Pilot Error (27 page)

"Ten years?" That was hard to comprehend. In the three years she had known Dirk, she thought he'd worked as a mechanic at the Marathon Municipal Airport. "Doing what?"

"I think you already know that, thanks to Mr. Navy JAG."

"Luke! Where is he? Is he okay?"

Dirk scowled, annoyed by her obvious concern for another man. Instead of answering, he said, "You really should have stayed in the jumpseat, Micki. You could have been hurt."

"Don't change the subject, just tell me where he is. I want to see him. I demand to see him."

For an instant, he looked as if he were about to shout an angry retort for thinking she had a right to 'demand' anything. But he merely glanced down at the apple in his hand as if he had second thoughts.

"He came to during the flight," he said in an oddly controlled tone, "so Reynolds gave him another shot of
Diazepam.
I told that idiot to give him just five milligrams but he didn't listen, or didn't want to."

"Dirk, what are you saying?"

"The dosage must have been too high because—" Looking up, he met her eyes again, and in them she saw what looked like sincerity. "Hardigan didn't make it, Micki. He's dead."

She felt as if Dirk had just thrust the paring knife he held into her chest and twisted it. Looking down, she watched the half-eaten peach roll from her hands and back onto the tray. It could have been her heart she had just let go, because it certainly felt as though it had just been cut out of her chest. Tears she thought she would never cry over Luke Hardigan stung her eyes.

"No." Micki put her face in her hands and didn't even try to deny them. Luke was gone, like Razor and like Fizz. God knew how many other lives had ended because of Dirk. She was alone again. Truly, totally alone. Numb, she didn't feel Dirk's sympathetic touch or his arms going around her.

"Hey, it's going to be okay," he promised, gently hugging her limp form against him. "We're going to be okay—you and me. All the bad stuff is behind us, and now we can get married."

She just sat there like a rag doll as his lips brushed the side of her throat. His kisses were warm and moist and loving, but coldly sucked the life from her wherever they fell. Before she could summon the strength to resist, Dirk was pushing her backwards, lowering her to the mattress beneath him.

"Last night we just cuddled," he said between caresses, "but tonight I promise we'll get a little more energetic." Pulling back to look in her eyes, he smiled, his fingers flirting with the silk that just barely covered her breasts. "It's been a long time since we made love."

"It'll never be love, Dirk," Micki said emotionlessly. "Whatever happens, whatever you say or do, it'll never be love again."

Malice clouded Dirk's eyes, just inches above her own, like the heat of the afternoon storms gathering beyond the windows. Part of her wondered if he was going to hit her for making such a rebellious pledge, while another part just as rebelliously decided she didn't care. Dirk couldn't hurt her any worse than he already had.

Gruffly releasing her, he stood up. Rising to her elbows, Micki watched him cross to one of the closets, fling open the door and pull out a hanger. Turning to throw the item of black apparel at her, Dirk snapped, "I want you cleaned up and dressed within the hour. And for God's sake, put on some makeup."

Micki looked at what he had thrown. It was a sexy black dress, low cut and short, in her size. More 'girlie girl' stuff; more control.

Spiteful, she threw it to the floor. "Go to hell!"

Scooping the silver tray up off the bedcovers, she hurled it at him, but it clattered harmlessly to the floor after spewing fruit in all directions, and didn't even make him flinch.

"Dinner is at six," Dirk said coolly, "and if you want to eat, you'll do as you're told."

"I'm not taking orders from you!"

"Oh yes you are," he said, taking a provoked step back toward her. "I own you now—" Dirk stopped suddenly, as if he'd said far more than he wanted to, and glared at her instead.

"That's exactly why it didn't work between us before, Dirk. And why it never will."

Enraged, he spun toward the bedroom door. When he tore it open, she caught another glimpse of the armed guard stationed in the hall beyond. "One hour," Dirk said brusquely.

All she was left with, after he had slammed the door shut behind him, was a ringing echo that sounded too much like a gunshot.

***

Dirk returned downstairs seething with hostility. It was one emotion he had never before felt toward Micki, and the way things were going he had the impression that it wasn't going to be the last. She could be so pig-headed sometimes.

Patting his pockets, he crossed the hall and went into the library. The door to Van Allen's private study, off the main room, was closed, and there was no sign of the man himself. Dirk gave a small grunt of relief. Dealing with his boss was something he didn't want to do right now.

He ignored Reynolds, who was perched on the edge of the desk talking on the corded telephone, and continued out through the double-paned doors to the terrace for a much-needed smoke. A devout non-smoker, Dominic Van Allen prohibited anyone from lighting up indoors, no matter how high up the ranks of his organization. Van Allen preferred 'the scent of fresh cut flowers to the acrid smell of burning weeds,' which was an irony to Dirk considering a none-too-small portion of the man's wealth was attributed to 'weeds' of one form or another.

Scowling at the men troweling their newly poured gazebo concrete, Dirk brought his lighter up to the cigarette clenched between his teeth. Several flicks and no flame later, he swore violently, loud enough to make the nearby workers stop and glance at him. It was the same condemnation he had wanted to spit at Micki when she'd coldly refused to love him.

Pulling the unlit cigarette from his mouth, Dirk leaned both hands on the low-bricked wall and stared at the tobacco jutting out from between his fingers. The only thing stopping him from grinding it resentfully underfoot, the same way he had wanted to grind down Micki's will, was that his boss would undoubtedly have something to say about both matters afterwards. Despite the satisfaction it would have given him, there was a proper time and place to deal with the cigarette, and Micki's bullheadedness.

Things would be better after they were married. Then she'd learn her place.

Turning to look for an ashtray, Dirk stopped short upon finding that sneak, Reynolds, standing right behind him. Lighting his own cigarette, Reynolds puffed out some smoke and offered the light. After a moment's hesitation, Dirk leaned forward, put his cigarette back in his mouth and sucked on the tiny flame. Straightening, he inhaled deeply as Reynolds pocketed his lighter. They stood in mutual silence, sharing the view of the ocean like the buddies they weren't.

Finally Reynolds spoke. "Bite off more than you can chew, Jurgensen?"

Dirk scowled. This 'lover's spat' was between him and Micki. He wasn't going to discuss it with a slimeball like Reynolds. Instead, he grunted, non-committal, and changed the subject. "Who was that on the phone?"

Reynolds took a long pull on his smoke. "Carl. He's in Miami. Got a buyer for the boats, no questions asked."

"Good."

"Some dame called for you, too. Something about a house in South Shore?"

Dirk nodded, making a mental note to replace the cellphone he'd destroyed before leaving the US with something new from the local carrier. For the past month, he'd been negotiating the purchase of a multi-million dollar, five acre, beach front estate in one of Bermuda's prestige locations. It was all completely above board—no more shady dealings for him—and now that he was there the deal could finally be closed.

Maybe that would make Micki happy. Even if it didn't, it would take a few more days to finalize things and by then she would come around to his way of thinking. Micki was already hungry. Another seventy-two hours or so would make her a lot more receptive to their future plans. Maybe not totally subservient to his orders, but nonetheless more pliable than she was now.

"Nine-point-five smackeroos?" Reynolds asked. He smirked. "Man, you got the hots for her bad, don't you?"

Dirk glared, but before he could comment, a cultured British voice interrupted from the terrace door.

"Gentlemen, a word if I may."

They both turned. Dominic Van Allen was a lanky, middle-aged Englishman, with jet black hair that skirted the sides of a balding pate. He held his croquet mallet under his arm as he removed his tan eel-skin gloves, watching his employees from hooded eyes that were perpetually cold, even when he laughed. A quiet spoken man, he hardly ever raised his voice and yet commanded attention whenever and to whomever he talked.

Van Allen was a chameleon in the true sense of the word. Tall and thin, what he lacked in physical characteristics he made up for in other areas. His clothes were one example. If the old cliché that 'clothes make the man' had any truth to it, then he was a living testament. The dove gray ascot at his throat was a casual alternative to his traditional necktie. As expected, it was also a perfect complement to his white cotton twill trousers and lemon polo shirt that today substituted for an expensive tailored suit.

Dirk was the first to oblige his superior's request, obediently stubbing his cigarette in the provided ashtray and moving indoors, leaving Reynolds to follow. It was only when they were seated in the library that Van Allen continued. Standing behind the leather reading couch, Dirk helped himself to a glass of sherry. Reynolds sat across from their employer in the only armchair that directly faced the desk.

"Dirk, I'm sending you back to the United States," Van Allen said conversationally. "To New York."

The sherry glass froze at Dirk's lips. The Florida Keys were to have been his last field assignment. He was supposed to be retiring from work in the US. He was supposed to be setting up permanent residence in Bermuda, with the woman he loved at his side and a cushy seat at the Van Allen table. "What?"

"I'm afraid young Julian is not doing a satisfactory job," his boss said, "so I want you to take over my interests in Manhattan. As soon as things are back to normal, Gordon will resume your position in the Keys. He'll supply you the same way you supplied Julian, via the drop shop in Miami."

Gordon? Feeling betrayed, Dirk glanced at Reynolds, who sat back with both arms resting on the leather chair, grinning unpleasantly. Reynolds was taking over his old position?

With considerable effort, Dirk controlled his expression. Dominic Van Allen did not tolerate outbursts of any kind, no matter how justified. Placing his untouched sherry next to the decanter, he edged nearer the desk. Since Reynolds had the only chair, he was left to stand before his boss like a schoolboy called on the carpet. "But I'm... retiring. You offered me a position here, sir, and... and..."

Van Allen clasped his manicured hands on the gleaming mahogany desk. "The situation has changed and I now require your services in New York."

Dirk's mouth went suddenly dry. No one defied that patient, reasonable tone. "But Mr. Van Allen, I've made plans to stay in Bermuda, with Micki. We're buying a house! I don't want to go to New York. And Micki will never agree to it." He hedged a grin. "I haven't been able to convince her that Bermuda is a good idea yet. No way she'll go for—" He licked his dry lips, aware of how childish he sounded, and repeated, "I've made plans, sir."

"But, Dirk, you misunderstand," Van Allen said. His voice was soft but there was steel in the resonant British tones. "I have changed your plans. You're expected in New York by Friday."

Dirk paled. "But what will I do with Micki? Five days is not enough time to convince her that her place is with me."

Van Allen's right hand scooped a large, showy crimson flower from the vase on his desk, like he was lifting a brandy balloon. He admired the bouquet in much the same way. "
Hibiscus moscheutos
. Did you know that a hybrid of the swamp rose mallow is capable of producing the most striking colors?" He frowned at his flower. "Pity. I was hoping for a little more purple-blue in this one."

"Sir, about Micki—"

Van Allen returned his hybrid to the vase with a flourish that negated further question. "Dirk, the point I am trying to make is that we all want something, and we all must be willing to wait to get it. It's true I had considered offering you a position here with me, but the circumstances have changed and so must our plans. Perhaps in another year or two."

Another year or two? Dirk's throat tightened in panic. Six months ago he had told his boss that he wanted to leave the States, bring his fiancée to Bermuda, and start a new life. Van Allen had even agreed to let them stay in the compound until they found more permanent accommodations on the main island. Now, without warning, all that had changed. A few short days ago, everything had been fine, just fine, until—

His narrowed gaze shifted to Reynolds. The rat had squealed about Micki not being happy with her new home. Dirk had planned to soft pedal that detail, keep her there until he could bring her around to his way of thinking, and then everything would be okay. Correction: then everything would have been okay, if it hadn't been for Reynolds and Hardigan, and their meddling.

"If this is about the way Micki's acting, sir, then rest assured I can handle her."