon meeting her.
“You don’t know me,” she countered.
His grunt was neither assent nor denial. He released her and grabbed the two overlarge suitcases, hefting them easily, turning back toward the waiting plane.
Her mouth opened and closed. She scrambled to follow him into the frigid air. “Do you need me to take one of those?” Both had been over the weight limit on her commercial flights and a pain to lug through the Anchorage airport.
“No.” His stride didn’t shorten.
Well, all right. If he wanted to put out his back, it was fine by her. Although, he didn’t seem to be struggling much. In the slightest. The guy looked to be in great shape, no doubt about it. He opened the plane’s cargo door and roughly plunked the suitcases inside, partially turning. “Backpack here or up with you?”
She’d forgotten her pack and couldn’t help the sigh that escaped when she shrugged it off to hand over. The meager case files she held had been heavier than expected after a long trek. While she didn’t like having her gun out of reach, she wouldn’t need it in the air. Shooting her pilot would be a disaster. “Back here is fine.”
He secured the pack with the luggage and gestured around the other side of the plane.
She faltered and then preceded him, carefully picking her way across the ice in her new boots. Once on the other side, she waited for him to open the door to the co-pilot’s seat. Her knees trembled.
Only one eyebrow went up this time. “Afraid to fly?” He leaned against the side of the craft, his stance casual in the freezing cold as if he had all day for a conversation.
The guy didn’t like complete sentences, did he? She nodded. Before he could launch into the usual lecture, she held up a hand. “I understand flying is safer than driving, and there are all sorts of measures to keep airplanes
accident-free. I also know you could land this on any flat surface and get us to safety.” None of that mattered when anxiety rose.
“Honey, I could barely land this thing here with plenty of room. If anything goes wrong, we’re dead.” He pushed the sunglasses up on his head, revealing eyes greener than the sharpest emerald.
A vise gripped her throat, an invisible one, and she breathed deeply to calm herself. “You’re not a pilot?”
He lifted one powerful shoulder in a tough-guy shrug. “Not really.”
Her spine straightened on its own. “You don’t have a pilot’s license?”
His flash of a grin was as charming as it was unexpected. “Nope.”
Her shoulders snapped back. If he said one more word, her body would be at full attention whether she liked it or not. “Then what the hell are you doing flying that thing?”
“We got notice in Knife’s Edge that you were out here. Somebody had to come get you. I was the only one sober enough.” He rubbed the scruff across his angled jaw.
“Sober enough?” She backed a step away. The sparkle in his green eyes caught her. Was he messing with her?
He studied her face and then gave another grunt she couldn’t decipher. “Listen, Agent.”
“Ophelia,” she protested, her stomach doing odd flip-flops that had nothing to do with her fear of flying.
“I’d like to keep your title in mind.” He pulled the door open wider. “A hungover pilot is the least of your worries in an Alaskan winter. Another late but dangerous snowfall has about another day to arrive, and winds will make flying impossible. Darkness is gonna fall for months—for good, it’ll seem. You want me to take you back to Anchorage right now. Trust me.”
Trust him? Yeah, right. “I’m not getting into a plane with you.” Being unwanted was nothing new to her, yet her chest chilled even more.
He might’ve winced, but the hard planes in the stone that made up his spectacular face barely moved. “I’m your only choice unless you want to wait for spring. I doubt you know how to hunt, so you’ll starve in that little warming hut before you freeze. Well, probably.”
She grabbed her temper
with sheer will and shoved her glasses onto her head. “There must be another pilot and another plane coming at some point.”
“No other plane and no other pilot. Probably for months.” He looked up at the startling blue sky. “Winter is a month late, so it’s gonna come in fast. Today.”
She drew her phone free of her jacket and shook it. No service.
He chuckled. “Where would you put a cell tower around here?”
Good point. She slid the phone back into the warmth. “How intoxicated are you?”
“I’m fine. Also, the winds are better, and the runway’s much bigger in Anchorage, so how about I take you there? Cell service actually works there all the time, and in Knife’s Edge, it’s spotty—to say the least. It’s already December, and you don’t want to miss the holidays with family, do you?”
Her temples began to ache. “I’m fine. Really. We should go.”
“You should reconsider.” His voice crashed beyond gruff to nearly raw. “Trust me. Knife’s Edge during wintertime is no place for a city girl.”
She’d stopped being a girl a long time ago. He’d come just to make her return to the city? Not once in her life had she backed down from a challenge. However, this one may result in her crashing into a mountain. Either way, she had to get into that tiny plane with him, so she’d continue on her mission, and it wasn’t like she had anybody to worry about for the holidays. “This woman can handle it. Please take me—safely—to Knife’s Edge.”
His grunt failed to provide reassurance. “It’s your mistake to make.” He leaned in to tug a seat harness out of the way, bringing warmth and the scent of something new. Spicy, male, and undefinable. “Our window to fly is short, and the drinks are already lining up at the tavern. Gotta go. Now.”
Could he get any grumpier? “You had better not get me killed,” she murmured before she could stop herself.
He sighed. “Get in, Ophelia. The only thing to do with fear is to confront it. Every damn time.”
The man sounded like he knew what he was talking about, although sometimes running from fear was the smartest thing to do. Obviously. She accepted his hand and climbed up, settling into the surprisingly comfortable leather seat.
Without waiting for an invitation, he leaned inside, grasped the chest harness, and pulled it over her head, securing it tightly with the buckle at her waist, his thick hair brushing her arm, and his hand millimeters
from her breast.
She blinked, her body instantly warming.
He slowly lifted his head, his eyes mere inches from hers. She stopped breathing. Again. Their gazes met, and it was a moment. One of those inexplicable, real, human connections that’s felt and not reasoned. She didn’t try to find a word to say because there wasn’t one. Awareness, the same one she shared, darkened his eyes.
The moment passed as quickly as it had landed. He stepped back and securely shut her door before striding around to climb into the pilot’s seat, making the entire craft hitch and fill with that spicy winter scent. Silently, he handed over headphones, which she quickly donned, not liking the sense of being unbalanced.
“Whose plane is this?” She spoke into the microphone of the headset.
He fiddled with a bunch of levers. “A guy named Trapper Matt owned the plane and died three years ago at the age of a hundred. He left all of his belongings to the town of Knife’s Edge, so I guess it’s the town’s. It’ll be put in storage for the winter as soon as our late winter begins, which might be tomorrow.”
Hopefully the town performed regular maintenance on the craft. “Who are you?”
“Brock Osprey. Temporary pilot today.”
She stiffened. “Osprey?”
“Yep.” The plane instantly started rolling down the ice, hitching and wobbling.
That last name was not a good coincidence, by any means. Her voice wavered, and she planted a hand against the door. “You’re one of Hank Osprey’s adopted kids.” She only had Brock’s name and the fact that he’d served as a Navy SEAL in her slim FBI file and hoped to have his military records soon.
“Yep.”
Just wonderful. “Hank’s murder is one of the cases I’m here to investigate.” The most important one, and her main reason for heading to the small town. Another chill skittered down her spine. Why had she left the gun in the pack?
Brock yanked the levers back, and the craft lifted unsteadily into the air. A gust of wind hit them, pushing them sideways. Dark clouds rolled in from the west, visible from their vantage point off the ground. “At the moment, an old death is the least of your worries.” He yanked the stick, and the plane continued to bump through the air, climbing higher.
“Hank died about a
year ago. That’s not an old death.”
Brock grunted. Again. “A year is an eon when you live in the middle of nowhere.” A gust of wind shoved them to the side.
“Maybe, we, well, should we wait until the storm passes?” she whispered, even her lips trembling.
Another wind gust slashed them, and he tightened his hold on the stick. “The storm never passes, sweetheart. Not in Knife’s Edge.”
She started to ask more questions when a large facility to the east caught her attention. A massive antenna field, satellite dishes, and grids of transmitters spread out from a sprawling concrete building and covered at least fifty acres. “What in the world is that place?”
“That’s the Electromagnetic Vibrational Experiment,” he said, spelling out the letters with an almost casual tone. “We call it EVE. It began as a government project, but a private corporation took over years ago. They study the ionosphere.”
She turned to him again, nodding to keep him talking.
He sighed but appeased her. “They only let the mail and supply plane that comes twice a month in the winter land on their runway—when it can get in. Sometimes it can take months with our weather. I’m surprised you haven’t heard the conspiracy theories about that place that run the gamut between manipulating the weather to mind control experiments. It’s all bunk. The facility just conducts research. So they say.”
She shifted to look out the window. “Can we fly closer?”
“No. Restricted airspace, except for their own supply plane.” He made another adjustment. The wind battered the small craft.
“Restricted airspace in the Alaskan wilderness? I do love a good puzzle.” She had to figure out this one.
“That isn’t a puzzle, and it’s not what you’re here to do,” he said mildly.
Interesting. Was that a warning? She switched topics to throw him off-balance. “Who do you think murdered Hank Osprey? You must’ve cared about him, right?”
“Yes, and nobody murdered him. Nobody wanted Hank dead.” Brock’s tone remained calm, but tension showed in his firmer grip on the stick.
Oh, he definitely knew more than he let on. “Don’t you want to know for sure? I will
find out what happened.” Whether Brock and his town liked it or not, she excelled at digging for the truth—and this marked her last chance to keep her job. She couldn’t give up.
Brock gave one of those grunts she couldn’t decipher. “That’s your choice.” His face might as well have been carved from the jagged rocks around them. “Hold on. We have to drop fast. It’s going to be a rough landing.”
Brock Osprey didn’t have time to deal with many things in the world, and a pretty FBI agent—city girl, no less—with eyes as blue as a deep lake and an ass made for a man’s hands topped the list. Hell. At the moment, she was the list. The woman smelled like fresh strawberries, and wasn’t that a pisser? He loved strawberries.
He unceremoniously plunked Ophelia’s luggage on Widow Flossy’s weathered front porch before knocking heavily on the door. The wind whistled from the west, a foreboding chill that was coming fast, knocking against the cheerful Christmas lights already iced over on her eaves.
A shuffle came from inside, and then the door opened a crack, cloudy brown eyes looking way up from a tiny face. “Brock.” She pulled the door open all the way, and her scrawny neck stretched as she craned to see beyond him. “I thought you planned to fly the FBI agent lady back to Anchorage.”
A huff of breath, feminine and somehow a little sexy, came from behind him.
“Nope.” He grabbed both suitcases again and strode inside, carefully wiping his boots on the interior Chirstmasy green welcome mat covering Flossy’s polished wooden floor. A Christmas tree decorated in red and silver sparkled from the corner, and a row of Santas appeared to march across the fireplace mantle. “She in the blue room?”
“Oh, um, well now…No. Let’s put her in the pink room.” Flossy blinked behind thick glasses and reached out a gnarled hand. “Hello there. You must be freezing. Come inside, sweets.”
Brock turned toward the polished curved staircase, ready to ditch the bags and get back to dealing with his family.
“Brock Osprey.” Flossy released the woman and slapped him ineffectually on the arm. “Your manners are better than that. Much.”
Ophelia snorted. Not so lightly, but still sexy.
Heat tinged Brock’s ears. His manners were nowhere near better than this. “Sorry, ma’am,” escaped him before he could stop the words. He partially turned. “Mrs. Floridian Veltinbelt, please meet Special Agent Ophelia Spilazi of the FBI.”
“Call me Flossy,” Flossy said, just as the agent said to call her Ophelia.
The women laughed at the same time, caught together in some weird, shared moment he’d only seen women bond over.
Instead of grumpily asking if he could now deliver the bags to the pink room, Brock forced a smile and reminded himself that he was an adult and should probably act like one. Plus, Flossy wouldn’t hesitate to grab a wooden spoon and smack him on the ear, and he had enough brain issues. “May I help with the bags and deliver them to the pink room?” he asked, tongue in cheek.
Flossy smiled, approval dancing in her faded eyes. “Of course. You’re so kind to help, Master Chief Osprey.” She leaned to the side to better see
the city girl. “He reached such a high rank and became a true hero in the Navy, you know.”
Oh, for Pete’s sake. He grabbed the handles of the bags with a little more force than necessary and stomped up the stairs to the third door on the left.
“He’s still a mite cranky from his time in the service,” Flossy explained, not so quietly, from the first level. “Anyhoo, welcome to my Bed and Breakfast. I have three guest rooms, but you’re probably my only guest for the rest of the season. Are you sure you want to be here for winter? I have to tell—”
The rest was cut off as Brock entered the room. The sight of all the bright pink furnishings and white lace brightened his mood. It definitely didn’t fit the taste of the city girl in her black leather jacket and stylish boots.
The voices came closer, and Flossy brushed by him, gesturing toward the antique milk glass lamp. “That was my mama’s.”
He turned just in time to see the agent’s reaction to the room, then halted.
Genuine wonder widened the woman’s eyes as she took in all the girly pink and lace. “Oh, Flossy, it’s so beautiful.” Her husky voice hushed, and an almost childlike delight brightened her angled features.
He gaped. Pure and simple, that unguarded moment slammed into his chest stronger than a punch he’d taken from a drunk Russian while on a mission years ago. He frowned, staring at her, trying to decipher what he’d missed when taking her measure earlier.
She didn’t notice and instead headed right for the hand-crocheted doilies, perfectly arranged across the dresser. “Oh, these are lovely. Did you stitch them?”
“I did,” Flossy said, standing even taller—hitting almost five feet. “You’re so kind to notice.”
“And the quilt.” Ophelia rushed for the thick bedcover, running her hand over the colorful squares. “Did you create this?”
Flossy’s papery cheeks turned the same color as the rest of the room. “Yes. I have a quilting group. There’s not much to do around here in the winter, and we spend hours together creating—often sending our finished work off to shelters to warm others.” She leaned in and pointed to a square with a perfectly shaped silver owl. “My husband, God rest his soul, was nicknamed Owl because he was so observant, so I insert an owl into every quilt I ever create.”
“That’s so sweet,” Ophelia murmured, reverently looking at the perfect stitching of
a brown bear in a square. “Also, I’m sorry for your loss.”
“You’re a kind one, Ophelia.” Flossy patted her arm. “It’s been about thirty years, but I do still miss the man. If I added you to a quilt, I’d create a lovely and graceful gazelle.” She eyed the younger woman. “Are you sure you want to stay here for the winter? Once snow falls, there’s no way out.”
Ophelia straightened as if remembering her job. “Oh. Yes. I do.”
Flossy clapped her small hands together. “Then you really must join the quilting club. I can teach you.”
Brock steeled himself for the instant rejection, preparing to soothe Flossy’s feelings.
Ophelia bit her lip. “That’s kind, but I’m, well, not very good at that sort of thing. You know. Sewing, cooking, those types of skills.” Her voice dropped, and truth to shit, she sounded genuinely regretful.
Why hadn’t anybody taught her that stuff if she’d been interested? Brock bit his tongue. Yeah, she was sexy and hot and had legs long enough to wrap around his waist and hold tight. But this sweet side of her? It was too much. Too alluring and intriguing, and damn, he didn’t need this crap on top of the massive pile already falling on him.
Flossy hopped. “Quilting just takes practice. I promise nobody will judge you, and like I said, there’s not much more to do when the darkness falls during the winter. Just say you’ll think about it.”
“I will.” Then the woman had the audacity to smile. Really smile. Kind and genuine and beautiful.
Brock grunted. Life already tortured him enough. He had to do something about this.
***
The room exuded a delightful charm. Sweet and inviting and all pink. Ophelia had wished for this kind of a bedroom while growing up in government-sanctioned apartment buildings. Well, without the very cranky and overlarge male taking up all the space in the doorway and grunting with what sounded like disapproval. He hovered near the tiny, elderly widow as if afraid Ophelia would somehow hurt the petite woman’s feelings.
Okay. That was kind of sweet. Insulting but sweet.
His gaze caught hers—green and dark and intense. “You left your backpack in the truck.” Without waiting for an answer, he turned on one massive boot and headed down the hallway.
Was she supposed to follow?
Flossy, dressed in a gray cardigan that reached below her knees and touched her tall slippers, turned to trail him. “Get your backpack. I’ll rustle up some warm food. You must be starving after traveling all day.” She walked down the quiet hallway toward the curved staircase, still talking. “I assume you traveled all day. It takes hours to get to Anchorage and then even more to reach Knife’s Edge. You must be hungry.”
Ophelia’s stomach growled, and she followed the elderly woman down the stairs. “I’ll, ah, just grab my pack and meet you in the kitchen.” She assumed the room was beyond the formal living room with its floral sofa and matching chairs, and if Flossy cooked nearly as well as she quilted, then dinner would be phenomenal. It had been so long since Ophelia had eaten a good home-cooked meal that she nearly forgot the backpack and ran straight to the kitchen. However, a little decorum wouldn’t hurt anything, and she needed to remember her job. She’d come to the small town to investigate most of its inhabitants, so she had to take it down a notch.
Clearing her throat, she opened the heavy oak door and stepped onto the rough front porch. Small snowflakes cascaded down as if in a dream, and she looked up, watching the snow fall from a darkened sky with clouds now covering the moon. Wow. Night had arrived quickly.
“Get used to the darkness.”
She yelped and jumped to see Brock at the bottom step. The shadows swallowed him, leaving only the sizzling green of his eyes visible. He took a step toward her, looking dangerous for the first time. Like a predator in the night. “Maybe I like the dark.” Her voice shook just enough to be noticeable.
His grunt, once again, told her nothing. A quick jerk of his head toward the B&B conveyed that he wanted her to go back inside, and a perverse part of her wanted to stand in place. Smack dab in the middle of his path.
So, she did.
He took the second step, leaving them eye to eye. Man, he was tall. Most guys would’ve asked what she was doing or requested she move.
Not Brock Osprey.
He stood there, his eyes glittering, and his wide shoulders catching snowflakes that instantly melted.
Her breath quickened, and she stared him down with her best FBI look—or she tried to, at least. No reaction came from Brock for long enough that her heartbeat began echoing between her ears. ...