“Me too,” she murmured, swallowing and glancing out the window. A million stars dotted the black fabric of the sky overhead. A soft bed of clouds spread out like a quilt below them. “And to experience that kind of heartbreak and then have the courage and fearlessness to open yourself up to it again…” She trailed off. She wasn’t sure exactly what it was she wanted to say. Whatever it was, it felt big. Too big to put into words. So she ended with, “I really admire Dan. I think he might be the bravest man I’ve ever met.”
When she turned, she saw that for the first time ever Z’s eyes weren’t piercing. They were soft. Liquid. Like mercury, only warmer. “I know you’re right about that,” he said.
And then they simply stared at one another. Their eyes searching. Their hearts beating. Their breaths mingling in the small space. Chelsea wondered what was going on inside his head, wondered if he could guess what was going on inside hers. And for a while she thought perhaps it was possible for them to—
“So what did Morales have to say when you talked to him?” He turned away to fiddle with one of the digital displays, and whatever magic there had been in the moment was obliterated. Just…gone.
She mourned its loss. And for a couple of seconds she could form no words around the sudden lump in her throat. It was only an apparition anyway, right? That brief second of communion, of shared understanding was only real in my head, right? Running fingers through her hair—Ow! It was a mess. The rain had really done a number on it—she was happy her voice was steady when she finally said, “Not a lot. I asked him if he could pull some strings to compensate the owner of that van we demolished. I have no idea if there’s such a thing as theft insurance in Cusco.”
He snorted.
“What?” she asked.
“Only you would worry about the smelly van guy when you’re in the middle of bringing in the most traitorous agent the CIA has ever trained.”
She twisted her lips. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.”
Wha—? She reached over and put her hand against his forehead. He went completely still beneath her touch. She noticed how warm and smooth his skin was in contrast to the few strands of cool hair that had fallen over his brow.
“Chels,” he said, his voice low and strangely husky. “What…uh…” When he swallowed, the sound seemed particularly loud inside the little cockpit. “What’re you doing?”
“Checking you for fever,” she told him, removing her hand and curling her fingers around her palm, trying to hold in the feel of his skin. “You’re not yourself tonight.”
He fixed on her a dark glance. “Am I usually that much of an asshole?”
She lifted a brow, sticking her tongue in her cheek. “Not an asshole per se, so much as buttmunch and pain in the ass. Subtle but very important distinctions.”
One corner of his mouth twitched. Come on. Come on. Show me that smile. But he simply shook his head and said, “So what did Morales have to say about you wanting to make sure smelly van guy was reimbursed?”
“He said he’d take care of it,” she told him. “That along with sending someone to pick up the drone, the rest of our gear, and the bags Penni left behind. Oh”—she snapped her fingers—“and Kozlov. Morales said he’d have someone go release the poor guy before tomorrow’s construction crew arrives to work on the building and finds a cantankerous, hog-tied Russian in the midst of the rubble.”
“Poor guy?” Z shot her an incredulous look. “You know it might have been him trying to give us all a few fatal doses of lead poisoning back at the square, right?”
“Maybe,” she allowed, her brow furrowed. “But I don’t think so. I think it was that Mystery Man in the truck.”
“Yeah,” Z admitted. “You’re probably right.” Then he added, “Sounds like you’ve got it all worked—”
He was cut off when turbulence grabbed hold of the plane and shook it like a child brandishing a toy rattle. Chelsea’s hands became claws digging into the edge of the seat as Z quickly slipped on his headset, grabbed the yoke, and checked the instruments. He started jabbering to someone on the radio, requesting they be allowed to descend into more stable air.
She thought about snatching the headset hooked over the bracket on the side of her chair so she could listen in to what air traffic control was saying, but she didn’t dare release her hold on the seat.
“Roger that,” Z said, drawing out the R sound. “We will maintain our current speed and position until the airspace clears up. But let us know when it does. It’s getting pretty choppy up here. Over.”
As if to prove his point, the plane rattled and shook and plunged a short distance before the wings gripped the air and stabilized. I hate flying. I hate flying. Oh, how I hate flying.
“Go tell Dan to get his ass up here,” Z said. “And then you buckle up. It’ll be bumpy for a while.” It took Herculean effort to peel her fingers away from the edge of the seat. “And, Chels?” Z said after she’d stood to brace herself in the open door of the cockpit.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t worry. Between Dan and me, we could pilot this sucker through a hurricane.”
She swallowed, but her spit got stuck around her lungs and heart, which had migrated up into her throat. “Great,” she said. “But let’s not try that, okay?”