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Authors: Barbara Delinsky

BOOK: Don't Tempt Me
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If there was a hint of mischief or, worse, seduction in his tone, Justine was too tired to pay it heed. “Thanks, Sloane,” she whispered, laying a tired hand on his arm, then heading for her room.
This hotel was clean and modern, as some of the places they'd stayed had not been. A hot bath on this night was a true luxury, one which she savored for many long minutes. Buoyed by the steaming water, her muscles slowly relaxed; a gentle lethargy seeped through her veins, casting out the intensity of the past weeks, fostering a momentary sense of well-being. It was only when her head
nodded, then nodded again, that she finally climbed from the tub, toweled herself dry, and drew her long flannel nightgown over the damp brandy-hued curls to fall softly about her sweet-smelling length. Sleep came instantly, deep and dreamless. She heard no sound; she stirred at no movement. She was mindless of all but the presence of the warm and comfortable cocoon which sheltered her through the night.
It took her several moments to identify the pressure on her shoulder as a hand, several more to drag herself from the depth of slumber to which one part of her stubbornly clung. “Hmmm?” she murmured, opening one eye to make out the lean form of Sloane sitting on the edge of her bed. “Oh, Sloane … I fell asleep … I forgot … all about the dinner you were going to bring …”
The hearty laugh which met her ears brought her more fully awake. As her grogginess slowly cleared, she made out a face rested and relaxed, fresh-shaven and in definite good humor. “Oh, I brought the dinner, all right, but you were dead to the world. It's morning now, sweetheart! Time to get up!”
Moaning, she turned away from him. “Let me go back to sleep. I could use two more full days in this bed.”
Sloane placed one strong hand on the far side of her so that his arms straddled her, effectively imprisoning her. Puzzled at the sudden aggressiveness, after days, even weeks, of well-tempered propriety on his part, Justine rolled onto her back once more and stared up at him. There was something different in his gaze, a greater relaxation than he had shown since they'd left New York. “If you don't get up soon, I'll be tempted to climb in there with you.”
“You wouldn't …” she gasped, disguising her true apprehension beneath a veneer of mock horror.
“No, I wouldn't. We have one last flight to take. Jerry and Bob will be leaving for the lower forty-eight in about
—” he glanced down at the wide gold-banded watch which contrasted boldly with the bronzed sheen of his skin, “—thirty minutes.”
Her rounding eyes threw off the last of the drowsiness. “But I can't be ready in thirty minutes—”
“Shhh. You don't have to be. You and I have our
own
last flight. There's something else I want you to experience … before we go back home.” His gaze held intensity and humor, plus something else she refused to acknowledge after these many long days.
“What is it, Sloane?” she asked suspiciously.
But he was up and off the bed, headed for the door before she could pin him down more closely. “You'll see. How soon can you be dressed and packed? Just an overnight bag—we'll be back tomorrow. And you'll have to have a good breakfast, considering your lack of dinner last night. Say—an hour—in the lobby?”
“That's … fine …” she murmured to the emptiness, as he vanished as suddenly as he had entered into her dream world. “Fine,” she repeated in a grumble, instinctively wary of what he had in mind, praying that this might be the last challenge to her peace of mind before they returned to New York and could go their separate ways. Even as she thought it, a pang shot through her at the prospect of the trip's end. Much as she wished it weren't so, the proximity to him over the past weeks had been strangely gratifying. As a person he had come to impress her as much as he had as a lover. If nothing else it had been a valuable experience to work with him, to see how a great mind operated in the very broad sphere of his successful business. If only things had been different … in him … in herself. But they weren't, and she had to accept that. There would be those few interspersed meetings after the return to New York; then he would be gone from her life forever.
Justine went through the motions of washing, dressing,
and packing her things, then headed for the coffee shop. As far as pregnancies were reputed to go, this one, she mused, had been relatively easy. She was tired and occasionally queasy, she mused, looking with dismay at the English muffin which soon sat before her, but she hadn't gained weight yet—a blessing, given her precarious situation. Only a week at most to go—and then her worries on that score would be lessened. Constant scrutiny was the danger; once back in New York, Sloane would have less occasion for such scrutiny.
“Did you eat?” Sloane asked first thing when she approached him moments later in the lobby.
“Uh-huh,” she lied calmly, uncaring of the deception as long as the coffee itself remained in place in her stomach.
“Then, let's go.” Taking her overnight bag easily under one arm and hoisting his own with that hand, he guided her from the hotel to a waiting cab. Before long the airport runway stretched before them. But, to her dismay, rather than being escorted to the jet which had become her second home, Sloane led her to a small, primitive-looking craft, decked with propellers and skis. “A float plane,” he explained at her look of bewilderment. “And this is Gus. Gus … Justine.” He made the introductions, placing her firmly before the burly, bearded form of one Gus Llewellyn. “Gus is a bush pilot … one of the best, I'm told.”
“You're told right, my friend!” the gruff-voiced giant declared, hefting the luggage into the small rear section of the plane, then lending his hand to hoist Justine up. “There's many that've gone up and come down before their time. I may be a little late getting places on occasion—but I always get there. You can bet on it!”
Stowed safely behind the pilot, Justine threw Sloane a look of helplessness, her eyes rounded in a what-have-you-gotten-me-into-now look. His grin, however, belied any nervousness on his part; indeed, he seemed geared for adventure.
“You like this, don't you, Sloane!” Her accusation, shouted to carry over the chug of the engine, only broadened his smile. His boyishly endearing enthusiasm caused a flip-flop within her; for an instant, she thought of the baby—then realized that the baby had nothing to do with
this
tremor. Chagrin deepened her frown.
“I love it!” Sloane called back from his perch beside the pilot. “This is what I've been waiting for since we arrived. Cheer up! You're in for a treat!”
Her soft-grumbled “Hmmph!” was lost in the din of the takeoff. Skeptical, she turned to watch the progress of the flight.
Sloane's promise had not been an empty one. As Fairbanks fell behind and the craft headed south, the grandeur of Alaska stretched before them in all its awesome beauty. It was an endless jigsaw that materialized as they gained altitude, a meld of golds and greens, blues and grays, a striking juxtaposition of grass and trees, mountains and lakes, all held together by the winding thread of rivers, peaceful before winter's onslaught. Forest growth was more sparse here, with sprinklings of trees in banded clusters, pricking the earth with their shaded quills of evergreen, spruce, and birch.
Above all, in every sense, was the Mountain, ever present, ever closer, yet seemingly ever miles away. “Mount McKinley,” Sloane called back to her.
“Denali,
the Indians called it—‘the High One.' The highest peak in North America.”
Set among a throng of lesser, subservient, yet nonetheless majestic peaks, Mount McKinley stood tall and proud. Its snow-clad slopes blanketed all sound, lending it an air of quiet dignity. Breaths of haze played among its layered subpeaks, seeming to circle but never quite touch the magnificent statesman himself.
Justine sat, breathless, held in the power of the High One, as the plane approached, circled its peak, then continued
on its southward course. “What a sight!” she exhaled slowly, drinking it all in with helpless excitement. “Would you want to climb it?” Her forefinger poked, half-playfully, at Sloane to get his attention, but she read the answer in his face, turned toward the granite god. He didn't bother to speak; words were superfluous.
The plane began its descent, carving its airspace through chilling walls of ice. For a minute's mind-play, Justine recalled the concrete peaks of New York City, its avenues the corridors through high-rising blinders. Gradually, the mountains opened though, returning her to this final frontier, spewing the float plane out above a verdant vista. The surface rose to meet them, slowly, then more quickly. With bounces and jolts the skis touched the water, skidding across its surface to a planked dock on the far side of the lake.
What followed was a brief flurry of activity into which Justine was swept unquestioningly, much as had been the case during the earlier part of the trip. She and Sloane disembarked, then retrieved their bags and a number of cartons and crates which Gus automatically passed from the storage hold of the craft. There was no time to look around, to identify the community into which they had just come. Nor was there time for Justine to ponder the absence of a welcome party, as had been the case in all of those other stops. Before she could straighten from lowering the last of the bundles, Gus returned to the cockpit, set off from the dock, taxied across the water, and was airborne.
“Let's go, Justine. We might as well get these things into the cabin.”
“The cabin? Where is—” For the first time she turned to study their point of deposit, taking in the wealth of greenery, low-growing ferns, taller grasses, and high-rising trees which inhabited the shore. There, set into its midst, was, indeed, a cabin. Nestled snugly amid the timber
was a small log structure, a seeming offshoot of nature itself. “That's the cabin? Where are the others? Where are the people?”
“There aren't any.” His words hit her with a force close in intensity to that of the mountains now high in the distance. Without further explanation he bent to lift several boxes and left her to follow. Which she did. Empty-armed. Horrified.
“No people? What is this, Sloane? Why are we here?” Her legs scrambled to keep pace with his, her pulse racing even faster.
“We're here for several days of … solitude. Meditation, if you will. Rest, no doubt. Which you need.” His pointed glance was apt reminder of her reluctant awakening this morning.
“You didn't say that we'd be in total isolation! I can't stay here!” Her thoughts were of the majesty, not of the mountains now, but of the tall, rugged man beside her.
“You can't leave. There's nowhere to go.” Undaunted, his face bore a hint of subtle amusement as he continued his trek.
“Well”—she stopped, placing both hands on her hips—“you can just get that pilot back here to pick me up. I refuse to stay here.”
Having reached the steps to the cabin, Sloane placed the boxes on the front porch, fished into a pocket for the key to the large padlock which held the door shut, and shouldered it open. “After you …” His large hand gestured for her to precede him into the structure. When she refused to move, but stood, staring open-eyed at him, he shrugged, winked mischievously, and turned to lift the boxes before entering.
Fury surged through her. Trembling, she turned and stormed back to the dock, sitting down hard upon its weathered planks, waiting for the plane that would not be coming to her rescue. There was movement beside her as
Sloane made another trip with supplies, yet she did not turn to watch, ignoring both his strength and his command.
The Silver Fox. Now for the first time, she knew the full meaning of the distinction. Silver he was, with that vital crop of thick silver hair. And sharp he was in the business acumen she had witnessed repeatedly over the past weeks. Now she knew that cunning with regards to her—and she bristled. She had fallen into his trap, had been lulled into a false sense of security by the thorough propriety he had shown toward her during the trip. He had crept up stealthily, taking her by surprise. Now she was his unwitting prey.
Anger seemed her only proof against the awesome sensuality he oozed. Anger would have to guide her through this final ordeal. Scowling at the innocent water, its mirrored surface broken every now and then by the play of the Canadian geese, their raucous calls rallying their forces, she felt that anger begin to dissolve even against her will. Daring to look more closely about her, the sight was as serene and welcoming as any she had seen during the expedition. If this was Alaska, she found herself drawn to it.
“Ready to come in?”
His soft invitation startled her from her self-indulgent musings. He knelt close beside her, his eyes less humorous but warmer, threatening to melt her resistance at once.
“No. No,” she stammered. “I'll sit out here for a while.”
“I won't gobble you up, if that's what has you worried. I didn't bring you here to impose on you something you don't want.”
Gobble you up
. John Doucette's faraway words echoed in her mind. “Then, why
did
you bring me here? Honestly.”

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