Twice in a Blue Moon Read online

  TWICE IN A BLUE MOON

  By CATE MASTERS

  LYRICAL PRESS

  An imprint of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/

  Dedication

  For Gary, my Twice In A Blue Moon guy

  Chapter 1

  The battered cell phone in Buck Wright’s belt holster managed to vibrate despite having weathered frigid temps, snow, ice, and the occasional overturned dogsled. He could live without the annoying tech gadget, but Arctic Adventures insisted, and since they issued his monthly paychecks, skimpy as they were, Buck relented. Begrudgingly.

  He set his beer mug on the bar counter and frowned at the display. Speak of the devil. A click, and he answered with, “Wright.” He pursed his lips as Kenny Towson, illustrious CEO of the downtrodden Arctic Adventures, expelled a heavy sigh of relief. “No need to check up on me, Ken. I’m in Stockholm and will be back in Kiruna tomorrow. Right on time.” Did his boss seriously think he’d forgotten the new gig?

  Kenny’s response sounded through the cell, part grunt, part chuckle, all sarcasm. “Never hurts to make sure.”

  Something about this tour hadn’t felt right since Buck’s boss had first told him about it. “You’re antsy. Why?”

  “Not exactly. Okay, maybe this one’s a little different.”

  Yeah, Buck bet he’d only scratched the tip of the iceberg. “Skip the bullshit and get to the ‘but.’”

  Kenny tsk’d. “Always suspicious. When are you going to give up on the conspiracy theories, for Chrissakes? Do you want the job? Or should I tap Andersen instead? It’s not too late.”

  Total bluff. They both knew Avery Andersen belonged back at Harvard. Lazy as they came, Avery preferred the seedy neighborhoods of Amsterdam to the frigid emptiness of the wintertime Lapland. Probably waiting for mummy and daddy to rescue him from his own poor choices.

  Scanning the barroom, Buck’s gaze boomeranged back to a blonde. Just the way he liked them—busty, with legs long enough to wrap around him twice, slender but fit enough to ride him all night and into the next day. His groin responded with a hot flash, reminding him it had been awhile. Several months, in fact.

  He gave her his best half-smile, aloof enough not to make any demands, with a hint of sexiness that made all sorts of promises. “If I didn’t need the money, I’d say use Andersen. But rent’s coming up. I could use a raise, by the way.”

  Kenny’s chuckle sounded muffled. “If you play your cards right, we might all get one.”

  And here comes the “but.” “What are you saying? It’s not the usual bunch of bored, rich people?” Sarcasm wouldn’t help his case. Buck wished his clients had deep pockets, but most of them had saved years for such an excursion.

  Kenny hooted. “She may be rich, but hardly bored. Or boring. And a real looker. So keep your head in the game at all times. The one on top of your shoulders, not your little head.”

  Hey, when had he not acted one hundred percent professional? “She? One woman?”

  The blonde sat on the opposite side of the bar and sent him a come hither look. He gripped the cell tighter, hoping Kenny would hurry up and get to the point.

  “One woman,” Kenny said, “and her film crew. Ever heard of Melanie Michaels?”

  “No.” He bet he’d soon wish he hadn’t. Melanie Michaels—sounded like a movie star name. Another bad sign.

  “Watch TV once in awhile. She’s the star of No Boundaries.”

  Hell. He knew it. And a reality show if he ever heard one, the worst of the medium. Buck’s one TV set had survived three moves in ten years, and its inner workings might be considered ancient by current standards, but he rarely watched anyway. He caught the news or an occasional sports game while out. Today, as usual, he ignored the two oversized screens hanging at either end of the bar.

  He smiled at the blonde as he spoke. “Give me a break, Kenny.” Maybe she’d give him one too.

  “Seriously, all the reading you waste your time on, and you’ve never seen anything about Ms. Michaels? She travels to remote places around the world. Viewers love her crazy-ass stunts.”

  He used the most unenthusiastic tone possible to say, “Awesome.” Can’t wait to hear Miz Michaels complain about the second-rate accommodations. Though Kenny had upped the usual stays closer to first-class level for her. Now Buck knew why.

  “You’ll change your tune after I tell you that the tour companies she chooses see a jump in business. Between a hundred and a thousand percent.”

  “Mm,” he grunted. “Stunt woman, huh? What if something happens to her on my watch?” At least she might lend some interest to the same-old same-old, a variation on the usual couples or families. Sure, he loved the pristine wilderness, mostly the sheer emptiness of it. Devoid of most life, particularly people. The most vile species on the planet, in his assessment. The occasional dalliance in Stockholm—like the blonde across the bar currently licking the foam from her upper lip—kept him satisfied enough. Books and magazines kept him up to date, more or less. Man, if only sled dogs could talk, he’d be set.

  “Dude.” Kenny’s voice cut in. “Exactly why I buy insurance. You won’t have to worry about treating her with kid gloves. Her rep assured me she’s one hundred percent pro.”

  “So are divas. Oops, did I say that out loud?” Hell yes. Arctic Adventures would be lucky if that was all he said.

  “Melanie Michaels is the polar opposite of diva. She roughs it to the max. If you ask me, those rumors about her having a death wish are spot on.”

  A chilled tingle slivered up his spine. “Death wish?” She better not try to take me along for the ride.

  “Some article surfaced last year about her fiancée dying a few years back. Soon afterward, she launched this show. Had a few nasty close calls, too.”

  Buck’s smile faded. “You’re making me rethink this deal.”

  “She swears up and down it’s rumor. You didn’t hear me say this, but if she decides to take some risks, don’t stand in her way. Viewers eat that crap up. Her rep already faxed the signed waiver.”

  “Get the original and I might be able to sleep.” When she boarded her flight for home again.

  A beat later, Kenny asked, “Sure you don’t want me to call Andersen?”

  “No, I’m good. What’s their ETA tomorrow?” Buck grabbed the pen left by Klaus the bartender and jotted the details on the soggy napkin. “Got it.”

  One last day of freedom before Hell Week with the reality star began. Guess I better make the most of the final hours on my own. He raised the mug. “Excuse me, Klaus? A refill please?” He angled toward the blonde slithering his way. “And whatever my friend is having.”

  She returned his smile and then some. “I don’t even know your name.”

  He rose to pull out the stool beside his. “Buck Wright. And you are?”

  She swayed her rear in the most delicious manner to slide it across the seat. “Glad to meet you.” She turned her megawatt smile on Klaus. “I’ll have the same as my new friend.”

  Buck tried not to drool. “Perfect.” He loved making new friends, especially of the female variety. So long as they didn’t complain about his modus operandus: all fun, zero ties. Repeats happened if the girl abided the rules. And if he didn’t get too attached. Such foolishness led to all manner of drama and heartache. He’d had enough of both. His life had become about survival, and he’d taught himself not to let anyone get close. Not to make himself vulnerable to pain. To live alone and like it.

  Klaus set two mugs in front of them and deftly removed a bill from the stack Buck had left on the bar.

  Something made him glance up at
the television. Maybe Kenny had implanted a subliminal suggestion during their conversation. Damn if the name at the bottom of the screen didn’t read Melanie Michaels. A man spoke into a microphone, then stepped closer to hold it near her.

  “No way. That’s her?” He waved at the bartender. “Turn up the volume, will you please, Klaus?”

  The camera zoomed in on her face. Features delicate but strong, beautiful but serious. God, that mouth—lips full and wide, and the way they moved as she spoke, he could hardly tear away his gaze. Her large eyes, dark and luminous in the way that had always struck him to the bone. Just like Poppy. She’d turned out to be anything but sweet. More like poisonous, the opium behind the flowery facade an instant addiction that took him years to overcome. He still carried the scars from her acid nectar. Anything and anyone reminding him of his former lover ranked the lowest of low on his shit list.

  Melanie Michaels just claimed that spot.

  And now he’d have to deal with her every day for almost a week. “Oh man, it’s going to be a grueling six days.” Five, technically. Tomorrow’s meet-and-greet was strictly a formality, though the preliminaries helped him size up his guests so he could better prepare.

  Klaus glanced from Buck to the screen and back again. “She’s taking your tour? You lucky bastard.”

  Lucky? No. Bastard? Yes, according to some. “Oh yeah. Skol.” He raised his mug and gulped. And gulped.

  The blonde assessed him. “You’re a wilderness guide? For which company?”

  He tried to sound proud and manly as he said, “Arctic Adventures.”

  “I’ve heard about them.” An arch of her brows, and her demeanor turned glacier-cold.

  He could only imagine what, exactly, she’d heard. Kenny insisted they stretch their expenses as far as possible. Translation: second-rate accommodations. And hey, it wasn’t his fault if the sled dogs took a dislike to certain clients. They should know better than to leave unpackaged foods unprotected and stow their backpacks away from the team. The dogs had few enough trees upon which to relieve themselves, and he didn’t blame them one bit.

  Klaus shot the blonde a dubious, don’t-make-trouble look.

  “What? They’ll be famous.” She hid a laugh behind her hand. “No Boundaries will make you a star in America.”

  “America.” Ah, hell. Why hadn’t it occurred to him? His family would see him, the friends he’d left behind. And Poppy. Shit. Short of them traveling to Sweden, there’d been no way for any of them to bust him on the lie he’d told. Now they’d know he didn’t work for the prestigious National Geographic tours, but a crap company based in Kiruna. In his last email, he’d boasted of almost having saved enough money to build a log resort better than the world-famous Wilderness Lodge. Fat chance, on his salary.

  Me, a star? More like an outcast. Buck heaved a sigh. “I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.” For drinking or anything else.

  He grabbed the cash from the bar, left a generous tip, and nodded goodbye to Klaus. He strode to the exit, ignoring the blonde’s taunting calls to come back. The laughter in her lilting tone churned his gut.

  Whether he returned to the job at all depended on how badly Melanie Michaels and crew shamed him on video. He’d spend the next six days avoiding the camera, and afterward, crawl into some isolated igloo a dismal failure. He might stay there until global warming melted away the polar ice cap.

  Shit. He knew he should’ve pawned this one off on Andersen.

  Chapter 2

  In the open airplane hangar, Melanie’s breath billowed in a cloud. Yeah, great idea, Mel. Visit the edge of the Arctic in February. Her nerves jangled too much for the frigid temperature to register. Kismet, fate, whatever label applied—the chance had come up to tour the Swedish Lapland and stay in the Icehotel. How could she refuse? The very place she and Pete had planned to honeymoon. It had to be a sign, even if she’d given up on such things a long time ago.

  Her camera crew huddled around their bags, muttering about the dubious-looking Piper single-prop plane parked outside. Hopefully they’d maintained the engine better than the paint job, which could pass for post-World War II. Must be the aircraft they’d booked for the first leg of the journey. A sharp gust of wind lifted a wing, and a shudder cut through her. Putting herself in harm’s way was one thing, but she did her best to keep her team on the sidelines.

  Hayden captured the scene on video, and swung the lens toward a woman who rounded the corner.

  “Hello,” Melanie called to her. “Do you know when our pilot will arrive?”

  A brief purse of her lips, and her gaze turned piercing. “I’m Anakarina.” She sauntered to the side of the plane, gave a sharp twist of a latch and a small compartment popped open. “Stow your gear in here.”

  From behind the viewfinder, Hayden shot a smile of disbelief at Victor and Gina, then leered at the woman. “You’re our pilot?”

  After a deadened moment, Anakarina went on. “We’ll take off in a few minutes.”

  Not good, insulting the woman who’d fly them to Kiruna. Sure, with her graceful stature and gorgeous looks, she’d easily pass as a model, or a Bond girl, but they should never assume.

  “Glad to meet you. I’m Melanie Michaels.” She gestured toward her crew. “Gina Krueger, Victor Chen, and Hayden Hastings.”

  The pilot’s shrug indicated she was less than impressed. Stabbing a finger toward the open door, she prompted again, “Your gear. In here.”

  “Let’s not delay the schedule, guys.” So much for pleasantries, and an all-too-familiar clue. Melanie reached for her bag. In remote locations, some hosts had taken pity on them and helped out. More often, the routine had been DIY and hurry the hell up. After she’d stuffed her two bags inside, Gina and Victor did the same.

  Hayden scuffed toward them. “Cool plane. You own it?”

  “Yes, and not because Daddy bought it for my high school graduation.” Anakarina climbed into the cockpit and began flicking switches harder than necessary. Oh yeah, a Bond girl. One of the crazy kind, who’d amp up her smile and then pull out a Glock.

  A near-silent whistle, and Gina widened her eyes toward Hayden’s camera. “The weather’s not the only thing frosty.”

  Melanie sent Hayden a sympathetic smile. “Must be anti-American. Don’t take it personally, Hay.” They ran into bad attitudes, people who held grudges against Americans in general, or just hated reality television, and sometimes in much scarier circumstances.

  The engine rumbled to life, the signal they’d better get in. Melanie waited for Hayden to stuff his bags inside, then secured the latch. Hopefully the lock would hold, and the plane, too. Not exactly first class, but she wouldn’t complain.

  She plastered on a big smile and threw open the door. “After you, guys.” They’d edit out the boring parts later. Once her crew had boarded and crammed into the back, she climbed into the passenger seat. “All set.”

  With a look that could chill a penguin, Anakarina murmured into her headset. One glance over her shoulder, and she reached for a lever. “Fasten your seat belts.”

  Melanie couldn’t resist the old movie dialogue and mimicked Bette Davis, “It’s going to be a bumpy ride?” Her chuckle met another glare.

  “No guarantees it won’t be.” The pilot imitated a cheerleader. A tight smirk preceded a smug smile, then she opened the throttle.

  The plane jerked forward. Melanie braced but said nothing, nor did her team. Not when the plane’s ascent pressed them back in their seats, nor when the Piper bumped over air currents like a rock skipping over choppy waves. Not when Anakarina banked hard without warning through cloud-filled skies, snowflakes swirling around them. Less seasoned travelers might gasp or moan, but they’d lived through worse.

  Still, when the snow-covered strip appeared below, Melanie exhaled in relief. Night fell early in Kiruna. A few minutes past two-thirty, and darkness edged inside the tree line.

  Anakarina proved her flying skills with a smoot
h landing on what had to be ice-patched ground. No sooner had the engine died than Melanie threw open the door and jumped out. Tugging her hood down against the biting flakes, she waited until Vic, Gina, and Hayden got out before heading for the baggage compartment. No waiting at the luggage claim, at least. A few yanks, and their gear sat on the frozen ground. The pilot secured the latch.

  Melanie asked, “Our guide’s supposed to meet us here, right?”

  Anakarina shrugged. “If that’s what you arranged.”

  The woman wouldn’t leave them out in the cold, would she? Melanie peered out, trying to discern some landscape feature in the gathering dusk. A single light pierced the curtain of falling snow, and the faint jingle of bells drew nearer.

  A horse-drawn sleigh. Melanie had seen photographs, of course, but the thought of riding in one brought out the little girl in her. Someone climbed out and strode toward them.

  “Ah, here he comes.” Anakarina actually smiled and slunk off.

  Melanie strained to see the man. Indiana Jones in a down jacket and ski goggles. About six-two, she guessed. Hard to tell under layers of clothing, but the way he moved suggested a fit physique. Strong jaw line, straight nose ending in flared nostrils. Brown hair in a boyish cut, layers short with unruly strands jutting over his forehead. Melanie resisted the urge to brush away the flakes of snow gathered there.

  The pilot murmured to him in what sounded like Swedish. Despite his noncommittal grunt, she laughed, a shrill, mean cackle, coupled with a catty glance at Melanie.

  Yep, now she understood the high school comment, as the woman apparently never evolved past the juvenile stage. She extended her hand. “Hi. Melanie Michaels.”

  When he lifted the goggles, his brown eyes warmed her better than hot chocolate. Especially when his ungloved hand enveloped hers, and held a beat longer than it took to say, “Buck Wright.” He released her abruptly, all warmth gone as he turned his attention to the others.