He brushed her hands away and yanked the shirt off, tossing it on the floor. Not slowing, he bent and locked his mouth on her breast as he shed flight suit, briefs and socks in a maneuver that would have done a stripper proud.
Her nipple hardened through the lace and satin and he sucked harder. He pulled her closer, his erection pressing into the firm flatness of her belly. The combination of soft skin and hard muscle felt erotic as hell.
She whimpered and shifted, struggling to shed her bra without disturbing his talented mouth.
Reluctantly, he broke contact. “Let me,” he said in a voice made harsh by want. A quick look confirmed a front closure. A short fumble later and plump breasts spilled into his waiting hands, their weight and size more exciting than he’d expected. “God, you’re perfect,” he rasped out.
She stepped back, her own hands cupping the rose-tipped beauties. “Perfect? Weren’t you the one that suggested I might want a breast augmentation? To fill out my uniform better?”
He groaned with a week’s worth of frustration boiling in his balls. “Jesus, I was an idiot. I was a freaking certifiable id—”
Her chuckle cut him off. “No, you weren’t. A bit full of yourself, yeah, but never an idiot.”
Her eyes had darkened to North Atlantic blue. Then her lids dipped low as her gaze tracked down his chest to stop at his pulsing penis. For a crazy moment he felt like a teenager, fearful of exploding before she even touched him. To hell with that idea.
He must have made a sound because her eyes widened and she sucked in a deep breath. Then turned and bent over the tile sink, arms braced and legs spread. She flipped her hair over her shoulder and challenged him with a look. “I’ve been dreaming of this since that night in your hangar. You, taking me while I leaned over Black Beauty.”
His gaze traveled the length of her faultless legs and well-toned butt. Perfect didn’t do her justice. “Then, honey, we’re both about to have our dreams come true.”
Chapter Nine
Embarrassed, Caitlyn closed her eyes and held on to the cold tile, afraid she’d fall without its support. This was beyond brazen. This was—Stillman’s hands settled on her hips disconnecting her brain and wiping out all thoughts, embarrassed or otherwise.
He slowly eased her thong down her bottom as he nibbled a path across her shoulder, scattering goose bumps over her skin in a sensual wave of desire. She stepped out of the scrap of satin and elastic but kept her face hidden behind the curtain of her hair. His talented hands stroked up her thighs and over her hips, molding her waist with lightly calloused palms.
“You are the most beautiful, most amazing woman I’ve ever been with.” His rasping voice stirred the hair over her right ear and she shivered.
He pulled her closer, his penis pressed hard against her backside, his hand moving down her belly to cup her. Long fingers probed her intimately and she couldn’t stop the little moan that escaped. His other hand found her breast and began kneading it before tugging on one nipple then the other until she thought she’d climax from sheer sensory overload. “Please.” She drew in a ragged breath. “I want you inside me when I come.”
Stillman fumbled for a condom then swore as several packets scattered to the floor. A laugh welled up in her chest. Had she ever felt this close to exploding? This close to losing control with less than five minutes of foreplay?
She arched her back and gave a little wiggle. “If you don’t hurry, I’m going to come without you.”
“The hell you are.” Foil tore, then his delicious hardness went away only to return with demanding forcefulness. “God, you’re so hot...and wet.” He guided himself in with one sure stroke.
When he was buried deep and tight, she came undone, her insides clenching in a spasm of delight. Oh God, she scrunched her eyes closed and held on to the counter with waning strength.
Stillman clamped his hand over her mouth, muffling her spontaneous cry. “We don’t want Joe comin’ in to save you,” he growled in her ear. He removed his hand and turned the cold water on full blast to mask the telltale sounds of their lovemaking.
He swept her hair back and angled her face up toward the wavy metal that pretended to be a mirror. “I want to watch you come this time.” His arm shifted to take more of her weight and hold her steady as he slowly moved in and out of her. “I want to repeat this in front of a real mirror. Where we can watch each other. So you can see what you do to me.” As he talked, he increased the pace and depth of his thrusts.
She bit her lip to keep from crying out again as another climax built to the breaking point. Red dusted the harsh angles of Stillman’s face, as he too appeared to reach the point of no return. He moved his hand lower, squeezing her swollen clit with just the right pressure to send her flying. His answering plunge and guttural exclamation signaled his own release.
He didn’t stop. He didn’t soften and withdraw. He didn’t do any of the postcoital things she expected of him. Slow and steady, he continued, urging her back from fully satisfied to hungry for more.
“That’s right, Caitlyn,” he whispered in her ear, watching her distorted image in the metal’s mirrored finish. “I’m not even close to being finished with you. We’re just getting started.”
She caught her giggle in time, turning it into her best wicked-woman smile. Doctor Eveready and his Energizer Bunny might not see the humor in his new nickname just yet.
* * *
Stillman’s sleep had gone AWOL and he craved a cigarette like a lieutenant craved a salute. Sheer exhaustion from too many orgasms to count, Caitlyn’s and his, should have left him unconscious hours ago. A very male kind of satisfaction made him smile. Stupid and decidedly juvenile, he’d wanted to prove he wasn’t too old for her, or at least that his experience made up for the twelve-year age difference.
Of course now his dick was going to fall off, but so what.
Queeny snuggled her face into the crook of his arm and made little snuffling noises. In deference to Joe’s presence, she’d pulled on her college T-shirt, but she was bare-assed naked below that. And her model-perfect legs were wrapped around him like spaghetti on a fork.
The door to their room crashed open and the fluorescent overhead lights flickered on. “What the hell?” Stillman jerked up, and angled his body across Caitlyn in an unconscious protective gesture.
“Wake! Test flight. Now!” Yasin shouted at them from the doorway. “Hurry, hurry!”
Caitlyn pushed Stillman’s arm away and swung her legs from under the covers. “I should have guessed they’d scramble us at o’dark-thirty,” she grumbled and immediately began dressing.
Stillman glared at Yasin until he ducked his head. The little bastard wasn’t above copping a look at Caitlyn’s legs as she jammed them into her uniform.
Joe’s salty complaining assured Stillman they’d have a mechanic onboard, fully awake or not, for their test flight. His new crew appeared as used to middle-of-the-night callouts as he was to working extended ER shifts.
Ten minutes later they were buckling into the Jayhawk, Caitlyn in the pilot seat, Stillman to her left. He hadn’t occupied that position in years. Joe, Yasin and Atwah were all strapped in the back, along with enough automatic weapons to quell any local uprisings they happened to come across.
Their captors had been busy during the night, removing camouflage netting and tarps from the helo’s rotors and fuselage. Stillman pulled Ryan’s helmet on, trying unsuccessfully to block the face of the hijacker who’d worn it last. He plugged the microphone cord into the com-port, providing a communication link to the five people on board.
“You read me the checklist and run through the verification,” Caitlyn instructed Stillman as she flipped switches and scanned the partially illuminated panel.
Stillman did as instructed, noting the similarities as well as the differences between the Jayhawk
and his more familiar Black Hawk. After this little test flight, he’d probably be able to fly her precious Fly Baby.
“All right, boys, if it ain’t strapped in, hold it tight. We might have a shake-n-bake takeoff, but she’ll play nice once we clear the tree line.”
Her clipped no-nonsense voice instilled confidence, and her irreverent sense of humor eased the growing tension that sat next to each of them in the helo. How could you doubt that kind of delivery?
Stillman’s personal goal, besides getting a feel for flying the Jayhawk, was to try and pinpoint their location. Joe and Caitlyn had oriented him to the area so he should spot Marathon’s airport beacon once they cleared the palms.
The Jayhawk’s rotors spun faster and faster, while the whine of turbine engines, pungent smell of jet fuel and familiar vibrations sent jolts of excitement to his nerve endings. Flying was flying, and like Caitlyn, its thrill was ingrained in his soul.
Because of Atwah’s paranoia, they were launching “dark,” with no running or identification lights to attract attention. Atwah was foolishly unaware of the electronic signal the helo had been transmitting since its crash landing Wednesday night. Stillman and Joe had night-vision goggles, or NVGs, to make sure they didn’t hit any palms during takeoff; with the helo sitting off center, Caitlyn had less clearance than she should have. Which meant she’d damn well better go straight up.
The helo shuddered as Caitlyn applied more power. “Come on, baby, show mama what you can do,” she crooned over the intercom. Another blip on the throttle and it broke free of the muddy wheel lock.
“Careful it doesn’t—” She caught the right drift a little late, and rotors clattered loudly for a second as they clipped palm fronds. Stillman cringed at the sound.
“Oopsie.”
He lowered the NVGs and shot her a disbelieving look. No, she really didn’t just say “Oopsie,” did she?
“Oh, Joe, remember to send Atwah a bill for trimming those palm trees.” She made a tsking sound as she executed a perfect vertical climb. “Really, the conditions of these civilian landing zones. A professional shouldn’t have to put up with this.”
They all heard Joe’s snort in their headphones. “Yeah, imagine landing without a VASI or the ever-helpful control tower. How will you do it?”
“Jeez, Peterson, that’s why she earns the big bucks,” Stillman said, joining in the typical cockpit banter.
“Stop your stupid chatter,” Atwah demanded with an irritated voice.
“Roger, that,” came three simultaneous responses. Atwah remained quiet. Sulking?
Stillman spotted an airport beacon off their port side and checked the compass heading. If Marathon was that way—he swung the NVGs around—then St. Pete was that direction. Not that he could see anything that far away; it had to be at least two hundred nautical miles. That prompted concern over fuel. He glanced at the gauge and tapped it to get Caitlyn’s attention.
“I know. We’ll need to have a little talk with our tour director. I’m sure he doesn’t want any unplanned water landings.”
Ice seized his heart and froze the breath right out of him. No matter how talented the pilot, a water ditching was a hell of a lot trickier than landing on the ground. It wasn’t a joking matter. He’d been through enough pool sessions simulating them to know he never wanted to do one for real.
Caitlyn keyed the mic several times, triggering the landing lights on the island below them. Stillman watched the concentration and excitement on her face illuminated by the red glow of the cockpit light. No, he’d make double-effing-sure he was at the controls when it came time to hijack Atwah and his bomb.
Jacksonville, FL,
Friday, 23 September, 0548 hours
Valerie eased her car into her condo’s private parking garage with the care of a practiced drunk. Between her almost-migraine and the medication it took to hold it at bay, she felt like she’d been on a weeklong binge. She’d caught a few hours’ sleep on the office couch but gave up any illusion of making it through another day of work given her current condition.
She’d slip in, pack a few things then check in to one of the downtown hotels. Once she shook off her pending migraine she’d spend a few more hours deciphering all the data she’d learned. Then she just might call that FBI agent back and let him know what she’d found.
It was amazing the kind of information a retired document forger could gather. And what he was willing to pass to the daughter of an old friend when he was concerned for her safety.
She parked the Mercedes in her reserved spot and collected her purse but left her briefcase. Maybe she’d be able to work from the hotel that afternoon. She opened the door to the lobby.
“Ms. Wooten? My God, it is you!” The elderly security guard all but hugged her when she stumbled through the doorway. Jerry was the guard she knew best because he worked the night shift when she generally made it home.
“Wh—” Her mouth gaped open at the sight that greeted her. The elegant marble and granite lobby was filled with police and firemen, all of whom turned and stared at her. Acrid smoke burned her eyes and nose.
“Ms. Wooten? Ms. Valerie Wooten?” A nondescript man in a charcoal-gray suit stepped forward, his cool silver eyes scanning her from head to foot.
She could only nod, her earlier nausea sending warnings from her stomach. “I’m Special Agent Scott Munson. We spoke on the phone yesterday.” He took her arm and began steering her toward the raised panel door marked Private, behind the security desk arrayed with closed-circuit monitors.
Valerie allowed him to direct her even as her brain began processing the scene before her. Her medication was doing a damn good job of muting the panic she probably should be feeling right about now. “What happened? Was there some sort of threat?”
“More than a threat,” he said dryly and opened the door for her.
She walked into a stark office of black leather, glass and rosewood and turned to address Agent Munson. “I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling well. Could we cut to the chase here?” She dropped her purse onto the couch and folded her arms over her chest.
Munson, six feet of impeccably dressed ease, rested his hip against the granite-topped desk, crossed his ankles then crossed his arms over his chest, mimicking her stance. Was that some sort of psychological ploy?
“Your condo was firebombed. If you’d—”
“Firebombed? My condo?” she repeated stupidly.
He nodded a quick up-down of his head. “Yes, and if you’d been there, as I would assume was their intent, you’d have been incinerated.”
Bravado failed her and Valerie sank to the edge of the couch. “My God, are you serious?” Ridiculous thoughts flashed and faded in her head. Her wardrobe, the stuffed gator her husband had given her on their second date, their wedding pictures...
She fisted her hands against her temples and pressed. Most of her belongings held memories of her too brief marriage or were silly mementos her father had given her when she’d been a child.
“That son of a bitch.” Shock gave way to anger and she clutched her hands in her lap. “That son of a bitch wanted to kill me? Why?”
He couldn’t possibly know what she’d dug up on him. Her hand went to her throbbing head. She’d been careful, sticking to sources she’d learned to trust—sources that the FBI wouldn’t be able to find so easily in their reams of data without a lot of time, or an informant, to light the way.
Munson tipped his head to one side. “What aren’t you telling me?” he asked with a bland expression she suspected hid a sharp mind and sharper tongue.
“What haven’t you told me?” she countered. Her insides might be shaking like a jib in a storm, but she knew how to appear as calm as flat seas.
Pointed interest replaced his bland expression and even hinted at amusement. Good, she didn’t think she could take a stick-
up-his-ass FBI agent. Not after the night she’d had. Of course, her day was shaping up to be even more dreadful. Sooner or later the reality of losing everything in her home would sink in.
“I think we should go somewhere more private...and secure,” Agent Munson said.
Valerie picked up her purse, stood and gestured to the door. “I’d appreciate a ride. I don’t think I can drive safely.”
Yeah, the panic, and her reaction, would just have to take a number. At some point she knew she’d have to acknowledge she possessed enough information to be a threat to a very dangerous individual.
Egret Isle, FL,
Friday, 23 September, 0907 hours
Caitlyn sat in the pilot’s seat and updated her logbook. A storm had blown in earlier that morning bringing cloud cover and cooler temperatures. She frowned at the figures she’d written down. Stillman was right; fuel could be a big problem. Joe would have to do a visual inspection of the tanks, but based on her calculations they had less than two hours’ flight time, allowing for reserves. But if she were doing a crash landing, she’d want as little fuel left on board as possible.
Her stomach shriveled up into a cold, hard ball. There were so many reasons not to attempt putting Fly Baby into the ground. And one overwhelming one to do just that.
A radioactive bomb.
Atwah, for all his villainy, didn’t possess the self-destructive personality of a suicide bomber. If she could get him, and the bomb, alone on her helo, she was confident she could control the situation. If she had to land at a military installation, or any isolated spot where the bomb could be contained and not cause civilian panic, he’d kill her before anyone could come to her rescue.
She scrubbed damp palms on her flight suit. Which left her with another little problem.
“Need any help?”
Her heart damn near jumped out of her chest at Stillman’s voice coming from behind her in the belly of the helo. She scowled at her little problem as he made the awkward scramble from the passenger area to the copilot’s seat with deceptive ease. “No. And don’t sneak up on a body at work.”
Jayhawk Down Page 13
