Too Close For Comfort. Colleen Collins

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.