Too Close For Comfort. Colleen Collins

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