The Internet Millionaire's Copilot - Chapter One

Chapter 1

Rebecca Jones had flown 11,000 miles to get away from men like the one striding toward her across the tarmac. She shivered and blinked. Hard angles and smooth curves couldn't hide under the armor of an expensively tailored white shirt. His sleeves were shoved up his arms, defined muscles slid under tanned skin. The sharp edge of the small jet's open hatch cut into her palm. He turned his head. The shadow of the ball cap etched a dark line across his jaw, sliced light across full lips. She closed her eyes against the memory.

The man approaching the stairway was a mirage, a flashback, a nightmare. His tailored slacks emphasized a loose-limbed warrior's gait. The sweep of his gaze passed over waiting planes, cargo loaders creeping into place, mechanics putting final checks on landing gear. Assessing threats, watching for opportunities. His chin tilted with the same studied disinterest she'd seen from men she hoped to never meet again.

Her hands gripped the clipboard. She forced her eyes down to the next item on her pre-flight checklist. The civilized list of orange juice, safety bags, and toiletries blurred into memories of other lists: itemized flats of rice, bundles of first aid supplies, and cases of field tents. She blinked away memories in time with her pounding pulse.

A familiar hand landed on her shoulder. Rough and comfortable, uncle Walt's touch always meant safety and home. "Becs, you about done?"

"Almost," she said.

Walt peered down at her then leaned outside the doorway. She glanced up. His face showed the cool confidence from years of command and decades in the cockpits of half-tamed jets. She focused on her list.

"There he is. Wheels up in ten," Walt said.

Her attention snapped back. "That's Nicholas Miller?"

Walt chuckled. "I know, he don't look much like a geek.”

Samuels' Air’s biggest client looked more like one of the mercenaries who stalked her nightmares than a successful businessman. Miller's company, Configomatic, kept three corporate jets with Walt's charter service and was responsible for better than half its income. Walt had a couple of turbo-props of his own and one small Lear, but his fortunes and business rode on Configomatic and Miller's opinion.

Miller rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, a duffle slung over his shoulder. He didn't pause at the bottom of the steps, just kept coming. Her heart thumped. There was no way he was like those men. He was a man with his own jet. Money, success, power. Her throat went dry. Ruthless.

Rebecca had met his kind. They'd tumble into the cargo hold of her C-130. Begging rides on the relief runs to eastern Africa when she made drops out of Dar es Salam. They'd lounge in the cargo bay, resting easy against the full crates, laughing or cleaning weapons with big capable hands. Their muscles bunching and sliding under thin cotton T's. They'd leave her breathless and terrified in some airport, blowing her kisses and promising to write. For days after she'd press her nose against the webbing and smell male and gun oil.

She shook her head, half-expecting him to pull a weapon out of the sleek leather duffle to show her he had it; ready to prove it wasn't loaded. But this was stateside. Things like that didn't happen here. Her palms stuck to the clipboard.

"Get a move on, Becs," Walt said, with a nudge.

She jerked back into the present. Walt reached over her to rummage in the small galley cabinet flanking the hatch.

Miller stepped into the cabin. It seemed to shrink as he entered.

"Morning, Nick. Beautiful day for flying." Walt grabbed Miller's bag.

"It is. Everyone on board?" Miller asked, in a voice smooth as a cashmere sweater, no mercenary's edge roughened his words. Something inside her relaxed a little.

Miller's gaze clicked to Rebecca. She peeled the clipboard off her chest and looked at the names on the manifest. No echo of the sun-burnished faces of mercenary hitchhikers hid in his half-smile. She swallowed, reaching for words. Finally, Walt rescued her.

“Yessir, Rebecca's checked everyone in," Walt said.

"Everyone but you," she said with a self-protective edge.

Walt shot her a surprised look then turned back to Miller. "I don't think you've met our newest pilot, Rebecca Jones. Becs, this is Nick Miller. This is his jet." Walt delivered the last sentence with an unspoken prod.

She nodded and swallowed. He was right, what in hell was wrong with her. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Miller," she said. Her voice cracked. His eyes pale, icy, like she knew they would be, narrowed into focused slits. Oh great, now she’d pissed him off.

"And you, Miss Jones," he said, formally polite, giving her a long look and a nod. Apparently dismissing her, he took his seat at the back. She slumped against the cabinet.

"Becs, what in hell is wrong with you?" Walt hissed.

"Sorry, sorry. Just a headache." Her face warmed and she turned away.

Walt patted her shoulder with a chuckle then, reached into the cabinet he'd been rummaging in earlier. He handed her a small bottle of aspirin.

"Don't be nervous. This sweetie flies itself," he said with a wink.

He'd mistaken her rude discomfort for nervous pre-flight jitters. She smiled. Uncle Walt, always there with encouragement, or a cattle prod.

She forced her gaze back toward Miller as he stowed his bag and chatted with the others. Just a businessman. Her heart slowed. Normal thoughts began to arrange themselves, creating the bubble she would tuck him into. For the next few hours, he was simply her passenger.

Miller's co-workers wasted no time while they'd waited for him to arrive. They'd hunched over computers and punched numbers into cell phones almost before they dropped, unthinking, into the plush leather seats. One guy hadn't stopped talking into an earpiece since she took his bag at the doorway.

Miller slid into the far back seat. She'd wondered why the early arrivals left it free. Particularly when the three largish men squeezed into the couch seating that ran along the aft, right side of the cabin. The couch seating on the Bombardier was legal but not cush. These men, apparently sycophants, flapped lips at Miller. His gaze now clicked between the three, not nervously, watchfully, like they might lay interesting eggs on their uncomfortable perch — Perhaps to be scrambled for breakfast.

She focused on her next task. Today’s flight was full, a test of her copilot skills, or maybe as a waitress, bartender, and bouncer. The difference between relief drops in her old C-130 cargo plane and the plush luxury of the little Bombardier Challenger was stunning. More so when filled with these self-important, busy people who took all this luxury for granted.

“What’re you doing back there Becs? Lets get rolling. I've got clearance," Walt barked. She grinned. Leave it to Walt to try to gruff her out of a funk.

Walt flew pilot today, his first long haul since the attack. Rebecca had tried to wheedle him out of flying. But his angina had been minor enough that, at least in his mind, he could ignore it. Since the FAA had issued the waiver that kept him flying, he refused to do anything more than take his medication and insist he felt "Just fine, now shut up."

"Aye, aye, sir," she teased, like she used to when she was a kid and he took her up in his creaky old Cessna. She could barely see over the controls, but he'd sat her in the right-hand seat and treated her like she was a real co-pilot, ready and capable of taking over in any emergency.

"This ain't no wet navy," he mock grumbled.

She put the bottle of aspirin back into the cabinet, right next to his bottle of pills and closed the hatch. At least he'd brought them, but she had the spare prescription bottle in her bag, too. She turned to the passengers and cleared her throat. Time to bring this flight to order.

"Welcome. If I can have your attention?”

Not waiting for acknowledgement, she barreled through the speech. The whole flight attendant part of copiloting a private jet bugged her. Hell, she’d never wanted to fly for a commercial airline. Miller grinned at her, like he knew. She wrapped her irritation around her like a flak jacket. Show no weakness.

"Our flight time today to Washington D.C. will be roughly four, no five hours." She stumbled, embarrassed at her misstep. "I'm going to need everyone to take seats now and buckle up. Captain Samuels will have us in the air in three minutes."

They obeyed like the good million-milers they were, rustling around in their overly comfy chairs, buckles snapping together. She smiled, pleased at the effect of her words. Her glance passed over Miller and he captured her eye.

"Miss Jones," he said, in a voice that slid under her defenses and ran chills down the back of her legs. He lounged in his big chair, one long leg sticking out into the aisle. The fingers of one hand drummed against the taut fabric over his thigh. "Please, offer the jump seat."

Ah, crap. The hoped-for distance between her and the passengers narrowed. The jump seat gave a pilot's-eye view of takeoff and landing. The temporary seat spanned the aisle at the cockpit’s threshold. The person seated could almost pretend they flew the jet, and the view of takeoff was spectacular. Passengers found the cockpit activity interesting, but she hated the voyeuristic closeness. It left her exposed, invaded. The skin on her neck prickled in anticipation of imagined hot breath. At least Miller didn't seem interested in claiming the seat.

"Certainly, Mr. Miller." She said, pitching her voice in a professional range. Rebecca fixed her gaze on the tidy blonde in one of the front seats and spoke in the formal speech of her prep-school educated childhood. "There's a small seat that pulls down in the aisle right behind the pilot and copilot. It provides an excellent view out the cockpit windscreen. If you've never experienced takeoff from a pilot's perspective it's quite breathtaking. Is anyone interested?"

Her hoped-for target shook her sleek head. No one else showed any interest. She was nearly ready to claim a successful escape when Miller uncoiled from his seat, straightened, and came toward her. Double crap. So tall, he nearly had to duck his head in the cabin. He was muscled with a runner's elegant lines, long and smooth with a crooked smile and an arrogant stride. She couldn't decide what color his eyes were and wondered what shade sat in the space between green, gray and icy. His gaze passed over her toward the cockpit. He ran a hand through close-cropped light hair.

"If no one else is interested, I'll take it." His grin widened. "I like to give them the option."

Wry snorts and chuckles came from behind him. Apparently, this was a challenge no-one ever took. A clean ocean smell drifted from him. She swallowed. Part of her had expected gun oil and musk.

"Of course, sir. Come this way," she said. She picked up the clipboard checklist which, of course, rattled against the counter. Her face went hot and she quickly turned her back to him. "I assume you've sat in the jump-seat before?"

"I have," he said, and stepped next to her in the tight passageway. She flattened against the wall, increasing the distance between them from one inch to maybe all of three. He smiled. Her face flamed. She ground her teeth, pretty sure the last time she’d blushed this much she’d been thirteen. Edging past him into her seat, she twisted to help him. Walt fiddled with a seat setting, apparently oblivious to the activity behind him.

"Very good," she said, trying for Walt's attention. He now focused on several avionics screen near his legs as he clicked through his pre-flight check. She could swear she she heard a chuckle.

Miller reached over her while he tugged the shoulder harness out of the compartment. She pulled the jump seat down. Each movement brushed her fingers against his chest, arm, thigh. He was doing this on purpose, toying with her, but she was the one touching. She gave his chest harness a rough tug and snapped the closure, shooting him a glare.

"Thank you," Miller said, a polite challenge delivered with a grin.

He perched on the narrow seat with an easy grace, hands resting on his knees, chin lifted. Compactly folded up, he was all angles and smooth muscle. His eyes weren't gray, no, green, but almost too pale, a glittering green that reminded her of white sand beaches and hot tropical waters, or shards of ice. She spun back to her readouts, fumbling with her own harness.

"So, just sit here and look there," she said stupidly, not looking at him, but waving vaguely out the windscreen that wrapped around the cockpit.

"Got it." His voice was amused.

She focused on the instruments, they floated in front of her. Her pulse pounded in her throat and she gripped the wheel.

"Great," she said, now reduced to monosyllables.

"I think we're about ready, Mister Miller," Walt drawled in his best Chuck Yeager. He only played the famous country-boy test pilot of the early space age when he teased her. Rebecca smiled. He gave her a wink and an eyebrow waggle, as he powered up the engines.

Miller sat quietly, only interrupting once with a thoughtful question about a ground communication. His voice slid over her skin as the jet began to taxi. She focused, and by the time the jet paused at the end of the runway, the complex readouts and familiar tasks settled her. The engines roared and jet took on speed. She concentrated on the winking line of the runway as it disappeared under the jet’s nose and the hum of tower communications in her ear.

Miller was completely quiet during takeoff. If she'd not had the faint odor of male, ocean, and leather behind her she wouldn’t know he was there. Her initial discomfort must have been obvious. Not a good plan to rattle the copilot. Or maybe he was transfixed by the scene in front of him. The plane’s nose lifted and blue sky filled the windscreen. He sighed softly. She allowed herself a quick glance back. His gaze was fixed on the sky, his lips slightly parted, one side of his mouth tilted up in a slight smile. An expression of complete wonder and amazement. She inadvertently grinned as he caught her looking at him.

"I love this," he said in that low warm voice. His glance went back to the sky.
She nodded and forced her head to swivel, facing the controls, answering the nattering voice in her headset from the control tower.

He leaned forward. He was warm behind her. What would he feel like? If she just leaned back.

"What's it like?" He asked. "Flying one of these?"

Walt was fully engaged in bringing the jet up to altitude. The jump seat creaked and she was certain that Miller moved closer. The impulse to lean back, to see how close he was nearly won. He tapped her on the shoulder, as if not sure she'd heard him. Her shoulders tensed.

"Tell me," he asked again. "What's it like?"

"Better than sex," she blurted, and was immediately horrified by her misfiring mouth and his answering throaty chuckle.

"I doubt that," he replied, completely unruffled.

Her gaze shot to Walt, who’d missed the exchange. Or was refusing to acknowledge her gaffe.

"I...I only meant it's incredible."

“I’m sure it is.”

She didn't turn to look at him. She didn't need to; he was right behind her, warm and smelling too good, and laughing under his breath. She decided that speech around this man was a bad idea. Perhaps a vow of silence or a sock stuffed in her mouth.

Eventually, after what had to be eons, the flight leveled out and it was time for him to return to the cabin. She clamped her mouth shut letting him ask questions and keeping her replies to safe mostly single syllables or nods.

"Have you been flying long?" he asked her.

She shook her head, stopped, nodded, completely rattled. "Yes, since I was a kid."

Walt apparently had been listening and chimed in. "Becs was born a pilot. Damnedest thing, she could fly nearly before she could ride a bike."

Her face went hot, again. Damn-it. "I'm okay I guess."

Miller looked thoughtful. "How lucky to have a gift like that. I'd love to fly. I tried lessons but never had the time to finish. It's one of the things I want to do, fly this little plane."

Walt narrowed his eyes at Miller. "Well, she's a natural. A damned savant. But don't expect her to teach you. She can't teach what she was born knowing."

Rebecca had no idea what to make of this. She was a damn good teacher and Walt knew it. She opened her mouth to protest and Miller cut her off.

"Don't worry, Walt. I don't have time to pick up a new hobby." He spoke lightly, but with a sad undercurrent in his voice. She wanted to reach out and comfort him with a pat on the shoulder or a squeeze of his arm. Which was stupidly ridiculous, this man had everything, he didn't need anything from her. Definitely not her pity.

Rebecca watched him leave the cockpit. She'd been wrong he wasn't dangerous like her mercenaries, he was far worse. They had been powerful and too male, but she’d wanted them like a mountain climber needing that next peak. Like high mountains, they were in their place, safe and far away. She knew where to find them. This man invaded her safe place with a dangerous immediacy that she couldn’t avoid. She shook her head. And really, did she want to?