Catherine Mann - Pursued

He worked because he had bills to pay. For putting his feet on the floor and getting dressed each morning, he rewarded himself with a race across a dry lake bed on his Harley, the only thing other than his dogs that he’d kept when his ex-wife walked after the accident. For making it through another workday—a necessity if he wanted to keep the bike and feed the dogs—he rewarded himself with a beer.

Long-neck. Budweiser, like any self-respecting Mississippi native.

And with any luck, the bottle was thrust his way in the hands of a hot woman who for some reason didn’t know he was a washed-up test pilot who’d killed his best friend.

Bailout. Bailout. Bailout.

Even now, he could hear his own hoarse shouts. His wingman, flying alongside, had ignored the order during that last test, vowing he could recover, the instrumentation reading agreed. The poor bastard had flown right into the ground trusting his data.

Data Diego himself had supplied prior to take off.

Shit. Screw thinking about that. Rewind back to the image of a hot blond waitress thrusting a beer his way along with her bountiful breasts. Except his brain kept overlaying the image of a buxom blonde with a smart-mouthed brunette, one with minimal curves and maximum moxie.

Josie Lockworth might not be his type, but no question about it, she was hot. Self-assurance echoed from her, whether she was gliding on long legs into a bar or steering her Mustang convertible along rural desert roads.

He remembered well the idealistic days when he’d expected his work to change the world. These days, he preferred to think about beer…and breasts.

The ones beside him, to be exact.

The green flight suit hugged her slim body. High, pert breasts thrust a subtle invitation increased by the cooling blasts of night wind. Velcro straps cinched at her sides, accenting a hint of hips—

Whoa. Stop. He geared down his thoughts.

The woman who was ready to kick his ass over a simple “little lady” comment would fillet his liver if she could step inside his brain right now.

But the loss of his uniform had stripped away mental inhibitions, as well, leaving his world and expectations as off-kilter as his vertigo-stricken senses. He’d been a boundary pusher in the air, but understood the rules of convention implicit in his officer commission on the ground. He’d always kept protocol in place with female officers.

No such rules applied now, because he wasn’t an officer anymore.

“You should be nice to me.” He held up a hand. “And before you get your politically correct G-suit in a twist, I’m not implying a damned thing of a sexual nature. Yeah, I know I’m a bit of an ass. Okay, a lot of an ass. But if you’d pay attention, I talk like this to everyone. I’m just curious as to why you’re huffy and defensive when it would serve you well to be kissing up. So to speak.”

Her shoulders lowered, captain rank on her flight suit glowing luminescent blue in the dashboard lights. “Sorry. Instinct, I guess.”

“Been hit on a few too many times?” Idiotic protective instincts fired up, much like the ones that had chewed his hide when he’d been sitting in the bar shooting the breeze with Birddog and the others.

“I’ve just learned it’s better to keep things superficial.” Wind-whipped coffee-colored hair around her face in a rare disorder from this overly composed woman. “People at work look hard enough for your vulnerabilities on their own. No need to give out private information for free.”

What hints of vulnerabilities could be found in her pristine car, a place more personal than her office? He scooped her beanbag puppy from the drink holder.

“Could you put down the Beanie Baby, please?”

“Your favorite?”

“It’s a gift for Craig Wagner’s daughter when I go to dinner. I don’t want it to look all rucked up when I give it to her.”

“Sure. Sorry.” He fit the toy basset hound back into the cup holder. “I’ll get the kid a new one.”

“Don’t bother. You didn’t do any harm—yet.”

He heard her loud and clear. Get his mitts off her stuff and thereby off her. Somehow, he’d stepped too close. “So tell me about this test of yours.”

Her white-knuckled fingers loosened around the steering wheel. “What do you want to know?”

“How about start with the basics. Assume I know nothing.”

She would think he was an out of touch idiot who needed to review fundamentals. Not that he cared much as long as she didn’t throw another one of those sympathetic looks his way like she’d done when he’d talked about not flying anymore.

Yeah, let her do the talking before he shoved his boot in his yap again. Captain Buttercup probably wouldn’t even realize how much he could interpret about her core methodology from the way she presented foundation elements. “Talk to me.”

And damned if he didn’t enjoy the sound of her uptight, precise voice with its hint of huskiness begging to be encouraged.

“Our mission with this project is to improve the stealth element on the Predator unmanned spy drone. It has served the air force well in the past, but we’ve learned a lot about ways it could perform better, and thus keep more pilots and ground-intelligence forces out of harm’s way.”

He tried not to think much about his active-duty days, flying bombers then gaining admission to test-pilot school. He’d accepted the possibility of dying in battle or during a test. He’d never considered what to do with himself if he survived.

“Morel?”

“Yeah, I’m with ya, Buttercup.” He looked at her and her uniform, her idealistic eyes reminding him of how many years’ experience separated them.

And still he wanted Josie Lockworth.

The intensity of that desire blindsided him like a bogey from his six o’clock. Sure he’d been turned on by her at first look, even though she was a prickly priss. But he hadn’t expected to get hard over just the thought of skimming aside the hair streaking across her face.

What the hell was up with that?

His head fell back against the rest. The sky beckoned. He closed his eyes. “Keep talking.”

He focused on the clipped tones of Josie reciting facts, letting dry data served up with whiskey-warm tones intoxicate hungry senses that ached to fly.

Josie gripped the steering wheel and lost herself in the intoxicating oblivion of routine. Reliable facts would never betray her. “Stealth is comprised of five elements—electro-optical, radio transmissions, visual, acoustics and RF.”

Diego folded his hands over his chest, his head still reclined, eyes closed. Late-day beard darkened features already weathered by the sun, wind, years of hard living.

Of loss.

Sympathy hit her. A dangerous emotion. God, she needed to remember her mother’s lost career. Josie studied the stretch of road, so straight she could likely drive for hours without looking.

She lifted one finger off the steering wheel. “RF covers the more popular element of eluding radar frequency. The Predator already kicks ass on that one.”

A second finger lifted. “Next, the electro-optical tricks the infrared camera and low-light optical trackers. Again, got it licked.

“Third element.” Only her thumb and pinky stayed on the wheel along with her other hand. “For the visual with the good old eyeball check, the craft still holds up well.”

She waggled her pinky. “Radio transmissions aren’t a problem, either, because our data-link control signals are so low power they have a lesser probability of intercept.”

Josie wrapped her hand around the steering wheel again. “The Predator’s only weakness comes from the fifth element—its acoustics. Enemy listening posts can pick up the propeller motor sounds in low-level flights. But the lower the flight, the better quality on the intel.”