Baby, It's Cold Outside (13 page)

The first thrust was slow and deliberate. The second, almost as deliberate but faster, deeper. By the third, Mia had hooked her calves around his and joined him in a mating ritual as old as time.

T
HEY MADE LOVE A SECOND TIME
just after dawn.

Mia didn’t intend to wake the slumbering beast. She drifted out of sleep and lay on her side, her head pillowed on her bent elbow, studying the face mere inches from her own. In the dim light of dawn she could see his lashes curving against cheeks just beginning to show a night’s worth of golden bristles. Brent’s phrase from the evening before circled in her mind.

Right. This was so right.

Driven by the need to imprint his feel indelibly in her memory, she feathered her fingers over his bristly chin. As light as her touch was, it brought him blinking awake.

“’Morning, gorgeous.”

Gorgeous she wasn’t. Her hair was in tangles and her face couldn’t show a trace of color except maybe smudged mascara. But the lazy smile in his eyes made Mia’s heart ping as hard and fast as the sleet that had danced off the roof of the BioLab.

“’Morning,” she got out on a ridiculously breathless note. “Want me to put on some coffee?”

“Coffee would be good. Later.” He hooked an arm over her waist and tugged her closer. “First…”

Uh-oh. Mia was trying to find a tactful way to avoid a kiss tainted by morning-mouth when Brent solved the problem. Easing her onto her other side, he tucked her against his chest. Her thighs rested on his, her bottom snuggled against his groin. Mia thought they would just lie together in the quiet of the dawn. The quick hardening beneath her thigh soon banished that notion.

A
STRENUOUS HALF HOUR LATER
she sprawled bonelessly amid the rumpled covers. Brent lay beside her, pillows doubled up under his head as he surveyed the pale green walls and bright chintz.

“This is nice,” he told her lazily. “A big, wide bed. Soft sheets. Bright colors.”

“And no cameras.”

She didn’t realize she’d muttered the words aloud until he turned his head and flashed her a grin.

“No cameras,” he echoed. “And no Web site featuring
your face or features without your specific consent. John took care of that.”

“John Who?”

“John Monroe. You met him at Palmer. He was the PhD from Stanford working a hydro-computational measurement experiment, remember?”

“Not really. What has he got to do with my face or features?”

“He scanned the picture Tiki took of you up on the glacier using face recognition software and fed the results into a special program he’s developed.”

Understanding burst like a Roman candle. Gasping, Mia propped herself up on one elbow.

“Which he then somehow used to take down Don Juan’s site!”

“Yep.”

“So that’s…That’s what you and this guy John were doing that day in your office? Right before Beth got hurt? Taking down the site?”

“I didn’t know you’d seen us, but yes, that’s what we were doing.”

“Oh, God! I’m such an idiot.”

Brent angled a bristly chin and gave her a considering look. “I think I’m finally getting the picture,” he said slowly. “You spot me drooling over Number 112. Next thing I know, you’re putting me in a deep freeze.”

“I thought…That is, I…” She heaved a long sigh. “Like I said, I’m an idiot. Can you forgive me?”

“Might take a while.”

A vise clamped around her throat and stayed there until Brent’s mouth tipped into a wicked grin.

“Okay, you’re forgiven. By the way,” he added nonchalantly, “John was also able to trace the site back to your sleazoid attorney. Once we ID’d the bastard, I sent his firm an electronic report detailing their junior partner’s extracurricular activities.”

“You didn’t!”

“Yeah, babe, I did.”

“Oh, Brent.” Mia scrambled into a sitting position and dragged the sheet around her. “I appreciate all this. I really do! But you may have laid yourself open to a huge lawsuit.”

A wolfish glint came into his eyes.

“I don’t think so. Before we shut down the site, the face recognition software matched Number 113 to an online photo of a high school cheerleader. Turns out the girl looks a whole lot older than her actual age. Don Juan’s got more to worry about now than coming out of the closet.”

Mia was still trying to absorb that stunning revelation when he dropped another on her. Reaching out, he hooked a loose tendril behind her ear. His eyes held hers as he made an unexpected confession.

“I told you we get some downtime between summer and wintering over. What I didn’t tell you is that this will be my last winter in Antarctica.”

Her pulse skipped a beat. She was pretty sure she knew the answer to the question that jumped into her head but had to ask it anyway.

“Why?”

“Now I know why you put me on ice, we need to make up for lost time. I want to spend the long, dark
winter nights with you, Mia. The short summer ones, too. If you’ll let me.”

A smile lit up her heart.

“You bet I’ll let you.”

B
EFORE BRENT DEPARTED
Newport he helped Mia draft a proposal for the National Science Foundation’s Antarctic Artists and Writers Program. She played with the submission for several days after he left, fine-tuning the details.

“You sure you want to send it in?” Beth asked during one of the sisters’ frequent phone conversations. “We went down to Antarctica in summer and our ship hit an ice shelf. If NSF announces the grants in mid-June as advertised, you’ll be returning to Palmer smack in the middle of their long, dark winter.”

“I know.”

“Better stock up on Dramamine. A winter crossing of the Drake Passage will be hell.”

“I know,” Mia said again, groaning.

“Personally, I think Brent’s worth a few bouts of nausea. Just don’t ask me to go with you. One trip to the ice is enough for me.”

“It probably won’t happen. With funding cuts and tight budgets, Brent says the grants are tough to come by.”

Tough, but not impossible.

As advertised, the grants were announced in June.
Five weeks later Mia found herself aboard the
Laurence M. Gould
research ship along with two replacement cooks, a waste management specialist and a five-person research team from the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution.

The deck rolled under her feet for almost the entire crossing. More than once during the stormy passage Mia seriously considered jettisoning her new career as freelance textbook editor and children’s book author. The outside temperature never rose above zero and the sun appeared only a few hours each day. Added to that were some extremely nasty seas that got the best of the Dramamine patch she’d stuck behind her ear.

But when the
Gould
steamed around a rocky point and Palmer’s handful of blue buildings came into view, anticipation zipped along every nerve ending. And when she spotted a certain tall, broad-shouldered individual in an orange parka on the dock, she knew the crossing had been worth every minute on her knees in the bathroom.

She waited eagerly alongside the others who’d made the crossing with her. The Woods Hole team had brought crates of equipment, which had to be unloaded by crane before the passengers could disembark. The crane was then used to hoist aboard several large Conex Containers packed with Palmer’s waste for shipping back to the States.
Finally
the gangplank rattled down and the new arrivals went ashore.

Allen Barclay stood next to Palmer’s station manager to welcome them. Mia knew from one of Brent’s e-mails that the bearded meteorologist was the senior NSF rep for the winter-over. Although both men swore otherwise,
Mia suspected their personal endorsement of her proposal probably contributed to the speedy approval of her grant.

Allen grinned and waved at Palmer’s new artist/writer in residence. Brent’s greeting was more personal. Framing her face in gloved hands, he smiled down at her in the way that made her melt despite the subzero temperature.

“Welcome back.”

“It’s good to
be
back.”

Very good, she decided as he delivered a kiss that promised to make this a winter she would
never
forget.

For Marsha, who is always a pleasure to work with

Dear Reader,

I’ll confess I’m a sucker for a foreign accent. Give me a man who speaks perfect English with an exotic hint of foreign climes and I melt. Couple that accent with an outwardly strong but inwardly vulnerable hero and you have the perfect recipe for romance.

Confession number two: I’m a winter person. Summer flowers are nice, but give me snow and I’m truly in my element. Whether racing down a ski slope or snuggling by a blazing fire, winter is my favorite time of year, which is one reason I chose to live in the Colorado mountains, where winter lasts a long time.

So you can see why I enjoyed writing “Melting Point” so much. My hero, Kristjan, has a delightful accent, some hidden vulnerabilities and he lives in Iceland, a land of long winters and wild, romantic scenery. Who could resist him? Certainly not my heroine, Stacy, who hides her own insecurities behind her no-nonsense competence. Like all of us, Stacy longs for love, but she’s afraid of being hurt. Kristjan and Iceland bring out the best in her. I hope you’ll enjoy their story.

I love to hear from my readers. You can contact me via e-mail at [email protected], or write me in care of Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd, 225 Duncan Mill Rd., Don Mills, Ontario, M3B 3K9 Canada.

Cindi Myers

“H
E’S LATE
. W
HERE THE HELL
is he?”

Stacy Bristol paced the dance floor of the Reykjavik nightclub, the stiletto heels of her boots striking the hard polymer surface with a sound like castanets. Lights beneath the floor pulsed in time to the trance music piped from overhead speakers. Around her in the nearly empty club, photographers, makeup artists, dressers and a trio of gorgeous blonde models leaned against the bar or half reclined in chairs, carefully composed expressions of boredom on their faces.

“He’ll be here.” Jakob, Stacy’s assistant, fell into step beside her. “Perhaps he had to stop and sign some autographs.”

“He’s a skier.” Stacy checked her watch again. They should have started this photo shoot half an hour ago. “How many people can recognize even one famous skier on the street, much less badger him for an autograph?”

“Yes, but Kristján Gunnarson is a national hero,” Jakob said. “The first gold medalist for Iceland ever. Iceland is a small country compared to the United States, so people here do recognize him. They do in the States, too. Isn’t that why you wanted him for this campaign?”

“Yes, but I wanted him on time. I—”

The door to the street swung open, emitting the sounds of traffic, the smell of diesel and a tall, broad-shouldered blond. “Is this the photo shoot for Troll’s Treasure Sweaters?” asked a deep male voice, the perfect English made somehow more perfect by the crisp Icelandic accent.

“Yes, it is.” Stacy strode toward him. “You’re late.” As she neared him, she stifled a groan. His longish blond hair was uncombed and his jaw hadn’t seen a razor in a couple of days. “You didn’t even shave,” she said, stopping in front of him.

She realized her mistake as soon as his gaze met hers. In her agitation over his tardiness, she’d forgotten the number one reason she’d wanted Kristján Gunnarson as the spokesmodel for this new marketing campaign. The man was absolutely heart-stoppingly, drop-dead gorgeous, with the clearest, bluest, most mesmerizing eyes she’d ever seen.

Angry as she was, at this close range those eyes were doing a number on her. “Shave?” He dragged a hand across his jaw, the masculine, rasping sound setting off a mini-earthquake of tremors deep in her abdomen. “I thought women liked the sexy stubble.” He spoke the
w
in women as a soft
v
, the sibilant esses a gentle purr.

Stacy curled her hands into fists and pressed her nails into her palms, determined not to fall under the spell he was trying to cast over her. If there was one species she knew how to handle, it was irresponsible men. “There’s no time for you to shave now. We’ll have to do the best we can.”

She started to turn away but a hand caught and stopped her. His long fingers curled around her wrist in a grip that was warm but firm. “If we are going to be working together, I should know your name,” he said.

She stared first at his hand around her, then at him. He got the message and released her, though her skin still burned where he’d touched her. She resisted the urge to rub her wrist. “I’m Stacy Bristol,” she said. “Head of marketing for Eagle Mountain Sportswear. We’re the exclusive distributors of Troll’s Treasure Sweaters in the United States.” The company had added the new line of haute couture Icelandic sweaters at Stacy’s urgings, though the owner of the company—and Stacy’s boss—Bryan Patterson was skeptical about the wisdom of such an addition in the current economic climate. All the more reason Stacy had to make this marketing campaign a success.

“It’s good to meet you, Stacy. I’m sorry I’m late.” Kristján had the audacity to smile at her. Then again, he probably knew the effect of that smile. It rocked her back on her heels.

She became aware that every other female in the room—from the top model to the canteen girl—had drawn closer, like butterflies lured by an exotic nectar.

“It doesn’t matter now.” She dismissed his apology with less grace than she usually managed. “Put on the first sweater and get ready for the shoot.”

She turned away and started back across the dance floor when a rush of breath—the collective sigh of every woman in the room—froze her and made her turn around. Kristján had stripped off his faded blue sweatshirt and was reaching for the sweater an adoring
dresser was handing him. Muscles knotted and bunched across his broad shoulders and sculpted biceps, and when he reached up to pull the sweater over his head, Stacy’s knees weakened at the sight of six-pack abs and low-slung jeans. This was not good. Definitely not good.

“You have a dressing room!” she barked.

A last tug on the sweater and his head emerged from the opening, blue eyes sparkling with mirth. “Why would I want to waste time with a dressing room?” All those mispronounced
w
’s made her breathless. Damn the man. And damn her own ill-timed lust. It was such a cliché for a woman to go gaga over a foreign accent. She hated to think of herself as a cliché.

Thankfully, the photography crew moved in with lights and cables and tripods, momentarily screening a now-dressed Kristján from view and allowing Stacy to retreat to the bar with most of her dignity intact.

“What did I tell you?” Jakob slid onto the bar stool next to her. “Isn’t he magnificent? Your customers will love him.”

“Yes. Magnificent.” Kristján was posing now, hands on the hips of one of the perfect blonde females—who also wore one of the intricately patterned sweaters. But the model could have been wearing a potato sack for all any other woman viewing the ad would care. All female eyes would be fixed on Kristján, a Viking in Icelandic wool instead of a bear skin, or whatever it was Vikings wore.

The image of Kristján, naked and reclining on a bearskin, flashed into her head. She pushed it away and
reached for one of the bottles of water lined up along the bar. “He’ll sell sweaters,” she said.

That was what was important. She needed this campaign to be a success. She’d lobbied Bryan to take this gamble, and if it failed he’d put the blame on her. She might even lose her job, and she’d for sure lose face.

With so much at stake, she’d come to Iceland to personally oversee a series of photo shoots at iconic locations. This nightclub was the first, but they also planned to visit the Haukadalur geyser, a fjord she couldn’t begin to pronounce the name of and the Blue Lagoon hot springs. She’d personally recruited a flock of sheep and a shepherd for the session at the fjord, had negotiated a private shoot at the hot springs and had a schedule of the geyser’s eruptions so that photos could be timed for maximum affect. She was in charge of herding a photographer, videographer, three fashion models and a slew of assistants, wardrobe personnel, gophers, caterers and others all over this frozen island country. But she was smart, capable and determined, and she’d done this kind of thing before. So none of them worried her.

Kristján Gunnarson, the beautiful blond national hero with a disdain for schedules and—if the gossip rags were to be believed—a love of all manner of personal pleasures, was the wild card in her game plan. He was the one who could make or break everything. The one Stacy would have to keep an eye on.

But for today, all she had to worry about was completing this one photo shoot on time. Yes, they were running a little late, but now that everyone was here, things were progressing smoothly.

Or not. The nightclub door flew open again and a short, round-faced woman carrying a baby rushed in. “So sorry I’m late,” Jóna Gunnarsdottir, owner, operator and chief designer for Troll’s Treasure Sweaters, said. “The baby had a doctor’s appointment.”

“That’s all right,” Stacy said. “As you can see, we’re getting some great shots.” She motioned toward the raised dais where Kristján and the other models were set up.

Except Kristján wasn’t there.

“Excuse me?” The photographer, Stefan, stood in the middle of the dais, hands on hips. “We’re trying to conduct a photo shoot here.”

“Time for a break,” Kristján, already halfway across the dance floor, called over his shoulder. “Is the baby ill?” he asked as he reached Jóna and Stacy.

“He is fine,” Jóna said. “It was just a checkup.”

“That’s good.” Without asking for permission or waiting for an invitation, he unbuckled the straps on the carrier and lifted the child into his arms. The baby giggled and blew bubbles as Kristján grinned at him.

Stacy stared, goggle-eyed. She didn’t know which amazed her most—that Jóna was letting this guy manhandle her baby, or that Mr. Gorgeous seemed so comfortable with an infant.

“Is something wrong?”

Kristján’s question snapped Stacy back to reality, and the knowledge that he’d caught her staring. She struggled to look unconcerned. “He certainly seems to like you,” she said.

“Babies like me,” he said, and bent to blow a loud raspberry against the infant’s round belly.

“Of course,” Stacy said, her voice faint. She gripped the edge of the bar, just in case her weak knees decided to give out. Cute gurgling babies! Gorgeous men with sexy accents! Every female hormone in her body was on overdrive. Obviously, the universe had decided that this was the day to turn her into a walking, talking stereotype.

But if she was melting at the sight of Kristján cuddling a baby, so would thousands of other women. And a good many of them would be likely to rush out and purchase a Troll’s Treasure sweater, in hopes of transforming the man in their life into something close to Kristján Gunnarson.

“Stefan!” She waved at the photographer, who was deep in conversation with one of the female models. He looked up from his contemplation of the model’s chest, not bothering to mask his annoyed expression.

“I want photos of this.” Stacy pointed at Kristján, who was still cooing over the baby.

Stefan knew a good shot when he saw it. He focused the camera and began clicking away.

When Kristján realized what was happening, he frowned, and handed the baby back to Jóna. “Did you ask my sister if she wants her baby used to advertise sweaters?” he asked.

“Your sister?” Stacy blinked at Jóna. Was there a resemblance there? Maybe…“Why didn’t you tell me he was your brother?”

Jóna flushed strawberry pink. “I didn’t think it mattered. When you asked if I could recommend a model for the ads, I knew he would be perfect.”

“Do you think Mr. Perfect could get back over here so we can finish this shoot?” Stefan called.

Kristján frowned, but made his way back to the stage. When Stacy and Jóna were alone once more, Jóna leaned close and spoke in a low voice. “I didn’t tell you Kristján was my brother because I wasn’t sure I could convince him to take the job. He’s not a professional model, after all.”

“I wasn’t looking for a professional model for this campaign,” Stacy said. “I wanted a real person others could relate to. An athlete who’s so associated with Iceland seemed ideal.”

“I thought it would give him something to do,” Jóna said. “Maybe even get him started on a new career.”

“Why does he need a new career?” Stacy asked.

“He’s thirty-four years old. He can’t continue to compete forever. Already he is one of the oldest skiers.”

“Then couldn’t he teach or coach?”

Jóna sighed. “He doesn’t know what he wants to do. That’s the problem. It’s not good for a grown man to be so aimless.”

Both women focused their attention on the stage, where the man in question stood, his arms around two comely female models, grinning at the camera. He might have just stepped into the club after a day on the slopes, ready for a little après-ski partying. No worries. No cares. No goals.

Stacy had his number all right. She knew the type well, and she knew enough to steer clear of him.