Hurricane Hannah. Sue Civil-Brown
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 Mary Jo must’ve really been something.”
For an instant, Buck froze. He couldn’t believe Craig had mentioned that woman. His former wife in his former life. The woman who had screwed around with all the available navy guys while her husband, Buck, was at sea as a carrier pilot.
“I told you not to mention that name.”
“Sorry, boss.”
That would teach him to have one too many beers. A slip like that and he was hearing about it for the rest of his life. He glared at Craig who held up both his hands.
“Sorry,” Craig said again.
“You better be.” He returned his attention to the jet, thinking he wouldn’t mind sitting in the left hand seat and taking her out for a spin. It had been a while since he’d flown anything that fast, and sometimes he still yearned for his fighter-jock days. The speed, the g-forces…they got into a man’s blood.
He sighed and went over to the computer to see how far along they were on printing out the fuel-line schematics. Sheesh, the thing was as slow as molasses at the North Pole.
“It’s the satellite uplink,” Craig said knowingly.
“Yeah? Then fix it.”
“Damn, boss, you don’t want much!”
“Then tell me why the satellite uplink should be so slow.” He rotated his unlit cigar to the other side of his mouth.
“Do I look like a psychic? Probably because of the approaching storm. Traffic is likely heavier than usual. I dunno. Maybe it’s not the satellite uplink at all. Maybe it’s the printer.”
Buck was acting like an ass and he knew it. Admitting it didn’t make him feel any better. But the truth was, it was getting late in the day, and the probability they would have those schematics in time to work on the plane today was highly unlikely.
And worse, his win against Anstin, his prime opportunity to save the island, had fluttered away in a blast of jet winds.
“Why don’t you just go home?” he suggested. “Unless the storm hits, we’ll start in the morning. And take the woman with you.”
“To that motel? No way. I wouldn’t put my worst enemy in that cockroach pit.”
“Then what am I supposed to do with her?”
Craig shrugged. “She can sleep on her plane.” He jerked his thumb toward it. “It looks posh enough for a sultan.”
“Except a real sultan would be buying a new one.”
“Quibble, quibble, quibble. You need to get laid, man. Then maybe you wouldn’t have all that energy to waste on stupidity.”
With that, Craig stalked out the side door, a man-sized door, that hadn’t been locked up yet. Buck stood alone in his hangar with two large planes and a couple of small ones that belonged to island residents, and wondered why he put up with Craig.
Of course, Craig was a natural-born mechanic. That helped. In front of him, the computer still hummed, a bar showing that the download had progressed eleven percent. Beside it, the big printer was busy drawing schematics. How complicated could it be?
Complicated enough. A plane, any plane, was a complex beast, and the newer they were, the more that complexity had been magnified.
So he had two choices. One of them involved going back to his office and facing the redheaded Valkyrie. The other meant sleeping out here on a battered recliner in the small parts office.
He decided the Valkyrie presented the lesser of two evils. He’d shoo her off to sleep on her plane, then peace would prevail, at least until morning.
He opened the door to the outside, rather than the one farther to the rear that joined with his living quarters behind the front office. Whenever he could, he preferred to walk outdoors.
But this time he froze on the threshold. Red sunsets weren’t unusual in the tropics, but this one blazed like fire, and it raged in the east, rather than the west, high in the sky because of the clouds of the approaching storm.
Magnificent. He soaked it up, filling his heart, mind and soul with the beauty. That was why he’d moved to this godforsaken island with its loony inhabitants and crazy casino. Because here he could live halfway up the side of a volcanic cone and be left pretty much alone while still running an adequate business.
Stepping out, he worked the mechanism that safely reinforced the door from the inside, then walked around to the front of the hangar to look west.
The sun was riding the rim of the Caribbean like an angry red eye. The water, usually a soothing Caribbean blue-green, was dappled in red and purple, and beginning to look choppy.
There was nothing in the world, he thought, like the sunset before a tropical storm.
Then, without warning, a different red filled his vision. It was silky, redder than red in the evening light, a fluffy cloud around a perfect face with challenging green eyes.
“Did you find out what was wrong?”
He might have sighed, except he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. Instead he clamped down on his cigar. “Nope.”
“Why not? I thought you said you’d find out what was wrong?”
Now he bit down hard. “Actually,” he said between his teeth, “I’m printing out the fuel line schematics right now. At the rate it’s going, it’ll probably take all night. You can thank the manufacturer for that.”
Her eyes flashed. In that instant, they looked like lightning reflected off the stormy gray-green shallows of the Caribbean Sea. But then, as if something flicked a switch in her, the flare quieted.
She nodded acknowledgement to him. “Thanks.”
To his surprise, it didn’t look as if she had to force the word out. Temperamental but in control. Despite himself, he was piqued.
At that moment, Craig roared by on his way down to his home in town. His Jeep kicked up a little loose gravel as he went by, waving at them.
Hannah Lamont waved back, then returned her attention to Buck. “I’ll sleep on the plane then.”
“Sure. No problem.” He pointed to the door. “Bar it when you get inside. No telling when that storm is going to hit.”
She nodded, but this time a flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. “See you in the morning, then.”
She started to brush past him, but then he had to deal with the fact that not only was he being a jerk, he was being a rude jerk. There were some courtesies he couldn’t ignore even in an attempt to avoid Delilah. “You got anything to eat on that plane?”
“I was supposed to be in Aruba shortly.”
Mentally