The Silver Fox

Chapter 8

Three open wooden steps led to the porch of the cabin. It was on the second that Justine tripped.

“Aaaahhh!” she cried out as she stumbled forward, ramming her elbow in the process. Though protected by the padding of her thick down parka, she nonetheless felt the impact. Her small overnight bag thudded to the ground, her pocketbook sailed forward, its contents spilling over the porch. “Damn!” she swore beneath her breath.

“Uh-uh. Not ladylike,” Sloane chided softly, reaching for her. “Are you hurt?”

Lips drawn taut in frustration, she pulled away, gingerly kneading her elbow as she looked up to scold him. “It’s just my funny bone … and I’m sure this is only the first of the accidents I’m bound to have in this primitive place.” But her annoyance was fast fading. Slowly a sheepish grin stole over her features. “See what you’re in for?”

“I can take it.” He smirked, putting down his own things to help her gather hers. “I’ll just have to keep a closer eye on you.”

Just what she needed, she mused in silent sarcasm, stuffing personal belongings back into her purse. “It’s a miracle this hasn’t happened before. But then, when there are others around I do just fine. It must be the bad influence you have on me,” she quipped puckishly.

“Could be.” His comment was a distracted one, his attention caught on something else. “What’s this?” Reaching down, he retrieved the plastic bottle containing her vitamins, those her doctor had prescribed and which she had taken, faithfully, every day.

“Vitamins,” she barked with undue haste, grabbing the bottle from his hand and stuffing it into her bag and out of sight.

“Do you always take them?”

“Yes.” A slight stretch of the truth, she reasoned.

“By prescription?”

“Yes. They are more effective than anything sold over the counter,” she explained, mustering every ounce of nonchalance she could find. “As you’ve seen, I work very hard.”

He eyed her skeptically for several moments before retrieving his things and leading the way into the cabin. Before she had even had a chance to look around, he was on his way out once more, ax in hand. “I’m going to chop some wood for the pile. Make yourself at home.” There was an undercurrent of tension in his voice, making her infinitely grateful for the moments of privacy he gave her in which she might collect herself and her scattered composure.

Several deep breaths bolstered her, enabling her to look for the first time around the cabin. Moving slowly, her eye perused the large, single room of the structure, absorbing the freestanding wood stove for heat to her left, the similarly footed wood-burning stove for cooking to her right, the rough-hewn table and chairs farther in, the built-in shelves and storage units all about, before finally coming to rest on the bed. One bed. Large. Anchored to the wall with long, steel spikes. Covered with layers of home-styled quilts. Beckoning and foreboding at once.

It was to the bed that her unsure footsteps took her, crossing the wide rust carpet which was intended for warmth. Slowly, she lowered herself, then looked about once more. How would she survive the intimacy of this cabin? Could she love Sloane freely, as every nerve end screamed to do, all the while knowing that, once back in New York, things would never be the same? There was her career, the fact that Sloane would have her in marriage or not at all, and … the baby.

For what seemed an eternity, the rhythmic hammer of the ax echoed through the silent wilderness, the closeness of the cabin, and the ache of her heart. Her mind’s eye pictured the ripple of muscles beneath the parka he wore, the flex of muscles in his arms as he would raise the ax, drive it downward, then raise it again. Yet, even amid her inner turmoil was the solace, strange but distinct, that Sloane was here to care for her. Rocked by the steady percussive beat, she slowly relaxed.

“There, that should do it for a while.” The tall figure burst into the cabin, his hair gleaming with the light behind, his eyes warm and deep. “Do you feel better now?”

“Yes.” Suddenly shy, she struggled to find something to say. “Am—am I supposed to be doing something here? I can’t just sit and watch you work.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not my way, and you know it, Sloane Harper.”

His grin seared its path to her heart as he turned from lowering the wood before the stove and approached. Parka removed, he wore only the wool shirt which clung to his damp chest. Perspiration put a sheen on his nose and forehead, his hair dipped into its moistness. “You could come out and keep me company while I fish for our dinner.” He arched an eyebrow in suggestion. “The fresh air would be good for you.”

“Hah! I’ve had more fresh air in the last few weeks than I’ve had in years. I’m not sure my lungs will be able to adjust to that thing they call air back home.”

“All the more reason to enjoy it now. Come on.” The tilt of his head seconded the invitation. Justine accepted it.

Moments later she found herself back on the dock, this time in better humor and engrossed in Sloane’s deft handling of the rod and bait. “What do we catch?” she asked.

“Depends what’s biting today. Could be salmon; more probably rainbow trout. If you look closely, you can see the breaking of the water as they come up to grab at insects. Look.”

Her eyes following his finger to the center of the lake, where, indeed, after a few minutes’ silent wait, the surface dimpled for a moment, then was still again. “What else should I be on the lookout for?” she asked facetiously. “Snakes? Sea creatures? Wolves?” Her eyes widened. “Bears? Oh, no, Sloane. You heard those stories right along with me. There are plenty of bears out here. Do you have a gun?”

His attention did not waver from his work. “There is one, I think, in the cabin, but I have no intention of using it unless we are in dire danger of attack. Most bears are simply curious. If you see one, just freeze and watch. Unless it is a mother with her cub—and the little ones are pretty big by this time of year—you will be in no real danger.”

“Very reassuring,” she sneered good-naturedly. “My real danger is from you, is that it?”

In place of the smart retort she had expected came a silence, shrouded by Sloane’s abrupt tensing. “No, Justine. Your only danger is from yourself and those preconceived notions you’ve built your life around. I pose no danger to you.”

Swallowing convulsively, she looked away. Unbidden came memories of an earlier discussion, one that had prompted the pain and anguish which only the discovery of her pregnancy had alleviated. Perhaps he was right. How simple it would be to give in to him, to agree to a marriage, even knowing how potentially devastating it might be. But, no. She couldn’t change her mind.

“If you brought me out here to sermonize, I won’t listen,” she murmured softly, her eyes glued to the far-off peaks.

His answer was as low. “Then I won’t waste my breath. The silence is too lovely to spoil, unless the talk is constructive.”

A new thought hit her. “How long are we going to be here, Sloane?”

“Gus will be back in three days. If the weather holds. And if his plane keeps flying. As he said, he may be late, but he always makes it.”

“You’ve been here before, haven’t you,” she asked, wondering why the realization hadn’t come to her sooner.

“To this cabin, no. Out there”—his eyes rose to the mountains—“yes. I was part of an expedition that scaled Mount McKinley nearly ten years ago.”

“Were you?” Enthusiasm softened her features quickly. “What was it like?”

He thought for a minute, searching for the words to describe the experience. “It was cold and long. It was the most trying thing, physically, that I’ve ever done. It was also the most exhilarating, the most satisfying, the most climactic. Almost.”

“Almost?” Without thinking, she prodded him. “And what was the most climactic?”

The hold on his line slackened as he turned intense eyes toward her. “Making love to you, Justine … that topped everything.”

“Sloane,” she moaned, turning her back to him in self-defense. “Why do you say things like that?”

“Because it is true. You wanted the truth, didn’t you? Or would you rather I cushion everything I tell you?”

“No, of course not,” she whispered softly. “It’s just … it makes things … so difficult.”

“Only if you make them so.” Propping the fishing line between his knees, he touched her. For what seemed to be the first time in an eternity, his hands closed over her shoulders and brought her back against him, half-turning her in the process. Instinctively, she finished the turn, burying her face against the warm fabric of his shirt, breathing in his scent and its intoxicating freshness.

God, how she had missed just this, she realized with shock. Much as she had put the physical from mind in the all-encompassing demands of the expedition, this was what her body craved. Her arms stole around his back as she hugged him, mindless of all else but his warmth.

“Whoa!” he cried suddenly. “Wait! I’ve got a bite!” Sure enough, within minutes, a large fish lay fluttering its last bit of life out on the aged wood planks. “Trout! Perfect! We’ll dine in style tonight, my dear!” he drawled, infinitely pleased with himself—as, to her surprise, Justine was with him.

They did dine in style that night. The rusticity of the dark log cabin took nothing from the meal of trout, vegetables, and potatoes, the last two from the supplies they had brought. Even the pains of adjusting to the primitive wood stove as a cooking vessel were forgotten with the first sips of wine and the final taste of fresh-brewed coffee.

“Whose cabin is this, anyway?” she asked as, together, they cleaned up later.

“A young couple, originally from Fairbanks, built this several years ago. They are back in the States, visiting with relatives before the winter sets in. They kindly agreed, through an agent, to lend us the use of their home.”

“They built it themselves?” she asked, eyeing the low-beamed ceiling, the close-fitted walls.

“Uh-huh. It is a traditional Alaskan trapper’s cabin, the same design that has been used for years. It is built snugly to serve as protection against the cold … and the mosquitoes.”

“I haven’t seen any mosquitoes.”

“The season, my dear,” he crooned softly, his tone at far odds with the topic of discussion. “The mosquitoes are rampant during June and July. It is too cool and dry for them now. We’re lucky. The droning can drive one insane, not to mention the welts they raise. Alaskans do things big … including their mosquitoes.”

Justine laughed easily. “We heard about those mammoth blueberries. Do you think we’ll find any here?”

“Could be. The growing season is short, but the sun shines for such long hours during that time that things seem to grow beyond normal limits. We’ll go looking tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. But, she asked herself, what about tonight? With the last of the meal finished and cleaned, her eye roamed helplessly to the bed. That one, large bed.

“You go on.” He read her mind. “I want to sit up awhile and make some notes for myself.”

“I—I didn’t bring a nightgown,” she mumbled, half to herself. “I more or less assumed that I’d have my own room in a hotel. It seemed silly to pack lots of extras.” Even to her, the rationalization sounded feeble.

Sloane was unfazed. “I presume you’re wearing long johns beneath those jeans and top?” His gaze speared her.

“Y—yes.”

“Then wear those. It will be pretty cold before the night is through.”

Given all they’d been through together and particularly given the fact that she carried his child within her, modesty seemed ludicrous. Yet, Justine could not get herself to relax. Sidling uncomfortably toward the bed, she slowly and reluctantly removed her boots, then her heavy denims and her wool sweater. The chill itself hastened her movements at the end, though she was appreciative of Sloane’s preoccupation with his papers on the far side of the room. The weight of the quilts fell in welcoming array about her, yet sleep was elusive.

How long she lay, thinking, wondering, imagining, she couldn’t tell. Though the sun had stayed late, its glow had now deserted the small, single window at the front of the cabin. The kerosene lamp by which Sloane worked cast an orange luster about him, its warmth a reflection of that which stole through her quivering limbs. Defensively, she turned her back and snuggled into the far corner of the bed. But, while she might deprive her eyes of the sight of him, his image was vivid in her mind, his presence alive in her senses. When his soft footfall and the rustle of clothing heralded his approach, she stiffened, cringing farther from him. It wouldn’t work, she told herself. Yielding to him now would accomplish nothing but a renewal of that devastating torment. But was that worse than the agony she suffered, wanting him, needing him, loving him as she did?

The bed yielded beneath his weight. His hand reached for her. “Justine?” His gentle whisper was nearly drowned out by the thudding of her heart. “Justine? Come here.”

Had it not been for her telltale quiver, she might have feigned sleep. But he would know, with those dark and cunning eyes that saw through her as no others could. Silently but determinedly, she shook her head.

“Justine … it’s cold. Let me warm you.”

Again, she shook her head. “I’m fine.”

“You’re shivering.”

“I’m not cold.”

“That’s just my point.”

Once more he had cornered her, caught her in a trap of her own making. The fox lay in wait beside her. How could she escape? “Please, don’t, Sloane,” she begged softly. “Please let me sleep.”

“Is that what you really want? You’ve always been true to your own feelings, Justine. Don’t stop now. Is sleep what you really want?”

His question only added to her torment, embodying it, putting it into poignant words. What did she want? The night hung heavy, dark and still, as she wrestled with the dilemma. Her mind said one thing, her body another. Tears gathered behind her closed lids as she held off, held off, fighting what must surely be the inevitable. For she wanted Sloane. It was as simple as that.

With a low sob, she turned and covered the inches that separated them, drawn into Sloane’s body, against his manly warmth, with an intermingling of arms that locked the union. She was home. At last. It mattered not for how long. All she knew was that she had come home.

Her tears dampened the firm skin of his shoulder as his arms caressed her shuddering form. “Shhh. It’s all right, sweetheart. I love you.”

“I—I know. I know,” she wept softly, clinging to, him with every ounce of strength she possessed.

He held her until her crying ceased, offering himself as a willing pillow for her pale-copper head, as welcome support for her quaking limbs. “Love me, Sloane,” she murmured, as the tears dried and her fingers relaxed their grip to travel over the planes of his bare flesh.

Moaning, he gently slid the thermal jersey over her head, crushing her against him, then worshipping her curves, one by one, with his hands, his lips, his tongue. If he noted a greater fullness in her breasts than that attributable to the heat of passion, he made no mention of it. Her body arched against him, warm and demanding, growing more and more aroused as he coaxed her to peaks unimagined.

“I need you, Justine,” he groaned thickly, his hands helping her peel the covering from her slender legs. “You can’t imagine—”

“I know,” she interrupted in a whisper, seizing the opportunity to lead his body to the height of awareness at which she waited. The leanness of his muscles trembled beneath her questing fingers, making his breathing more ragged than before. His arousal was warm and strong, a pulsing requisite to their mutual satisfaction.

At the apex of desire, she welcomed him, receiving him with warmth, enveloping him with warmth, as his own warmth filled her. Together they scaled that peak, groping ever higher toward that star-filled summit, loving onward and upward, locked in the embrace that brought them finally to the pinnacle for a joyous moment of delirium which hung high and free in mindless suspension, before slowly beginning the downward cascade.

His flesh melded with hers as the wonder of it all held them in breathless ecstasy. Then, as their tremors eased, he shifted to lie beside her, holding her firmly against him. “McKinley pales in comparison, doesn’t it?” he gasped, his lips warm against her closed eyes.

“Ummmm.” Words could not express the pleasure he had given her, any more than could the life’s-beat of her heart so close to his. As they had shared the height of rapture, so they shared the haven of sleep which stole over them. Only the lonely hoot of the horned owl and the anguished howl of the lone wolf broke through the stillness of the night—but they were oblivious to it all. Their only reality was the warmth of each other, and they slept.

Morning brought the feather-softness of warm lips against Justine’s eyes. Slowly, she opened them, startled, then eased as the events of yesterday surged back in divine detail. A lazy smile curved the corners of her lips. “Good morning,” she whispered. “What time is it?”

“Somewhere in the vicinity of ten. How did you sleep?” His voice was soft and low by her ear. Instinctively, she turned her head toward it.

“Ten? It’s late! Shouldn’t we—”

A strong finger against her lips stilled her voice. “No, we shouldn’t. There’s no reason to get up, nothing at all to do. Isn’t it lovely?”

Her grin was a mirror of his own. “It is.” What was even more lovely was the length of hair-roughened leg that wound between her own smoother limbs. Her curls fell across his chest as she rested her cheek next to his heart. “You lied to me, Sloane.”

“Oh? When have I ever lied?”

“You told me, that first day I met you, that you talked in your sleep. I’ve spent three nights with you now, and I haven’t once heard you talk.”

“You wear me out. What strength have I got to talk, much less dream. Or”—he paused, a trace of mischief in his voice—“perhaps it’s you who is worn out. Perhaps I do talk, but you sleep through it all.”

“No way! I’m not that used to sleeping with someone that I’d miss something like that. So I’m not to learn the business secrets?”

“You already know most of them, sweetheart.” His arms settled around her, drawing her more comfortably against his body. “And I doubt that there’s much that that sharp legal mind of yours misses, anyway.”

“You’d be surprised,” she murmured, half to herself, thinking of how fully she’d missed the cunning approach he’d taken to her seduction. Not that she’d minded it in the end; last night had been worth every second. Even now, in hindsight, the stirring of desire was not far away. “So”—she cleared her throat of its thickness—“what do we do today?” Angling her head up, she propped her chin on his chest, resting her forearms across its sinewed breadth.

Sloane regarded the low-slung rafters as he listed off the possibilities. “We could walk in the woods, paddle around the lake in the canoe that’s out back, hunt for berries …”

His voice fell victim to a lazy amusement as he looked down at her, then shifted her onto her side and turned to face her. “What will it be?” he crooned, gently brushing a wispy red curl from her brow, then letting his hands fall lower onto her body.

“I’d like to go berry picking,” she began, then sharply sucked in her breath at the riot caused by his wandering touch. “It’s an idyllic thought … romantic. We could … walk through the woods … in … the bright sunlight …”—she draped her leg over his, her breath coming in ever shorter gasps—“hand in hand … Adam … and Eve …”

“It’s cold out there,” he rasped, needing her.

“We could … get … dressed … aaahh … very … warmly”—she gasped again as he filled her—“and … then … bake a … pie … with … the … ooooh, Sloane …” He moved inside her, warm and throbbing, driving the train of thought from her mind. “You feel so good …”

They were silent for a long time, their mouths occupied in the more crucial acts of kissing and exploring, finding new places and deeper secrets. If Justine had thought McKinley to be awesome, the new peak they scaled was no less than mind-boggling, both in its height and its reverence. Long after, they lay in limb-mingled stupor, savoring the beauty of the act and its underlying emotion. It was nearly noon before they stirred again.

The morning’s mist had long since risen from the lake when they ventured out to walk, to enjoy nature’s splendor. Through the eyes of lovers, the world was that much more spectacular. All thoughts of the Outside were pushed into oblivion in favor of the time they both knew was precious.

Underbrush brittle in the early fall’s chill crunched beneath the soles of their boots. The air was white at every exhalation. Justine could now fully appreciate the clothing that Sloane had suggested she wear, for the layered garments were utterly necessary against the cold.

“It’s hard to believe that this is still August.” She pulled her collar more tightly around her neck. “Is there any real summer here?”

Sloane took her hand, tucking it within his, then into the pocket of his parka. “In June and July, when the sun shines for twenty hours of the day, it can get pretty warm—well into the sixties. But when you stop to consider how close we are to the arctic circle, when you think of those glaciers farther south and look at that snow on the mountains over there, sixty degrees sounds very warm.”

The High One, toward which his eye gravitated, was reflected in perfection on the surface of the lake. Her mind made a photograph of the majestic scene—the peaks, the trees, the ferns, the lake, then the twin image in reverse below. As they walked on, there were other sights, many as exciting to store in memory.

There were cranberry bushes approaching their bright red autumn hue, their fragrance creating a luxuriant bouquet. There were the trees, hovering high overhead, much taller now above them than when dwarfed by the mountains. There were the sounds of the wild forest—the flight of the ground squirrel, the twitter of the birds, the rustle of the leaves as a cool breeze stirred up to play in their midst.

“It’s all so fresh and untouched,” Justine whispered, reluctant to impose the sounds of humanity on the natural bounty.

“That’s precisely what has drawn so many people up here from the lower forty-eight.” Sloane’s appreciation was no less than hers, though he had seen it all before. “They come in search of adventure, of purity and simplicity. Unfortunately, many find themselves in even worse straits once they get here.”

Justine recalled some of the bush villages they had visited. “It must be very different to live here year round than just drop in for a short time, as we are doing.”

“The rugged ones survive,” he spoke his thoughts aloud. “Others are forced to become rugged if they hope to survive. Still others admit failure and either return home or migrate to the cities. The rates of alcoholism and suicide are appalling.”

“That’s precisely why legislation is needed for programs to deal with it.” Justine had made voluminous notes on the topic, based on things they’d seen and learned in the past three weeks. “Is there any hope of passing such legislation? It’s one thing to propose it, to point out the problem, but there must be a commitment on the part of the government to follow through.”

Sloane’s gaze held admiration as it warmed her. “It was the government that hired CORE International in the first place. I’m assuming that if they’ve made the commitment to us, they will be willing to go further. Actually,” he continued, leading her back in the direction of the lake, “the government—at least, this present governor— is committed. With money pouring in from the oil pipeline, there should be plenty to fund social service programs such as you have in mind. He would like a legislative commitment before he leaves office. Unfortunately, the windfall has prompted many citizens to spend wildly. That’s where we come in. It’s our job to make specific recommendations … and then hope.”

Later that afternoon they returned to the woods carrying containers which soon brimmed with the largest blueberries Justine had ever seen. Even later the cabin was filled with the delicious aroma of freshly baking pie. In this warm and heady haven, the love they shared knew no bounds. As the heat of the oven warmed the air, their passion sparked, flared, then exploded in a cataclysmic lovemaking that left Justine trembling in awe. How each joining could take her higher than all others before she couldn’t imagine. Yet Sloane knew the ways of love and his Lessons were endless.

“How can a lawyer be such a good cook?” he asked later, their lips moistly blue from the goodies on which they’d feasted.

“How can a sleeptalker be such a good lover?” she teased in return, leaning forward to kiss the last of the sweets from his lips.

And so it went—a bounty of love growing ever larger, ever deeper as one day melded into the next. One early morning found them at the shoreline, admiring the lacy ribbons of ice which the night air had laid there. “Look at those tracks.” Sloane had pointed to the moist dirt at the edge of the ice. “Beaver, muskrat, possibly mink. All wandering freely here.” One dusky evening found them on the dock, sitting quietly in awe of the moose and her calf feeding on the succulent aquatic vegetation beyond their view beneath the surface of the water.

Their days were filled with quiet adventure, their nights with tender love. When they awoke on the morning of their last day in the cabin, Justine knew a regret she would not have imagined three days before. “I wish we could stay here forever,” she whispered against his throat. His pulsepoint raced, as did hers, in the aftermath of a fiercer lovemaking than they’d known yet. It had been as though each had fought for something extra, as though each had known that this might be the last.

“We could come back here every summer,” he spoke more solemnly, “if you were my wife.”

“Sloane—” she began, only to be interrupted.

“I want you to marry me, Justine. Nothing can change my feelings.”

From the far recesses of her mind the subject of marriage sent a chill through her, intruding abruptly on the warmth of the closeness they shared. She remained silent for long moments, as her hands slipped from his chest and she lay back on the bed. When she finally spoke, her voice was hushed.

“It’s unfair to discuss this now.”

“Why?” Sloane loomed suddenly above her, his dark eyes filled with challenge. “Why shouldn’t we discuss it now? These few days should have shown you what it would be like.”

“That’s exactly it,” she argued. “These few days have shown me how much I love you. But these days have been spent in a kind of fantasy. This life, this cabin, these woods aren’t the real world as you and I both know it. The real world for us is back in New York, in the city, with our respective work and offices. I’ve fought a long time to get where I am, Sloane. You have to understand that.”

His jaw moved in, tensing. “I’m trying. Believe me, I’m trying. But I’m beginning to lose patience.”

“Patience? Is that all it takes to make a marriage work? You may have climbed Mount McKinley, but, from what I’ve seen, it takes a lot more stamina, a much longer haul to make a marriage work—really work.”

“And you’re not willing to try?” His lips were thinned, his muscles taut.

“It’s not just me to consider,” she began, then stopped herself in shock at the confession she’d nearly made. Carefully she chose her words. “I’ve seen what a poor marriage, even a mediocre one can do to children. And I’m sure you want children.” Her green-eyed gaze speared him with undue intensity.

“In time. But that’s not the central issue. I will never marry purely for the sake of having children. I want the happiness that would come from spending the rest of my life with the woman I love. And I love you, Justine.”

His reasoning was too sure, his words too close to her heart. If she listened any longer, she might well give in. And that she could never do. In time he might want children. Well, she reminded herself, there was to be one in six short months—not much time to work the bugs out of a new marriage. “I can’t,” she whispered in misery, scrambling from the bed and searching for her clothes. “You ask too much.”

Sloane said nothing, merely lay back on the bed and threw a strong forearm across his eyes. Justine’s heart ached in anguish, yet she knew what she must do. Dressing quickly, she dashed outside, fleeing the lair of the Silver Fox. As she sat on the dock, waiting for him to join her with their bags, the war raged on within herself, heart against mind, until her stomach churned. It was only a sharp pain in her side that gave her warning that, if she did not pull herself together, she might lose it all.

Sloane didn’t broach the topic again, yet it hung between them as an impenetrable wall. Conversation was light, nearly nonexistent, as the small float plane returned them to Fairbanks, where his private jet awaited them. The long flight to New York seemed even longer this time, though there were no diversionary lunches in Atlanta to slow them. It was only as they circled Kennedy International Airport that Sloane approached her. He looked strangely haggard, considering the pure relaxation they’d indulged in during the past few days. And the air of defeat about him carried only a hint of the pride she’d grown to love.

“I think that I’ve reached the end of my tether, Justine,” he began softly, sitting stiffly beside her in the empty aft cabin of the craft. “You know that I love you and that I want to marry you. If you still refuse me, I would rather we sever the entire relationship.”

Her heart lurched; her stomach turned. It was inevitable, yet no easier to accept. Eyes rounded in green-glazed apprehension, she listened.

“It might be better if you gave your notes, your proposals, to another member of the firm. I think that the work would be better accomplished without the tension that would exist between us.”

Tears blurred the image of her hands, knotting themselves in her lap. “So I’m to be fired?” she whispered, appalled at her resort to half humor.

“In a word, yes. Your work on this expedition has been exceptional. Let’s just call it … a difference of opinion. Irreconcilable differences. Is that better? A divorce before the marriage. That’s what you’ve assumed all along, isn’t it?”

Justine raised her head to argue, but Sloane’s back was to her, long strides taking him forward to the cockpit. Swallowing the knot in her throat, she was less successful with the tears. As the plane touched down on home turf, she knew it was over. Had she planned it all along? Was Sloane right? But she would never know. He had left her himself. It was too late. Placing dark glasses over her eyes, the same ones that had kept the glare of the arctic sun from scorching her, she gathered her things and left the plane, his love, and a future with Sloane—all behind.