more than you.”
“Want to flip a coin to see who flies us back to Anchorage?”
“I want you to do it. That way I can keep tabs on Rickson.”
She nodded, watching him over the rim of her cup. Was he acting differently this morning, or was she? Maybe she was too tired and just not reading him correctly. But every time his gaze met hers, her heart turned over in response, and she felt like a breathless girl of eighteen.
Jim’s fingers, tapered and strong, caressed the ceramic mug, and Storm imagined, with longing, his hands on her body. But another part of her, the wary woman of thirty-two who had paid the price of being married for four years, rebelled. Hadn’t she learned the hard way with Jack? Her stomach knotted and churned with bitterness. Trying very hard to see Jim Talbot as a disrupter of her well-planned life, Storm sought to erect a wall of defense against him, to quell her heart’s longings. But no matter how hard she tried, her unbridled heart was reaching out to him.
Grimly pressing her lips together, Storm set the cup down and looked expectantly at Jim. “Are we ready to get this show on the road?”
He raised his head with a puzzled look. “What? Oh, sure. You don’t want breakfast?”
“No, just coffee.”
He rose and dug out some change. “Okay, Irish storm goddess, let’s pray that Rickson and his bunch are still too hung over to be anything but groaning, middle-aged men.”
Minutes later, ensconced comfortably in the cabin of the Beech Queen and listening to the raucous laughter and lewd jokes of Nate Rickson and his friends, Storm cast a wry glance at Jim. “Looks like our prayers didn’t get answered,” she commented drily.
Jim snorted, opening a thermos and pouring them both some coffee. “I can see we don’t have any pull upstairs. Listen to them. Maybe we should have prayed to the house down below.”
Storm took the coffee, nodding. Rickson was enjoying a bawdy song, swinging his bottle of whiskey in tune with his comrades, clapping. If possible, his wide, flat nose was redder this morning. Storm leaned over and whispered in Jim’s ear, “He looks like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Do you think we could use him as a beacon if our lights fail?”
Jim grinned good-naturedly. “I’d like to tack his rear to the tail of the plane, anyway.”
Storm laughed, holding out her cup for a refill. She could picture Rickson pinned to the tail of the aircraft, like dirty laundry hung out to dry.
The rest of the flight was uneventful. Storm made a skillful three-point landing at Anchorage International Airport and taxied the Queen up to the now-familiar Bradford’s building. There the plane would be refueled, and then they would begin the last leg of the journey to Camp Five.
The sky was a turquoise-blue, with the wind coming out of the west at a good fifteen knots, putting a biting edge to it and increasing the wind-chill factor. Jim disembarked with most of the passengers, and Storm began the post-flight check, ignoring the hoots and hollers of the lingering hunters.
“Hey, sweetie…”
She jerked around as a strong hand gripped her shoulder. Rickson leered down at her, his breath heavy with the smell of whiskey.
“Been watchin’ ya and we think you got class. Real class.” He grinned, massaging her arm in a circular motion.
Storm scowled, her face paling with anger. The cockpit was small, certainly no place for a wrestling match. Yanking away from him, she twisted around so that her back was against the steering yolk. “Get the hell out of here, Rickson,” she snarled.
His eyes crinkled and watered, and he smiled rakishly, reaching out to touch her again. “Ah, sweetie, I know you’re playin’ hard to get. But c’mon, give Ricky and his bunch a break. Wouldn’t you like to spend a week out at Camp Five with us instead of playin’ pilot?”
As his meaty hand came forward to touch her, Storm reacted out of blind fear and smashed the clipboard down on his
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