Beautiful Criminal

Long days, precious nights…

Mima Etu lives a quiet life with her sled dogs in the stunning Canadian Rockies. But that all changes when she stumbles upon a plane crash while out on a supply run. She’s shocked to discover the pilot is still alive—though barely. With the sun setting and the temperatures quickly dropping, Mima knows he’d never survive the trip to the nearest hospital. So she takes the stranger back to her cabin. As he heals, his vague answers to Mima’s questions about the flight tell her he has secrets. But more disturbing is the consuming, immediate attraction she senses between them.

Before he lost control of his Cessna and plunged into a pilot’s hell, Gabriel Miller was on a deadly mission with precious cargo. Now he’s awakened in the comfort of a log cabin with a gorgeous woman tending to his every need. Her soft-spoken beauty sparks his longing for a different kind of life….and it isn’t long before they surrender to a blazing passion. But their blissful days are numbered. For the owners of the cargo are bent on finding Gabriel—and once they do, they don’t intend to leave any witnesses behind.

Visit us at
www.kensingtonbooks.com

Beautiful Criminal

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

Shady Grace

LYRICAL PRESS

Kensington Publishing Corp.

www.kensingtonbooks.com

Lyrical Press books are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018

Copyright © 2015 by Shady Grace

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund- raising, and educational or institutional use.

Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager:

Kensington Publishing Corp.

119 West 40th Street

New York, NY 10018

Attn. Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

First Electronic Edition: June 2015

eISBN-13: 978-1-61650-706-0

eISBN-10: 1-61650-706-3

Printed in the United States of America

New Year’s Eve

Gabe guided his Cessna 172 Skyhawk as low as he dared over Athabasca River, headed toward Victoria, British Columbia. His boss, Colton McCoy wanted the merchandise delivered by early evening, and time was running short. Due to thick clouds and wind gusts, he’d set off from the private airport near Edmonton two hours later than scheduled, and now, as ice fog overtook the windshield, he wished the flight was canceled all together. Every muscle in his body was as tight as a drawn elastic trying to keep the damn plane level. Most pilots worth their salt knew the Great White North had a mind of its own and the weather could change from pretty to shitty in a second.

Tired of this shit was an understatement. He’d put his life on the line for McCoy too many times. He’d broken necks and busted wallets for the old man. Delivered drugs to every corner of this godforsaken earth. Took a bullet one too many times. And he was dead tired of it all. But this was his job and Gabe owed Colton his life.

An uneasy feeling festered in his gut, a warning this trip would end up worst than the last, but turning back now wasn’t an option. The cargo secured in back needed to be delivered without delay, no matter how insane the weather turned, and there was no landing strip for a good hundred miles in any direction. Which basically meant Gabe was an idiot for accepting this job—not that he had a choice.

The landscape ahead looked gray and white—the only visual cues to height and distance was the river below the mountain peaks. Flying at this low altitude was borderline suicidal, but getting caught on radar would put Gabe behind bars. He’d rather take a crazy chance than wear the orange jump suit. He’d rather die than be locked in a cell that would remind him of that cage his partner had rescued him from five years ago. The nightmares still plagued him.

Gabe squinted to concentrate on the flight path ahead as snow hit the windshield, creating the illusion of a time-warp tunnel.

Flying flowed in his veins. His grandfather and father were distinguished pilots in their own right—Grandpa a fighter pilot in the Second World War, and his father one of the best bush pilots in northern Canada. Neither of them would be proud of what Gabe did for a living, but this was what he did best. He was up in the sky before he could walk and he loved the freedom of being up the air.

“Always fly the plane…never let it fly you,” his father always said. Those words had kept Gabe alive on more than one occasion when a flight got out of control.

He chuckled, recalling his last trip to Columbia and the ruckus ditch they’d called a landing strip. The Skyhawk came down on one wheel and skidded across the muddy runway, stopped only by a tree stump in the ground that barely prevented him from going over the hillside cliffs.

Now, as he flew low over the Canadian Rockies, Gabe realized this flight would have been a dangerous mission at any time, never mind during midwinter when his chances of surviving a crash were practically zero. But he lived for reckless adventure, always abiding Colton’s demands. Over the years, the more dangerous the job, the more excited he was to take it on.

But as the gray hairs kept growing, and his body continued aching, he wondered if there was more to life than this. More than risking his hide at every turn and living a solitary existence. More than busting his ass for Colton McCoy and his empire. The reckless need for speed and danger had already begun to lessen in his early thirties. If he could get away with it, this would be the last mission. It was high time he put up his feet and enjoyed the money he’d fought hard to earn.

A shift in turbulence made the plane jolt so hard Gabe collided against the dash. He gripped the throttle, keeping the nose level as the engine surged with a loud roar, then eased to a low rumble. Gabe looked down at the instrument panel and blew out a curse when the needles spun out of control.

“Don’t do this to me now, baby. Come on,” he urged, patting the dash with one hand and pulling the throttle back slightly with the other. The Skyhawk was his baby. They’d been through hell and back on missions some might consider suicidal.

Chinook winds battered the plane, tossing the aircraft around like a dry leaf. Every time he shifted the throttle another gust tossed him in the wrong direction. Left with little choice as the engine sputtered and lost momentum, Gabe opened the side window to view the landscape below. The river twisted like a snake beneath him, and on each side the towering Rockies left no room for a safe landing.

Strong winds blew snow off the mountains, creating tails of white through the sky, making it impossible to see exactly where the mountain ridges started or ended.

The engine sputtered again before the props stilled. Nothing but the sound of the wind howled through the cockpit.

“Fuck!”

Gabe held the throttle in a pointless death grip. The Cessna was now in the hands of the shifting Canadian winds. There was no time to pray, even for a man who didn’t believe in God, and he could not radio “Mayday” and risk the authorities finding him. His life and the cargo were now at the mercy of the wild.

He caught a brief glimpse of snow-covered mountains ahead, before the plane took a nosedive into the white depths below.

Mima Etu angled the dog sled, helping her excited team advance
around a dangerous bend in the trail. With one mukluk on the runner, she pedaled with the other, helping the team keep their pace as they climbed the embankment running alongside the river. Her legs trembled, and she sucked in short, sharp breaths from the exertion, but there was no way she’d let Mary win.

Just past dawn, the foggy morning promised a mild day. She filled her lungs with wilderness air, thrilled to be out running so early in the morning. Sledding was food for her soul.

Mima and her best friend, Mary, pushed both teams hard, fighting for the lead along the straightaway, their sleds mere inches from each other. Where Mary had a team of seven small Samoyeds, Mima ran three Siberian huskies and two big Greenlands. Mary’s team was quick while Mima’s had more power.

“You’re out of shape this year,” Mary shouted over the jingling sled bells.

“It’s the first day of the year, asshole.”

They both laughed and pushed their teams harder.

“I’m gonna beat you again,” Mary teased, pedaling behind her sled, hustling the dogs along the trail. Her sled picked up momentum and pulled a few yards ahead.

“Like hell. Haw!” Mima’s team took the left turn tight around a rock cut, gaining the advantage. They continued quickly along the trail, weaving around snow-covered pines and boulders bordering the river’s edge, but on the next straightaway, Mary’s team charged forward, leaving Mima in her snowy wake.

Those damn dogs of hers are quick on the line.
Mima smiled despite Mary passing her. The woman always gave her a run for her money, and she enjoyed the challenge. One of these days she’d beat her, and then she could rub it back in her face.

“Easy… Easy,” she called out to her team. They slowed to a leisurely pace along the trail, allowing Mima the chance to gaze at the surrounding wilderness without distraction.

She loved it out here. This was her life and her home. A sandy beach down south didn’t hold a candle to the crisp, white scenery of midwinter on her land. City skyscrapers held no promise of adventure as these towering mountains did. As far as she was concerned, the world outside of this land did not exist.

Her sled—still decorated from the Christmas season—jingled with every bump as the team ascended the foothills toward her home. They struggled up the embankment, panting as they dug their paws into the trail and booked it toward home. The two Greenlands, Musti and Little Red, pulled hard; their job was carrying the weight in the back. Mima hopped off the runners to help ease their burden, but as soon as they crested the hill, the team suddenly halted.

Mima caught her chest on the handlebar, nearly toppling over the sled.

“What the hell?”

Mary’s team stood silent in the middle of the trail with the brake secured in the snow. Their snouts and ears pointed anxiously toward some unseen presence beyond the trees, while Mary trudged through the deep snow around the bush line.

Mima set her brake in the snow and stepped on it, wondering what had caught her friend’s attention.

“What is it?”

Mary waved her arm, gesturing to come closer. “I think it’s a plane.”

With her stomach in knots, Mima made her way over and halted when she eyed a crumpled blue-and-white Cessna. A sprawling birch jutting up alongside the steep embankment was all that kept the plane from plunging into the river below.

“Do you think that’s the plane we heard yesterday evening?”

Mary shrugged. “I don’t know, but it looks like a recent crash. What if there’s blood and guts in there?” She stared up at Mima, her chin quivering.

After one of Mary’s dogs jumped at a spinning plane propeller a few years back, she had nightmares for months and hadn’t gone near a plane since. Mima couldn’t blame her.

She offered a reassuring smile. “I’ll go look. Stay with the dogs before they yank the brakes and take off. They’re getting restless.”