Jeopardy. Linda Howard
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who was hovering nervously as if unsure what to do. “Security has been called, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” said the escort, his eyes round with excitement.
Sunny squatted beside her rescuer. “Thank you,” she said. She indicated the briefcase, with the two dangling pieces of its strap. “He cut the strap and grabbed it away from me.”
“Any time,” he said, turning his head to smile at her and giving her her first good look at him.
Her first look was almost her last. Her stomach fluttered. Her heart leaped. Her lungs seized. Wow, she thought, and tried to take a deep breath without being obvious about it.
He was probably the best-looking man she had ever seen, without being pretty in any sense of the word. Drop-dead handsome was the phrase that came to mind. Slightly dazed, she took in the details: black hair, a little too long and a little too shaggy, brushing the collar at the back of his battered brown leather jacket; smooth, honey-tanned skin; eyes of such a clear, light brown that they looked golden, framed by thick black lashes. As if that wasn’t enough, he had also been blessed with a thin, straight nose, high cheekbones and such clearly delineated, well-shaped lips that she had the wild impulse to simply lean forward and kiss him.
She already knew he was tall, and now she had the time to notice the broad shoulders, flat belly and lean hips. Mother Nature had been in a really good mood when he was made. He should have been too perfect and pretty to be real, but there was a toughness in his expression that was purely masculine, and a thin, crescent-shaped scar on his left cheekbone only added to the impression. Looking down, she saw another scar slashing across the back of his right hand, a raised line that was white against his tanned skin.
The scars in no way detracted from his attractiveness; the evidence of rough living only accentuated it, stating unequivocally that this was a man.
She was so bemused that it took her several seconds to realize he was watching her with mingled amusement and interest. She felt her cheeks heat in embarrassment at being caught giving him a blatant once-over. Okay, twice-over.
But she didn’t have time to waste in admiration, so she forced her attention back to more pressing concerns. The cretin was grunting and making noises designed to show he was in agony, but she doubted he was in any great pain, despite his bound hands and the way her hero had a knee pressed into the small of his back. She had the briefcase back, but the cretin still presented her with a dilemma: It was her civic duty to stay and press charges against him, but if her flight left any time soon, she might very well miss it while she was answering questions and filling out forms.
“Jerk,” she muttered at him. “If I miss my flight...”
“When is it?” asked her hero.
“I don’t know. It’s been delayed, but they could begin boarding at any time. I’ll check at the gate and be right back.”
He nodded with approval. “I’ll hold your friend here and deal with Security until you get back.”
“I’ll only be a minute,” she said, and walked swiftly back to her gate. The counter was now jammed with angry or upset travelers, their mood far more agitated than when she had left just a few moments before. Swiftly she glanced at the board, where CANCELED had been posted in place of the DELAYED sign.
“Damn,” she said, under her breath. “Damn, damn, damn.” There went her last hope for getting to Seattle in time to complete her assignment, unless there was another miracle waiting for her. Two miracles in one day was probably too much to ask for, though.
She needed to call in, she thought wearily, but first she could deal with the cretin and airport security. She retraced her steps and found that the little drama was now mobile; the cretin was on his feet, being frog-marched under the control of two airport policemen into an office where they would be out of the view of curious passersby.
Her hero was waiting for her, and when he spotted her, he said something to the security guys, then began walking to meet her.
Her heart gave a little flutter of purely feminine appreciation. My, he was good to look at. His clothes were nothing special: a black T-shirt under the old leather jacket, faded jeans and scuffed boots, but he wore them with a confidence and grace that said he was utterly comfortable. Sunny allowed herself a moment of regret that she would never see him again after this little contretemps was handled, but then she pushed it away. She couldn’t take the chance of letting anything develop into a relationship—assuming there was anything there to develop—with him or anyone else. She never even let anything start, because it wouldn’t be fair to the guy, and she didn’t need the emotional wear and tear, either. Maybe one day she would be able to settle down, date, eventually find someone to love and marry and maybe have kids, but not now. It was too dangerous.
When he reached her, he took her arm with old-fashioned courtesy. “Everything okay with your flight?”
“In a way. It’s been canceled,” she said ruefully. “I have to be in Seattle tonight, but I don’t think I’m going to make it. Every flight I’ve had today has either been delayed or rerouted, and now there’s no other flight that would get me there in time.”
“Charter a plane,” he said as they walked toward the office where the cretin had been taken.
She chuckled. “I don’t know if my boss will spring for that kind of money, but it’s an idea. I have to call in, anyway, when we’re finished here.”
“If it makes any difference to him, I’m available right now. I was supposed to meet a customer on that last flight in from Dallas, but he wasn’t on the plane, and he hasn’t contacted me, so I’m free.”
“You’re a charter pilot?” She couldn’t believe it. It—he—was too good to be true. Maybe she did qualify for two miracles in one day after all.
He looked down at her and smiled, making a tiny dimple dance in his cheek. God, he had a dimple, too! Talk about overkill! He held out his hand. “Chance McCall—pilot, thief-catcher, jack-of-all-trades—at your service, ma’am.”
She laughed and shook his hand, noticing that he was careful not to grip her fingers too hard. Considering the strength she could feel in that tough hand, she was grateful for his restraint. Some men weren’t as considerate. “Sunny Miller, tardy courier and target of thieves. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. McCall.”
“Chance,” he said easily. “Let’s get this little problem taken care of, then you can call your boss and see if he thinks a charter flight is just what the doctor ordered.”
He opened the door of the unmarked office for her, and she stepped inside to find the two security officers, a woman dressed in a severe gray suit and the cretin, who had been handcuffed to his chair. The cretin glared at her when she came in, as if all this were her fault instead of his.
“You lyin’ bitch—” the cretin began.
Chance McCall reached out and gripped the cretin’s shoulder. “Maybe you didn’t get the message before,” he said in that easy way of his that in no way disguised the iron behind it, “but I don’t care for your language. Clean it up.” He didn’t issue a threat, just an order—and his grip on the cretin’s shoulder didn’t look gentle.
The cretin flinched and gave him an uneasy look, perhaps remembering how effortlessly this man had manhandled him before. Then he looked at the two airport policemen, as if expecting them to step in. The two men crossed their arms and grinned. Deprived of allies, the cretin opted for silence.
The gray-suited woman looked as if she wanted to protest the rough treatment of her prisoner, but she evidently decided to get on with the business at hand. “I’m Margaret Fayne, director of airport security. I assume you’re going to file charges?”
“Yes,” Sunny said.
“Good,” Ms. Fayne said in approval. “I’ll need statements from both of you.”
“Any idea how long this will take?”