“Stretching my hands.”
It didn’t look like stretching. It looked like clawing. The plane moved into line for take off. A drop of perspiration beaded on his upper lip. His cheeks paled.
“Are you getting sick or something?” Pressing a hand to his forehead, she found his skin clammy and cool.
Witt’s breath came in short blasts. His knuckles whitened. Max got scared. “Hey.”
He didn’t answer.
The jet taxied down the runway. Witt closed his eyes, put his head back, and grimaced as the plane picked up speed.
Damn. The man was afraid of flying.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Shut up for a minute, okay?”
She did, glancing out the window. The tarmac blew by. She saw the lights of the San Mateo Bridge, the beam of a few headlights, the glow from the houses, and the nose began to lift. In moments, they were airborne. Witt’s Adam’s apple bobbed. That’s why he didn’t want the window. He hadn’t wanted to see.
She touched his arm as they ascended into the night. “You okay?” she whispered as if a quiet voice would calm him.
Without opening his eyes, he said, “Don’t like taking off and landing.” His fingers still clenched the armrest.
“You should have told me.” Warmth grew inside her. Despite his fears, he’d come with her, because he thought she needed him.
“I wouldn’t have made you come with me if I’d known.”
He turned to her then, opened one eye, gave her that look, the one that said he wouldn’t in a million years trust her to handle whatever she found in Michigan on her own.
He was probably right. She’d get herself in trouble. In the past two and a half months, she’d gotten herself into more trouble than a puppy in a wasp nest.
She pried his hand off the arm and held it. With the comfort of flesh against flesh, she started talking. “Maybe you were ... a Kamikaze pilot in a past life.” She figured he’d laugh at that one. She wanted to make him laugh. He didn’t, but a touch of color seeped back into his cheeks. “Or maybe you were Amelia Earhart. You crashed, and now you’re terrified of flying.”
“Amelia Earhart was a woman.”
“Duh. People get reincarnated into different sexes, you know. I was Julius Caesar.”
He looked up and smiled. Sort of. “I think you were one of the Salem witches.”
She thought about that for a second. “Did you just insult me?”
He squeezed, his hand now warm around her fingers. “They’d have burned you at the stake for some of the things you say”—his gaze fell to her mouth—“and do.”
She felt a little zing and sputtered, “But they were hanged.” Weren’t they?
Witt snorted. The fasten-seatbelt sign dinged and winked out. He glanced at the college kid across the aisle, then leaned close to her, his seatbelt stretching across his jeans. “Don’t you have to use the restroom or something?”
“Not yet.”
“Do it anyway. Fancy having you crawl over me.” His eyes roamed her face, making her hot inside and out. “Right now. Take your time about it, too. Make it reeeeal slow.”
The crisis was over. At least that one was. The new one was that she wanted to do exactly what he asked. Despite having so recently relived the horror of the night Cameron died.
She nodded. “If it will make you forget about flying.”
“Oh, it will.” The evil twinkle in his eye belied his grave nod.
Tossing aside the blanket, she stood. He didn’t move an inch. She raised a leg, thrusting it up and over to the aisle, straddling him. A snap popped on her jean skirt. While she balanced herself on his shoulder, he held her steady at the hip, his thumb stroking.
As she raised her other leg, his fingers trailed along, eliciting goose bumps and a shiver. When she was safely in the aisle, he grabbed her hand and pulled her down, his lips to her ear.
Then he whispered a devastating order. “And take your panties off while you’re in there.”
*
Witt had politely moved his legs when she returned. He’d smiled, all sweet and harmless, as she’d brushed past his knees. He’d helped her snuggle once more beneath her blue blanket, and never once, not by action or question, tried to figure out whether she’d followed his instructions. She was itchy and twitchy by the time he covered his lap with another blanket, which was after the hostess had served their drinks, Coke for her and tomato juice for him, then picked up their trash. The lights had been dimmed for the movie, and most of the passengers had gone nighty-night.
Witt flipped up the armrest between them, settled his head back against his seat, and closed his eyes.
“Psst.”
He cracked one lid and lazily slid his head to the side to look at her. “What?”
“Are you going to sleep?”