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and he took a long swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing just above the collar of his faded sweatshirt. “Texas State Technical College?” She gestured to the words on his shirt. “That’s a long way from Alaska.”
    Glancing down at his shirt, he shrugged. “My father lives there.”
    â€œSo, you stayed with him while you got your degree?”
    â€œStew’s hot.” Using a grease rag as an oven mitt, he lifted the can off the lantern top and poured three helpings onto metal plates from the crate. He produced twometal spoons, handed her one and then gave the third plate to Mickey, who wolfed it down.
    Wolfing it down would be a fair description of how she ate it, as well. It was good and filling. “Delicious. Thank you again.”
    He nodded, gathering up the plates and giving them to Mickey, who licked theirs clean too.
    â€œWhat kind of dog is Mickey?”
    â€œPart malamute, part something else. A mixed breed. Like me.” He drank from the flask again.
    â€œYour mother’s Iñupiat?”
    â€œYou need to know that for your story?” He glared at her.
    Whoa. Touchy subject. “I was just making conversation.”
    â€œWhat the hell’d you think you were going to learn sneaking aboard my plane?”
    â€œI was—” she focused on her hands and gripped the soft fur of his parka, ashamed to look him in the eyes “—following up on a rumor.” It seemed ludicrous now, wearing his parka, eating his food, to accuse him of drug trafficking. She just wasn’t capable of being objective when it came to him. Or maybe she wouldn’t ever be capable.
    â€œWhich one? The drugs? The murders, or the Russian spy?”
    â€œOh, I hadn’t heard the Russian spy one.”
    He snorted. “Some reporter you are.”
    If he only knew. “I’m not.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI’m not a reporter. I’m the hostess of a cable show called Travel in Style . I was filming a show on the Iditarod.”
    He blinked. “You’re a…TV personality?”
    â€œYes. You could call me that.”
    â€œHuh.” He rubbed a palm across his beard. “So, what? You’re doing a piece on how not to travel?”
    â€œNo.” She cringed. “Not at all. I wanted to do this piece on genocide, but the network execs won’t let me and every time I try to do a real investigative report they give it to someone else and I need to find a way to make them take me serious—” realizing she’d been rambling, she looked up at him “—ly.”
    He was staring at her as if she were a three-headed walrus.
    â€œI really am sorry about all this.” She reached a hand out to cover his white-knuckled fist. “But wouldn’t you like a chance to prove all those rumors false?”
    â€œNo.” He jerked his hand from hers, took the lantern and turned to crawl into the front of the plane and open the door.
    â€œWait.”
    He paused but didn’t look back.
    â€œI, um, I need to…”
    His gaze cut to hers. “Come on then.” Mumbling to himself something about troublesome females, he swung down to the ground and then as she tried to follow him out the door, he handed her the lantern, grabbed her around her back and under her legs and lifted her out. And didn’t put her down.
    â€œI can walk now.”
    â€œThe hypothermia can make you weak and lethargic.”
    But truth be told, she didn’t mind being snuggled like this in his arms. It was full dark out now and here in the middle of nowhere the blackness seemed to cut them off from everyone. As if they were on their own planet. But she wasn’t scared at all. In fact she felt safer here, with Max, than in her condo in L.A. No way he was a cold-blooded killer. The man might be cranky, but there was grief in his dark eyes.
    There was a story here. She’d just pursue it later.
    His faded sweatshirt