upper forties at night—that party of inexperienced hikers on Fraser Mountain obviously not getting that particular memo.
So it was little wonder the locals were disgruntled about paying for the upkeep of a multimillion-dollar facility crammed full of expensive equipment and staffed around the clock with three rotating crews of firefighters and medics, all of which they saw sitting idle the majority of the time. Hell, at last night’s hastily called council meeting, several rather vocal female citizens (he’d heard them referred to as the Grange ladies) suggested that instead of hiring any more people, they should fire the entire lot of them, sell all the equipment except for the big truck that had a bucket on its ladder (any logger or some guy named Grundy could probably figure out how to run it), and turn the station into a community rec center everyone could use.
That was when Officer Sheppard should have drawn his weapon. Who in their right mind turned a brand-new, state-of-the-art fire station into a rec center?
With what could only be described as amazing patience, Duncan MacKeage had quietly settled the matter by reminding the ladies that all the councilmen, backed up by a citizen vote last year, had promised the anonymous benefactor who had paid for the building and equipment that the town would keep the station maintained and fully staffed. They hadn’t, however, apparently agreed on a reasonable budget to back up that promise, thus precipitating an understandably worried fire chief’s search for a citizen liaison. And if that liaison happened to be a tall, beautiful Mainer with a killer smile . . . well, maybe the true genius was the person who’d hired Michael Gilmore in the first place.
Which reminded Gunnar that he should probably find out who in town was wealthy enough to be funding safety buildings and full scholarships to the tune of millions of dollars. Because one, he couldn’t resist a mystery; two, he didn’t like not knowing who indirectly signed his paychecks; and three, past experience had taught him that, if things suddenly turned nasty, it was damn hard to choose a side if he didn’t know all the players.
Not that he expected trouble, because how dangerous could chasing after angels be, anyway? It’s not like they ran around the woods carrying guns and shooting at—
Well, okay. Jane happened to have been holding a shotgun when Markov crashed his floatplane into a pond she’d been walking past, and she apparently hadn’t been the least bit shy about firing off several rounds at his assassins when they’d flown overhead again. And he recalled Markov mentioning something about a fist-sized hole getting blown in a lobster boat when Jane took offense to being dragged off to Shelkova against her will.
So maybe he’d just stick with his motto of better prepared than dead.
Unable to stifle a yawn, Gunnar lifted his arms over his head, only to stop in mid-stretch when he caught a glimpse of movement down on the sidewalk. He stepped to the edge of the window just as a man walked up the station driveway, dressed like a tourist and carrying what appeared to be two cardboard restaurant cups.
Jake Sheppard.
Coming fully awake when he recognized the bastard, Gunnar strode to the door leading to his private quarters. He’d anticipated having to drive off a few rival males. He just hadn’t expected to find himself dealing with a world-class Lothario who thought stealing other men’s girlfriends and wives should be an Olympic sport.
Why some enraged husband hadn’t killed the idiot by now was anyone’s guess.
Gunnar walked into the bathroom and splashed water on his face, ran his wet fingers through his hair, then grabbed a towel and dried off as he strode back to the bedroom. He pulled off his T-shirt, tossed it and the towel on the bed, then rummaged through his duffel bag for something non-duty to wear. He’d stopped into the L.L. Bean outlet in Bangor to buy camping equipment because he hadn’t been able to find a decent rental online, and figuring he should dress like a local, he’d also grabbed a couple of fleece vests, several chamois shirts, and a pair of the store’s famous hunting boots. He pulled out a deep green flannel shirt and slipped it on, then tucked it inside his station pants as he walked back in the bathroom and eyed himself in the mirror—because, dammit, the bastard was a world-class womanizer.
Deciding he should hunt down a barber tomorrow, Gunnar walked back in the