Up Close and Dangerous (2 page)

Her answer was a phone slammed down in her ear.

Not a great way to start the day, she thought, but at least her monthly encounter with Seth was now behind her.

Now, if she could just avoid Tamzin…

2

C
AMERON
J
USTICE GAVE THE SMALL AIRFIELD AND PARKING
lot a swift, encompassing glance as he pulled his blue Suburban into his allotted slot. Though it wasn’t yet six-thirty in the morning, he wasn’t the first to arrive. The silver Corvette meant his friend and partner, Bret Larsen—the L of J&L Executive Air Limo—was already there, and the red Ford Focus signaled the presence of their secretary, Karen Kaminski. Bret was early, but Karen made a practice of getting into the office before anyone else; she said it was the only time she could get any work done without being constantly interrupted.

The morning was bright and clear, though the weather report called for increasing cloudiness during the day. Right this minute, though, the sun shone brightly on the four gleaming J&L planes, and Cam paused for a moment to enjoy the sight.

The custom paint job had been expensive, but worth the cost in the image presented by the shining black slashed by a thin line of white curving upward from the nose to the tail. The two Cessnas—a Skylane and a Skyhawk—were paid for, free and clear; he and Bret had busted their asses the first couple of years, working side jobs as well as flying, to get them paid off as fast as possible and to improve their debt ratio. The Piper Mirage was
almost
theirs, and after it was paid for they planned to double up on payments on the eight-seater Lear 45 XR, which was Cam’s baby.

Though in reality the Lear was fairly close in length and wingspan to the F-15E Strike Eagle that Cam’s partner had flown while in the air force, Bret had since become accustomed to the much smaller Cessnas and the midsize Mirage, preferring their agility. Cam, who had flown the huge KC-10A Extender during his time in the service, preferred having more aircraft around him. Their favorites illustrated the basic differences between them as pilots. Bret was the fighter-pilot, cocky and with lightning-fast reflexes; Cam was the steady Eddie, the guy whose hands you wanted on the yoke when a plane needed refueling thousands of feet in the air, at hundreds of miles an hour. The Lear needed every available inch of runway the small airfield provided in order to take off, so Bret was more than glad for Cam to be in the pilot’s seat on those flights.

They’d done well for themselves, Cam thought, while doing something they both loved. Flying was in their blood. They had met in the Air Force Academy, and though Bret had been a year ahead of Cam they’d become friends, and remained friends through different deployments, different career tracks, different postings. They had seen each other through three divorces—two for Bret and one for Cam—and a number of girlfriends. Almost without really planning it they had somehow, through phone calls and e-mails, decided to go into business together when they left the military; what type of business was never in question. A small air charter service had seemed tailor-made for them.

The gig had turned into a good one. They now employed three mechanics, one part-time pilot, a cleanup crew consisting of one full-time and one part-time, and Karen the Indispensable, who ruled them all with an iron fist and a total lack of tolerance for bullshit. The company was solvent, and both of them made a good living from it. The day-to-day flying didn’t provide the thrills and chills of military flight, but Cam didn’t need an adrenaline rush to enjoy life. Bret, of course, was a different type; fighter pilots
lived
for the burn, but he’d adjusted, and got his occasional doses of drama by joining the Civil Air Patrol.

They had lucked out on the location, too. The airfield was perfect for their needs. It was convenient, most of all, to the corporate headquarters of the Wingate Group, J&L’s main client. Sixty percent of their flights were with Wingate, for the most part ferrying high-ranking executives to and fro, though sometimes the family used J&L for private excursions. Other than convenience, though, the airfield offered good security and an above-average terminal building in which J&L had a three-room office. It was Bret’s connections that had got them the Wingate business, and he usually flew the family members, while Cam took care of ferrying the corporate suits around. The arrangement suited both of them fine, because Bret got along with the family better than Cam did. Mr. Wingate had been a nice guy, but his kids were assholes, and the trophy wife he’d left behind was as warm and friendly as a glacier.

Cam climbed out of the Suburban. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, and the big vehicle suited him, giving him the leg- and headroom he needed. Crossing the parking lot in his loose-limbed, unhurried stride, he let himself in the private door on the side of the terminal building, swiping his ID card to unlock it. A narrow hall led to their office, where Karen sat industriously tapping away on her computer keyboard. Fresh flowers sat in a vase on her desk, the fragrance mingling with that of coffee. She
always
had flowers, though he suspected she bought them herself. Her boyfriend—a black-leather wearing, motorcycle-riding, bearded pro wrestler—didn’t seem like the flower-buying kind. Cam knew she was in her late twenties, he knew she liked to dye black streaks into her short red hair, and that she made the office run like oiled silk, but beyond that he was afraid to ask. Bret, on the other hand, had made it his life’s mission to flap the unflappable, and teased her relentlessly.

“Morning, Sunshine,” Cam greeted her, because, what the hell, he wasn’t above teasing her either.

She gave him a squinty-eyed look over the top of her monitor, then returned to her typing. Karen was as far from being sunshiny in the mornings as Seattle was from Miami. Bret had once voiced the theory that she moonlighted as a guard dog in a junkyard, because she was as mean as one and didn’t turn reasonably human until around nine a.m. Karen hadn’t said anything, but Bret’s personal mail had disappeared for over a month, until he got a clue and apologized, whereupon his mail began being delivered again, but he was a month behind in all his bills.

Opting for caution over valor, Cam didn’t say anything else to her; instead he helped himself to the coffee and wandered over to the open door of Bret’s office. “You’re early,” he said, propping a shoulder against the door frame.

Bret gave him a sour look. “Not willingly.”

“You mean Karen called and told you to get your ass down here?” Behind him, Cam heard a sound that could have been either a chuckle or a growl. With Karen, it was hard to tell the difference.

“Almost as bad. Some idiot waited until the last minute to book an eight o’clock.”

“We don’t call them ‘idiots,’” Karen said automatically. “I sent you a memo. We call them ‘clients.’”

Bret was taking a sip of coffee when she spoke, and he half choked, half laughed. “‘Clients,’” he repeated. “Got it.” He indicated the sheet of paper he’d been scribbling on, which Cam recognized as a schedule form. “I’ve called Mike in to take the Spokane run this afternoon, in the Skylane”—Mike Gardiner was their part-time pilot—“and that’ll free me up to take the Mirage to L.A. if you want to take the Eugene run in the Skyhawk—or we can swap if you’d rather do the L.A. run.”

Whoever got into the office first was the one who had to start on the paperwork, which was one reason why Bret was seldom there so early. He was matching the range of the planes to the length of the flights, which was only common sense because it saved time if they didn’t have to stop for refueling. Normally Cam would have preferred the L.A. run, but he’d already flown a couple of long trips this week and he needed a little break. He also needed a few hours in one of the Cessnas; he flew so much in the Lear and the Piper Mirage that he had to make an effort to get his hours in on the smaller planes. “No, it’s fine the way it is. I need the hours. What’s on for tomorrow?”

“Just two. Tomorrow’s an early day for me, too; I’m taking Mrs. Wingate to Denver for a vacation, so I’ll be deadheading back unless I can pick up something. The other one is…” He paused, looking through the papers on his desk for the contract sheet Karen had written up.

“A cargo run to Sacramento,” Karen said from the outer office, not bothering to pretend she wasn’t eavesdropping.

“A cargo run to Sacramento,” Bret echoed, grinning, as if Cam hadn’t heard her perfectly well. The growling sound came again. Bret scribbled a note and pushed it across his desk; Cam ambled forward to put one finger on the piece of paper and twirl it around.

Ask her if she’s had her rabies shot,
the note read.

“Sure,” he said, and raised his voice. “Karen, Bret wants me to ask you—”

“Shut up, you asshole!” Bret lunged to his feet and punched Cam on the shoulder to stop him from completing the sentence. Laughing, Cam left the room to go to his own office.

Karen gave him the squinty-eyed look again. “Bret wants you to ask me what?” she demanded.

“Never mind. It wasn’t anything important,” Cam said innocently.

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” she muttered.

The phone rang as he sat down, and though technically it was Karen’s job to answer calls, she was busy and he wasn’t, so he punched on line one and answered.

“Executive Air Limo.”

“This is Seth Wingate. Does my stepmother have a flight booked for tomorrow?”

The man’s voice was abrupt, raising Cam’s hackles, but he kept his own tone neutral. “Yes, she does.”

“Where to?”

Cam wished he could tell the jerk that Mrs. Wingate’s destination wasn’t any of his business, but when it came down to it, jerk or not, he was a Wingate and would have a lot to say about whether or not J&L kept the Wingate Group’s business. “Denver.”

“When is she coming back?”

“I don’t have the exact date in front of me, but I believe it’s around two weeks.”

The only reply was the line being disconnected, without a “thank you,” “kiss my ass,” or anything else.

“Bastard,” he muttered as he clicked the receiver down.

“Who?”

Karen’s voice floated through the open door. Was there anything she didn’t hear? The hell of it was, the tap-tap of computer keys never stopped, never hesitated. The woman was downright scary.

“Seth Wingate,” he replied.

“I’m with you on that, boss. He’s keeping tabs on Mrs. Wingate, huh? I wonder why. There’s no love lost between those two.”

No surprise there; the first Mrs. Wingate, whom he’d known briefly but really liked, had died barely a year before Mr. Wingate married his personal assistant, who was younger than both his children. “Maybe he’s going to throw a party in the house while she’s gone.”

“That’s juvenile.”

“So is he.”

“That’s probably why Mr. Wingate, the old one, left her in charge of the money.”

Surprised, Cam got up and went to his office door. “You’re kidding,” he said to her back.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, her fingers still flying over the computer keys. “You didn’t know?”

“How would I know?” Neither any of the family members nor the executives in the Group talked personal finances with him, and he didn’t believe they confided in Karen either.

“
I
know,” she pointed out.

Yeah, but you’re scary.
He bit back the words before his mouth got his ass in big-time trouble. Karen had her ways of finding out stuff. “
How
do you know?”

“I hear things.”

“If it’s true, no wonder there’s no love lost between them.” Hell, if he was in Seth Wingate’s shoes, he’d probably be acting like a bastard toward his stepmother, too.

“It’s true, all right. Old Mr. Wingate was a smart guy. Think about it. Would
you
have left either Seth or Tamzin in charge of millions and millions of dollars?”

Cam had to think about it for maybe one thousandth of a second. “No way in hell.”

“Well, neither would he. And I like her. She’s smart.”

“I hope she’s smart enough to have changed the locks on the doors when Mr. Wingate died,” Cam said. And to watch her back, because he wouldn’t trust Seth Wingate not to put a knife in it, if he had the chance.

3

T
HE PHONE JARRED
C
AM AWAKE THE NEXT MORNING AND
he fumbled for it without opening his eyes. Maybe it was a wrong number; if he didn’t open his eyes, he’d be able to go back to sleep until the alarm on his wristwatch went off. He knew from experience that once he opened his eyes he might as well get up because sleep wasn’t gonna happen. “Yeah.”

“Boss, get your pants on and get down here.”

Karen. Shit. He forgot about keeping his eyes shut and bolted straight up, a shot of adrenaline clearing his brain of cobwebs. “What’s wrong?”

“Your idiot partner just showed up with his eyes swollen almost shut, barely able to breathe, and he thinks he’s capable of flying to Denver today.”

In the background Cam heard a thick, hoarse voice that didn’t sound at all like Bret saying something unintelligible. “Is that Bret?”

“Yeah. He wants to know why I call you ‘boss’ and him ‘idiot.’ Because some things are just evident, that’s why,” she snapped, evidently replying to Bret. Returning her attention to Cam, she said, “I’ve called Mike, but he can’t get here in time to take the Denver flight, so I’m giving him your flight to Sacramento and you have to get your butt in gear.”

“I’m on my way,” he said, disconnecting and dashing for the bathroom. He showered and shaved in four minutes and twenty-three seconds, threw on one of his black suits, grabbed his cap and the overnight bag he always kept packed because things like this sometimes happened, and was out the door in six minutes. He backtracked to turn off the coffeemaker that was programmed to begin brewing in about an hour, then, because he didn’t know if he’d have time to stop for breakfast he snatched some trail mix bars from the cabinet and dropped them in his pocket.

Shit, shit,
shit.
He swore under his breath as he wove through the early-morning traffic. His passenger today was the frosty Widow Wingate. Bret got along with her, but Bret got along with almost everyone; the few times Cam had been unlucky enough to be around her, she’d acted as if she had a stick up her ass
and
he was a bug on the windshield of her life. He’d dealt with her type before, in the military; the attitude hadn’t set well with him then and it sure as hell didn’t now. He’d keep his lip buttoned if it killed him, but if she gave him any lip he’d give
her
the roughest ride of her life; he’d have her puking her guts out before they got to Denver.