Нора Робертс - Chasing Fire

On a half laugh, Rowan shook her head. “Do women ever say no to you?”

“Sadly, yes. Then again, a man who just gives up never wins the prize.”

“Believe me, I’m no prize.”

“You’ve got hair like a Roman centurion, the body of a goddess and the face of a Nordic queen. That’s a hell of a package.”

“The package isn’t the prize.”

“No, it’s not. But it sure makes me want to open it up and see what’s in there.”

“A mean temper, a low bullshit threshold and a passion for catching fire. Do yourself a favor, hotshot, and pull somebody else’s shiny ribbon.”

“I’ve got this thing, this... focus. Once I focus on something, I just can’t seem to quit until I figure it all the way out.”

She gave a careless shrug, but she watched him, he noted, with care. “Nothing to figure.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said when she started into the dorm. “I got you to take a walk in the rain with me.”

With one hand on the door, she turned, gave him a pitying smile. “Don’t tell me there’s a romantic in there.”

“Might be.”

“Better be careful then. I might use you just because you’re handy, then crush that romantic heart.”

“My place or yours?”

She laughed—a steamy brothel laugh that shot straight to his loins—then shut the door, metaphorically at least, in his face.

Damned if he hadn’t given her a little itch, she admitted. She liked confident men—men who had the balls, the brains and the skills to back it up. That, and the cat-at-the-mousehole way he looked at her—desire and bottomless patience—brought on a low sexual hum.

And picking up that tune would be a mistake, she reminded herself, then tapped lightly on Cards’s door. She took his grunt as permission to poke her head in.

He looked, to her eye, a little pale, a lot bored and fairly grungy. “How’re you feeling?”

“Shit, I’m okay. Got some bug in my gut this morning. Puked it, and a few internal organs, up.” He sat on his bed, cards spread in front of him. “Managed some time in manufacturing, kept dinner down okay. Just taking it easy till tomorrow. Appreciate you covering for me.”

“No problem. We’re down to twenty-two. One of them’s out with an injury. I think we’ll see him back. See you in the morning then.”

“Hey, want to see a card trick? It’s a good one,” he said before she could retreat.

Tired of his own company, she decided, and gave in to friendship and sat across from him on the bed.

Besides, watching a few lame card tricks was a better segue into sleep than thinking about walking in the rain with Gulliver Curry.

Gull lined up in front of the ready room with the other recruits. Across the asphalt the plane that would take them up for their first jump roared, while along the line nerves jangled.

Instructors worked their way down, doing buddy checks. Gull figured his luck was in when Rowan stepped to him. “Have you been checked?”

“No.”

She knelt down so he studied the way her sunflower hair sculpted her head. She checked his boots, his stirrups, worked her way up—leg pockets, leg straps—checked his reserve chute’s expiration date, its retainer pins.

“You smell like peaches.” Her eyes flicked to his. “It’s nice.”

“Lower left reserve strap attached,” she said, continuing her buddy check without comment. “Lower right reserve strap attached. Head in the game, Fast Feet,” she added, then moved on up the list. “If either of us misses a detail, you could be a smear on the ground. Helmet, gloves. You got your letdown rope?”

“Check.”

“You’re good to go.”

“How about you?”

“I’ve been checked, thanks. You’re clear to board.” She moved down to the next recruit.

Gull climbed onto the plane, took a seat on the floor beside Dobie.

“You looking to tap that blonde?” Dobie asked. “The one they call Swede?”

“A man has to have his dreams. You’re getting closer to owing me twenty,” Gull added when Libby ducked through the door.

“Shit. She ain’t jumped yet. I got ten right now says she balks.”

“I can use ten.”

“Welcome aboard,” Rowan announced. “Please bring your seats to their full upright position. Our flying time today will depend on how many of you cry like babies once you’re in the door. Gibbons will be your spotter. Pay attention. Stay in your heads. Are you ready to jump?”

The answer was a resounding cheer.

“Let’s do it.”

The plane taxied, gained speed, lifted its nose. Gull felt the little dip in the gut as they left the ground. He watched Rowan, flat-out sexy to his mind in her jumpsuit, raise her voice over the engines and—once again—go over every step of the upcoming jump.

Gibbons passed her a note from the cockpit.

“There’s your jump site,” she told them, and every recruit angled for a window.

Gull studied the roll of the meadow—pretty as a picture—the rise of Douglas firs, lodgepole pines, the glint of a stream. The job—once he took the sky—would be to hit the meadow, avoid the trees, the water. He’d be the dart, he thought, and he wanted a bull’s-eye.

When Gibbons pigged in, Rowan shouted for everyone to guard their reserves. Gibbons grabbed the door handles, yanked, and air, cool and sweet with spring, rushed in.

“Holy shit.” Dobie whistled between his teeth. “We’re doing it. Real deal. Accept no substitutes.”

Gibbons stuck his head out into that rush of air, consulted with the cockpit through his headset. The plane banked right, bumped, steadied.

“Watch the streamers,” Rowan called out. “They’re you.”

They snapped and spun, circled out into miles of tender blue sky. And sucked into the dense tree line.

Gull adjusted his own jump in his head, mentally pulling on his toggles, considering the drift. Adjusted again as he studied the fall of a second set of streamers.

“Take her up!” Gibbons called out.

Dobie stuffed a stick of gum in his mouth before he put on his helmet, offered one to Gull. Behind his face mask, Dobie’s eyes were big as planets. “Feel a little sick.”

“Wait till you get down to puke,” Gull advised.

“Libby, you’re second jump.” Rowan put on her helmet. “You just follow me down. Got it?”

“I got it.”

At Gibbons’s signal, Rowan sat in the door, braced. The plane erupted into shouts of Libby’s name, gloved hands slammed together in encouragement as she took her position behind Rowan.

Then Gibbons’s hand slapped down on Rowan’s shoulder, and she was gone.

Gull watched her flight; couldn’t take his eyes off her. The blue-and-white canopy shot up, spilled open. A thing of beauty in that soft blue sky, over the greens and browns and glint of water.

The cheer brought him back. He’d missed Libby’s jump, but he saw her chute deploy, shifted to try to keep both chutes in his eye line as the plane flew beyond.

“Looks like you owe me ten.”

A smile winked into Dobie’s eyes. “Add a six-pack on it that I do better than her. Better than you.”

After the plane circled, Gibbons looked in Gull’s eyes, held them for a beat. “Are you ready?”

“We’re ready.”

“Hook up.”

Gull moved forward, attached his line.

“Get in the door.”

Gull leveled his breathing, and got in the door.

He listened to the spotter’s instructions, the drift, the wind, while the air battered his legs. He did his check while the plane circled to its final lineup, and kept his eyes on the horizon.

“Get ready,” Gibbons told him.

Oh, he was ready. Every bump, bruise, blister of the past weeks had led to this moment. When the slap came down on his right shoulder, he jumped into that moment.