Lori Wilde - Crash Landing

“You can’t keep hitting the snooze button on your biological clock.” Josie pressed her lips into a disapproving line.

“I’m not even remotely thinking of babies yet.”

“I know, but you should be.”

“I’m not done having fun yet.”

“Babies are a different kind of fun.”

“Uh-huh. If you say so.”

“You love your nieces and nephews.”

“I do. Stop trying to sell me on motherhood. When I find the right relationship—packed with tons of passion—the rest will take care of itself.” Sophia’s eyes were on the hombre who was going to pace a hole right through the wooden planks of the balcony.

Josie canted her head. “The American isn’t right for you.”

“Of course he’s not. I never thought he was. He’s caviar and I’m black beans, but a girl needs her sexual fantasies, right?”

“Give Emilio a chance,” Josie advised and picked up her sandwich bag. “Bring him to Sunday dinner.”

“We’ll see.”

Josie pointed a finger at her. “Just bring him.”

Sophia rolled her eyes. Their mother had died of bacterial meningitis when Sophia was twelve and after Sophia had returned from living in California with Aunt Kristi, Josie had taken over as Mother Hen and sometimes she could be a bit overbearing. “Sí.”

“I mean it.”

Sophia made shooing motions at her. “Go back to rubbing that rich cover model’s backside.”

“I love you,” Josie said sweetly over her shoulder.

“You’re not going to make me feel like a brat.”

“Even if you are being one?” Josie laughed and went into the spa.

Sophia pursed her lips and looked back to Gibb Martin’s bungalow. Blondie was gone, but he was still pacing and talking on the phone.

Did the man ever slow down? Take a deep breath? Relax? Enjoy himself for half a second?

She shifted her gaze to the sky and estimated the time by the sun’s position. She never wore a watch. Two o’clock was perhaps thirty minutes away. Just enough time to fuel the plane and do her flight checks. Yawning, she rolled out of the hammock and stretched big, reaching for the clouds, her crop top rising up high with her movements.

Gibb Martin leaned over the railing of his balcony.

He was watching her!

Her stomach churned and she had the strangest feeling that something monumental was about to happen.

Those compelling gray eyes stared straight at her. Thank God for her sunglasses.

A slow smile slid across his face.

Excitement shot through her and she suppressed a smug grin. He might not be paying Miss Cover Model much attention, but he was certainly focused on her .

What she did next wasn’t noble, but it was human. She pretended she hadn’t seen him watching her. She swept off her cowgirl hat, tilted her head back, and ran her fingers through her long hair, fluffing it up in a sexy, just-rolled out of bed style and bit down on her bottom lip to make it puffy.

Bad girl, bad. Mala. Mala .

She strolled away, emphasizing each sway of her hips, and headed for the plane. Was that the heat of his gaze she felt on her shoulders?

Casually, she turned, looked up at the balcony, only to find it empty.

Her face flamed hot as she realized she’d strutted for an audience of no one.

Idiot.

Never mind. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t even a flirtation. That’s how limited their exchanges had been, a few furtive glances, a handshake that lingered a bit too long, that’s all there was to it.

But the fact that she was fantasizing about a good-looking stranger who had a cover model girlfriend told Sophia that this thing with Emilio simply wasn’t working for her. They would be better off as friends.

It was time to tell him that.

After work, she had planned to fly to San Jose for a cookout with Emilio. In spite of the provisions she’d packed in an Igloo cooler this morning, she would forego the cookout, sit him down and make it perfectly clear she wanted nothing more than friendship from him.

Was she stupid for cutting loose a good guy who would make a wonderful husband? Maybe. But something told her that she did not have to settle. Somewhere out there was a good man who would also ignite passion in her heart and she wasn’t going to stop looking until she found him.

THROUGH THE OPEN wooden slats of the bamboo blinds, Gibb watched the sexy little bush pilot’s butt bounce. He shouldn’t be looking. He was here with Stacy after all, but there was something about the sultry Costa Rican that had captured him from the minute he’d laid eyes on her in Libera Airport.

And this thing with Stacy had just about run its course. Two years was already eighteen months longer than he’d anticipated it would last. Both of them had known from the beginning it wasn’t a long-term relationship. He required a poised, beautiful woman on his arm to take to business functions and she had wanted someone with an unlimited expense account.

They’d met each other’s needs at the time, but now they were starting to get on each other’s nerves. Stacy continually accused him of being a workaholic—hey, how did she think he paid for her shopping sprees?—and he’d wearied of her constant bid for his attention. Bringing Stacy with him to Bosque de Los Dioses had been a mistake and not just because he wanted to flirt with the pilot.

She was examining her plane, doing a preflight check, and as she reached up to inspect the flaps, her white crop top moved up to expose even more of her smooth, tanned skin. Sunlight glimmered off her gold navel ring and her long black hair swung just above the curve of her back.

Gibb gulped. She curved in all the right places. The white cotton top stretched over breasts the size of perfectly ripe peaches. His mouth watered instantly.

She wore cutoff blue jean shorts with frayed threads dangling down her firm thighs. The pink straw cowgirl hat was tipped back on her head, and the matching pink heart-shaped sunglasses slid halfway down her pert little nose. The woman had a thing for pink. On the flight in, she’d smelled of delicious pink grapefruit, fresh, clean and tartly sweet.

What did she have on beneath those jeans? Pink boy shorts? A pink thong? Maybe nothing at all?

His body heated all over.

Hang on there, Martin . He might not be a long-term commitment kind of guy, but when he was in a relationship—no matter how casual—he didn’t mess around.

“You’re a serial monogamist,” his best friend Coast Guard Lieutenant Scott Everly often teased. It was true, he never dated more than one woman at a time.

Gibb’s cell phone rang.

He stepped back from the window, pulled the phone from his pocket and looked at the caller ID.

Speak of the devil.

Scott had been dodging his calls of late and Gibb wondered if it was because his buddy was having second thoughts about leaving the Coast Guard. He and Scott were going into business together on this clandestine, environmentally green project that promised to revolutionize the way people traveled.

That was what Gibb was doing here in Cordillera of Tilarán. The planning stage was finally complete. And although the patent was still pending, it was only a matter of time until it was granted. He had complete confidence in that. The inventor would be arriving next week. It was time to start building the prototype track for the breakthrough monorail system that would extend the thirty miles from Bosque de Los Dioses to Monteverde.

Building the prototype track here would serve two purposes. One, it would eventually make Bosque de Los Dioses accessible by some other mode of transportation besides bush plane. And two, the remote location and thick vegetation discouraged the corporate spies that had dogged him. Twice in the last two years, spies from Fisby Corp had burned him by stealing the ideas he’d invested in and getting them to market before he did. He wasn’t going to allow that to happen again.