Baby, It's Cold Outside by Jennifer Greene, Merline Lovelace, Cindi Myers Page B

hadn’t known they’d chosen a line that catered mostly to retirees. In retrospect they should have realized most people their own age would have to beg or cajole or threaten to quit to get two weeks’ vacation time so soon after the Christmas holidays.
    Not that Mia had minded the age disparity on board the Adventurer . She’d sworn off men anywhere near her own age for the foreseeable future.
    Refusing to think about the jerk who’d propelled her into this insane outing, she and Beth helped the others up the steps to the hatch until—finally!—it was their turn. A pair of gloved hands reached down for Beth. Her legs flailed, scissoring in the frigid air. When she swooped upward and disappeared into the gray sleet, the harried ship’s officer beckoned Mia forward.
    “Your turn.”
    Braced by two of the Adventurer ’s crew, blinded by the stinging sleet, she groped for another pair of outstretched arms. An iron grip banded her wrists.
    “I’ve got you.”
    He’d better have her!
    Mia had time for that one, wild thought before she was hauled up and onto an icy dock. Staggering, she would have fallen back through the hatch if not for the brutal grip on her wrists.
    “Hold on.”
    Her rescuer yanked her forward and anchored her with an arm around her waist. Gulping, she breathed in needle-sharp ice crystals and the rubbery tang of his orange parka.
    “That’s the last of them,” the ship’s officer shouted behind her. “We’ll secure the boat.”
    “Roger that! I’ll take this one to the station.”
    Head down, her body angled against the waterproofed parka, Mia stumbled along the slippery pier with her rescuer. A gasp of relief rose in her throat when she touched solid rock, only to spiral into a yelp when her sneakers almost went out from under her.
    “Careful,” a deep voice growled in her ear. The arm around her waist tightened, cutting off what little breath she had left. “The lichen’s slippery.”
    “What was your first clue, Sherlock?”
    Oh, crap! The wind had to die for a second or two at that precise moment. She tipped her head, hoping her rescuer hadn’t picked up her sarcasm.
    No such luck. She was almost certain she caught a smile in a pair of seriously blue eyes shielded behind ice-encrusted goggles.
    “Actually,” he replied, bending close to her ear, “the name’s Walker. Brent Walker.”
    “Nice to…meet…you,” she got out through teeth that clattered like marbles in a tin can.
    Walker-Brent-Walker yanked at the zipper on his parka, whipped open one flap and tucked Mia under his arm. Warmth flooded her. The sensation was instant and so welcome she decided to ignore his distinctly uncomplimentary editorial about tourists who traipse down to the end of the world in tennis shoes and lightweight windbreakers.
    Nested against him like a penguin chick tucked under its parent’s wing, she scrabbled over the slippery rocks to a set of wooden stairs. At the top of the stairs he steered her toward a narrow walkway.
    “Welcome to Palmer Station.”
    She peeked out from under the flap of his parka, eager for a glimpse of shelter. She’d done some reading on Antarctica prior to boarding the Adventurer . Not much, admittedly. Like Beth, she’d been far more interested in the portion of the cruise itinerary that included Rio’s fabulous beaches and Buenos Aires’ sultry tango bars.
    Still, she’d read enough to know at least ten or fifteen countries maintained permanent research stations on the White Continent. One of those stations housed over a thousand people during the polar summer.
    This obviously wasn’t it!
    Her stomach plunging, Mia saw only a handful of blue metal buildings huddled together on the rocky shoreline. Two were midsize structures, the rest hardly more than sheds or shacks.
    “How…? How many…people live here?” she stuttered through numb lips.
    “Forty-two this summer. About ten of us will winter over.”
    Forty-two plus three hundred stranded tourists