View this author's other titles

LENGTH: Long Category
SENSUALITY: Spicy

Cover art (c) Eliza Black 2004
ISBN 1-58608-477-1
Download $4.99
(s&h not included in price)

How is it that this man is able to control and dominate everything in his world except the tiny tender- hearted runaway with whom the town has fallen in love?

And what will happen when everyone discovers her secret?

Rating: Contains graphic sexual content and adult situations.

"Five Stars! Kathryn Anne Dubois has done an awesome job with RUNNING FROM LOVE. I enjoyed every bit of this fast-paced love story! With lots of action, you won’t find a more entertaining romance than this one." BJ Deese, eCataRomance Reviews

"…intense in the beginning, funny in the middle and coasts into a smooth finish. My first time to read author Kathryn Anne Dubois and her work lived up to my expectations. I will definitely look for her work again. Searing sexual tension, hidden secrets, the Alaskan wilderness and terrific characters make RUNNING FROM LOVE a very enjoyable book." Jennifer Ray for Road to Romance

RUNNING FROM LOVE

(IN ALL THE RIGHT PLACES)

by

Kathryn Anne Dubois

© copyright June 2004, Kathryn Anne Dubois

Cover art by

New Concepts Publishing

5202 Humphreys Rd.

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

Chapter One

Alex gripped the door handle as the single-engine Piper Cub lifted off. She was grateful that it had cleared the trees, because earlier when she climbed aboard from the small motorboat hauling a backpack and cameras, the Pilot, Cooly, had studied her with a skeptical eye, grumbling about her exceeding the weight limit. Just ahead of her now and all around she could see for miles--endless blue skies and a myriad of lakes that sparkled like glitter along the tundra. Trees, thick and green but stunted, carpeted the base of the bald jagged mountains that layered one in back of the other.

Sometimes the pilot would go around and through the sharp walls of granite, and sometimes he’d barely clear them and then dodge the next row that suddenly appeared.

She began to wonder if he knew what he was doing.

As if in answer, he took a sudden dive for a lake below and then spun into a 90 degree turn. When she white-knuckled the dash he chuckled softly.

For the first time since leaving Philadelphia, she questioned her sanity in coming here. While the thousands of acres of untouched landscape was beyond anything she could imagine, there was no sign of a road, let alone a house.

No sign of anything--people, help, a hospital, drug store to buy tampons. She felt the beginnings of a self-imposed panic attack and took deep breaths, reminding herself that the isolation it offered was exactly the point. Instead, she rehearsed the story she’d concocted and counted the minutes until she could plant her feet on the ground again.

An hour later Cooley spoke into the radio through clenched teeth, black spittle pooling at the corners of his mouth. Alex could only distinguish the words "buzz the camp" over the hum of the engines.

She closed her eyes as he leaned forward and with perfect aim spit into a small vessel in the corner of the miniscule cabin. The smell of rancid chewing tobacco in the claustrophobic cabin had her biting back the bile rising in her throat. This was male territory, Bush Alaska. She had better get used to it.

A voice scratched over the radio, signaling that they were close. As they rounded another mountain, it suddenly appeared--lush and pristine, untouched. She drew in a breath and pressed her face against the cool side window until Cooley tapped her shoulder and pointed for her to look ahead.

The nose of the plane dipped and dove straight for the shimmery blue of the water, dazzling in the high afternoon sun. The engines roared, and the dials on the dashboard spun crazily. Her heart leaped into her throat.

This can’t be how a floatplane lands.

Just as suddenly the plane nosed up and continued to climb until Cooley turned sharply and began another quick descent. The Rusty Rudder Café’s morning special of sourdough pancakes and blueberries flipped in her stomach. If this was how she would die, she only hoped it was quick.

To think, this was only her fifth flight ever. It took two flights to get her to Seattle, another to Anchorage, and because her final destination was so isolated, it took two more flights just to get her where they were headed now. She’d been flying for almost 24 hours. Was her first exploit off the East Coast to end in a watery grave?

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the beefy grin of the pilot. When he gave an abrupt yank on the throttle she knew her pale skin must have turned dust white. Her heart hammered as the plane hovered just a few feet above Snake Lake and then skidded and bounced off the glassy water several times before it came at last to a stop.

She slumped back against the worn vinyl seat and breathed a sigh of gratitude to the gods of fate. Cooley cut the engines and shook off his headphones, hooking them overhead. With a push of his shoulder he flung the door wide and stepped onto the floats.

The sudden silence and the clean scent of the air, cool against her heated skin, was a welcome relief.

But before she could catch her breath, Cooley called out to someone across the water.

"I got Hawk’s photographer for you." He let out a deep-barreled laugh. "Come and see." He poked his head back in and smiled at her. "You can get out now."

Hawk. He must be a local ... maybe Professor Sheppard’s assistant. She tightened the ponytail under her ball cap and tucked errant tendrils of curl under the rim before adjusting her sunglasses. It didn’t hurt to make a good first impression on the world-renowned expert in entomology.

Not that she cared about science or knew anything about it. She was lucky she made it out of eighth grade, but she wasn’t about to announce that to a stuffy old codger who studied bugs, a Ph.D. in biology and one of the University of Pennsylvania’s claims to fame.

She snapped off her seatbelt and tugged at the door. Ramming her shoulder against the padded flat of it did no good, so she waited for the pilot to come around. A quick wipe of the window over the dash showed two men wading through the water with long black boots that came up to their hips. She glanced at her own knee-high plastic rain boots.

When the Center for Young Artists awarded her the grant for this project, she’d had one week to get her stuff together. Her film and chemicals were what mattered most.

In between, she pieced together as much information about Alaska as time allowed. It wasn’t much, but she knew enough that May in Alaska meant thawing ground that turned to knee-deep mud. Now she knew why Cooley had the same boots as the others. While the water came to the tops of the men’s thighs, on her five-foot-two frame it would reach her waist.

She sighed. She’d just have to wade to shore.

Cooley stood in front of the plane waiting for the men, his craggy brows raised in amusement. A young man about her age with a Hard Rock Café t-shirt stretched over his lanky frame approached. His sunburned nose was peeling at its tip. He slowed down and gaped at her as he got closer. An older man followed a distance behind.

Cooley came around and flung the door open with a flourish. He grinned at her while the young man continued to gawk. Before she could puzzle over their strange behavior, the dark skinned man came up from behind and stepped around.

"Lemme see, Scott." He was about fifty, with a round face and only a trace of facial hair. His small deep-set eyes were dark and tilted at their ends, and his straight coarse hair, dark as coal, fell to his shoulders. A carved ivory ring pinched the flesh of his thick fingers. Dr. Sheppard? He looked too rough for a distinguished professor.

"Agsh sha pitt ouck." He stared. "A woooman?" he said in a guttural, harsh tone that sounded Russian.

"I told ya, Runner." Cooley grinned.

"Hawk’s gonna be pissed," Scott mumbled, pulling on his blonde goatee.

They turned in unison to the splashing sounds behind them, and Alex saw a third man in faded jeans and a worn blue work shirt coming at them. He was as tall as Scott but broader in build and more solid looking in every way, from the aggressive set of his jaw to the muscles of his forearms, bared by his rolled up sleeves. His wide brimmed safari hat and mirrored glasses shielded his face from her, but even at this distance she could see from the lines around his mouth that he wasn’t happy.

He raised his chin at Cooley. "You better be kidding." As they cleared a path, he bounded up to her, the water parting as though flowing out of his way. She was over four thousand miles from home--home as she knew it--in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by four men, with this man, double her size, looking anything but glad to see her.

Feeling herself on shifting ground, she mentally regrouped. This was no different from other problems she had faced. Whatever the confusion, she would land on her feet.

The hard-looking man ducked and peered into the cabin. Her confidence faltered as she found herself facing a jaw of steel.

"What the hell is this?" he said, his voice low. He studied her a minute before turning slowly to Cooley. "This can’t be Alexander Perry."

Cooley sniggered. "Like I told Runner here. This is Alex Perry, Hawk."

Alex had confronted enough men in her life to know it was safer to say nothing until you knew where you stood.

"Take her back." The man they called Hawk turned his back on the small group and flipped off his hat. As he walked away, a thick mesh of waves, restrained into a ponytail, fell down his neck and over his collar, dark against the light blue shirt.

Take her back? Who did he think he was?

She scrambled out onto the strut. "I’m here to see Dr. Sheppard," she called after him, making sure her voice was firm and steady. She might be little more than half his size, but she hadn’t let that stop her before.

He stopped and turned, his expression beneath the mirrored glasses betraying nothing.

She lowered herself carefully onto the float and straightened. "And I won’t leave until I see him."

"Is that right," he said and began walking slowly back to her.

Cooley guffawed. When the Hawk gave him a measuring look, the pilot clamped his hand over his mouth, but his shoulders shook.

Hawk came within a foot of her, and when he removed his glasses she met the coldest pair of eyes she had ever seen and as a photographer and aspiring artist she had studied plenty. The cobalt orbs held not a hint of light and dark lashes and brows added to his sinister aura. Couple that with the dark shadow of his beard on a razor-sharp jaw, and the effect would cause anyone to shudder. The only softness was his mouth, full and wide, but forming now into a hard line.

"You’re looking at him," he said, not a trace of emotion in his voice.

She had been afraid of this, but still she held out hope. "You’re Professor Sheppard?" Involuntarily her eyes dropped to his chest, down his long legs, and then swept up again.

She hadn’t intended to size him up, but this muscled male with unruly hair conflicted with her vision of the bespectacled absent-minded academic she had been expecting. No argyle sweater and wingtips? She probably should have factored in that this was rural Alaska. At least he could have accommodated her stereotype by having graying temples. But this man was too young. "Dr. Nicholas Sheppard?"

"You got it. I’m not happy either. This isn’t going to work. We were expecting a man." With a dismissive wave he motioned for Cooley to get back in the plane, but she held up her hand to stop him.

"I’m not going anywhere," she said, addressing Cooley and then turning back to Professor Hawk. "I came here to shoot this trip. I have a contract."

His eyes narrowed. "Let’s see that contract." He held out his hand.

She didn’t have one. Instead she retrieved the yellow envelope that held her introduction letter from Stephanie, the director of the community arts center in Philadelphia. The thought of Stephanie in her paisley skirts with her long braid trailing down her back with this Hawk didn’t fit. Stephanie and Dr. Sheppard had been colleagues at a university in the late ‘80s. Alex couldn’t picture the unassuming former hippie with this ... Neanderthal.

After he read the letter, he refolded it and handed it back to her. "Says here your name is Alex. They thought you were a man. Since you’re not, that settles it."

"What?" She took a step forward and nearly tripped into the water. When she flailed, he grabbed her up with amazing speed and thumped her back down onto the strut. The letter floated in the water between them. He picked it up and crushed it in one hand.

"Give me that." She grabbed for the paper, but he stuffed it in his shirt pocket.

"Like I said--"

"Stephanie knew exactly who and what I was."

She watched the men take in her nondescript jeans, long flannel jacket, ball cap, and dark square sunglasses so large they covered half her small face. All of it was carefully chosen to distract attention from her being female. What they didn’t know is that her unisex style of dressing had nothing to do with this assignment. She had adopted the strategy when she was fourteen. Life was safer when she did.

"Show me some identification."

She withdrew a billfold from her back pocket and gave him the ID card that allowed her access to the center’s darkroom. Since she would never risk getting a driver’s license, it was the only picture identification she carried.

"Take off your hat and sunglasses."

When she removed them, he blinked, and his nostrils flared on his straight nose for the briefest of moments before he glanced down at her picture. A muscle ticked in his jaw.

Cooley leaned in closer. "Pretty little thing, isn’t she?"

Hawk handed back her I.D. "No way you’re twenty-three and Native American," he drawled, looking her over again. "And this grant--"

"I am Native American. One quarter."

His lips tipped at one corner. "Blue eyes and red hair--"

"My hair is ... mahogany. I take after my grandmother on my father’s side."

Scott smiled at her. "It’s like new copper pennies." She tucked her hair hastily back into her cap.

Hawk eyed her. "And the freckles?"

"They’re ... blemishes."

Hawk lifted a dark brow.

Cooley jabbed his elbow at Scott. "I never seen blemishes that creamy." Scott shot him a grin.

Hawk gave them a silencing glare and then bore down on her. "You’re here under false pretenses. You may even be a minor--"

"I’m twenty-three, quarter Iroquois, and my name is Alex Perry. You can’t prove otherwise." At least one fact was true. After a lifetime of foster homes she found she could re-invent herself into anything, and she often had. "Besides, no other Native Americans applied, so I’m hardly taking anyone’s job."

Without another word he turned away and trudged back through the water, speaking to Cooley as he left. "Like I said, take her back."

"The university and the center agreed to this," she called after him. "I am not leaving."

He continued walking.

"How do you think your supervisors will react when I charge you with gender discrimination? There are laws against that, you know," she shouted at his retreating back.

He emerged onto the bank and disappeared through the trees.

She turned calmly to the small group of men staring at her and tipped back the brim of her hat. "Open that hatch please, so I can get my bags."

The native man, Runner, and Scott were watching for Cooley’s reaction. He shrugged at them and scratched his leathery cheek. "The Native Corporation paid me good money to bring her here. They like the idea of her snappin’ pictures of the area. I’m not takin’ her back."

Runner turned his expressionless face to her and studied her quietly.

Scott murmured. "Hawk’s gonna be real pissed."

Chapter Two

Spring comes slow in Alaska.

Too bad that bit of information reached Alex a little late.

When she spotted the small pockets of snow at the base of the trees, Scott explained that while the temperatures during daytime in early May would sometimes reach the fifties, the nights would dip low to freezing. She thought of her Good-Will sleeping bag and inadequate supply of clothes. The little nylon pup tent, a grandson’s discard borrowed from her neighbor across the hall, looked like a toy next to the heavy canvas ones set up in camp. And she doubted it was waterproof.

Her meager research covered information on Fairbanks and Juneau, which she found now were both hundreds of miles from here.

She cursed her ineptness as she had earlier when she realized that if she wanted to stay dry there was no way off the plane and onto land without Scott carrying her. She was grateful the Hawk wasn’t around to witness it. Although she had insisted she’d wade through the water anyway, Scott explained that her clothes would take too long to dry in the heavy damp night air. They were breaking camp in the morning and traveling up the river by skiff. As it was, she had few clothes with her anyway, having saved most of the space in her pack for her cameras and equipment.

Tonight’s dinner was to be fish and whole potatoes in their skins, baked over an open fire in the same tinfoil in which they were wrapped, cooked by Runner who she learned served as guide for Dr. Sheppard. After shooting the sun dipping behind the snow peaked mountains, she tried to do her part without getting in the way by washing the potatoes in the lake and collecting more kindling.

In between, she wandered, trying to get a handle on the land and the workings of the camp. She didn’t dare let on that she had never camped in her life. Not even for a school trip or the kind sponsored by girl scouts. Her only knowledge came from TV.

It appeared that the men used the lake for washing up. She wondered if they heated the water on the portable stove or if they were expected to tough it out. None of them looked like they shaved regularly, although Hawk’s growth was the most noticeable. As she picked up the kindling, she wondered about an outhouse. Portable toilet? She was at such a loss.

The sun was still high now at seven o’clock, but she could feel the chill coming on. When she left Philadelphia, the temperature had been almost eighty. She clutched her heavy flannel jacket tighter.

A twig snapped behind her. When she turned, Hawk was standing in the clearing, watching her. He had startled her, but she made no move to address him. She simply clutched the kindling tighter and waited.

After an eternity of her watching those dark eyes stare at her, he spoke, his voice low. "Don’t wander off."

She glanced around. "I was just--"

"I don’t care what you were doing. This isn’t Philly. The woods are teeming with wildlife, hungry for dinner."

"Oh ... I hadn’t thought--"

"I’m sure you didn’t, which is why I don’t want you here, among other reasons."

"What other reasons?" She regretted it the moment she said it, but it was too late to take back. She had no desire to get into a big debate with him, now or ever.

"I’m not fond of women. You won’t fit here."

Oh. Was that all. "Look, your sexual preferences won’t bother--"

"What?" He scowled.

Scott’s voice called to him from the direction of camp. "I’ve got dispatch on the radio, Hawk."

Hawk called over his shoulder that he was coming and then turned back and studied her a moment before he spoke again. "Make sure you listen to me."

She almost saluted him before she thought better of it and just kept quiet.

When he made no move to leave she tried not to fidget, but the silence grew heavy as the darkness settled around them.

She wasn’t afraid of him, exactly. In fact, she felt safer with him here. She sensed that nothing slipped his notice, and that was good, except when it included sizing up a city girl who hadn’t a clue what to do in the wilderness. He made her nervous.

When she tried to breathe, she realized she had been holding her breath. If she released it now it would come out in a long whoosh so she struggled to breathe out slowly through her nose. What was he staring at? He tilted his head. Finally, he turned and disappeared through the brush.

As soon as he did, she nearly choked out the air. For Pete’s sake, if she had to remind herself to breathe around the man, she wouldn’t last a day. She couldn’t allow him to intimidate her.

She glanced around, listening for danger, but the silence that surrounded her was deafening. Before she could attract any other wild creatures, she finished collecting the kindling and hurried back.

During dinner they sat on logs, circling the fire, and ate in silence. The fish was cooked to tender perfection in onions and butter, its skin sliding easily off the moist meat. Pike it was called, about two feet long.

She sat on the fallen log, enjoying the delicious aromas and the stillness of the wilderness, a quiet so different from the city and even the loud cricket sounds of the suburbs. She allowed the tranquility to envelope her, until the Hawk’s deep voice penetrated through.

"Don’t get too comfortable, you’ll be leaving tomorrow." His gaze lingered before he turned his attention back to his potato. She watched as he rolled it between long tapered fingers, eating it hot dog style.

He didn’t even give her the respect of awaiting a response. Probably didn’t expect her to protest.

She didn’t. For now, she said nothing.

With the Pike balanced on his knees, he picked up a large piece and popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly.

"I’ve radioed Stoyliganek."

She watched his jaw flex with each movement, the defining line sharp against his long neck. It occurred to her that his dark features against the healthy white of his eyes and teeth would make an excellent black & white.

"They’ll be patching a call from the Arts Center in the morning," he continued. She assumed he was talking to her, but she was more interested in studying his angular face. It would be a good contrast of shadows and textures: the patrician line of his nose, the hollowed high cheekbones, the rough arrogant chin. Charcoal would be a good medium, too.

"Did you hear me?" His brows knit together.

For an educated man, he seemed to suffer no compunction about his high-handedness. But she wouldn’t challenge a man like him. At least not outright. She knew how to pick her battles.

He must have taken her silence for acquiescence because next he turned to Runner and questioned him about the supply of ammunition and what temperatures to expect upriver. At the mention of bears and wolverine she listened closely, but they said no more.

Scott ripped into another potato, his face dark as he glanced at Hawk before fixing on the burning flames before them.

The lake made a silhouette against the steady fire and the snap of the logs was soothing in the stillness. With subtle shifts of the burning timber, sparks flew up and then sprayed, imitating small fireworks as the late evening sky grew darker. Another hole in her research.

The long days were a product of mid-summer just as the short ones marked mid-winter. Little more than halfway in between both seasons, the sun would set at nine o’clock versus the midnight she was told by well meaning people back East who didn’t know any more than she did.

They claimed you could read newspapers by moonlight. Scott had heard the same and assured her now that by June 21st in these parts it was true that the sun wouldn’t set until two in the morning. He was from New Jersey, a graduate student at the University of Pennsylvania, and doing an internship this summer with Dr. Sheppard, so he understood her confusion. She had immediately found an ally in him and was grateful for his help.

But now it was only eight o’clock, and she could feel the cold seeping in as the sun dipped further behind the mountains. Mountains that made the Pocono’s look like hills faced them along one side. She inched closer to the fire, mentally wondering how she would manage to keep warm tonight.

Any help she sought would further reinforce Professor Hawk’s claim that she was unsuited for the trip, and she couldn’t rely on Scott too much. He was new, too, here as Hawk’s assistant. Too bad he wasn’t the professor’s lover. She noticed the way Scott looked at her. She’d have to take care that she didn’t unwittingly encourage him.

Runner rarely spoke to anyone, least of all her, although when he did look at her, his gaze was one of curiosity rather than rancor. Still, she needed to do this on her own.

After she helped with a cleanup that consisted of tossing the foil into the fire and washing the few utensils in cold lake water with biodegradable soap, she excused herself to find a clearing to put her small tent. She picked a little spot within a cluster of trees at the end of the path. She was close enough to the others in case a wolf attacked or at least she hoped she was. She wouldn’t allow herself to think about it.

Clutching her lined flannel jacket tighter about her, she dropped down to her knees and emptied the contents of the tent sack, hoping to get settled before dark set in. There had to be directions with this thing.

One hour later, cold and exhausted, the round little dome teetered crookedly over a tiny bed of moss. She didn’t care. Jet lag had set in. After being up a full 36 hours, all she wanted was to crawl into her sleeping bag. But how was she to relieve herself? She wasn’t about to ask. Instead, she wadded up the napkins she’d taken from the café that morning and slipped off into the trees. She would save all the worrisome questions this posed for the morning.

The tent was too low to stand in, but, despite her exhaustion, she made herself change into a thick pair of sweat pants and wool socks. After tossing off her bra, she donned a heavy sweatshirt. With her bag of cameras tucked safely along one side of the tent, she zipped the sleeping bag around her and curled up. Her one luxury was the tiny pillow she had lifted from her flight. Glad that she had given in to temptation, she tucked it under her cheek and drifted off.

In what seemed like minutes later, she awoke, her body stiff, her ears alert to the sound of the howling wind. It smelled like rain. Damp and heavy. Moisture seeped through her bones, and she could feel the cold under her back. A layer of nylon tent, an imitation down sleeping bag, and thrift shop sweats proved not enough to keep her warm. She snapped on the flashlight and checked her watch, three AM.

She should have listened when Stephanie warned her about the cold, but she had used up almost every precious cent to purchase the telescopic lens that would allow her to get close-ups of wildlife without getting near. The Native Corporation had particularly requested she get shots of the abundant game.

And least now she didn’t have to worry about money. The grant covered airfare. And while this assignment came with no stipend, she did bring enough money to cover her personal needs, which were few. She was thankful that the university said her food was part of Dr. Sheppard’s generous budget for his team so the necessities were covered.

Dr. Sheppard. She couldn’t antagonize him. It was hard to think of him as a professor. Hawk fit him.

A low mournful howl sounded up the mountains, an eerie lament she only hoped was a good distance away.

She curled up tighter, drawing her body heat into her, although she hated to shift for fear of finding another cold spot in the sleeping bag. If she could just keep from shaking, she could make it until dawn. She avoided checking the time again, not wanting to wear down the batteries of her flashlight.

Forcing herself to think of other things, her mind wandered back to her earliest memories ... the scent of soap and wildflowers, the feel of silken hair, all vague recollections of her mother ... her mother tugging on the smooth strands as Alex twirled them around her fingers and sucked them between her lips. Her mother’s smile had long receded, only the scent and feel of her remained. Alex burrowed into the thoughts of those comforting sensations, stealing them away into the corners of her mind as she always had when she was troubled, and finally, she felt her body relax.