Night Flight (11 page)

Lauren broke the silence in the pickup as she drove toward Ops in the downpour. “I can use your help the rest of the day on a software program I’m developing for next week’s test. It might mean you won’t get away from Ops until about nine tonight.”

“Yeah…sure, no problem.” The last thing Holt wanted to do was hang around Ops any longer than necessary. The shattering need to see Megan was like a scream needing to be released from deep within him. Somehow, Sam knew he’d have to hang on until he could see Megan. God, but it was going to be tough to do that.

The knock on Megan’s apartment door at 10:00 p.m. startled her. Frowning, she left her work clothes on the bed. She had just changed into a pale green, cotton short-sleeved sweater and white cotton pants that were baggy but terribly comfortable. Who could it be?

Opening the door, her lips parted. “Sam.” His name came out in a whisper of disbelief. He looked incredibly tired, darkness in his eyes, his hair damp from the rain.

“Hi,” he began awkwardly. Just the sight of Megan, her red hair loose and tumbling free across her shoulders, lifted some of the strain he’d felt all day. “I—uh, need a friend to talk to. I know it’s late, but…I was hoping you were available.”

Their conversation last week about him being a friend to her tugged at her heart. Sam was dressed in a pair of well-worn jeans, scuffed cowboy boots and western shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. As her gaze met and held his weary blue eyes, all her defenses melted.

“Sure…come in.” Megan stepped aside to allow him entrance. Intuitively, she realized something was terribly wrong. What jet jock ever confided in anyone? Much less a woman. She could never recall her father talking over with his family what happened to him on any given day at the base. Quietly closing the door, she watched Sam halt in the middle of the living room.

“This place,” he said, awe in his tone, “is like walking back into Victorian England. It’s beautiful.” And so was Megan. He’d seen the denial to his request in her features when he’d asked to come in and talk. Then, her lovely green eyes had softened, become understanding, and Sam had to stop himself from dragging her into his arms and kissing her. Right now, Megan represented a serenity and stability that he desperately needed.

She moved hesitantly to his shoulder, managed a slight smile and tried to hide her nervousness. “Thank you. I refer to it as my castle—someplace I can come and hide when the world gets too ugly.”

Self-consciously, Holt put his hands in the pockets of his jeans and studied his well-worn boots. “That’s what I need right now, a safe place.”

“And a safe person?”

“Yeah.” He lifted his head and drowned in her emerald eyes. “You were the only one I could think of—wanted to talk to,” he began quietly. “You’re an Air Force brat. You grew up in my world, so you know the pressures, the problems.” The change in Holt was startling. His shoulders were slumped, head bowed. There was none of the arrogance of before. Megan knew Sam was leveling with her. It was on the tip of her tongue to say:
I wish my father had had the insight you do, to know when to let down and talk.
But she didn’t. “It’s not often a pilot wants to talk about his problems,” she agreed gently. Reaching out, she slid her fingers around his arm and lead him toward the blue velvet couch. “Come on, sit down. How about some herb tea?”

“Yeah…that sounds good. No more coffee. I’m strung tighter than a—” Sam flushed, the rest of the saying something no woman should hear. “Well, no more coffee,” he apologized. He sat down, grateful that she understood his needs. It was just one more reason to like Megan. When the chips were down, she let go of her defenses and came to the other person’s aid.

Sam sat there, his hands clasped loosely between his legs.

The dark splotches of rain had made the shirt material cling to his upper body. Megan had the wild urge to sit down, place her arms around his shoulders and hold him. The urge was ridiculous, warming. “I’ll make us tea,” she said, “and be right back.”

Watching Megan turn and leave, Sam became aware of a throbbing heat centered in his lower body. She was small and graceful, that mass of red hair glinting with auburn highlights beneath the soothing lamplight of the living room. Forcing himself to put his hunger aside, because this wasn’t the place or time, Holt looked around, absorbing the abundant peace that surrounded him.

The fact that Megan Roberts was a pure romantic made him feel even more relaxed. There were fresh carnations on a Queen Anne walnut lowboy in front of the couch. He inhaled the flowers’ subtle fragrance. Another scent caught his attention. It was roses, if he weren’t mistaken. On top of a Victorian, walnut, pedestaled writing desk was a wicker basket filled with dried yellow rose petals. Megan must have taken the bouquet he’d sent her after they had bloomed, and kept them.

Sam liked her old-fashioned ways; he approved of them. The greenery in the room spoke of someone who embraced solitude and nature. Twisting around, he saw several pots of blooming African violets on the windowsill behind him. Yes, everything Megan touched was better off for it.

Megan returned ten minutes later. On a mahogany tray were delicate china cups painted with floral designs. The teapot, a Victorian spherical silver antique with leafy flutes, released the subtle scent of almonds, and it smelled inviting. Everything was pristine, delicate and feminine—a direct dichotomy to Sam’s masculine world of metal, instruments and computers.

“It smells great,” he said, meaning it, as she set the tray down on the lowboy.

Some of her nervousness melted away beneath his fervent comment. “Thanks. It’s almond-flavored, my favorite. When I’ve had a tough day at school, I come home, take a hot bath, and then make myself some tea and just sit out here in the dark and let down.”

“Sounds like a good thing to do.” Sam cradled the thin china cup between his hands, thinking that Megan was like the porcelain. Despite her fragility where her parents were concerned, and the obvious agony Air Force life had caused her, he sensed a special kind of strength about her. And he needed that strength now.

The slender brass lamp in the corner cast very little light about the room. “Do you want more light?”

“No. I like it the way it is.” The sterling-silver spoon in the sugar bowl was fluted, dainty against his large, masculine hand. Again, Holt was struck by the utter femininity of Megan and her surroundings. “I like your home.”
I like you.
He managed a smile, lifting the teacup in toast to her. “And thanks for letting me in. I know it’s late, and we both have to work tomorrow.”

Curling up on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, Megan held the cup between her hands. The shadows accentuated the exhaustion she saw in Sam’s face and eyes. “I really didn’t think you were serious about a friendship,” she admitted in a hushed voice. “Seeing how you look tonight, I think you could use one.”

With an abrupt laugh, Holt held her eyes. He saw uncertainty in them. “I told you I was different than most jet jocks.” With a shrug, he turned, staring down at the golden-colored tea. “I had no idea this would happen, though.”

“What?” Megan waited, wondering what would drive Holt here late at night during a rainstorm. “The only way I knew my father had had a bad day at Ops was when he would find fault with the dinner I cooked, or the way I cleaned the house, or if I didn’t wash the dishes up soon enough after we got done eating.” Megan stared off into the shadows, her voice lowering. “I came to sense the feelings he never showed us. Father really only had one mood—distant, unreachable and no emotions. But he wasn’t in the minority. All the jet jocks I met were like him. He just got more demanding and critical when a day went bad.”

Holt’s hands closed over the teacup. It felt breakable, and he held it gently. He acknowledged the rage welling up through him over Megan’s plight as a youngster. No child should have to walk on eggshells around a parent. “It sounds like you were chief cook and bottle washer growing up.”

“My mother couldn’t handle my father’s flying, so when I turned nine, she went to bed to become an invalid of sorts. I was responsible for cooking and cleaning from that point on.” Megan saw the compassion in Holt’s face. For an instant, she wanted to continue, having never told anyone about it before. “Look, you didn’t come over here to listen about my childhood. I just wanted to let you know I’m no stranger to jet jocks who have bad days. What happened over there that has you looking so exhausted?”

He remained silent, wrestling with very real anger toward her father. No wonder Megan hated the military establishment. What kind of parents did she have? Over at testing, Colonel Roberts had been idolized for his abilities. Even after his death, he was a hero to be looked up to, every test pilot aspiring to follow in his hallowed footsteps.

Yet, looking at Megan, Colonel Roberts’s image tarnished before him—forever. To force a nine-year-old girl who wore her heart on her sleeve into the duties that should have been her mother’s was wrong. Holt tucked all the thoughts away, wanting time to digest them. It would help to understand Megan’s reactions to him, and now, she’d given him plenty of information to absorb.

“Over at Ops where we test, nobody really tells anyone else how they feel,” Sam began wryly, holding her gaze. The shadows caressed her cheekbones, emphasized her eyes and parted lips. Lips that he desperately wanted to feel and taste beneath his—not out of lust, but out of care and sharing. “If I told anyone else about this, those guys would take it and use it against me. Right now I’m in a tight two-way race with Captain Jack Stang, the chief test pilot, for first place on the B-2 project coming down the line. If Stang knew this, he’d use it like a weapon and bludgeon me with it.”

“I understand. There’s always infighting in the ranks, jostling for position, for the next brass ring.” Megan said it without rancor or accusation. The world of test piloting was the most competitive job she’d ever seen.

“Right.” Holt slowly turned the cup around in his hands. The words came haltingly, filled with pain. “I, uh, never talked to anyone after Russ Davis died. I mean, he was my best friend. He was a flight engineer,” Sam explained.

Megan grew very still inside as she saw Holt struggle to speak on a highly emotional topic. Her father never had. He knew how to give orders and became supercritical when in a nasty mood, but she’d never seen him lower his guard and become a human being with human needs like those Sam displayed without apology. “What happened?” she urged softly.

Holt stared off into the distance. “Russ was riding the backseat with me on a test flight six months ago when the bird crashed. It was a night flight.” His throat constricted, the words strained. “I told him to eject. Three times. It was a mad race between us and the ground. The backseat always ejects first because if the front goes before it, the explosion from the eject could injure the other guy. So, I hung in there, yelling at him to bail out.”

The terrible feeling that Holt could have been killed overwhelmed Megan. Her fingers tightened on the cup and saucer. The suffering in Sam’s face brought tears to her eyes, but she quickly forced them back. Her father had always been disgusted by her tears, so she learned not to cry. “Was there a problem with Russ’s seat?”

“Yeah,” Sam croaked finally. “After the crash, the team found that the seat, or what was left of it, was inoperative.” He shut his eyes, feeling the sting of tears behind his lids. “Dammit, Megan, he died. I screamed at him to bail out, but it was too late. The ground was too close. I had to eject….”

Reaching over, she placed her hand on his arm and felt the tautness of his muscles beneath her fingertips. “Sam, you did what you could.” Her fingers tightened as she saw tears appear and bead on his short, spiky lashes. The realization that he trusted her enough to show his tears shook her deeply. “Russ knew the only other option he had was to physically try and climb out. It sounds as if he panicked and didn’t try.”

Forcing back the tears, Holt blinked his eyes several times, wildly aware of Megan’s hand on his arm. Her touch was electric and dredged up more feelings from the crash. He wanted to turn and find his way into her arms and be held. Containing himself, Sam looked over at her. Tears were trailing down her cheeks, silvery paths telling him of the pain she felt for him. The discovery was like a blow to his bruised heart.

“You’re something else, you know that?” he said. Placing the tea on the lowboy, he captured her hand and held it between his. She fed him strength, a sense that it was all right to show his emotions. With Megan, he was safe, and he knew it.

Sniffing, Megan put the teacup aside and reached up to brush the tears from her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cry….”

“No.” Holt captured her other hand, stopping her from wiping the tears away. “Tears…crying, is okay….”

“For women, but not for men?” Megan asked him gently. She looked down at their hands. Holt had darkly tanned ones, his fingers long and capable. Hers were small and glaringly white against his. Another reminder of their differences.

Bowing his head, Holt nodded. “For a second, I thought I was going to cry.”

“It would have helped.”

“Maybe.”

“Is this rule number twenty-two—test pilots never show any emotions and never cry?” she teased.

With a weak laugh, Holt said, “I guess it is. You’ve got all those rules down pat, don’t you?”

“I lived with those rules for eighteen years.”

The pain in his chest widened. Not for Russ or for himself, but for Megan. Stroking her hand, Sam felt the firm softness of her flesh beneath his. “Sometime,” he murmured, holding her eyes that were awash with tears, “I’d like to talk to you more about your early life.”

Megan laughed, but it wasn’t filled with humor. “Sam, you don’t want to hear it.”

“Yes, I do.” His voice grew husky with undisguised emotion. “I want to know the woman who lives in this beautiful apartment. The one who dries rose petals and has a magic touch with African violets.”

A frisson of panic shot through her. How easy it was to fall into Sam’s dark blue eyes and drown in the care he was extending to her. How easy it would be to seek and find his arms, kiss him, and touch the fire that smoldered in his eyes like banked coals. Megan pulled her hands from his. “You’re scaring me,” she whispered.

“I didn’t come over here tonight to do that. I just needed a civilian ear, a trustworthy one, to let me get this off my chest.” Holt rubbed his furrowed brow. “Stang is needling the hell out of me. This morning, on a test flight, it was raining just like the day of the crash. Stang kept reminding me of it, and I fell for his trap. By the time I got in the cockpit, I wasn’t on top of things. I blew the test, Megan.”