The pilot wasn’t her friend or her lover. He wasn’t anything to her at all, and somehow that fact seemed to lower the rest of her defenses.
“It’s not like I’m obsessed or anything. I know the difference between work and play, but it seems like I’m the only one in the family who understands that I do. My father has suddenly turned into a combination of dictator and matchmaker, my sister Martie is getting married, and my other sister Frankie is playing beachcomber on Maui. We’re hemorrhaging profits on a daily basis and if we don’t do something fast, we’ll have to sell out to one of those horrid jewelry store chains you see in the malls.”
“What has this to do with Duncan Stewart?”
“Isn’t it crystal clear? We’ve lost our edge and it’s showing in the bottom line. We need something—or someone—to propel us into the next century, and I think he’s the one who can do it.” His genius, the raw erotic power of his sculptures, had cast their spell over Sam, and she knew deep in her gut that could translate into spectacular jewelry.
“You think he’ll design for you?”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “All I know is that from the moment I first saw his work in a magazine, I knew I had to find him.”
“Sex,” he said in a voice that betrayed no particular emotion. “The engine that powers the world.”
“There’s that,” she said, not dodging the issue, “but it’s his loneliness that speaks louder to me.”
“His loneliness?” he asked. “From the things written about him, you wouldn’t think he had time to be lonely.”
“I haven’t read those stories,” she said honestly. “All I know about him is what I see in his work, and I know he’s right for Wilde & Daughters.”
“Passion,” he said again, more slowly this time. “You canna deny it, lassie.”
She opened her mouth to read him a laundry list of her shortcomings, then stopped. Was it possible that he was right? She fought like a lion for what she believed in, whether it was a new direction for Wilde & Daughters Ltd. or the right to live her life the way she wanted to live it, despite her father’s intervention. “Passionate.” Her smile widened, despite the situation. “I like that.”
“Hold that thought,” he said. “The mountain lies just ahead.”
As if on cue, the fog parted and a heavily wooded patch of mountainside appeared below them.
“We’re going to make it!” she cried, her usual inhibitions vanishing. “We’ll clear the mountain with room to spare.”
“Not so fast,” he said, and she noted the vein pulsing at his temple. “We’re not there yet.”
More of the fog parted, revealing more of the mountainside. And that mountainside was dead ahead.
A bead of sweat eased down the back of her neck and slid under the collar of her blouse. “You can do it,” she said, as much to herself as to the man beside her. “You did it before. You brought the engine back to life. What’s a little mountain?”
HER WORDS came to him through the rush of blood pounding in his ears. The words themselves didn’t matter to him, but the sweet sound of her voice—that was everything. He focused on her voice like the North Star, hung his hopes and prayers on the rise and fall of it, those round vowels and gentle consonants drifting toward him on the wind of dreams.
Because it was a dream. All of it. This bloody thing they called life was a construct of imagination and hope, and it was about to be ripped from them in a few seconds unless they happened upon a miracle. And, in his experience, miracles were in short supply. There hadn’t been a miracle come his way to save his child or his marriage. He had no reason to think a miracle would find him now.
But she kept talking to him, putting aside her own fears, giving him a reason to keep hoping in the face of doom. She’d seen past the heat and into the darkness. She’d seen into the heart he kept hidden away, the heart he was sure he had lost.
“We’re almost there,” she was saying. “You can do anything…you can do anything you need to do…”
He made what adjustments he could to the glide path, trying to slow the rate of descent, but gravity was calling them home.
“You can make it happen, I know you can…”
And he found himself believing her. He didn’t need to wait for miracles, he would make this miracle happen himself.
“The two of us,” he heard himself saying. “We can do it together.”
“Yes,” she said. “The two of us, we can do it. Look!” Her voice rose with excitement. “A clearing! Just beyond the stream.”
He saw it just where she pointed. All they had to do was cross the boulder-choked stream and one hundred yards of empty space lay waiting for them. He made rapid mental calculations of distance and speed and the pull of gravity. He made quick adjustments to the few cable-driven mechanisms at his disposal.
Then he met her eyes and in their beautiful blue depths he saw nothing but confidence in him. He didn’t know where it came from or how he came to deserve it, but there it was, and he knew he would fashion her a miracle.
“Hold tight, lass.” He gripped the wheel and held it steady as the plane skimmed the tops of the trees.
“Almost there,” she whispered, “almost there.”
The stream was wider than he’d expected. Jagged rocks and tumbling water. Certain disaster if they touched down near its banks. The nose of the plane dipped lower still, and for a moment he thought they were going to pitch forward and
