faster?”
Yes. “No.”
“How much longer?”
“As long as it takes.” Taking another bite-if he was going to die, it wouldn’t be hungry-he checked the instruments, the horizon.
Still no weather between here and there, and he supposed he should be thankful for small favors. “So…what’s your story?”
She didn’t respond. Shocker.
“You rob a bank?” he tried.
Nothing but the disquieting sensation of the gun against his skin.
“Kill someone?”
The silence seemed to thicken, and his gut clenched. Great, she’d killed someone. “Oh, I know,” he said conversationally. “Your rich husband has a ski bunny at your Mammoth cabin, and you’re going after them.”
She choked out a laugh utterly without mirth. “Can you fly without talking?”
He opened his mouth to give a smart-ass reply to that, but the gun at his back pressed into him and shut him up. Yeah, okay, maybe he could fly without talking.
For now.
Chapter 2
Not wanting him to smell the fear and panic swirling around her like a cloak of fog, Bailey Sinclair focused in on the one consolation she had-
He actually believed she held a gun on him.
Good God, she was hijacking the tall, dark, and attitude-ridden Noah Fisher with her fatty Bic pen, and if the enigmatic, rough-edged pilot even caught a sniff of her false bravado, it’d be over. He would wrestle her to the seat or toss her out the window, as she deserved.
At least it’d be over.
No. No destructive thoughts. She had to see this through, had to, or she was going to end up in the same situation as her rat fink bastard husband.
Which was six feet under.
For the umpteenth time, she wished Alan weren’t already dead, so she could kill him herself.
But someone had beaten her to that game, hadn’t they. And now her own life hung in the balance.
Hope you’re rotting in hell, Alan.
God. With her free hand, she hugged herself. She’d had bad days before, she reminded herself. Unfortunately, this one was shaping up to be the king of all bad days.
Bad weeks.
Bad months…
Actually, she could write the entire year off to a string of rotten luck piled on top of rotten decisions piled on top of the fact that Fate seemed to have it in for her.
She needed a break, just one.
And then suddenly the plane dipped again, and she nearly lost her sweaty grip on her Bic pen. “What are you doing?” she cried, flying backward and hitting the seat behind her.
Noah didn’t answer, which pretty much did her in. Nerves already scraped raw, she desperately needed some answers, and he was going to give them to her, damn it.
Scrambling back up, she tightened her hold on the pen and jammed it hard into the muscle of his shoulder. “Answer me!”
Rolling his shoulder, he pushed back at her.
Damn it, didn’t he realize? She had a gun.
Okay, she didn’t, really, but he thought she did! Why wasn’t he cowering? Begging for mercy?
She wanted to do both. She wanted to drop to the floor and roll into a ball and do something distinctly juvenile, like burst into tears.
Instead she locked her knees and thrust up her chin, reminding herself she was in charge at the moment. “Tell me what’s happening.”
“Weather pockets.”
“What does that mean?”
“We’ve hit a few weather pockets,” he said very slowly, as if speaking to an idiot.
“Is that bad?”
“Depends on how good a flyer you are.”
“How good a flyer are you?” she asked a little weakly.
He let out a low, mirthless laugh. “Little late to be asking that.”
She was just behind him, and off to the side enough to catch him in profile. And he had quite the profile. His dark hair hadn’t seen a comb today, maybe not yesterday either, and yet the untamed waves would most definitely call to a woman’s fingers. She knew this because they called to hers.
His striking face gave nothing away as he spoke: no alarm, no worry, no inflection at all. He was good at that, at being calm.
She knew this because he’d flown her places before, many times; he just didn’t know it. She’d always admired his calm strength, his smooth, easy demeanor, and that low, husky voice with the whisper of England in it.
He handled the controls like the pro he was. The material of his shirt strained over shoulders wide enough to block her view of the horizon, and she knew without looking that his chest was broad, his stomach enticingly flat, because one time last summer she’d seen him on the tarmac stripping out of a dirty shirt, shrugging into a new one. His arms had been corded with long, steely muscles, his fingers also long and undoubtedly callused and work- roughened from all the mechanic work he often did on his plane for the joy of it.
“Thunderstorm, gathering early,” he said, working the controls as the plane dipped once more, pitching as violently as her stomach.
“Ohmigod,” she whispered, gripping the back of his seat.
Another dip.
She gritted her teeth and did her best not to reveal her fear. “Can’t you avoid this?”
“Sure.”
His voice came perfectly calm, perfectly collected, with just that curious and intoxicating hint of British in it. “I’ll just call mother nature and tell her to knock it off.”
In another place and time, she’d be fascinated by the sheer strength and control he was exhibiting under what had to be enormous pressure.
But right now it was all she could do not to throw herself down and give up, give in.
Let them have her.
No. No, she wasn’t dead yet, damn it. She opened her mouth, but when the plane shuddered, so did she.
Oh, God.
“Are we going to crash?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer, and if she’d thought her stomach had pitched before, it was nothing to the sommersault it did now in the face of his silence. “Hello?”
When he didn’t answer, she sucked in a breath and nudged him with her “gun.”
“Do you want me to chat, or keep us in the air?” he asked in such perfect politeness that it actually took her a moment to process the words.
“Air,” she managed, nodding even though he couldn’t see her. “Keep us in the air.”
With a gruff nod, he did as she’d asked.
She just hoped he intended to keep doing it.
“I need to use the radio,” he said after a few moments, and without waiting for her to okay that, he checked in with someone via his headset and got the weather update. She stood there on pins and needles, the pen in his
