by Leslie Kelly
Fitzweather’s frown—a constant expression since Peter had arrived on Monday afternoon—deepened into scowl of pure dislike. “She did. The wretched creature nearly ruined me for life.”
Remembering Sabrina’s fussy little poodle, Peter had to wonder exactly what he’d done to this big, solid man. But the innkeeper hadn’t volunteered details.
Fitzweather shifted on his crutches, making his way around the living room, which was open to his guests. It was crowded with tacky furniture, from fuzzy gold velvet upholstery to glue-together prefab crap. Peter hated sitting on it, much less watching a crippled bald guy maneuver around it, but he kept a pleasantly sympathetic expression on his face.
“I can’t believe the authorities didn’t take the animal into custody,” Peter said, still mentally scrambling for a way to get at Sabrina. Maybe the mutt, which she loved, would do.
“If not for that rich, crazy old man she’s living with, I’d have had the monster put down. Potts used his clout to make sure the foul beast wasn’t taken away. And since that female was able to produce proof of the animal’s shots and medical records, there was nothing more I could do.” Fitzweather went on to mutter something under his breath, a word that sounded like humiliating.
Well, yeah, he’d guess being brought down by a ten-pound ball of fuzz would probably be pretty embarrassing. Had he nibbled at Fitzweather’s ankles? Peter just couldn’t envision what had happened.
“And people are talking, oh, yes, they are,” Fitzweather said, shaking his bald head. He smacked his palm flat on the sofa in visible frustration. “That Ivy Feeney whispered and laughed right behind my back at the bank this morning.”
“Ivy Feeney,” Peter murmured, wondering why the name sounded familiar.
“Yes, she and her sister know everything that goes on in this town—and don’t think they’ll ever let anyone forget it, either.”
“They’ve been here for a long time?”
“Forever. Together they’re older than the Liberty Bell and more dangerous than a pair of armed felons.”
A memory twisted in Peter’s mind. The names. The image.
Feeney. Sisters.
And suddenly it clicked into place. Why he’d heard of this town before.
It had only been two years ago that he’d corresponded with two authors with the strange address of Trouble, Pennsylvania. They’d been sisters. Sisters named Feeney. Sisters who’d written an awful book about a murder by means of death so ridiculous it could only be considered a broad comedy.
He’d offered to have Liberty Books publish it. For a price.
“These sisters sound interesting,” he said, trying to remember bits and pieces of the story they’d been peddling. It was, if he remembered correctly, set in the town of Problem, Iowa, and it had involved the murder of a wealthy councilman who’d embezzled all the town’s money.
How fascinating. Because in the two days that he’d been buttering up Al Fitzweather to try to get any information he could on Sabrina, he’d been listening to the man’s incessant stories about his hometown. An embezzlement scandal. A murder.
All very familiar, including the cause of death. Which was too bizarre to be real.
Then again, sometimes reality was stranger than fiction.
Which left him wondering about the Feeney sisters’ book. And whether it had really been fiction at all.
SABRINA WAS either about to burst into peals of delighted laughter…or throw up. Glancing over at her from the cockpit of his Cessna Skyhawk XP, Max saw a flurry of expressions cross her face as they topped six thousand feet and banked left to skim over the mountains.
She’d been holding her breath during their taxi and takeoff from the long dirt landing strip at the Weldon airfield. Fortunately the well-oiled runway was smoother than some pothole-pitted tarmacs at major airports and they lifted into the air easily.
Since his private plane was a small four-passenger one, the leather seat in which Sabrina sat was so close to his that he could hear her breathing—at least, he would when she finally started doing it again. He could probably have heard her heart beat, too, if he hadn’t been focused on his instrumentation during takeoff.
Finally, her choppy breaths normalized and evened out. Not that she’d relaxed. Her hands were clenched tight on the armrests, her fingers white with tension from her death grip. She’d let go only a few times since they boarded—to check and quadruple-check her seat belt, and to put her hands across her stomach with a groan when she’d actually looked out at the ground as it fell away beneath them.
“You doing okay?”
She nodded slowly.
“Sure?”
“No.”
At least she was honest. “Stop thinking about what could happen and enjoy what is happening.”
“How can I enjoy what is happening if all I think is happening is that tiny pieces of metal are breaking apart on the wing and an electrical fire is sparking in the engine?”
Max couldn’t help it, he chuckled softly.
“What? You find my abject terror funny?”
“You’re not terrified, Sabrina. You’re a little nervous. Just like when you hear the clack of Freddy’s razor-blade fingernails or the chick-chick-aaah sound that says Michael Myers is coming close.”
“I think I’d rather hear chick-chick-aah than the explosion of the single engine on this thing.”
“Pessimist.”
“Cocky bastard. This is some first date.”
That made him laugh out loud. Which made her finally smile a bit. And ease up her hands.
“Would knowing I’ve had a few thousand flight hours help?”
She stared through her bangs. “How many crashes?”
“Zero.”
“Emergency landings?”
He hesitated. “Does a client’s sudden need to stop in Vegas to play some slots while en route to a Colorado spa count?”
“I guess not.”
“Okay, then, also zero. I have had to do a few RTAs over the years—return to airport—for various reasons.” Like naked grannies in his cockpit. “But none that I’d classify as emergencies.” Other than naked grannies in his cockpit.
But Sabrina didn’t need to hear that story. The last thing he wanted to do was tell her about the stupid rumors circulating about him in southern California, and the book that had spawned those rumors. Especially given the content of that book.
Max hadn’t read it—he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do so yet. But his lawyer had gotten a copy and had summed it up with two words: outrageous and damaging.
“Okay, I’m calm,” she whispered. “This is me being calm.”
Reaching over, he covered one of her hands with his, gently stroking her fingers until she let go of the armrest.
“Don’t you need both hands on the controls?” Since she was twining her fingers in his as she said the words, he suspected she hoped the answer was no.
“Forget everything else and just look. Breathe in and out, keep your eyes—and your mind—open. And let it fill your senses. Can you do that for me?”
She tried. He saw her try. Staring straight ahead into the blue, she visibly steadied her inhalations. She turned her head neither to the left nor the right—apparently not ready to glance down at the ground. But forward was a good start. Because who could look toward the infinite stretch of cerulean sky and not feel certain that miracles did exist and nothing bad could possibly happen in this perfect world high among the clouds?
“It’s lovely,” she said, her voice low.
“Serene.” His awed tone matched hers.
“Yes. Eternal. Like you could keep going and never reach the end.”
“With a big enough gas tank, that’s exactly what would happen. Clean, unadulterated freedom in front of us.”
“With none of the garbage below us.”
She got it. She absolutely understood.
“Grandfather often says he found his utmost freedom racing stallions across the desert.
I think the sensations must be the same. That you can go on forever, not stop moving. Allow nothing to catch up with you. Nothing to touch you.”
Realizing he’d been speaking out loud—not just mentally going over something he’d thought many times before—he glanced at his passenger. She was no longer stiff and tense, nor was she focused on the front windshield. Instead Sabrina was watching him, her full lips parted, her blue eyes filled with emotion.
“What is it you’re running from?”
Right. Like he was going to have that conversation here, now, with her. Max himself hadn’t figured out what had been driving him—what he’d been running from—most of his life.
Probably the whole big boiling stew of it. His parents’ deaths. His own reckless lifestyle. Losing his Air Force dream. The baby. The marriage. The alcohol. The book.
He should just open up a vein and bleed all over the cockpit; it’d probably take less time and be less messy. So instead of even trying to answer her question, he gave her a quick wink and a crooked smile. “Have you made the other instant association yet?”
She appeared confused.
“I mean, most people associate flying in a small plane—the vibrations, the danger, the freedom and thrill of it—with something else.”
Licking her lips, she asked, “What else?”
Instead of replying, he began to stroke her hand, which was still tucked in his. He ran the tip of his fingers over the fleshy pad of her palm, then higher, so he could touch the delicate skin of her wrist. Her pulse was beating wildly. “You know what else.”
An intimate vibe rolled between them again; the same one that had been there since they met. Thick and sexual, aware and certain that they would, sooner or later, come together. He had the feeling it was going to be sooner. Much sooner.
“Maybe I do know what else,” she admitted. Her voice throaty, she went on. “It’s like making love.”
“Uh-huh. Like making long, slow, erotic love. Sliding, climbing, gliding. Free and mindless delight overwhelming every other emotion.”
She was almost panting. He didn’t stop.
“The physical satisfaction feels like it’ll go on forever if you just hold on, don’t head back to earth. Don’t let it end. Every other thought leaves your mind until you are focusing only on the pleasure of the moment and trying to capture the memories for the future, knowing they’ll never be as good as the reality.”
Swallowing hard, she slowly nodded. “Yeah. You’re right. It’s like that.”
The air in the plane grew thicker. Warmer. It smelled like sex. It felt like sex.
Sabrina curled to her side, shifting to face him as she brought her legs up and tucked them under her curvy butt. She’d moved closer—close enough for him to catch the intoxicating floral scent of her perfume. And to feel the warmth of her breath on his skin.
The warmth was soon much, much closer. Because without a word, Sabrina leaned over and pressed a hot, openmouthed kiss on his neck. She tasted him there, licking delicately, then nibbling her way to his earlobe.
“Sabrina…”
“Shh. Pay attention to what you’re doing, Captain.”
Oh, right, that’d be easy when a woman he was dying for was filling his every inhalation with her scent and his brain with images of what he was going to do to her the minute they landed.
“You taste so good to me, Max,” she said as she continued to kiss him. “I’ve been dreaming of the way you’d taste.”
He was going to stop her. Absolutely. Soon.
“The way you’d feel.” Her hand dropped to his thigh.
Soon. Any second now.
“I’ve been wanting you for a long time,” she whispered as she scraped her lips across his jaw.
Her silky blond hair caressed his cheek and the weight of her hand on his leg sent every one of his senses supersonic.
“I want you to make love to me in every way two people can make love.”
“And you pick now—here—to tell me this?” he choked out.
Her laughter rolled over him as she shifted again. Closer. Close enough to press her lips to the hollow of his throat. A flick of her tongue had him ready to come out of his seat.
“I’ve been telling you all along. Surely you noticed.”
“I noticed,” he muttered. “But you chose a hell of a time to act on it. We have to land.”
“What about the mile-high club?” she asked, moving her hand up his leg.
A few inches more and she’d have control of the stick and they’d both go for one hell of a ride.
“I’ve always wondered about it.”
“That’s not for pilots, babe. Not for good ones, anyway. It’s only for when somebody else is flying the plane.” He immediately forced thoughts of Mrs. Coltrane out of his mind.
Unlike her, Sabrina was a serious temptation. He totally understood her sudden, driving urge to have hot, passionate sex right now while they were wrapped in this sensuous cocoon, separate from the rest of the world. He shared it, and would love nothing more than plunging into Sabrina’s body while the two of them hurtled toward the horizon, thousands of feet in the air.
But he wasn’t about to kill them both for the sake of a few minutes of pleasure, when he could have them safely back on the ground in less than half an hour. Which was exactly what he told her.
“Fine,” she said, sounding disappointed as she threw herself back in her own seat. “But I want you the minute we land.”
“Can I cut the engines first?”
Frowning, she continued. “Okay, but that’s it. I want you inside me so much I’m not going to be able to wait any longer than that, Max.”
Amused and incredibly turned on by her aggressiveness, he said, “So I guess we’ll save the foreplay for next time?”
“The foreplay’s been going on since the minute we met.” Her challenging expression dared him to deny it.
He didn’t even try. Reaching over to run his fingers through her golden hair, he said, “There’s a condom in my flight bag. In case you want to save a few more seconds after we land.”
Her catlike expression told him he’d given her an opening even before she said, “Want me to put it on you now?”
She was relentless. And he loved it even though it was driving him stark raving nuts. “No. I meant we can have it handy and not waste time looking for it.”
The bag was behind his seat, and she unbuckled to go after it. So much for her fear of flying. It seemed to have been erased by pure sexual want. Though, damned if he could understand why, since they’d done nothing more erotic than talk about sex since they’d taken off.
But he wasn’t complaining. He’d seen this side of Sabrina yesterday, at the carousel, when she’d aggressively demanded a kiss, taking the situation into her own hands. She was feisty and determined to get what she wanted. That she wanted him—now, right this second and immediately—was both his greatest pleasure and his biggest frustration.
Rising to her knees, she reached around Max’s seat to get the bag, coming so damn close to his face that he could have taken a bite out of one beautiful breast. God, it was tempting. He couldn’t resist scraping his teeth across the taut tip, protruding saucily against her blouse.
“Mmm,” she groaned as she retrieved the condom and dropped it on her seat. “More.” Reaching up, she unfastened her top button, tugging the silky fabric aside so he could get a better taste.
He had to have that taste. Just a sample—an appetizer to last him the twenty minutes it would take to get on the ground.
“You are perfect,” he muttered. Rolling his tongue across her puckered nipple, he savored her for a moment. Then, knowing they were both building things to a frenzied peak that was going to abso-fucking-lutely erupt when they landed, he sucked her into his mouth. Deep. Hard. Demanding surrender and promising satisfaction.
“Oh, Max,” she whimpered, twining her fingers in his hair. “I could…it would be so easy to undress, then slide across your lap and stradd
le you.”
He pulled a refusal out of his gut, using every bit of willpower he had to focus on the gauges and the cartographic map on the LCD display in front of him. “No.”
“I’m dying to be touched.”
He knew that, he could hear it in her voice. His mind already filling with the image, he ordered, “So lean your seat back and touch yourself.” He liked this idea. “While I watch.”
She stiffened the tiniest bit, studying him with uncertain eyes. “That’s a little…”
“Intimate?”
She nodded.
“Exactly. We’re about to become intimate, in every way.”
Judging by the way her teeth were holding on to her bottom lip, she wasn’t convinced. So Max cajoled her. “Let me become familiar with your body, Sabrina. What you like, where you like to be stroked, how tender or rough you want it.”
He shifted, a warm need rolling through him and settling in his groin. “Let me see the hungry look on your face when you have to have it fast.” His own heart started to race. “And hear the way your breath catches when you want it slow and easy. I’ll learn so much, all before I even put my hands on you.”
Moaning, she tugged at her khaki pants like they were too tight—too confining. “When we land…what if someone sees?”
“Impossible. That’s a one-man operation down there and mine’s the only bird that’s been in or out for days. Besides, I’m going to be buried inside you right after we land—don’t you think you’re going to have to take some clothes off?”
He could have reached over and touched her, taken the decision out of her hands. But he didn’t, wondering why she was suddenly skittish—almost shy—even though a few minutes ago she’d stuck her beautiful breast in his mouth.
She didn’t answer, but the tiny, wicked smile told him she’d come around. When she tilted the handle and reclined her seat, then moved her hands to her blouse, he knew it for certain.