Flight Risk

by Karen Ann Dell

  “Hey, O, glad to see you’re staying in shape.” Mike’s comment was accompanied by a brotherly slap on the back, its force just shy of knocking him off balance.

  “Yeah, I see you’re working the lighter side of fitness,” Owen replied, nodding in the direction of the receding pack of females.

  “Don’t kid yourself, buddy, some of those ladies could give you a run for your money. And the class I teach in the evenings has a brown-belt karate student who is a damn fine martial arts practitioner.”

  “Yeah?”

  “No kidding, O. She’s good, especially for the level of training she’s had. I wouldn’t piss her off without serious provocation.”

  “Thanks for the warning. I don’t suppose you’d give me a physical description so I’d know who not to annoy?” I may have done exactly that, but how was I supposed to know a slightly hung-over female with an attitude also just happened to be proficient enough in martial arts to kick the shit out of me?

  “You probably wouldn’t guess—unless you saw her in workout gear. She’s only about five foot five and 110 pounds soaking wet. Short, dark hair and cute as a button.”

  “Who’s cute as a button?” Kelly stood, arms folded and eyes narrowed, right behind Mike, who jumped like a scalded cat.

  “Damn it, Kel, how many times have I asked you not to sneak up on me like that?” Mike blew out an exasperated breath.

  “Many.” Kelly grinned. “But I can’t seem to help myself. You’re such a juicy target. Especially when I hear you talking about a woman who is cute as a button.” She raised one brow, but Owen could see her trying hard to appear annoyed.

  “I was merely warning O not to mess with the ladies in my self-defense classes. Particularly the one with the brown belt.”

  “I thought you might have Miranda in mind.” Kelly winked at Owen. “Mike is highly impressed with that woman’s skills.”

  “You know we’re not supposed to give our clients’ names out to strangers.”

  “Owen is hardly a stranger, Mike. In fact, if I had the chance, I’d love to introduce him to Miranda.”

  “In that case, I’m going to get a quick shower, then let’s go grab lunch and you can tell me all about her,” Owen said. He’d like all the insider info he could get before he tangled with her again over dinner tonight.

  ~~~

  Owen stopped at a liquor store on the way back to the condo. He figured a bottle of dry white wine would not only go well with shrimp scampi; it might also take the edge off their second meeting. Neither Mike nor Kelly had much personal information to offer about Miranda at lunch, other than her prowess as an athlete. He could practically see the wheels turning in Kelly’s head, though, as she suggested he stop by the next evening to see Mike’s self-defense class in action.

  “Good idea, Kel. I’m always looking for a few crash-test dummies to let the ladies practice on,” Mike agreed. “Owen would be perfect. No worries about lawsuits if he’s injured.”

  “What makes you think I wouldn’t sue you for damages—or at least medical care? A few extra bucks would be welcome if this deal with Casa Blanca works out. I might have to hire a couple of pilots and buy another short-hop airplane.” Owen attacked his fish and chips as if he’d not eaten in a week. Exercise always gave him a ferocious appetite.

  “Hell, I thought you had all the planes you needed after the venture capitalists AJ hooked you up with dumped piles of money into your company.” Not to be outdone, Mike’s Cobb salad disappeared equally as rapidly.

  “Yeah, it’s handy to have a sister married to a financial wizard who just happens to love playing baseball.” Kelly, who always thought she had a hardy appetite, came in a pitiful third finishing her lunch. “You get the benefit of season tickets to the Barefoot Bay Bucks games and new toys to fly around. Talk about win-win.”

  “True, but one can never have too many airplanes.” Owen rubbed his hands together in anticipation of new hardware.

  They split after lunch, and Owen went back to the condo to work on flight schedules between Florida and the major northeast hubs of Boston, New York, Philadelphia and Washington. Once he had the cost estimates for those worked out, he considered what type of aircraft would be the most cost-effective for short-haul tourist flights. For couples or small families, he considered the Aztec and the Aztec Nomad with its water-landing capabilities, but for larger parties the Navajo Chieftain was one of his favorite twin-turboprop airplanes. Decision-making would be difficult, especially at the start, when he wouldn’t know how much traffic this deal would bring him. He continued to fill his spreadsheet with options, frequently interrupted with visions of the woman he would have dinner with in a few hours. Hopefully she would have some information on the number of guests who requested air tours or overnight hops to the Keys.

  Eventually images of Miranda obliterated his ability to concentrate on business, so he shut his laptop down to shower again, shave and dress for his dinner meeting. He briefly considered stopping somewhere to get flowers as a peace offering but quickly scrubbed that idea. This was a business meeting, not a date. Definitely not a date. He had too much on his plate to spend any time socializing. The bottle of wine was peace offering enough.

  He parked behind the Toyota Corolla in Miranda’s driveway at 5:58—charter flight schedules had made him a stickler for promptness—and made his way to the front door, flash drive in his pocket and wine in hand. He rang the bell and waited. After a minute or so, he knocked. Maybe the bell didn’t work? Just as he raised his fist to pound a bit more firmly on the door, it flew open, and Miranda jerked back at the sight of his fist at eye level. He dropped it quickly, and she waved him inside.

  She had a cell phone tucked between her shoulder and ear as she tried to untie the apron around her waist. The maneuver did interesting things to her torso.

  She spoke rapidly into the phone. “Neil, I’m sorry, there is no way I can be there this weekend. Things at work are very busy, and they need me here.” Her eyes begged Owen for forgiveness at her lack of manners, while she tried to conclude the call. “Yes, Neil, I know she’ll be disappointed. Believe me, I wanted to get there, but Atlanta is so far away, and I’m not even sure I could get this weekend off.” She gave up on the apron strings to get a better grip on the phone.

  Owen put the bottle of wine on the table next to her sofa and went behind her to finish the job of untying her apron. Funny how as soon as he walked into her house, he was immediately involved in removing Miranda’s clothing.

  Tonight, he’d stop with the apron, he promised himself.

  Miranda mouthed “Thank you!” and accepted the balled-up scrap of material. “Neil, I have to go. Tell Mom I’ll call her tomorrow morning, first thing. … Yes, thanks for letting me know. Talk to you again soon. Right. Bye.” She pushed the button that ended the call and sighed deeply. “I’m so sorry—”

  Owen interrupted her with a hand gesture. “No need to apologize. Family always gets priority.”

  She winced. “Really? You’re going to be one of those? A super nice guy with no flaws? That’s so unfair,” she griped.

  He shrugged. “Don’t be fooled. I can put you in touch with plenty of people willing to discuss my flaws at great length.”

  “Hmpf. You’re right on time, showered, shaved, and looking like you just finished a shoot for GQ magazine. You didn’t even appear annoyed that I answered the door with cell phone in hand.”

  He handed her the wine with a smile at her effusive description of his attributes.

  “And you brought wine, too? Of course you did. How else could you make me feel even more of an ass for my behavior this morning?” She spun on her heel and headed for the kitchen. “Come on back. I’m sure you remember the way.” She shot him a tiny smile over her shoulder.

  He followed her, happily appreciating the view of the cropped white pants that outlined her shapely butt, topped by a filmy sleeveless blouse in a wild tropical print. Talk about flawless. All of her visible skin glowed with hea
lth and shimmered like satin. His fingers itched for another touch, since last night’s were more dutiful than sensual.

  She rummaged through a drawer and came up with a cork pull, which she handed to him along with the wine. “Would you open this for me, please, while I stir the sauce? Neil called at the worst possible time. As usual.” She shook her head at her own words. “Sorry. That sounded terrible. Neil is my stepdad, a hypochondriac and kind of an alarmist. I’m his go-to girl for anything he thinks might be wrong with my mom.” She removed the lid from the saucepan, and the aroma of shrimp and garlic wafted through the kitchen. “Um, glasses.” She pointed to a cabinet next to the sink. “Second shelf.” She bit her lip. “I hope you don’t mind me putting you to work. I’m not much of a cook and so not very organized making dinner for a guest.”

  “No problem. I like to cook but seldom have time to give a good meal the consideration it deserves.” He pulled the cork with a pop and followed her finger to retrieve the glasses. “Besides, I don’t want you to consider me a guest.”

  “No? Then what should I consider you?” A smile flirted with the corners of her mouth.

  Her mouth had him briefly mesmerized. Then he snapped out of his daze. “I’m thinking that, after last night, maybe you could consider me a … friend?”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

  Ow, that actually hurt. “Oh.”

  “We don’t know each other well enough to be friends. I mean, you saw me naked, true. But that’s hardly what I’d want to build a friendship on. And besides, I didn’t even get to return the favor.” Miranda turned back to the stove to stir the sauce again.

  “What favor? You mean me getting you home when you were, ahhh, disabled by Hank?”

  “No. I mean you stripping me naked and tucking me into bed,” she said, still concentrating on the saucepan.

  A strong magnetic wave tugged him across the kitchen until he was close enough behind her to smell the light vanilla-citrus scent she wore. The urge to taste her almost overwhelmed him. Instead, he reached around to set her glass on the counter next to the stove. “Well,” he said softly into the pink shell of her ear, “far be it from me to deny you the chance to return the favor.”

  Miranda poured some of her wine into the pan, stirred, then covered it, lowered the heat, and took a sip from her glass. She turned to find that he hadn’t moved an inch. She tilted her head back to look into his eyes. “How gallant.”

  “Nope. Not even a little bit. But attracted? Oh yeah.” He lowered his head and gently captured her mouth. Then he cupped her face with his hands and kissed her again. She tasted like wine and sunshine with a tangy twist of lemon. His arms slid around her and brought her up on her toes, where she fit perfectly against him. Images from last night played behind his closed lids as their kisses deepened. You’d better get a grip, guy, before you lose all sense of propriety and take her right here on her kitchen table. His erection strained against his zipper, but he felt the tentative push of her hands against his shoulders and managed to lift his mouth from hers. They stood, arms around each other, foreheads touching, as their breathing evened out.

  “Holy shit,” she murmured. “I’m not usually such a, such an easy …”

  She sounded completely appalled at herself.

  Owen put a finger to her lips to stop any recriminations. “And I’m not usually so aggressive where women are concerned. Even beautiful ones like you.” Her eyes widened at his words. “There’s no doubt that we both seem mightily attracted to each other, but I think we need to dial this down a notch or … two.” Otherwise things will get completely out of hand.

  “Yes, you’re right.” She backed away, and he let his arms slide from around her waist.

  The sense of loss was immediate—and sharp.

  “I set the table out on the lanai,” Miranda said. “I’ll start the water for the pasta, and dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”

  Grateful to grab the mundane lifeline she’d tossed him, Owen nodded. “I brought my files on a flash drive, so I’m hoping you have a computer or a laptop we can use to view them.”

  “I do. It’s in my bedroom.” Miranda put a pot of water on the stove and turned up the heat. She gestured toward the hallway. “I’ll go get it.”

  Owen detected a touch of panic in the speed with which she left the kitchen.

  Nice to know they were both experiencing the same emotion.

  ~~~

  Miranda made it to her bedroom, shut the door, and leaned against it. Holy crap. The man was hotter than a four-alarm fire. The kind you ran into, not away from. One kiss was all it had taken. By the second one, she wanted to rip his clothes off and feel him skin to skin. She cursed the fact that she’d been too out of it last night to take advantage of his proximity. Her nipples were so hard they were painful. And the dampness between her thighs had soaked through her panties.

  Now she was eternally grateful that she’d not had the chance to kick his balls the way she wanted to just a few short hours ago. She looked at herself in the mirror to see if her makeup had survived the close encounter. Yes, you fool, I believe you’ve had what they call a “change of heart.”

  She grabbed her laptop and hurried back to the kitchen. The water had boiled, and Owen fed linguine a few strands at a time into the vortex he’d created stirring the pot. Miranda took a second to admire the view. “You are an extraordinarily helpful non-guest, Owen. You own your own company, fly planes, cook, and help women in distress. I suppose you spend your spare time finding cures for cancer?”

  Owen grinned. “I used to, but I don’t seem to have any spare time lately. Tell me, what do you do with your spare time, besides training to disable unsavory characters you find in your kitchen in the mornings?”

  Miranda felt her face heat. “I am so sorry about that,” she said sincerely. Then a smile twitched her lips as she asked, “Did I hurt you very badly?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Careful, woman, you’re on the verge of destroying a male ego. We’re very fragile creatures, you know.”

  “Sure you are. I hardly noticed how quickly you leapt up, then towered over me after I, uh, assaulted you. You did a remarkable job of holding your temper, I must admit. And that,” she said as she cut a baguette into thick slices, “is the true test of a well-balanced male ego.” She took a basket from a hook on the wall, unfolded a napkin over it and dumped the bread into it. “How much longer for the pasta, chef Owen?”

  He retrieved a strand from the pot and bit it. “Two more minutes.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “I never could tell when pasta was al dente,” she said with admiration.

  “Me neither.” Owen pointed to his wrist. “I timed it.”

  They both laughed, and Miranda felt a warm glow begin in her chest. This man was more of a charmer than Hank by far—even without the British accent. She put a colander in the sink. A low, shallow bowl sat on the counter next to it. “If you wouldn’t mind dumping the pasta when it’s ready?”

  “No problem.” He checked his watch again.

  Miranda retrieved the salad she’d made from the fridge and dressed it with vinaigrette, tossed in some croutons, then took it and the bread out to the lanai. She had opened the birdcage when she came home from work, as she usually did, so Tinkerbelle and Icarus could get some fresh air. They both had taken perches on the ficus in the corner of the lanai. At her appearance, Tinkerbelle began her usual narrative. “Who’s the pretty girl? You are. You’re the pretty girl, aawwwkk.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Owen said, setting the bowl of pasta and scampi in the middle of the table.

  “Tinkerbelle has a fairly limited vocabulary. I do say other things to her, but she seems particularly fond of that.” Miranda could feel her cheeks pinking from Owen’s compliment.

  “How about the other one?”

  “Icarus? He’s not a talker. At least, I’ve never heard him say anything.”

  “Probably keeps him out of trouble.”

  Mir
anda raised a brow. “You know, you’re probably right.” She served him some shrimp scampi and refilled his wine glass.

  They settled into their meal, eating in silence for several minutes.

  “Tell me what—” Miranda began.

  “Did you grow up in—” Owen said simultaneously.

  “You go,” Miranda said.

  “No. Ladies first,” Owen insisted.

  “Okay, so what’s it like owning your own charter company? Do you fly all over the U.S? Internationally?”

  Owen shook his head. “We’re nowhere near big enough to go internationally. In fact, most of our charters are business executives who fly between New York, Baltimore and Washington, although we have been picking up quite a few Chicago runs lately, as well as some longer flights along the eastern seaboard.”

  “It must be cool, though. How many planes do you own?”

  “Own? Ha! One.” Owen chuckled. “The bank and my business investors hold the titles to all of the others except the Piper Cub I bought when I left the Air Force. But I gather you mean. how many does Argosy Charter fly?”

  Miranda nodded.

  “We have two mid-range business jets, three twin-engine turboprops—they probably get the most air time—an ancient but still serviceable Cherokee Arrow and the Piper Cub, which I only fly for fun. It’s too small for charter work.”

  The talk about flying caused huge conflicts of emotions for Miranda. She’d loved to fly as a teenager. Her dad was an instructor, so she’d learned to fly in one of the planes Owen mentioned, the Cherokee Arrow. The fast roll down the runway, the sensation of heading into the wind to lift off the ground and settle onto a cushion of air was the most exhilarating sensation she had ever experienced. But after the crash that killed her father, she’d been unable to even get in a plane. The mere thought of flight panicked her, yet deep inside, the yearning to get up in the sky still lived, locked tightly away in a room marked Do Not Enter.