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Tamara settled into the copilot’s seat and put the headset Lars handed her over her head. Thank all the saints the tension had bled out of the air between them. Somewhere between her making them a midday meal and talking about his work, things had cleared. Maybe he’d found a place to stuff his guilt over being unfaithful. She covered a grimace with a cough and rotated her injured shoulder. Though she hadn’t fully finished healing it in shifted form, it was good enough and the pain minimal.
He jabbered to the tower in pilot-ese, and the plane rolled out of the hangar and took its place in line for takeoff. “Do you have a private pilot’s license?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yes, but not very many hours, and all of them in tiny, single engine planes.”
“Why did you not fly more?”
“It’s very dear. The only reason I learned to fly at all was because my brother owns a small air cargo operation just north of Dublin. He knew how much I loved being in the air, so he took pity on me. He couldn’t afford to give me totally free lessons, but all I had to pay for was fuel.”
Lars glanced at her and smiled. “I am so glad you love to fly. It is one of my passions.”
Tamara couldn’t help herself. The words burst from her before she could modulate them. “What are your other ones?”
Color rose from the open neck of his buff-colored linen shirt. Her headset crackled with a spate of instructions from the tower and he said, “They have cleared us for takeoff, fraulein. We will talk more once we are airborne. Place your feet on the rudders and your hands on the yoke. Feel what I do with them. Watch how I manipulate the throttle, and keep an eye on these sets of instruments.”
He ran his index finger between two vertical rows, each studded with half a dozen round dials. They were identical, so one must be for each engine. He’d sidestepped her question about his passions, but there’d be time to ask again between now and Seattle.
She curled her hands around the yoke and settled her feet lightly on the rudder pedals. In an odd way, it almost felt as if he caressed her through the plane’s controls. Tamara came close to laughing out loud at her wishful thinking. Powerful jet engines revved. The plane bounded down the runway and rose smoothly into the air. She felt when he let up on the right rudder pedal, felt when he evened out the yoke, watched the instrument display needles hover at the top of the green zone before settling back to where they had a larger safety margin. All the while, she eyed him sidelong through lowered lashes.
Lars flew the plane as if it was an extension of his body. He seemed to sense its needs in his bones, responding before the plane needed his intervention. He looked her way, caught her gaze on him, and hastily returned his attention to the instrument panel. Tamara looked away also, but his smoke-colored eyes remained in her mind. So did his thick, white-blonde hair and athlete’s build.
“So.” His voice sounded strained. “We have just passed through ten thousand feet. I understand you do not usually fly so high in the small planes without pressurized cabins, but what is important about ten thousand feet?”
She captured her lower lip between her teeth and tried to focus on something other than Lars’ hands and wishing they were moving over her body rather than on the airplane’s controls. “Takeoffs and landings are when the plane is vulnerable, in most danger of crashing.” She took a breath, thinking. “With the small planes, it’s a relief to get enough altitude so there’s a cushion, in case I have to plan an emergency landing. I’m thinking it might be similar, but this plane is so heavy, if we lost power, surely we’d die.”
He shook his head. “As I said earlier, the mechanics are the same. The more distance we are from the ground, the more time I have to come up with Plan B if something goes wrong.” In a move that both shocked and thrilled her, he reached across the cockpit and placed a hand on her thigh. “Tell me about yourself, fraulein. I wish to get to know you.”
Heat swooshed from her chest to the top of her head. “That doesn’t sound like a flying lesson.”
He cocked his head to one side. “The only things left to do are—” he held up one finger and tapped her thigh with it “—climb to cruising altitude and—” he held up a second finger “—set a course. They are the same as you already know.” He tightened his fingers across the top of her thigh, stroking her. “I know this airplane. Let me get to know you.”
Her crotch flooded with moisture, and breath clotted in her throat. Tamara struggled to understand how his touch affected her so strongly. She wriggled in her seat and clamped her legs together. “Sure and my life hasn’t been very interesting—” she began.
He ignored her disclaimer. “Were you born in Dublin?”
“Yes. Well, not precisely. My family is from Drogheda, maybe fifty kilometers north of Dublin. It’s on the River Boyne just before it runs into the Irish Sea.”
“Ja.” His fingers inscribed small circles on top of her leg. “I know it. A port town. I spent time in Northern Ireland. We retreated to Drogheda by boat when things grew too dangerous.”
Tamara twisted in her seat and gazed at him. “You’ve had quite the adventuresome life. Maybe you could be telling me about it, rather than my poor recitation.”
He punched some numbers into the onboard navigation computer, and then turned and met her gaze. “There. We are at cruise altitude, and I have engaged the autopilot. I wish to get to know who you are, Tamara MacBride. I have had very little practice at this sort of thing, but you sharing what you want to about your life must be a first step. Otherwise, you will remain an enigma to me.”
“Very little practice, is it? What about your wife?” she blurted.
He drew back as if she’d shot him. “Wife? What wife?”
“The one you were unfaithful to back in the airport terminal.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. There. She’d gotten it out in the open. Maybe she hadn’t been particularly elegant about it, but she’d become heartily sick of her cloak-and-dagger existence with Jaret.
A slow grin started with his mouth and finally reached his eyes. “I understand better now.” He moved his hand from her leg to her crossed arms. “There is no wife. Not even a girlfriend. I have not led the sort of life that lends itself to emotional entanglements.”
“Really?” Her voice came out as a squeak. She tried for composure, but made a grab for his hand and clung to it. She wanted to jump out of her seat and dance up and down the aisle, but restrained herself.
“Really.” Something warm and tender shaded his eyes to charcoal. “Now will you tell me about yourself?”
“Oh. Sure and I’d forgotten that was what began this.”
His jaw tightened in what might have been resolve. “I did not mean for us to begin by pawing one another in that bathroom.” He shrugged, looking sheepish. “You are a very beautiful woman. It was impossible to restrain myself once I knew you wanted me as desperately as I craved you.” He squeezed her hand. “Who are you, fraulein? I assumed you were not married because no husband would ever agree to you posing as Jaret Chen’s woman, but I wondered about a boyfriend, or maybe a fiancé back in Ireland.”
“I’ve had both.” She shook hair out of her eyes, still trying to wrap her mind around Lars not being attached. She’d thought it so many times, it had turned into reality.
“Start at the beginning,” he suggested. “It is easier that way.”
“I come from a big family. One sister, but you already know about poor Moira, and four brothers. I’m sort of in the middle of the pack. Mum and Da are still alive, and still married. They moved to the outskirts of Dublin before I started secondary school. Da is a jeweler and a better opportunity opened up for him. Mum plays violin; she got tapped by the Dublin Symphony soon after we moved.”
Tamara considered what else she could share. Her entire family were shifters, but that part had no place here. It was also a reason Lars wouldn’t be interested in her, and not something she could hide, at least not for very long. She clamped her jaws together, her earlier elation fading like a sunset gone bad. “This isn’t a good idea.”
“Why not?” He smiled encouragingly. “You were doing fine.”
“I, er, that is, I’m not as free as I was thinking I was.”
He knit his brows together. “Help me understand. That is not the type of thing one forgets.”
“I can’t talk about it.” She let go of his hand as if it were a poisonous snake. “Maybe it would be a good idea for me to spend some time in the cabin.” Unbuckling her seat harness, she stumbled through the cockpit door. Thank the bloody saints she made it all the way to the head before tears overcame her resolve not to break down. She closeted herself inside the tiny bathroom and dropped her head into her hands.
Maybe I should just tell him what I am.
But she knew she wouldn’t because she couldn’t stand to see the horror—or worse, pity—mirrored on his face when she revealed her true nature.
* * * *
Lars retreated to his seat from where he’d been leaning halfway across the cockpit. He may not have had much experience with women, but Tamara’s rapid about-face stunned him. Things had been going so well. She’d been warm, funny, half-aroused by his touch. And then it was as if a gateway had slammed shut.
What did I do?
He raked through his memory of what they’d said to one another and couldn’t pinpoint a thing. To divert himself, he extracted data from the onboard computer. They’d be in the air for hours yet. Difficult hours if she remained in the cabin and refused to tell him what was wrong. He could leave the cockpit, but not for long. It was one of the disadvantages of not flying with a copilot.
Her scent lingered in the air. She hadn’t been the only one aroused. His cock throbbed with need. He told it to stand down, but it had other ideas. Worse, as often happened when he was upset, his cat wanted out. He struggled to keep claws from bursting through his fingertips. Shifting in the cockpit was a terrible idea. His cat could do a lot of damage without meaning to.
He searched for a rational explanation. She’d been talking about her family when things had gone to hell. There had to be a connection, but what? He gripped the yoke so hard, the aircraft shuddered, and he forced himself to let go of the controls. The autopilot would take care of course corrections. He didn’t need to do a thing until they got close to Seattle and Boeing Field.
Family. Was there something about her family she wanted to hide? He snapped his fingers. Of course. She held magic, probably shifter magic, but maybe something different. Magic always had a genetic basis, except for the odd lycan who acquired theirs through being bitten. She was protecting her family. Lars took a deep breath. There wasn’t any help for what would come next. He’d have to expose what he was. Maybe if he did, she wouldn’t feel so vulnerable.
He unbuckled his seat harness, started to get up, and then stopped himself. What if she was so horrified by his revelation she came after him? Magic wielders danced to their own drummer, and they never worked with others outside their own ranks. He girded himself. If she was a witch or a Druid, and not a shifter, she might well decide he needed to die. It would be hard, but he prepared for the unpleasant task of taking her down for the duration of the flight—if she became unmanageable. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind he could prevail in a direct contest.
She killed Jaret Chen.
Ja. But he was doped to the gills on heroin.
Lars scanned his instruments. Everything looked good. He stood and walked out of the cockpit. A cursory glance at the empty cabin told him Tamara had to be in the head. He strode down the aisle and tapped on the door. “Fraulein. Are you all right?”
“No.” She sounded as if she’d been crying. “Leave me alone. Please.”
“We are not done talking.” He waited, but the door remained shut. He could’ve blasted through the lock with magic, but curbed his almost obsessive desire to hold her in his arms. The thought of her alone and distraught in the small head tangled his gut into knots.
Lars tried again. “Please, fraulein. I cannot remain out of the cockpit for long.”
Moments passed. He’d almost decided to say what he needed through the door when the lock clicked and it opened. Tamara emerged, her face blotchy with tears. He held out his arms, but she shook her head.
“You’d best get back to the cockpit. I’ll join you once I scare up a bottle of water.”
Lars nodded. She looked so broken, so devastated, it took all his self-control not to draw her against him, but something in her eyes told him it wasn’t a good idea.
She made shooing motions with both hands. “Get moving. I’ll be there soon enough.”
He walked the length of the plane, punched in the code, and reentered the cockpit. Lars shoved a small wooden block between the door and its frame to hold it open. He automatically checked his instruments to make certain the aircraft was still on course and the engines operating within parameters.
Tamara slid into her seat moments after he’d settled into his and buckled in. She looked pale, but determined, as she sipped a bottle of mineral water.
Lars’ stomach was tight. He gauged the distance between them. In case she became uncontrollable and he had to launch countermeasures, he left his seat harness unbuckled. This was one conversation Garen would never find out about. To discuss something so potentially volatile at thirty-five thousand feet was rash and irresponsible, but Lars couldn’t wait until they landed. His heart ached; his soul felt empty.
He selected his words carefully. “I was surprised when you raced from the cockpit, so I have been trying to figure out if I said something that upset you.”
“This isn’t about you. It’s about me. I-I can’t talk about it. You’ve been more than kind. By all the blessed saints, you rescued me. I’d be lying dead on the streets of Nice if you hadn’t stepped in.”
“Ja, I know that part. Why did you leave as if demons dogged your heels?”
“I...can’t talk about it.” She repeated her earlier statement and set her water in a cup holder.
He nodded to himself. “Let me begin, then. You thought I was married. I am not. I know you have some type of magic. It is what you employed to heal your bullet wound.”
He kept his eyes on her, watching intently for her reaction. She curled into herself and looked stricken.
“Sure and I canna talk about it.”
Her brogue got thicker. Her pupils dilated. She looked like a doe about to bolt from a hedge once she sensed a hunter.
“I will not hurt you, Tamara. Not now. Not ever. I understand about magic because I have some of my own.”
She tensed and drew farther from him. Something flickered in the depths of her stricken eyes. Hope, or maybe fear. She didn’t say anything, but a pulse quivered in her neck revealing a heart that beat too fast.
“Are you not interested in what kind of magic I hold?” After a long pause, she nodded. Her knuckles whitened where she gripped the sides of her seat. “If I tell you, will you trust me enough to tell me what is wrong?”
“Maybe.”
The word ripped from her throat and splatted against him. Glass shards couldn’t have cut deeper. He flinched. Her pain was raw, palpable, and it made his heart hurt.
“You have no reason to trust me.” He blew out a tense breath. The struggle with his cat was worsening. “Recognize I have no reason to trust you, either, but I am taking a huge chance by telling you this. I—” he swallowed around a throat dry as sandpaper “—am a shifter.”
Her expressive features ran the gamut. He couldn’t decipher her emotional state because her face changed so quickly. She said something in Irish just before she unsnapped her seat harness and launched herself at him with tears coursing down her cheeks.
Damn it!
He sprang to his feet and pushed her back into her seat, holding her there easily, while muttering in German and cursing fate, the gods, anyone who might be listening.
“Tut mir so leid, dies zu tun Fräulein.” Lars drew back a fist, prepared to deliver a blow to render her unconscious.
She spoke to him in Irish, and then switched to English between sobs. “Stad. Stop. I doona know what you’re saying. I doona speak German. Why would you be hitting me? Sure and I’m a shifter too.”
