Whitewater Rendezvous Read online

  Synopsis

  Danger, destiny, and romance on the river.A wilderness kayak adventure brings together two very different women—Chaz Herrick, a laid-back outdoorswoman, and Megan Maxwell, a workaholic news executive. As they battle the challenges of nature for survival, they discover that true love may be nothing at all like they imagined.

  Whitewater Rendezvous

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  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

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  Whitewater Rendezvous

  © 2006 By Kim Baldwin. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-298-6

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.,

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Printing: May 2006

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editors: Jennifer Knight and Shelley Thrasher

  Production Design: J. Barre Greystone

  Cover Photos: Linda Harding And Vicki McMurrough

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  By the Author

  Hunter’s Pursuit

  Force of Nature

  Whitewater Rendezvous

  Flight Risk

  Focus of Desire

  Breaking the Ice

  With Xenia Alexiou

  Lethal Affairs

  Thief of Always

  Missing Lynx

  Author’s Note

  This book is mostly set within the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. While the Odakonya River and the village of Winterwolf are fictional, I tried to be as accurate as possible in my descriptions of the ANWR. This vitally important wilderness is under constant threat of being opened to oil drilling.

  For more information on ways in which you can help to safeguard this national treasure for future generations, contact:

  The Wilderness Society at:

  http://action.wilderness.org/

  The Sierra Club at:

  http://www.sierraclub.org/arctic

  The Natural Resources Defense Council at:

  http://www.savebiogems.org/arctic/

  Defenders of Wildlife at:

  http://www.savearcticrefuge.org/

  Two other sites of interest are at:

  http://www.arcticwildlife.org/home.htm

  http://www.alaskawild.org/

  Acknowledgments

  It’s taken three books, but I’m finally starting to think of myself as an author. I have a lot of people to thank for that. For encouraging my efforts, for making the whole process a joy, for inspiring me.

  First, to my partner, M., for great ideas when I need them, for teaching me to kayak, and for convincing me that I had to see Alaska.

  I am so deeply indebted to Radclyffe: publisher, author, friend, and inspiration. I could not imagine a more positive and wonderfully nurturing environment for a writer than at Bold Strokes Books. Thank you for making my dreams come true.

  I’m extremely fortunate to benefit from the expertise of two incredible editors, Jennifer Knight and Shelley Thrasher. Their contributions to this book cannot be measured.

  For Sheri, for yet another dazzling cover. Your artistic wizardry is unmatched, mate.

  For Connie Ward, and Sharon Lloyd, Co-Owner of Epilogue Books, my wonderfully supportive and insightful beta readers. Your feedback is always promptly returned and spot-on, and I’m very grateful.

  Thanks to Linda (entourage) Harding and Vicki McMurrough, for providing the photos for the cover, and for being the best friends and cheering section an author could hope for.

  For my dear friend and contributor, Xenia, many thanks for the invaluable suggestions, unflagging enthusiasm, and for constantly pestering me to see the next page. Hope we get to meet one day.

  To the circle of friends who support me in all of my endeavors—Kat and Ed, Marsha and Ellen, Felicity. And especially Tim and Scott—I’m so glad we’re family.

  And finally, to those wonderful and generous readers who buy my books and email me with words of encouragement. I’m eternally grateful.

  Dedication

  For M.

  And her marvelous trained cats

  Chapter One

  Chicago, Illinois

  Megan Maxwell pressed the first two fingers of her right hand firmly against the throbbing in her temple, as she pushed open one of the thick glass double doors that led from the World News Central newsroom to the executive offices. As soon as the door whooshed shut, blissful quiet enveloped her, the first respite in a stressful and very long day. It was 7:15 p.m. and the management wing was dark, but for the light spilling out from under her office door at the end of the hallway.

  She made it halfway there before the BlackBerry on her left hip vibrated. Sighing, she reached beneath the tailored jacket of her navy pantsuit for the handset. The display read 911 control room.

  “Maxwell,” she answered in a clipped voice as she returned to the newsroom.

  “A small plane has entered the restricted air space around Camp David.” The voice belonged to the executive producer of the sportscast currently on the air.

  “Page Shelley to the studio,” she told him. “Extension 7892. She’s probably in makeup. I’m headed your way.” Shelley Vincent and Ted Gilliam were her 8 p.m. anchor team, and of the two, Shelley was by far the better ad-libber with breaking news.

  Megan strode briskly past the noisy assignment desk and the four large U-shaped communal writing pods where teams of writers, editors, and producers were preparing for upcoming new shows. She made a point of appearing oblivious to the eyes that glanced her way as she breezed through toward the control room, but she was well aware of the effect she had on her staff. No one had better appear to be idle when the vice president of news was around.

  As soon as she entered the dimly lit control room with its intimidating array of monitors and switchboards, the executive producer she’d just spoken to wordlessly vacated his chair so she could slip into it. There were two rows of seats in the futuristic control center, both facing a wall of monitors. The operations personnel who controlled the massive switchboards, a mind-boggling array of lighted buttons and switches, occupied the front row: audio operator, technical director, robotics camera operator, Chyron and graphics operator.

  In the second row, set on risers, were seats and computer terminals for the producer, executive producer, and director. The wall behind them was made of glass. On the other side was the studio, with its wide mahogany anchor desk and blue chroma-key wall for weather.

  Megan quickly scanned the Associated Press bulletin on the computer in front of her. It said only that a small plane had violated the no-fly zone and was approaching Camp David, and that the Air Force had dispatched two F-16 fighters to intercept it.

  “Two minutes out,” the director announced.

  Megan glanced at the monitors to make sure the other networks hadn’t beaten them to air with the story, then swiveled around in her chair to see her anchor just entering the studio.

  She punched the button that would key her mike to the studio speakers. “Less than two minutes, Shelley,” she informed the anchor. “Get your IFB in so I can brief you.”

  The anchor took her seat and fumbled
for her earpiece. The interruptible feedback system allowed on-air talent to hear both program sound and instructions from the control room.

  Megan, meanwhile, keyed her mike to a small speaker on the assignment desk. “Nick, do we have confirmation?”

  The disembodied voice of the evening desk manager answered, “Yes, but nothing beyond what AP has.”

  “What about a live shot?” she asked.

  “From the Pentagon, roughly ten minutes away,” he answered.

  “One minute out,” the director announced. “Camera two, tight on Shelley.”

  Megan keyed her mike to the anchor’s IFB. “Another small plane has entered the restricted air space around the nation’s capitol,” she told Shelley, glancing at the monitor where the anchor’s image was being framed up and brought into focus. “This one is approaching Camp David, where the president is spending the weekend. Two F-16 fighters have been sent to intercept. We’ll have a live shot from the Pentagon shortly.”

  The anchor nodded and began jotting down the information.

  “Thirty seconds,” the director said. “Coming back on camera two.”

  “Since nine-eleven, hundreds of small planes have violated Washington’s restricted air space,” Megan spoke quickly into the anchor’s IFB. “Such incidents have become so routine that most go unreported. Four, however, have forced evacuations of lawmakers and others, the most recent of which was just two weeks ago, on April 18th. The so-called Air Defense Identification Zone comprises some two thousand square miles around the three D.C. area airports.”

  “Ten seconds,” the director announced. “Ready camera two. Shelley’s mike.”

  “Toss back to sports when you’re done,” Megan told the anchor as the floor director counted down the seconds.

  The cut-in went smoothly, the anchor reciting the information Megan had fed to her as effortlessly as if it had been typed on the teleprompter.

  They met two minutes later in the hallway outside the control room.

  “Nice job,” Megan said. “You should stick close. That live shot should be up soon.”

  “You know, it never ceases to amaze me,” Shelley responded, as she plucked a dark brown hair from the front of her taupe designer suit with a frown.

  “What does?”

  “How you can recite off the top of your head the background information on just about any story that crosses the wires. Names. Dates. Places. Context. And you’re never wrong.”

  Megan shrugged. “I’ve always had a pretty good memory.”

  “Phenomenal is more like it. I bet you can recite the names of every teacher you ever had, can’t you?” Shelley studied Megan’s face, clearly awaiting a response.

  She considered the question a moment. “Honestly? I could probably name every classmate, too, if I had to.”

  “We really should do a story on you.”

  “No, what we really should do is get back to work. You have a newscast to prep for.” She started to leave, but Shelley’s voice stopped her in her tracks.

  “By the way…” The anchor was looking at her with an impish smile and a sparkle in her pale blue eyes, like a child with a secret. “You…have some ink…” She pointed to Megan’s right cheek.

  “Ink?” Megan touched two fingers to her face as though she could feel the mark. “Is it bad?” She glanced around for a reflective surface: glass, chrome. Nothing.

  “You have a blue Sharpie…” Shelley drew a short jagged streak in the air with a perfectly manicured index finger. “Kind of like that Harry Potter—Lord Valdemort scar thingie.”

  “Sharpie?” Megan asked, aghast. “I haven’t had a Sharpie in my hand since…” She trailed off as she focused inward, remembering. Since my department head meeting. She knew immediately what had happened. She had nearly fallen asleep listening to the head of the sales department drone on and on about the latest ad revenues. Had sat at the conference table with her hand propped against her cheek, fighting back a yawn. Taking notes. Oh, crap. That meeting was at four and it’s after seven.

  “Since…?” Shelley’s voice interrupted her mental recounting of everywhere she’d been and everyone she’d seen in the intervening hours.

  “Never mind,” she grumbled, but she felt her expression soften when she looked at the anchor. “Thanks, Shelley.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  She took the long way back to her office to avoid the newsroom and to make a stop in the expansive ladies’ lounge adjacent to the bookings unit. Designed for visiting celebrity guests, it was the nicest of the restrooms on the floor, and, best of all, it was deserted at this hour.

  The faint floral scent of hair spray assaulted her nostrils as she flicked on the lights and headed toward the long mirror where the hair and makeup artists worked. Her green eyes narrowed as she winced at her reflection. In addition to the three-inch-long jagged Sharpie tattoo, her normally impeccable façade was marred by an errant blond strand of hair that stood straight out of the side of her head.

  “And no one bothered to tell me,” she griped aloud. No one dared tell me. Grace had already gone home. Her assistant certainly would have told her how foolish she looked. And maybe a handful of others.

  The fact irritated her greatly. When she’d moved up the corporate ladder and starting making six figures, she began spending a good bit of money on her appearance, and as with everything else in her life, she paid attention to the details. Nice jewelry. Understated makeup. A $400 salon stop every five weeks for a trim from Ritchie and a touch-up to the blond highlights she added to her straight, shoulder-length medium brown hair. A pedicure, manicure, and massage twice a month. A designer wardrobe of suits—twenty-four in all—size eight, except the pants always needed to be shortened slightly to fit her five foot six height because she refused to wear heels.

  Not a single person said anything. Megan had learned to have a thick skin in her position, but it rankled to think that no one cared enough about her personally to spare her the embarrassment. At least no one you ran across in the last couple of hours, she tried to console herself. Whose fault is that? The question came and went like a whisper. She didn’t dwell on such things.

  It took a large dollop of cold cream, a couple of squirts of liquid soap, and vigorous scrubbing to erase the marking pen. Her cheek was beet red, like someone had slapped her, but that would pass. A spritz of hair spray tamed the unruly tuft of hair, and she felt almost presentable again. Not too shabby. Back to business.

  A loud groan escaped her lips when she opened her office door. The chaos awaiting her was far worse than she’d expected. Her massive oak desk was piled high with anchor audition tapes, employee contracts awaiting her signature, the latest ratings, reports from her department heads, and a vast number of other scripts, tapes, documents, and letters. Great. Just great. I’ll be lucky to get out of here by midnight.

  She slipped off her shoes and sank into her high-backed leather chair, automatically reaching for her remote to turn on the six monitors set into the opposite wall. The one tuned to WNC she left barely audible; those showing the competition were muted.

  It was only then that she noticed a space carefully cleared in the center of her desk so that her eyes would be drawn to the travel brochure placed there, isolated from the bedlam surrounding it—an enticing island in a hostile sea of paperwork. A yellow Post-it note on top relayed a message penned in the familiar backhand slant of her best friend Justine Bernard, a reporter with WNC.

  Give it up, already. You are coming along.

  I’m going to nag you until you do.

  Megan smiled for the first time that day. Justine was so damn persistent. But that is why you’re such a good reporter. Never take no for an answer.

  She started to toss the brochure into the trash, but stopped herself when she caught the picture on the back. It was breathtaking, a wide-angle photo of an endless caribou herd, tens of thousands of animals, set amidst a landscape of snow-topped mountains and lush, vibrant green valleys. She tu
rned the brochure over and pulled off the Post-it note, revealing the words Discover Alaska, Land of Endless Adventures. Surrounding the header was a collage of happy tourists enjoying all the possibilities: dogsledding, whitewater kayaking and rafting, backpacking, fishing, whale watching.

  Opening the brochure, she saw that Justine had circled the trip she’d been chattering about for the last several days. Kayak the remote and scenic Odakonya River as it cuts through canyons in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge and journeys across the coastal plain to the sea. Witness the magnificent spectacle of the annual migration of the Porcupine caribou herd. Fish for Arctic char and grayling. Explore the grandeur of the last great American frontier. An unforgettable experience that will change your life.

  There was a quote from Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas about the refuge that read, “This is the place for man turned scientist and explorer; poet and artist. Here he can experience a new reverence for life that is outside his own and yet a vital and joyous part of it.”

  Those are some pretty hefty promises. She had to admit they really were striking photographs. And as a child, she had dreamed about traveling through an untamed wilderness, like the early explorers she had read about. But that had been too many years ago, and she’d long since given up her childhood fantasies. And her only real experience with the out-of-doors had been a nightmare. Besides, there’s no way in the world this place could get along without me for two whole weeks. Even one week would be disastrous.

  The phone on her desk rang. She snatched it up. “Maxwell.”