The Silver Fox

Chapter 7

“You’re what? ” It was seven thirty in the morning. Susan Bovary had just returned from working her usual night shift. She was exhausted, to say the least, and now wondered if she’d heard correctly.

“I’m pregnant.” Justine calmly repeated her announcement, eyes sparkling, lips twitching up at the corners despite her own sleepless night. Still in her robe, she intended to spend the morning in bed. Her meeting with Sloane was not until one in the afternoon. She owed herself this small luxury—and she badly needed the rest.

Susan was suddenly wide awake. “You’re pregnant? You’re going to have Sloane’s baby?”

“My baby, Sue.” She smiled gently. “And yes, I am going to have it.”

Her roommate’s eyes clouded momentarily. “Are you … pleased?”

Justine’s continuing smile and the light flush on her cheeks heralded her answer. The night had been one of soul-searching. She’d been shocked at first, then terrified at the thought of being pregnant. And alone. From the first that was a given. But as the hours wore on, her mind had warmed to the thought of the microscopic seed growing in her body. Yes, she had alternatives and she considered each in turn. She could agree to marry Sloane … but she wouldn’t. She could easily arrange for an abortion … but she couldn’t. Hence her decision was made. Her future would hold love after all. She’d love her child with every ounce of her being.

She hadn’t anticipated getting pregnant, hadn’t planned on having a child. But it was marriage that frightened her even more than motherhood. Now she carried Sloane’s child, a child conceived in love. That knowledge gave a glow to her smile.

“After nearly eighteen hours of nonstop deliberation … yes, I’m pleased. In fact I’m feeling very … lightheaded.”

Her joy was evident, much as it surprised Susan. “Oh, Justine, I’m thrilled for you then! I had no idea you wanted a baby.”

“Neither did I,” her friend retorted with humor. “And I was pretty shocked at first. Since I saw the doctor yesterday, I’ve had to totally rethink my plans. I do intend to have the baby and I plan to raise it myself.”

“Yourself? You mean”—Susan started in disbelief—“that you still won’t marry Sloane?”

“No.” Soft but firm.

“But … what if he wants the baby?”

“He won’t necessarily know about it—”

“You’re not going to even tell him? Justine, it’s his child, too! He has a right to know!”

“That’s where I don’t agree with you,” Justine argued, voicing her thoughts of the night gone by. “When Sloane realized that I wouldn’t marry him, he more or less deserted me. I didn’t hear from or about him for a full month. Then, I finally saw him in the office, and there was some harebrained scheme for me to act as the lawyer-specialist for his project. Well, I’ll go with him to Alaska, and I’ll give him the best legal advice I can. But that’s all. After the month we will have nothing to do with one another.”

“But he’ll see—”

Justine shook her pale-copper-covered head. “I’ve got it all figured out, Sue.” Her eyes reflected her excitement, gleaming a rich green beneath a thick red fringe. “I’m barely six weeks pregnant now. The trip is planned for August. I’ll only be in my third month then, into my fourth at the end of the trip.” Her voice quickened with anticipation. “The doctor told me that, with a first pregnancy, I probably wouldn’t show until the end of the fourth or the fifth. If that’s the case, Sloane will never know. And, I have this funny feeling that I won’t be wearing the chicest of outfits there in the wilds of Alaska. All I have to do is to pick loose things, sweaters and jackets that hang fairly full and low. Very simple.”

Susan eyed her skeptically. “ If he never sees you nude—”

“He won’t!” It was a seething vow, reflective of the hurt Justine continued to feel inside along with her love for Sloane. Now, she had the baby to consider; instantly the thought soothed her.

Susan was quiet for a moment, before moving on. “And what about work—when you do show?”

Again, Justine had considered this. “I think that, given proper camouflage, I can work until my sixth month. Then, I will simply take a leave of absence. If the firm can so easily spare me for this month”—her dismay at the last fact surfaced unbidden—“they can just manage without me for a while longer. Then, I will find a nurse to take care of the baby during the day—when I decide to go back to work.”

“But the law … it’s always meant so much to you, Justine. Will you be able to handle it?”

There was a flicker of doubt, of unsureness, in Justine’s gaze. “I hope so, Sue. I’m certainly going to try,” she answered Susan as honestly as she could. “I do know that I want this baby … almost as much as I’ve always wanted that career. If determination is all that counts, I’ll manage fine.”

The smile that her roommate bestowed upon her was filled with hope, tinged with skepticism. Justine accepted it, knowing it was only the first of many such friendly expressions of doubt she might expect. But she had to be prepared. Her life had undergone a total emotional reversal in the past hours; it was up to her to set her course and follow it faithfully.

When she arrived in Sloane’s office, a well-planned and decorated room in an ultramodern suite of offices, she was fully composed. Only the charcoal smudges beneath her eyes told of her need for rest. But that would come, she told herself. It was simply a matter of settling into a schedule once more. As for her eyes, her cheeks, her lips—they were full of life, bright and glowing, radiating the warmth she felt at the thought of the seed—Sloane’s seed—that grew inside her.

“You’re looking better,” he commented, staring hard at her when she arrived. For a moment of heart-stopping hesitation, she wondered if he could tell—or might guess—her secret. But the meeting went on without delay, setting her mind at ease. Having read the preliminary material Sloane had sent to her office, she could readily follow the directives he gave now. Taking notes on her long legal pad, she engrossed herself in the work, denying the very presence of the man whose lean frame was never far from her, whose eyes were uncomfortably keen and attentive, whose thick head of silver hair haloed about him deceptively.

Her seeming immunity to his manly appeal gave her courage—and the growing belief that she might just pull it off! The next few weeks passed, similarly without a hitch, further buoying her. In the presence of others, Sloane, it appeared, presented no threat to her sensibilities. So she told herself—over and over and over again at every weak moment of self-doubt.

The chore of shopping for clothing for the trip was simplified by the list which Sloane provided. In great detail it outlined the necessities—down parka and heavy denims, woolen socks, flannel shirts, mittens, long underwear, knit hat—that the chill of the Arctic nights, even these at the end of the northern summer, might require. Justine carefully selected items that left room for growth, though her stomach remained as flat, her waist as narrow, as they had always been.

Having settled the basics in her mind regarding her pregnancy, she was determined not to worry. If Ivy, Gates and Logan balked at her plans, there would be other firms, other opportunities. Thanks to the professional reputation she had already established, she anticipated no trouble in supporting both herself and the baby.

Her dreams were filled with images of a child—tall, straight, and healthy. He would be a miniature of his father, with a dark headful of hair such as she might have imagined Sloane’s to have been in his youth. With every dream her love grew, now given the outlet that Sloane’s emotional estrangement had denied her. She had presented him with her terms, and he had rejected them. Here in her womb was one who would not. If Sloane’s devotion was to be beyond her reach, she would find it in his child.

The thought of motherhood grew more appealing with each passing day. Indeed, everything seemed to be working out to her satisfaction—until the day of departure arrived and Sloane escorted her aboard the Lear jet used exclusively by his corporation.

“Where are Jerry and Bob?” she asked, seeing neither of the subexecutives whom Sloane had designated as part of this exploratory team.

He spoke quietly with the pilot before turning to face her. “They’ll be meeting us in Juneau. We’re making a slight detour.”

“Detour? To where?” Suspicion widened her eyes, giving her the look of a lost child. In her deliberate attempt to avoid a weight gain, she had somehow managed to lose several pounds. Her cheeks were more finely sculpted now, her arms and legs even more slender. The overall effect was not displeasing; rather, it gave her an air of studied maturity, becoming in a sophisticated way.

Sloane looked down on her indulgently. “Don’t be alarmed. We’re stopping in Atlanta for a late lunch, then we’ll move on to St. Louis for the night. We’ll catch the others tomorrow evening.”

The faint pallor which crept up beneath the blusher on her cheeks illustrated the sense of foreboding which suddenly assailed her. Justine felt cornered once more by this man. As the momentary terror at the thought of what she had, knowingly or not, let herself in for surged through her, she swallowed hard. “Is it a business lunch … in Atlanta?” She knew the answer even before Sloane confirmed it.

“No.” He spoke without hint of emotion. “We’re having lunch with my parents at their home.”

“Sloane! How could you!” she exclaimed impulsively, then caught herself as quickly, lowering her voice. The hum of the plane’s engine and the sensation of movement told her it was too late for escape; exerting her utmost self-control, she willed herself to calmness. “Why didn’t you warn me, Sloane?”

“I told you to wear a comfortable traveling dress, didn’t I? What other preparation do you need?”

Looking down at the soft fabric of her pale blue sundress and the length of slender leg which stretched from hem to stylishly tan high-heeled sandals, she knew that her appearance would be the least of her worries. Stomach churning, she regarded Sloane again.

“What do they know about me?”

“Only that you are a lawyer and that you’ll be accompanying me to Alaska.” The rock hardness of his dark eyes was not hidden behind the studied relaxation of his face. Justine felt less than assured—until his eyes suddenly softened. “Take it easy, Justine. It won’t be all that bad. They won’t bite, you know!”

If only they had bitten, she was to rue later, things might have been easier to accept. As it turned out, Justine felt herself drawn to Sloane’s parents with a force comparable in strength, though different in nature, to that by which she had been drawn to their son from the start. James and Constance Harper exuded a warmth with every word and gesture—from their presence at the airport in Atlanta to greet the plane, to their vibrant chatter in the car along the route to their house, to the gracious intimacy of the house itself—a Georgian colonial decorated with taste and care—to the informality of the lunch which was eaten on an open patio overlooking lush orchards, to the send-off they gave Sloane and Justine, back at the airport, with heartfelt embraces all around.

In the airplane again, Justine found herself strangely sad. The tarmac blurred beneath the landing gear, and as the craft moved into position for takeoff, her cheeks were wet with tears.

“Are you all right, Justine?” Sloane’s arrival from the cockpit startled her. “Has something upset you?”

Quickly she looked away, her feelings all too open, her heart all too vulnerable. “No,” she forced herself to whisper, then paused. “They’re lovely people, Sloane. I enjoyed meeting them. I can understand why your childhood was such a happy one. They love each other very much.” Her mind replayed the small, nearly missed gestures of affection that had passed between the senior Harpers—the clasp of hands, the meeting of eyes, the quiet exchange of smiles, the shared pride in their son. Was that what it could be like?

“That they do, Justine. They may not have the physical energy they once had, but they are very much in love.” He settled into a seat near her and fastened his seat belt moments before the plane left the ground.

Justine’s head was turned away, her eyes glued to the window. In those few short hours they’d spent in Atlanta, James and Constance Harper had touched her. Now, she felt the loss—a loss she never dreamed she might feel. Against her every effort tears slid, one by one, down the softness of her cheeks. Loneliness overwhelmed her; guilt at the deception she’d practiced drove her deeper into her seat. As grandparents the Harpers would have undoubtedly offered a boundless love. Was it fair to deprive them of what would be a great joy to them? Was life fair?

Sloane’s gentle voice broke into her daze, close and filled with concern. “What is it, sweetheart?” His use of the endearment hastened the flow of her tears, until his strong fingers reached out to brush them from her cheeks. “Was it that upsetting for you—meeting my parents?”

The fist at her mouth bore the brunt of teeth which dug mercilessly into it in a vain attempt to staunch the tears. Slowly, she removed it. “It’s strange,” she began falteringly. “I feel as though I’m leaving old friends….”

“You could see them again …” His words died with the suggestion of the future. Breath caught in her throat, she waited for him to finish. If you marry me. Wasn’t that the logical conclusion? But she couldn’t marry him. She wouldn’t marry him. And she would never see James and Constance Harper again.

Sloane did not finish the thought. Rather, he took her hand in his and held it for long moments—silently, with neither apology nor explanation—before finally releasing it to sort through some papers.

Exhausted by the accumulation of excitement, apprehension, and pure work that had preceded this trip, Justine slept most of the way to St. Louis. It was, therefore, no wonder that sleep eluded her for much of the night. Nor did it help that Sloane had taken adjacent rooms at the hotel—adjacent and connecting rooms. Through much of the night her eye held the door to that room, his room. Her mind conjured images of his walking boldly through the door, forcing her to come to terms with the overwhelming attraction that existed between them. But the doorknob was still, with nary a turn. What would she have done had he chosen to enter, she asked herself? All reason dictated a physical distance throughout the trip. After all, their relationship had nowhere to go, she mused, given the stalemate on the issue of marriage. And what if he detected some minute change in her body and suspected that she might be carrying his child? That in itself was reason enough to avoid intimacy.

Yet, her eyes lingered on the wide wooden door that separated her body from his. She imagined his limbs, strong and muscled as she knew them to be, flexed in repose atop the king-sized bed. His flesh would be firm, much of it lightly covered by the dark hair that had never failed to thrill her with its overwhelmingly masculine texture. His face would be peaceful, his features at rest. And the thick thatch of silver-sheened hair would fall across his forehead, just waiting for slender fingers to smooth it aside.

Such were the dreams by which her night was disturbed. They were dreams filled with beauty, desire, ecstasy—as they were nightmares of anguish, frustration, torment. And, all the while, her owl-eyes watched, waiting and wondering, hoping and fearing, planning and imagining—and filled with no small amount of self-reproach at her susceptibility.

The next morning saw the private jet airborne once more, headed for Juneau and the start of the Alaskan expedition. Though Justine had read background material on the state, its topography, and its economy, she was unprepared for the sense of adventure which surged through her at the sight of the landscape below, as the gradual descent over the southeastern section of the state began. Forgotten were the moments of dismay, disbelief, and apprehension which had preceded the trip. The only reality now was the exhilaration of travel, the joy of visiting new worlds, the excitement of the legal challenge before her.

Alaska—the last frontier of America. Gasping sharply as she looked beyond the steel-bodied jet, she knew it to be true. For, far below, spread with awesome strength over dark, cold bays and inlets and their steep-banked forests of rich green trees were huge, white fingers of ice, gripping the land tenaciously as they had for eons, declaring for all to see that there was, indeed, a greater force than man.

Juneau, the state capital, was a mere breath away from these glacier fields, as every major population center in the state was merely an outskirt of the wilderness. “There are no roads connecting the towns and cities, here,” Sloane explained, leaning over to point at the myriad of islands which dotted the coastal approach to Juneau. “Transportation is by ferry—or, of course, by air. This is one of the situations we will be discussing with legislators and labor leaders.” His cheek moved against her hair as he moved back, then he straightened and went forward to consult with the pilot, leaving Justine to admire the panorama of jagged mountaintops slashed in turn by picturesque fjords which grew more and more distinct as the plane descended. Then, with a slowing, a landing, and a light but abrupt stop, they arrived.

So began the adventure. Yet it was unlike anything she had steeled herself to expect. It was as though, with their change of clothes from the light cottons of the New York summer to the heavier wools and denims of the Alaskan fall, they shed the identity of those they had been back east. In truth, there was simply no time to recall those other times, those other heartaches, that very love which had blossomed so quickly that spring.

Rather, Justine found herself thrust into the center of a whirlwind of activity. If she had worried that Sloane’s presence would be a torment to her, her fears were unfounded. There was simply no time for torment, with each day crammed from morning to night with meetings and tours, tours and meetings, in endless repetition.

It began in Juneau with several days of meetings with state legislators and representatives of, the governor’s office, which was sponsoring the project. Transportation was, indeed, an issue to be worked over, with illustrative ferry tours through the labyrinth of islands. Justine saw firsthand the massive glacial walls of blue and white, heard first hand the moaning and grumbling as the ice shifted, trembled first hand as a glacier calved, sending a monstrous chunk of ice with thundering echo into the ice-cold water. Sloane’s hand was warm on her shoulder, his arm absorbing her mirroring tremors. Yet the sight of nature before her held her spellbound.

The group from CORE International visited fishing villages along the coast, inspected large catches of shrimp, trout, salmon, king crab, and halibut, sat sequestered for long hours with fishermen whose fear of oil spill damage, potentially devastating to their livelihood, had reached epidemic proportion.

They surveyed the lumbering country, where mountainous stands of Sitka spruce, western hemlock, and yellow cedar promised a renewable source of revenue with appropriate planning. They walked through meadows decked with wild flowers, bordering on the glaciers, and spoke with the natives, admiring a culture that demanded preservation.

They boated through bays in the Gulf of Alaska, where Justine was awed by the free soundings of the humpback whales, the lively play of the porpoises, the leisurely romp of the sea lions. She craned her neck to see the eagle, wild and free, soaring to safe haven along the tree-lined coast. And the beauty of the land was brought home to her, laying the groundwork on which the rest of the trip would elaborate. Through it all Sloane was engrossed in deep thought, as was she—their common purpose uniting them, their ultimate goal becoming preservation of the land and its people.

Anchorage came as a surprise to her, fast on the heels of the ruggedness of this southeasterly coast of Alaska. For it was a burgeoning metropolis, the trade center for nearly two-thirds of the state’s meager population. With Sloane beside her, she was led down streets bearing signposts identical to many she had seen in New York—on a modified scale, perhaps, but cosmopolitan nonetheless. Bordered on three sides by mountains, the skyline of the city stretched ever upward in futile competition with the grandeur of the wilderness. It was here that Sloane and his crew met with civic leaders in discussions on utilization of the natural resources of coal, lumber, and fresh water to provide a long-range source of work and improved services to the residents of Alaska. As had become her pattern, Justine scrawled notes on her pad during these daytime meetings, then rewrote her thoughts in far greater detail at night in the privacy of her room in the few moments left to her before exhaustion took over, rendering her helplessly and speedily asleep.

From Anchorage the group moved west to the Alaskan peninsula, touring the predominantly mountainous and treeless islands before spending several days on one of the largest, Kodiak Island. Once again the fishing industry became their primary focus, as they interviewed seamen of both Russian and Scandinavian descent as well as the many native Aleuts who worked out of the bustling harbor. The fears were all the same—the harsh and moody waters of the Gulf of Alaska, the ever-present possibility of natural disaster such as earthquake or volcano, and, with the more recent advent of the trans-Alaska pipeline, the chance of oil spill and its resultant havoc. But there was ever hope and an open ear for new commercial ventures—such as fish canneries and oceanographic farming—to stabilize the economy which, though booming now, was sure to plunge in time.

The lack of the most basic services and dire need of even the most primitive of facilities was never more clear, however, than when they left the milder climate behind and ventured farther north toward the arctic circle and the scattered villages which struggled for survival in a climate at best a challenge, at worst grossly hostile. Justine pulled her down parka in closer to her ears as the tour took them down streets of villages such as Nome, Barrow, and Wainwright. The wind painted bright red burns on her cheeks; her toes threatened to chill forever despite her heavy wool socks and sturdy insulated boots. Yet the Eskimo children ran warmly about, oblivious to the absence of acceptable facilities for which their parents now fought. Plumbing, electricity, telecommunications, medical facilities, stores, schools—all were on the list. To these natives Justine’s heart went out. Her hand penned note after note of program possibilities and the legislation that would be necessary to set it all in motion.

And then they visited Prudhoe Bay, site of the start of the oil pipeline and, similarly, the boon to Alaska’s coffers. The tundra was golden-red with the arctic fall, its wildlife activity in marked contrast to the static mechanical monstrosity of the oil-filled tunnels themselves. Lemmings and ground squirrels scurried about, dwarfed by the caribou which seemed to have accepted the pipeline with characteristic grace. It was a contradictory scene, in Justine’s eyes, one which puzzled her throughout the flight back south to Fairbanks.

“Now you understand the fine line we tread in all of this.” Sloane spoke softly with her as the plane winged high over mountains unnamed and unscaled. “There is nature … and there is human nature. The former is precious and should not be disrupted; the latter must push on to survive. The oil pipeline has, aside from its overall appearance, managed to satisfy both elements, though its effect on the environment is a long-range and very tenuous thing.”

As he talked on, Justine admired his dedication, the innate intelligence she had seen in action during each and every stop they had made. Now, as they headed for their last, with little over a week left of the trip, he showed no sign of the fatigue which, when she permitted herself to recognize it, had built and compounded itself within her. Perhaps it was a blessing—this all-pervading exhaustion that hit her every night. There had not been a repeat of that soul-destroying craving that had rendered her sleepless that first night in St. Louis. And Sloane had been there, no more than a door or two down the hall each night. Silent congratulations were given and received on the strength of her willpower in steeling herself against him as a man. She prayed it would continue.

Fairbanks was quite different from the other stops on their itinerary. There was a ruggedness about it, a feeling of frontier reality that, even amid her exhaustion, Justine appreciated. Set at the heart of the great Alaska interior, it was a land of extremes—of heat in summer and cold in winter, of majestic mountain peaks and deep-hollowed valleys. It was a land of the white spruce, the American aspen, the paper birch, and the mountain alder, now painting an early fall splash of copper, gold, and red across the wide, rolling uplands. It was here that the four from CORE International met with representatives of the space communication center, the military, and a delegation from the university, whose environmental studies had veered toward developing industry in agriculture and aquaculture. Again Sloane led the discussions with the utmost of ease and ability, listening for stretches, then directing questions to one member of the hosting group or another. Again Justine admired his command, of himself and of others; again she filled her legal pad with notes regarding the appropriate legal channels for one project or another. She was, above all, determined to do her best, inspired as she was by her leader.

It was following three days of meetings and local expeditions that Justine felt she could go no further. Her mind was saturated with a glut of ideas; her body was plainly drained of energy.

“I’ve got to get some rest.” She took Sloane aside late in the afternoon. “I’m exhausted. Would you mind if I skipped dinner and stayed in my room?”

It had become a common habit for the four to discuss the day’s outing over the evening meal, then continue further discussions, some of which lasted for several hours, over coffee. On this particular evening she could barely hold her head up. Faithfully, she had taken the vitamin pills prescribed by her doctor; carefully, she had chosen her diet for the greatest nutritional value. Yet she had been on the go steadily, with no break, for over three weeks.

Sloane studied her weary eyes closely. “Do you think you’re coming down with something?” he asked, frowning.

“No. I really need a good night’s rest. That’s all. Will it be a problem?”

“Of course not. But you should eat. Would you like me to bring you something? Better still,” he went on without giving her time to respond, “why don’t you go up now. I’ll bring something—I’ll surprise you—later.”

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 Sight. 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.”

He shifted to sit more comfortably beside her. “Honestly?” His dark eyes held her brighter green ones, mesmerizing her as they seemed too often to do. “Honestly? I brought you here for the reasons I just mentioned. Plus two others.”

She waited, counting on him for the truth. When it came, she wished he had been less truthful.

“I felt that, if you were to understand the lure of Alaska, you should see this. It may help frame some of those very valid proposals you’ve made along the way.” The compliment was beyond her.

“That’s the first. And the second?”

“The second,” he continued, low and calmly, “is that I wanted to be with you. Alone. It’s been difficult spending so much time with you, over the past few weeks, with others constantly around. We had something very good going at one point there. Have you forgotten so quickly?” The hardening of his jaw gave credit to his onetime declarations of love. Would they be repeated?

“No.” Her voice was very soft. “I haven’t forgotten.” Looking down, her eyes grazed her stomach, still flat, yet carrying the evidence of that “something very good.”

“Then come back to the cabin with me. I won’t pressure you … for anything. Let’s just relax. We owe ourselves that much. It’s been a very rough and busy time for us both.”

For the first time she saw the lines of fatigue etched in the grooves by his lips, the faint furrows on his brow. Suddenly, it all came back as though there had never been a marriage proposal, a heart-wrenching refusal, an imposed break from the daily routine of her bustling practice in Manhattan, a long three weeks of constant work, the seed of their union growing inside her about which he must never know. Suddenly, there were only the two of them and the frightening bond which held them together.

What he read in her eyes she would never know. But when he stood, then reached down to help her to her feet, she acquiesced. She was simply without the strength to resist. Arms laden with her pocketbook and overnight bag, she silently walked beside him to the cabin.