"Yes. That's Tom."
"Did he choose that specialty because of the accident that left Jack paralyzed?"
She slanted him a look. "You have done your homework, haven't you?"
Once again he made no apologies. "Yes."
His gaze held hers, and for a prickly moment Jo felt even more exposed than she had in front of the cameras this morning. Suddenly, the heat got to her. Sliding her plate onto the cart, she pushed to her feet.
"Thanks for the fireside picnic. I'd better go. It's a long ride back to the base, even in a limo. No, don't get up!"
Ignoring her request, he groped for the crutches propped behind his chair. Instinctively, Jo reached out to help him. The corded muscles under the cloud-soft black sweater didn't surprise her this time. He rose with more grace than she would have in the circumstances, and smiled down at her.
"I've been trying to think of an appropriate way to express my gratitude to you and Sergeant McPeak."
"I can't speak for Mike, but Champagne and dinner does it nicely for me."
"It's a start," he agreed. "So is this."
Sliding a hand into a pocket of his slacks, he extracted a small box. Embossed in gold on the maroon velvet lid was the name of one of D.C's most exclusive jewelers.
"You don't have to give me a gift," Jo protested.
"I know I don't have to. I want to."
The lid lifted noiselessly at his touch.
"Oh!"
Enchanted, Jo fingered the tiny helicopter nestled in a bed of creamy satin. It looked like a sparkling dragonfly, its body spun from gold and its rotors ablaze with crystals. Only when she tilted the box and the blades caught the firelight did she realize those weren't crystals.
Delight, greed, and common sense fought a fierce battle. To Jo's profound regret, common sense won.
"It's gorgeous, but I can't accept it."
"Of course you can."
"No." Firmly, she closed the lid on the box. "I was trained in rescue. It's what I do. Air Force regulations prohibit accepting expensive personal gifts as a result of our official duties."
Annoyance flickered across his face. "Surely there's some way I can express my gratitude."
"Dinner was thanks enough."
"This hardly qualifies as dinner," he protested, obviously unwilling or unused to taking no for an answer. "I hope you'll let me do it right when I get off these crutches."
"Call me then, and we'll talk about it."
"I will."
The soft promise sent a ripple down Jo's spine. The expression in those killer eyes took that tingle and tripled it. Returning the jewelry box to his pocket, he studied her for several seconds.
"You're a remarkable woman, Joanna West."
"Yeah, well, you're not too shabby yourself."
She spent the long drive back to Andrews sprawled comfortably in the back of the limo, her thoughts whirling. Alex Taylor's face hovered in her mind, as mesmerizing as the city lights reflected on the darkened windows.
Jo had never encountered anyone with his combination of breathtaking charm and casual sophistication. Given the circles they each moved in, that was hardly a surprise. Yet she'd felt so comfortable with him after those first awkward moments. Hot and more than a little sweaty, but comfortable. The next time she took a limo to a cozy evening tete-a-tete, she decided, she'd make sure she was wearing something other than her flight suit.
Snuggling down in the leather, she indulged in the harmless fantasy of a next time. In her mind, she glided across a chandeliered ballroom. Diamonds glittered at her throat. Layers of filmy chiffon floated around her ankles. Men glanced sideways as she passed. Women cast her envious looks. And there, at the far end of the room, Alex Taylor waited in white tie and tails.
The pleasant, Cinderella fairy tale lingered during her drive home from the base and followed her into sleep. It was still at the back of her mind when she walked into the squadron on Friday morning to find that Taylor had made a series of calls after she'd left him Wednesday night.
One changed a little girl's life forever.
One left Jo stunned.
And one brought what felt like a ton and a half of Air Force brass down on her head.
Chapter Five
"Captain!"
The cry caught Jo in the corridor outside the Training Office. She spun around to see Sergeant McPeak rushing down the hall, his eyes bright with what looked from a distance suspiciously like a sheen of tears.
"Mike! What's the matter?"
The flight engineer's throat worked. "It's Brenda."
His little girl! Jo's heart clutched. The six-year-old had been on the list for a kidney transplant for almost a year, but the docs had told McPeak her condition wasn't critical enough to move her up.
"Is she okay?" Her nails dug into her palms. "Can you tell me?"
"She was at Bethesda this morning for her dialysis and... and..." He dragged in huge gulps of air. "The doc caught my wife just as they were leaving. The National Organ Bank called. They've found a kidney for her, Captain!"
"Oh, Mike, that's fantastic!"
"Ops is laying on a medivac bird now to fly us to Philadelphia Children's."
Frustration ate at Jo. "Damn, I wish I could take the mission. Who's got it?"
"Captain Elliott."
That made her feel marginally better. If anyone in the squadron could get Mike McPeak and his family to Philadelphia within the time parameters set by the National Organ Bank, Deke could.
"Do you need me to look after your other daughter?" She searched her memory, trying to remember the name of the bright-eyed cherub she'd met at a squadron picnic some weeks before.
"No, my wife's arranged for a neighbor to watch Lisa." McPeak grabbed Jo's hand and pumped it. "I just wanted to thank you."
"Me? For what?"
"For taking the chopper down the other day."
"But..."
"I had my doubts," he admitted on a hoarse laugh. "I thought Taylor was going to fry, and us with him. But you got him out and he got Brenda this kidney."
"Taylor?"
"I don't know how he did it. I don't want to know. If the doc at Bethesda hadn't asked a few pertinent questions, we wouldn't have had a clue he was even involved." He gave her hand a final, vigorous shake. "Look, I gotta go, Captain. Just... thanks!"
Jo stood open-mouthed long after his pounding footsteps had faded.
"Wow," she murmured to the empty hall. "That was fast work, even for the grandson of the richest man on three continents."
Since a good portion of the 1st Helo Squadron missions involved medical airlift of both living patients and harvested organs, Jo understood how the system worked. Intellectually, she respected the priority ranking that gave the organs to the neediest patients. Emotionally, she shared Mike's fierce joy at seeing his child moved up the list.
Still on a high for him, she strolled into the training office. Even the sight of Hank Kastlebaum with his boots on his desk and a toothpick at full mast between his front teeth didn't faze her. The message he delivered in his uniquely obnoxious style grabbed her full attention, however.
"Hey, sweet thang. Someone named Tom called. He said for you to call him back immediately."
"Tom Who?"
"Beats the hell out of me."
She came off her high with a grind of her back teeth. Kastlebaum could move a saint to murder, and Jo made no claims to sainthood. "Did he leave a number?"
The toothpick dipped in the general direction of her desk. "It's on the phone."
"Jerk," she mumbled just loud enough to raise a chuckle from the other officer. Sweeping across the room, she tugged a yellow stickie from the phone. She recognized the area code and prefix immediately. Milwaukee.
Oh, great! The sleazy shots of her in her underwear must have hit the Midwest, too. She could imagine the ragging Tom and the rest of her brothers would give her. She debated not returning the call, but knew that would just delay the inevitable. Might as well get it over w
ith.
Charging the long-distance call to her home number, she got through to her brother's secretary, and then to Dr. West himself.
"You want to tell me what the heck you're doing out there?" he demanded by way of greeting.
"Just the usual. Hying, flying, and more flying."
"You touched down long enough to stir some serious waters, baby sister. I'm still in shock."
Oh, Lord! The coverage must have been bad to shock the once hulking University of Wisconsin linebacker who'd established a well-deserved reputation as a party animal, then stunned everyone by turning down an offer from the Green Bay Packers to enter med school.
"Have Mom and Dad said anything yet?" she asked.
"Not to me. I doubt if they know about it. I just got the call this morning."
"Who called you?"
Her middle brother, Dave, she guessed. Or Jack. Even paralyzed from the waist down, Jack still managed to squeeze in more reading time between his job as a stockbroker and his work with wheelchair-bound kids than her other four brothers combined.
"I think it was..." Tom rustled some papers. "Hold on, let me check my notes. Here it is. His name was Stern. Albert Stern."
"Who the heck is Albert Stern?"
A short, pregnant silence followed.
"You don't know?"
"No."
"A guy calls to make that kind of a donation in your name, and you don't even know him?"
"What kind of a donation? What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about the million dollar grant just handed to the American Spinal Cord Injury Foundation in the name of Joanna West. What are you talking about?"
Stunned, Jo flopped into the chair behind the desk. Several seconds ticked by before she could squeak out a reply.
"A... million... dollars?"
"To be used for whatever research I deem appropriate."
Alex! It had to be Alex.
She loved him at that moment. He couldn't have chosen a better way to thank her than by contributing to the research that might one day help kids injured as severely as her brother Jack to walk again.
But a million dollars!
"What's this all about, Jo?"
Recovering in slow degrees from her stupefaction, she filled Tom in on the highlights of her last mission.
"Good Lord, that was you! Taylor's accident made the papers, but no one out here paid much attention to it."
That was the difference between Washington, D.C., and the rest of the world, Jo thought wryly. Everyone inside the beltway thought the universe revolved around what happened in the nation's capitol. Outside, folks were more concerned with the wheat harvest and high school football rivalries. With a silent prayer of thanks that the seminude shots hadn't made the Milwaukee Journal, Jo cut her brother off in mid-sentence.
"I'll call you back. I want to talk to Mr. Taylor before I say anything more. I'm guessing he's behind this grant, but I don't know for sure. Don't say anything until I call you, okay? He may want to remain anonymous."
Still dazed, she hung up to find Hank Kastlebaum unapologetically eavesdropping.
"And don't you say a word about this," she warned. "Not one single word. I mean it, Hank."
He spread his hands. "Hey, would I leak anything about a million dollar grant even if I knew all the juicy details, which I don't, but I'm dying to hear more about?"
"I don't know the details, either. I don't even know if it's legit. Please, for once in your life, keep your mouth shut and your—"
The phone shrilled under her hand. Shooting Kastlebaum another warning look, Jo picked up the phone and received a curt order from the Director of Operations to report to his office immediately.
Now what?
Feeling as though she'd been caught in a whirlwind, she headed down the hall.
Colonel Marshall was pacing his office when she arrived, which took considerable maneuvering since his desk, a conference table, and President Johnson's helo seat occupied all but a few square feet of floor space. The tight line to his furry brows told Jo he wasn't happy.
"Who have you been talking to, West?"
"About what?"
"About the inquiry," he snapped. "What else?"
"No one."
"Is that right?" He took another turn behind his desk. "Then maybe you can explain the calls I've just received via the Pentagon from a gentleman by the name of Sam Peterston."
She felt a "Duh?" rising in her throat and quashed it just in time. "You've got me, sir. I don't know any Sam Peterston."
"Let me give you a clue. He owns a horse farm south of Manassas."
"Oh. I didn't know his name. Why did he call?"
"He wanted to inform me that he'd been adequately compensated for his Thoroughbred and won't file a claim against the government."
Alex again!
"Mr. Peterston wasn't at liberty to disclose the exact amount of the settlement," the colonel said coldly. "Or even who paid him. But we can both guess who took care of it. We can also guess who was behind the call to the Secretary of Defense, which resulted in a communication from the Chief of Staff of the United States Air Force to the commander of Air Mobility Command, who in turn got the Eighty-ninth Wing Commander on the hot line."
Good grief! Jo couldn't remember when she'd heard that many titles strung together in one sentence. She was still reeling when Colonel Marshall stopped pacing and leaned his knuckles on his desk.
"I told you I'd wrap up this inquiry as expeditiously as possible. I don't appreciate having my hand forced like this."
"But I didn't...! Well, maybe I did, but I..."
Jo caught herself. She'd learned long ago owning up to a mistake was a lot less painful in the long run than trying to wiggle out of blame. Dragging in a long breath, she started again.
"I did let something about the inquiry slip to Mr. Taylor the other night, but I made it clear this was an Air Force matter. It never occurred to me he'd try to influence the outcome. It should have. I apologize, sir."
Her frank admission of fault soothed a few of Marshall's ruffled feathers.
"Yeah, well, Taylor didn't actually try to influence anything. He just wanted information. In the process, he involved a whole lot more stars in the matter than either you or I needed."
"I'm sorry," Jo said again.
His ire spent, the colonel palmed his shiny forehead. "Just watch what you say until this inquiry's over, okay?"
"Yes, sir." She knew she was pushing her luck, but had to ask. "Any idea when that might be?"
"The inquiry officer was appointed this morning. He should contact you sometime today."
The call to report to Wing Headquarters came just after two o'clock that afternoon.
Jo drove across base to the semicircular headquarters building and ducked into a ladies' room as soon as she was inside. She'd worn her dark blue uniform slacks and light blue long-sleeved shirt this morning instead of a flight suit. She wished heartily for her green bag now. She'd prefer to meet the inquiry officer as a flier, instead of a temporary ground-pounder.
Okay, this was just routine, she told the face in the mirror as she swiped on some lipstick. All she had to do was run through the incident as she remembered it and answer the inquiry officer's questions as clearly as possible.
Her little pep talk helped. She was able to knock on the conference room door with brisk confidence and present herself with a credible show of professionalism to Lieutenant Colonel DeMotto.
To her profound relief, the interview went far easier than she'd anticipated. Evidently Colonel Marshall hadn't communicated the sudden interest from higher headquarters to DeMotto. He kept things relaxed as he reminded Jo that this was a fact-finding process, focusing primarily on the safety of flight operations. As such, the findings would remain cloaked in strict confidentiality to ensure that everyone involved spoke freely.
That didn't, of course, relieve crew members from possible disciplinary action if they'd acted recklessly or seriously viola
ted procedures, but such action would entail a separate process entirely. DeMotto would interview Jo first, she was informed, then her copilot, and Sergeant McPeak when he returned from Philadelphia.
After signifying that she understood the process, Jo related the exact sequence of events, from her first observation of the Ferrari to her return to base. Even now, several days after the incident, she could taste black smoke and the coppery bite of fear.
And, strangely, the tumult of her morning faded with the telling. She and Sergeant McPeak had saved a man's life. That man wanted to express his gratitude in ways commensurate with his means. It was as simple as that.
And just as complicated, Jo discovered when she returned to the squadron and found she'd received yet another call, this one from Alex himself. Thankfully, she had the office to herself to make the return call.
When she reached the number he'd given, the woman who answered introduced herself as Phyllis Seager, Mr. Taylor's personal secretary.
"Mr. Taylor just left to fly down to Richmond to see his grandfather," she advised in a softly cultured voice. "He asked me to relay a message. The doctors have assured him he'll be off his crutches by next week. He'd like to make good on his offer of dinner."
The man certainly believed in repaying his debts. Her thoughts spun once again to Sergeant McPeak's joyous face and the incredible call from her brother.
"... a small, private dinner in honor of Krysta Dominick on Tuesday evening."
That brought her whirling thoughts back with a jolt. Jo wasn't into poetry, but even she recognized the name of the brilliant, passionate woman recently named poet laureate of the United States.
"Are you by any chance free Wednesday evening, Captain West?"
"As far as I know."
"Wonderful," Mrs. Seager enthused, as if Jo had just made her day. "Mr. Taylor will pick you up at eight, if that's convenient. May I suggest formal attire?"
Jo performed a quick mental scan of her closet. She'd have to do some serious shopping between now and next Wednesday. The only really formal attire she possessed was her Air Force mess dress uniform. As elegant as that was, she didn't see herself wearing shoulder boards and medals to a private dinner with Alex Taylor.
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