Authors: Sharon Calvin
Another bolt of lightning blinded him. Damn, the storm was getting stronger. He powered down the phone and slipped it into his pocket. That diner was sounding better and better. He grabbed the door handle before a new sound registered. A helicopter? In this?
He shifted his attention skyward. Couldn’t be a Life Flight chopper, not in these flying conditions. He stepped to the edge of the portico and shaded his eyes from the slashing rain. Only military would go up in this chaos. And then only because the poor schmuck of a pilot had been ordered to go.
The helipad’s landing lights blazed to life. Stillman watched with growing admiration and a kick of excitement as the pilot brought the Coast Guard helicopter in with more speed and finesse than he could have mustered in picture-perfect conditions. Flying in the Reserves now, he’d spent six years as an army chopper-jock before going back to medical school.
Stillman ducked inside. He’d like to meet the guy. Maybe shoot the shit over a cup of coffee. With that kind of ballsy flying, he obviously could stomach the hospital’s excuse for caffeine.
* * *
Caitlyn didn’t relax until the two survivors were off-loaded at the hospital. Joe and Clay accompanied the injured men inside, leaving her and Ryan alone.
Ryan popped off his helmet. “What the hell was that all about?”
Caitlyn blew out a breath and eased her own helmet off more slowly. “I don’t know, but I’ve never been more thankful for an equipment malfunction.” When the warning light came on she’d opted to set down at the closest hospital with a landing pad even though it meant flying into the heart of the storm.
“Notice how the two of them seemed to catalogue everything about
Fly Baby
and what we did?” She tapped the instrument console as if patting a favorite child.
Ryan shook his head and huffed out a laugh. “Caity, it’s a multimillion-dollar helicopter, not a pet.” His expression sobered. “I’m calling our security on a landline. Have them do a little snooping into the background of those two characters.”
Caitlyn nodded. “Good. Our new little tadpole did well tonight.” Clay had picked up on the weird vibes and, under the guise of checking for injuries, searched both men for weapons then reported the all clear to the crew over the intercom.
“Please don’t mention that to him.”
She stowed her helmet and picked up her rain gear. “Why?” She slipped her head through her poncho and looked at her copilot. “I’m the commanding officer. Any performance assessments should come from me.”
He smirked. “Yes, your highness, but the kid’s had a major crush on you since he arrived at the air station. If you say anything nice, you’ll send him right over the edge. He’ll be like a puppy following you around making a fool of himself.
I’ll
tell him he did a good job. You continue your reign as Queen B.” He patted her cheek then ducked into the rain.
She pulled her hood up and prepared to make a run into the hospital. Dammit, just what she didn’t need—a puppy.
* * *
Stillman grinned when he found the pilot. The guy was flirting with the nurses while two other Coasties stood talking to a security guard.
“That was a hell of a landing you pulled off,” Stillman said. He quickly scanned the name on the flight suit and held out his hand. “Lieutenant Greeley, I’m Dr. Stillman Gray.”
The handshake was solid, but the guy shook his head with a laugh. “Sorry, can’t take credit for that sweet landing. I’m just the copilot. I only touch the controls when there are blue skies and calm winds.”
The other Coasties joined in the laugh. Obviously a private joke.
The lieutenant tipped his head toward the doctor’s lounge. “Pilot’s in there, if you want to extend congratulations.”
All right, he could play along. Stillman nodded his thanks and pretended not to notice the looks exchanged between the three men before he walked away. The lounge was empty except for...well, son of a bitch.
She sat with her back to him, her hands busy unbraiding the richest red hair he’d ever laid eyes on. She finger-combed it then gave a head toss that made him groan.
Startled, she turned and pinned him with glacier-blue eyes.
“Would have lost that bet,” he said and walked to the coffeepot sitting on the warmer. He filled a mug with last shift’s burnt offerings.
“Okay, I’ll play along,” she said, startling him with his own thought from a moment ago.
He eyed her over his mug. While her accent hinted at Carolina mountains, her beauty screamed Manhattan.
The drab flight suit accentuated her coloring as well as her shapely curves. He read the name tag above her right breast. Damn, he should have picked the Coast Guard instead of signing on to be all that he could be, to quote his army recruiter.
He gestured with his mug. “With that red mane my money would have been on green eyes.” He pulled out the chair across the table from her and settled onto it. “That was mighty fine flying I saw you pull off, Lieutenant Stone. I’m Dr. Stillman Gray.” He held his hand out. She rewarded him with a firm grasp of long fingers and soft skin. Her smile said she liked what she saw.
“Caitlyn,” she replied. Her eyes narrowed and she made a
tsk
ing sound. “Imagine that, a doctor in a doctor’s lounge.” She fluttered her fingers at his chest. “I thought you guys were supposed to wear stethoscopes around your necks so you didn’t look like orderlies.”
“I’m off duty,” he replied and studied her face. Not an ounce of makeup marred her perfect complexion and phenomenal bone structure. Freckles dusted her nose and cheeks, adding to her natural beauty. He sipped his coffee and hid the resulting grimace behind his mug. God, this stuff needed a warning label.
“As for my flying—” she shrugged as if she’d merely pulled into a parking space at the mall “—it’s just another day at the office. Hey, maybe you can help me.” Her eyes lit up as she deftly re-braided her shoulder-length hair.
Stillman forced his attention away from the uniform that now stretched tightly over her plentiful, but oh-thank-God-they’re-real breasts. Instead, he took her cup and looked at the half-inch of oily-black liquid. “How many of these have you had?”
Her smile drew his attention to full lips and made him forget all about his fifteen-hour shift and lack of sleep. And that thought led to bed, and to his lack of female companionship since long before his hasty move from New York. He could use a diversion. Especially a redheaded one.
She smacked his hand away from her cup and grabbed it back. “Not nearly enough.” Her head tilted and she narrowed her eyes. “Are you friends with a Dr. Golden? He’s a big-time plastic surgeon. Owns this huge yacht—”
In no mood for discussing plastic doctors, or the shallow plastic people they attracted, he stood abruptly. His chair squealed a protest across the floor. “No, sorry, can’t say I am.” In a bikini, she’d make a hell of a fine deck ornament on some rich bastard’s yacht, he’d give her that.
He ignored her startled expression and eyed her more critically. Whatever she’d had done had been first-rate. He’d grown up with examples of his father and grandfather’s handiwork, knew the kind of quality money could buy.
“Looking for a reference?” He scanned her chest. “Maybe a breast augmentation to become
Military Times
’s next centerfold?”
She surged to her feet. “Wait just a darn minute, Mr. Hyde. I don’t give a rat’s butt what you think, however, to give credit where credit’s due, how I look doesn’t come from an injection or scalpel. What I’ve got came from my mama and daddy’s genes. And the only reason I asked about the doctor—well, you don’t need to know because I can see you don’t give a flip about anything except your own inflated ego.”
She spun around and stormed out of the lounge without a backward glance.
Her abrupt departure, combined with the long hours and the gruesome evening, crashed down upon him, leaving Stillman hollow and as bitter as the coffee burning a hole in his gut. He rubbed his face and rotated his head to try to ease the tightness in his neck muscles. Yeah, he was overreacting to the lieutenant’s reference to a plastic surgeon. It wasn’t like it mattered one way or another, but why the hell couldn’t he seem to get away from his father’s legacy of greed?
* * *
Caitlyn barreled right into Ryan. “Has the replacement part shown up?” she demanded, sidestepping him and striding toward the exit. She needed to recategorize doctors with serial killers and sadistic manicurists. Hell, she’d date her rescue swimmer before she’d date another doctor.
“Yeah. What happened in there? Should we send Clay in to mop up the blood and bury the evidence?”
Caitlyn stopped in the middle of the corridor and looked at the sincere expression on Ryan’s face. She laughed, her anger dissipating as quickly as fuel in a headwind. “No blood. But if I ever,
ever
suggest going out with another doctor, knock me over the head and dump me in the Gulf. By the time I swim ashore maybe I’ll have regained my senses.”
Joe and Clay fell in behind her as she once again headed to the exit. A few feet from the doorway she heard Dr. Butt Head calling after her.
“Lieutenant? Lieutenant Stone!”
Caitlyn turned and the crewmen formed a defensive line in front of her. She folded her arms and angled her head back for a haughty look. Okay, she was five-ten, but the evil doctor was a good six-two or three.
“I apologize. It’s been a long night and let’s just say you hit an overly...sensitized nerve.”
“Asinine,” she added in her most regal voice.
The handsome doctor’s expression registered confusion but little else. Why did that not surprise her?
“Excuse me?” he said.
“Uh, I think she means you should apologize for your asinine behavior,” Clay said.
Lord, her puppy was growling. She caught the glint of humor in Stillman’s blue eyes, but at least he was smart enough not to laugh. Otherwise, she’d have to hurt him.
The doctor stared at her with a perfectly straight face. “Lieutenant Stone, I humbly apologize for my
asinine
behavior.”
He bowed slightly and she couldn’t stop her mouth from curling up. This queen gig was working out just fine.
A gust of damp air and the smell of hydraulic fluid heralded the arrival of another crewman.
“Lieutenant, we’ve got your helo fixed. It’s ready when you are,” the mechanic said.
Caitlyn’s smile spread. To hell with Dr. Butt Head, she still had fun weather to fly in.
County General Hospital, St. Petersburg, FL,
Sunday, 4 September, 0130 hours
The man slipped out of his hospital bed as soon as the nurse left his room. The dying squeak of her rubber-soled shoes on polished linoleum told him she’d turned the corner at the end of the hallway. He’d memorized the floor’s layout when they’d transferred him from the ER. Pay phones and relative seclusion lay twenty feet to his left.
A quick scan confirmed no one was around to take notice. He ignored the pounding headache. The injury had been a stupid mistake, but had afforded him the perfect cover. He picked up the phone’s handset and dialed an untraceable toll-free number.
Few people would understand the language he spoke, but he kept his voice low out of habit.
“Target confirmed. The pilot is a woman.”
Chapter Two
Santee, South
Carolina,
Friday, 9 September, 1845 hours
Caitlyn walked into her childhood kitchen and it was as if she’d never left. The children’s faces were different, yet, thankfully, the same haphazard order prevailed.
Her parents stood side by side at the sink, forming an assembly line of dishwashing, drying and storing with the help of a pretty teen. An eight-or nine-year-old boy held court with a lisping tale of derring-do on a skateboard.
Though Caitlyn was the only baby born to her parents, they’d continued adding children to their family with hyper-regularity. Some passed through, needing unconditional love and understanding for a few months; others stayed for years, but retained foster-child status. And some, a lucky few, found permanent love through adoption into the Stone family.
Somehow, she’d never gotten over the childish belief she’d failed to be enough.
“...then this stupid girl screamed I was goin’ ta run over her damn—”
“No cussing, you know the rules,” Caitlyn’s father said, turning to punctuate the warning with a practiced glare. He was drying his hands when he caught sight of Caitlyn and the frown instantly surrendered to a grin. “Caity-did!”
He had her in a bear hug before she could say “Hello,” transporting her into Daddy’s little girl. He cherished her not for her rank, not for her looks, not for her flying ability, but for just being Caitlyn Stone.
“How are you?” her mother asked without taking a step toward her.
Caitlyn’s chest tightened. Her dad released her and leaned back against the counter.
The cussing urchin stared with narrowed brown eyes. “I thought she was in the military,” he accused.
Her mother smiled at Caitlyn and put her hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Caitlyn’s in the Coast Guard, honey. She flies helicopters.”
Jealousy sparked over the casual contact her mother gave so freely to others, then died of embarrassment. What kind of person begrudged a child?
The kind who still craves her mother’s caress.
“How come she don’t got a uniform on?”
“Doesn’t have, not don’t got,” her mother corrected automatically.
Once a teacher, always a teacher, Caitlyn mused. She offered her hand to the boy when her mother made the introductions. He hesitated before taking it in an awkward shake.
“I only wear a uniform when I’m on duty.” Right now she was the antithesis of military regulation with her short dress, high heels and loose hair. She canted her head at the boy. “Dad says you’re quite the hotshot on wheels.”
She flicked a glance at her mother. “I’m definitely not on duty today.” She extended her arms and wagged her fingers to show off freshly manicured poppy-red nails. “I visited a friend on maternity leave and had a ladies’ day out with all the trimmings.”
Caitlyn tried not to be envious of her friend’s pregnant bliss. She’d learned early on that men enjoyed dating her. And the very few she allowed in her bed would have gladly stayed. But none of them wanted a helo pilot for a wife.
Or, apparently, as the mother of their children.
The blonde to her mother’s left cocked one hip and dramatically rolled her eyes. “We’re supposed to be in a hurry, remember? You promised to take me shopping.”
Caitlyn’s breath stalled as her mother’s gaze quickly shifted to the teen. Guilt? While she’d assured Caitlyn she could stay with them, she’d failed to mention she’d be leaving as soon as Caitlyn arrived.
“Hey, no problem. Want me to keep an eye on some munchkins?” Caitlyn had been voluntarily looking after babies since she’d turned five. Surprisingly, her mother had never demanded child-care duties of any of her children. She’d maintained parenting was the parents’ responsibility, not a child’s.
Her father resumed dishwashing duty and spoke over his shoulder, “No, the two younger ones are on a sleep-over.” He nodded to the urchin. “We’re going to a softball game while the girls do their mall thing. You can join us.”
She forced herself to smile. She craved the comforts of home and family, not strangers at a game or mall. “No, thanks, I’m going to sit in front of the TV and veg.” Caitlyn snagged a stool along the center island and tried to slip back in to the good daughter role.
While the ensuing talk washed over her with reassuring normalcy, last Saturday night’s rescue plagued her with chilled blood like hitting an air pocket on short final. Security hadn’t found anything out of the ordinary with the men her crew had fished out of the sea, but almost a week later, her body still went cold at the memory of the evil look leveled at her.
Retreating to home and family had seemed like the perfect escape. Chills crawled along her shoulders and inched up her neck. Coming home didn’t feel nearly as welcoming as she’d imagined.
Clearwater, FL,
Friday, 9 September, 1900 hours
Stillman dodged another waitress bearing a loaded serving tray and scanned the tables looking for a man he’d never met. Four phone calls and a half-dozen emails had led him to the link he’d needed.
A ruddy-faced man sporting shorn gunmetal hair and deep grooves from squinting into the sun raised his mug and grinned at Stillman. To his knowledge, he’d never flown with the ex gunship pilot, but they’d both done time in the sandbox. Stillman had played on the bond of flying blind in sandstorms and evading Scud missiles when they’d talked on the phone.
Introductions and a knuckle-fisted greeting preceded typical military bullshit as Stillman settled into the booth across from the captain. He accepted a beer from the passing waitress and waited for the interrogation to begin.
“So, how’d you meet our newly crowned queen?” Jacobson, the officer in charge of Coast Guard flight ops, measured him with dark eyes.
“Queen, huh?” Stillman leaned back against the vinyl booth as very memorable flashes of the redheaded pilot played in his head. The royal moniker fit, just like the shimmering hair and ice-blue eyes.
“I was on duty the night she brought two injured survivors into my ER. She landed in the middle of a storm I wouldn’t have had the balls to fly in when I was in my twenties. Coupled with the way her crew lined up to defend her honor, she’s someone I’d like to get to know better.”
The officer straightened and his eyes turned storm-cloud black. “Why the hell did her crew feel the need to defend—”
“Stop.” Stillman held up his hand and gave his most disarming smile. “A simple misunderstanding about another doctor. Her crew’s reaction told me more than words how much they respect her.” They’d been defending the woman, not her rank.
A smirk replaced the scowl. “Don’t get your hopes up, Doc. She doesn’t date military men—never has, never will.” A long swig of beer followed. “But I’ll warn ya. If you so much as make her cry, you’ll answer to every damn aircrew in the Coast Guard’s seventh district. That’s not a threat. That’s a promise.”
Jacksonville, FL, Tuesday,
13 September, 0732 hours
Valerie Wooten whipped her little white Mercedes convertible through morning traffic, a hands-free cell phone keeping her company instead of her favorite radio talk–show host. She hated making overseas calls while driving, but sometimes her schedule required unpleasant choices. A burst of static then an unfamiliar voice speaking in rapid Arabic interrupted her European shipping manager’s nasal Italian. Only one side of the conversation transmitted, but it was enough to freeze her gut and have her gripping her steering wheel with nerveless fingers.
Stunned by the call, she missed the off-ramp to her office. Another blast of static filled her car before the speakers hummed then went dead. It took a moment before she comprehended the call had dropped and the radio had kicked back on with someone complaining about the cost of crude oil. Shaken by the harsh voice and harsher threats she’d heard on her cell phone, she took the next exit too fast. And almost ran up the tailpipe of a beer truck.
“Get a grip, Val.” Okay, she needed to note everything she could remember about the caller’s fanatical rant. Maybe it was just that, and not really as sinister as it sounded. The flutter in her stomach and the sweat slicking her hands didn’t agree. Her cell phone chirped and she damn near jumped out of her car. A barked “Yes?” engaged the hands-free unit and muted her radio.
Her shipping manager was back.
“Giovanni, did you hear another caller interrupt our conversation?” She shook her head as he went off on unreliable cell phones, government eavesdropping and other petty grievances. Unfortunately, he’d heard nothing but static on his side of the ocean. At least his normal bitching soothed her jangled nerves.
Valerie pulled into her office’s parking garage, mentally playing back the mysterious call. Despite the pull of an overbooked business day, the breath-stealing word,
onbula
, took her back fifteen years.
On an innocent Sunday morning at a London café, she’d left her husband of three months to check out a window display across the street. That capricious jaunt had saved her life—and left Valerie Pappas Wooten a widow at twenty-five.
The Arabic word for
bomb
seemed even more sinister in the morning sunshine of Jacksonville, Florida. Could fate be presenting her with an opportunity to prevent another family’s destruction?
Clearwater, FL, Thursday,
15 September, 1518 hours
Stillman sat on the tailgate of his truck in the USCG Air Station’s parking lot smoking a cigarette and waiting for Caitlyn to appear in the scatter of Coasties leaving the base. Late afternoon sun baked his shoulders through a medium blue polo shirt. Idiot, he should have worn white. But no, because some nurse mentioned it brought out the color of his eyes, he’d let his ego rule. In his forties and he was still acting like a flippin’ juvenile. It’d serve him right if he fried what was left of his brain.
Tampa Bay mirrored the clear Florida sky. It was the first honest-to-God eye-searing sunny day since he’d moved to the state. He stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette and field-stripped it out of habit. Maybe he’d quit smoking for the queen.
The earlier trickle of Coasties turned into a wave, spilling toward the parking lot in clumps of twos and threes. Stillman squinted through his dark shades looking for the tall redhead he hadn’t been able to purge from his thoughts. He’d known proficient pilots; he’d known some damn fine-looking women. But hell if he’d known both packaged as memorably as Caitlyn.
A riot of red windblown hair caught his eye and his gut tightened with anticipation. She appeared to be carrying on several conversations as she kept pace with the copilot Stillman remembered from Saturday night. Her eyes were hidden behind black Oakley sunglasses, her face animated and glowing. She laughed at something someone said from behind her and his anticipation turned into raw hunger.
Before he could analyze his reaction, he noticed she cradled a full-face motorcycle helmet against her chest. Disillusionment deflated his lungs. He’d spent too many hours piecing together bodies ground into red meat by high-speed encounters with asphalt to view motorcycles as anything but a painful ticket to the morgue.
He tracked her long-legged stride as she headed his way. What the hell, she was a big girl; if she wanted to risk her brains on two-wheeled suicide, that was her choice. He was looking for fun, so maybe a walk on the wild side was in order.
* * *
Caitlyn spotted him before she cleared the parking lot gate. Dr. Butt Head slipped off the tailgate of a lipstick-red truck and hooked his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans. An off-centered smile tilted the corner of his mouth, softening something inside her. Damn, did he have to look so inviting?
“Uh-oh, enemy. Two o’clock,” Ryan said in a stage whisper.
“Radar’s locked on. Let’s see what he wants,” Caitlyn murmured. She allowed her eyes, safely hidden from view, to consume the oh-so-irritating doctor. Not that she could complain about the visual he presented.
Dressed in blue polo shirt, faded-to-white jeans and scuffed running shoes, he didn’t have the overdone artifice of some of the doctors she’d dated. Nice change. The dark hair with wings of silver at the temples and handsome angular face didn’t hurt either.
His smile grew and he crossed his arms over his chest, emphasizing tanned muscles. Unconsciously her stride slowed. Regrettably her respiration and heart rate didn’t—not a good sign.
“Careful, Caity, he looks awfully damn cocky. You’re not aiming for a dunk in the Gulf, are you?” Ryan chided.
“Let me get back to you on that.” She concentrated on the man lazing in front of her with a practiced nurse-devouring grin on his face. Yeah, he wasn’t lacking in the typical doctor-as-god ego department. But wasn’t that their attraction? Because her own ego was pretty healthy, she only dated men with strong opinions of themselves.
Lord, maybe this one wouldn’t be intimidated by her “ball-busting” personality, as Dr. Golden Hands had so nicely put it. Only one way to find out...
“Well, well, well, look who’s lost and now found. Ryan, call the nurses, let them know we’ve located their missing doctor.” Caitlyn stopped in front of Stillman, hugging her helmet close. “So, did you miss your exit off 275?”
He removed his sunglasses and hooked them in his shirt placket. The bastard probably knew the effect his blue eyes had on women. A flash of white teeth indicated he didn’t find her brand of humor daunting or obnoxious. Another good sign.
“No, had a meeting with your medical liaison.” He pulled a card from his hip pocket and waved it in front of her. “Just getting paperwork approved for flight surgeon status.”
Caitlyn shifted her helmet to her other arm. “Your chance of getting assigned to any of my missions is pretty slim.” While the Coast Guard always needed experienced medical personnel on call, there could be eight to ten rescue crews operating out of their air station at any given time.
Stillman shrugged broad shoulders. “That’s not why I signed up, Lieutenant. I’m an ER doctor because I like emergency medicine. I volunteered as a flight surgeon in New York and it was always my intention to do so here in Florida.” His crooked smile returned. “Ending up on your chopper would simply be an added benefit.”