A few minutes later, I was on a sofa by the fireplace, legs stretched over Kris’s lap, enjoying a hot chocolate with marshmallows as Kristof chatted up the hunters, trying to discreetly find out if anyone had spotted Ross. I was only half-listening, having already decided Ross was long gone, and was furiously trying to think up a new plan…one that didn’t involve sitting with Lizzie Borden.

I had gotten about halfway through my drink, and nowhere near a good backup plan, when the door swung open, blasting us with cool air. In walked Luther Ross, a pained smile pasted on his face. A young man followed him in and patted his back.

“Got ourselves a real hunter here, boys,” he said. “Could barely drag him back in, even when I promised him brandy and venison stew.”

Ross’s gaze darted about, searching for an escape route.

“Hey, Luther,” Charles called. “Got someone you might like to meet. You know how you were asking if we ever got any ladies up here? Well, you’re in luck. One just landed.”

Ross’s gaze followed Charles’s wave almost reluctantly, as if afraid of what he’d see. When he saw me, he blinked. Then a slow smile lit up his eyes.

“Well, hello,” he said.

“Uh, one problem,” Charles said as the others chuckled around him. “’Fraid she didn’t come alone.”

Ross’s gaze slid to Kristof and his eyes narrowed.

“Told you you’re in trouble,” I murmured. “Better let me handle this one.”

It took a few minutes, but I was finally able to excuse myself from the group. Upstairs, I made a beeline for the balcony. I’d been outside only a few moments when Ross joined me.

I should have known he’d still be in Alaska—he’d have let us send him to Siberia if it meant he’d be safe from the Nix. The old saw about being “a lover, not a fighter” fit Ross to a tee. There was probably a good dose of “yellow-bellied coward” behind that, but I’m sure he would have preferred the first cliché.

I blamed the poor choice of safe house on a transportation-code mix-up, and promised to find him something more suitable…as soon as he answered a few questions. He agreed, and Kristof joined us.

Ross said he’d never asked the Nix anything about herself, including why she’d shown up at his door. There’s a Luther Ross in every bar every night of the week—guys who are willing to sit across from a pretty girl for hours, look deep into her eyes, and entreat her, with near-perfect sincerity, to tell him everything about herself, her thoughts, her fears, her hopes and dreams. But, hey, if you’d rather just hop straight into bed, then your private life is your own, sugar.