Chapter 2
Not wanting him to smell the fear and panic swirling around her like a cloak of fog, Bailey Sinclair focused in on the one consolation she had—
He actually believed she held a gun on him.
Good God, she was hijacking the tall, dark, and attitude-ridden Noah Fisher with her fatty Bic pen, and if the enigmatic, rough-edged pilot even caught a sniff of her false bravado, it’d be over. He would wrestle her to the seat or toss her out the window, as she deserved.
At least it’d be over.
No. No destructive thoughts. She had to see this through, had to, or she was going to end up in the same situation as her rat fink bastard husband.
Which was six feet under.
For the umpteenth time, she wished Alan weren’t already dead, so she could kill him herself.
But someone had beaten her to that game, hadn’t they. And now her own life hung in the balance.
Hope you’re rotting in hell, Alan.
God. With her free hand, she hugged herself. She’d had bad days before, she reminded herself. Unfortunately, this one was shaping up to be the king of all bad days.
Bad weeks.
Bad months…
Actually, she could write the entire year off to a string of rotten luck piled on top of rotten decisions piled on top of the fact that Fate seemed to have it in for her.
She needed a break, just one.
And then suddenly the plane dipped again, and she nearly lost her sweaty grip on her Bic pen. “What are you doing?” she cried, flying backward and hitting the seat behind her.
Noah didn’t answer, which pretty much did her in. Nerves already scraped raw, she desperately needed some answers, and he was going to give them to her, damn it.
Scrambling back up, she tightened her hold on the pen and jammed it hard into the muscle of his shoulder. “Answer me!”
Rolling his shoulder, he pushed back at her.
Damn it, didn’t he realize? She had a gun.
Okay, she didn’t, really, but he thought she did! Why wasn’t he cowering? Begging for mercy?
She wanted to do both. She wanted to drop to the floor and roll into a ball and do something distinctly juvenile, like burst into tears.
Instead she locked her knees and thrust up her chin, reminding herself she was in charge at the moment. “Tell me what’s happening.”
“Weather pockets.”
“What does that mean?”
“We’ve hit a few weather pockets,” he said very slowly, as if speaking to an idiot.
“Is that bad?”
“Depends on how good a flyer you are.”
“How good a flyer are you?” she asked a little weakly.
He let out a low, mirthless laugh. “Little late to be asking that.”
She was just behind him, and off to the side enough to catch him in profile. And he had quite the profile. His dark hair hadn’t seen a comb today, maybe not yesterday either, and yet the untamed waves would most definitely call to a woman’s fingers. She knew this because they called to hers.
His striking face gave nothing away as he spoke: no alarm, no worry, no inflection at all. He was good at that, at being calm.
She knew this because he’d flown her places before, many times; he just didn’t know it. She’d always admired his calm strength, his smooth, easy demeanor, and that low, husky voice with the whisper of England in it.
He handled the controls like the pro he was. The material of his shirt strained over shoulders wide enough to block her view of the horizon, and she knew without looking that his chest was broad, his stomach enticingly flat, because one time last summer she’d seen him on the tarmac stripping out of a dirty shirt, shrugging into a new one. His arms had been corded with long, steely muscles, his fingers also long and undoubtedly callused and work-roughened from all the mechanic work he often did on his plane for the joy of it.
“Thunderstorm, gathering early,” he said, working the controls as the plane dipped once more, pitching as violently as her stomach.
“Ohmigod,” she whispered, gripping the back of his seat.
Another dip.
She gritted her teeth and did her best not to reveal her fear. “Can’t you avoid this?”
“Sure.”
His voice came perfectly calm, perfectly collected, with just that curious and intoxicating hint of British in it. “I’ll just call mother nature and tell her to knock it off.”
In another place and time, she’d be fascinated by the sheer strength and control he was exhibiting under what had to be enormous pressure.
But right now it was all she could do not to throw herself down and give up, give in.
Let them have her.
No. No, she wasn’t dead yet, damn it. She opened her mouth, but when the plane shuddered, so did she.
Oh, God.
“Are we going to crash?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer, and if she’d thought her stomach had pitched before, it was nothing to the sommersault it did now in the face of his silence. “Hello?”
When he didn’t answer, she sucked in a breath and nudged him with her “gun.”
“Do you want me to chat, or keep us in the air?” he asked in such perfect politeness that it actually took her a moment to process the words.
“Air,” she managed, nodding even though he couldn’t see her. “Keep us in the air.”
With a gruff nod, he did as she’d asked.
She just hoped he intended to keep doing it.
“I need to use the radio,” he said after a few moments, and without waiting for her to okay that, he checked in with someone via his headset and got the weather update. She stood there on pins and needles, the pen in his shoulder, terrified he’d give her away this time.
He could have, and there was nothing she could do. She knew how close he was to the two men he ran Sky High Air with—Brody and Shayne. Hell, he could probably give her away to either of them without her even knowing it, or maybe he already had.
If so, she was as good as dead.
Chapter 3
Keeping herself standing still in that plane while Noah spoke into his headset was the hardest thing Bailey had ever done.
Any second now, he’d give her away.
But he didn’t. He simply finished his radio conversation and then went back to flying.
“Thanks,” she said, letting out a long breath.
He didn’t speak.
“I really appreciate it.” He could have no idea how much; no one did. Because no one could keep her safe. “I promise you, Noah. I don’t want to hurt you.”
More of his loaded nothing. It was like an art form with him, not talking unless absolutely necessary, remaining cool, calm, and collected under any circumstance, a talent she could learn from. “I just need to get to Mammoth,” she said softly.
“Yes, the skiing is great this time of year.”
Heavy sarcasm. Well, she couldn’t blame him. Noah Fisher wasn’t the kind of man who took well to being made helpless. In fact, he was the least helpless man she knew, not that she really knew him at all….
On the occasions he’d piloted for her and Alan, or her younger brother Kenny, who’d worked for Alan, Noah had always been perfectly professional. Perfectly professional, and perfectly magnificent in his pilot duds, with his crisp white shirt and dark blue uniform trousers—which nicely covered his mile-long legs and firm butt.
Yes, she’d looked.
She hadn’t been able to help herself; he was almost ridiculously gorgeous. And she wasn’t the only one who thought so. The numerous times she’d been at Sky High Air, any and all other females around were usually doing their best to get his attention.
Interesting enough, he never seemed to notice.
He was noticing her now, and wasn’t that just the irony of the whole thing. He had no idea who she was, but when—if—he found out, he was going to be all the more furious.
He’d call 9–1-1.
She
couldn’t let that happen. If she went to jail for this, they’d find her there. They’d promised. She let out another long, pent-up breath, purposely thinking about something else.
Noah.
He wore one of his long-sleeved, white button-downs with the Sky High Air patch on his pec. A very nice pec. A pec worthy of the rest of him. But it was his face that always captured her and held tight. His dark, wavy hair was thick, curling past his collar, nearly to his broad shoulders. And as usual, a tumble of it fell over his strong forehead and into his mesmerizing eyes, which were a clear, deep jade and always full of secrets.
Unlike her, he didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve. She never had any idea what he was thinking. But she knew what she was thinking. She was thinking she had no business noticing that he induced drool tendencies in every woman he passed, or that his eyes, that dreamy shade of green, inspired thoughts a married woman had no right thinking….
Except that she was no longer married. Nope, her husband had died.
Correction—gotten himself killed by his own greed, because Alan Sinclair had never met a gamble he could walk away from, including Bailey. This had been a well-hidden fact that she’d learned about upon Alan’s death, when her own father had come clean.
Alan had dated her on a bet.
That shouldn’t have hurt. Of course he’d dated her on a bet, because why in the world would a man as wealthy, as cool and sophisticated and elegant, as he’d been, be interested in her for any reason other than her father’s money?
But in the end, the laugh had been on Alan, hadn’t it? Because her father’s “wealth” had all been an illusion, and Alan had fallen for that illusion—hook, line, and sinker.
But the deal had been made. He’d married her and forgiven her father’s debt. He’d even given her brother a job when Kenny hadn’t been able to find a direction for himself.
She’d been sheltered from the details, and as a model at the time, traveling a lot, she’d also been fairly clueless. But Alan had always been kind and sweet to her, and after a lifetime of living with her volatile, quick-tempered father, that kindness and sweetness had gone a long way with her.
Very long.
She’d given up modeling to stay in the States to be near her husband, unhappily surprised to realize that he traveled incessantly as well. So she’d gone back to school to pass the time and had found her passion—teaching.
Yes, Alan had been slightly distant during the two years they’d been married, and gone much of that, and yes, he’d held a lot of himself back, including almost all of his business dealings, but she’d told herself that a husband and wife didn’t share everything.
Her parents certainly hadn’t.
Besides, she had her life, teaching second grade, and that was enough for her. She’d been happy.
Or so she’d thought.
But then Alan had left for a hunting trip, first giving her a rare hug, looking her deeply in the eyes. “Whatever you need after I’m gone,” he’d said. “I’ve kept it all safe, Precious.”
She never saw him again.
After his death, she’d sat in his attorney’s office, shocked to the core to find her father hadn’t been the only illusionist.
Nope, when Alan’s will had been read, it had turned out he was flat broke, and worse, owed his investors big-time.
Which had been especially bad news for Bailey, because now she was about to be flat dead if she didn’t come up with some serious dough for them.
They’d come to her, late two nights ago, and had demanded the money, prepared to kill her if she couldn’t provide it. So she’d lied, said she could get it but she needed time.
They’d bought that.
Now if she didn’t come up with the money, they were going to take it out of her skin, and with the scare they’d given her, when they’d broken into what she’d thought was the impenetrable fortress of their Burbank Hills house, she believed every word.
Especially since they hadn’t been nameless strangers, but some of Alan’s longtime friends, his “investors,” led by the smooth, elegant Stephen Stone-helm.
At first she couldn’t believe that Stephen, whom she’d entertained and socialized with on numerous occasions, was going to seriously turn on her.
But he had, with ice-cold eyes and a colder voice, making it clear that if she told anyone, especially the police, then she, along with Kenny and her students, would start appearing as dead as Alan.
It was simple, really—pay them back or die.
Slowly, painfully.
And yet she couldn’t pay back what she didn’t have. She’d called Kenny, terrified for his safety. Since Alan’s death, he’d been moving around, working carpentry here and there, not sticking in any one spot.
Bailey had said nothing about how much she missed him because he seemed content with his new direction or lack thereof. But now she was worried that wherever he was, he wasn’t far enough away.
“Get out of town,” he’d said urgently when she’d told him what had happened. “Get out of town and stay out until this thing blows over. I’ll come back and—”
“No. That’s what I wanted to tell you.” Terror had filled her at the thought of him being anywhere near Alan’s thugs. “You’ve got to stay away. Please, Kenny. I can’t lose you, too.”
“Bailey—”
“I’ll go,” she’d promised him rashly, knowing that was the only way to guarantee he stay gone. “I’ll go if you promise to stay far away.”
“Check in with me,” he’d demanded. “Text me if you can’t call, let me know where you are.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Promise. Promise me, Bail.”
She’d made that promise, and they’d been in touch by text messages at least every other day.
Small comfort.
She’d called into work for a substitute teacher, saying she had a horrible flu and needed at least a week off. No way was she going to endanger the children she’d come to love and care about as her own.
That had turned out to be a good decision, because now she had the feeling that she was being followed—everywhere she went she experienced an itch between her shoulder blades.
They were watching her, waiting for her to find the money.
She needed to get on that.
She’d thought long and hard. If Alan had stashed money—and he’d been just tight enough to do something like that—then where? Their house was too obvious; plus it was now up for sale, and every inch of it had been gone over, cleaned, redone. It had to be at one of his resorts. All had been sold except the ones in Mammoth, Catalina, and Cabo.
Kenny agreed that it was entirely likely that the money was in