Up Close and Dangerous, Page 2

  Opting for caution over valor, Cam didn’t say anything else to her; instead he helped himself to the coffee and wandered over to the open door of Bret’s office. “You’re early,” he said, propping a shoulder against the door frame.

  Bret gave him a sour look. “Not willingly.”

  “You mean Karen called and told you to get your ass down here?” Behind him, Cam heard a sound that could have been either a chuckle or a growl. With Karen, it was hard to tell the difference.

  “Almost as bad. Some idiot waited until the last minute to book an eight o’clock.”

  “We don’t call them ‘idiots,’” Karen said automatically. “I sent you a memo. We call them ‘clients.’”

  Bret was taking a sip of coffee when she spoke, and he half choked, half laughed. “‘Clients,’” he repeated. “Got it.” He indicated the sheet of paper he’d been scribbling on, which Cam recognized as a schedule form. “I’ve called Mike in to take the Spokane run this afternoon, in the Skylane”—Mike Gardiner was their part-time pilot—“and that’ll free me up to take the Mirage to L.A. if you want to take the Eugene run in the Skyhawk—or we can swap if you’d rather do the L.A. run.”

  Whoever got into the office first was the one who had to start on the paperwork, which was one reason why Bret was seldom there so early. He was matching the range of the planes to the length of the flights, which was only common sense because it saved time if they didn’t have to stop for refueling. Normally Cam would have preferred the L.A. run, but he’d already flown a couple of long trips this week and he needed a little break. He also needed a few hours in one of the Cessnas; he flew so much in the Lear and the Piper Mirage that he had to make an effort to get his hours in on the smaller planes. “No, it’s fine the way it is. I need the hours. What’s on for tomorrow?”

  “Just two. Tomorrow’s an early day for me, too; I’m taking Mrs. Wingate to Denver for a vacation, so I’ll be deadheading back unless I can pick up something. The other one is…” He paused, looking through the papers on his desk for the contract sheet Karen had written up.

  “A cargo run to Sacramento,” Karen said from the outer office, not bothering to pretend she wasn’t eavesdropping.

  “A cargo run to Sacramento,” Bret echoed, grinning, as if Cam hadn’t heard her perfectly well. The growling sound came again. Bret scribbled a note and pushed it across his desk; Cam ambled forward to put one finger on the piece of paper and twirl it around.

  Ask her if she’s had her rabies shot, the note read.

  “Sure,” he said, and raised his voice. “Karen, Bret wants me to ask you—”

  “Shut up, you asshole!” Bret lunged to his feet and punched Cam on the shoulder to stop him from completing the sentence. Laughing, Cam left the room to go to his own office.

  Karen gave him the squinty-eyed look again. “Bret wants you to ask me what?” she demanded.

  “Never mind. It wasn’t anything important,” Cam said innocently.

  “Yeah, I’ll bet,” she muttered.

  The phone rang as he sat down, and though technically it was Karen’s job to answer calls, she was busy and he wasn’t, so he punched on line one and answered.

  “Executive Air Limo.”

  “This is Seth Wingate. Does my stepmother have a flight booked for tomorrow?”

  The man’s voice was abrupt, raising Cam’s hackles, but he kept his own tone neutral. “Yes, she does.”

  “Where to?”

  Cam wished he could tell the jerk that Mrs. Wingate’s destination wasn’t any of his business, but when it came down to it, jerk or not, he was a Wingate and would have a lot to say about whether or not J&L kept the Wingate Group’s business. “Denver.”

  “When is she coming back?”

  “I don’t have the exact date in front of me, but I believe it’s around two weeks.”

  The only reply was the line being disconnected, without a “thank you,” “kiss my ass,” or anything else.

  “Bastard,” he muttered as he clicked the receiver down.

  “Who?”

  Karen’s voice floated through the open door. Was there anything she didn’t hear? The hell of it was, the tap-tap of computer keys never stopped, never hesitated. The woman was downright scary.

  “Seth Wingate,” he replied.

  “I’m with you on that, boss. He’s keeping tabs on Mrs. Wingate, huh? I wonder why. There’s no love lost between those two.”

  No surprise there; the first Mrs. Wingate, whom he’d known briefly but really liked, had died barely a year before Mr. Wingate married his personal assistant, who was younger than both his children. “Maybe he’s going to throw a party in the house while she’s gone.”

  “That’s juvenile.”

  “So is he.”

  “That’s probably why Mr. Wingate, the old one, left her in charge of the money.”

  Surprised, Cam got up and went to his office door. “You’re kidding,” he said to her back.

  She glanced over her shoulder at him, her fingers still flying over the computer keys. “You didn’t know?”

  “How would I know?” Neither any of the family members nor the executives in the Group talked personal finances with him, and he didn’t believe they confided in Karen either.

  “I know,” she pointed out.

  Yeah, but you’re scary. He bit back the words before his mouth got his ass in big-time trouble. Karen had her ways of finding out stuff. “How do you know?”

  “I hear things.”

  “If it’s true, no wonder there’s no love lost between them.” Hell, if he was in Seth Wingate’s shoes, he’d probably be acting like a bastard toward his stepmother, too.

  “It’s true, all right. Old Mr. Wingate was a smart guy. Think about it. Would you have left either Seth or Tamzin in charge of millions and millions of dollars?”

  Cam had to think about it for maybe one thousandth of a second. “No way in hell.”

  “Well, neither would he. And I like her. She’s smart.”

  “I hope she’s smart enough to have changed the locks on the doors when Mr. Wingate died,” Cam said. And to watch her back, because he wouldn’t trust Seth Wingate not to put a knife in it, if he had the chance.

  3

  THE PHONE JARRED CAM AWAKE THE NEXT MORNING AND he fumbled for it without opening his eyes. Maybe it was a wrong number; if he didn’t open his eyes, he’d be able to go back to sleep until the alarm on his wristwatch went off. He knew from experience that once he opened his eyes he might as well get up because sleep wasn’t gonna happen. “Yeah.”

  “Boss, get your pants on and get down here.”

  Karen. Shit. He forgot about keeping his eyes shut and bolted straight up, a shot of adrenaline clearing his brain of cobwebs. “What’s wrong?”

  “Your idiot partner just showed up with his eyes swollen almost shut, barely able to breathe, and he thinks he’s capable of flying to Denver today.”

  In the background Cam heard a thick, hoarse voice that didn’t sound at all like Bret saying something unintelligible. “Is that Bret?”

  “Yeah. He wants to know why I call you ‘boss’ and him ‘idiot.’ Because some things are just evident, that’s why,” she snapped, evidently replying to Bret. Returning her attention to Cam, she said, “I’ve called Mike, but he can’t get here in time to take the Denver flight, so I’m giving him your flight to Sacramento and you have to get your butt in gear.”

  “I’m on my way,” he said, disconnecting and dashing for the bathroom. He showered and shaved in four minutes and twenty-three seconds, threw on one of his black suits, grabbed his cap and the overnight bag he always kept packed because things like this sometimes happened, and was out the door in six minutes. He backtracked to turn off the coffeemaker that was programmed to begin brewing in about an hour, then, because he didn’t know if he’d have time to stop for breakfast he snatched some trail mix bars from the cabinet and dropped them in his pocket.

  Shit, shit, shit. He swore under hi
s breath as he wove through the early-morning traffic. His passenger today was the frosty Widow Wingate. Bret got along with her, but Bret got along with almost everyone; the few times Cam had been unlucky enough to be around her, she’d acted as if she had a stick up her ass and he was a bug on the windshield of her life. He’d dealt with her type before, in the military; the attitude hadn’t set well with him then and it sure as hell didn’t now. He’d keep his lip buttoned if it killed him, but if she gave him any lip he’d give her the roughest ride of her life; he’d have her puking her guts out before they got to Denver.

  He made good time; he lived on the outskirts of Seattle, plus he was heading away from the city instead of toward it, so his side of the road was relatively clear while the other side was a solid ribbon of vehicles. He pulled into his parking slot a mere twenty-seven minutes after hanging up the phone.

  “That was fast,” Karen said when he entered the office, overnight bag in hand. “I have more bad news.”

  “Lay it on me.” He put down the bag to pour a cup of coffee.

  “The Mirage is in for repairs, and Dennis says it won’t be ready in time for the flight.”

  Cam sipped in silence, thinking through the logistics. The Mirage could have made it to Denver without refueling. The Lear obviously could, but they used it for groups, not just one person—and though he could fly the Lear by himself, he preferred having a copilot. Neither of the Cessnas had the range, but the Skylane had a service ceiling of about eighteen thousand feet, while the Skyhawk’s ceiling was thirteen five. Some of Colorado’s mountain peaks topped fourteen thousand, so the choice of aircraft was a no-brainer.

  “The Skylane,” he said. “I’ll refuel in Salt Lake City.”

  “That’s what I figured,” Bret said, coming out of his office. His voice was so hoarse he sounded something like a frog with sinus congestion. “I told the crew to get it ready.”

  Cam looked up. Karen hadn’t exaggerated Bret’s condition at all; if anything, she had understated it. His eyes were red-rimmed and so swollen just a narrow slit of blue iris showed. His face was blotchy, and he was breathing through his mouth. All in all, he looked like hell, and if his miserable expression was any indication he felt like it, too. Whatever it was he had, Cam didn’t want it.

  “Don’t come any closer,” Cam warned, holding up his hand like a traffic cop.

  “I’ve already sprayed him with Lysol,” Karen said, glaring across the office at Bret. “A considerate person, with half an ounce of common sense, would have stayed home and called, instead of coming to work to spread his germs around.”

  “I can fly,” he croaked. “You’re the one who insists I can’t.”

  “I’m so sure Mrs. Wingate would want to spend five hours cooped up in a little plane with you,” she said sarcastically. “I don’t want to spend five minutes in the same office with you. Go. Home.”

  “I second that motion,” Cam growled. “Go home.”

  “I took a decongestant,” Bret wheezed in protest. “It just hasn’t kicked in yet.”

  “Then it isn’t going to kick in in time for you to fly.”

  “You don’t like flying the family.”

  Especially Mrs. Wingate, Cam thought, but aloud he said, “It’s no big deal.”

  “She likes me better.”

  Now Bret sounded like a sulky kid, but then he always pouted when something interfered with his flight time. “She can tough it out for five hours,” Cam said, unrelenting. If he could, she definitely could. “You’re sick, I’m not. End of discussion.”

  “I pulled up the weather reports for you,” Karen said. “They’re on your computer.”

  “Thanks.” Going into his office, he seated himself at his desk and began reading. Bret stood in the office doorway, looking as if he didn’t know what to do with himself. “For God’s sake,” Cam said, “go to a doctor. You look as if you’ve been Maced. You may be having an allergic reaction to something.”

  “All right.” He sneezed violently, then went into a coughing fit.

  From where Cam was seated he couldn’t see Karen, but he heard a hissing noise, then Bret was enveloped in a mist. “Oh, for God’s sake,” the sick man wheezed, flapping his arms to drive the mist away. “Breathing this can’t be good.”

  She simply sprayed more. “I give up,” he muttered after a futile few seconds of flapping, because he was losing ground against the cloud. “I’m going, I’m going. But if I develop lung failure because you’ve Lysoled me to death, you’re fired!”

  “If you’re dead, you can’t fire me.” She got in the last shot, delivered to his back as he slammed out of the office.

  After a moment of silence, Cam said, “Spray some more. Spray everything he touched.”

  “I’ll need a new can. This one’s almost empty.”

  “When I get back, I’ll buy you a whole case.”

  “For now, I’ll spray the doorknobs he’s touched, but other than that stay out of his office.”

  “What about the bathroom?”

  “I’m not going in the men’s john. I used to think men were human, but I went in a jock john once and almost passed out from shock. Going into another one would probably throw me into psychotic episodes. You want the bathroom sprayed, you’ll have to do it yourself.”

  He pondered for a moment on the faintly unbelievable detail that she worked for them, then he also considered the probability that the office would fall into complete chaos if she weren’t there. Probability, hell; she’d make damn certain it did. When he weighed those two viewpoints against each other, he concluded that bathroom spraying wasn’t on her list of duties. “I don’t have time right now.”

  “The bathroom isn’t going anywhere—and I use the ladies’.” Meaning she didn’t care if the men’s got de-germed or not.

  He stared through the open door, only now realizing how many of their conversations were carried on with her in the outer office and him in his office, and most of the time he couldn’t see her at all. “I’m going to put up a big round mirror,” he said. “Right there next to the outer door.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can see you when I talk to you.”

  “Why do you want to do that?”

  “To tell if you’re grinning.”

  CAM STOWED HIS bag in the luggage compartment then inspected the Skylane, circling it, looking for anything that was loose or worn. He tugged, he pushed, he kicked. He climbed into the cockpit and ran through the preflight procedures, checking each item off on a list on his clipboard. He knew this procedure by heart, he could do it in his sleep, but he never relied on his memory alone; one moment of distraction, and he might miss something crucial. He went by the list so he knew he covered everything. When he was two miles high was the wrong time to discover something wasn’t working.

  Checking his watch, he saw that it was almost time for Mrs. Wingate’s arrival. He started the engine, listening to the sound as it caught and smoothed out. He checked the instrumentation display on the monitors, double-checked that all the data was normal, then checked the area traffic before idling toward the chain-link gate in front of the terminal where he would pick up his passenger. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flash of movement in the direction of the parking lot, and he glanced that way just long enough to verify that a dark green Land Rover was pulling into the closest available slot.

  Seeing her in the Land Rover always surprised him. Mrs. Wingate didn’t look like a utility-vehicle or SUV type of woman; if he’d been meeting her for the first time, he’d have pegged her for someone who preferred a big luxury model—not a sporty type, but one of those that someone else drove while she sat in the backseat. Instead she always drove herself, wheeling the four-wheel-drive around as if she intended to take off across a field at any moment.

  He’d cut it too close. Normally Bret would already be at the gate, and he’d help her get her luggage out and stowed. Cam saw the way she stood for a moment, eyeing the Skylane coming closer, then she clo
sed the door and went around to the back to begin hauling out her luggage herself. He was still a good sixty yards from the gate; no way would he get there in time.

  Great. She’d probably start the flight already pissed, because no one was there to help her. On the other hand, at least she hadn’t stood there waiting, with her nose in the air, until someone did show.

  Once he was in position he cut the engine and climbed out. As he turned toward the gate he saw her coming out of the terminal building, pulling a suitcase behind her with one hand while she carried a large tote bag with the other. Karen, of all people, was with her, rolling two more suitcases along.

  Mrs. Wingate watched him stride closer, and turned to Karen. “I thought Bret was supposed to be my pilot,” she said in her cool, even tone.

  “He’s sick,” Karen explained. “Trust me, you wouldn’t want him anywhere near you.”

  Mrs. Wingate didn’t shrug, or let her expression give away even a hint of what she was thinking. “Of course not,” she said briefly, her eyes completely obscured by the black sunglasses she wore.

  “Mrs. Wingate,” Cam said in greeting as he reached them.

  “Captain Justice.” She stepped through the gate as soon as he opened it.

  “Let me take your bags.”

  Silently she relinquished her hold on the suitcase before his hand got anywhere near the handle. Following her lead, he didn’t speak as he stowed it and the two other bags in the luggage compartment, wondering if she’d left any clothes behind in her closet. The bags were so heavy she’d never have made it on a commercial airliner without paying a hefty fee.

  When there was only one passenger he or she often opted to sit beside him rather than in one of the four passenger seats behind the cockpit, partly because talking to him was easier while wearing the copilot’s headset. He helped Mrs. Wingate into the plane, steadying her as she stepped on the strut and then inside; she took the seat behind him, making it evident she didn’t want to talk to him.