It was obvious to Rye that he had expected a body to be strapped into the pilot’s seat because he reacted with a start and shone the flashlight around the cockpit. Rye could see the beam crazily darting behind the cracked windshield.
The guy pulled back, gave a furtive look around, then hastily scrambled down and started walking back in the direction from which he’d come, no longer hesitant. In fact, he was moving in a big damn hurry.
“I don’t think so.” Rye lurched to his feet and charged.
The tackle almost knocked the breath out of Rye, so he knew his saboteur had borne the brunt of it, and that gave him a tremendous amount of satisfaction.
The flashlight was dropped and landed on the ground a few feet away from where they tussled. White reached for it, but Rye wrapped his arms tight around the torso beneath his, pinning the guy’s arms to his sides and rendering his legs useless by straddling them and practically sitting on his butt.
“What’s the matter, jerk-off? Did you expect to find my bloody corpse in the pilot’s seat? Well, surprise.”
He flipped him over, grabbed a flailing wrist in each of his hands, even as his right maintained a grip on the nine-millimeter. He forced the guy’s arms out to his sides and flattened the backs of them against the rocky ground.
As angry as he’d ever been in his life, he growled, “I want to know just what the fuck—”
He broke off when he realized that the eyes glowering up at him were set in a soft, smooth face framed by a tumble of dark, wavy hair. He said, “Who the hell are you?”
“Your client.”
Rye recoiled in shock and looked down at the chest inches from his face, which was rising and falling with agitation…and was also indisputably female. “Dr. Lambert? I expected a man.”
“Well, surprise.”
Then she kneed him in the balls.
Chapter 3
2:01 a.m.
Damn!” She’d missed. He had sucked in a sharp breath in anticipation and shifted his hips just enough to prevent a direct hit. Teeth clenched, she said, “Get off me.”
He didn’t. Instead, he secured her legs by pressing them more tightly between his. “You’re supposed to be at the FBO. What are you doing out here?”
“Do you have the box? Why do you have a gun?”
“I asked first.”
Their eyes engaged in a contest of wills, but he was angry, large, strong, and on top of her, all of which gave him the advantage. “Because of the fog, I missed the turnoff. The road came to a dead end at a cyclone fence. I was about to turn around when your plane swooped in from out of nowhere.”
“Oh. You belong to the headlights. I flew toward them.”
“Toward them?”
“So I could land on the road.”
“But you didn’t. You crashed.”
“Wasn’t my fault.”
“No?” The instant the word was out, she realized how snotty her tone had sounded, and it made him mad.
“No, doctor. The fact is, I kept the craft from falling out of the fucking sky, which it would have done if I weren’t such a fucking good pilot. It took a hell of an effort to avoid taking your head off. You should be thanking me.”
“Gratitude isn’t exactly what I’m feeling for you right now. Was the box damaged? What caused you to crash?”
“Someone—” He stopped, rethought what he had intended to say, then said a terse “Power outage.”
“On your plane?”
“The instruments blinked. These kinds of conditions, being able to see your instruments can mean the difference between living and dying. I managed to pull it off.” He continued to stare down at her with mistrust. She forced herself to hold his stare without shrinking, although he looked unscrupulous, and kept her mindful of the gun in his right hand.
“How long are you going to keep me pinned down?” she said. “You’re hurting my hands, and there’s a rock planted in my left kidney.”
He didn’t react immediately, but then he must have decided that the standoff was pointless. He released her wrists, moved off her, and stood. He picked up the flashlight she’d dropped and shone it directly into her face, staying on it until she asked him with curt politeness to get it out of her eyes. He kept the flashlight on, but angled it away from her. It provided ambient light.
She sat up, rubbing the gouge on her back. “What’s your name?”
“Rye Mallett.”
“Mr. Mallett,” she said in a murmur as she started to stand. He cupped her elbow to give her a boost. As soon as she was on her feet, she pulled her arm free and began brushing the dirt and twigs off the backs of her hands. They were nicked and scratched. One had a smear of blood on it. She shot him an accusing look.
“Sorry,” he said. “I thought you were a guy.”
“It would have been nice if you’d made that distinction before coming after me. Armed. Was the gun really necessary?”
“Wasn’t, but might’ve been.”
“Do all pilots carry guns these days?”
“What other pilots do isn’t any of my business.”
She looked over at the plane. The damage appeared to be considerable. He’d been fortunate to walk away from the crash, much less have enough strength to overpower her and keep her pinned down. “You don’t seem to have been injured, Mr. Mallett. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” With that settled, she asked, “What about the box?”
“Do you know Brady White?”
“The man who manages the airfield? I talked to him on the phone tonight. He agreed to be here when you landed, although I don’t think he believed that anyone would actually fly in tonight. He said—” She broke off when a thought occurred to her. “He did show up, didn’t he? He turned the lights on?”
“Yeah. He turned the lights on.”
“Good. He did what he was supposed to, then.”
“According to your directions.” His jaw was tense with what appeared to be cold fury. His eyes narrowed on her again. “What’s in that black box?”
That was a question she had no intention of answering, especially since it had been posed with such suspicion. She said, “I didn’t see it in the cockpit.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Your only concern should be its delivery. To your client. Who happens to be me. Is it secured in the back of the plane? Please tell me whether or not it was damaged.”
“Wasn’t damaged.”
“I’d like to see that for myself.”
“Don’t trust me?”
“You have the gall to ask that when you were the one waving a gun around?”
“Didn’t wave it around. But the point here is that the mistrust works both ways. What’s so bloody important that the contents of that box had to get here tonight, never mind the weather?”
She held her silence.
“Hmm? Not even a hint? Come on. What could be so closely safeguarded and time-sensitive? The secret ingredient in Grandma’s candied yams?”
“This is no joking matter, Mr. Mallett.”
“You’re goddamn right, it’s not,” he said, raising his voice and taking a fractional step closer. “How come you were sneaking up on the plane?”
“I wasn’t sneaking.”
“Looked like sneaking. The hood, the—”
“I pulled my hood up because of the mist.”
He held out his hand palm up, inches from her face, waited a few seconds, then said, “Dry as dust. No mist.”
“It was misting when I left my car.”
He waited a beat, then asked, “You’re a doctor?” She nodded. “Medical?” She nodded again. “Didn’t you take an oath to do everything possible to ward off death?”
“Yes.”
“Did you mean it?”
She refused to honor the insult with a reply.
“Reason I asked,” he continued, “when you saw the wrecked plane, how come you didn’t break into a run to see to my welfare? For all you knew, I was one heartbeat away from checking out.”
“I was exercising caution.”
“You were creeping.”
“Because I wasn’t sure it was safe!” she exclaimed. “Crashed planes sometimes explode, catch fire.”
“Yeah, I know.”
His tone had the quality of a death knell, a warning that the topic would be better left alone. But she held her ground and said with stern emphasis, “Give me the box.”
“Trade you for it.”
She huffed a laugh. “I’m sorry? Trade?”
“I need a lift to the airport office.”
She was about to refuse when she realized that he was, indeed, stranded. “Of course.”