CROSSFIRE (33 page)

"Just relax," Wesley murmured with another brush of his mouth to hers.

Only a few weeks before the instruction would have been ludicrous. Relax. She was about to jump out the back of an airplane almost a mile above the ground and into an eighty-mile-per-hour wind. For about thirty seconds they would free-fall, just the two of them plummeting toward the earth, much like the day Nicholas had paid to have the fuel line of her father's Lear tampered with and the plane had gone down in western Montana. Wesley had been amazing that day, just as he'd been every day since then.

Of course, they had a parachute this time, which would guide them to the field below.

Less than a month had passed since Nicholas had tried to exact his revenge. Following Kristina's death she'd sensed something off about him, but she'd attributed it to grief, nothing more. She'd never imagined that behind that polished veneer of old
Virginia
money lurked the heart of a sociopath. The authorities had investigated his past, found two other suspicious accidents which they were investigating, both involving women he had dated.

Shaking off the grim thoughts, she reached up and slid Wesley's goggles from his knit hat down over his eyes, then did the same with hers. With one last brush of her lips to his, she resumed facing forward and waited.

Excitement vaulted through her. She'd read every book and article on skydiving she could find, watched demonstration tapes, attended classes. Twice her first jump had been postponed due to bad weather, but this morning had dawned clear and bright and perfect.

Ethan had wanted to come. He'd planned to come, but had been called away to
Washington
two days before. Zhukov was still out there, lying low. There'd been no trace since the alleged sightings west of
Cancun
. Ethan was obsessed with finding the man, bringing him to justice. It had almost become a personal crusade.

Suddenly the rear door opened, and the brilliant blue of the sky blasted her. Exhilaration swirled hard and fast, like a tumbleweed in a sharp fall wind.

"This is it!" Wesley shouted above the wind noise.

"I'm ready." And she was. For so long she'd lived in denial, using her tight grip on control to protect herself from being hurt. But Wesley had helped her realize that sometimes being strong meant being vulnerable. Plans didn't make a life. Defenses didn't make you strong.

The irony staggered her. If Jorak Zhukov had never broken out of prison, never threatened her family, her father would not have ordered Wesley back into her life. She'd never have realized that true strength came from laying it all, even her heart, on the line, having the courage to
take chances,
to live and love and laugh.

And that's what she had with Wesley. What she'd always, always had with him.

"Stand by!"

Together, they duck walked to the rear of the plane and
positioned themselves on the step. Her heart hammered hard, but with the feel of Wesley's body surrounding hers, his heat soaking into her, she knew no fear, only a calm certainty.

"Go!" the instructor commanded.

There was no time to think, no time to turn back. They arched their bodies and let go, stepping from the plane and into the rush of clouds.

The free fall began.

*
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