“Tech Sergeant Mason Randolph.”
She’d heard him called a number of other things from the women dining at her table who he’d winked at, smiled at, flirted with, dated. They’d called him names like Smooth, Loverboy, and lastly, That Jackass.
Would he remember her when he wasn’t blinded by the flashlight? She ratcheted up her grasp on his cuffed wrists.
He winced beneath her. “Hey, aren’t there police brutality rules against that hold?”
“Then don’t move.”
“No worries, ma’am. I’m a lucky son of a bitch, so we’re going to be just fine.” He flashed his killer smile her way, the first time he’d turned that power on her.
She was immune.
Jill eased her knee off his back, ready to haul him up. The wind howled, tumbleweed speeding past, the parachute whipping faster, lifting. Jill yanked at the flyboy’s arm to pull him aside.
The nylon sheeted forward, toward her. She barely had time to blink before it wrapped around her and her captive.
She stumbled, her feet tangling with his. “Stay still.”
He did, but she couldn’t. Her feet shot out from under her. Cord and nylon binding them together, he fell with her, his muscled bulk sending them tumbling.
“Damn it all,” he snapped seconds before they both slammed to the ground.
His body covered hers, his leg nestling between hers. Hot breath gusted over her cheek, sending gooseflesh prickling along her skin at the possibility she could be sharing air with a monster.
She forced herself to breathe anyway. He was cuffed so she was safe. All she had to worry about was the teasing she would take at work if this part of the arrest leaked out. They were all looking for an outlet for the stress, especially with the added pressure on finding the killer and locking down security before some big shindig at Nellis Air Force Base next week. “Roll to your side, please.”
“I’ll try, but it would help if you freed your left boot from that cording that’s lashing our feet together.”
“Sure, I’m on it.” She started inching her leg away.
The ground rumbled under her with an ominous reminder that anything could happen in Area 51. What the hell? She clawed at the nylon, thrashing until finally, finally, finally the parachute swooped free of their heads.
The warning rumble in the distance increased. What if Mason Randolph wasn’t what the tipster had meant after all? His muscles tensed beneath her grip.
An explosion blossomed into a hazy red cloud on the horizon.
Hotshot Page 26
