Melt

“I like it.” She stood back and looked at the draft pattern. “And when I first started, all I had was pencil and paper. It’s how I always start now. And this place is like that, isn’t it? Black and white. So much white and then the black rock.”

“You’re forgetting the lime-green buildings or the red safety domes.”

“But they’ve been added. They’re not a nat

ural part of the landscape. Even the penguins are black and white.”

“Nothing is black and white,” he argued. “There’s more color here than you’re seeing. Remember what Tom said about the lichen? And half those big penguins have yellow patches. And the sky is blue.”

“Are you an optimist, Hunter?” She glanced at him with a smile.

“Possibly,” he muttered. “But you need to put that pencil down. You’re coming on a day trip today.”

“I can’t. I really have to get going on this. I’m behind schedule already.”

“You haven’t seen a penguin yet. You’re coming to see penguins. Black and white ones.”

She looked into his blue eyes—and knew there was no saying no.

It was an hour and a half’s drive in the Hägglund to get to the penguin rookery. Adélie penguins—hundreds of them making a racket and looking cuter than any cartoon picture ever could. They made their nests out of stones, perfect little black circles on the white snow. The noise was phenomenal—and actually, so was the smell.

Emma laughed as she took photos and watched how some of the penguins seemed to be watching them as if just as intrigued.

“They sound like a bunch of schoolgirls.” She pulled out her sketchbook and quickly took some notes.

One group of penguins slowly waddled to the top of the nearby ridge, chattering amongst themselves almost like they were giggling. Then they slid down on their tummies—fast. They landed in a heap at the bottom, giggling with one another. And then they climbed back up the hill and did it again.

“Are they playing?” Emma lowered her pencil.

“Don’t sound so amazed,” Hunter drawled. “Most animals don’t just survive, they play, too.”

Oh, there was such a dig in that observation. She turned to face him and smiled sweetly. “And many animals mate for life and have babies, too.” She blinked ingénue style. “Isn’t that amazing?”

He chuckled. “Touché.”

Yeah, Hunter Wilson wasn’t the mate-for-life type. But then again, nor was she.

Emma worked solidly for the next few days, putting in long hours like so many others. No wonder they needed a refresher in the bar at night. But there was joy in the work—in that togetherness and camaraderie. Not to mention the heart-stopping regular views of Hunter lifting, carrying, hammering, and sawing. Yeah, she was that tragic. So even though Emma was half stressing about her painting, she was loving every second of her experience.

In the evenings that stretched as bright as midday, she hiked with Hunter, went seal spotting near the pressure ridges, and drove to the American base again. Sometimes others joined them, but Hunter and Emma hung out together so much that between them there was looks, of course, veiled comments, wisps of innuendo. It was impossible to banish all the flirt talk—not when he was so completely gorgeous, and she was so bowled over by him. But she wasn’t going to topple, yet nor did she spend much time with anyone else. Fact was, he was amusing—as reticent as ever about his “real” life back in the real world, but good company. And eye-pleasing to boot.

The days slipped by—fast, like one of those penguins sliding down the ice. All too soon her time would be up and she wasn’t anywhere near done with the mural. Or Hunter.

…

“They all think we’re an item, you know,” Hunter said to Emma when they were left alone again on her second-to-last night in the lounge.

She gave a tired shrug and said nothing.

Yeah, Hunter knew the irony was she was using him to protect her from the advances of the other guys. And he was doing the same with her with the single women. He hadn’t come here for that kind of fun, despite what he might have hinted to Emma to the contrary when they’d first arrived.

He’d come here to be as alone as he could be at this time of year—when bitter old memories tormented him. He was one of the many for whom Christmas wasn’t a time of goodwill and cheer; it was a time of heartbreak and disillusionment. He’d had his childhood belief in the festive fantasy shattered the one and only Christmas he and his parents had spent together. So he didn’t want reminders of family at Christmas—and here, there was no family.

But Emma had changed his focus. It was thoughts of her that tormented him now.

Truth was, he wanted her beyond belief. He’d wanted her the second he’d seen her, and then that kiss? Plus now, having worked near her these last days, he wanted her with a rabid-dog kind of hunger. She was unbearably pretty, with that sweet smile and naughty glint in her eyes. Her paint-free hair shone in the evenings—he loved it loose, hanging down her back. He loved her form-fitting jeans, too.

Every day he saw her in the paint gear, he had to fight the urge to free her from it. But she was way stronger than she looked—both physically and in her resolve. Though he suspected she had her weaknesses, too.

“This is a very safe destination in a way, isn’t it?” he said.

She looked at him like he was crazy.

“You’re here with a finite group of people—who you’ve already decided you’re not going to get involved with. It’s short term, there’s lots of survival gear. It’s emotionally safe.”

She kept looking at him for a long moment. “Is that why you chose to come here?”

Surprised, he laughed. “In a way, yeah, I guess it is.”

He didn’t do emotional commitment—never would he get into any kind of long-term relationship. It just wasn’t in his makeup.

“So what is it you’re afraid of?” she asked softly.

“Same thing as most people.” He shrugged. Same thing he knew Emma was afraid of. “Nobody likes to be hurt.”

He’d do the holiday fling for sure, so long as both parties knew the ground rules. And for all her smart talk and I’m-too-strong-to-get-flattened-again attitude, Emma was too soft for a holiday fling with him. So it was a good thing to have toned down the sexual tease with her, right? She had no family. She’d been heartbroken after a short affair with some lame-ass. She was vulnerable, and she’d read too much into any kind of physical relationship.

“Did someone once hurt you, Hunter?” she asked even more quietly.

“No one likes to hurt someone else,” he said, sidestepping having to answer directly, but he was honest all the same. It wasn’t a woman who’d hurt him, but he’d been hurt by the fallout of his parents’ relationship. And he knew his own limitations—he didn’t have enough to offer any woman for long—he’d been told that more than once. He sure as hell wouldn’t want to hurt pretty Emma. Which was a total pain for him because he knew they’d burn it up together. He sighed and looked out at the bright night sky and the magnificence of the continent.

“I have to get back to the mural.” She drained her coffee cup.

He looked at her pale face. “You’ve been working for more than twelve hours already.”

“I only have tonight, tomorrow, and tomorrow night.” She bit her lip. “I shouldn’t have done the day trip, and I should have worked later into the evenings. It always takes longer than I think it will.”

How could she have only one more day here? And how was he going to face the next few weeks without her nearby? How had her presence become as vital to him as his own right arm?

Hunter felt like a kid trying to hold onto a beautiful snowflake, but it was melting before his eyes.

…

Emma wanted to slow it down—to hold all the fun in her fist forever.

For the next three hours she painted slowly, carefully. Her hand ached, but her desire to finish the mural and make it the best it could be forced her to continue.

“Coffee break.”

She jumped and turned as Hunter came in carrying a tray.

“What are you doing still awake?” she asked him. Bright as it was outside, it was almost two in the morning.

“Keeping you company.” He grinned. “I’m guessing there’s nothing I can actually paint for you, though.”

“Not really, but thanks.”

You want some company?”

“If you can help keep me awake for a while, that would be great.” She stared at the mural, her mind working over all the bits she had yet to finish.

“Don’t stress. You’ll get it done.”

Some artists took months on their paintings. She’d had less than two weeks—what had she been thinking? She knocked back the coffee and stepped up to the wall again. The caffeine had the desired effect and gave her a much-needed energy boost. Or maybe it was because she was aware of Hunter in the room behind her, working on some of the plaster that had her pulse thrumming. He reappeared on an hourly basis—with chocolate, water, more coffee.

The aching pit in her belly widened every time she thought of leaving Hunter. It wasn’t fair—she’d kept her physical distance, she hadn’t slept with him. Yet the thought of saying good-bye to him still hurt—how wrong was that? Maybe she should have thrown caution to the wind and taken her fun from him.

Just then, the man of her nightly dreams appeared again—mug in hand.

“I can’t have any more coffee.” She shook her head.

“No, this is a weak hot chocolate.” He handed it to her. “You need to get some sleep.”

He was right.

“So do you,” she answered, drinking in the rugged look of his stubbled jaw. He was more handsome than ever. And she had to go past him to get out of the building. She stepped beyond normal physical boundaries as she did—pausing to stand on tiptoe and whisper so very, very close. “Thank you.”

“See you later.” He stepped back—away—from the kiss she would have given him. She bit down hard on her disappointed lips and quickly walked to her room.

Emma slept for a couple of hours and then got up again, knowing she was now on the final stretch. She worked like a demon but in a deadline-induced daze, putting on the final touches—the sprinkles of gold and sparkle to the scene she’d spent so many hours on.

Finally—almost at dinnertime—she finished. Her bones ached as she methodically cleaned her brushes and packed all her supplies. Yet despite having such little sleep in the last twenty-four hours, her heart thudded like she’d run a marathon or three, and her muscles ached. She figured it was the caffeine overload giving her this sense of urgency. There was only one person she felt driven to see.