Fisher Chugatt eyed the woman on the ferry approaching Takinsha Island and realized that she embodied his most recent “word of the day.”

Though he'd spent most of his life on this remote Alaskan island, his brief foray into the world convinced him that the education he'd received in Takinsha's small high school had been inadequate. Thus, the words of the day; every morning, Fisher worked on the New York Times crossword puzzle, which always yielded something new to learn.

Ms. Flamboyant wore ankle-length, zebra print jeans that revealed fuchsia socks with fake fur trim. Her short, thin-soled boots would be useless against the fearsome Alaska winter. Her more sensible gear included a fuchsia and black parka, fuchsia gloves and a matching knitted hat. She tugged off her hat by its cutesy little pom-pom, revealing shoulder-length blond hair that whipped in the wind.

Yes, Ms. Flamboyant was definitely a babe. A hot babe.

She shoved the hat into her pocket, then stripped off her gloves, exposing ridiculously long, fuchsia painted nails. Fisher chuckled to himself. They wouldn't last.

No wedding ring. His pulse quickened.

Was flamboyant related to flambé? This woman was definitely hot, scorching hot, and Fisher wouldn't mind a little Female Flambé warming him up through the winter.

Stop, he told himself. Chances were this girl wasn't Paige Percy, the woman he'd come to meet. The new station manager and disc jockey was most likely a hardened Hollywood type, not this slender, wide-eyed blonde. This female was probably just another day-tripping tourist, here to see the orcas, eagles and bears.

Too bad. He raised his gaze to the woman's eyes and grinned.

Paige Percy smiled at the tall, dark hunk standing in the boat docked by the Takinsha Island pier. He was gorgeous and, even better, looked about her own age, maybe a little older. She pegged him as in his mid-thirties and wondered if he was available. He leaped from his boat to the surface of the wharf, agile as a sleek, sable otter. The man must have antifreeze in his veins, since he wore only khaki shorts and a faded black T-shirt in the cool Alaska summer. His skimpy clothes showed off one hell of a body, golden and muscular.

Paige shivered inside her sweater and parka. A Southern California girl, born and bred, she could tolerate heat rocketing into the nineties or even triple digits in the summertime. She'd learned that in this part of Alaska, a temperature of seventy degrees Fahrenheit was unusually warm. She bet it was only in the sixties today, despite the August sunshine.

She shivered again, then remembered, you chose this, didn’t you? You wanted a change. When her company, RadioWorks USA, had acquired Takinsha Island’s only station, they’d offered her big bucks to move from L.A. to manage the place, since the previous owner was nearing retirement and unwilling to stay on for much longer. Bored and restless, she’d jumped at the chance.

The ferry bumped against the dock, and she went below to get into her faithful VW bug and drive it off the boat. Packed with her belongings, Old Faithful had somehow crawled from Los Angeles all the way to Bellingham, Washington, where Paige had boarded the Alaska Marine Highway, the ferry system to Takinsha.

She crammed herself into the small car, crowded with boxes and bags. Digging the key out of her purse, she started O.F. and slowly drove out, rolling and clattering over the ferry's metal bib.

When she emerged into the thin sunshine illuminating the dock, a box slipped from the top of the stack in the front seat. It fell, jamming the brake.

“Shit!” She pumped furiously at the pedal, but O.F. kept rolling along the crowded dock.

Dammit, she couldn't stop her car. Images flashed by her panicked eyes. Tourists jumping out of her way, cameras swinging like misshapen pendulums. Fishermen swearing as they dodged O.F. The crunch of crab pots and assorted other gear she couldn't identify, not when it was being crushed beneath Old Faithful's tires.

The tall, dark hottie she'd seen from the ferry turned, his eyes widening. Just before the bug rolled into him, he leaped onto the hood of her car, shouting, “Jesus fucking Christ!”

Scrabbling for a grip, he grabbed a wiper. It broke off in his hand. Swatches of angry red flagged the hunk's furious face. He spread his hands on the window, plastering himself along it as best he could, bending his knees onto the hood so he wouldn't lose a leg.

Old Faithful bumped into the side of a battered red pickup truck.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Screeching with dismay, Paige dug her hand between two boxes to grab the brake below. Something snapped, probably one of her acrylic fingernails. She didn't care. Thankfully, the car had stopped before it could inflict much more damage to the truck and dock, to say nothing of the hottie.

She slumped back into her seat, panting. Tracks of sticky sweat oozed down her chest under her sweater. Damp pools soaked her armpits. Fumbling in her pocket for a tissue, she wiped her forehead with a shaky hand.

Hearing a tap, she jerked up her head. A tanned, impassive face waited outside the driver's side of the bug. The hunk appeared to have calmed from his previous fear and fury, so Paige started to roll down the window. She struggled with the cranky handle, which had stiffened from cold during the week-long ferry trip.

“Hi,” the hunk said in a conversational tone of voice. He didn't smile, but his eyes glinted. “You wouldn't happen to have car insurance, would you? You hit my truck.”

“Oh my God!” Paige shoved the door open, whacking his midsection. He fell back with an “oof.” She exploded out of the bug. “Oh, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?”

He rubbed his belly. “I'll live. Tell me, are you always so accident prone?”

“Oh, no.” Paige opened her blue eyes wide, hoping for an earnest expression. “Normally I'm a very good driver.”

“Of course.” His smile didn't reach his cool, dark gaze. Damn. Her innocent routine hadn't impressed him. He leaned against the side of her car with an easy, masculine grace. “But have you noticed that everyone thinks he or she is a good driver?”

She gaped. Had she just been insulted? “Uh, uh, I guess you're right.” She searched her memory. “I can't think of anyone who's ever said he's a bad driver.”

“Precisely my point.” He scrutinized her car, his slightly narrow, Asiatic eyes lingering first on a scrape in the door and then on the twisted antenna. He walked to the front, where he no doubt noticed the dents in the hood.

“They're not my fault,” she said defensively. Besides, he had a lot of nerve. His old clunker was hardly an advertisement for its owner's good driving habits.

The hunk tipped his head to one side like a curious raven. His long black hair, tied neatly at his nape with a leather cord, shone in the sun. “Did I say something?”

“Uh, no. And by the way, I have excellent car insurance. With a good driver discount.”

“That's ... remarkable.” His eyebrows lifted. “Can you reverse a little? I'd like to see how my truck...”

“Oh, of course.” Paige hastily climbed back into Old Faithful and turned the motor back on. O.F. edged back with a jerk and a pop.

This was great, just great. The man was obviously a local. Lacking a wedding ring, he was a prime candidate for the position of fuckbuddy, an accessory she considered even more essential than mascara. But he seemed to have formed the opinion that she was a goof, and with good reason.

Still, the odds were in her favor. Twenty to one. At least that was what she’d heard from other women on the ferry: that the proportion of men to women in this part of Alaska was twenty to one, so maybe he'd want to hang out with her anyhow.

Paige brightened as she searched for her insurance information. After scribbling her name and that of her insurance company on an old gum wrapper, she peeked out the window again.

Hot Stuff was bending over, checking out the side of his truck, giving her a view of his nice, tight ass. Ooh, baby.

When he straightened, she got out of the car to hand him the paper. “By the way, I'm supposed to be meeting someone here. I think the name was...” She frowned in thought. “Fishman, or something. Do you know someone named Fish, uh, man?”

This time he gave her a real grin, one that gleamed against his dark golden skin. “Lots of fishermen around here. Maybe we can pin it down to a species. Sure it wasn't Shrimper, or even Halibut?”

Was he making fun of her again? “N-no. But it was a fishy name. Um, just for the halibut, can you stop teasing me?”

“But you're so entertaining,” he murmured. “I'm Fisher,” he said in a clearer tone. “Fisher Chugatt.”

Well, hell. Foot-in-mouth disease had struck. She wanted to sink into the pilings of the dock.

“Welcome to Takinsha Island, Ms. Percy.” He smirked at her, extending a hand.

His warm, strong grasp made her wonder if the rest of him would feel as fine. Losing her wits momentarily, she managed to say, “Oh, uh, you can call me, umm, Paige. Won't we be working together?”

“Yep. If you leave the radio station standing,” he muttered.

“What?” Had he insulted her again?

“Yes,” he said in a louder voice. “I keep the equipment in order. I understand that the new owners sent you. You’re the new station manager and will be handling part of the deejay work, right?”

“Right.”

“Follow me to the station. I think my truck's drivable. I guess I can get into it using the other door, since you stove in this one.” He nodded at the driver's side.

“Oh, God, I'm so sorry.” Could matters get worse?

“Don't worry. I can pop it out again.” His keen gaze again swept O.F. “Your car's probably okay. VW's have the trunk in the front, don't they?”

“Uh-huh. The engine's in the back, so it'll be all right. I don't care about another ding in the bumper.”

“Yeah, I'm sure you don't.”

Paige winced. Had she turned off a total hottie who was also a co-worker? What if he told everyone on this little island she was a ditz? She’d have a dimwit reputation before even a single day had passed.

Fisher clambered across the bench seat of his truck to squirm behind the steering wheel. After starting the truck and pulling away, he peered through the rear view mirror to make sure that Ms. Flamboyant--Paige Percy--followed.

Maybe he should rename her Miss Disaster. Or Miss Hap. Or, perhaps, Miss Adventure.

He chuckled to himself. She was as lightweight as they came, all sass and flash with no staying power. After the first snowfall, she'd probably flee Takinsha on the next ferry that docked, leaving behind a broken heart or two and the radio station in chaos.

Miss Fit. Though she looked pretty fit--she had a cute little body under all those clothes, he reckoned--she wouldn't fit in here at all. But that didn't bother him. He'd get a nice fat insurance payoff for what she'd done to the truck. Maybe he'd even be able to afford a new pick-up.

Whistling through his teeth, he headed at a decorous pace toward the station. He drove around the back of the building and parked in the rutted lot behind. She followed, pulling her bug into the parking space next to his, close to the back door of the station.

She hadn't taken Archie Miller's place, Fisher noted with relief. Archie, K-AKA's current, cranky owner, didn't scare Fisher. But life was sure better if staff humored the old boy's eccentricities.

He glanced at Paige as she exited the bug, slamming the door. Should he warn her about Archie's predilections?

She winked at him, then sauntered past to enter the station. Her sweetly rounded butt shimmied back and forth as she strutted. She'd already broken one fingernail.

He grinned and kept his mouth shut.

* * * *

K-AKA was housed in a two-story cinderblock square, painted a sickly green. Squat and ugly, it sat adjacent to a length of cracked sidewalk at the edge of town.

Paige walked into the building by the back door, forcing herself to ignore the shabbiness of the place. She'd known what she was getting into when she left Los Angeles. The familiar sounds and smells of a radio station tickled her senses. Burned coffee and static pushed her into work mode. Her fingers itched to tap buttons, turn dials, hold a mike. She loved the subtle communication that grew between a deejay and her audience, and looked forward to creating a fan base in Alaska.

A battered wooden counter divided the small public area in the front from the work space they'd entered. Behind the counter, a sullen-faced receptionist sat at a desk, flipping through a magazine. With long, Goth-black hair, matching lipstick, and too-white make-up, she couldn't be more than twenty, Paige guessed.

Banks of radio equipment, including an old reel-to-reel tape player, ran along two walls of the cramped room. She frowned. No station on the planet still used reel-to-reel. Perhaps the old owner kept it as a memento.

Fisher approached her side, and a sizzle of sexual awareness zipped along her synapses. The tiny hairs at her nape lifted. She didn’t want to hit on him too soon, so she asked, “Who's that?” She nodded toward the microphone.

A balding, elderly fellow with a Jersey accent spoke into the mike, his voice rising as he described a barroom brawl and a shooting.

Paige grabbed Fisher's arm. “Oh my God! Late-breaking news! Should we send out our mobile unit?”

His thin, well-cut lips twitched. “That's the shooting of Dan McGrew.”

Damn. Her foot-in-mouth disease, again. “I'm so sorry.” She touched his bare arm in sympathy. Ooh, rad bicep. “Was he a friend of yours?”

This time, he chuckled. He had a dazzling smile, she thought, wondering why he didn't use it more often. The man at the mike turned and glared at him. Fisher dropped his voice. “The Shooting of Dan McGrew is a famous poem of Alaska's frontier. Archie, there, is a fan of Service.” He nodded at the older fellow at the mike.

Alaska was a very strange place, she thought, and crinkled her brow. “I also like good service. What does that have to do with...”

“Robert W. Service is the author of the poem,” Fisher whispered.

“Oh. Okay.” She felt like a fool. Again.

He grinned at her, obviously enjoying her discomfiture, and she tried to smile back. He helped her take off her parka, then hung it on a hook near the station door.

Gentlemanly, but very confusing, she decided. Enigmatic, sexy Fisher definitely deserved closer inspection.

The old man's voice rose to a crescendo as he recited the poem, gesticulating wildly. His ample paunch, clad in a faded red sweatshirt, pressed against his desk. Then, without any warning, he pulled out a handgun and shot it through the open window.

Paige screamed and dove for cover underneath the nearest desk, the one belonging to the receptionist. She grabbed the girl's arm. “Get down! Get down!” She tried to haul the receptionist with her.

The girl jerked away. “Christ Almighty, Fisher, control your women, will you?”

“She's not one of my women,” Fisher said mildly. “And don’t be rude to the new station manager. The RadioWorks people sent Paige, here, out.”

Hearing the guy at the mike go to a commercial break, Paige peeked out from under the desk. The gun was no longer in sight, so she could relax a trifle.

The old man punched a button. Without another word, he took his book of poetry, waddled to a door marked “HEAD,” and slammed it behind him.

“It's all right.” Fisher reached for her hand. “That was a pop gun. Archie always fires it off at the climax of Dan McGrew.”

Could she look any dumber? Could the day get any worse? With Fisher's help, Paige crept from her hidey hole. She gave his hand a quick squeeze as a thank you before reluctantly releasing his firm, masculine grasp. Damn, his hand felt good, reminding her she hadn’t gotten laid for a couple of weeks. Just hadn’t had the time, what with packing up and leaving L.A.

Well, that would change, and soon. Twenty to one. She tried not to salivate at the thought, but it was hard, especially with Fisher’s strong, sexy hand holding hers. She tried not to squirm with lust as she stood.

The receptionist gave Paige a superior smirk and returned to her magazine.

“I'm Paige Percy.” Releasing Fisher’s hand, she extended it toward the receptionist, who ignored her.

Fisher flipped the magazine closed. The receptionist glowered, but he appeared unaffected. “This is Nina Exley. She works here half-time, answering the phone, handling the mail and the filing.”

Nina picked up a stained coffee mug. “Pleased to meetcha.” Her bored expression and voice said that the experience really didn't please her. When she stood, Paige figured out why. Nina was clearly pregnant, though she didn't resemble a blimp ... yet. And she didn't wear a ring.

Young, pregnant, and unmarried. Paige forgave Nina's rudeness. She followed Nina to the coffee pot. “How's the coffee around here?” Paige asked, making conversation.

“It'll put hair on your chest.” Nina flicked a glance at Fisher. “Unless you're Fisher.”

Why would Nina know how Fisher's chest looked? Paige's jealousy flared, surprising the hell out of her. She wasn’t normally a jealous person. Knowing she had no right, she tried to stamp it out. Was he the father of Nina's baby? He treated the younger woman with distant courtesy rather than affection. Maybe they were estranged.

He was still sooooo sexy. Paige hoped he wasn't shallow or, worse, taken. Staring at Fisher's T-shirt, she wanted to envision the naked chest beneath. Despite a little hole in the region of his heart, she couldn’t. Instead, she envisioned sticking a finger in that hole and ripping the shirt right off his chest. That way, she’d get to the bottom of the hair mystery, but for now, she restrained herself. Not in public, she thought regretfully. Rather than embarrass both of them in front of Nina, Paige simply asked, “Why not?”

“I'm a Tlingit.” Fisher pronounced the word ‘Clink-it.’ “We're not a hairy tribe.”

“Tribe. Are Tlingits Indians?” Paige asked.

“Yes, you could say that.” He poured coffee for them both. “We're an Asiatic people who migrated to Alaska at the end of the last Ice Age.”

“Wow. A real ... what? Native American. Wow. Where I come from, not many people are real at all, not their hair color, their nails, their breasts, or their ... anything.”

“You're in Alaska now, cheechako girl. Get rid of those fake nails. You won't need them. Everything here is the real deal.” Fisher handed her a mug of coffee and looked into her eyes.

Ooh, baby. A frisson of desire snaked down her spine to coil around her pussy. He had the most amazing eyes, deep and dark like the ocean at night. She fought to recover her poise. “The, uh, only Indians I've ever met are the wooden, cigar-store variety.”

He produced only the merest twitch of a smile. “I'll try to exceed your expectations.”

“But don't count on it.” Nina laughed. “He's the original Great Stone Face. He doesn't get out much, if you know what I mean.”

“I don't need to,” Fisher said coolly.

Her co-workers seemed ready to scrap like junkyard dogs, so Paige decided to change the subject. She said, “You make a great cup of coffee, Nina. Thanks.” She believed in positive relationships with her co-workers and hoped to bond with the younger woman. But she wasn't lying. The coffee was just the way she liked her brew: dark and bitter, strong enough to take the rest of the peeling paint off the station's crumbling cinderblocks.

“You're welcome.” Nina returned to her desk and her magazine, gracing Paige with a thin smile.

The elderly man emerged from the restroom. Paige could hear the toilet flushing before he closed the door behind him. He advanced toward her, hand extended.

Hoping he'd washed, she shot him her most confident smile, along with a firm handshake. “Paige Percy.”

“I know who you are. I'm Archie Miller. I sold the station to you guys. Hey, that was the Robert Service Hour. You don't interrupt the Robert Service Hour, see?”

Her mouth dropped open yet again, and her jaw clicked. If she didn't watch it, she'd get T.M.J. or sprain her jaw. Could jaws get sprains? She hoped not. She collected her frayed composure and said, “Uh, no, I guess I don't see.”

“You ever been to Alaska before?” Archie pulled out a pack of Camels and lit up. She grimaced, thinking of the effect the smoke would have on the radio components.

Fisher also frowned. “Archie, if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times...”

“I know, I know.” Archie waved a hand in the air. “Look, I'm an old coot. I got cataracts and a hearing aid. My taste buds don't work so good. I haven't had sex in decades. I just wanna have a smoke in peace, see?”

“If you say so,” Fisher grumbled. “I don't have to like it.”

“Listen up, greenhorn.” Addressing Paige, Archie blew smoke rings and watched them waft toward the ceiling of the station with an expression of satisfaction. “Here's the deal.”

“Okay,” she said.

“Like I told your boss in L.A., I’ll be helping you out for a year. Now, I don't sleep much no more, so I'm on air from four a.m. to noon. When I nap, you work until eight p.m. Then we give 'em canned music until midnight, and we're off the air until four, when I start again with the news and weather for the fishermen and bush pilots. Your day off is Sunday, when we broadcast Weekend Edition. Any questions?”

“Uh, yeah. What kind of programming do you think I should plan?”

Archie shrugged. “I don't much care. Take a look around the island, get to know people, do whatever you want. Chugatt, take her around.”

“Me?” Fisher seemed at a loss for words, for the first time that Paige had seen.

“Yeah, you. Anyone else here named Chugatt? Sheesh.” The old man huffed. “I'm surrounded by idiots. What did I do to deserve this? And Paige here knows from nothing. Am I right?” he asked Paige.

“Uh, I know how to run a radio station, but I don't know anything about the kind of programming people here might want.”

“There ya go. Chugatt, make sure she gets to know the island. He's lived here all his life, see.”

“Except for my stint in the Air Force.” Tension seemed to underlie Fisher's words. Paige looked at him, but his calm expression hadn't changed.

Perhaps she'd imagined something that wasn't there.

“And while you're out and about, make sure you sell commercial time,” Archie said.

She blinked.

“Didn't RadioWorks tell you? Part of your job is sales.” The old man gave her a sly look from under his bushy white brows. “No sales, no salary.”

She gasped.

Both Fisher and Archie guffawed. “Gotcha goin', didn't I?” Archie asked her. “Don't worry about your pay. Your company has you covered. Chugatt, show her upstairs.”

“Upstairs?” She was completely mystified.

“Yeah, you got the apartment above thrown in. It comes with the station manager's job. Take her up there, Chugatt, I gotta get back to work.”

Fisher held out his hand. “I guess I'm your Takinsha Island tour guide.”