Authors: Carolyn Thornton
"Gulfport/Biloxi," she answered, "reporting overcast
skies, visibility of five miles. Nothing too serious to fly into, but
not the kind of day you'd like to spend sitting on a beach."
"No."
She looked up at him, and her smile widened as she handed
back the ticket for a window seat in the smoking section. "I don't
guess that would bother you too much. You don't look like a beach
person."
His eyes answered her assessment with a twinkle. "You got
that right, ma'am." He readjusted the weight of his saddlebags and
touched the tip of his hat to her as he moved aside to let her handle
the next person in line. It never worked to get something started with
someone in her position. It would be too transient an affair in spite
of the amount of time he spent in Atlanta on business.
He was more interested in developing a relationship, not
necessarily a marriage again, but something more lasting than a
one-night stand every few months. The problem was, the kind of woman
who challenged him and met his standards didn't seem to exist where he
was living. Of course, he hadn't met Lacey Adams yet.
According to what George had told him about her, she
sounded like she might fit into the "interesting" category. Then again,
George's ideas on the subject could differ greatly from his own. He
could judge a person only to a degree on hearsay. Then he had to
evaluate according to his own tastes. He had seen an article about
Lacey Adams in the newspaper a few weeks before George had mentioned
her. He had to admit that the woman in the picture had intrigued him
enough to read the article.
Lacey Adams had possibilities, definite possibilities. By
the picture in the newspaper, which had caught her off guard in the
middle of a business transaction—or perhaps the photographer
had staged the scene—he could tell that she was worth a
second look. Then, when George had mentioned her to him, he had decided
this one should be investigated.
Rafe sat down next to an abandoned Atlanta
Constitution
and picked it up to glance over the headlines. But his mind strayed
back to Lacey. He still wondered why he had sat down on the Sunday
after George had called him and had written her all the notes and made
the tape for her. It wasn't the way he usually approached a woman.
Generally he was more direct. Just phoned them up out of
the blue and announced his name and practically in the same breath
asked them for a date. Maybe that was why he hadn't had much success
lately, too. Then again, maybe he hadn't wanted to have much success
"dating," especially now that Margaret had taken Angela back. Just
until the end of summer, she had told him. Just until she got married;
then he could have Angela back.
He'd hated sending Angela to Margaret. Angela was too
young to understand the tug-of-war Margaret was playing. But he knew
Margaret well enough to let Angela go this last time instead of
continually pulling her from home to home like a wishbone. It would
take a while for Angela to adjust again this fall when she returned
home, but hopefully that would be the last time.
Damn, but he missed Angela. She was his number-one
priority. Maybe he had also used her as part of his defense. After
Margaret had left him, he hadn't been sure he wanted to have anything
to do with women again. He had thrown himself into his work, which was
what Margaret had always complained about. But he had spent as much
time as always with Angela, trying to make his daughter aware of how
much he loved her.
He hadn't been ready to get seriously involved with a
woman for some time now. Maybe he still wasn't ready. That was probably
why none of the isolated affairs he had attempted in the past two years
had developed into anything lasting.
Being single again was pretty nice, he had
decided—at least when Angela was living with him. Without her
the house sounded hollow and deadly empty. He guessed that was why he
had taken such a frivolous approach to Lacey Adams. He'd been bored
that Sunday afternoon. And he'd been drinking bourbon. The combination
had given him a "what-the-hell" spark of creativity.
He smiled to himself, thinking of her last
reply— take it or leave it. It had been damned cheeky of him
to reprimand her for not following his precise instructions. Sometimes
he just had to remind himself he wasn't in the military anymore.
It was a wonder she would still consider going out with
him. It would have been his own fault if she had told him to go soak in
a water trough. His last letter of correction had probably been his ace
in the hole—one last attempt to irritate her enough for her
to pull out. That way he could tell himself that he had made the effort
to get a date with her, and it wasn't his fault she had said no.
But she had said yes. Or he was running on that assumption
with his last letter of invitation, about the car and driver picking
her up Saturday night. How was she going to feel, he wondered, when she
discovered he was hosting a reunion of his cavalry officers?
He smiled again. The poor girl just didn't know what she
was getting herself into if she got messed up with him. That was
probably why he was being so avant-garde in his approach. It was like
field exercises and obstacle courses; if she passed the test, he might
think about keeping her around—for a while.
When it came right down to it, he did miss the affection
of a woman, although he didn't miss any one woman in particular. He
also didn't want to be roped and hog-tied into marriage, although there
were some nice benefits of marriage—like the presents at the
reception. Remembering Margaret and all they had endured with each
other, he couldn't think of much else that had been pleasant beyond the
wedding day, except for Angela. If nothing else, the marriage had been
worthwhile because of Angela.
Rafe set the newspaper aside. He wasn't paying attention
to any of the words in front of him. Instead his mind had been
distracted by the honey-blonde who had just walked up to the ticket
counter.
Something in her carriage caught his attention, the way
she walked with assurance and style, and the way her smile radiated.
She looked familiar. He sat straighter, trying to get a better view.
I'll be damned
, he thought, assessing
her openly now. It had to be her. Gulfport/Biloxi flights out of
Atlanta were narrowly focused enough that it couldn't be anyone else.
And George was certainly right—Lacey Adams was a good-looking
woman.
Excited within, he maintained a blank-faced facade. What
should he do now? Walk over to her and introduce himself, or just let
her slip away from him and wait until their date on Saturday? Now that
he'd seen her, he didn't think he could contain his curiosity that
long. Yet he'd built up such a systematic approach to her, he didn't
want to blow it all on a chance meeting. It was much better the way he
had originally planned it. The drama of the situation was more in
keeping with his style.
But he wanted to talk to her. He wanted to do more than
nod and say, "Howdy, ma'am," in passing her on the airplane. He watched
her tugging her suitcase on wheels past the desk to take a seat in the
waiting area.
Her eyes glanced in his direction, seemed to linger for a
millisecond, and passed. His blood warmed from the excitement of her
proximity. She seemed to be glancing around the room at everyone with
equal attention, as he himself had done. Gulfport and Biloxi were small
enough that the chances were always good that he would run into someone
on this flight he knew. She was probably looking around the room for
the same reason.
She took a seat somewhere behind him, where he would have
to turn around and stare to look at her.
This will never do
,
he thought, wondering what Plan B should be and how he could put it
into action.
The ticket agent was finalizing seating arrangements; the
line in front of the ticket counter had disappeared. She was checking
in the late arrivals as they walked up.
Rafe left his saddlebags on the seat with the newspaper
and stepped back up to the ticket counter. "Excuse me, ma'am," he said
when she looked up and smiled at him again. "Could you tell me, is that
Miss Lacey Adams who just checked in, the blonde with the blue
suitcase?"
The girl glanced over her shoulder in the direction he had
indicated with a nod of his head. Lacey sat with her back to them two
rows of chairs away. "Yes, I believe I did check in someone by that
name."
Rafe smiled, his best "you're-going-to-love-me" smile and
asked, "Is there any way you could change my seat so that I sit next to
her on the flight?"
The check-in agent frowned and examined the stickers left
on the diagram of the airplane. "I don't know. She's in nonsmoking,
you're in smoking."
"I don't mind changing, ma'am."
She glanced up at him again and frowned.
"You see, we haven't ever met, but we have a date together
this Saturday night," he explained, without really explaining, "and I
think she'd appreciate a chance to get to know me a little before our
first date. Wouldn't you feel better about a blind date that way
yourself?"
She smiled, and Rafe thought:
Everybody loves a
romance
. "We-e-ll," she said, looking down again at her
chart. "She's sitting at a window in a full row. But I do have two
seats together a couple of rows forward. I'd have to change both of
you."
"That'd be just perfect," Rafe said, smiling with his
"I'm-going-to-love-you" smile. "Is there any way you can change her
seat without her knowing I asked to have it done? I'd like to keep it a
surprise."
"That's no problem," the girl said, taking his ticket from
him and changing the seat-assignment sticker. "I'll just tell her it's
a through flight and someone's sitting in the seat I gave her."
"You're a doll," Rafe said, returning his ticket to his
vest pocket and sauntering back to his seat.
He picked up the newspaper again and this time didn't read
a word. He only wanted the newspaper as a shield to hide his smile when
Lacey Adams was paged over the P. A. system and asked to return to the
ticket desk. He'd take his time getting on the plane. Let her get good
and settled in her seat first. They'd have the entire flight to get
acquainted.
Rafe picked up a whiff of her perfume from where she sat
behind him. She even smelled classy. He crossed his legs and swung his
boot, forgetting the business matters that had totally occupied his
mind minutes before. The return trip was going to be more interesting
than usual.
The agent was on the intercom announcing pre-boarding of
passengers. Rafe rustled his newspaper, trying to act uninterested. He
could hear Lacey zipping her bag open and shut. When he glanced around
at her out of the corner of his eye, he noticed she had pulled a
magazine from her bag. He'd better not wait too long to board or she'd
have her nose buried in the magazine before he could interest her in
some conversation.
The aft rows were called for boarding in the smoking
section of the aircraft. Rafe didn't think he'd miss his cigarettes
with Lacey for company.
He watched her stand up as the forward rows were called.
She tugged at her bag, which refused to turn in the direction she
wanted to pull it. She bent down to right the wheels.
Rafe's instincts were to stand up and offer to assist her
with the bag. It would be a natural as a conversation opener. But it'd
be too obvious, since he was seated next to her, to suddenly "discover"
that coincidence as they searched for their seats once they boarded the
plane. Better to let her struggle with the bag now and then act the
gentleman as they left the flight. He could easily carry her bag; he
traveled very light, with his saddlebags over his shoulder. That would
leave her with a more lasting impression anyway.
He watched her through the gate, admiring her curves and
the flair with which she dressed. It must be one of her own designs, he
thought. Something about her outfit said "Lacey".
He waited for the line to thin a bit, knowing there would
be a jam in the retractable corridor as people who had already boarded
blocked the aisles on the plane in the process of stowing their
carry-on luggage and belongings. There would be time enough to present
his boarding pass when the last person passed through the door, time
enough to let Lacey settle into her seat and wonder who was going to
fill the space next to her.
The last passenger disappeared through the gate. Rafe
stood up. He threw his saddlebags over his left shoulder and decided to
pick up the newspaper as well. It would make a good prop for a
businessman returning home with nothing more serious on his mind than
reading the morning newspaper. Someone involved with world events
wouldn't project the image of a man on the make. Besides, that didn't
fit his own image of himself.
Rafe tried to act nonchalant as he boarded the plane. It
was difficult, since his eyes went right to her the minute he entered
the coach section of the plane. Their eyes met and locked, held,
assessed, and passed over. Her stare was direct, curious, but again he
got the impression that she had not looked at him any differently than
she had at every other passenger who had come through the doorway.
He realized he was somewhat disappointed, and oddly
nervous about walking up to her and sitting next to her now that the
moment was almost upon him. He looked down at the number of his
boarding pass and up at the numbers and letters of each seat. The agent
had made no mistake. They were seated together in 6D and 6E.
He slipped the saddlebags off his shoulder and stowed them
in the overhead bins to leave more room for his long legs beneath the
seat in front of him as he sidled across 6C and sat down.
Okay Chancellor
, he told himself.
Now's
your chance. What are you going to say to the woman
?