Hurricane Hannah. Sue Civil-Brown
The daily afternoon thunderstorm was rolling in, and while he’d built this hangar to withstand almost anything, you never knew. But one thing was for sure, the reinforced steel doors had to be closed and barred for maximum security. He didn’t care about much, but he cared about his planes.
Outside again, with the hangar securely buttoned down, he paused to take in the golden glow of the late evening, and the reflection of it on the arcs of cloud that were approaching. Tropical Storm Hannah was edging toward hurricane force, last he’d heard. There was still a chance she would miss the island, but that chance was shrinking steadily.
From his aerie, Buck saw that the cruise ships had already vanished from their moorings, sailing off to friendlier, safer climes. Anstin’s casino, a series of huge tiki huts that sheltered the machines, tables and bars, was probably already moving everything into storage. The fishing town itself, of late containing more casino employees than fishermen, had started battening the hatches that morning.
But Hannah might pass them by. Even if she hit, the storm shouldn’t be too bad.
Shaking his head, he realized he couldn’t find an excuse to stand out here any longer. He was going to have to go into his office and work out the business details with the Valkyrie.
He still believed that Eve was the biggest joke God had ever played on mankind.
THERE SHE WAS, sitting on one of his plastic chairs, looking like she owned the universe, holding a cup of his finest Jamaican. Had he offered her coffee? He was sure he hadn’t. But then, a redhead who looked like that was probably used to having the world at her feet, used to having her own way. Delilah.
He wiped his hand on his pants, just to make a point of it, then extended it. “Sticks, I’m Buck Shanahan,” he said, adding nothing that might illuminate her.
“Hannah Lamont.” She shook his hand a little too firmly, as if she were used to the world of men and the handshake. Maybe to make a point.
“So what the hell happened, Sticks?” he asked as he rounded the counter and opened his humidor, seeking further dental protection in the form of a cigar to chew on. It was better than grinding his teeth.
“I don’t know. My mechanic signed off on that plane before I left. I was on my way to Aruba to drop her off for her new owner. All of a sudden I was leaking fuel like a hose. Then my radio went out. And while we’re talking, my name is Hannah, not ‘Sticks.’”
“Seems like you might need a new mechanic. And until I decide otherwise, you’re ‘Sticks,’ because that’s what I was holding, ready to even things up with that bastard Anstin, when you tore in here like a bat out of hell and killed the hand.”
“Pocket Sevens?” she asked.
“Damn right. I made Sevens full of Jacks on the turn and was about to get all of his chips. Instead….”
She held a hand up. “I’m sorry I messed up your little game for something as silly as trying to survive.”
“Little game?” He took a slow breath, willing himself not to tell her exactly what he thought of her. “That was no little game. It was a heads-up match to determine the future of this island! Or did you think those people you passed on the way in here were joking?”
“You’re not serious,” she said.
“I’m dead serious, Sticks. That’s how we decide things around here. Only fair way to do it, and a damn sight fairer than U.S. elections lately. And it saves us from being overrun with lawyers.” He let out a huff. “Little game. You know about as much about life as your mechanic knows about jet engines.”
She didn’t even smile. “He’s certainly going to be dead once I get back to Houston.”
He wanted to like her then. He really did. But he decided he didn’t need the headache.
“We’ll take a look at her,” he heard himself volunteering, then wanted to kick his own butt.
“Thanks. My company will pay, of course.”
“Of course.” Then something struck him. “Your company?” She bristled a bit, as if expecting a comment about how it was rare to see a woman who owned an aircraft company. It would never have crossed his mind if she hadn’t bristled. Now he needed to bite back the urge to tick her off.
“I own it.” Her voice was sterner than it needed to be, a sort of tacit offer of a duel at dawn. “Lamont Aircraft. We buy and refurbish private planes.”
“Looks like this one didn’t get refurbished enough.”
“Do tell.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
He unwrapped his cigar and stuck it between his teeth, deciding it was safer to bite tobacco than bite her head off. God should never have invented women. Or if he had to, then maybe he should have made them more like men: uncomplicated.
And now he found himself feeling almost sorry for her mechanic. Damn! “How long you had that mechanic?”
“He’s been with the company fifteen years.”
“You don’t look that old.” He was almost delighted when he saw her grind her teeth.
“I’m old enough. It’s my company. And I want to know what went wrong with that aircraft.”
“We’ll get to the bottom of it,” he promised, which he shouldn’t have done, but when Delilah was in the room, men were known to do stupid, stupid things. “Craig and I are pretty good mechanics.”
Instead of saying something snappy, she merely said, “Thank you.”
Well hell. Now she was going to get nice on him? No thank you!
He rolled his cigar to the other side of his mouth and clamped down on it. “It’ll take a while, of course.”
Her eyes widened. “How long?”
“Well, I don’t exactly carry a parts store for Learjets. In fact, this’ll be one of maybe three or four times I’ve worked on one.”
“Oh, great.”
He grinned, enjoying her discomfiture. “So I’ll have to figure out what’s wrong, then fly out to get parts. And I can’t do that until after the storm passes.”
“Storm?” She looked even more unhappy.
“Don’t you pay attention to the weather reports?” That would be a mortal sin for any pilot.
She snapped. “Of course I do!”
“Then you can’t have missed the fact that we have a tropical storm headed our way. It might even be a hurricane by the time it gets here.”
“I was flying around that,” she said.
“Well, Hannah, get ready to meet Hannah, because you sure as hell flew right into her path.”
“THAT WOMAN IS a piece of work,” Buck told Craig as they stood staring up at the Learjet while waiting for the shop computer to download schematics of the plane.
“Yeah. All women are,” Craig agreed. And he was married and had three kids.
“Why do you suppose that is?”
“I dunno. I just know we can’t live without ’em.”
“I’m working on it.”
Craig snorted. “That woman volcanologist—Edna, isn’t it?—she’s got her snare set for you.”
Buck looked at him, and Craig finally shrugged. “Okay. Have it your way, boss.”
“Believe me, I intend to.”
Craig rolled his eyes. Buck chewed a little harder on his unlit cigar and wondered why it was that men who were married wanted every other man on the planet to be married, as well. It was almost like some kind of brainwashing.
“That