Caitlyn’s breath stalled as her mother’s gaze quickly shifted to the teen. Guilt? While she’d assured Caitlyn she could stay with them, she’d failed to mention she’d be leaving as soon as Caitlyn arrived.
“Hey, no problem. Want me to keep an eye on some munchkins?” Caitlyn had been voluntarily looking after babies since she’d turned five. Surprisingly, her mother had never demanded child-care duties of any of her children. She’d maintained parenting was the parents’ responsibility, not a child’s.
Her father resumed dishwashing duty and spoke over his shoulder, “No, the two younger ones are on a sleep-over.” He nodded to the urchin. “We’re going to a softball game while the girls do their mall thing. You can join us.”
She forced herself to smile. She craved the comforts of home and family, not strangers at a game or mall. “No, thanks, I’m going to sit in front of the TV and veg.” Caitlyn snagged a stool along the center island and tried to slip back in to the good daughter role.
While the ensuing talk washed over her with reassuring normalcy, last Saturday night’s rescue plagued her with chilled blood like hitting an air pocket on short final. Security hadn’t found anything out of the ordinary with the men her crew had fished out of the sea, but almost a week later, her body still went cold at the memory of the evil look leveled at her.
Retreating to home and family had seemed like the perfect escape. Chills crawled along her shoulders and inched up her neck. Coming home didn’t feel nearly as welcoming as she’d imagined.
Clearwater, FL,
Friday, 9 September, 1900 hours
Stillman dodged another waitress bearing a loaded serving tray and scanned the tables looking for a man he’d never met. Four phone calls and a half-dozen emails had led him to the link he’d needed.
A ruddy-faced man sporting shorn gunmetal hair and deep grooves from squinting into the sun raised his mug and grinned at Stillman. To his knowledge, he’d never flown with the ex gunship pilot, but they’d both done time in the sandbox. Stillman had played on the bond of flying blind in sandstorms and evading Scud missiles when they’d talked on the phone.
Introductions and a knuckle-fisted greeting preceded typical military bullshit as Stillman settled into the booth across from the captain. He accepted a beer from the passing waitress and waited for the interrogation to begin.
“So, how’d you meet our newly crowned queen?” Jacobson, the officer in charge of Coast Guard flight ops, measured him with dark eyes.
“Queen, huh?” Stillman leaned back against the vinyl booth as very memorable flashes of the redheaded pilot played in his head. The royal moniker fit, just like the shimmering hair and ice-blue eyes.
“I was on duty the night she brought two injured survivors into my ER. She landed in the middle of a storm I wouldn’t have had the balls to fly in when I was in my twenties. Coupled with the way her crew lined up to defend her honor, she’s someone I’d like to get to know better.”
The officer straightened and his eyes turned storm-cloud black. “Why the hell did her crew feel the need to defend—”
“Stop.” Stillman held up his hand and gave his most disarming smile. “A simple misunderstanding about another doctor. Her crew’s reaction told me more than words how much they respect her.” They’d been defending the woman, not her rank.
A smirk replaced the scowl. “Don’t get your hopes up, Doc. She doesn’t date military men—never has, never will.” A long swig of beer followed. “But I’ll warn ya. If you so much as make her cry, you’ll answer to every damn aircrew in the Coast Guard’s seventh district. That’s not a threat. That’s a promise.”
Jacksonville, FL, Tuesday,
13 September, 0732 hours
Valerie Wooten whipped her little white Mercedes convertible through morning traffic, a hands-free cell phone keeping her company instead of her favorite radio talk–show host. She hated making overseas calls while driving, but sometimes her schedule required unpleasant choices. A burst of static then an unfamiliar voice speaking in rapid Arabic interrupted her European shipping manager’s nasal Italian. Only one side of the conversation transmitted, but it was enough to freeze her gut and have her gripping her steering wheel with nerveless fingers.
Stunned by the call, she missed the off-ramp to her office. Another blast of static filled her car before the speakers hummed then went dead. It took a moment before she comprehended the call had dropped and the radio had kicked back on with someone complaining about the cost of crude oil. Shaken by the harsh voice and harsher threats she’d heard on her cell phone, she took the next exit too fast. And almost ran up the tailpipe of a beer truck.
“Get a grip, Val.” Okay, she needed to note everything she could remember about the caller’s fanatical rant. Maybe it was just that, and not really as sinister as it sounded. The flutter in her stomach and the sweat slicking her hands didn’t agree. Her cell phone chirped and she damn near jumped out of her car. A barked “Yes?” engaged the hands-free unit and muted her radio.
Her shipping manager was back.
“Giovanni, did you hear another caller interrupt our conversation?” She shook her head as he went off on unreliable cell phones, government eavesdropping and other petty grievances. Unfortunately, he’d heard nothing but static on his side of the ocean. At least his normal bitching soothed her jangled nerves.
Valerie pulled into her office’s parking garage, mentally playing back the mysterious call. Despite the pull of an overbooked business day, the breath-stealing word, onbula, took her back fifteen years.
On an innocent Sunday morning at a London café, she’d left her husband of three months to check out a window display across the street. That capricious jaunt had saved her life—and left Valerie Pappas Wooten a widow at twenty-five.
The Arabic word for bomb seemed even more sinister in the morning sunshine of Jacksonville, Florida. Could fate be presenting her with an opportunity to prevent another family’s destruction?
Clearwater, FL, Thursday,
15 September, 1518 hours
Stillman sat on the tailgate of his truck in the USCG Air Station’s parking lot smoking a cigarette and waiting for Caitlyn to appear in the scatter of Coasties leaving the base. Late afternoon sun baked his shoulders through a medium blue polo shirt. Idiot, he should have worn white. But no, because some nurse mentioned it brought out the color of his eyes, he’d let his ego rule. In his forties and he was still acting like a flippin’ juvenile. It’d serve him right if he fried what was left of his brain.
Tampa Bay mirrored the clear Florida sky. It was the first honest-to-God eye-searing sunny day since he’d moved to the state. He stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette and field-stripped it out of habit. Maybe he’d quit smoking for the queen.
The earlier trickle of Coasties turned into a wave, spilling toward the parking lot in clumps of twos and threes. Stillman squinted through his dark shades looking for the tall redhead he hadn’t been able to purge from his thoughts. He’d known proficient pilots; he’d known some damn fine-looking women. But hell if he’d known both packaged as memorably as Caitlyn.
A riot of red windblown hair caught his eye and his gut tightened with anticipation. She appeared to be carrying on several conversations as she kept pace with the copilot Stillman remembered from Saturday night. Her eyes were hidden behind black Oakley sunglasses, her face animated and glowing. She laughed at something someone said from behind her and his anticipation turned into raw hunger.
Before he could analyze his reaction, he noticed she cradled a full-face motorcycle helmet against her chest. Disillusionment deflated his lungs. He’d spent too many hours piecing together bodies ground into red meat by high-speed encounters with asphalt to view motorcycles as anything but a painful ticket to the morgue.
He tracked her long-legged stride as she headed his way. What the hell, she was a big girl; if she want
ed to risk her brains on two-wheeled suicide, that was her choice. He was looking for fun, so maybe a walk on the wild side was in order.
* * *
Caitlyn spotted him before she cleared the parking lot gate. Dr. Butt Head slipped off the tailgate of a lipstick-red truck and hooked his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans. An off-centered smile tilted the corner of his mouth, softening something inside her. Damn, did he have to look so inviting?
“Uh-oh, enemy. Two o’clock,” Ryan said in a stage whisper.
“Radar’s locked on. Let’s see what he wants,” Caitlyn murmured. She allowed her eyes, safely hidden from view, to consume the oh-so-irritating doctor. Not that she could complain about the visual he presented.
Dressed in blue polo shirt, faded-to-white jeans and scuffed running shoes, he didn’t have the overdone artifice of some of the doctors she’d dated. Nice change. The dark hair with wings of silver at the temples and handsome angular face didn’t hurt either.
His smile grew and he crossed his arms over his chest, emphasizing tanned muscles. Unconsciously her stride slowed. Regrettably her respiration and heart rate didn’t—not a good sign.
“Careful, Caity, he looks awfully damn cocky. You’re not aiming for a dunk in the Gulf, are you?” Ryan chided.
“Let me get back to you on that.” She concentrated on the man lazing in front of her with a practiced nurse-devouring grin on his face. Yeah, he wasn’t lacking in the typical doctor-as-god ego department. But wasn’t that their attraction? Because her own ego was pretty healthy, she only dated men with strong opinions of themselves.
Lord, maybe this one wouldn’t be intimidated by her “ball-busting” personality, as Dr. Golden Hands had so nicely put it. Only one way to find out...
“Well, well, well, look who’s lost and now found. Ryan, call the nurses, let them know we’ve located their missing doctor.” Caitlyn stopped in front of Stillman, hugging her helmet close. “So, did you miss your exit off 275?”
He removed his sunglasses and hooked them in his shirt placket. The bastard probably knew the effect his blue eyes had on women. A flash of white teeth indicated he didn’t find her brand of humor daunting or obnoxious. Another good sign.
“No, had a meeting with your medical liaison.” He pulled a card from his hip pocket and waved it in front of her. “Just getting paperwork approved for flight surgeon status.”
Caitlyn shifted her helmet to her other arm. “Your chance of getting assigned to any of my missions is pretty slim.” While the Coast Guard always needed experienced medical personnel on call, there could be eight to ten rescue crews operating out of their air station at any given time.
Stillman shrugged broad shoulders. “That’s not why I signed up, Lieutenant. I’m an ER doctor because I like emergency medicine. I volunteered as a flight surgeon in New York and it was always my intention to do so here in Florida.” His crooked smile returned. “Ending up on your chopper would simply be an added benefit.”
He turned to Ryan with outstretched hand and cheerful expression, as if meeting her copilot was as important as seeing her. Had she misread his interest?
“Lieutenant Greeley, good to see you again.” He gestured toward the sky. “It’s clear and calm. Did you get a chance to fly?”
Caitlyn straightened her back and narrowed her eyes at Ryan. He’d pay dearly if he’d said anything about her reputation for only flying well in bad weather.
Ryan grinned and bobbed his head like a buoy in a storm, then bumped his shoulder against hers. “Yeah, she even let me land today.”
Well, okay. Self-deprecation was typical for Ryan. Stillman’s laughing blue eyes focused on Caitlyn and her stomach shimmied in response. Oh hell, why not go after what she wanted? He looked like fun, and she didn’t have any plans for her upcoming days off.
She checked his left hand. No ring, but she’d been burned by that trick before. She tipped her head forward and scooted her sunglasses down her nose to peer at his face. “If you’re driving the truck, does that mean Mrs. Doctor is driving the Mercedes? Or would that be a Lexus?”
His answering chuckle was pure male satisfaction. He was interested all right.
“That would be the ex Mrs. Doctor. And she left because there wasn’t any Mercedes or Lexus.”
Now it was Caitlyn’s turn to smile. He’d married a gold-digger. Well, then, he had nothing to worry about with her. She’d never been attracted to money.
“Excellent. Ryan, don’t you have somewhere to go?” she asked without breaking eye contact with Stillman.
Ryan snorted. “Yeah, I’ve got to scout out a good dumping site in the Gulf.”
* * *
Stillman ignored the copilot’s departure, preferring to keep his attention riveted on the much more interesting and downright sexy pilot. Her hair floated around her shoulders in soft waves of deep red, with sun shooting tracers of light through it like a firefight.
“So Dr. Blue Eyes, were you waiting for me, or was this just one of those happy coincidences?”
Damn, she’d slid her shades back up, covering her own impressive eyes. His slow-functioning brain caught up to her words. He grinned. A self-assured woman with more than looks going for her—had he ever had the pleasure of pursuing one of those before? “I don’t believe in coincidence. Or luck.”
The corner of her kissable mouth curved up. “Good, neither do I. Hungry? I know a little crab shack on the Gulf if you want to follow me,” she said. The smile turned into a smirk. “I’ll drive slowly so I don’t lose you.”
He almost nodded agreement before he stopped her from slipping on her helmet. “Wait, I’ve got a better idea.” Was flying just a job to her, or did she love it like he did?
His hand tightened on her arm. Unexpected resistance of hard muscle under the loose material of her jacket stirred his blood. It didn’t take much effort to imagine those toned limbs wrapped around him, slick with sweat and... One delicate brow appeared above the sunglasses as if she’d read his graphic thoughts. Shit.
He released her arm and tried a boyish grin but her expression didn’t budge. Check airspeed, idiot, before crashing and burning onto the damn parking lot. He shoved his hands into his pockets and cleared his throat. “Why don’t you follow me? What I have in mind works better on an empty stomach.”
Both brows came up, and her mouth quirked despite an obvious attempt to stop it. “And just where, and what would that be?”
“4-8-X-ray,” he said, anticipating she’d know the identifier for Airport Manatee. “There’s a sweet little tail-dragger that wants to come out and play.”
All pretence of restraint disappeared when she whipped off her sunglasses and pinned him with a sharp stare. “What, no Bonanza either? You’re ruining my opinion of doctors.”
Stillman laughed out loud. “No, honey. That would be my father.” Actually, both elder Grays had owned what were often described as doctor killers. Planes that were flown with too much ego and not enough skill to keep their pilots from making fatal mistakes.
Her hesitation surprised him. Maybe flying really was just a job—
“I can’t see you piloting a Cub or T-Craft, so wanna give me a hint?” she asked with confusion clouding her eyes.
He leaned his butt against the tailgate again. “Decathlon. And if you’re up for it, I’ve got two parachutes—”
Her yelp seemed to surprise her as much as him, but didn’t stop her from launching herself into his startled arms. The press of heavenly breasts against his chest effectively soothed the thud of her helmet smacking into his back as she hugged him. Too soon she stepped back, her face pink and eyes sparkling with excitement.
“Can I fly? It’s been a while, but I used to fly tail-draggers all the time. Haven’t done much aerobatics, but heck, I’m up for darn near anything you want to throw at me!”
&n
bsp; She was back to embracing her helmet. Jesus, now he was jealous of the damn thing nestled against breasts he’d be imagining the rest of the evening.
“Forget the slow drive, I’ll race you to the airport,” she said then executed a neat one-eighty to face the dozen or so motorcycles lined up to the left of his truck.
“I don’t think so. I don’t need any more emergencies today.”
She laughed and slipped her black helmet on, waving away his concern with a flap of her hand.
His gaze followed the sway of her hips as she strode away from him in jeans that had to be in danger of cutting off her circulation. Curious, he tried to guess which bike was hers. The low-slung Harley or the smaller Honda?
He wasn’t even close. She swung her leg over a sculpted black Yamaha with red flame decals licking toward the bulging engine. Shit, he should have known she’d ride a crotch-rocket with as much horsepower as his two-seater airplane.
Stillman shook his head and slammed shut the truck’s tailgate. This wasn’t going to be a walk on the wild side—more like a dead-stick, nighttime carrier landing in rough seas.
Even if he didn’t survive, it was a hell of a way to go.
Tampa, FL, Thursday,
15 September, 1600 hours
FBI Special Agent Scott Munson wanted to ignore the irritating warble of his cell phone, but a quick glance at the caller ID changed his mind. And made him smile.
“Harp, how the hell are you?”
He stopped his one-handed typing, relegating his urgent report to a lower priority than talking to his ex-boss. Charlotte “Harp” Harper, a fifty-three-year-old petite blond, was the toughest special agent in charge he’d ever worked for in his nineteen years with the Bureau.
“I’m fine, and if you say yes to this one, I’ll be doing even better. I think we have a live one for you.”
Munson’s smile grew. “Think, or know?”
“Both. I think we have a line on a terrorist plot, but I know I have a perfect resource for your team.”
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