Aussie Rules (21 page)

“Soon as I get back.”

He had to breathe for a minute. “When were you going to tell me?”

“Now.”

He shook his head, pinched the bridge of his nose, and wondered why, when he'd been a patient man all of his life, that this woman seemed to drive him to the very edge of sanity without even trying.

They fell silent again, Mel distracted by reports in her headset of unfriendly weather over the Bay Area, Bo by the passengers, who were asking him to find them an old biplane for Mr. Hutton's father, who used to fly one. After that they needed him to pour them drinks and check the temperature, then to get the Mrs. a pillow for her stiff neck. Bo resisted the urge to tell them to do all this themselves, it was Mel's business to make sure they were content. It wasn't that he didn't want to deal with them, but more that he wanted to shake the hell out of Mel.

“You make a pretty flight attendant,” Mel deadpanned when he finally came back to the cockpit.

He looked over at her and smiled. “Maybe I'm enjoying getting your butt, your very nice butt, I might add—out of a sling.”

“You did not save my butt.”

“Really.” He hitched a shoulder toward the back, where the upscale, elegant couple was engrossed—finally—in their respective laptops, complete with headphones. He imagined they were listening to something classical, while checking their stock portfolios. “Because I'm pretty sure I did.”

Her jaw tightened, but that might have been the storm on the horizon, which they'd been carefully eyeing for the past half hour. It was going to be a hell of an issue for the return flight.

Not that he'd mind an overnight stay in San Francisco. He could find fun and entertainment wherever he went. But truthfully, Mel was providing most of his entertainment at the moment. God, the way her eyes flashed at her every single thought. She eyed the horizon, and the churning gray and black clouds there, then swore beneath her breath.

“Did you know you wear your thoughts out on your sleeve for everyone to see?” he asked conversationally.

She glanced at him, her eyes pissy. “Really? What am I thinking now?”

He laughed softly at the fuck-you glare. “Ah, that's too easy.”

Her mouth actually quirked in an almost smile before she turned away to once again eye the storm, then her instruments.

“We're going to be okay.”

She nodded. “I know. But getting back—”

“Yeah, we're not going to get back. Not tonight.”

“We are not staying overnight.”

“What's the matter, you afraid of a little sleepover?”

At that, she tossed back her head and laughed. He already knew he enjoyed her temper. He enjoyed her thought processes, too, and he most definitely enjoyed her body. But her laugh. The woman had a laugh that reached out and grabbed him by the throat. And south of that as well—his heart.

And also south of
that
…Yeah, he thought, she slayed him through and through.

“Funny that you accuse me of being afraid of a sleepover,” she said. “When you're the one who stood with a couch between us, because you were afraid I was going to rip your clothes off.”

And yet still his clothes had come off. “You think I was afraid?”

“I know it,” she said smugly.

He opened his mouth without quite knowing what he was going to say to that. Because, seriously? She was dead-spot right on.

He
was
afraid of her.

He'd come here to the States half-cocked, ready for bloodshed or whatever came his way, including destroying everything Sally had worked for, but something had happened.

Or someone.

Melanie Anderson, temperamental, stubborn hard-ass. But now he knew she was also strong, loyal, dedicated, passionate…

God, he had it bad.

“Damn,” Mel breathed, and then the plane jerked. Dipped. Her jaw went tight as she touched base via radio to air traffic control.

Bo didn't need to hear the short, clipped conversation to know. The storm had worsened ahead of schedule.

Turbulence ahead; both outside the plane, and in.

 

Mel glanced at her instruments, at the horizon. They were fifteen minutes out of San Francisco, that was all, but it was going to be a rocky ride. Proving it, the plane hit an air pocket and shuddered and dipped again.

Behind them, their passengers took off their headsets, glancing up worriedly. Bo motioned for them to stay seated. “Just turbulence from the storm,” he said calmly. “Hang tight, we'll have you on the ground in fifteen minutes.”

“I could have said that,” Mel said to him from beneath her breath.

“You're flying.”

“Yeah.” Her muscles were tense as granite as she scanned the horizon, which by now was completely socked in by cloud coverage. The plane dipped again and she fought the controls, feeling a drop of sweat glide down between her shoulder blades.

Their passengers gasped again. And as before, Bo turned to them and smiled…“Don't worry about a thing, you're in great hands.”

Mel didn't take her eyes off the vanishing skyline. Vanishing, because the cloud coverage was taking over. Deep breath.

And then another. “Handy having a flight attendant.”

“I guess it is,” he finally said, sounding amused at himself. “At your service, darlin'.”

She risked a quick glance at him. “As if you'd ever be at my service.”

“Try me.”

Something deep inside her leaped but the plane took another stomach-dropping dip. She bit her lip and gripped the controls.

“Easy,” he murmured. “Just stay on it.”

“I know how to fly.” She scanned the horizon, but all she could see was a solid, sickening gray.

“I'll tell you what,” he said quietly. “You just concentrate on what you do best, and we can get back to the servicing later.”

“Been there, done that,” she said, referring to the other night.

“Yeah, but it's worth a repeat.”

“I don't know,” she quipped, eyes scanning the horizon, teeth clenched as she tried to make light. “I mean, sure, the first time was pretty great, but I doubt you could repeat the performance.”

He let out a low laugh of disbelief. “A dare, Mel? You know better than that.”

They dipped again. “Goddamnit,” she muttered, leaning forward as if that could help her see through the clouds that were thicker than cream soup.

“Stop wasting your time searching for a visual you're not going to get. You've got the instruments, use 'em.”

Right. Damn it, he was so right, and that pissed her off enough to jolt her into the rock-solid concentration that had eluded her until now. She focused in on the controls and breathing, and once she did, her instincts kicked in.

The plane shuddered and dipped and shuddered again, but she was in firm control.

Behind them, Mrs. Hutton gasped. Her husband put an arm around her. Outside the plane, the wind and rain battered the plane while Mel began their descent. Another trickle of sweat ran down her back but she didn't think about that now, thought about nothing but the work right in front of her. Flying was like breathing, and breathing was second nature.

Bo didn't say another word, and for that, she felt grateful. She knew what to do, she didn't need direction, and that he didn't butt in was testament to how much he trusted her.

She'd think about that, and the implications of that trust, later, but not now. Not when her heart still raced, adrenaline flowing through her like a raging river.

When the wheels touched down, the Huttons let out a collective sigh. Shocking her, Bo became the consummate flight attendant, getting the passengers off with their luggage, through the driving wind and rain, and off the tarmac as quickly as possible.

Then he was back for Mel. “I swore I wasn't going to do this,” he said, then yanked her into his arms, his voice low and rich in her ear when he spoke. “That was some class-A flying, Mel.”

She resisted for all of half a second, then hugged him back, her insides still quaking. “Thanks.”

He looked at her, his smile fading, desire and heat filling the spot. “Ah, hell. Hold on darlin', here comes another storm.” And he kissed her, his mouth warm and knowing, his tongue sweeping in her mouth as if it belonged there.

She certainly enjoyed the invasion, and as amazing as it seemed, with his hands in her hair, on her back, pressing her as close as she could get, the rest of the world faded away. She was reduced to nothing but the sensation of being held against his body and how he made her feel—which was alive, vibrantly, wonderfully alive. When he finally pulled back, he smiled. “It's time.”

She was still breathless. “Time?”

“I believe there was a question of servicing.”

Oh, God. Now that they'd actually been together, she knew exactly what he meant, and how good he was at it. Her thighs trembled. Between them she went damp, at just his voice, his words. She was worse than Pavlov's dog! “I don't think so. I have to prepare for the flight back.”

He laughed softly. “We're not going back tonight. You know that. No one is flying in this.” As if to solidify this statement, lightning cracked. Thunder boomed. Rain and wind slashed at the plane.

“Hotel room,” he said. “Shower. Dinner. And then…”

Her voice was not steady, not even close and yet she couldn't help but ask. “Then?”

His smile looked like sin personified, wicked and naughty to the nth degree. “Then…Let the servicing begin.”

A
fter Mel's charter left Dimi found herself craving chocolate. It was all Bo's fault, she decided, as she inhaled a Hershey's bar from Mel's hidden stash. Bo's and…damn it, Mel's.

Yeah, that's right. She really wanted to blame Mel for not fixing this the way she'd fixed everything else over the years, even as Dimi hated herself for the thought. It drove her to go for yet another chocolate bar, after which she felt like crap and was filled with self-loathing, a sense of worthlessness, and a fear for the future she couldn't eat away.

“Damn it.”
She reached for the phone and called Brian, the tall, dark, and hunky guy she'd drooled over at the gym the other night while watching him go through his weightlifting routine.

He'd worked out shirtless, wearing only shorts, looking amazing at every single station. When he was done, his body taut and quivering and damp with sweat, he'd swiped his face with a towel and locked gazes with her.

She'd felt that familiar thrill, that age-old “gotta have him” lurch deep inside, and she'd smiled.

His eyes had bloomed with heat and a good amount of trouble as he'd smiled back, and her engine had revved.

When she'd gotten to her car after her own workout, he'd left his card on her windshield. Brian Desota, attorney at law.

Yum.

Even better, he answered his phone, he was available, and thirty minutes later, he picked her up at North Beach, looking hot in all black as he drove her to a new restaurant in town.

It started out good, with lots of potential, so it shocked Dimi when he insulted the waiter. He'd also, she remembered, been rude to the valet. And no matter how many drinks Dimi ordered, he still got uglier and uglier.

She sure could pick 'em.

Finally the meal was over and they stood outside his car. She didn't want to get into the passenger seat and let him take her home, despite the fact that it was fifteen miles from North Beach, it was raining cats and dogs, and she was more than a little tipsy. But in truth, she'd rather risk life and limb, and walk every single one of those miles barefoot than spend another moment with him.

“Get in,” he said, adding a little nudge to the small of her back.

Another problem: having met her drink for drink, he wasn't feeling any pain, either. Always, that had seemed like a turn-on for Dimi, a man who could drink right alongside her.

But suddenly, it felt old. She wanted to get to know someone and
remember
what they had to say. She wanted to wake up without a headache, wanted to get through the afternoon without yearning for a glass of wine.

She wanted to look in the mirror and not see a woman who looked harder and colder every single day.

“Get in,” he said again, raising his voice over a boom of thunder.

No. The word was no, but as everyone in the entire universe knew, she had a little problem saying it. “Actually,” she began, and sent him a smile she hoped looked halfway genuine, “I—”

“You're not changing your mind about coming to my house,” he said. “Not after that expensive dinner.”

Her brows knitted. “I never said I'd go to your house.”

“Sweetheart, it was implied.” His hand, low on her spine, became firm as he tried to get her inside his car.

“No.” She lifted her chin, and with rain coming down into her face, looked into his now cooling eyes.
“No.”
She backed out of his grip and stood beneath the restaurant awning next to the valet. “Thank you for dinner, but good night.”

His jaw went tight, and suddenly not a single bit of that earlier hunkiness she'd seen in him showed.

What was it with her? Did she have a “looking for an asshole” sign on her forehead?

“I won't call you again,” he warned.

She nearly laughed, but it would have come out half-hysterical so she bit it back. “I know. I don't want you to.”

Now temper filled his eyes along with the annoyance, and she just sighed as he sped off, screeching out of the parking lot. Yeah, she sure could pick them. She opened her cell again and dialed Mel. It took her two tries, which told her she was either a bit more tipsy than she'd thought, or thoroughly shaken. Maybe some combination of both.

“Anderson Air,” came Mel's voice, sounding extremely out of breath, and extremely distracted.

Dimi frowned. “You're on your way back from the Bay?”

“No.”

“Okay, good.” Dimi reached out and gripped the back of the bench beneath the awning for balance, a little unnerved to find herself weaving. “I need a ride from—”

“I'm still in San Francisco. Grounded by the storm.”

“Oh.” Dimi looked out into the dark night and felt…alone. Extremely, frighteningly alone. “Are you stuck in the airport?”

“Uh, no.” Mel hesitated. “I'm getting a room, we're nearly at the hotel now.”

“We?” Dimi staggered back a step. “You, and…Bo?” She realized she'd only been mildly upset by her date, at least compared to this. “Mel. You can't—”

“Look, tell it to Mother Nature, okay? I'm sorry I can't pick you up. I thought you were on a date.”

“
Were
being the operative word.”

“Oh, God.” Mel's voice softened. “What happened? Are you okay? Was he a jerk? Goddamn this weather—”

“I have a feeling I'm better off than you are.” Dimi's throat went thick at all the worry and love in Mel's voice. “Hey, listen, I'm okay. But you…you be careful.”

“Right back atcha,” Mel said.

Dimi nodded even though she knew Mel couldn't see her, and closed her phone. The chilly rain brought goose bumps out on her arms, and she hugged herself.

“Ma'am?” The valet stood in front of her with an umbrella. “Do you need me to call you a cab?”

Cabs were few and far between in the city, where most everyone drove themselves. The thought of waiting around seemed to bring her down even further. “No, thanks.” She opened her cell again, accessed her saved numbers and tried Kellan. No answer. She hit the next number, which would be Ritchie, and waited.

“'Lo,” came the sleepy voice.

Dimi blinked. “Ritchie?”

“Danny.”

She stared at her phone. She'd hit the wrong number. Oh, God. Anyone but him, the one guy she'd rather not have see her this way. Not again. “I'm sorry I woke you.”

“Dimi.” He sounded wide awake now. “What's the matter?”

Just the sound of his voice tightened her throat. Pathetic. She was pathetic being on the verge of a breakdown tonight. So she'd had a bad date. Again. She should be used to it. She wasn't the type of woman who men treated nicely. “Nothing's the matter. Sorry I woke you.” She shut the phone and shoved it in her purse. “Idiot,” she told herself, huddled beneath the awning as the storm kicked it up a notch. “You're an idiot—”

Her cell began vibrating. She reached into her purse and looked at it. Danny. Slowly she flipped the cell open.

“Just tell me if you need help,” he said without a greeting. “Because I sure as hell can't go back to sleep until I know.”

She winced, touched the phone to her forehead and scrunched her eyes tight as regret, pride, and stupidity all played tag with each other in her brain.

“Dimi.”

She sighed. Oh, what the hell, he'd asked. “I could use a ride,” she admitted.

“Your date went bad.”

“Just a little bit, yeah.”

To give him credit, he didn't say a word about that. “Where are you?”

She told him. “I could just catch a cab—”

“Don't move.” Disconnect.

With a sigh, she sat on the fancy bench in front of the fancy restaurant to wait, and tried not to think. In twelve minutes flat, Danny pulled up with a screech, getting out of his big, beat-up truck and into the rain.

Tonight he wore a pair of jeans loose on his lean hips, flip-flops, and a T-shirt worn thin at all the seams that said
BITE ME
across the chest and was now getting wetter by the second.

She stared at the words on his shirt, feeling something tighten deep inside her.

He was a fellow rebel.

How had she missed that about him? He looked rumpled, sleepy, and unsmiling as he strode right to her, pulled her up from the bench and peered into her face. “Are you all right?”

“I'm sorry—”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

He looked her over as if needing to make sure for himself, then let out a breath. “Okay, then.”

How was it that she'd never noticed how cute he was? His blond hair, wet now, fell nearly to his shoulders, with a stubborn strand stabbing him in the eyes. His mouth was grim at the moment but when he smiled, which she knew he did with ease, it was never cruel. Nothing mean ever crossed those lips.

Those lips. She couldn't tear her gaze off them, which she had to attribute to the sheer volume of alcohol she'd consumed, because she didn't care about lips. Why should she when she never kissed? Never wanted to?

But from deep within her she craved
his
lips, his kiss. It made no sense, but clearly, tonight, she wasn't about making sense. Compounding error on error, she leaned in and touched his mouth with hers.

His shock vibrated through her, but she did it again, staring into his eyes as she balanced herself on tiptoe by holding onto his arms and kissed him.

He held himself rigid, unmoving, but beneath her fingers she felt the strength of him, and then she felt him tremble.

Tremble.

More. She had to have more, so she touched her tongue to the corner of his mouth, tasting him. “Mmm,” she murmured, and finally,
finally,
shattered his rigid control. With a rough sound, he hauled her up against him and kissed her, ohmigod kissed her, head bent, mouth fused to hers, tongue sweeping inside her mouth to claim hers…

This was what she'd needed so badly tonight, and all those other nights. If she'd only known what she was missing…But no, that wasn't right. It was because it was Danny that she felt such a delicious oblivion. Clearly he knew what he was doing. She could lose herself, she could feel it, and he'd keep her safe. She wouldn't have to think.

Just feel.

Thank God, she thought, and wrapped herself around him, nearly crying in relief, but then she was blinking in surprise because he'd pulled away, supporting her until she nodded, and then dropping his hands from her as if burned, stepping back, averting his face so that she couldn't see into his eyes.

“Danny?”

He was breathing hard, looking extremely unlike his usual laid-back, easygoing self. “I'm not doing this,” he ground out. “Not like this. Not in front of a damn restaurant, with you so drunk you can't stand up straight.”

“I'm not drunk.”

“Plenty wasted, though.”

She staggered back a step and tried to figure out how she'd gone from feeling as if she might explode into orgasm from just a kiss, to wanting to crawl into a hole and die.

Without another word he led her to his truck, waited for her to get in and buckle up, and then came around and got in behind the wheel. The both of them dripping everywhere, he shoved the truck into gear and pulled out into the street.

The night was dark, the highway had no lights. The cab of his truck had a slight glow from the instruments on the dash, but she didn't need to see him to feel the tension. Hers, certainly. And also his. He was mad, furious even, and yet for that one glorious moment when he'd held her close, she knew he'd been aroused. Even the thought sent a shiver of thrill through her.
She'd made him hard
. “Why did you come for me?” she whispered.

An oncoming car slashed light over his tense features as he turned to her. “Because you called.”

“But you're mad at me.”

“One thing has nothing to do with the other.”

Her head was beginning to spin, and with a sound of distress, she put her hand to it.

He swore, then jerked the truck to the side of the road and braked hard.

“I'm not going to get sick in your truck,” she said. “I'm not that drunk. A pity, really, because believe me, the night sucked.”

“I'm not worried about you getting sick. You know how to hold your alcohol. Which isn't a compliment, by the way.” A raindrop slid down his jaw, plopped onto his chest. His shirt was plastered to his torso. “I can be pissed as hell at you, Deem, and still be there when you need me. I wish you'd get that through your thick skull.”

She couldn't breathe. She could only draw air into her lungs. “That's a foolish thing to tell me. It gives me the upper hand.”