Pursued. Catherine Mann
over one point three billion dollars. Her project ranked more in the twenty-five-million range.
That her little budget had landed on congressional radar didn’t bode well. “And Morel’s reason for being included in this meeting?”
“You may or may not know that Morel consults for contractors and the government. He’s been tapped to report back to a congressional committee on how the program is really going without any sugarcoating by the air force. Nothing will change in how you do business. You’ll just have someone walking behind you while you do it.”
“A contractor spy.” She softened her words with a smile. No scene, but even an idiot would know this sort of news would piss off any tester. These two men weren’t idiots.
“That’s not the label I would choose,” Bridges quibbled.
“A baby-sitter then?”
Her boss shrugged, his classically handsome face neutral. “Whichever label makes you less uncomfortable.”
Both sucked.
Although “spy” seemed more appropriate, since she’d never had a baby-sitter who looked like that.
Morel lounged against a support beam. “Listen, little lady—”
“Little lady?” She struggled to keep her voice steady and soft. “I’m the program manager for this test, not some Powerpuff Girl.”
He studied her with hooded eyes before a slow grin creased his face. “Lockworth, you might want to be careful about selling short those Powerpuff Girls. If I understand my Powerpuff lore correctly, Blossom’s a commander with a bright future and Buttercup is one helluva fighter, like you.”
What a hoo-hah. “Well, I’m still not a Buttercup.”
His smile turned as hard as his eyes. “And I’m not a spy. Furthermore, I’m sure as hell not the baby-sitter sort. I’m just here to help out where I can and tell it like it is. A test program that fails before it gets off the ground is still a success because it means a faulty program wasn’t launched for somebody to die in the air. Remember that.”
Damn. Already he was talking about nixing her program, not to mention the veiled reference to her mother.
Josie pressed her lips together to hold back a torrent of frustrated words. This man held her future in his hands. More important, he held her mother’s past. “Of course. My apologies for the spy comment. I was just caught off guard. I’m sure you understand the frustrations of this side of the testing fence. Scheduling is tight enough without extra paperwork. But we’ll just plug in an extra coffeepot.”
“Coffee? Lifeblood in a flying community.” Morel cranked his lazy smile up a notch. “We’re gonna get along just fine, Buttercup.”
Buttercup? She cringed.
He might be an ass, but at least he’d let her off the hook easily. She had to appreciate that they were back on even footing, playing the diplomacy game. She would bury him in paperwork, data and reports. God knows she was good at details.
Starting now. “Which would you rather do first? A walk around the aircraft? Or should we head straight over to my office for a prelim brief on our progress to date?”
“We can do that tomorrow. How about you bring me up to speed over a beer?”
A beer? She didn’t drink and she rarely socialized. She didn’t have time to waste shooting the breeze in a bar, especially during duty hours. Probably why she’d never met this man face-to-face, if that’s how he preferred to spend his after-work hours.
Bridges gave her a pointed look. Play the game.
Fair enough. She understood the rules of this boys’ club and knew how to play them her own way on her own terms. “We can talk just as well over drinks as we can in the office. I’d be honored to hear a legend’s take on the merits of computer simulations replacing actual flight tests.”
Legend, my butt.
Grinding her teeth in frustration, Josie forced herself to lounge against the quarter panel of her Mustang outside the Wing and a Prayer Bar while she waited. And waited. And waited longer while Diego Morel took his sweet time parking his bike, stowing his helmet, making sure his Harley was parked just so under the security light.
Holy crap, she’d be ready for retirement by the time they made it inside.
He’d chosen the locale, deep in the California desert, a flyer hangout with an airplane tail sticking out of the roof. Music vibrated through the walls, rowdy voices swelling from the back porch and over. She would have preferred somewhere quieter where he could have his draft and she could order a grilled chicken salad while they talked. But he was calling the shots. And as long as they discussed business, she would be content.
Finally he finished playing nursemaid to his Harley and started across the gravel lot toward the door without a glance in her direction.
Hello? Did the guy not even remember she was here?
Josie shoved away from the car. “Well sure, I’d love to join you. Right this way.”
He shot a quick glance her way. “Did you say something, Buttercup?”
Buttercup. She forced herself not to roll her eyes. “Nope. Just tagging along with you. You’re calling the shots tonight.”
There, that sounded nice, didn’t it?
“Hmm. Somehow I doubt that.” He swept open the door with a near-mocking flourish.
Josie stepped into the doorway, pausing half in, half out to give herself time to adjust to the blasting cacophony of clanking glasses, blaring music and conversations shouted to rise over it all.
“Great place, huh?” He drank in the atmosphere like a favored microbrew.
“Great.” And entirely too packed.
He crowded her space until she had to continue inside. At least now they would get down to business. She scanned the room. The din of voices blended with the never-ending blare of old military movies. Airplane parts loaded most of the walls. He ambled inside, his eyes gravitating to the back door leading to the porch. The wall out there sported hundreds of signatures from test pilots, hers included. She’d scrawled her “Jane” Hancock during the one and only other time she’d been here—a mandatory appearance to celebrate her first test flight.
Through the press of bodies, she spotted a couple pushing back their chairs to leave. “Looks like there’s an empty table there in the corner—”
Josie glanced over her shoulder. No Morel. Great. She searched and found him settling on a bar stool in front of one of the airplane “sticks” for drunks to “fly.” Talk about frequent flyer miles. This guy must have racked up more than his fair share, given how everyone knew him.
Patience, she reminded herself. And no unruly emotions.
By the time his beer and her water arrived, someone recognized him, which led to another beer with a couple of C-17 pilots in California on a TDY—temporary duty—from South Carolina. Three drinks later, he asked, “Want another water?”
“No thanks. My eyeballs are floating.” Enough already. She could be polite while still drawing boundaries. “If you don’t want to talk about my project, that’s cool. But could you please let me know so I can return to work?”
“No need to head back just yet.”
“What does any of this have to do with my test?”
“We’re building a working relationship. I’m watching how you operate, getting into your head. Understanding the way you see things will help me interpret your data.”
“Sounds to me like an excuse to knock back beers with your pals. But however you want to play the game.”
The duo of C-17 pilots stood with apologies and calls of