Pilot Error (18 page)

Abruptly his cell phone rang, and when Dirk glanced at the display he found it no surprise that it was Tex calling. The guy had wasted no time in moving down his list of 'people and places to call to find Micki.' Mason was already wondering where she was; next he'd drive over to the hangar, find the Cessna still out, and then things would really start to fall apart. Why the hell did the interfering bastard think it was his job to keep track of Micki, anyway?

Grimacing, he took a deep breath before answering it. "Jurgensen."

Tex's pause confirmed that he hadn't controlled the anger in his voice as well as he should have. "Catch you at a bad time, chief?"

"Not really," Dirk said, deliberately lightening his tone under the pretense of friendship. Retrieving his cigarette, he inhaled a lungful. "What's up, buddy?"

"Micki didn't show up at
The Sandpiper
tonight," Tex began in obvious concern. "And you know how much the lightning bothers her. I dropped by her trailer on the way home, but she's not there. Fizz didn't even bark. And she's not answering her phone at her hangar either."

Tex continued, anxiety coloring his soft southwestern drawl. "I was just wondering if you'd heard from her."

Dirk tapped the ash off his cigarette into the trash can and leaned back in Micki's chair. Fitting body language to the tone made deception easier. "Don't worry about her, pal, she's with me."

"With you? Where?"

"At my place." Dirk grinned, and put all the lewdness he could muster into his voice. It wasn't hard; he'd had plenty of practice imagining being with Micki again. "Snuggled up in bed. Micki's right here, you want me to wake her so you can talk to her?"

There was a stunned pause before Tex's embarrassment came through loud and clear. "Uh, no, I... didn't realize you two had... started up again."

Soon enough that would be true. Dirk's eyes narrowed at the pleasant thought. "Well, if that's all then...?" He let his silence speak for him and Tex took the hint.

"Uh, yeah. Okay. Catch you both tomorrow."

"No, not tomorrow." Dirk made sure there was just the right note of smug casualness in his tone before laying down the well-rehearsed lie that would cover his—and Micki's—exodus from US soil. "We're driving down to Key West for a long weekend. Kind of... in celebration of getting together again, you know?"

"Driving? Not flying?"

The lecherous look dropped off Dirk's face. Damn. That idiot, Reynolds, had shot down her plane. That particular cock-up wasn't part of Dirk's original lie. Originally, 'driving' meant that anyone checking her hangar would have found her plane still there and been none the wiser. Now he was going to have to account for the fact that her plane wasn't where it should have been.

Covering, Dirk relaxed and said, "Yeah well, you know how she hates dealing with all the paperwork for going in and out of Key West International. We'll take the Cessna if I can convince her otherwise." He leered again. "And I can be a very persuasive guy."

"I'll bet. So where you staying?"

Dirk took a drag on his cigarette. He'd prepared an answer for this question, too. "You know that hotel on Magnolia Street? Right on the beach?"

"The Pennington? Fancy joint."

"Yeah. It's been a while, but Micki loved that place. We made a lot of memories there." His tone dropped to the appropriately suggestive level. "The ones in the hot tub were the best." The awkward pause made Dirk grin; he could imagine the look on the flyboy lothario's face. "We'll see you next week sometime, when we get back."

"Sure. When you get back then." There was more than a touch of envious teasing in Tex's drawl. "You lucky dog."

Chuckling, Dirk broke the connection. He blew out a satisfied stream of cigarette smoke and watched it spiral toward the ceiling.

Too bad, Tex buddy, but tomorrow Micki and I will be retired in a tropical paradise, and next week she'll be my bride—

The lights unexpectedly came on in the outer hangar. Hastily, Dirk got to his feet. Reynolds, dripping wet, was rounding the parked aircraft with angry strides.

Miffed by the intrusion into his fantasy, Dirk met his compatriot at the office door. "What the hell do you want?"

Reynolds sneered, wiping the rain from his eyes with his sleeve. "A 'bite to eat,' huh? Figured I'd find you here."

"I repeat, what do you want, Reynolds?"

"We're done reloading, if that was ever really necessary."

"You calling me a liar?"

"I'm telling you we're an hour behind schedule,
Mon Capitan
, so it's time to cut the bitch loose and say
adios
to this joint."

"Watch your mouth. You're on thin ice as it is."

The short man snorted, but didn't come within Dirk's reach. "The last boat reported in just after you left. Face it, Jurgensen, she's not gonna be found—not tonight that is. And we've gotta leave town before someone spots the wreckage of her plane."

Dirk's smile was thin. "Worried that your butt's going to be in a sling when the authorities find out you shot her down?"

"I ain't gonna be here to take any heat for nothing. We're gonna be in Bermuda before anyone finds anything." He nodded up at the sound of the rain beating a furious rhythm on the roof. "Besides, after that there may not be any plane left to find."

Parking a shoulder against the doorframe in a show of nonchalance, Dirk took another deep drag off his cigarette and folded his arms. "So what's your hurry?"

"Not what—who. Dominic Van Allen." Reynolds looked as if he was going to blow a gasket at the very mention of their mutual employer. "You've got several million dollars worth of his freaking merchandise sitting in a fully fueled plane, and he's expecting it by morning."

Dirk nodded upward, copying Reynolds' gesture. "We can't take off in that. Use your head. In a plane as old as the one Van Allen sent, it would be suicide."

"If you can't fly that damn hunk of junk, then I'll find someone who can."

Dirk straightened, nice and slow, but the controlled anger in the movement sent Reynolds back a step. "If you forget who's in charge here one more time, then you're going back to Bermuda all right. In a pine box."

"You're bluffing."

"Push it if you really believe that. Besides, who are you going to get who can fly that monstrosity?"

"The same crew who flew it in. They haven't left for Miami yet. The pilot says he can—"

"Did you tell him you haven't cleared this with Van Allen? And that you're doing this against my orders?" At Reynolds culpable look, Dirk sneered. "I didn't think so."

"But—"

"Look, if I say we can't fly in this weather, then we can't fly in this weather. We'll just have to wait until it clears."

Reynolds scoffed. "The weather's got nothing to do with it. And the boss ain't gonna like all this messing with his schedule for some stupid broad."

Dirk took a menacing step forward. He'd had just about enough of Reynolds' lip. "I'll talk to Van Allen. You do what you're paid to do and mind the merchandise."

For a moment, Dirk thought the stocky man would push it, but Reynolds finally gave way. "Fine. You talk to him, pal, but when we finally get to Bermuda be sure that I'm having a nice long talk with him, too."

With that parting shot, Reynolds stalked toward the front of the hangar without looking back.

Scowling, Dirk watched him go. Fine, let him have his 'talk.' Their employer was an intelligent, cultured aristocrat. Who was he going to believe? Dirk, the longtime trusted employee, or an uncouth street thug like Reynolds?

Grimly returning to the desk, Dirk wasted no time zipping Micki's notebook computer, along with her business ledger and flight log book, into his attaché. He was not prepared to leave Reynolds alone with a plane and a possible pilot any longer. It would definitely not sit well with Dominic Van Allen if the merchandise turned up without him, and Dirk needed to preserve that relationship at all costs. But before he left, there were still a few last details that needed his attention.

He turned to jerk open the drawers in the file cabinet one by one, starting at the top until it began to tilt forward. A quick shove with his shoulder sent it crashing sideways to the floor, spilling out its contents and taking the fake palm tree with it.

Calling on skills learned in a misspent youth, he used a pair of scissors he found sticking out of a mug with some pens and markers to jimmy open the bottom right desk drawer where Micki kept her cash box. Methodically, he swept out the meager amount of cash and checks, folded them to tuck them into his pants pocket, and then tossed the emptied container to the floor atop the mess.

Flicking a quick glance about the small space satisfied him that the scene resembled a petty burglary. That should provide enough distraction for the local police—and her friends—so it would not be obvious the ledger and flight log book were missing. The notebook computer could have been fair game for thieves looking for a quick buck; no one would think twice about its theft.

Picking up his attaché, Dirk extinguished the desk lamp and closed Micki's office door behind him for the last time. Tomorrow, he'd restart the search for her. Tonight, all that was left to do was call his boss and somehow convince him that the delay really was the fault of the weather.

The jogging suit was dry, but three sizes too big for her. However, when Micki emerged from the storeroom, with the long arms and legs rolled accordingly, her thoughts were on something other than the lack of a good fit. Luke's dogtags, now concealed around her neck, had just become one more piece in a never-ending puzzle.

The man was full of surprises... none of which she expected to be a domestic streak. In her absence, he had not only changed into the blue jeans that fit like a second skin and the torn dress shirt, but he had poured water into the MRE heater packs to start the chemical reaction that would warm their food.

Mr. Macho had started dinner!

Despite all her newfound questions, Micki paused to smile. Luke sat cross-legged on the shanty floor, with the silver thermal blanket from her survival backpack pulled about his shoulders, and the food and water canteen before him. He looked like a Boy Scout at camp.

Or a soldier hunkered down behind enemy lines.

Her smile faded. No, Luke wasn't a soldier, he was a sailor. US Navy, according to the dogtags. Of course a military man would know how to prepare field rations.

When he glanced up, Micki diverted her gaze and continued across the room to lay her wet clothes out to dry—jeans, t-shirt, socks, bra, panties. She wished she could unbraid her hair too, but since she didn't have a brush or a comb, dealing with the tangles would be even more annoying than it was now. So she left it alone.

Turning, she found Luke concentrating on playing chef with a decidedly innocent expression. Curious, she glanced back at her wet laundry... then it hit her. What? Had he expected her to leave wet underwear on beneath dry clothes?

Bet he didn't leave his on.

The thought made her blush, while a completely different emotion had her scanning his similarly laid out clothing for a pair of black, hip-hugging swim shorts. Guiltily, she brought her attention back to him when he spoke.

"Dinner's ready." Without looking up, Luke placed her MRE on the floor beside him. "Hope you don't mind. I really am starving, you know."

"Not a bit. Thanks." As she bent to retrieve her packaged meal, a gust of wind and rain rocked the shanty and sent chill currents of air swirling about her back.

Noting her shiver, Luke lifted the blanket with one arm. "Come on, sit down. It's freezing in here."

It was cold, but Micki stubbornly decided that she would have to be comatose before she cuddled up against him, as he seemed to expect. She was opening her mouth to tell him dinner was one thing but the seating arrangements were quite another, when a particularly brutal clap of lightning and thunder chased her to his side like a whimpering little pup.

Okay, slight change of plan.

Warily sitting next to him, she drew half of the Mylar sheet about her shoulders and avoided eye contact. She made sure the only part of her that touched him was her shoulder, the contact necessary for them both to fit under the thermal blanket. Being that close to Luke Hardigan was disquieting, but Micki Jacinto was a survivor. And if that meant enduring a minor discomfort for the sake of easing a greater one, then so be it.

"You're right," Micki said, feeling his eyes on her. "It is kind of... chilly in here."

As she tore open the food pouch, the storm made her want to cower again. She refused to look at him for fear he would see right through her false composure.

Taking a swig from the canteen then capping it again, Luke said, "Lightning really bothers you, doesn't it."

Now busy eating, Micki shrugged in a gesture of feigned nonchalance. When Fizz came to sit at her bare feet, licking his lips, she buried her toes in his salt-knotted fur and dished some of her rations onto the floor for him. Luckily, Luke let the topic slide.

They ate in silence. Slowly Micki began to feel almost warm, and almost safe. More than once, she jumped at the sizzling flashes that turned the unshaded windows into panes of pure light. More than once, the frightened child inside her considered asking Luke to hold her, the way her father used to when she was very young, and the way Dirk nowadays filled the role. Dirk never seemed to mind her frantic phone calls and pleas for company in the middle of the night, although she was never quite sure who was taking advantage of whom.