The area resembled a war zone. He stopped twenty yards from the fuming crater where the main portion of the fuselage had slammed into the earth. Rescue workers dressed in yellow slickers glowed like beacons against the spotlights. Smoke blended with fog and curled upward into the cold, still air.
"This guy went straight down," he heard himself say in a voice devoid of the panic and horror thrashing inside him. "No survivors." The voice came again, his own, sounding strange among the surreal flashing of lights and the screaming of chain saws. Somewhere in the distance the rise and fall of a bulldozer's engine added another degree of bedlam.
Then he was standing at the brink of the jaggedly cut cavity. Around him, teams of rescue workers moved in slow motion, in and out of the crater, lugging stretchers, plastic buckets, or body bags. Nearby, an ambulance stuck in the mud rocked back and forth, its bumper hammering against the trunk of a walnut tree. Back and forth. Hammering . . .
Pounding dragged him from the nightmare.
Randall Talbot opened his eyes. The need to cry out clenched at him. His heart pummeled his ribs. The putrid taste of horror pooled at the back of his throat like vomit. He jerked upright, flinching as a cramp shot across the back of his neck. Cursing, he rubbed the sore muscles and tried to remember where he was, and how he'd gotten there. The scenario was all too familiar these days.
Christ, not even the booze can keep the nightmare at bay, he thought bitterly and lowered his head back onto the desk.
The pounding persisted.
Muttering an oath, he rose. The room swayed. He blinked, realizing belatedly that he was still drunk—which suited him fine. Somehow, the alcohol made it all easier to take. At least for now, he thought grimly.
Gray light slanted through the single window of the office, and he realized with some surprise it was well past dawn. As he staggered to the door, he plucked his flannel shirt off the back of the chair and pulled it on, not bothering with the buttons. Fighting a spell of dizziness, he leaned against the door, relishing the feel of the cool wood against his forehead. At least until the frame rattled under someone' s persistent knocking.
"Yeah, dammit, hold on a minute," he croaked, sickened by the taste of whiskey at the back of his throat. Vaguely, he remembered breaking the seal as he'd waited for his two A.M. appointment. A topless dancer who worked at the Cheetah Lounge, he recalled. A woman who owed his brother, Jack, a fee for some surveillance work. She hadn't shown and, of course, Randall had ended up getting comatose drunk. Just like a woman to show up late and expect a man to wait, he thought sourly. Considering she owed Jack four hundred dollars, he was surprised she'd shown at all.
Spotting the bottle of whiskey on his desk, he strode to it and thumbed off the cap. It wouldn't do to waste the expensive stuff. Tipping the bottle, he drank deeply, swished, then spat in the wastebasket. The bottle followed with a clank!
Despite the headache raging behind his eyes, Randall smiled as he started for the door. It was a smile that had little to do with good humor-and everything to do with the fact that he was ripe for a fight. Any woman who took advantage of a man confined to a wheelchair-especially his brother—deserved a good verbal trouncing. The way he felt this morning, he might even enjoy it.
Steadying himself against the wall, he unlocked the door and swung it open. "You're late."
A young woman with dark, almond-shaped eyes and skin as flawless as new snow stood staring at him. Her mouth was full, heart-shaped, and painted an interesting hue of red. It was the kind of mouth that made a man think about the finer elements of a woman—and the even finer elements of sex.
Her cheekbones were delicate and high, the flesh there blushed with cold. Soft bangs brushed past delicately arched brows. An unruly mass of brown hair tumbled onto her shoulders like strands of raw silk.
She didn't look like a topless dancer. Too soft, he thought, not to mention the fact that he couldn't make out much of her beneath the thick, fuzzy sweater. She wore a skirt that could have been her grandmother's and lace-up boots that would have looked more appropriate on a construction worker.
Her eyes flicked over his bare chest. "I must have the wrong address." She stepped back.
If he hadn't known better, Randall would have sworn he saw her blush. "Not so fast." Reaching for her hand, he pulled her inside.
She yelped and tried to jerk away, but he was prepared and hauled her into the office like a recalcitrant child. Her hand was small and cool in his. He caught a whiff of her perfume and ignored the flutter of pleasure that wafted through him.
"You have thirty seconds to cough up the cash," he said, resisting the urge to hold his head to keep the room from spinning.
Gasping, she tried to twist away. "What are you doing? Let go of me!" Her eyes narrowed. "What cash?"