The Flyboy's Temptation

“Seems fair enough.” She took a breath and said, “My name is Dr. Hope Larsen. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Carmichael.”

“Okay, let’s get one thing straight... My father was Mr. Carmichael. If you know everything about my private business, but the color of my drawers, I think you can call me J.T.”

She nodded. “J.T. it is, then.”

“Doctor, huh? Like an MD?”

“Science doctor. A molecular biologist.”

Damn. He knew the deal was to keep quiet, but the questions were already bubbling around in his head. What the hell kind of scientist got shot at? What was the pretty doctor involved with?

Collect the money and leave the questions.

That was sound advice—the kind of advice that would likely keep him on the right side of breathing.

But as he’d realized too late after one too many altercations with the higher-ups, he wasn’t so good about taking orders without question.

He had a feeling dodging bullets might be easier than keeping his mouth shut.

As it turned out, they had bigger problems than the questions he wasn’t allowed to ask.

“Shit,” he muttered, his gaze trained on the altimeter.

“What’s wrong?”

His lips seamed together. This was all sorts of bad.

“J.T.?” The worry in her tone mirrored the bad feeling in his gut. “Is something wrong?”

“Yeah, you could say that,” he said, tapping his altimeter, hoping it was just a glitch. But when the needle continued to sink, he knew things were about to get dicey. His gaze traveled the gauges, locking on the fuel. Bingo. You’ve located the problem.

“What is it?”

“Buckle up, Doc,” he said, gritting his teeth. “We’re about to run out of gas.”

“What?” She frantically tightened her belt. “Where are we?”

“Best guess? Somewhere over Mexico.”

And nowhere near an airfield.

A grim smile found his mouth.

And he’d mistakenly thought getting shot at was the worst that could happen.

He just loved it when Murphy’s Law seemed hell-bent on kicking him in the ass.

* * *

“WAIT! WHAT DO you mean you’re running out of gas?” Hope screeched, unable to hide her panic. “Fix it. Do something!”

“I’m open to ideas, doll face, but unless you have a way to patch the hole that has no doubt been ripped through my fuel tank, we’re out of options.”

Sweat gathered at her brow as her fingers gripped the seat beneath her. “What are the odds of surviving a crash like this?” she asked, clinging to facts and figures as her life flashed before her eyes. “Give me a percentage.”

“You don’t want to know.” His grim answer wasn’t very soothing. He muttered expletives as he fought the throttle, and she squeezed her eyes shut, wishing at the moment that she’d been more religious. She supposed now was not a good time to question her decision to be an atheist.

The little plane hit a rough pocket and they dipped hard, causing a girlie scream to pop from her mouth. She thought of the package she was transporting and her panic doubled. “You have to promise me that if we crash and I die, you have to take the package that I’m carrying straight to Tessara Pharmaceuticals. Don’t let anyone else take it from you. Promise me!”

He didn’t have time to shoot her a look, but she could hear it in his voice as he yelled, “What the hell are you talking about, lady? I’m just trying to land safely and you’re spitting out your last will and testament. Don’t you know it’s bad luck to talk about death when you’re in a plane that’s about to go down in a fireball? Just shut up, buckle up and let me try to save our damn lives!”

Hard to argue with that logic. Hope wasn’t the kind of woman to scare easily, but it was hard to stay cool and collected when she was sitting in a metal coffin as it hurtled to the ground. Picking Blue Yonder had been a calculated risk. Right about now, she was rethinking that decision. Why hadn’t she taken her chances with first class?

A brilliant canopy of verdant green rapidly approached the descending aircraft, and even though he’d told her to shut up so he could concentrate, scared babbling escaped her lips.

“I don’t want to die in this plane. I don’t want to die like this. Please, J.T.! Oh, my God!”

“Brace yourself—this ain’t going to be pretty!”

The tops of the trees scraped along the belly of the plane, scoring the metal as they barreled through the air, hitting branches and sending leaves flying as the plane bounced and crashed through the thick jungle foliage. Birds took flight as they careened wildly, narrowly missing thick tree trunks as they crashed to their possible deaths.

Twisted metal screeched as a wing took a hard hit and the plane listed to the side, and it was all Hope could do to hold on for dear life.

The small plane went nose-first through a small tree, spraying obliterated shards of wood everywhere as they blasted through the humid jungle floor, slamming into another tree big enough to stop their descent.

Blackness eclipsed her vision at the point of impact and then there was nothing.

Hope slowly stirred, her hand going to her head and finding it sticky. The copper scent of blood followed, and she groaned as she did a shaky assessment of her own body. She was alive. It was a damn miracle.

She unhooked her seat belt and her recovering senses immediately smelled fuel leaking. J.T. was slumped forward, not moving, and Hope bit back the fear as she reached across the seat to check for a pulse.

At the tentative touch of her fingertips to his neck, J.T. groaned, but didn’t awaken.

Hope didn’t have time to sag with relief. The situation was no less dire. The fuel tank was leaking and at any moment the plane could become a scorch mark on the jungle floor. She unhooked J.T.’s belt and gently pushed his head back to assess the damage. Potentially a concussion. He must’ve slammed his head pretty hard with the crash.

“J.T., we have to get out of this plane.” She tapped his face lightly, cringing at the knowledge that someone with a head injury shouldn’t be jostled, but in light of the situation, she had to take the risk. “The fuel tank is leaking. We have to go now! Wake up, J.T.”

She slapped his face a little harder and he groaned, opening his eyes blearily. “What the...”

“We crashed. We’re alive, but that might not be for long if we don’t get out of this plane,” she said, maneuvering around him and opening the pocket door with a hard shove, her own head pounding. She dropped to the soft jungle floor with her pack, the sounds of wild things echoing in the humid air, and nearly broke an ankle as her heel cracked in two.

“Stupid idea to wear these, anyway,” she muttered, grabbing her bag and pulling her sneakers free. Thank God she always packed her running shoes. She tossed her useless heels and shoved her feet into her sneakers, grateful for small favors. Her rolling pack converted to a backpack, a feature she would’ve needed in South America—she’d read travel warnings about thieves snatching rolling luggage straight out of tourists’ hands—and once again, she thanked her stars for that bit of wise decision making.

J.T. was still a little out of it, but he managed to climb out of his seat and half crawl to the pocket door, where he promptly slid out and landed with a grunt at her feet.

“I think I just cracked a rib,” he groaned, looking like a brand-new calf trying to walk on wobbly legs.

Hope quickly slipped beneath his shoulder to steady him and he went down like a sack of potatoes.