“I’ll take any source you have.” He’d been assigned to the Joint Terrorism Task Force, the JTTF, for just over a year, and had agents working undercover in several extremist groups throughout Florida. One agent in particular had been hearing whispers circulating about a dirty bomb coming into the state. His gut was on high alert, not a good sign.
“Her name is Valerie Pappas Wooten. President and CEO of Wooten Shipping in the States and chairman of the board for Wooten and Pappas Ltd. Overseas.”
Having a reliable contact in the shipping industry was always good since it was a source of illegal transport of goods and people. With talk of terrorists, arms, even bombs being smuggled into the country, he could really use insider intel—especially an insider who wasn’t dirty or at the bottom of the food chain.”Language skills?”
Harp’s answering chuckle had Munson leaning back in his chair. Maybe his day had just gotten easier. Harp wouldn’t waste his time suggesting a contact unless she’d thoroughly vetted that person.
“A damn smorgasbord of languages, including Arabic. She’s contacted my office twice because, apparently, she didn’t like our ‘Thank you for the information and have a nice day’ response.”
Munson’s early warning system vibrated. “Just what information was she calling about? Drugs, money, arms?”
“No, your favorite subject. Bombs.”
Palmetto, FL,
Thursday, 15 September, 1628 hours
Caitlyn held her breath as the grass field fell away from the snappy little red and black aircraft. Installed in the front seat of the high-wing plane gave her a great view of the green countryside growing smaller as they climbed at a heart-accelerating rate. Stillman flew from the tandem position behind her. She gawked out the windows like a tourist.
Despite six long hours in the Jayhawk, the allure of blue sky and a fully rated aerobatic plane had her blood buzzing with a heady cocktail of adrenaline and hormones. The latter courtesy of the hunky doctor behind her in the tiny confines of November six-two-niner-five-golf. Given the G in its tail number, she immediately rechristened the plane George.
Stillman flew with smooth control that spoke of many hours in the air and Caitlyn relaxed—something she rarely did when someone else held the stick. She scanned the instrument panel, impressed by the simple but effective array of avionics. The businesslike transmissions from Approach Control droned through the overhead speakers, muffled by the headsets they both wore. The plane leveled out and Caitlyn checked the altimeter. A thousand feet flying on a ninety-degree heading put them over—
“Manatee Lake is off to your right. Wanna take it up to three thousand when we get there?” Stillman asked, his voice sounding surprisingly intimate in the headphones.
“Affirmative.” She rested her hand on the stick, her feet on the rudders, and took another deep breath. What George lacked in size, he more than made up for in nimble maneuverability and power. But until she picked up the feel for the much lighter airplane, it was bound to be ugly. It didn’t help that almost all the controls worked ass-backward to her Jayhawk. The Decathlon exited the class B airspace that surrounded Tampa International Airport with power to spare. “Take it,” Stillman said, moving the control stick against her hand.
“Got it.” She wiggled the stick in return, confirming she’d taken over flying. Establishing a comfortable climb with throttle and stick was easy. Managing the rudder pedals, well, damn, at that she was downright pitiful.
Laughable, based on the choked-off transmission from the back. She gave him credit; he didn’t interfere with her heavy-footed corrections—something she probably would have done if their roles had been reversed. When she leveled off at three thousand feet, her control was better; not good, but better.
“Fly a one-eighty heading when abeam that tower to the north. Do a couple clearing turns and show me what you’ve got.”
Ten minutes later a breathless Caitlyn crooned, “I’m in loooove with George,” over the intercom. She’d just completed her third spin and her stomach was fluttering from the thrill of watching the earth rotate around her. Or at least it looked like that from her nose-down position.
“George?” Stillman growled through the headset, as if jealous.
“George,” she repeated and wagged the little plane’s wings. “Six-two-niner-five Georrrge,” she added, purring the name for emphasis.
Her grin faded as a forgotten memory joined her in the cockpit. The last time she’d had this much fun in a little plane she’d been fifteen and sitting next to Johnny in his Cessna One-Fifty Aerobat. Her heart stuttered painfully. That had been the last time she’d flown with her uncle. The Iraq War had broken out and he’d gone off to Kuwait...
Stillman’s warm hand settled on her shoulder and squeezed, as if he’d picked up on the sadness stealing her earlier joy. Caitlyn blinked and returned to the cozy confines of the aircraft. She wanted to fly every maneuver she could muster in Johnny’s honor.
“Don’t panic, I’m going to fly some aerobatics and it might not be pretty,” she warned Stillman.
“Go for it. I trust you.”
His confidence boosted hers. She flew them up to altitude. “I’ll start with a stall to spin to the right.”
The little plane seemed to hang in the air as the controls became “mushy.” Just before the wing broke to the right, she mashed the right rudder in and pulled the stick all the way back. George dropped into a sweet little spin, eliciting a full belly laugh along with a rush of adrenaline. After one full rotation she applied full power and was a little late in her recovery.
“Not going to let all that speed go to waste, are you?” Stillman asked.
“No sir, I’m a firm believer in recycling. I’ll just covert all that energy into a loop.” She hauled back on the stick even as she spoke, maintaining a couple of g’s as she used her forward speed to climb.
“Honey, you nailed it,” Stillman said over the intercom.
“Hold on, next up is an aileron roll.”
Johnny might have bitched a bit, but she knew he would have been proud of her tribute to him. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for dinner,” Stillman said and squeezed her shoulder again. “Now let’s see if you remember how to land a tail-dragger.”
* * *
After a casual meal at the Lakeland airport diner, Stillman flew back to Manatee Airport and let Caitlyn taxi to his hangar. Past sunset, the western sky glowed fiery orange, deepening the rich color of her hair. He barked out a laugh as she carried on an animated conversation with “George.” She helped push the light plane into the hangar, or as she’d put it, “tuck him in for the night.”
He shook his head. She was unlike any female military officer he’d ever met. Most women in uniform tried to outmacho men for fear of not being taken seriously. Caitlyn didn’t appear to give a damn what men thought of her. She knew she was a hell of a pilot, take it or leave it.
“Want me to clean the windshield?” Caitlyn held up a rag and spray can of Plexiglas cleaner she’d apparently found on his workbench.
“Sure, I’ll wipe down the wings.” This had to be a first. A sexy redhead doing windows...on a first date, no less.
Date? Yeah, not that many women he knew would consider flying in an airplane smaller than a Volkswagen, half the time inverted, then sitting down to burgers and fries, a date. But Stillman couldn’t remember when he’d had more fun—with, or without a woman by his side.
“George had fun tonight,” Caitlyn said, echoing his thought—something she did with unsettling regularity. She patted the cowling and grinned like a six-year-old before she climbed a stepladder to reach the windshield. She’d scraped her hair back into a haphazard ponytail. Sexy tendrils of red curls clung to her neck and cheeks. Her butt wiggled enticingly as she applied elbow grease to her scrubbing.
He tried to scowl but could
n’t quite pull it off. Her silly name for his plane, the way she talked to it, like it was a child, made him smile despite the ridiculousness of it all. He rounded the front of the plane as she stepped down, boxing her in between the high wing and strut.
“And you, did you have fun?”
Caitlyn’s eyes grew large but she didn’t retreat. “Yeah, I did,” she said softly. A slow smile took over her mouth.
He stared at those plump lips as he stepped forward. The rise of her breasts as she inhaled distracted him momentarily, but the allure of a kiss he could taste drew him closer. Near enough to breathe in the spicy scent he’d already catalogued as Caitlyn.
She rose up to meet him halfway when he leaned over her, her mouth tentative, as if unsure of its welcome. He might be slow, but never stupid; at least not when it came to women. He made sure she knew just how receptive he was by slipping his arms around her waist, drawing her to his chest.
Despite the can in one hand and the rag in the other, she circled her arms around him to press closer still. Her mouth responded to his urging, opening without hesitation, meeting his assault with equal abandon. Heat, excitement and hunger punched through his brain like a sonic boom.
He traced his palm up her back and down her ribs. Caitlyn made a sound, half moan, half gasp and what little restraint he had detonated. He untucked her T-shirt from her jeans and skimmed impatient fingers over the fullness of a satin-covered breast. God, she felt even better than he’d imagined. He closed his other hand over her bottom and lifted her against his erection while his mouth worked its way down her neck. She stiffened almost immediately.
Ah, shit. He’d pushed too hard, too fast. He moved his hands to her hips and stepped back, giving her room, letting her know he wouldn’t force her. And fought the fading image of taking her against the side of his plane, the workbench, or hell, bent over that damn motorcycle she’d parked on the far side of the hangar.
Caitlyn’s eyes were huge. Heated blue circling velvet black. Her mouth, moist and full, drew in a deep breath then released it on a shaky laugh. “Wow.” She settled the rag and can in the crook of her arm, then hugged herself, but didn’t move away. And, thank God, she didn’t appear pissed, just slightly shaken.
He knew the feeling. “Yeah, ‘wow’ is right.” He massaged her hips with his fingers and felt tension easing from her. Obviously he’d gone way too long without a woman under him. “Guess I’ve reverted back to, what was it you called me, Dr. Butt Head?”
Her laugh sounded more normal. Then her chin swept up and to the side in a maneuver that would have done Nefertiti proud. Heaven help him, the queen was back and taking control.
* * *
Caitlyn held the cleaning supplies out to Stillman, thankful her hands didn’t shake. She also made sure his fingers didn’t touch hers when he accepted the rag and can. God, she’d never been so tempted to hack out her Southern good-girl roots, and after only one kiss.
She took a calming breath as Stillman walked to the workbench, giving her more space. Where did they go from here? She ignored the part of her brain that suggested a bedroom. Or any semi-flat surface for that matter. Casual sex had proved impossible for her, another reason she tended to end relationships before getting physical. Beating a hasty retreat sounded like the better part of valor. At least until she decided what she wanted to do with Dr. Tall Dark And Aerobatic.
Besides getting him naked.
“I think we should call it a night.” She softened her blunt words with a megawatt smile. “I’m off work the next forty-eight hours if you want to take George out again.”
Stillman folded his arms across his chest. “Unfortunately, I’m booked. How ’bout I give you a call when I get next week’s roster?”
That was interesting. Playing hard to get, or not interested if she wasn’t going to put out? She turned and headed for her motorcycle. “Sure.”
Busy maneuvering her bike around to face the open hangar door she didn’t notice Stillman until he touched her arm. Startled, she looked up into smoldering eyes and a set mouth.
“Don’t think for one second I’m going to forget what damn near happened.”
Caitlyn tilted her head. “What exactly ‘damn near happened’?” Her heartbeat spiked as carnal images played across her mind’s X-rated theater.
The smile that softened his face could only be described as wicked. “You. Me. Against the plane...” As he spoke he leaned over her, his heat and husky words scattering goose bumps over her skin. Tightening her nipples with anticipation.
She continued with her own take of what could have happened, “...on the workbench, bent over Black Beauty...”
Stillman’s mouth quirked, then he gave up and laughed. “Black Beauty, huh? Queeny, I can’t wait to hear what you name my—”
She thumbed the Start button and the deep burble of a hundred-eighty horses drowned out his words but not his meaning. She grinned in return and slipped her helmet over her head, avoiding a kiss from his tempting mouth. He stepped back and gave her a smart salute.
Caitlyn had her bike cruising seventy miles an hour in light traffic along I-4 before she realized just how different her date with Stillman had been.
Unlike the usual ego-driven doctors, who went on, and on, and on about themselves, Stillman had spent most the evening answering her incessant questions about flying aerobatics. He’d asked about her family and seemed fascinated by her assorted foster and adopted siblings and growing up poor in South Carolina. But he’d volunteered nothing about his own family or home life.
She leaned low over her bike and felt the vibration of the motor pulse between her legs as she zipped around a slow-moving semi. Unease nibbled at her excitement, reducing it to scattered crumbs.
What did she really know about Dr. Stillman Gray III? And what the hell was she going to do about their combustible chemistry?
Chapter Three
St. Petersburg, FL,
Monday, 19 September, 1735 hours
Stillman dumped another box of clothes onto the growing mound on his unmade bed. In his haste to leave New York, he’d packed with more fervor than thought. Which explained why he still hadn’t found the flight suit he’d modified for medical duty.
He tossed a handful of exhausted scrubs aside and spotted a flash of army green, at the same time his newly connected phone rang. Only his mother and the hospital had that number. He grabbed the material first, the phone second. And prayed it was the hospital.
His gruff “Hello?” elicited a moment of silence.
“Stillman, sweetie, is that you?”
Shit. Add ex-wife to the list of people with his number.
He glanced down at the coarse Nomex fabric wadded in his fist. “What do you need, Hilary?” Why did it seem he’d spoken to her more in the two years since their divorce than the preceding five years of marriage?
“Stillman, why do you assume I only call when I need something?”
He kept his mouth shut, smart enough to recognize a rhetorical question.
“I saw your mother at the club and she told me you were having a hard time settling in to your apartment, what with all the time you’re devoting to your new job. Why do you insist on putting in ungodly hours when you’re the head of the department? Shouldn’t you learn to delegate?”
He dropped the flight suit and palmed the back of his neck, where tension sank sharp teeth. “It’s a partnership. I share duties, I don’t dictate them.” The other two doctors, friends he’d met during residency at Mount Sinai, worked as many hours as he did. It was the nature of emergency medicine. Something she’d never acknowledged.
“Regardless, your mother’s worried. I told her I’d check on you when I came down with Nicolas. My flight arrives in Tampa at six ten tomorrow evening. Now, don’t pretend you’re working. I spoke to the hospital and know your shif
t ends at four.”
Obviously, she’d convinced whomever she talked to that she was his wife. Hilary often forgot to mention the “ex” part. It didn’t help that she continued to wield his name like a battle ax, bludgeoning unsuspecting waitstaff, flight attendants and nurses with it. At least that would end soon enough if that idiot she was seeing actually knuckled under and married her. She’d finally have exactly what she had dreamed about when she’d said “I do” to Stillman.
He’d married Hilary thinking they would build the family he’d always wanted. She, however, had wanted everything his mother had—and what Stillman wanted to save any potential children from.
“You should have called earlier. I have other commitments after work.” Sun glinting off waves of red hair came to mind, then the memory of perfect breasts pressed against his chest sucker punched him. Caitlyn. He sat abruptly on the edge of the bed. “I signed up as a flight surgeon with the local Coast Guard. I’ll be spending most of my free time getting acquainted with their procedures.” Sounded plausible—yeah, he needed to schedule training time with his new crew.
“Stillman, how could you? You haven’t recuperated from Afghanistan, and now you volunteer for more military duty?”
She made it sound as if he’d volunteered to have a leg severed. A hollow feeling passed through his gut and rippled across his conscience. He’d completed his last tour with little more than lost sleep and a new appreciation for army medics. Enough kids returned from the war with real injuries—including missing limbs.
“If they wanted me back in Iraq or Afghanistan, I’d go,” he said in a tight voice. “Flying rescue missions in the States is a vacation by comparison.”
“Don’t be flippant. I promised Barbara I would check on you and I won’t leave until I do.”
Hilary and his mother had been close before the divorce; now they were inseparable. He kicked his flight suit across the room before he closed his eyes and counted to ten. “Fine, after I confirm my schedule with the Coast Guard I’ll call you. Where are you staying?”
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