Unfinished Business (15 page)

Erica bent, retrieving it from where he had dropped it and bending his fingers around it.

Mark took a deep, determined breath and began walking slowly up and back along the narrow airplane aisle, his lips clamped tight with agony. Erica watched him with concern. All of the smugness was gone, eclipsed by pain. The cover-boy handsomeness had also evaporated: His face was all jagged, hard
edges as he limped a few feet forward then turned to limp back toward her. Erica watched, helpless, as he gritted his teeth, placing less and less weight on the cane, and more and more on his damaged left knee, until at last he opened his eyes and looked up at her.

“Sorry about that,” he drawled, trying hard to smirk, trying to seem like the past five minutes had been nothing more than a little entertainment. “Flying is murder on this bum leg of mine.”

“Wouldn't it help to fly first class? You'd have more room.”

He ran a hand over his face, wiping away sweat. “Do you know much about Billingham?”

Erica frowned. “What's that got to do with whether you fly first class?”

“Just answer the question. What do you know about Billingham?”

Erica hesitated. Other than its long history of segregation and continuing civil rights struggle, she didn't know much. She wished she'd paid a little bit more attention to the things Chase had been trying to tell her…instead of straining to overhear what Bitsi had been saying to Mark.

“Well,” she said slowly. “I know it's the capital city of a very poor state.”

“Exactly. People here don't pay taxes so their public
servants
”—he emphasized the word—“can be comfortable. They pay taxes so that money can come back around for the public good. And if it's not going to come around for the public good, then we sure as hell ought to be paying a whole lot less taxes than we are.”

Erica rolled her eyes. “Look, I know where you're going and I'm not getting into a tax-and-spend argument with you right now. I'm just saying that I don't believe the people want you to suffer like that when a
few extra dollars could make the difference.”

“I'm more than happy to suffer a bit for these folks,” he said earnestly. “Traveling this state, I've seen far worse suffering than anything I'll ever go through.” He braced himself on his cane and rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt. Without his suit jacket and tie, with the sleeves revealing his muscular forearms and his face and hair wet with sweat, he looked less like a senator and more like a farmhand.

A sexy, sweaty, strong farmhand.

A sexy, sweaty, strong farmhand who was now looking at her as though he knew exactly what she was thinking. Erica shook herself out of her contemplation of Mark Newman and bent over to pull her handbag out from the space beneath the seat.

“You could pay the difference out of your own pocket, Mr. High and Mighty,” she commented. “But I guess you just get some perverse pleasure out of hurting.” She stood up, and stretched herself toward the overhead compartment, popping it open.

Her carry-on bag tumbled out, nearly knocking her over in its race toward the floor. Erica let out a little shriek of surprise and jumped away from the tumbling handle and wheels, backing into the solid weight that was Mark Newman. Automatically, his free hand clamped around her waist, spinning her protectively into his chest.

“All right?” she heard his voice rumble into the top of her head.

She nodded, lifting her head toward his. Those piercing eyes were fixed on hers again with that same annoying little half-smile. “It just startled me, that's all,” she said, trying hard to recover her toughness, even though she was wrapped in the crook of the man's arm…yet again.

And once again, her whole body trembled and
knotted with passion for the man. Once again, she felt on the verge of wrapping herself fully around him and joining the Mile High Club.

If one could do that in an empty airplane already on the ground.

“Startled, sure,” he nodded, smirking all the worse.

“What?” Erica demanded. “You saw that suitcase come flying out of there!”

“Sure, I saw it,” he drawled down at her in that soft intimate voice he seemed to reserve just for her. “It's just…”—a long, pale index finger stroked the side of her face, intoxicating her with its gentle caress—“I can't help but notice how you'll go to any length to get into my arms. Runaway luggage, nearly getting shot…You sure you're not writing threatening letters to yourself, girl?”

“You can let me go,” Erica muttered, trying her best to sound annoyed and coming out somewhere between seductive and sensitive. Her throat itched, she tried to clear it. Her lips were dry, she touched them with her tongue. The air in the plane grew heavy and hot, and she could feel the warm wet skin of the man beneath his dress shirt and smell the warm musk of his manliness filling the air between them.
Get the heck away from this dude
, a voice in her head was practically screaming, but it was as if her feet had been rooted to the spot. She couldn't have moved out of this man's arms if her very life had depended on it. Her fingers seemed to move on their own, up his shoulder, around his neck, stroking his dark hair and the bones of his cheek and chin.

I don't know how much longer I can resist him
, another voice added.
I don't know how much longer I want to.
And this one seemed to come directly from her heart.

He was staring at her, an expression in those blue eyes that seemed to echo the confusion and attraction Erica felt racing around her own brain. As if there were a part of him that wanted to run for the hills and another part that wanted to taste her lips. The struggle continued in his eyes until at last, he sighed. Erica felt his body relax as he lowered his head. She closed her eyes, lifted her face and—

Clang
.

The sound separated her from the man's side like a cleaving knife.

“Sorry,” a human voice said a moment later, and Erica realized that the sound had come from the slamming of the rear cabin doors. At the same instant, a blue-uniformed man with a trash bag in his gloved hands took his place in the aisle. He was probably in his fifties, with brown eyes and leathery red skin. “Thought ev'rybody was off. Just gotta get up the trash. This bird's going back out in a half hour.”

“No problem. We're going,” Mark said easily enough. He stretched the hook of his cane toward the handle of Erica's carry-on, snagging it and lifting the bag into the upright position easily.

“I've got it now, thank you,” Erica said, and was surprised at how breathless she sounded in her own ears. “Gosh, it's hot in here, isn't it?” she continued waving the still air around her as though it alone could account for her accelerated pulse rate. “It's just…too hot.”

Fortunately, the jumpsuited man could have cared less about her. His eyes followed the cane, and then traveled slowly up Mark's body.

“You're him, aren't you? You're Mark Newman!”

Mark grinned. “I am.”

“Well, I voted for you,” the man said, pumping Mark's hand up and down with a frightening energy.
“Yes, sir. You're a real-life American hero.”

“I was just doing my patriotic duty. Those kids over there now, they're the heroes, if you ask me.”

“My son is over there.” The man continued to shake Mark's hand, transfixed. “Not much choices for young folk in these parts. Either the military, or go on welfare with the white trash and the niggers—”

It took just a second for the word to settle in each of their ears. Erica felt herself stiffen. All the air on the plane had gone cold.

“I'm sorry, ma'am,” the uniformed man was saying. “It's just my way of speakin'. The boys—African Americans—” he used the correct term carefully as though it felt strange in his mouth. “The African-American boys around here, they hear me say it all the time. Don't mean nothing. Didn't mean no harm.”

Erica blinked at him. He seemed to be waiting for her to say something, but she couldn't think of what. “It's okay”? It wasn't. “I accept your apology”? How could she, when he just admitted he used the word with the “boys” all the time?

“Welcome to Billingham,” she murmured, certain both men knew
exactly
what she meant.

“It's an unfortunate choice of words…uh…Davy,” Newman said, reading the man's name badge. “But I'm glad your son chose to serve his country, and I'll pray for his safe return.”

Erica turned away from them, hurrying up the aisle and out onto the jetway ramp, dragging her suitcase behind her on its little casters. It wasn't until she stood in the air conditioning of the airport gate that she felt herself breathe.

She looked around her. It was a small airport but perfectly familiar: the same kind of joined plastic chairs in the sitting areas, the same little counters where the ticket agents stood, the same wide win
dows so that the waiting passengers could see the planes, familiar concession stands located along the wide concourse. Everything was as it should be except that, here, whites used the pejorative
nigger
in conversation as “just a way of speaking,” and…she'd been less than a second away from laying a big old lip-lock on a warmongering white man who was proud of calling this place home.

“Erica!” He was behind her, she could feel him, all of her senses hyper-aware, like they always were when he was around. It was like her body had suddenly betrayed her convictions and left her mind alone to fend for itself.

She didn't turn around, but gripped the handle of her suitcase more tightly and took a few steps further into the concourse, staying out of reach of those firm fingers, those muscular arms, that rock-solid chest.

“Erica!”

“I'm going to get something to drink,” she told the voice, not turning to look at him or stopping long enough for him to get within grasping distance, or she knew those fingers would be curled around her arm again. She moved as steadily and purposefully as a woman dying of thirst toward the nearest vendor.

“Erica.” His voice had that growl of irritation again. “Look, about what happened back on the plane—”

“Nothing happened back on the plane,” she assured him. “You can talk with anyone you want, using whatever language you want. I don't have to like it or agree with it. This is America, right?”

But she'd reached the nearest concession and there was nowhere left to move. His hand came down on her shoulder, warm and possessive, but she shrugged it off and stepped away.

“Cut it out. It's not like you've never heard the
word
nigger
before. Your fourth graders toss it around at each other like it was ‘hello.' I heard 'em. After the assembly.”

“And it makes me cringe. But at least they're all black. And children.”

“So it's okay when used heedlessly and innocently by children—”

“They hardly know what it means—”

“Neither does that guy.”

“I highly doubt that. White people invented that term and they damn sure know what they mean when they say it!”

“Your little black kids know what it means, too,” he hissed, leaning close enough for her to smell him again. “So I guess what you're telling me is, it's okay if you're black but not okay if you're white.”

“Yes, that's exactly what I'm telling you, and if you were anywhere near as smart as people keep telling me you are, you'd understand that!” Erica shouted at him. “And at least you could have said something to the guy—”

“What do you want me to
say
?” Mark barked in frustration. “You heard him, you saw him. He was embarrassed enough already. What did you want me to do, kick him?”

“You could have told him it was
wrong
—”

“He already knows it's
wrong
. He's just a good old boy, probably just barely scraped his way out of high school, but he knows it's wrong. It's just the way of talking he's used to, that's all. I can take one look at him and know he honestly didn't mean anything by it.”

“Fine.” Erica threw her hand up like a shield between them. “You don't get this, and you never will. Every time I start to think there might be something between us, you prove me wrong.” She shook her
head. “There's no point in talking to you. No point at all.” She looked around. “Where's your driver or your aide or whoever's supposed to be meeting us? Call them or summon them or whatever the hell it is you do. I'm ready to go. Get this whole experience over with.”

“I thought you wanted a drink.”

“I do. But I don't want a soda anymore. I need something much stronger if I'm going to get through a week here with you.”

“A drink?” That smirk of a grin creased Newman's face, and Erica had to tighten her hand on her suitcase to keep from slapping him. “I know just the place. But first, we got a Q & A to get to.”

“Fine,” Erica snapped. “Where's the driver? Where's the car?”

“My driver? My car?” Newman's eyes twinkled blue mischief at her. “Right this way.”

He stumped down the concourse two full steps beyond her ability to keep pace. Not that she minded; she was only too glad not have those bright eyes focused on her, only too glad not to have to feel the way she felt looking into them.

As they exited the terminal, Newman paused to fish a coin out of his pocket and flip it into a large fountain spouting water toward the steaming humid sky.

“In thanksgiving for another safe return,” he declared just before the coin hit the water. Erica watched it settle, joining thousands of other coins glittering on the fountain's blue bottom. She opened her mouth to ask, but by then he had limped on, nearly reaching a covered parking garage. She swallowed her questions and hurried to catch up, already sweating in the Southern heat.