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“Let’s not argue over schematics.”
“You mean semantics.”
“My brain processes things in illustrations and diagrams. Schematics.”
“Can you just give me something real? Something that isn’t batshit crazy?”
“You talk like a city girl.”
“How so?”
“Well, it’s a snow machine, not a snowmobile.”
“Semantics.”
“Okay.” He nods to himself, rolling his lips. “How about instead of telling you what we do for entertainment, I’ll show you.”
That can mean anything. And probably nothing good. But I won’t learn to fly that plane by hiding in this room like a scared little girl.
I stand and pad to the closet. Inside, my clothes hang on hangers and fill the built-in drawers. Everything I packed is here, including my IDs and financial documents.
“What are you doing?” He follows me.
“Getting dressed.”
“May I?” Without waiting, he sidles past and rifles through my wardrobe.
Not sure how I feel about this. I don’t like him touching my things. Not to mention, his fashion sense is…bolder than mine.
Today, he wears black leather pants, a silky blue off-the-shoulder top, a feather boa, and hot pink rain boots. But whatever. As long as I’m adequately covered, I don’t care what he picks out.
“This is the best I can do.” He drops a one-piece swimsuit and terry-cloth robe in my arms, surprising me. “I’ll meet you at the top of the stairs.”
“I’m not going swimming.”
“No. You’re not.” With a grin, he slips out the door.
14
Frankie
—
Ten minutes later, Wolfson breezes past me on the landing, wearing a bathrobe. “Ready?”
“Not if you’re naked under that.” I tighten the sash on my own robe. “Are you?”
“Are you a prude?”
“I’m being held captive by four deranged men in the middle of nowhere.” I watch him descend the stairs, my pulse pounding in my throat. “Modesty is not the reason for my hesitation.”
With a wink over his shoulder, he passes through the arctic entryway and throws open the front door.
A blast of cold air races up the steps and curls around my ankles.
“Shoes?” My bare toes curl against the floor.
“Don’t need them.” He strides into the chilly air, leaving me standing on the top step.
Where are the others?
I peer over the railing, listening.
All I hear is the booming rush of panic in my ears.
Fuck.
Why am I wearing a robe again?
A smart woman would return to the bedroom and devise a better plan. But I already made up my mind to do this. I’m committed, dammit.
For better or worse, I suck in a breath and run to catch up.
Outside, the cloudy sky casts a gray glow on Wolfson’s shaggy black hair and tall form as he strolls toward the workshop. I start to follow him until a loud crack draws my attention.
Across the yard, Kodiak sets a huge tree stump atop another and swings an ax over his head, splitting the wood in one stroke.
Shirtless.
The way my jaw drops. The gasp. Dear God, I need coffee. Anything would be more calming than the 1000-volt charge hitting my heart.
So many muscles. They ripple across his bare chest, flexing beneath tanned, sweat-slick skin. Veins bulge in his forearms as he heaves the weapon and splits another log.
Sweet holy mother.
He bends to lift the next one, the bricks of his abs contracting and releasing. Dark jeans hang from narrow hips, riding low enough to ensure every damn dimple and carved indentation gets licked by the frosty air.
Straightening, he rolls his neck, his eyes on his task. Mine don’t move from his body. His magnificent, terrifying, beautifully masculine body.
Another chop. More wood. He doesn’t slow.
Chop.
Chop.
Chop.
I clench, instinctively, every time.
Not sure how I made it down the steps and across the yard, standing just feet away, but I’m here now. Might as well stay. Evidently, I’m interested in forestry or whatever this is.
Where do the massive logs come from? Trees that size don’t grow this far north.
But the men do.
Denver must fly them in.
The logs, not the men.
I mean, bush planes can haul some impressive cargo…
Swear to God, you idiot, turn away.
Another powerful swing.
Chop.
Wood splinters.
My legs quiver.
Christ, he knows how to wield an ax. Looks like hard work. I’ll just watch for another second.
His strokes fall with sinuous fluidity, never pausing for a break. He must have extraordinary reserves of stamina. Like a well-oiled machine. He’s so focused he doesn’t even know I’m here.
What is he thinking about? The concentration in those savage, black eyes…
As if reading my thoughts, they lift, and he stares directly at me.
I swallow my tongue.
It’s the first time our gazes touch, like really latch on and connect. It hits me like electrocution. The heat in my gut is all wrong, slicing me up and making me bleed. His eyes don’t release me, his intensity deeply unsettling. I can’t move. Can’t catch my breath.
Dark rustic whiskers cover the bottom half of his face. His shadowed expression doesn’t show any of the stunned paralysis I’m feeling. Then his glare narrows even more, glinting like the blade in his hand.
