The Rogue And The Rich Girl. Christine Pacheco

do you suggest I change?”

      “Over there.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

      “But that’s an outhouse,” she protested.

      “No attendant on duty, either.”

      She didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile. But her brows narrowed into a single, slim line.

      “Look,” he said, patience waning. “We need to get in the air. If you don’t want to change, I’ll help you into the plane.”

      “You’ll what?”

      “That skirt won’t give an inch. You’ll have to lift it up or accept my help.” Ace hoped she decided not to change.

      Indecision warred on her face. Finally, with obvious reluctance, she nodded. “I’ll need about ten minutes.”

      Ace sighed.

      “I’ll try to cut it short.”

      She offered a tentative smile and his aggravation began to fade. Then she tried to yank her shoe free. And failed. With another sigh, he bent, capturing her ankle with his hand. The curve of her bone slid perfectly into the cup of his palm. Suddenly a breath threatened to choke him.

      “Really, Mr. Lawson—”

      “Ace.”

      “There’s no need to...”

      She trailed off as he looked up. Their gazes mingled for a flash of a second. A look, one he hesitated to name, passed between them.

      “That is...”

      “Yes?” He raised a brow.

      “I’d appreciate the help.”

      “Put your hand on my shoulder,” he instructed.

      She nodded, setting down her briefcase.

      Nothing prepared Ace for the feel of her fingers penetrating his whisper-thin T-shirt. Soft. Warm.

      He jerked the reluctant heel from the black ooze, leaving several thin strips of leather behind.

      “Thanks,” she said, pulling her foot away from his hand.

      Pushing to a standing position, Ace watched her slip stocking-clad toes into the ruined pump. Without another word, she picked up her briefcase and headed toward the rest room—outhouse, he mentally amended—once again with that seductive sway.

      Hell, maybe this trip wouldn’t be so bad after all. For the first time in days, Ace Lawson actually smiled.

      Just as quickly, though, his smile disappeared. He had a job to do, then needed to take another hop into Central America.

      To kill the minutes, he climbed aboard Cessie and started a second preflight instrument check—anything to keep his mind off what Nicole might look like beneath the tough exterior. Would her undergarments be serviceable cotton, or would they be silk, satin and lace? Did her bra have an underwire or an eighteen-hour support system? Did she even wear a bra?

      Ace shook his head. He needed sleep. And a stop at Rosie’s in Cartagena. He definitely didn’t need a woman reminiscent of his wife.

      The heat built inside the small compartment as the California desert sun blasted through the windshield. Hardly a breeze stirred and only a few Joshua trees fought for survival in the hostile environment.

      She returned in under ten minutes, white athletic shoes a marked contrast to the black tar. Supple denim snuggled her thighs and hips, conforming to her curves like a good male friend. Or a lover.

      His gut tightened.

      Ace reached across the cockpit and opened the door. His muscles tightened as he grabbed the briefcase. “What have you got in here?” It was hard to believe she hadn’t even struggled under the forty or so pounds.

      “Notebook computer, power supply, cellular phone, calculator, modem, files. Why?”

      Saying nothing, he reached for her suitcase. The luggage made the briefcase seem light. While she climbed aboard, he secured everything in the small area behind the seats.

      Several minutes later, he taxied down the abandoned runway. The plane picked up speed. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at the woman next to him.

      “Fasten your belt,” he instructed, not believing she hadn’t thought to do that.

      Without checking to see if she’d obeyed, he continued down the rutted, weed-choked runway, easing back on the yoke.

      Urging the plane’s nose into the air, Ace reveled in the freedom of flight. The engine throbbed steadily beneath him, just like a hot, willing and undemanding woman. The sound of wind rushed past the fuselage, reminding him of the whisper of damp, musky sheets sliding to the floor.

      He checked his instruments, then looked at his passenger. She hadn’t followed orders. The ends of the safety belt rested at the side of the seat.

      Her chest rose and fell in shallow motions and her vivid green eyes stared at nothing, unblinking. The tips of her manicured fingernails dug into her palms, and streaks of artificial color painted her cheeks. Her lips were tightly pursed. Obviously, the grip of fear held her paralyzed.

      Ace groaned. He’d been hired to shuttle an uptight businesswoman who got airsick before the land lay even three thousand feet beneath them. “Ms. Jackson?”

      A sound emerged from her throat that was part whimper, part moan.

      A knot twisted in his gut. The feeling was familiar, but something he’d thought he’d gotten rid of when Elana fled. Evidently not. Unfortunately, he no longer carried a bottle of mint-flavored antacid in his duffel to help tame the wild ulcer. Right now, his passenger could use it every bit as much as he.

      “Are you okay?” he asked, hoping he would get the answer he wanted, not the one he feared.

      She didn’t respond.

      A burning in his stomach painfully reminded him of the ulcer’s existence.

      Taking a hand from the yoke, he frantically dug through the map compartment for an airsick bag. There had to be one. Didn’t there?

      A bead of sweat trickled down her patrician nose.

      “Hang in there,” he urged. Ace prided himself on the ability to deal with anything life tossed his way. He’d flown through blazing fires, been shot at, tossed into jail for a crime he hadn’t committed, and another he had. And yet, he couldn’t deal with something so elemental, so natural.

      Or maybe it was the woman herself who unsettled him.

      The whimper in her voice became urgent.

      “Damn.” While keeping one eye on the controls, he reached again and again into the compartment.

      She flinched.

      And surprisingly, Ace experienced a twinge of sympathy. Digging under the maps, he searched for the waxy-feeling paper. To no avail.

      The woman’s shoulders drooped, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

      Since there were no bags, he had only one option: try to keep her from needing one.

      “Open your eyes, Ms. Jackson,” he said softly, barely above the lulling hum of the engines. Fighting back impatience, he kept his tone even and cajoling. “You’re making matters worse.” For both of them.

      She blinked.

      “Take five deep breaths. Hold each for at least three seconds.”

      She followed his instructions, drawing in a drink of air. With each breath, his corresponding pain lessened.

      “That’s it,” he added when she gulped again. “Exhale slowly.”

      She did.

      “Now look out the window.”

      “The