Under Jo's hands he went as taut as a steel cable. "Take it easy," she murmured. "He's one of the good guys."
His jaw hard, he sank back on the thick clover. "That's a matter of opinion."
She was still digesting that when the agent hunkered down on one knee beside her. "You okay, sir?"
"Yes."
"The state troopers and EMTs are on the way."
"I'm okay, I said."
Ignoring Jo's caution to remain still, he rolled onto a hip and got a knee under him. The agent rose, reaching out to help the other man up.
Ignoring the offer, the driver pushed to his feet. When he put some weight on the ankle that had been trapped by the Ferrari's crushed roof, white lines bracketed his mouth. He shrugged off the discomfort with an obvious effort and settled his elegantly tailored sports coat over his shoulders with a hitch of one shoulder.
"As soon as we ID'ed your license tag, we got on the net," the agent informed him. "Headquarters has notified your grandfather."
"Shit!"
Fury flashed in the driver's eyes. Those jet black brows slashed down. For a startling second or two, his classically handsome face hardened into something almost ugly.
"Dammit, you know my grandfather's condition."
"Yes, but—"
"You also know I've refused all Secret Service protection. I neither need nor want your agency's interference in my life."
The operative's jaw jutted. "Judging by what we just saw from the air, you might want to reconsider that position."
"Hell will freeze over first."
Totally lost by the terse exchange, Jo swept up a hand to clear the honey-blond strands that had straggled loose from her French braid and were now stuck to her forehead.
"Excuse me? Would someone care to clue me in here? Not that it particularly matters, you understand, but it might be nice to know who I almost went up in flames with."
The driver wiped the hostility off his face. It happened so smoothly, so swiftly, that Jo could only admire his rigid self-control. Her own temper rarely came to full boil, but when it did, her brothers had learned the hard way to stay out of her way until it cooled.
"Sorry," he said with a lopsided smile that set off a queer little pinging just beneath Jo's breastbone.
Good grief! The man ought to come packaged with a warning label. Handsome. Obviously rich. And too damned sexy for any woman's peace of mind.
He held out his hand. "I'm Alex. Alexander Taylor."
His strong, warm grip had enfolded hers before she made the connection.
Alexander Taylor! Former lieutenant governor of Virginia. Only grandson of John Tyree Taylor, who, according to those who tabulated such esoteric matters, was one of the richest men on the planet and, oh by the way, a former president of the United States.
Vague images from her childhood jumped into Jo's mind. Of TV cameramen crowding the participants in a White House Easter egg hunt. Of the proud, aristocratic President Taylor showing off his grandson to the American public. Alex had been a toddler then. Three or four. Just about Jo's own age. She remembered envying him for the fact that he got to scarf up all those candy eggs.
Her memory bank churned up a kaleidoscope of images of a grown Alex Taylor. Most were gleaned from the tabloids and magazine cover stories that in- variably touted his ancestry along with his devastating good looks. She remembered reading, somewhere that he'd attended Princeton, that he'd married an heiress, was elected Virginia's lieutenant governor on his first try, and was thinking of running for governor.
Then, three years ago, his wife had died after a short, tragic illness. He'd served out his term, she remembered, then disappeared from the public eye. Or at least from the tabloids.
Somehow, Taylor had managed to live the past few years of his life outside the vicious media glare that spotlighted every move made by other famous progeny like John Kennedy Jr. and the British royals. But not without extraordinary effort, Jo soon learned. Stunned, she heard him berate himself for endangering both her life and his own in a stubborn attempt to elude the media.
"You think that's who was chasing you in that white van?" she gasped. "Paparazzi?"
"I don't think," he bit out. "I know. That son of a bitch has been on my tail for the past..." He caught himself, once again exercising that awesome self-control. "Please excuse my language. I guess I'm still a little ragged around the edges."
Jo was still a little ragged, too. She unraveled even more when he caught her hand and lifted it to his lips.
"I owe you my life. It's a debt I may never be able to repay."
Before she could make it clear she wasn't expecting payment, he brushed a kiss across her knuckles. "Thank you."
The old-fashioned gesture was at once absurd and astonishingly elegant. If Jo hadn't been standing with her boots ankle deep in clover and her hair no doubt flying all over the place after parting company with her helmet, she might have imagined herself a debutante in virginal white, crowned with a wreath of roses.
Feeling her face heat up, she glanced helplessly at Taylor, at the Secret Service agent, at Sergeant McPeak, at Taylor again.
"You're welcome."
Those fascinating, light-dark blue eyes trailed down her face and neck to the name patch attached with Velcro to her flight suit.
"Jo West," he read in a soft murmur. "Captain, United States Air Force."
"That's me." She eased her hand out of his hold. "And this is Sergeant Mike Mc—"
"Alex!"
The Secretary of State's crisp New England accent cut through Jo's introduction of her flight engineer. Flanked by the rest of her security detail, Beth Adair rushed forward.
"I couldn't believe it when I heard that car belonged to you. Are you all right?"
Taylor took her outstretched hands in both of his. "I'm fine, Beth. Thanks to Captain West."
"And Sergeant McPeak," Jo put in quickly. "Mike McPeak."
If there were any thanks to spread around for this save, she wanted them to include the flight engineer. Any criticism, she'd handle herself.
Releasing Ms. Adair's hands, Taylor took a step toward McPeak. "You have my most profound gratitude, Sergeant. I..."
He broke off, grimacing, as his right leg buckled. Jo, two Secret Service agents, Beth Adair, and the flight engineer all jumped forward. They were just lowering him to the ground once more when the wail of a siren sounded in the distance.
Within moments, three police cars had converged on the scene. They were followed in short order by an ambulance ablaze with flashing lights, two fire trucks, another police car, and a black-and-silver Bronco. Suddenly, the quiet field overflowed with emergency response personnel. Police radios crackled. Red and blue strobes flashed a dizzying pattern.
It hadn't taken long for word to spread that the Secretary of State and the grandson of a president had made unscheduled stops in the area.
Jo and her flight engineer found themselves edged to the sidelines by the chief of Ms. Adair's security detail. Jo might be in command aboard her aircraft. The burly Secret Service agent left no doubt that he was in charge on the ground.
Her copilot joined them a moment later. "I gave the Operations Control Center an updated report."
"Thanks, Charlie."
He slanted her a sideways glance. "Ops Control relayed a message from the DO. He wants you to report to his office as soon as we return to base."
"Why doesn't that surprise me?"
Jo could just imagine the reams of reports this little incident would generate. Sighing, she waited patiently while the paramedics gave Taylor a thorough once-over. Beth Adair countered his objections to being strapped onto a stretcher and convinced him to let the medical crew take whatever measures they deemed appropriate.
Appropriate turned out to be immediate transfer to the local hospital for X rays and treatment for superficial lacerations, bruised ribs, and a possible broken ankle. A uniformed trooper climbed into the ambulance to take Taylor's statement during the ride
in.
Another trooper approached the flight crew. After jotting down their names, addresses, and phone numbers, he cut to Jo.
"Mrs. Adair's security detail wants to get her back in the air as quickly as possible, so I'll make this brief and follow up by phone if necessary."
"Good enough."
"I understand you witnessed the accident?"
Jo nodded.
"Will you describe what happened in your own words, please?"
He scribbled furiously as she related the series of events. When she mentioned how the white van had almost crawled up the Ferrari's trunk, he shot her a swift look.
"Did this van actually impact Mr. Taylor's car? Force him to swerve or take evasive action?"
"I didn't see any actual contact. Taylor hit the gas to pull away, then took a corner too wide."
"That's the story he gave us, too," the trooper remarked, as if disappointed he didn't have something more sensational on his hands. "You didn't by any chance get the van's license tag?"
"No."
Neither had the copilot nor the engineer. The trooper took their statements, as well, before giving in to the unspoken pressure exerted by the Secret Service. Tipping two fingers to his hat brim, he advised them he'd get in touch if he needed more detail.
Fifteen minutes later, the blue-and-white Huey lifted off. The half dozen police officers and accident investigation personnel still in the field clamped onto their hats in the vicious downdraft. Jo's last glimpse of the scene was the blackened remains of the once gleaming Ferrari.
The Secretary of State gave a gracious, if somewhat abbreviated speech in Charlottesville. They made the return to the capital without incident, bucking the wind that had cut so much time off the trip out.
By the time Jo put the skids down on the Andrews Air Force Base ramp just after 4:00 p.m., she was feeling the effects of the long flight and the desperate rescue. In addition to the mental fatigue that came with hours at the controls, her arms ached from her elbows to her shoulder sockets from the strain of pulling Taylor out of the burning vehicle. She'd washed up during the wait in Charlottesville, but the smell of burning rubber clung to her hair and flight suit. The smoke she'd inhaled had burned a raw line down the back of her throat.
She croaked out the after-landing and engine shutdown checklist, wishing she could climb out of the chopper, complete the aircraft forms, conduct a quick crew debrief, and head for her car. Instead, she gave Ops Control a detailed update on the flight deviation and logged the event in the Flight Log Book, then reported to the Director of Operations.
The DO was waiting for her. Most of the administrative personnel had already left, so Jo rapped once on the door frame and poked her head inside his office.
"You wanted to see me, sir?"
Lieutenant Colonel Marshall's head jerked up. His bushy brows snapped into a brown, furry line. Since those thick brows constituted the only hair on his otherwise bald head, the effect was instant, direct, and disconcerting.
"Yes. Come in and grab a seat."
Edging past the helo seat from Lyndon Johnson's Huey, which occupied a sizable portion of the paneled office, Jo dropped into one of the chairs spaced around the conference table in front of the colonel's desk.
"What the hell happened down there this afternoon, West? We've been fending calls from everyone from the White House Press Secretary to the Undersecretary of State to the editor of the National Enquirer."
"You're kidding! The Enquirer is already onto this?"
"Unfortunately," he grumbled. "All right, Captain, report."
Succinctly, Jo ran through the sequence of events from the moment she spotted the Ferrari to liftoff from Charlottesville. Marshall didn't speak during the briefing, but his brows dropped lower and lower by the second. When she finished, he leaned forward, threaded his knuckles together on the cluttered desk, and fed the pertinent details back to her.
"Let me get this straight. You deviated from your approved flight pattern with a Code Two on board. You overruled her security chief's objections and made an unscheduled landing. In the process, you saved the life of the grandson of an ex-president of the United States."
"That about sums it up."
"You don't do anything by halves, do you, West?"
"No, sir."
He thumped his thumbs on his folded hands. "You know you violated both Secret Service and FAA directives this afternoon."
"Yes, sir."
"From what you've told me, I think you exercised sound judgment in doing so."
She blew out a relieved breath. Too soon, it turned out. Colonel Marshall's thumbs thumped again. Once. Twice.
"Unfortunately, you also caused a small stampede."
"Stampede? Oh, the horses." She'd forgotten all about them.
"Not just horses, West. Thoroughbreds. Worth collectively several million dollars, or so the owner claims."
A sudden premonition of disaster curled in the pit of Jo's stomach. Only last year, a low pass over a Maryland turkey ranch had frightened the birds into a wild charge. They'd crushed up against the wall of their pens in a big, feathery mass. Hundreds had suffocated, and while the crew dogs all joked about it now, the poor pilot involved at the time had been charged with failure to operate his aircraft at an altitude and airspeed that precluded damage to property or persons on the ground.
"Please don't tell me one of those million-dollar Thoroughbreds broke a leg," she begged.
"No. It fell into a ditch and broke its neck."
Jo groaned. Seconds ticked by. She braced herself for what was coming.
"Because of the deviations from FAA and AF directives and the potential claims against the government, I'll have to pull you off flying status while we conduct an informal inquiry."
She gulped. "Yes, sir."
Marshall's furry brows lifted an inch or so. Although he had to maintain an impartial objectivity, encouragement and sympathy flickered in his dark eyes.
"You saved a man's life, Captain. That counts for a hell of a lot more than a horse in my book. I'll see that the inquiry is conducted as expeditiously as possible."
"Thanks."
"Now go home, get some rest, and report to the Training Office tomorrow. Captain Kastlebaum will keep you occupied while the inquiry's in process."
Jo's heart sank. Being grounded was bad enough. Being detailed to work with the one person in the squadron she actively disliked made it even worse.
"Yes, sir."
Twilight was starting to descend when she walked outside a few minutes later. She couldn't believe that only seven hours had passed since the last time she'd exited the same building... or that her life had taken such a dramatic turn in the same short time.
She'd never been grounded before. Never been the subject of an inquiry, informal or otherwise. Having her wings clipped made her heart thump hollowly in her chest.
She'd been born to fly. She'd recognized that fact the first time her dad took her up with him in the twin-engine Cessna he piloted while covering his farm-checkered Wisconsin territory for the American Dairymen's Association and let her pretend to take the controls. She'd earned her private pilot's license at sixteen, and received offers for an appointment to both West Point and the Air Force Academy while a senior in high school.
Having grown up the only daughter with five rowdy and all-too-protective brothers, Jo had no desire to subject herself to the predominantly male environment of the military academies. She'd opted for UW instead and thoroughly enjoyed four years of Badger football, frat parties, and freedom from brotherly interference, all subsidized by a generous scholarship and the part-time job she'd stumbled into her first year in Madison.
After hearing about Jo from a friend, a chopper pilot with a local TV station had offered to teach her the thrills of operating in both the vertical and horizontal planes, with the promise of a job on the news crew if she didn't crack up and kill herself first. She'd jumped at the offer, and was hooked from the first time she'd climbe
d into the cockpit of a rotary-wing aircraft.
Unlike flying a fixed-wing aircraft, piloting a helo required an instinctive coordination that relatively few people possessed. It had nothing to do with athletic ability or training or even intelligence. You either had it, or you didn't.
With a control for each hand and foot, any action by one appendage required a corresponding action on all other controls to maintain attitude. Even more to the point, the aerodynamics that governed fixed-wing flight didn't play with choppers. When you increased power, natural forces would cause the whole helo to spin unless you also increased power to the tail rotor to keep it in trim.
As Jo learned her first time up, an airplane wants to fly. A helo doesn't. It was that simple. And challenging.
It hadn't taken her long to realize that the military offered her the best opportunity to hone her skills as a chopper pilot. She'd signed up for AF ROTC, been commissioned after graduation from UW, and gone through undergraduate pilot training at Fort Rucker in Alabama. After five years flying helos, first in Rescue, now at the Fabled First, she couldn't imagine doing anything else.
She didn't want to do anything else.
Trying not to give in to a fluttery feeling of panic at the thought of being grounded, Jo crossed the parking lot. A brisk wind had swept away the tang of aviation fuel that usually hovered over the flight line area and replaced it with the scent of autumn. Just enough chill invaded the air to make her wish for the leather aircrew jacket she'd left in the backseat of her car this morning.
Helmet bag slung over her shoulder, she made for her car. Dry leaves crunched underfoot. She was halfway across the parking lot before she noticed the figure lounging against the black Chevy Blazer parked next to her MG. Arms folded, the collar of his leather flight jacket turned up against the chill, Captain Deke
Elliott gave her one of his patented, lazy once-overs as she approached.
"Hey, Wonder Woman."
She bit back a rueful smile at the nickname her fellow pilots had given her after word of her daring rescue of Major Samuel last spring.
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