Primal Calling. Jillian Burns

be willing to talk about the crash. Surely he wanted to clear his name. Maybe he could even lead her to the crash site. She could get an exclusive. Maybe she could convince Roberta—no. She’d showed her hand on all her previous ideas and look what had happened.

      She’d have to do this alone. Unless she could convince Jake to come with her and film the interview… But the camera might scare Mr. Taggert off. She’d do some reconnaissance first, and then perhaps she could hire Jake to come back and—

      “Serena, they’re boarding our flight.”

      Serena looked up from her laptop to find Roberta standing in front of her. “At the layover in Seattle—”

      “I’m not going, Roberta. I’ve decided to stay a while to try to see the Northern Lights.”

      MAX TAGGERT TOOK his room key from the desk clerk. The old motel where he stayed every month was outdated by a half century, but he didn’t choose it for the ambience. The motel was cheap, close to the airport and they let him keep Mickey in the room with him. It also, conveniently, sat next door to a bar.

      Rubbing his hands together against the chilly temperature, Max got to his room, threw his duffel on the sagging bed and headed straight for the run-down joint. He instructed Mickey to wait outside and then found his favorite stool. Dark and smoky, with a jukebox quietly playing some Merle, this place met all his requirements.

      He ordered his usual, scanning the booths along the wall as he sipped his Jameson. Other than the toothless native elder in the back, he had the place to himself.

      Good.

      He shrugged out of his coat, ordered what passed for a burger and fries and then took the same out to Mickey along with a bowl of water. Over the next hour a few more patrons straggled in as he stared at the soundless television behind the bar and downed three more tumblers of Jameson whiskey. Almost enough to ease the emptiness inside.

      At a lull in the music, he heard Mickey whining. What the… He slipped off his stool and stepped outside.

      “Yes, you are. What a beautiful boy.” A woman was stooped over cooing and rubbing her hands in Mickey’s thick fur. And the normally standoffish malamute was lapping up the attention.

      Max glanced down at the woman’s sleek, bare legs. The sun was just setting and the temperature had to be no warmer than mid-twenties. No native Alaskan wore such a skirt in March. And she seemed oblivious that her fine clothes were amassing a thick coat of dog hair. She looked up and smiled and Max almost pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. She was gorgeous.

      “Is this your dog?” She straightened, tucking a long strand of glossy brunette hair behind her ear. She was tall. With the heels, she almost matched his height of six feet.

      Max swallowed. “Uh, yeah.” His brain finally kicked into gear. Fancy suit. Expensive ski jacket. Stylish heels. And she had a huge purse on one shoulder, and a laptop case slung over the other. What was someone like her doing at a dive like this? And why was she smiling at him when he probably looked as if he’d just lurched out of a cave dragging his knuckles? Damn, he wished now he’d shaved and maybe bothered to get a haircut.

      “What’s his name?” Her berry-red lips seemed to move in slow motion.

      “Miki Nanuq.”

      Her eyes were the deepest cobalt blue. “What does it mean?”

      “Little polar bear.”

      Her eyebrows rose and she flashed those perfect white teeth again. “How fitting.” With a tiny shiver, she rubbed her arms and glanced at the door to the bar and then back at him. “Join me for a drink?”

      Warning bells pealed in his head, but Max ignored them. He shrugged and swung his arm toward the door. “After you.” He’d discover what she wanted soon enough. And in the meantime, why not enjoy the view?

      And what a view it was. He and the bartender, even the native elder, stared at her very fine butt and swaying hips as her heels clicked on the dirty linoleum. She hopped onto a stool, crossed her legs and planted her forearms on the bar. “A beer, please. Anything light.”

      Max slid in next to her and reached for his empty tumbler.

      While the bartender popped the cap off a brown bottle and set it in front of the lady, she unzipped her jacket. It was a decent enough winter coat—if she were skiing in Aspen, maybe.

      When she pulled it off, Max’s jaw went slack. He fumbled his glass. She had the figure of a swimsuit model. His body reacted, hot and pulsing. She picked up her beer and turned to him, clearing her throat.

      Returning his attention to her face, he caught her smirk.

      Busted. All he lacked was his tongue hanging out and he’d be slobbering over her like Mickey. Maybe he should roll over on his back and let her rub his belly.

      Down, boy.

      She extended her right hand. “I’m Serena.”

      “Max.” He shook her hand.

      “Ooh, your hands are so warm.” She held on when he would have let go, set down her beer and cupped her other hand over his. “Brr, I don’t know how you keep your hands so warm in weather like this.”

      Her hands were like two elegant blocks of very soft ice with long, polished nails. “You’re not from Alaska, I take it.”

      She shook her head. “L.A.”

      If she didn’t stop rubbing his hand between hers he might be tempted to do something stupid like bring her fingertips to his mouth. “Oh!” She snatched her hands away. “Sorry.”

      “I’m not.” He gave her a pointed look, staring right into her dark blue eyes. Not a gold fleck to be found, but pure cobalt, like the Arctic Sea in the summer. Her lashes were thick, but not overly long. And she had a few freckles across the bridge of her nose.

      She licked her lips and a sharp ache hit him hard and low. He pictured himself scooping her up and carrying her to his room.

      Then she blinked and retrieved her beer, sipping it as she looked straight ahead at nothing. Amazing. She’d been staring back. There’d been something between them for a second, but his suspicious mind severed the thought. What was she doing here? Just slumming? And what was her business in Anchorage?

      “So, what do you do, Max?”

      He grabbed his tumbler, knocked back the last drops of his whiskey and signaled for another. “I fly cargo.”

      “Oh? Where to?”

      “Barrow.” He turned to face her. “I’m only here for tonight.”

      Her beer halted halfway to her mouth for a brief instant and then continued. “Me, too. I was here for the Iditarod.”

      Oh yeah, it was that time of year. But she sure as hell hadn’t been a contestant. “Got a man who entered?”

      “No.” She started picking at the label on the beer bottle with a ringless left hand.

      “Don’t tell me you’re a musher.”

      She grinned and shook her head. “No.” She glanced at him and then back down to peeling her bottle label.

      “So, what do you do in L.A.?”

      Deep concentration on the label peeling. “I don’t really live there, actually. I mean, I own a condo there, but I travel all over the world for business and I’m hardly ever home.”

      Interesting. She hadn’t actually answered the question. Something didn’t add up, but he let it go. Who cared what she did for a living? Or why she was slumming tonight. It wasn’t any of his business. Live and let live. For whatever reason, he had a beautiful woman sitting next to him sharing a drink.

      He cleared his throat. “Have you eaten dinner?”

      She looked surprised at the change of subject.