Playing Dirty in Alaska

By Samanthe Beck

Bush pilot Bridget Shanahan runs from responsibility like a child runs from a dentist appointment, but when her brother leaves the family’s airfield in her hands, she knows it’s time to step up and behave like a Responsible Adult™. So of course that’s when Archer Ellison III blows into her tiny town of Captivity, Alaska, every inch the hot-as-hell mistake that most definitely belongs in her past. Been there, done that, and didn’t even get to keep the commemorative sweatshirt.

Archer has only ever had two goals. Now that he’s built his own empire outside his father’s company, he can move on to goal #2—winning back the one who got away by whatever means necessary. He knows it won’t be easy. Bridget Shanahan is older, wiser, more self-assured, and jaw-droppingly stunning…and doing everything she can to pretend the scorching chemistry between them doesn’t exist.

But fate is on his side. After an impulsive bet that would have sent Archer packing goes awry, Bridget is officially stuck with him. Which is really inconvenient, since falling for Archer again is the least responsible thing she could do.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Jan 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9781649372697

Samanthe Beck

USA Today bestselling author Samanthe Beck lives in Malibu, California with her husband, their turbo-son, and two furry ninjas named Kitty and Frosty. When not writing fun, sexy, contemporary romances or lazing on her beach towel with her face snuggled to her Kindle, she searches for the perfect ten dollar cabernet to pair with Ambien. Connect with Sam via her website at www.samanthebeck.com to check her progress on that never-ending quest, or to get the latest on her upcoming books.

Book preview

At Entangled, we want our readers to be well-informed. If you would like to know if this book contains any elements that might be of concern for you, please check the book’s webpage for details.

https://entangledpublishing.com/books/playing-dirty-in-alaska

To everyone who couldn’t wait to return to Captivity!

Chapter One

Bridget Shanahan watched Wyatt Wingnut Jensen abandon eye contact yet again and drop his attention to the front of her shirt.

One glance at her tits? Possibly her imagination. Two glances? Maybe the man had something in his eye.

Three glances, though? Especially during her riveting barstool re-enactment of some fairly epic flight maneuvers she’d executed that afternoon to avoid ice shearing off the face of Big Kat Mountain? No. Just no. They were nice enough tits, she acknowledged, but her long-sleeve white T-shirt didn’t do much to show them off. Three glances meant Wing was suffering from spring fever and hoped she’d offer a cure.

The old Bridget might have considered the current square on the calendar—April Fool’s Day—and thought, Why not? Wing was single, like her. Free as a bird, like her, and, like her, prone to view sex as a purely recreational pursuit. Empirically speaking, he possessed some eye-catching assets of his own. But despite a months-long, guilt-inflicted dry spell which probably accounted for the edgy restlessness prickling under her skin all day, new Bridget stopped to consider factors beyond opportunity and convenience.

Factor one, their friendship. They’d known each other all their lives. Twenty-five years offered ample time to recognize that, pretty as he might be, there just wasn’t any real spark. Not on either of their parts. If Wing was checking out her tits in the middle of The Tipsy Goose, they were definitely the only available tits in the vicinity. That happened from time to time in their tiny hometown of Captivity, Alaska. Tourist season alleviated the limited offerings, but they had a few more weeks before the season kicked into gear.

Factor two, he worked as a mechanic for Captivity Air & Freight, the Shanahan family business now run by her older brother Trace and—much as she hated to admit it—her. As of three short weeks ago, she’d agreed to commit more of her time to the airfield in a managerial capacity instead of a bat-out-of-hell bush pilot. Trace needed her to grow up and step up, and she’d promised to start pulling her weight. She might not have a business degree, but she suspected don’t fish off the company pier now applied to her. Probably always had. Oops. Shame on old Bridget. New Bridget intended to behave like a responsible adult. Behave professionally. Be the kind of woman people could rely on.

Factor three? Any second now Trace was going to whip out a ring and ask former high-powered Los Angeles attorney Isabelle Marcano to marry him.

An outsider might find The Goose, with its scarred plank floors, eclectic wall art of geese in all their long-necked, pin-headed glory, and general ambiance of a tarnished, old-western saloon an inauspicious location for a proposal. To her it made perfect sense that he planned to pop the question right there, surrounded by most of the local busybodies who had done their best to sell Izzy on the charms of Trace and Captivity.

A tough sell on both counts.

She wanted to be there for the big moment and for the celebration that would surely follow. Not just because she loved her brother, but because she couldn’t have picked a better match for him than the smart, sexy city girl who’d come to Captivity to help Trace transfer his interest in the airfield to an outside purchaser, realized he was divesting for all the wrong reasons, and risked her spot on the partnership track to make sure the client she’d fallen in love with didn’t sell himself short.

Hey, Bridge? Wing finished his beer and aimed a smile at her. Wanna get out of here and go for a drive? I put new shocks on the Tacoma. We could test ’em out.

And there it was. Translation: want to park behind the airfield and leave your boot prints on my headliner?

Sorry. No can do. She looked down the bar. At a solid six-five, her brother proved easy to spot. Izzy, at five-four, not as much, but she made her way across the room toward Trace, relying on truly enviable red-soled heels to bolster her presence. This thing was about to go down.

Hopping off her stool, she gave Wing a grin and a shoulder bump. You’ll just break my heart as soon as the first cute coed walks into the terminal and asks you where the summer trail guides are supposed to meet for orientation.

Such a lie. Her heart had been broken long ago, so thoroughly she’d opted not to piece it together and hand it out again. Better to live with the old scars. They rarely troubled her nowadays. She knew how to avoid causing herself pain.

Aw, Bridge, your heart’s safe with me, Wing called after her.

Still grinning, shaking her head, she moseyed away, putting a little extra sway in her hips just to show him she appreciated the friendly offer.

Ford Langley, ex-Special Forces operative, current owner of The Tipsy Goose and aspiring brewmaster, manned the bar, as usual, serving up beers while chatting with Rose Iquat, the proprietress of the adjacent Captivity Inn, her daughter, Delilah, who Bridget counted as one of her best friends, and old Jorg Hendrickson, who ran a fishing boat—and his mouth—with equal abandon. Other locals occupied tables. Older couples, like Annie and Ben Watkins from Watkins’s General Store. Hoop and Carl, who practiced the law and bent the law, respectively, in their roles as attorney and nature activist. Lenna and Tom Klukwan shared a table with them. Lenna served as Jill of all trades at the airfield, from ticket agent, to gate agent, to ground transportation coordinator. They’d be lost without her.

The only local missing from this scene? Fellow bush pilot Maddox Mad Dog Douglas. Excellent fly-boy. Occasional boy-toy for the old Bridget. Voluntary holder of the short straw tonight when it had come time to decide who would stay behind at the airfield to play welcome wagon for some hotshot from Cali in his custom private plane. The guy wanted to hanger his million-dollar baby at their facility for the next little while, which, to them, meant money for nothing. Mad didn’t mind staying late. He practically came in his pants at the prospect of playing with the plane.

Bridget slid in next to Lilah while she kept her eyes on Trace and Izzy. Conversation in The Goose subsided when Trace pulled a ring from his pocket and made his case to the love of his life, complete with some unsolicited audience participation, but that had to be expected considering the whole town’s fondness for interfering.

Izzy’s Yes! and wobbly laugh bounced around the room, her eyes turned suspiciously bright, but the hand she extended to Trace held steady. He took it and slipped the ring onto her finger. While everyone clapped and cheered, Bridget’s eyes suddenly felt a little watery, too. Her big brother was getting married.

The newly engaged couple kissed. Bridget’s jaded heart did a silly, fluttery thing, and then the room erupted in more cheers and applause. A cork popped, and seconds later Ford filled flutes of champagne he’d lined up on the bar. Toasts were made, hugs and back slaps exchanged.

Asserting sisterly privileges, she wedged herself between them, gave Trace a big hug and a smacking kiss on the cheek. Congratulations. Turning, she gave Izzy a slightly gentler version of the same. I’ll sign up for bridesmaid duty, but just so we’re clear, I draw the line at seafoam green taffeta.

Understood, Izzy said solemnly, but obviously I have to make the bridesmaids’ dresses extra ugly if you and Lilah agree to stand with me.

Ugly’s fine. Just no seafoam.

Lilah came in for hugs as well. The three of them talked wedding dresses while Ford topped off their drinks. Just as the last of the edgy restlessness that had plagued her all day receded, someone reached around and covered her eyes. A warm, hard body leaned close. Close enough for her to inhale a sophisticated male scent that still made her pulse leap after four long years.

Hey, Bridge. Guess who?

Archer Ellison III. Only one guess needed. His voice, low and playful, had the power to raise the tiny hairs along the back of her neck. She stiffened, tightened every muscle in her body, and actively restrained herself from throwing an elbow into the unprotected abs behind her. Satisfying as it might be, resorting to violence would give away far too much. A person looking to prove herself a responsible adult didn’t resort to violence. Unfortunately.

Inhaling slowly, she took a stabilizing breath. Better. Then she forced her lips into a smile. Shaking his hands off, she turned and stared at her surprise visitor with a haughty calm she wished she actually felt. She actually felt like that elbow to the abs she’d restrained herself from throwing had landed in her own gut, leaving her breathless and shaky. More reactions she refused to let show.

Winging a brow, reinforcing her I-don’t-give-a-shit smile, she said, Little Archie Ellison, as I live and breathe. I didn’t realize you were tonight’s arrival. Must have been a rough flight. You look a little worse for wear.

There was nothing little or worse for wear about Archer. Not from the tips of his short, perfectly windblown golden blond hair to the toes of high-end black hiking boots, nor any part of the rangy, muscle-hewn body in between. The gray cashmere sweater didn’t disguise the breadth of his shoulders and chest. The black jeans cupped and conformed to truly spectacular territory beneath. He looked like an expensive adventure. One she’d already had and knew she couldn’t afford.

The confident glint in his emerald eyes said he knew damn well he passed muster, but he let her bitchy observation slide without comment. You’re beautiful. More beautiful than ever.

Drink it in while you can, ’cause I’m on my way out. She looked over at Trace. I’m off to—she gestured vaguely—do the thing.

Right. He nodded. God bless him. The thing. Take care.

Always. She winked, then, because new Bridget still qualified as a work in progress, she pivoted, braced the toe of her work boot on the brass rail that ran along the bottom of the bar, leaned across, and grabbed hold of poor, unsuspecting Ford. Later, she promised in her best approximation of a seductive voice and fused her lips to his. Ford hadn’t survived ten years of hush-hush military work by being slow on the uptake. He cupped a hand under her jaw and held her there while he returned her kiss with what would certainly pass for enthusiasm. She owed him. Big.

Their kiss went on. And on. Rose muttered something in Tlinget that basically translated to, What the fuck?

After several suspended seconds of what-the-fuck, Ford eased his grip. They slowly parted. Smiling wide for her primary audience of one, she dropped back down to the floor, turned, and with every ounce of resolve in her sauntered out of the bar despite strong survival instincts urging her to run as fast and as far as possible.

She made it all the way down the street and into her Yukon before she let herself release a sound. Braced for a scream of fury, her system wasn’t prepared for the anguish that erupted instead. Loud and painful in the confines of the vehicle, it tore out of her like something wrenched from her soul.

The only man who’d ever had her heart, then shattered it like a cheap wineglass and walked out of her life, had just walked back in.

Quickly, impatiently, she brushed the tears from her cheeks and firmed her chin. Then she faced her reflection in the rearview mirror. Enough. His ambush had momentarily gotten the better of her, but the moment was over. She would not shed another tear over Archer.

She knew why he was here, more or less.

She knew what he wanted, at least in part.

She didn’t know—didn’t have the first clue—what the fuck she was going to do about it.

This April Fool’s Day, the joke was definitely on her.

Chapter Two

Okay, that could have gone better, Archer silently admitted as a bar full of locals downed champagne and gawked at him. A lot better.

He should have stuck with his carefully crafted plan—the win-Bridget-back plan nearly four years in the making—but no. As soon as he’d set foot on the sidewalk in front of the Captivity Inn and caught sight of her through the window of The Tipsy Goose, the part of him aching to touch her, talk to her, just fucking be with her had taken charge. A part dumbass enough to hope after walking away from her with an abruptness borne of an abject lack of choice and a streak of self-preservation he wasn’t proud of, they’d lock eyes, hers would well up with love no amount of time could dull, and she’d fall into his open arms.

Not a chance. And he knew it, but the pure emotional rush of seeing her again had gotten in the way of his judgment. He’d intended to surprise her with his presence and keep her off-balance. The whole point of coming to Captivity was to initiate a conversation she’d steadfastly avoided for four years thanks to distance and sheer stubbornness, but ambushing her like he’d done wasn’t the way to start the dialogue.

Instead, she’d looked down her perfect nose at him like an empress inspecting something that had crawled out of a dank, dark dungeon. Never mind that her slender frame fell several inches short of his. Never mind that her imperial wardrobe consisted of a long-sleeve T-shirt slung over old jeans and battered work boots. Never mind that she wore her ink black hair in a choppy, chin-length cut with overgrown bangs that had probably last been hacked by her own hands. None of it diminished the arresting beauty she wielded with effortless disregard.

That alone cut him off at the knees. She’d always had the power to steal his breath. Then she’d kissed the guy behind the bar like she owned him and walked out with barely a nod of acknowledgment, which only salted the wound inflicted by seeing her in the flesh again, knowing she wasn’t his.

Yet.

What did you expect?

Not the lip-lock with the bartender, that’s for sure. A win-Bridget-back plan required groundwork, and while he’d tried to respect her privacy, he had confirmed some basics, like she wasn’t seriously involved with anyone. So, the kiss meant…what?

His mood lifted as he considered the options. Option A? She’d kissed the guy to make him jealous. Option B? She’d kissed the guy to make him think she wasn’t available, so he’d give up on whatever reunion he had in mind.

Either one worked in his favor. If she wanted to make him jealous, that meant she wanted him to want her, which he did. Desperately. And if she wanted him to think she wasn’t available, it indicated she didn’t trust herself to flat-out tell him she wasn’t interested in rekindling anything and stick by that decision.

Oh, she’d knocked his irrational hope down masterfully, he’d give her that, but she’d tipped her hand in the process. Bridget Shanahan might be older, wiser, more self-possessed, and even more stunning than she’d been at twenty-one, but she was still susceptible to him. On some level, she harbored a weakness, and she knew it. And now, he knew it, too. His lips stretched into a smile as he processed the fact.

You’re grinning awfully big for a fellow who just got brushed back hard, the bartender said.

The guy was about his height, had maybe a ten-pound weight advantage, and intricate black ink etched over his right forearm, including the crossed arrow insignia of Army Special Forces. His demeanor suggested he knew how to handle himself. But Archer wasn’t worried. His source, and the intel provided, were reliable. There was nothing serious between Bridget and the bartender. Archer shrugged and amped up his smile. Well, I learned something valuable from getting brushed back.

Did you now? The bartender snagged a pint glass, held it under a tap, filled it so as to create the ideal layer of light, foamy head, and put it on the bar in front of him. Education served up in my establishment ought to come with a beer. On the house. Care to share your lesson?

He leaned on the bar and inclined his head, aware their conversation had attracted a small audience. Next time I’m at bat, I’ll have to be more careful.

The bartender crossed his arms, raised his brows, and regarded him with a skeptical look. Sure you want to risk a ‘next time’? I’m thinking you might have missed the main lesson Bridget aimed to teach you.

A few murmurs of agreement rose from the others, including Mad Dog Maddox, his ride from the airfield to the Inn. Archer had a whole sheet on Maddox, who actually did serve as an occasional fuck buddy for Bridget, according to his source. But not lately.

Archer shook his head. Not a chance. I speak fluent Bridget, having spent years in immersive study, mastering the language. I understood every nuance of that little communication. Maybe better than she did.

That earned him a chuckle from the man on the business side of the bar. You’re confident. I’ll give you that. But you know what they say about a second language. If you don’t use it on a daily basis, your skills get rusty.

Rusty? He feigned a frown. I don’t think so. If we consider this a pop quiz of my skills, I say she told me—not in so many words, mind you—she’s thrilled to see me, but—

The bartender’s laugh boomed out at full force on that one.

"But, he continued, unperturbed, she’s a little vulnerable because the old feelings still exist, and she’s not ready to own up to them until she knows my intentions. Obviously, she trusts you enough to use you"—he extended his hand, palm up, toward the other man, in a state-your-name-here gesture—

Ford Langley, the bartender supplied.

Thanks. She trusts you, Ford Langley, enough to use you as a shield without worrying you’ll get the wrong idea.

Ford grinned again. Not bad. I’ll leave it to Bridget to tell you—not in so many words, mind you—how you did on the pop quiz. But I will point out she doesn’t need to use me, or anyone else, as a shield. She can take care of herself.

I’ve always thought so, he conceded, but apparently, when it comes to me, she’s not one hundred percent sure. Mulling that over, he took a drink of the beer, swallowed, then eyed the brew with new respect. That’s really good. What is it?

An experiment, Ford replied, looking pleased. I call it the Spruce Goose. Brewed a small batch using some nice, big tips from the local trees. He drew himself a pint and tapped it to Archer’s. One of the perks of spring in Captivity.

Definitely.

There’s another reason Bridget doesn’t need me as a shield, Ford said after taking a swallow.

At least one more, he agreed. The most pertinent being, I’m not here to hurt her.

Yeah, well, that remains to be seen. In my experience, people hurt each other most when they’re not even trying. But if you do happen to fuck up, I’m the least of your worries. He pointed to a tall, broad, bear-wrestler of a guy wrapped around a petite brunette, both of whom appeared to be on their way out. Meet her big brother, Trace.

The man heard his name and looked over. Archer already recognized him, thanks to family pictures Bridget had brought with her to college, as well as his own research conducted in preparation for his recent failed attempt to buy the man out of his interest in the airfield. But now he stepped up and extended a hand. Archer Ellison. Interesting to finally meet you.

Likewise, the bigger man said. Archer detected a hint of I-owe-you-an-ass-kicking beneath the calm surface.

No doubt, he did. Hopefully not tonight, though. He had to fly to Anchorage tomorrow afternoon following his meeting with the realtor, and he needed to not be on life support in order to accomplish the journey. Thankfully, his timing, in this case, had worked in his favor. Congratulations on your engagement.

Thanks. Trace wrapped his arm around the diminutive, dark-haired beauty by his side. My bride-to-be, Isabelle.

Pretty brown eyes glared at him. Another staunch protector of the Bridgethood, ready and willing to kick his ass. Or at least his kneecap. Hard not to admire her for it. Lovely to finally meet the woman who killed my deal.

Sorry, she said, briefly shaking his offered hand while sounding not at all sorry.

No worries. He shrugged, willing to be philosophical about the death of that goal. The deal has to be right for both sides or it isn’t meant to be. Acquiring Trace’s interest in Captivity Air wasn’t meant to be.

The business would have fit nicely into Skyline’s current operations, and buying into a partnership with Bridget would have afforded him five years to prove to her they belonged together, but he knew how to adjust a strategy.

You did manage to make Gordon go nuclear—he smirked as he mentioned the attorney who had worked his side of the deal—which was fun to watch.

Gordon Davis was his father’s idea of an effective negotiator, not Archer’s. Thankfully, enough of the deals he’d targeted over the past four years had gone through. At next week’s meeting of the board of directors of Ellison Enterprises, Archer would receive sole control over his little corner of the family empire. His father would no longer dictate decisions like where Archer established his headquarters, or who he appointed to manage day-to-day operations of the string of small and mid-size airfields he’d assembled into a regional air and freight business. Or which attorney to use.

The thought of Gordon Davis’s nuclear meltdown brought a reluctant smile to Isabelle’s lips. Please give him my best, she said sweetly, next time you see him.

I will. Although I doubt that will be anytime soon. Should he have cracked the lid on this particular surprise so early? The news would get back to Bridget practically the moment the words left his mouth.

Now Bridget’s future sister-in-law looked confused. Is he no longer representing Ellison Enterprises?

I’m sure he is, but I’m not. EE wants to concentrate on the core shipping business. We’re spinning Skyline Air off as a wholly independent operation. I built it, so when the ink dries on the paperwork, it’s mine. I’m moving the headquarters out of EE’s corporate offices since most of Skyline’s properties are elsewhere. Hence, no more Gordon.

Oh. She blinked, clearly filtering that disclosure through her legal mind. Congratulations.

Thanks. It’s something I’ve been working toward for several years.

She frowned, which told him she’d moved on to filtering the information through her sister-in-law mind. You’re not going to be based in Los Angeles anymore?

Screw it. He’d already blown his strategically planned slow approach tonight by letting his eagerness to make contact override everything. Keeping his cards close to his vest seemed pointless. In a town this size Bridget would find out soon enough how he’d spent the biggest portion of his twenty hours in Captivity, and she’d put two and two together. Most of our airfields, employees, and aircraft are in the Pacific Northwest. Our corporate headquarters will be in Anchorage, but I’m planning on establishing my personal headquarters right here in Captivity.

A head-turner with long, light brown hair and soft, moss green eyes came over to stand beside Isabelle. For how long? she asked.

He smiled at the trepidation in her expression and sent his answer to the room at large. For good.

She exhaled something in the local native dialect, and although he wasn’t nearly as fluent in Tlinget as he was in Bridget, he felt pretty certain it translated to, Oh, shit.

Chapter Three

When someone touched her shoulder, Bridget jumped like a startled cat and nearly spilled her full flute of champagne all over her accoster.

Whoa, Mad Dog joked, rescuing her champagne as she spun his way. The ceremony’s over. ‘I do’s’ said, cake served, speeches given. It’s all good.

Yeah, yeah—all good. Except for the severe case of nerves she’d developed over the last three weeks, thanks to Archer popping up out of nowhere like a ghost from her past, then disappearing just as quickly, but only after divulging plans to relocate to Captivity.

She knew through the grapevine that he’d bought the Haines House—a cedar-and-glass architectural feast perched on the hillside almost directly across Captivity Cove from the Shanahan homestead. She knew he had a Cutwater power cruiser with twin outboards in a slip at the small boat marina. What she didn’t know was when the hell he’d turn up again. Living with the uncertainty added a layer of stress to her life that she truly did not need. Especially now. Especially right now, on her brother’s wedding day.

So stop wasting brain cells on him. He’s not likely to crash the end of Trace and Izzy’s reception.

Right. She looked around the Inn’s low-lit banquet room, where the reception was winding down. Under a rainbow shower of colored lights, her parents held each other up on the dance floor, swaying to the live band’s version of Bowie’s Let’s Dance. Izzy’s parents, in much the same condition, joined them. Old Jorg danced with Rose, who kept moving his roving hands firmly back to her waist.

The happy couple had already retired to the honeymoon suite upstairs. Tomorrow they would leave on a two-week land-and-sea tour of the Inner Passage with both sets of parents in sort of a hey, now that we’re all family, let’s get to know each other endeavor dreamed up and funded by the moms, and, after that, Trace and Izzy planned to spend another two weeks on their own—finally—at a lakeside vacation rental in the Canadian Rockies, away from family, an entire town’s worth of meddling Captives, and, basically, the world.

Bridget loved her parents, and Izzy’s seemed great, but she’d breathe a sigh of relief when they all boarded their plane. Holding down the fort at Captivity Air for the next four weeks seemed like the better end of the deal. She needed some space. Maybe she was sick of answering questions about her own love life. Weddings were like parent-crack, as far as she could tell. Hers weren’t even finished with Trace’s yet, and they were already squarely focused on marrying her off. Pronto.

No, thank you.

Sorry I startled you, Mad said.

Not your fault. I was deep in my own damn head, I guess.

Yeah. He looked at her and smiled. You’ve been there a lot lately. Bet it’s freakin’ scary in there.

Oh, he had no idea.

Come on. He took her arm and steered them toward the door to the lobby. Let the old folks shut this down. Everyone else is headed to The Goose to continue the party.

More party? She’d already had her fair share of champagne, and tomorrow kicked off her stint supervising the airfield. Granted, the Sunday morning schedule consisted of Trace and Izzy’s flight out with the ’rents, Izzy’s man of honor Danny’s flight to Anchorage, a couple lessons, and a few inbound private planes, but did she really want to stay out ’till all hours and start her tenure as boss behind dark sunglasses so nobody saw her hangover? That was so old Bridget.

Mad quirked a brow at her. Or do you plan to go home and spend the rest of the night in your own damn head?

Point to Mad. There were worse things than starting a day behind dark glasses. Friends and loved ones were beyond ready to celebrate something good happening for the Shanahan family, and they expected her to be part of it. I just need to grab my purse and visit the ladies’ room. I’ll meet you over there.

Atta girl, Mad said. He strode through the Inn’s comfortable, lodge-style lobby toward the interior entrance to the bar and grill, grabbing Lilah along the way.

Watching him walk away, his light hair extra blond against his dark groomsman’s suit, poked at something in her brain. Something she couldn’t quite reach to pull out into plain sight. Shrugging it off, she stopped at the reception desk to get her purse from the night clerk and then pushed through the door of the ladies’ restroom.

Alone in the small lounge, she placed her evening bag on the marble counter and took stock of herself in one of the two oval mirrors framed by interlocking antlers. Not too shabby, she decided, for a woman whose patience level and lifestyle rarely resulted in her wearing anything more cosmetic than sunscreen and lip balm.

Of course, she really owed tonight’s smokey eyes, contoured cheekbones, and Rock-Star Red lips to Izzy’s expertise. She especially liked the lip color. The deep ruby shade made her feel dangerous. Like a vampire. Ditto for the silky crimson slip dress with the high slash at the thigh and asymmetrical hem. Given the right occasion, she could see herself wearing all of it again.

Looking down at her aching feet, she frowned. The mile-high, black patent peep-toe pumps? Not likely to make an encore appearance anytime soon. They showed off her pedicure nicely and added several inches to her height, but damn, they threw a body off-balance. How—and, hello, why?—Izzy clicked around on stilts like this all the time mystified her.

Because she liked the lipstick, she fished it from the slim black purse and applied another layer. Because the sleek hair seemed a little too refined for The Goose, she eased the fancy jet-beaded hairpin from her temple and shook her head until her hair fell into its normal disarray. She shoved her long bangs back from her forehead, washed her hands, checked her phone, and then headed

Reviews for Playing Dirty in Alaska

[nelispelusa · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Second book in the series....Bridget was not easily susceptible to Archer and his machinations and she shouldn't to easily swayed in my opinion, I felt that he manipulated her a little to much, yes he may have loved her, but I hate when someone claims that you are the love of their life but then they sleep with others, yes yes I know it was 4 years, but thats one of my pet peeves even if it is a little illogical. I liked that she was a strong woman, but eventually she ended up getting the love that she deserved.rcvd an ARC at no cost to author...(netgalley) voluntarily reviewed with my own thoughts and opinions.