The Christmas Quilt: Quilts of Love Series (23 page)

Typical. She’d seen his macho, arrogant type many times following her father around the globe in the rolling stone life of Uncle Sam’s army. Laney folded her hands in her lap. His kind loved the fluffy kittens of the world like Blondie and the redhead. He probably wasn’t a real cowboy, either. Probably didn’t know one end of a horse from a—

A mountainous shadow inserted itself between Laney and the fluorescent lighting of the terminal. She jerked at the sight of Cowboy looming over her.

“Ms. Carrigan, I presume?” A mocking smile flickered at the corners of his lips.

Laney’s hackles rose, and she hunched her shoulders as she struggled to rise from her awkward position on the floor. The heel of her shoe caught on the handle of her bag and she fell—make that
sprawled
—into his arms.

Wishing she could sink into the floor, she felt the blush matching and mounting from beneath the collar of her pink shirtwaist blouse.

Great, elegant as always.

But she’d give him full kudos for quick reflexes.

In a full face-plant against the blue fabric of his shirt, Laney noted—in the half-second before Cowboy pulled his own nose out of her hair—an enticing blend of smells on the man, a spicy aftershave like her father wore, cocoa butter, and something indefinable that belonged to him alone. Awkward . . . this was long past getting out of hand.

Laney took herself in hand and cleared her throat.

Cowboy, his hands wrapped around her upper arms, set her aright upon her two left feet. His black-fringed eyes—eyelashes the envy of any girl—blinked. Not that there was anything remotely girlish about him.

His fingers lingered. Stepping back, Laney almost fell again over her suitcase. His hand shot out, restoring her balance. He nudged her bag out of the way with the pointed toe of his boot.

Was it her imagination or did a rosy flush darken his sculpted cheekbones? “Carrigan, right?”

She shook free of his grip. “And you would know that how?” Settling her hands on her hips, she looked past him to where the two fluffy kittens glared mayhem in her direction. “Who are you?”

He jammed his hands into the front pockets of his pants. “Kai Barnes. I’m here to perform an SAR for Auntie Teah. A search—”

“I know what an SAR is, Mr. Barnes. Search and rescue.”

The full beam of his oceanic orbs lasered her. She extended her neck upward, refusing to let his six-foot height intimi-date her.

“Sure.” A derisive smirk crossed his too-handsome-to-live features. “I forgot about your military background.”

“I take it you’re military, too?” Should’ve seen it sooner, but the boots had thrown her off. She could spot ’em, all right. That distinct swagger, that I’m licensed to kill attitude, that . . .

“Army pilot.” His eyes shuttered again. “Former. Flew SAR in medevacs.” He removed his hands from his pockets and crossed his arms over his chest. His mouth flatlined. “Search and rescue seems to be what I do best.” His gaze raked her over. “I’ll take you to Teah, who’s waiting for us at the ranch. My—”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” Laney’s chest puffed out. “I was told to wait for my Aunt Teah or Elyse. I don’t know you from Adam. You could be some psycho cowboy serial killer for all I know.” She crossed her arms, mirroring his stance.

Kai raised his eyes toward the ceiling, his jaw working. An exasperated sigh rose from the depths of his being, rolling through the airwaves like a rumbling volcanic eruption. “Teah’s not your real aunt.” He stabbed Laney with a fierce look. “If you are who you claim to be . . .”

Laney fixed him with a matching glare.

“She and your mother were first cousins, which makes Elyse, Teah’s daughter, a more distant cousin. Auntie is a term of respect for elders in our Hawai‘ian culture.”

“Hawai‘ian? Our?” She let her eyes roam up and down his muscular form in a deliberate repetition of his scathing perusal of her earlier. Kai flushed again. This time though—and she could tell the difference—with anger.

Muttering something under his breath, with a sudden move, Kai whipped a brown leather wallet from one of the ubiquitous pockets lining his pants. He extracted a driver’s license and held it to her face. “Kai Barnes. My address—Franklin Ranch. Near Waimea. There’s been a slight emergency with Tutu Mily, so they sent—”

“Tutu? Mily?” Laney’s arms dropped to her sides. “Do you mean Miliana Franklin, my grandmother? What’s happened?”

“Your understanding of our culture underwhelms me. Tutu means grandmother. And yes, I refer to Miliana Kanakele Franklin, although whether she’s actually your grandmother or not remains to be seen.”

Laney stiffened.

“Teah said she’d explain when we reached the ranch. Until then, if you want to meet your Hawai‘ian relatives, then I suggest . . .” His arm swept the room and pointed at the glass doors.

“Fine. Have it your way.” Laney bent to retrieve her bag but found Kai to be quicker, his hand grasping the handle. She tugged.

He held on.

Laney let go.

So, he was a gentleman, too.

“This puny thing it?” He heaved it to his shoulder.

“I learned a long time ago to travel light.”

Laney sashayed past him toward the double doors and the parking lot, pretending as always she knew exactly where she was headed. And if things got too uncomfortable with these virtual strangers . . . She fingered her escape hatch in the pocket of her skirt, her return ticket via Jakarta.

She’d give them three weeks. Three weeks before she winged out to her next assignment. She eyeballed her teeth-clenched companion.

Maybe sooner. They didn’t know it yet, but the moment Cowboy showed up, her clock started ticking.

A disconcerted feeling settled over her at the truth of that statement.

Ticking in more ways than one.