rose in his throat. He’d humiliated himself. For a pretty piece of ass.
“I know I should have—”
Propelling her outside, he slammed the door in her face.
2
HE THOUGHT she wanted to use sex to buy his story?
Serena ran to the cabstand, clutching her coat tightly around her throat. The fury that had glittered in Max’s eyes stalked her. Her arm still stung where he’d gripped it. And yet, she hadn’t really been afraid.
Hailing a cab, she got in, banged her head against the backseat and ran her hands through her hair. She should’ve told Max who she was and what she wanted right from the start.
The cabdriver watched her warily in his rearview mirror.
“The Seaside Hotel, please.”
And what had happened to her professionalism? Had she completely lost her mind? Letting him kiss her? No, wanting him to kiss her. And enjoying it. Way to stay objective, Sandstone.
But there’d been something about him that drew her in. And it wasn’t just his wide shoulders beneath that thick, cable-knit sweater. There’d been a primal look in his coffee-colored eyes. A hunger…
Oh, good grief. In a minute she’d be waxing poetic about sexy loners. Obviously she needed to get laid more often than every year or so if this was how she reacted to being alone with a guy.
What was she going to do now? She’d missed her flight for nothing. It’d been an impulsive decision. One made more out of desperation than rational thinking. If the bush pilot had refused to be interviewed all these years, why had she thought he’d talk to her? But isn’t that why it would’ve been such a scoop? To get the ungettable interview? Now, more than ever, she wanted to know what he was covering up.
By the time she trudged into the Seaside’s lobby she still didn’t have a plan.
“Ms. Sandstone, welcome back,” said one of the concierges, heading her off before she could reach the reservations desk.
“Thank you. I don’t have a reservation for tonight, but I was hoping—”
“Absolutely no problem,” he interrupted. “Right this way.”
While the concierge checked her in and programmed her card key, she compared the luxurious lobby around her to the run-down motel where Max was staying. He obviously earned some sort of living flying supplies. So, was he a bad businessman, or did he choose to live like a derelict with that scruffy beard?
Funny how his appearance hadn’t turned her off at all.
“Shall I have a steward bring up your luggage, Ms. Sandstone?” The concierge handed her the room key.
“Er, no. Thank you.” It’d been too late to retrieve it from the plane. But she was nothing if not a veteran traveler. She kept everything from Anbesol to Zantac—including an emergency outfit and toiletries—in her huge purse. She’d used a portion of her emergency cash bribing the clerks for information on how to find the White Wolf, but she should have enough to last her a week, give or take, plus her charge cards.
She took the key. “Is Eric here this evening?”
“I believe he’s just leaving. I’ll try to catch him, if you’d like to wait?” He gestured toward the plush sofas around the piano bar.
“Thank you.” She settled into a club chair, pulled out her laptop and found the next flight to L.A. via Seattle. Then on impulse she checked flights into Barrow. There was one tomorrow morning with a layover in Fairbanks. She closed her laptop without booking either.
What if her father had given up at the first roadblock to his investigation?
“Ms. Sandstone?” Eric, her favorite concierge, strode up, a grin on his face. He was younger than Serena’s twenty-eight years, tall and lean, and if there were any rumors flying around, he heard them.
“How can I help this time?” He sat in the chair next to hers, folded his hands and crossed his legs.
Serena leaned forward. “What can you tell me about a mysterious plane crash a few years ago, where the man came into the emergency room pulling the other man on a sled?”
“Ah, the White Wolf. He’s practically become an urban legend.”
“Really?”
Eric nodded, leaning forward as well. “They say he runs drugs.”
“Drugs?” Serena’s stomach dropped in disappointment. “Why would people say that?”
Eric shrugged casually. “Too many things don’t add up. First, the day of the crash, the weather was clear. And, the missing men were said to be, not fishermen, but drug runners. Also, how is it that he has a new plane now? Even though the insurance has refused to pay out as long as he’s under investigation. And how was he able to retain his pilot’s license? What other answer is there?”
She hadn’t thought of that. How could he afford a new plane? “The newspaper called him Taggert. And he introduced himself to me as Max. Why is he called White Wolf?”
Eyes wide, Eric sat forward. “You’ve met him?”
“I asked him for an interview, but he, um…turned me down.”
“Serena.” Eric placed his hand over hers. “You should be really careful. He could be dangerous.”
Yes. She’d seen a taste of that tonight. But he’d also seemed…lonely.
“White Wolf is his native name,” Eric continued. “He’s half Iñupiat. Some say he’s a powerful shaman.” Eric laughed. “Maybe he used Inuit witchcraft to get his new plane.” He stood and buttoned his suit coat. “But, really, be careful.” He extended his hand and she shook it.
“Thank you.”
He nodded and strode off.
“Eric, one more thing,” she called after him.
He stopped and spun back to her. “Anything.”
“Do you know any other bush pilots that fly into Anchorage International I could speak with?”
Eric smiled. “If I don’t, I’ll find someone who does.”
Serena’s mind whirled as she made her way to the bank of elevators. Drug running? Inuit shamans? Native witchcraft? This could be a story of international intrigue.
Grabbing a notepad and pen from her purse, she started making a list. There must be a way to prove the identity of his passengers that day. If he’d been transporting drug lords, or anyone else, there had to be records of that.
The clear weather was another mystery. If the plane hadn’t really crashed, wouldn’t the sole surviving passenger’s injuries have revealed that? And why fake a plane crash to kill drug lords, and then drag one with him all the way to the hospital in Nome? She jotted a note to
