Space in His Heart

  Maybe someone should tell her. But if something leaked, all hell would break loose. They’d have a real media circus on their hands.

  No, he couldn’t trust her with information that confidential. No one could know how bad off the cosmonaut was.

  His gaze traveled down her body, giving in to the urge he’d fought since he’d seen her in the parking lot this morning. Miss Image-Maker certainly didn’t rely exclusively on her impressive gray matter or that little skirt wouldn’t shimmy up so far each time she crossed her well-toned thighs. An irrepressible male response annoyed and alerted him.

  Shit. He pushed up and left the studio for the OPF, needing to concentrate on some spark-burned wires he’d found near the coolant tubes. The less time spent anywhere near that leggy brunette, the better.

  Chapter Five

  The Friday afternoon exodus of administrators and managers signaled the end of Jessica’s first full week on the assignment. It reminded her that back in Boston the offices of Ross & Clayton were emptying as the staff headed to the conference room for the week-ending ritual known as “Beer Friday.” A melancholy wave compelled Jessica to dial her dearest friend and favorite employee.

  “Jo Miller,” answered a gravelly voice.

  Jessica smiled at the familiar sound. “Wish you were here… instead of me.”

  At her friend’s tiny shriek, Jessica pictured Jo running her lacquered nails through spiky blond hair, then unclipping a funky earring to settle in for a chat. “Hey, babe! Ah, we miss you so.”

  “Thought you’d be at Beer Friday already.”

  “I’m avoiding it for as long as possible,” Jo said. “It’s no fun without you.” Jessica knew her well enough to believe the sentiment was genuine. “So how’s it going, Pygmalion? Have you turned the space cadet into the next media darling?”

  “Don’t be clearing any wall space for a Silver Anvil yet,” Jessica warned, referring to the coveted PR award. “But we have some interest from a couple of the networks and I’m lining up a photo session. The man, however, needs a major attitude adjustment.”

  “Uh-oh. Captain America meets Wonder Woman. Could get sticky. What’s he like?”

  Jessica mulled over the right words to describe him. “Intimidating.”

  “As gorgeous in person as that picture you found on the NASA site?”

  “Better,” she admitted glumly. “But he needs to be gorgeous for this thing to work, right? He’s easy on the eyes but not easy to whip into shape, as I found out in the studio the other day.”

  “What happened?”

  “I didn’t exactly dominate with superior media training skills.”

  “Don’t tell me.” Jo laughed into the phone. “We had a clash of control freaks.”

  Jessica smiled. This was why she’d called Jo. Just to laugh at it all. But, even with the open invitation from her best friend, she wasn’t quite ready to share the effect Deke Stockard had on her.

  “Never mind. How are my favorite clients?”

  The silence lasted a beat too long, sending a tug of worry through her.

  “Jo, this is me. I can handle it.”

  “Well, most everyone seems to be fine with Carla Drake as your temporary replacement. She’s met with every one of your clients.”

  Jessica dropped her head back against her chair and closed her eyes. “I expected that. They know I’m gone. Temporarily. Those clients are loyal to me and to the agency. That’s okay, really.” Jessica knew she was trying to convince herself as much as her trusted employee.

  “True. But…” Jo seemed to be searching for the right words, and for some reason, it was far more chilling than her usual quick wit.

  “But what?”

  “She kind of talked Dash Communications out of the Next Generation plan.”

  “Are you kidding?” Jessica shot forward, fire in her veins. “That’s my whole strategy for next year. They love that idea! All the events, all the media coverage. Is she crazy? That campaign will make the agency a million in revenue.”

  “She proposed a different approach. Something she did for another cell phone company client in California.”

  “And they bought it?” Jessica asked. Not possible. Not remotely possible. “I spent weeks creating that campaign and didn’t Tony see the numbers? Next Gen was projected to bill over two hundred and fifty thousand in the first half of the year!” Nothing swayed Tony like profits.

  “Evidently. Actually, her new idea is, um, pretty sweet on the bottom line. Didn’t you get the memo on it?”

  “No.” Jessica rubbed her temples where a familiar stress headache threatened. “What a lousy way to end the week.”

  “Do I have to give you my ‘there’s more to life than work’ speech again, Jess? Come on, what fun things are you doing down there this weekend?”

  “Work.”

  Jo’s familiar ‘tsks’ shot across the line. “Guess I better lecture. Listen, even if you don’t get the guy on the front page of the New York Times or single-handedly arrange for sixty gazillion in new tax dollars for space–which you will–everyone will still love you.”

  “Don’t psychoanalyze my misplaced ambitions, Jo,” Jessica said, not completely teasing with the request. “I know your theories. And before you start with the motivational spiel, please keep my poor little almost-eighty-year-old father and his shortcomings as a single parent out of this.”

  “You just hate me because you know I’m right.”

  “I could never hate you, Jo,” Jessica said, twirling the phone cord and fighting a smile. “But that new blonde who has her eye on my promotion could stand to have a few pins stuck into a Carla doll I’m making.”

  Jo moaned a little. “Listen to me. Don’t give her any ammunition while you’re down there. She’s waiting for your first misstep. Not that you make professional mistakes, but consider yourself warned.”

  Jessica thought of the media training session. A disaster, in her opinion. And she hadn’t yet managed to schedule a photo session.

  “So, are you learning to surf this weekend?”

  “Good, clean subject change, Jo.” Jessica laughed. “I am going to a party. Stuart Rosen is having a barbecue Saturday night so I can get to know everyone.”

  Jo chuckled. “A barbecue in November. How absolutely Florida.”

  “Please. It’s hot as July here.”

  “Don’t complain. It snowed last night.”

  A pang of envy shot through Jessica. The first snow of the year, falling outside her picture window, dancing around the iron gaslights of Beacon Street, covering her world with white fairy dust… and she missed it.

  “You just made me so homesick,” Jessica said softly.

  “Honey, I’m sorry, I forgot how much you love winter. Go do your five-mile run on the beach tomorrow instead of the ice-covered paths of Back Bay. You’ll forget about snow. Then, when you go to the November barbeque, wear those amazing white jeans you stop traffic in.”

  Jessica laughed in response.

  “I’m serious,” Jo insisted. “And don’t forget some high-heeled sandals, which beat snow boots any day. The pink ones we picked out in Saks last summer. I promise you won’t be intimidated by anyone.”

  Jess stretched, inching her chair back to rest on two legs, feeling better just listening to the heartfelt, sisterly advice. “I do love you, Jo. And I know you love those shoes.”

  “Excuse me. Is this urgent or can I interrupt you for a moment?”

  Jessica’s eyes popped open and her chair slammed forward on the floor at the sound of Deke’s voice, dripping with sarcasm and impatience.

  “I gotta go, Jo. Bye.” Blood rushed from the base of her neck as she dropped the phone into the cradle and stared at him. “Don’t you ever knock?”

  “The door was open,” he said with a dubious glance at her phone. “Was that a reporter?”

  “One of my employees,” she responded with what she hoped was an appropriate amount of professionalism.

  “Interes
ting management discussion.” He held out a folder marked ‘P.R.’ “I reviewed your press materials and have some comments.”

  She took the folder eagerly. “Great. What did you think?”

  “You want the truth?”

  She flipped open the file and saw the first page of her press release, red slashes and handwritten comments along every margin. “Maybe I don’t.”

  “I’m a stickler for accuracy.”

  She looked up at him, but his intense blue stare forced her attention back to the page, to study the tiny notes in perfectly formed capital letters with diagrams and arrows and asterisks of additional information. A sea of red. A sea of change.

  “You tend to write things a little, uh, fluffier than I would,” he said. “But I suppose that’s your business. Bury the facts in bull—baloney.”

  She snapped the file shut. He just didn’t get it. This was to benefit his organization, his livelihood. “It’s not bull. It’s called positioning. Careful, planned, strategic—”

  He held up his hand to stop her, all softness disappearing from his face. “Go ahead, spin doctor, position whatever you want. Just get it right. Do your homework. You’ve never even seen a space shuttle.”

  She resisted the urge to smirk at him. “No, Commander, not in person. Perhaps I’ll arrange a tour at the Visitors’ Center tomorrow.”

  “More propaganda.”

  “Then take me through Endeavour.” She dropped the gauntlet with ease, knowing he’d never take it.

  “Excuse me?”

  She opened the folder again and scanned the red ink. “You’re absolutely right. I’d like to see Endeavour up close.”

  He shook his head, his frown deepening. “The OPF is highly restricted. Even if I took you, the orbiter’s under intense inspections right now.”

  “Every minute of every day?” She dropped the papers on top of another pile on her desk. “I’ll go in the middle of the night if necessary. I’m willing to do what I have to, Commander.”

  She saw his jaw clench before he responded. “Fine. Meet me at the East entrance of the OPF tomorrow at six. Sharp.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “That’s tomorrow morning, Miss Marlowe. Six a.m.”

  She held his challenging gaze. “I know what six means, Commander. Otherwise, I’m sure you would have said eighteen hundred hours.”

  He ignored the comment and turned to leave. “By the way, I have to go to Houston next week.”

  “Great. I’ll line up a photographer to go with you.”

  He shook his head, a sigh of frustration escaping. “I told you. It’s a two-seater that flies about six hundred miles an hour. You can’t just pick somebody out of the Yellow Pages to climb on board and take pictures.”

  “I’m sure NASA has a photographer trained for it.”

  “No. Not this time. I’m flying with Jeff Clark.”

  Pick your battles, Jess. She began gathering her papers, then glanced at him. “Fine. We’ll just take photos on the ground before you take off.”

  He took a step back and stared at her. “Good God, woman. Don’t you know when to back off?”

  She bit her lip and picked up a pencil from her desk. “Not when I need to get something done.”

  Her fingers tightened around the pencil, almost cracking it. She saw his gaze drop to her hands and slide back up to meet her eyes as she waited.

  “I’m leaving Tuesday at dawn from the airstrip at the north end of the Cape. You can have thirty minutes during my pre-flight check. I’ll be busy, so shoot around that.”

  She exhaled. “Great. Thank you.”

  He stepped into the hall, then glanced back at her with a teasing smirk. “Now you can call your boyfriend back.”

  * * *

  The conversation played again in Deke’s head, as he eased the Corvette into fourth gear and felt the surge of all four hundred horses take the curve of South Tropical Trail just a touch over the speed limit. Not exactly the thrill of a Tomcat, but almost enough to take his mind off Jessica Marlowe.

  Almost.

  Why had he agreed to take her to the OPF? Why was he letting her take pictures of him?

  He had so much to do for the launch in February and then more work to get ready for his own mission just a few months later. He had no business fooling around with this PR stuff.

  And what, he wondered miserably, would his father have to say about this latest stunt? He could just imagine. The thought of Deke as some kind of sex symbol would blind Jack Stockard with tears of laughter. They’d named him after an astronaut, not a movie star.

  For his dad, it was always about flying, ever since they went to their first air show. Together, they had ogled the stunt planes and toured the warbirds. They had sat in the cockpits and Jack had pointed out every gauge and explained its function. As they ate hot dogs under the sweeping wings of a B-52, Jack had explained that his eyes alone kept him from realizing his dream of being a Navy pilot. Deke knew his father always felt that life, although it had been very full with love and good health, had cheated him of his ultimate passion.

  Deke had inherited his father’s keen coordination, superior instinct and sharp engineer’s mind. He did not have Jack’s deep brown eyes or their flawed sight. With his own blue eyes came perfect vision and a well-honed sense of purpose that had propelled Deke to Annapolis and Naval aviation. Vindicated, Jack soaked up Deke’s career with pride and pleasure, and because of it, they shared a deep connection.

  His dad would surely wonder why the hell NASA and that PR agency picked him. Well, he knew why. He knew precisely why. All it took was a quick look down the roster to figure it out. Except for him, every one of them—married. With kids, too. NASA required discipline and personal stability to stay with the program. He had both, in spades. He just had his reasons for keeping clear of anything that resembled a lifelong commitment to one woman. So he got stuck doing the publicity gimmicks.

  Watching the Friday-afternoon revelers heading toward the Cocoa Beach pier to play with the opposite sex, Deke grabbed his car phone and punched in a number.

  “Hello?” Her greeting was breathless, sexy.

  “Hey, doll.”

  “Deke!” The squeal of delight in Caryn Camden’s voice was unmistakable. “It’s been so long since I’ve heard from you!”

  Only two weeks. Is that long? “How are you?”

  “Oh, I’m great, Deke. I’m so happy to—well, it’s nice to hear from you.” He knew the casual tone was added for effect but, for an aspiring actress, her joy was pretty obvious. He should call her more often. Maybe give her more of a chance.

  He had been very turned on by her when she cut his hair a few months ago at some walk-in place near the Cape. He had watched her in the mirror as she trimmed his hair and amused him with animated conversation. All the while, he’d admired her shiny blond curls hanging down her back and the way she filled out a tee shirt and tight jeans. They’d dated several times, but lately he’d been too busy to call. He’d definitely give her another chance.

  “What are you doing tomorrow? Have I waited too long to get a date with you?” He had a sense that whatever she had planned, she’d rearrange her schedule.

  “Oh, Deke. Um. Let me see. Okay,” she said, hard-to-get act lasting about two seconds. “Sure. Tomorrow’s great.”

  “Great. I’ll pick you up at six. See you then.” He clicked off and swerved right, loving the way the Corvette grabbed the curve and leaned into it. Tomorrow morning he’d have to teach Miss Propaganda a few things about a space shuttle and maybe sneak in a few hours on the boat. Then later, perhaps Caryn Camden’s baby blue eyes could distract him from everything else.

  Chapter Six

  Jessica parked her car in front of the Orbiter Processing Facility at five forty-five Saturday morning. She’d given up her run to beat him there and swore under her breath when she saw the silver Corvette parked in a far corner of the deserted lot. The clash of control freaks was off to an early start.

>   He sat perched on a retaining wall near the entrance marked Hangar Two, dressed in jeans, a white tee shirt pulled over impossibly wide shoulders.

  As she walked toward him, she felt him assess her and instinctively straightened her own shoulders and lifted her chin. He would not intimidate Jessica Marlowe. She repeated the refrain until she reached him.

  “Good morning, Commander.”

  He hopped off the wall and held up a badge. “You need one of these to get in.” He slid it through a card reader and held the door for her as they entered the cool hangar. She shivered at the sudden drop in temperature and adjusted her eyes to the bright fluorescent light, following him across the expanse of shiny blue linoleum, past darkened offices and conference rooms.

  They turned into a vast, open area where the massive white space shuttle hung from a wide metal band, elevated about ten feet from the ground amidst a sea of silver scaffolding. Jessica stopped mid-step and stared at it, awestruck.

  “Oh my God. It’s huge.” As they got closer, she could see hundreds of tiny white panels that made up the outside skin of the orbiter, the NASA logo and U.S. flag painted in deep shades across the side.

  “One hundred and twenty-two feet long and seventy-eight feet from wing tip to wing tip,” he told her as they walked toward the three enormous engines in the back. “It can carry a railroad car.”

  They continued around the body of the shuttle. Before she could ask one question, Deke spewed technical facts at lightning speed, no doubt to confuse her. She tried to follow, but the size and scope of the vehicle left her speechless.

  He explained the role of the crew and described what happens to a shuttle as it makes its eight-minute ride into space. He took each step around the orbiter with confidence and familiarity and that uniquely masculine pride men get over machinery. He seemed to forget he didn’t want to be there as he explained how the panels heated upon reentry. Every time he gestured with his strong hands, Jessica’s attention was pulled away from the shuttle and riveted on him.