Catherine Mann - Pursued

“Uh-huh,” he grunted, shifting his legs to swing one booted foot over his knee without once opening his eyes, as if she barely warranted his whole attention. “And since much of your mother’s work focused on the acoustics of stealth, you decided the Predator is the perfect craft to use for resurrecting her theories.”

She didn’t answer or even blink for the passing of four telephone poles while pain from her mother’s breakdown roared as loudly as the ever-constant desert wind. “Way to lay it all out there on the table.”

“Does it bother you to talk about her?”

“The facts are public record. It’s not like I can hide from them.” She peeled a strand of hair that had stuck to her lip gloss. “Actually, I appreciate your honesty. At least I don’t have to wonder if you’re whispering behind my back.”

“I’m an ass, but I’m a straight-up ass.”

She didn’t want to like him. But just when she longed to punt his arrogant butt, he surprised her with his self-awareness. “Since I believe in my mother’s core concept, yes, if it works, the Predator will be a more efficient asset to the reconnaissance community.”

Her methodology was sound. She knew that. She hoped her developmental testing would be equally so—because she could talk higher air force benefits all she wanted, but eventually it wouldn’t escape anyone’s notice that this was personal for her. The career fall from failure would be far and fatal.

Then there would be nothing left for her but to burrow out in the California desert in one of these geodesic domes, single-wide trailers or old ranch-style houses that infrequently broke the monotony of space and quiet. “What else would you like to know?”

“What will I be looking at when we get to the paperwork?”

“Our first round of testing involved active noise cancellation. For example, if the acoustic signature of the aircraft was a sine wave with a magnitude of one-hundred-ninety decibels at fifty hertz, we would create a sine wave of equal but opposite magnitude to conceal the noise.” She glanced over at the leather lug barely moving in the seat next to her. “You used to fly bombers, right?”

He grunted again.

“Basically we employed the same technology that’s used in noise-canceling headsets worn by bomber crew members to weed out the engine sound so they can hear each other talking.”

The graded road roughened. She downshifted to third gear, her knuckles grazing his knee. Chaps warmed from his body heat launched a shower of tingles up her arm and straight to her breasts. And he didn’t even flinch, damn him.

Work. Think work. “Once the active noise was addressed, we moved on to passive ways to decrease sound, such as making the engine vibrate less. Our main source of concern with the Predator has been modifying the propeller. It makes too much noise when the tips break mach. In this stage of the testing, we’re improving the flight propeller balancing….”

The road evened out. She reached for the gearshift again, bracing herself for the feel of heated leather against her skin. Still he didn’t move.

“Are you asleep?”

Diego turned his head along the rest, lashes lifting to unveil eyes hotter than the leather against his skin. “Was I snoring?”

“No.” Her hand clenched.

“Then I wasn’t asleep.” Straightening, he pointed left to the narrow one-lane road. “Turn here.”

She slowed, her car still undulating. The rearview mirror reflected nothing but a cloud of sandy dust kicking up behind them. Out of the pitch night, one of the old ranch-style homes appeared, dark wood scarred by wind and time. The sturdy, functional structure sprawled, surrounded by eucalyptus trees. Sweet perfume rode the wind along with a distant coyote howl.

The front porch stirred with motion, two dogs leaping to life and bolting down the steps. A shaved retriever and a mutt of indeterminate origin scampered in a dangerous dance in front of her car, forcing her to slow.

At a near-crawl pace, she pulled her shuddering Mustang closer to the deserted yard, past patchy brush, cacti, a crappy lawn chair beside what looked to be about an eight-hundred-dollar grill.

She braked to a stop, engine still humming. Kangaroo rats scampered away from the headlights. “Here we are.”

“Thanks for the ride.” His booted foot slid to the floorboards. “I owe you a new set of shocks and a car wash for this one.”

“I might take you up on that, Morel,” she offered noncommittally. Safely.

He seemed in no hurry to get out of her car now. The man never hurried, period. Even as that trait annoyed her, she couldn’t help but be intrigued by someone so unfettered by life. “How are you going to get back to base?”

He gestured toward the prefabricated metal garage set back from the house. “I have a truck, too.”

“And what about your Harley?”

“You could stay over and give me a ride in the morning.”

She blinked hard. Twice. Then covered with an overly polite smile. “I don’t think so.”

“That no-sex-with-workmates rule of yours again?”

Self-preservation was more like it, if just a simple brush against him could burn her. “Perhaps I’m not interested in going to bed with a drunk who snores.”

His half smile tucked a dimple into one cheek. “I like you, Lockworth.”

Whoa. Like? That was a whole different matter than just sexy leather chaps and lust. “Uh, thanks.”

“Not that you’re particularly likable.”

She scooped the puppy from the drink holder, something soft to ease the sting of echoing old taunts of Josephine the Tattletale Queen. “Charm doesn’t seem to be your strong suit, either.”

A rusty laugh rolled out in a lomcevak tumble. “Exactly what I like about you.”

“I’m not following.”

“You don’t kiss my ass just because once upon a time I flew some pretty missions.”

His answer made sense and confused her all at once. “I respect the work you accomplished.”

“But not who I am now.”

The scent of leather and eucalyptus swirled inside her. She needed to leave. Now. “Who you are doesn’t matter to me. How you work does. And I’ve yet to see any work accomplished to judge.”

Draping his elbow on the back of his seat, he gripped the edge of hers with one hand while plucking the dog from her other. “Yeah, I like your take-no-shit attitude. And I like the fact that you’re straight up with me. Makes me trust you more and that’s a good thing. But honest to God, you need to wash some starch out of your spine.”

She bristled, more Josephine-prickly than that cactus patch by his garage. Who the hell did he think he was? And she couldn’t afford to say squat back.

He dropped the Beanie Baby back in the cup holder. “I know this mission is important to you, and I’m not diminishing what you do. But even with my feet nailed to the ground like they are, I could wade through your paperwork on this test halfway to snoring. Or half-drunk.”

She couldn’t stop her Josephine sniff.

“That’s right, Buttercup. I’m a rude, washed-up test pilot who drinks too much and doesn’t shave enough. And, yeah, I snore, since my eardrums and sinuses blew out on that last flight.” He stopped short, his hard weathered face freezing. “Ah, shit. Forget it. I’m outta here.”

Diego reached for the door handle. Remorse, empathy and something else she didn’t want to examine stirred.

“Wait!” She grabbed his arm.

He could have shaken her off easily. But he stopped, staying in the seat.

“I really didn’t mean to come off all judgmental. I haven’t walked in your shoes so I’ve got no room to—”

Diego shushed her with a pointed look down at her hand on his arm.