The Paris Affair (18 page)
They shot questions back and forth, and Helmut was quickly out of his depth in the technical jargon.
“You can’t let that thing lift off, Anne,” Harriet said. “If you’re already seeing the stress marks on the hull, then there’s too much heat.”
“I tried to tell Lackey. He wants to go ahead. Thinks the risks are small,” Anne said.
“Where is Claire?” Helmut interrupted.
“Claire Sheffield?” Anne asked. “She was in the tent a few minutes ago. Oh no, they’re starting.”
Twenty yards ahead of him, Helmut spotted Claire. She was taking her place on a chair up on the stage, and Ben stood behind the podium. The intro music started, and cheers went up from the crowd as two men in fatigues walked out to the concrete pad in the center, carrying the small helicopter.
Anne pulled out a small walkie-talkie, but Helmut didn’t listen to what she said. He took off at a sprint toward the stage. He climbed the steps three at a time and hurried over to the empty chair next to Claire’s.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed at him under her breath.
“Claire, you have to stop the demo.” The music picked up as images of airplanes and American flags flashed on a jumbo screen beside the stage.
“What?”
“Stop the demo. Now. That thing’s not safe.” He had to speak up to be heard over the noise as the opening video started.
“I can’t,” she said. “We’ve already started.”
Helmut felt a tap on his shoulder. “I think you’re in my seat, Helmut,” he said. Ben’s eyes flashed angrily and Helmut recognized something else. Fear.
“Call it off, Ben. Now, before someone gets hurt. I brought Harriet—”
“That woman’s crazy. Claire, get rid of him. Hasn’t he embarrassed you enough?”
Helmut searched Claire’s eyes. Her gaze flickered between the two men.
“Claire, I found your HAF. She’s an engineer who works for you. And she thinks that helicopter is dangerous. Cancel the demo.”
“I’ll get security.” Ben made to leave. “What are you doing here?”
Harriet rushed up onto the stage. “Ms. Sheffield. Shadow Fly is not safe. Cancel it, now. Terry already tried, and they don’t have their radios on.”
At the purr of a motor, Helmut glanced up. Six-foot long blades began whirring as the two operators backed away from the small spy helicopter.
“Who are y—” Claire began to ask, her eyes wide. Helmut grabbed one of her hands. Her fingers felt like ice.
“Security!” Ben yelled.
Harriet ran right past them to the microphone. Ben lunged at her and tried to grab her. “Stop. Halt the demo. Now. Tony and Mark, take it down.”
Security guards rushed the stage. One grabbed at Helmut’s arm, yanking his grip away from Claire’s.
Helmut would have gone quietly with the man. But at the loud pop and the gasp from the crowd, every pair of eyes riveted to the sky, including the guards.
Shadow Fly popped again, and began spinning wildly, falling downward. Aimed at the stage. Helmut didn’t think. He shook off the guards’ loose grips, grabbed Claire, and dove for the floor cradling her head with his hands and protecting her body with his.
He covered her with his body as the fire exploded somewhere above them, raining debris across the tarmac and the stage. Helmut felt something smash against one of his legs. The smell of smoking grease and screech of emergency sirens sent him spiraling back to I55 and the car crash.
His fiancée had been reaching over the back seat, grabbing for a tape to play her latest composition for him. Helmut had not been paying enough attention to the road, exhausted from travel after a business trip of sixteen-hour days.
In one instant of inattention, he lost control of the car.
He’d lost control of his life. Work was the only thing left to him for years, and he’d let that spiral out of control, too. Until today.
“Helmut,” Claire pushed at his chest. Her sea blue eyes were wide, and a smudge of soot streaked one temple. Her heart beat wildly against his.
“Are you all right?” he whispered.
“I think so. You?”
He took stock. Blood thundering in his ears, and his breath felt ragged, but he didn’t feel injured. Their torsos were pressed together against the rough carpet of the stage, and he felt a surge of desire as she shifted underneath him, brushing her belly against his cock. He smoothed a stray lock from her mussed hair.
She pushed lightly at him again, and Helmut sat back and let her sit up. Chaos was everywhere. The crowds rushing out of the bleachers. Firefighters spraying foam on the steaming remains of the Shadow Fly helicopter.
“I think everyone’s OK,” she whispered back.
“Claire.”
I love you
. The words formed on his tongue, but rough arms grabbed him. As security led him away from the scene of the crash, he looked back. Claire walked down the steps from the stage, assisted by another guard.
The French authorities questioned him. The American authorities questioned him. For six hours, Helmut sat in a featureless white room with only two folding chairs and a chipped laminate table.
He paced the room restlessly, throwing glares at the large mirror on one wall, no doubt a two-way mirror. Information. If they could just tell him whether Claire was OK, and whether anyone in the crowd, Harriet, and the two operators who had been on the tarmac at the time of the explosion were safe and sound.
He answered every question with as much patience as he could muster. It was a thin veneer.
“Why were you at the air show today?” a man in US Air Force fatigues asked. This was the fourth interrogator, and Helmut didn’t care to remember the man’s name or rank. He just wanted out of the room.
“To warn the Sheffield and Fox team that there was a structural instability in Shadow Fly.”
“Did you know the aircraft would explode?” The man asked every question as though he were asking about Helmut’s grocery list, and barely looked up from his own notebook.
“Not specifically, no. The engineer, Harriet, had warned me that the hull was weak and had shown problems during lab testing. Her reports had not apparently been taken seriously, so I brought her over here to give them in person.” Helmut ran his hand through his hair. “Look, I’ve told the last three guys the exact same thing. Ask Harriet, or my secretary—”
“Can you explain the weakness in the hull?”
Helmut clenched his jaw and took a calming breath. “No, I can’t. I’m an accountant, not an engineer.”
The man set down his notepad on the table and looked directly at Helmut for the first time. “I understand that you recently left Sheffield and Fox under less than ideal circumstances.”
“Thanks to the media the past two days, I believe all of France knows all about that. Why ask me now?”
“Because it’s my job to ask.” The man leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, fixing Helmut with a stare no doubt designed to intimidate new recruits. Helmut returned it, steel for steel. He had nothing to hide.
“Mr. Forrester, were you in any way responsible for the explosion of that helicopter?” the man asked.
Helmut snorted. “If I wanted the thing to blow up, why would I have rushed the stage trying to stop the demonstration?”
Helmut held the other man’s gaze. Finally the man nodded. “I’m going to level with you. Both Ms. Sheffield and Ms. Friedman have fully corroborated your story. You might be glad to know that we do not consider you a terrorism suspect.”
Helmut started. “Terrorism? What the h—”
“Sir, I realize that this has been a long day, but I am not quite finished with my questions. I need to ask you about Benjamin Lackey.”
Helmut jumped to his feet and paced over to the two-way mirror. Terrorism? Ben? No frigging way. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Mr. Forrester, how long have you known Mr. Lackey?”
“Fifteen, no, sixteen years. We both started at S&F on the same day.”
“And you maintain a friendly relationship?”
“More or less.”
“Are you familiar with Mr. Lackey’s financial situation? Does he have gambling debts or drug problems or bankruptcies? Anything of that nature? Under any unusual stress lately?”
Helmut shrugged. He’d always watched his own net worth, and assumed Ben took care of his. “I haven’t talked to him much in the past two or three months. I figured he’s been swamped by the Shadow Fly project, and I’ve been a bit distracted. Sure, he gambles some, goes to Vegas once or twice a year, plays cards, nothing to worry about.”
The man scratched a few notes onto his paper. “I will leave you my card, Mr. Forrester. If you think of anything else that would help with this matter, please give me a call.”
Thermometer under her tongue, Claire tapped her foot impatiently as a nurse with a flighty French accent and dark hair pinned beneath an old-fashioned nursing hat checked Claire’s blood pressure. The tight pressure on her left arm eased, and the nurse pulled the plastic-covered probe out of Claire’s mouth.
“Normal and normal, Madame.”
“Of course it’s normal. Bumping your knee on the ground doesn’t give you the flu,” Claire muttered.
“I am sorry, Madame. What do you say?”
Get me out of here
. “Nothing, sorry. Is the doctor busy?” Claire glanced toward the door of the small private room in the American Hospital of Paris where she and a handful of other people from the show had been brought, including the two operators who where on the tarmac when the helicopter exploded.
So far, she had seen a police and an Air Force investigator, the nurse, and a reporter who had slipped past the front desk. And the security guard brought by the nurse to escort out the reporter. But no doctor. Not that she needed one. But no one wanted to let her leave without seeing the elusive medic.
“
Oui, madame
, the doctor is busy. He will be along shortly.” The nurse smiled and scratched a note onto the chart by the door. “You have a gentleman visitor, Madame. Shall I send him in?”
Helmut. “Yes, please.” Media reports be damned. The thought of being enfolded in Helmut’s arms sounded like pure bliss. Quickly Claire smoothed her hair and her rumpled sleeve.
The door opened and Claire’s heart sank. “Frank. What the hell are you doing here?”
He strode in, smiling. “Claire, dear. What a day you’ve had. How are you?” He stopped in front of the hospital bed where she perched, his arms open wide.
Claire crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “I guess I should have asked who my visitor was.”
“Expecting someone else?” he asked with a hurt expression on his face.
“Oh don’t start with your theatrics, Frank. I’m not in the mood for it. Just go, okay?”
He hooked the small rolling stool with one foot and drew it to him to sit. “Claire, I’m not here to fight with you.”
She raised one eyebrow.
“Honestly. I am worried about you. Every time I see you lately, you look stressed and harassed.”
“Ever think that perhaps you’re the reason for that?” She sounded much sassier than she’d meant to. She was slipping back into old habits with this man. She had to collect herself before she ended up in a shouting match. That would benefit no one.
Frank let out a breath. He had small wrinkles around the sides of his eyes, and a crinkle on his forehead. Those were new. “I deserve that, I suppose. I know I’ve made a lot of mistakes, Claire, but I do care about you. Can you really look back at ten years and say that I mean nothing to you? We’ve had a lot of good times together. Surely I deserve another chance.”
Claire raised one eyebrow. Good lord, the man actually looked sincere.
He pried one of her hands from where she’d tucked it at her waist and clasped it in his two. They were warm and strong, and he fixed her with the same deep brown eyes that used to make her heart flutter.
In college, Claire had capitalized on her newfound freedom, her father’s money, and her blond good looks to pledge the premier sorority, to date the school’s hot-shot athletes, to be the ultimate party girl. It was a fun, empty life. Frank was quiet, shy almost. His chocolate eyes had sparkled with intelligence, and he’d been the first to be interested in her brain, not her boobs. She’d fallen hard for him.