Her eyes rounded. “I’ve fooled around a wee bit in single engine airplanes, but they’re nothing like what we flew across the Atlantic. I only recognized a few of the instruments in the cockpit. What if they ask for papers? A license?”
“They will not. If anyone should say anything, let me do the talking.” He hesitated. “The basic flight principles are the same, no matter what the aircraft. Perhaps we could use the next few hours to augment your knowledge base.”
A smile bloomed on her face, and she clapped her hands together. “Sure and I’d like that.” For the barest moment, she looked carefree. Lars wished he’d found her before she’d killed Jaret, wished he’d gotten to the man first. Though they hadn’t talked about it, she was probably still figuring out her life would never be the same. That sort of thing sank in gradually. If she had to absorb the full impact of her actions all at once, it might be too much to take in.
He opened his mouth to give voice to some of his thoughts, changed his mind, and simply said, “My pleasure, fraulein.” To avoid further conversation, he glanced at his phone and punched in the numbers to file their flight plan.
Chapter Eight
Tamara settled into the copilot’s seat and put the headset Lars handed her over her head. Thank all the saints the tension had bled out of the air between them. Somewhere between her making them a midday meal and talking about his work, things had cleared. Maybe he’d found a place to stuff his guilt over being unfaithful. She covered a grimace with a cough and rotated her injured shoulder. Though she hadn’t fully finished healing it in shifted form, it was good enough and the pain minimal.
He jabbered to the tower in pilot-ese, and the plane rolled out of the hangar and took its place in line for takeoff. “Do you have a private pilot’s license?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yes, but not very many hours, and all of them in tiny, single engine planes.”
“Why did you not fly more?”
“It’s very dear. The only reason I learned to fly at all was because my brother owns a small air cargo operation just north of Dublin. He knew how much I loved being in the air, so he took pity on me. He couldn’t afford to give me totally free lessons, but all I had to pay for was fuel.”
Lars glanced at her and smiled. “I am so glad you love to fly. It is one of my passions.”
Tamara couldn’t help herself. The words burst from her before she could modulate them. “What are your other ones?”
Color rose from the open neck of his buff-colored linen shirt. Her headset crackled with a spate of instructions from the tower and he said, “They have cleared us for takeoff, fraulein. We will talk more once we are airborne. Place your feet on the rudders and your hands on the yoke. Feel what I do with them. Watch what I do with the throttle and keep an eye on these sets of instruments.” He ran his index finger down a row of round dials between them. She noticed two identical rows and understood one was for each engine. He’d sidestepped her question about his passions, but there’d be time to ask again between now and Seattle.
She curled her hands around the yoke and settled her feet lightly on the rudder pedals. In an odd way, it almost felt as if he were caressing her through the plane’s controls. Tamara almost laughed aloud at her wishful thinking. Powerful jet engines revved. The plane bounded down the runway and rose smoothly into the air. She felt when he let up on the right rudder pedal, felt when he evened out the yoke, watched the instrument display needles hover at the top of the green zone before settling back to where they had a larger safety margin. All the while, she eyed him sidelong through lowered lashes.
Lars flew the plane as if it were an extension of his body. He seemed to sense its needs in his bones, responding before the plane needed his intervention. He looked her way, caught her gaze on him, and hastily returned his attention to the instrument panel. Tamara looked away also, but his smoke-colored eyes remained in her mind. So did his thick, white-blonde hair and athlete’s build.
“So.” His voice sounded strained. “We have just passed through ten thousand feet. I understand you do not usually fly so high in the small planes without pressurized cabins, but what is important about ten thousand feet?”
She captured her lower lip between her teeth and tried to focus on something other than Lars’ hands and wishing they were moving over her body rather than on the airplane’s controls. “Takeoffs and landings are when the plane is vulnerable, in most danger of crashing.” She took a breath, thinking. “With the small planes, it’s a relief to get enough altitude so there is a cushion, in case I have to plan an emergency landing. I’m thinking it might be similar, but this plane is so heavy, if we lost power, surely we’d die.”
He shook his head. “As I said earlier, the mechanics are the same. The more distance we are from the ground, the more time I have to come up with Plan B if something goes wrong.” In a move that both shocked and thrilled her, he reached across the cockpit and placed a hand on her thigh. “Tell me about yourself, fraulein. I wish to get to know you.”
Heat swooshed from her chest to the top of her head. “That doesn’t sound like a flying lesson.”
He cocked his head to one side. “The only things left to do are,” he held up one finger and tapped her thigh with it, “climb to cruising altitude and,” he held up a second finger, “set a course. They are the same as you already know.” He tightened his fingers across the top of her thigh, stroking her. “I know this airplane. Let me get to know you.”
Her crotch flooded with moisture; breath clotted in her throat. Tamara struggled to understand how his touch affected her so strongly. She wriggled in her seat and clamped her legs together. “Sure and my life hasn’t been very interesting—” she began.
He ignored her disclaimer. “Were you born in Dublin?”
“Yes. Well, not precisely. My family is from Drogheda, maybe fifty kilometers north of Dublin. It’s on the River Boyne just before it runs into the Irish Sea.”
“Ja.” His fingers inscribed small circles on top of her leg. “I know it. A port town. I spent time in Northern Ireland. We retreated to Drogheda by boat when things got too dangerous.”
Tamara twisted in her seat and gazed at him. “You’ve had quite the adventuresome life. Maybe you could be telling me about it, rather than my poor recitation.”
He punched in some numbers, and then turned and met her gaze. “There. We are at cruise altitude, and I have engaged the autopilot. I wish to get to know who you are, Tamara MacBride. I have had very little practice at this sort of thing, but you sharing what you want to about your life must be a first step. Otherwise, you will remain an enigma to me.”
“Very little practice, is it? What about your wife?” she blurted.
He drew back as if she’d shot him. “Wife? What wife?”
“The one you were unfaithful to back in the airport terminal.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. There. She’d gotten it out in the open. Maybe she hadn’t been particularly elegant about it, but she’d become heartily sick of her cloak-and-dagger existence with Jaret.
A slow grin started with his mouth and finally reached his eyes. “I understand better now.” He moved his hand from her leg to her crossed arms. “There is no wife. Not even a girlfriend. I have not led the sort of life that lends itself to emotional entanglements.”
“Really?” Her voice came out as a squeak. She tried for composure, but made a grab for his hand and clung to it. She wanted to jump out of her seat and dance up and down the aisle, but restrained herself.