Night Flight Page 16

  “Go for it, Ms. Roberts. It won’t do you any good.”

  She left quickly, clutching her briefcase, her fingers aching on the handle. Her mind clicked off the things that would have to be done. First, she’d have to call Linda Yarnell to get a copy of the request to have her fired. She had no experience in union matters. Could Jamison get his way? Or would the union be able to save her job? Suddenly, the need to speak to Sam was overwhelming. Would he still be at Ops? It was four o’clock. Turning, she went to the empty teachers’ lounge and picked up a phone. First, a call to Linda, and then, to Sam.

  “Design, Major Porter,” Lauren said, answering the phone.

  “Yes…is Captain Holt still there?”

  “Sure is. May I ask who’s calling?”

  “Megan. Megan Roberts.”

  “One moment.” Lauren smiled and put the call on hold. She and Sam were the only ones left in the office. Everyone else had gone home for the day. “Hey, Holt, your lady’s on the line.”

  Lifting his head from the report he was writing, Sam scowled. Port was grinning like she was sitting in the catbird seat. “What?”

  “Megan Roberts is on the phone, dummy. Don’t you want to talk to her? She wants to speak to you. Line one.”

  Shocked but pleased, Sam reached for his phone. “Thanks, Port.”

  “I promise to plug my ears,” she answered dryly, returning her attention to her computer terminal.

  Sam smiled. “I trust you Port. Eavesdrop all you want.” He knew she wouldn’t tell anyone of the conversation. He hit the button. “Megan?”

  “Hi…I’m sorry to call you at work—”

  “No, that’s okay. You don’t sound very good. What’s wrong?”

  “C-could I see you after work? I need to talk. Friend to friend.”

  His scowl deepened. “Sure. How about if, I meet you over at the O Club?” As soon as he said it, he regretted it. “No, forget that.” His mind whirled with options. He couldn’t invite Megan down here because it was restricted and off-limits without clearance. “How about at your school?”

  “No, I’d rather not.”

  Instantly, Holt knew that Melody Stang had something to do with it. “Okay, how about if I pick you up, in say—” he looked at his watch “—fifteen minutes? I’ll take you out to a nice little Italian restaurant in Lancaster, we’ll sit, talk and enjoy a good meal.”

  “My car, though…”

  “Leave it here on base for tonight. I’ll take you into work tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh, Sam, that’s asking too much. I get up early.”

  “So do I.”

  “Five a.m.?”

  “Yes. Fifteen minutes, Red, and I’ll be there.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  Sam hung up the phone, disliking the tone he heard in Megan’s voice. She was upset. It had to be because of the Stangs.

  “You look like a pit bull ready to bite someone,” Lauren noted drily.

  With a snort, Holt got up. He jerked open a drawer, tossing the report inside it and then slammed it shut. “Yeah, I’d like to bite somebody.”

  “Megan has a nice voice. Rich and husky.”

  “Diverting me won’t do any good, Port. I’m madder than hell at Stang.”

  “Oh, that little incident over at the O Club yesterday with his precious son?”

  Holt felt his anger abate to a degree under Lauren’s insightful comment. “Roger that.” He hunted for his garrison cap and located it in one of the drawers of his desk.

  “I don’t know what Stang thinks he’s going to gain by all of this,” Lauren muttered. “I’m sure not impressed with him or his methods.”

  “Some four-star is upstairs. It would be my luck it’s the joint chiefs general,” Sam said, putting on his garrison cap. He noticed Merrill’s messy desk. Papers were strewn across the top of it. Of late, Curt had been less than organized. The old saying that if your desk was a mess, so was your flying, was an axiom around Design. Holt hoped for Merrill’s sake the axiom wasn’t true.

  “I’ve never seen you like this,” Lauren said seriously, leaning back in her chair and watching him. “Sam?”

  He halted at the door. “Yeah?”

  “You really are serious about this lady, aren’t you? I mean, you’re upset.”

  “I’m not going to lie to you, Port. I wake up thinking about Megan, I go to sleep and dream about her. Yeah, she’s important to me.”

  She smiled gently. “It becomes you. Good night, Sam.”

  “See you tomorrow, Port.” He disappeared out the door.

  The urgency to see Megan, to find out what was causing her the kind of distress that she’d actually call him at work, gnawed at his patience as he drove to the school. Megan was waiting for him out front, briefcase in hand.

  Sam liked the green shirt-dress she wore. The small gold earrings and gold choker at her throat emphasized the verdant color of her lovely eyes. He leaned over, opening the door for her so she could climb in. Anxiously, he searched her features and realized she was pale.

  As he drove off toward the main gate, he glanced over at her. “Hell of a day?” he guessed.

  “Was it ever.” Megan hungrily absorbed his profile, his eagle-like nose, his chin solid and strong. She instinctively knew Sam would be angry and upset if she told him her job was on the line. Earlier, Linda had said she’d just received the firing notice. There would be a union meeting tomorrow morning to get her side of the situation, and then action would be taken to protect her job. Rubbing her temple where a headache lapped, Megan uttered tiredly, “I’ve just had a really rough day, Sam.” Skirting the whole reason, Megan added, “I feel like I’m sitting on a keg of dynamite concerning a child in my class.”

  Sam scowled, hearing the anguish in her voice. “I’d ask what it’s all about, but I know how you feel about talking confidentially about the children. Jack Stang told me this morning that his wife was going to raise hell with the principal over that stupid fight that took place between Patty and Scotty.”

  Megan ran her fingers through her red hair and rubbed her scalp to try and ease the pain of the headache. “It does involve that fight to a degree,” Megan admitted. “Thanks for understanding, Sam. I—I just need to be with a good friend for a few hours.” Some things were hard to face alone. Megan wanted to tell Sam everything. But it would be one more pitched battle she’d have to fight because she knew how upset he’d become over the situation.

  Panic shot through Sam when he heard her voice wobble. He slowed the Corvette at the front gate, the air police sentry saluting sharply, motioning him through. Outside the gate, he nudged the Corvette to sixty-five. Lake Rosamond, one of the two dry lake beds surrounding Edwards, was on their left.

  “Coming back to Edwards was a hard thing to do,” he told her softly. He appraised her taut, washed-out features. “It sounds like it’s one of those days when you’re questioning the wisdom of that decision.”

  “Believe me, it is. I just wish I was stronger because I don’t feel that way right now.”

  “Aww, it’s just a tempest in a teapot, Red,” he teased, wishing he knew what had Megan so upset. Hooking his thumb in his direction he jested, “I’m your real problem, remember? You hate pilots, and I’m one. I happen to like you, and vice versa. That’s the big problem you have to surmount.” He grinned, watching a soft smile touch her lips. Right now, all Holt wanted to do was stop the car, put his arms around Megan and hold her. She had that need written all over her. To hell with it. He braked the Corvette and pulled over.

  “Sam, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he muttered, placing his arms around her and drawing her against him. “Everything’s right.”

  Stunned, Megan didn’t resist. She found herself pressed against his light blue shirt, his chest a pillow for her to rest her head against. As he ran his fingers gently through her hair, a little sigh escaped from her, all the tension exiting through his caresses. Sam felt so good, so strong and confident. Acquiesci
ng, Megan moved her head against his shoulder, inhaling his masculine scent laced with a hint of fresh desert air.

  “That’s better,” Sam murmured against her ear. The need to kiss her again was excruciating, but he held himself in tight check. Resting his jaw against her glorious, silky hair, he went on in a low, coaxing voice. “Now, listen to me, Megan. You’ve come too far to quit now. Don’t let the situation get to you.” He inhaled her fragrance, feeling heat shaft nakedly through him. Megan was soft, vulnerable and trusting—if only for a few precious seconds. Giving her a small shake, he reluctantly created a separation between them. Sam looked into her wide green eyes. “I believe in you.”

  As Megan eased away from him, her hand unconsciously moved across his chest. She felt his muscles tense and grow taut wherever she had grazed him. Shaky, she hadn’t counted on her own heated reaction to Sam. His mouth, firm and commanding, was inches away. Megan dragged her gaze from it and forced herself to look up into his eyes, smoky blue with desire. “Sam…” His name came out like a breathless prayer. Megan rested her hand against his chest, feeling the urgent beat of his heart beneath her palm.

  Holt felt her quiver, and he saw panic start to eat away at the desire in her eyes. Gently, he released her back to her own seat. “Just hang in there,” was all he could say, watching a pink flush stain her cheeks.

  “It feels good to have support,” Megan admitted. “This is a new one to me—somebody in my corner, cheering me on.”

  Controlling his urge to reach out and lightly caress her wonderfully thick, fragrant hair, Sam sat there. “It’s about time, don’t you think? You don’t have to stay silent anymore, Megan. You can talk to me, tell me what’s bothering you, and—” he sighed, smiling at her “—what makes you laugh.”

  Touched beyond words, she couldn’t tear her gaze from his face. There was an incredible tenderness in Sam’s features, something she’d never encountered in another man—ever. “You make me laugh,” she said softly, avoiding his gaze. “When I’m down, you pick me up.”

  Settling back into his seat, Sam knew he’d better start driving or he’d do something both would regret later. “And vice versa, believe me. You ready for that nice little Italian restaurant?”

  Her appetite was nonexistent. “I’m pretty upset, but I’ll try and eat.”

  “Good, I like a woman who has a healthy appetite. Can’t stand these ladies who always order a salad and drink a glass of water when they’re taken out to dinner.”

  Megan relaxed, feeling the power of the Corvette pin her momentarily against the black leather seat. She needed Sam’s unwavering support. They rode in silence, taking a back road to Lancaster and avoiding the interstate that always crawled with police willing to hand out speeding tickets. Pilots on the ground tended to think their car was a plane without wings and pushed them at high speeds as a result. Speeding tickets were handed out with great regularity around Lancaster. Near the city limits Sam turned to her and broke the companionable silence.

  “I’d like to stop over at my home for a minute and change clothes before we go eat.” He motioned to his uniform. “I don’t like going out in public with this on.”

  “I understand.”

  “Yeah?” He smiled, thinking Megan had never looked younger. A gold reflection reminding him of sunlight danced in her green eyes. “You mean you don’t think that’s a line to lure you into my home, and then into my bedroom?”

  She gave him a narrowed look. “It better not be.”

  “What if it were, Red?” Holt could picture her flaming red hair spread out like a halo around her head on the pristine white sheets of his bed. The image was hot, intoxicating.

  “No, I trust you.”

  Sam groaned eloquently. “Putting the old guilt trip routine on me so I have to behave myself, huh?”

  “Exactly.”

  The homes of Lancaster were nearly all one-story, long, rambling ranch styles with exteriors of white, yellow, or light brown to deflect the desert sun and heat. He pulled in the driveway of his white adobe three-bedroom ranch-style home. A lawn struggled to remain green. Several small palms along the border of the sidewalk and oleander bushes blooming with pink flowers partially hid the front of the house. It gave him a sense of privacy he liked.

  “Come on, I’d like to show you my home,” Holt said, getting out. Moving around the car, he opened the door for Megan.

  Smoothing out her dress, Megan followed him up the red brick walk lined with yellow-topped and red-topped marigolds. “Do you take care of the landscaping, or hire someone to do it for you?”

  Fishing the key out of his pocket, Sam stepped up to the door and opened the screen. “No, I do it myself.”

  Impressed, Megan noticed every bush and tree was neatly trimmed, and there was no sign of weeds present in the marigolds. “A pilot who likes earthbound things. I have a hard time believing it.”

  Opening the door, the central air conditioning surrounded them. “Just another little wonderful surprise about me to impress you with,” Sam teased, gesturing for her to come in. He was glad he’d cleaned the house two days ago. Usually, dishes got washed once a week in the dishwasher! Until then, they remained stacked in the sink and all over the counter! Not a pretty sight, Sam thought, thanking his lucky stars they were washed and put away. He closed the door.

  Interested in her reaction, Sam remained silent for a moment. Megan slowly turned around, pleasure written in her features. The foyer opened directly into the living room on the right. Down the hall and to the left was the kitchen. When she spotted his antique Victorian furniture, she gasped, turning to him.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you collected Victorian furniture like I did?”

  With a shrug, he walked over to where she stood. “When I came over the other night, it didn’t seem like the right time or place to discuss our mutual passion.”

  Enthralled, Megan admired his impeccable taste. “You’re right, but, this is thrilling! May I snoop?”

  With a chuckle, Sam gestured toward the living room. “Sure, go ahead. I’ll go get changed.”

  Megan took another look at Sam, and then shook her head. “You really are full of surprises.”

  “Is that test-pilot image finally starting to fade off me?” he teased drolly. Megan blushed beautifully.

  “I had that coming, didn’t I?”

  “No,” Holt responded huskily, “not really. I just need you to see me as a man who happens to fly for a living, and not the other way around.”

  She stood there, watching him walk down the beige-carpeted hall and disappear into another room. Mulling over Holt’s entreaty, Megan knew he was right. She went to admire the Victorian furniture. There were four walnut spoon-back armchairs with matching nursing chairs. Each had serpentine seats and were exquisite pieces.

  A long time ago, Megan had learned to stand quietly and simply feel a home. She did so now, finding an indescribable peace filtering through her. Sam’s home was quiet, but not deathly silent. The fireplace had a mid-eighteenth-century Georgian brass and iron fire grate with a chinoiserie frieze. On the mantel was a Dutch pewter oval tobacco box that was a rare find and in perfect condition.

  Turning, Megan wandered into the formal dining room, the walls painted a dusky rose color. A huge Victorian burr-walnut Sutherland table with shaped feet made her halt. The walnut surface showed a great deal of loving attention despite its venerable age. Six early Windsor chairs sat around the oval table. In awe, she lightly ran her fingertips across the burr walnut and felt the satin finish.

  The kitchen had a lot of open space, and all the modern and expected necessities. What Megan like most were the pots of small herbs that Sam had growing on the many windowsills. She leaned over, inhaling the scent of the sage and dill, and pinched off a bit of parsley and ate it. From the kitchen, she discovered his office. An impossible amount of shelf space hid all the walls, hundreds of book on technical topics across the shelves.

  Curious, she looked at several photos t
hat hung in front of his neatly kept desk. They were all family pictures. One was obviously with his brother and four sisters. The second was of his parents. Megan studied the smiling couple. Sam’s mother was petite, with graying hair perched atop her head in a bun, her smile toothy and warm. His father, a tall, handsome man, wore coveralls. There was grease or mud on his hands. The photo was obviously impromptu, taken without giving them a chance to clean up first. She smiled gently, liking their worn, friendly faces.

  There was a great deal of Sam’s mother in him, she discovered. Somehow, that made her feel good. A woman’s influence, she had found, always softened a man, and took away his hard, insensitive edges. The last photo was a graduation picture from the Air Force flight school, with Sam surrounded by his friends. He looked much younger then, his face unlined as yet, untouched by life.

  The door at the rear of the office was ajar, and she walked through it.

  Megan jerked to a stop. She was in the master bedroom, and Sam was in the process of finding a white T-shirt to put on over his dark-haired chest. He’d taken a quick shower, his skin gleaming beneath the low lighting. The dark brown slacks he wore emphasized his maleness, and Megan took a hasty step back toward the office.

  “Stay put,” he said, pulling the T-shirt over his head. “I’ll be decent in a second. What do you think of my bed?”

  Megan admired the bold lines of Sam’s upper body. His shoulders were proud, thrown back naturally, his chest deep, and his belly hard and flat. “Coming from any other guy, that would be a line, Holt.”

  He laughed with her, pulling a pale pink shirt off a hanger from the walk-in closet. “Yeah, it would. Being the antique hound you are you know it’s not a line. I hunted the world for that bed.”

  “I believe it,” Megan said, looking up at the incredible George III mahogany four-poster bedstead of Hepplewhite design. “How old is it?”

  “Sotheby’s put it at 1780.” He quickly buttoned the shirt, stuffing in the tails and rolling up the sleeves to his elbows. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

  The paisley-print cotton material formed a canopy over the bed, the mahogany posts beautifully carved and highly polished. It was definitely of masculine cast, but the graceful, slender lines of the carved wood made it beautiful, not bulky or heavy-looking. “Yes, it is.”