She scowled, thinking of Luke Hardigan and the uncomfortable affect he had on her. Now there was a man who, like Dirk, would insist on his woman in silk and satin. That was a perfect reason not to become involved with him, because it would only end like it had with Dirk. And that was all there was to it.
What the hell was she even thinking, anyway, 'getting involved?'
Having spent its fury, rain now patted light and steady on the trailer roof, lulling her toward bed and the promise of sleep. There was a soft thump from the kitchen, a telltale sign Fizz had returned through the doggie door from his nightly 'business trip' outside. As she turned down the bedcovers, she glimpsed the local newspaper, still rumpled on the floor where she had thrown it in anguish earlier that day.
Slowly, regretfully, Micki picked it up.
She sat on the bed, feeling suddenly drained, and stared remorsefully at the publication. Her eyes stung, and she huffed once, as finally the tears she had been holding back flowed free.
Ensign Ray 'Razor' McNally's carefree smile greeted her from the page, now forever immortalized in grainy newsprint. His photo accompanied a bold headline of tragedy, his story spanning almost two thirds of the front page; 'Bad Weather Stalls Investigation of Local Coast Guard Crash. Pilot Error Suspected.'
***
'Pilot Error.'
Luke Hardigan stared hard at the printed words for a moment, before his gaze flicked to the accompanying photograph. Angered, he shoved the offending newspaper away and returned his attention to his Smartphone which had, finally, picked up a signal again. He reconnected to the web to view the home page of Jacinto Scenic Flights, discreetly digging for any information on the leather-clad, bike-riding hellion and her connection to the charter company, while he waited for the bartender to fetch another round of drinks. Like hell it was 'pilot error,' and he was damn sure going to find out the real truth of it, whatever it took.
Luke swiped the Smartphone screen with his fingertip, searching over the page. The website was just some tourist hook, 'see the Keys by air' blurb, but had nothing about the proprietors, pilots, or the biker woman. In fact, he quickly concluded that the entire website was a single page, poorly done, advertisement for the charter flight business, as if it had been reluctantly created and put up by someone who really didn't want to use internet technology in their business at all.
He frowned at the recollection of the leather-clad woman; her smile, the flirting that bounced so easily between them as he arranged his flight, not to mention the distinctly female way she filled out her tank top and biking leathers. It brought a heat to his belly that annoyed him immensely. When she left the bar, she'd taken the attention of half the male population with her, leaving him to hope against hope that she wasn't involved in this whole dirty mess.
But she was involved with Jacinto Scenic Flights in some capacity, and obviously being Jurgensen's girlfriend didn't do anything to establish a spotless reputation. If she was part of—
"Thanks," Luke said, smoothing out his expression as the bartender pushed a tray of drinks at him. Pocketing his phone, he threw some bills on the counter, then returned to the table with no hint of what he was thinking reflected on his face.
—if she was part of the crime ring, then the fact that she had spun his head around with one glance of those sapphire eyes wasn't going to help her case one bit.
Not one, he thought, donning a friendly smile as he returned to the table where Jurgensen, the two surviving Coast Guard pilots, and the boat captain sat waiting, all unaware that they were being interrogated by an expert.
At least Jurgensen hadn't gone home with her, as Luke had assumed he would. Maybe they weren't as close as he suspected. Maybe he still had a shot...
No. It was not good policy to become personally involved with a suspect, no matter how attractive he found her. He was a JAG officer in the United States Navy, undercover and out to bring The Bad Guys to justice. He would deal with the situation as he dealt with any other, coolly and professionally.
And if 'coolly and professionally' meant turning a sexy, independent young woman and her rowdy friends inside out and upside down, then Commander Luke Hardigan was quite prepared to do it.
CHAPTER TWO
The morning looked perfect, with light and gauzy cirrus clouds sweeping the rafters of a sky that seemed to go on forever. Micki, however, knew better. The weather brief from the Miami Flight Service Station once again forecast afternoon thunderstorms, with high winds, heavy downpours and the sort of violent cloud-to-ground lightning strikes that so terrified her.
But that was hours away, and she intended to be safely back indoors long before it became a problem. Right now there was the August sunshine to sweat in and classic 60's Motown to croon to, and Micki did both as she rubbed a patch of polish on the engine cowl of her cherished Cessna 172.
This was living; just her, Fizz at her feet, her plane spotless and shining from the wash and polish she'd just given it, and the promise of a paying customer. With the upbeat music swirling about her from her dad's vintage CD, she could almost recapture the happiness and security of days when they had worked side by side on tasks like this.
Nothing, not the twinge in her shoulder from her spill the previous night, not even Luke Hardigan's chauvinist attitude, was going to spoil this day. He was going to get what was coming to him when he realized just who 'Mickey' Jacinto really was, and she planned to enjoy it to the fullest.
To top it off, Dirk had stopped in earlier, as promised, and invited her on a dinner date to 'a special place.'
Micki let Diana Ross & The Supremes finish singing 'You Can't Hurry Love' without her, and backed away from the thought with a frown. It wasn't actually a date; they'd tried that and it hadn't worked out. It was merely dinner.
The thought of him made her squint across the runway to where another hangar, similar to hers, squatted in the rising heat. The maintenance hangar was where Dirk had his official work, storage, and office space.
Tonight she would insist they go Dutch.
Micki sighed. Insisting rarely got her anywhere with Dirk, never had and probably never would. Like last week, when she insisted she didn't need his gift of a new tablet PC to help run her business. She told him that she did just fine the old fashioned way, thank you very much, with a ledger and a file cabinet, just like her father. She had no more use for, or interest in, a fancy smancy tablet than she did for the top of the line, and no doubt super expensive, laptop computer Dirk had given her last month for the same purpose. The tablet, like the laptop, was now just one more piece of clutter on her desk while she tried to talk him into taking both items back.
Tonight she would absolutely demand they split the bill for dinner, because she had to put a stop to him spending so much money on her. It wasn't like they were a couple anymore... and she was certain that a freelance mechanic on a tiny tourist island didn't make that sort of cash.
Fizz distracted her, getting up from his spot under the wing, which was now in the direct sun. Panting, the border collie sauntered lazily back across the concrete apron toward the open hangar door.
Wiping the sweat from her brow, Micki wondered if the dog wasn't the smart one. Her dark hair, although worn in its customary braid, was an uncomfortable warmth on the back of her neck. Even with sunscreen, the rising Florida sun was like a blue flame on her bare skin and, attired in her plane-washing clothes, there was a lot more of it showing than usual.
A bikini top and cut-off shorts allowed the freedom of movement necessary for spiffing up her plane, and it had felt good, despite her sore shoulder, as she put her back into rubbing the chalky polish into a reflective shine. Since dawn, she'd worked her way from the plane's tail to the nose, and now the final challenge was that hard to reach spot in the dead center of the high wing.
Dismissing Dirk from her thoughts, Micki leaned over the engine cowl toward the top of the wing, balanced on one foot on the 'no step' of the ladder. She knew she should climb down and move the thi
ng into a better position instead of stretching precariously across the gap. If she weren't careful—
"Morning, beautiful."
Startled despite her instant recognition of the male voice right behind her, she found herself falling. She caught for a handhold but, freshly waxed, the slick metal offered no help. Her balance lost, she was sent toppling sideways, and the only thing she could think of was how hitting the concrete was going to hurt... when two strong arms locked about her upper legs and everything stopped.
Well, everything but the stepladder stopped. It scored a direct hit on her CD player and immediately silenced the slightly auspicious lyrics of, 'Back In My Arms Again.'
Shocked, she looked down. Luke Hardigan smiled up at her, and despite the dark sunglasses that hid his brown eyes she suspected she knew exactly what sort of expression lurked there. His arms were clasped about her thighs, taking all her weight. As she watched his cocky grin slide into place, the heat she'd felt on her skin turned inward and flashed through her like wildfire.
"Put me down."
"Okay, beautiful. I just didn't want you to get a bad case of road rash when all that skin hit the concrete. After all, you don't have any of your leather armor on today—"
"Put me down now!"
Luke's infuriating smile widened. "Whatever you say."
Gritting her teeth, Micki shoved against his shoulders and forced him to let her go. Dropping the rest of the way to the ground, she took a step back to establish some distance. She hastily added two more steps when the feel of his strong, muscled body and the appealing scent of his aftershave lingered without mercy.
"You're early, Mr. Hardigan," she said, fighting hard to regain the composure she felt she had just lost.
He shrugged in overdone innocence, the large camera bag slung over his purple-shirted shoulder moving with the gesture. "You can call me Luke."
"I thought we said nine?" It was only 8:20am, and Micki had intended to duck home for a quick shower and change of clothes before her customer showed.
"We did. But I don't usually hang around in bed after seven." His grin deepened as his eyes took a leisurely stroll down then up again. "Not unless I have reason to. I didn't want to miss any of this... view you promised me last night."
Stuffing the polishing cloth into the back pocket of her shorts made Micki realize just how tight they were and what sort of view he'd already helped himself to. Feeling her face burn with a schoolgirl blush, she tried covering with a frown. "There are still a few things I have to take care of before we leave."
"We? You're coming with us?"
"Unless you want to swim instead of fly, yes." Finding it hard to meet his eyes now that the truth was out, Micki squatted to examine her demolished CD player. Damn. This—the moment when she put a few dents in that male ego of his—was something she meant to enjoy. Now it had all backfired. Now she was the one who felt... humiliated.
"Micki Jacinto," Luke said triumphantly, figuring it out. "Micki with an 'i.' Short for... what?"
Trying to ignore him, she pried open the CD player. A stab of loss shot through her as she realized that her father's favorite disc had cracked clean through. So much for old times and old memories, not that she was sharing any of that with this monumental pain-in-the-rear tourist.
"Are you always this curious about people you don't know, Mr. Hardigan?" she asked icily.
"Luke," he said again. He grinned amiably—the same amiable grin Tex used when zeroing in on a female target like a heat-seeking missile.
Micki scowled and pushed to her feet. What was it about this jerk that put her instantly on the defensive?
Shoot, Micki, you don't have to like him. Just take him for a ride and take his money. At least you can still do that.
Trying a less hostile expression only made him smile like the conquering hero.
She bristled again. "Why don't you just—"
"Yes?"
Remembering there was money involved, Micki calmed her temper and tried again. "Why don't you wait in the hangar," she finished in an entirely different tone. "It's getting hot out here."
Without giving him the opportunity to respond, she snatched up the pieces of her demolished CD player, and headed across the baking concrete.
***
Luke stopped just inside the hangar's massive rolling door, while Micki put her broken CD player in the front corner near a soda machine. A couple of brooms and other custodial items shared the corner—community property for keeping the area tidy. She disappeared out into the sun again, returning a moment later with her bucket of cleaning supplies and the small stepladder.
Peeling off his sunglasses while she dealt with those, Luke noted that the light aircraft hangar was pretty much the same as every other one he had been in; a large, unimpressive galvanized tin box with an oil-stained concrete floor. Five other civilian planes shared the space with Micki, high-winged and low-winged, which made for easy packing.
Playthings of the rich and famous, he thought disdainfully. His eyes followed Micki to the drink machine. Or the rich and criminal.
The idea made Luke shake his head. Somehow, despite everything he suspected of Jacinto Scenic Flights, now that he'd actually met the evidently sole proprietor he was having a hard time believing she was guilty of—
"Some watchdog you are, Fizz," Micki said, interrupting his thoughts. She plugged the drink machine with spare change. "You usually do a lot better than this."
It was then that Luke noticed the black and white border collie stretched out under the low wing of a Piper Cherokee. Her dog, no doubt.
"It's not his fault. Animals like me." Squatting, Luke encouraged the dog to come over. "C'mon, boy. Friends?"
"Don't bother. Fizz is very particular about—" She seemed surprised when the collie came forward to push his head under the outstretched hand. "Traitor."
With a genuine chuckle Luke tussled the dog's ears and pushed to his feet. He fell silent, watching Micki hammer the temperamental soda machine with the heel of her palm. When a can still didn't drop into the bin at the bottom, she turned and headed for the back of the hangar without comment.
"Hey!" Luke called. For a professional businessperson, she wasn't acting very professional or business-like. If he really had been a customer with only sightseeing on his mind, then he would have taken his patronage elsewhere.
One hand resting protectively on his camera bag, he started rounding fuselages in pursuit. By the time he got to the rear of the hangar and noted the ten-by-twelve glassed-in area that was her official place of business, Micki was already inside rifling through the paper clutter on her desk. As he opened the door, a blessed waft of cool air rolled out. The dog brushed past his legs on its way to a water bowl and a blanket in the corner, eager to make the most of the tiny room's air conditioning.
Micki looked up from her search and snapped, "Don't stand there letting all the cold air out. Come in and shut the door."
Luke did, slinging his camera bag from his shoulder and placing it on the floor beside her desk... just in time to catch a pile of paper that slid over the edge. Micki again drilled him with her gorgeous blue eyes. It appeared she had found what she'd been searching for; a clipboard with a couple of forms attached.
Hastily tearing his gaze from hers, Luke offered the papers he'd saved, but not without first noting what they were. NOTAMs, VFR updates, assorted FAR publications, current and several weeks old; exactly what he expected to find on a pilot's desk... at least a pilot from the last century. Hadn't she heard of the internet? Why bother with all this paper?
There was also a mail order catalog for military surplus—nothing criminal there—and, on the desk under it all, two items that instantly piqued his interest; a tan-covered business ledger and a notebook computer. Now, if he could just take a look through those...
Micki took the papers with a curt nod of thanks and carefully placed them back on her desk, on top of the ledger and the computer, as if there were a system to the clutter tha
t only she knew.
Feeling the tension surface between them again, Luke focused on the rest of the room. It had all the basic office needs, including fax and photocopy machines, a tall, gray metal file cabinet, and a fake potted palm in the corner that tried hard to make the small space feel 'touristy.' On the wall behind, he found a handful of picture frames, which were the only personal touches in an otherwise commercial establishment. Black chrome frames in different sizes held her FAA certification as a commercial pilot, an 8x10 photograph of her and two older people whom he guessed were Mom and Dad, a poem called 'High Flight,' and a detailed aviation chart of the area.
After checking out her certification for good measure, he paused at the group shot. Micki was depicted standing in between a man and a woman who bore more than a passing physical resemblance, with an arm around each and all three smiling broadly. She seemed a different person in the photo, carefree and content, friendly and fun loving—exactly the opposite of what she appeared now.
"This your folks?"
"Oh... yeah."
Mustering up a flippant grin, Luke turned to throw some more bait at her. "Funny, they don't look Australian."
"My mum was," she answered quickly, missing the dig. Her blue eyes strayed to the photo and were momentarily lit by sadness, the animosity she'd shown him until now slipping from her shoulders like a worn out winter coat. "My dad was a colonel in the US Air Force. I was born here in the States, but I grew up in Australia."
"Was a colonel?"
"Yeah, he... started this business when he retired."
"So they live around here too?"
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