Explosive Alliance (Wingmen Warriors #9)

Explosive Alliance (Wingmen Warriors #9) Page 11

Bo let his return smile answer. "You chiefs have a helluva way of making that sir sound like a put-down."

"Hey, at least I don't have to worry about you sniffing after my daughter, Nikki."

"Jesus, Tag, I was just helping her out with some advice on university courses."

"Just so it stays that way."

"Yeah, yeah, we all hear you loud and clear around the squadron. No crewdogs for your baby girl."

They shared a laugh at the familiar routine of razzing.

Sure, he didn't have any answers. But at least he now knew he wasn't a nutcase for wanting to fix things that weren't his concern. But hadn't he already made progress? He'd taken care of her pilot problem and alerted her brother about the stranger encounter at the air show. That should have brought satisfaction, resolution.

It didn't.

Tag's words shuffled around in Bo's head about men searching for ways to act. There were still problems. She needed more than a temporary pilot. Any idiot would recognize that, and he liked to think he was at least slightly above idiot level. Logic told him the rage he felt must be nothing compared to what roared inside of her with no place to go.

She needed relief from that pain.

He couldn't erase the heartbreak her scumbag husband had brought, but he had a talent for making women laugh. If ever he'd seen a woman in need of laughter, it was Paige Haugen. So he would play it laid-back, tease a smile from her, lighten her load until he pinpointed the rest of the problem. Damn straight. He'd come up with a solid transitional plan.

Not a convenient excuse to play with a flame hotter than any shooting out of Mako's lighter.

Sipping flaming-hot coffee from her travel mug, Paige stared out at the Cessna wing slicing low-lying clouds in a morning sky while Bo piloted beside her. Okay, so she was actually checking out his reflection in the window with her new glasses, but hey, she was being covert and cool about it. His left hand on the yoke, his right, rested on the throttle.

The steering yoke in front of her mirrored his movements until it somehow seemed he sat in her seat, as well. What a strange thought she'd never entertained when Seth flew—or that awful substitute pilot who'd pitched an unholy fit over being given the heave-ho.

Radio chatter echoed from the headsets they both wore even though they could talk across the console over the low drone of the engine. The man was in complete command here among the dials, controls and clouds. His self-assurance inspired confidence that she could drink her coffee without fear of scalding.

Chicory-scented steam wafted from her mug up to fog the new glasses she'd bought Sunday at the mall. She set aside her mug and tugged the thin gold frames down and off, a more conservative choice than the funky retro glasses she'd bought in defiance right after she arrived in Minot. The glasses would offer a constant reminder that she needed to squelch impulses brought on by this man.

Hitching up the edge of her T-shirt, she swiped washed-soft cotton along the condensation. Coffee, a good night's sleep and a new clear vision of the world—manna for her soul. Sure the coffee stung her raw stomach, but the caffeine and warmth stole through her with a much-needed boost. The weekend attraction must have been a fluke.

A tingle of awareness prickled to life, and she paused cleaning her lenses. Her gaze skated left and...yep. Bo was watching her. Actually, he was watching her clean her glasses, which hitched her T-shirt up to bare a band of skin.

She dropped her shirt and jammed her glasses back on her face. Coffee. Now.

 Ahhh. She gripped the mug and glued her gaze outside.

Talk about having her head in the clouds. Jeez. He was just a man, for Pete's sake. The whole dry-lightning melodrama moment from Friday and Saturday must be just that.

Melodrama, not reality. She'd been a victim of over emotionalism during a vulnerable moment brought on from visiting the base. There could be no other explanation for why sitting in a stinky dog kennel with a man seemed bittersweetly romantic.

Paige checked her watch again. Four minutes since takeoff. Chuck Anderson's farm was only a twenty-minute ride by plane, cutting the travel time in more than half by soaring straight rather than contending with slow-moving farm machinery blocking bumpy and narrow roadways. And every minute counted for the horse hit by a car. Luckily she was qualified to take this call since her brother was already out. . Bo's legs flexed inside snug jeans as his tennis-shoe-clad feet rested on the rudder pedals. How come she'd never noticed the tight confines inside this plane before? She could smell the leather of his brown aviator jacket worn with jeans and a white T-shirt, transforming him into something that could have been straight out of Top Gun.

Of course, he was probably too young to remember that movie since he would have been about ten or eleven at the time. She'd seen it on a high school date. Yet watching Bo pilot the plane through the low-lying clouds with such confidence, she began to question her guess on his age, even knowing his recent promotion to captain meant he was likely less than thirty.

"How old are you?" The words tumbled out of her mouth ahead of rational restraint.

"Twenty-seven." He cut a quick look her way, a telling glance with a slight smile that acknowledged there was really only one reason she would ask.

"I'm thirty-three." Only a month away from thirty-four, actually, her conscience prodded her. She tipped the travel mug for another sip.

"Guess that means you're at your sexual peak."

She scalded her tongue and throat with a choked gulp. "I can't believe you said that. Are you always this—"

"Blunt?"

"Audacious."

"Audacious? Hell, no. That's a sissy word."

"Fine, then. No sissy words for the big warrior man." Even while she struggled to be somber, laughter tickled her aching stomach. "Let me rephrase to more manly terms. Are you always this frank?"

He tossed her a laid-back grin. "Nah. I usually try for more charm, but you looked so darn prickly, I couldn't resist teasing a smile out of you."

Pressing back into the leather bucket seat, she wrapped her hands around the warmth of her cup, still stunned and even more tempted to laugh. "Well, please try to contain yourself next time."

"There you go being prickly again." He thumped his forehead. "Better put down your coffee because I can already feel the urge to say something frank like—"

"Bo!"

"—how it's a damn shame I'm too old for you since I'm a good seven years past my sexual prime." He held up a forestalling hand. "If we were to have a relationship at all.

Which I'm totally clear that you aren't interested in with me, so the whole subject is just on a theoretical level. I'm only talking about basic biology. Surely you're at ease with physiological discussions, given your medical background."

Past his prime? Her eyes snapped right to his muscled thighs, broad chest with shoulders filling leather to perfection. Gulp. He looked mighty toned to her, fit enough to more than keep up during—

She brought her mug to her mouth and studied the wing again only to find the cerulean sky reminded her of his eyes. "Basic biology, huh? Interesting discussion you've chosen for today."

"Hey, I wasn't the one who asked about ages." His face blanked with an innocence so at odds with the fallen-angel twinkle in his eyes that she had to laugh again, which encouraged the glint even brighter. "I've always thought it was one of nature's greatest jokes, that men and women peak at different times. Although it lends credence to the argument for a younger-man and older-woman relationship."

"Basic biology, my butt." She put her mug on her knee. "Are you flirting with me?"

"Yes, ma'am, I sure am. Just good old-fashioned fun that doesn't have to lead to a damn thing."

"Do you talk about sexual peaks with all your friends?"

"Now couldn't you just see my old loadmaster pal's face if I did?"

A snort splattered coffee against the topper on her mug. "I'm going to choke to death if you keep this up."

"I don't think so." He adjusted the altimeter setting. "You have the most incredible laugh, almost like a song, but it's a little hoarse, as if you haven't used it enough lately."

His words stole the laugh right out of her. Hadn't she thought the very same thing about her daughter's lack of smiles and laughter just a couple of days ago? Could Kirstie's sad little eyes be as much her mother's fault as her father's? Had she depressed her daughter with her own morose mood?

"Ah, hell, Paige. What'd I do now?"

"Nothing—" she forced a smile "—nothing at all. I'm just not a morning person."

She shrugged and worked on finishing her java as if it were a monumental task requiring all her attention. She needed to recoup after this new insight. Thank God, he got the message and stayed quiet for the whopping three minutes more it took to reach Chuck Anderson's family farm.

What was she thinking by bringing it up, anyway? Flirting was all well and good, but sheesh, she needed to keep herself grounded in reality, not pickup fantasies. She was a single mom in jeans and a T-shirt, her only cologne a hefty slathering of Avon's Skin So Soft to keep the mosquitoes away.

He decreased the throttle and lowered the flaps. The ground grew closer, the sprawling spread enlarging by the second, the landing steps familiar to her after so many flights with Seth. Bo pointed the craft toward the dirt strip runway, notched the flaps down again. Leveling the wings, he flared, raising the nose, all accomplished so smoothly she kept watching him—until she startled in surprise when the gear touched down without so much as a jolt.

His feet tipped the tops of the rudder pedals where the brakes were located, then flexed back down to guide the nose wheel as they taxied to the end of the grass strip. He pulled the throttle all the way out and turned the key. The engine shuddered off.

Bo whistled low through his teeth as he unstrapped. "The guy's got quite a spread here. I wonder how many hands it takes to help run this place? If those rows of bunkhouses are any indication, he's got quite a payroll."

Twisting back for her bag, she glanced over her shoulder. "What makes you think a guy owns it?"

"Get your PC knickers unknotted. You told me the guy's name earlier when we loaded up."

"Oh."

"Prickly Paige is in need of a smile again." He waggled his brows.

"Don't say another word." She held up her hand, totally unable to stop the smile.

He tapped the upward tilt of her lips. "I don't need to now."

The heat of his touch lingered far longer than her smile. Vaulting out of the door to the dusty ground, she clutched her black leather bag and started toward the waiting Suburban. She didn't want to depend on any man for her happiness ever again, even for so much as a few short weeks.

Chuck Anderson waited by the hangar with his idling vehicle—a member of the big blond lug club like her brother and Seth. "Thank heavens you're here. Even my stable head is having trouble keeping old Buck still."

"We'll have him patched up soon," she assured, careful to keep her distance from Chuck.

He'd asked her out last Valentine's Day, even included Kirstie in the invitation to make it seem less threatening, less like a date, even though the spark of interest in his eyes told them both it was. She'd said no, just as she'd done when he'd asked during their college days. She'd chosen Kurt over him because Chuck looked like a player.

What a joke in retrospect.

Objectively speaking, he was an attractive guy. Exactly the sort she should be with, given her love of animals and that Kirstie would have a wholesome environment. There just wasn't a spark.

Much less dry lightning.

Damn it, she'd gone for romance the first time and been so very wrong. She needed to be Practical Paige, even if that meant she was prickly, too.