Nerd In Shining Armor Part 4

"You stole from Matt?" Shock still had Genevieve in its grip. She was having trouble a.s.similating the fact that her dream man, her future husband and father of her children, was a thieving, murdering sc.u.m-bucket.

"Mart's in my way, and his financial problems aren't my fault. I never intended to make Rainbow my life's work. However, I have to admit when I planned this, I didn't think Matt would end up losing one of his top engine guys."

"He'll also lose Genevieve, you son of a b.i.t.c.h." Jackson's voice was heavy with anger.

"Well, yes, but there are lots of secretaries in the world. You'll be much harder to replace."

His casual disregard for her life cleared the shock from Genevieve's mind. d.a.m.n it, she hadn't made it this far in life to die at the hands of a psycho. She'd handled some rough characters back in the Hollow, guys who got really mean when they were liquored up. Maybe she could talk him out of it.

"Nick," she began, then had to stop and clear her throat. She clenched her hands and tried to stop shaking. "I have a better idea."

"I doubt it. I've been planning this for months, and I've thought of everything." He unfastened his seat belt and eased himself out of the c.o.c.kpit while keeping the gun trained on Jackson. "Now, neither of you make any funny moves."

"But I do have a better idea," Genevieve said. "Wherever you're going, take us with you."

"I don't need you." He kept the gun on Jackson until he'd moved between the seats, headed for the door. Then he pivoted and pointed the gun right in her face.

She nearly pa.s.sed out. "Of c-course you do. You'll n-need a cook, a housekeeper, someone to warm your bed." She gave him what she hoped was a melting look of pa.s.sion.

"Nice try, but I'll have three million dollars. I think I can find people to do those things." His eyes glittered. "And even if I took you along as my little love slave, I'd have no reason to include Farley, there. I'd have to shoot him after we landed. Would that be okay with you?"

She shrugged. Once they landed the plane, she could figure out how to keep this maniac from shooting Jackson.

"Interesting," Nick said. "It would almost be worth doing, just to see if you'd abandon your friend Farley to save your own skin." He paused. "But I can't risk it, sweet-cheeks." Still holding the gun on her, he glanced quickly at his watch. "Whoops, we're out of time."

Genevieve fought down panic. She had to make him land this plane. "I give great b.l.o.w. .j.o.bs!"

Nick laughed. "Wish I had the time to check that out." He continued to aim the gun right between her eyes as he reached behind him to unlatch the cabin door.

"Jackson!" Genevieve shouted above the rus.h.i.+ng noise coming from the open door. "We have to do something to stop him!"

"We can't!" Jackson shouted back. "He's crazy!"

"You're going to give up, just like that?" Her opinion of Jackson went down several notches.

"He can't save you." Nick smiled. "But maybe you'd like to treat him to one of those b.l.o.w. .j.o.bs. You two will have a little time on your hands. Well, so long!" He jumped.

Terrified, she looked away from the gaping entry into nothingness. This was way too much like a movie with Harrison Ford, except she wasn't in a plane with Harrison, she was in a plane with Jackson Farley, who didn't know jack-s.h.i.+t about flying planes. The bad guy had really left them to die, and they might have to go ahead and die, since this was not a movie.

Her heart pounded so hard she thought it might explode at any minute. If it did, so what? She was as good as dead, anyway.

Chapter 4.

At the first sign of trouble, Jackson tried to think his way through this mess. Thinking was hard when Brogan had the barrel of that nasty gun pressed against his temple. Jackson had spent a lot of time sweating.

He'd thought about trying to disarm the guy, but in a small area like this a bullet could ricochet. Genevieve could get shot, even if the gun wasn't pointed in her direction. Wrestling Brogan for the gun didn't seem like the way to go.

Instead Jackson concentrated on the plane's instrument panel. Thank G.o.d he hadn't told Brogan that he'd flown simulations, or he'd have a bullet through his brain right now. Instead, he and Genevieve had a chance. Not a big chance, but a chance.

The jerk finally leaped, and Jackson could only hope there was a shark down below with a taste for certified a.s.shole. But he didn't have time to waste thinking about Brogan's fate. He moved to the pilot's seat.

"Come on up here!" he called out to Genevieve.

When he got no response, he turned to discover that she was frozen in place, her eyes buggy with terror. He was pretty d.a.m.ned scared himself, but letting her know wouldn't help the situation.

"Don't worry!" he shouted. "I think I can fly this thing!"

"B-but you said-"

"I know! But I've flown computer simulations!"

She reached out a hand toward him, and he leaned back to grab it. Gripping his hand and keeping her gaze fastened on his, she made it up to the c.o.c.kpit, but she didn't relinquish his hand as she settled into the copilot's seat.

He decided they needed something to break the tension. "Do you really give great b.l.o.w. .j.o.bs?"

She stared at him.

"That was a joke! I know what you were trying to do, and it was a great idea."

"Oh." She swallowed.

"For what it's worth, I think he was a fool not to take you up on your offer."

"Do you . . . really think you can fly this?"

"Yes." He wasn't the least bit sure. The instrument panel was similar to one he'd seen in a simulation, but not identical. All the same, he'd never been in such a perfect position to be a hero in front of a woman he wanted to impress. The stakes were a little higher than he would have liked, but he couldn't do anything about that.

"So you could turn us around and get us back to Honolulu?"

"I'm not totally sure I could do that, but I'll bet I can get us on the ground somewhere." He glanced down at her hand clutching his. "If you turn me loose, that is. I do my best work with my right hand."

"Oh!" She released him immediately and there were red marks on the back of his hand where her nails had been. "I'm so sorry!"

"Not a problem." Jackson flexed his hand and leaned forward to peer at the instrument panel. "Flying out over the Pacific with the gas gauge getting low, now that's a problem."

"It's getting low?" She strained against her seat belt to look where he was looking.

"You have a set of gauges, too." He pointed them out because he'd just realized how distracting it would be to have her hover close like that. Here they were in a life-and-death situation, and he was still mulling over her line about the b.l.o.w. .j.o.b.

Promising s.e.x to Brogan had been a reasonable bargaining chip, and obviously she'd only said that thing about the b.l.o.w. .j.o.b to get his attention. It hadn't worked on Brogan, but Jackson couldn't stop thinking about it. He wondered if Genevieve would have said that regardless of whether she was good at the activity. Probably. Then again . . .

"The gas w low," she said. "The way Nick was talking, I thought we'd be going along on idle for a long time."

"Airplane gas is expensive." He put his hands loosely on the wheel. "He probably didn't want to waste any more than he had to. We're already far enough out that we'd be hard to find."

"But we're not going down, because you're going to turn us around and get us back to land."

"Yeah." Now was not the time to tell her he'd crashed the simulator a few times.

"We're heading toward some clouds."

"I know." He had to get them turned before they reached the clouds. Flying on instruments was another whole thing, and he'd never worked on that.

"Tarnation, Jackson! You're slower than a c.o.o.n dog with a full belly. Start flying!"

Despite their treacherous circ.u.mstances, he grinned. "What did you say?"

"I said get the lead out!"

"No, I mean the part about me being slower than a c.o.o.n dog with a full belly." Okay, he had the basics figured out. He could do this. But he was nervous as h.e.l.l, and talking about c.o.o.n dogs helped.

"I suppose we might die together, so it doesn't matter if you know. I spent the first fifteen years of my life living in the backwoods of Tennessee. I mean the back backwoods."

"Really?" Sure enough, he'd been right about her. There was more to Genevieve Terrence than met the eye, although what met the eye was wonderful enough.

"Yes, really. But I'd appreciate it if we could save the discussion of my roots for another time so that you can concentrate on flying this plane.'"

"I am concentrating." He took the plane out of idle and gripped the wheel. This was it. He was flying this hunk of metal. "But if you'd talk to me about those backwoods days, it would keep me from hyperventilating while I concentrate."

"Lord in heaven, you're scared."

"Some." He turned the wheel and a gust of wind must have hit them, because the plane bucked.

Genevieve screamed.

"We're okay." His stomach knotted, but he kept turning the wheel a little at a time while he kept adjusting the alt.i.tude. "Talk to me, Gen."

"Are we going to die?"

"Not if I can help it. Tell me about Tennessee."

"Granny Neville died in a plane crash. They couldn't find enough of her to fill a casket. They ended up stuffing one of her outfits with old rags so it would look like there was somebody in there during the viewing. They found a picture of her face and stuck that on a honeydew."

"That wasn't the kind of anecdote I had in mind." The right wing cut through cottony wisps of clouds.

He was turning barely in time to avoid the muscular-looking clouds they'd been heading toward. "Do you have any stories that don't involve people being dismembered in a plane crash?"

"Well, there was the time Uncle Rufus heard a noise outside his cabin and went out to investigate in his ridge runners. Turns out the-"

"Hold it. What's a ridge runner?" Finally the nose of the plane pointed east, toward the morning sun. He saw a sliver of brown on the far horizon and headed for that.

"Is that land up ahead?"

"Looks like it." He didn't want to think about the landing part of this gig. Landing on a normal paved runway was tough enough for beginners, but landing on uneven ground was d.a.m.ned near impossible for someone who'd never flown a real plane before. "What's a ridge runner?"

"Long Johns. They're usually red. At least all the ones my relatives wear are red. Or they start out that way, but eventually they become sort of flesh colored, which is probably what the ones were that Uncle Rufus had on that night. The man hated breaking in a new pair of ridge runners. He claimed the seams rubbed his privates raw."

Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined Genevieve Terrence would have such stories to tell. And they were the perfect thing to keep his mind off the ordeal ahead of them. "So how come you call them ridge runners?"

"Because when the revenuers show up trying to arrest you for operating a still, they like to come in the middle of the night, so naturally you have to take off across the ridges wearing your long Johns because there's no time to put on your clothes."

"Your relatives made moons.h.i.+ne!" He was totally fascinated, and while he thought about men in red long Johns running the ridges of Tennessee to escape the tax man, he nearly forgot that he'd have to put the plane down on the tiny wedge of land that looked too small to handle a helicopter, let alone a plane that had to taxi to a stop.

"They still make moons.h.i.+ne," she said. "From a family recipe. It'll clean out your sinuses and marinate your tonsils."

"I'll just bet."

"You're flying the plane great, Jackson. We're nearly out of gas, huh?"

"We should make it to that island."

"It doesn't look very big."

"No." He glanced over at her. "So what happened when Uncle Rufus went out to investigate the noise?"

She motioned him to face forward. "Keep your eyes on the road. Or on the sky. Whatever. Don't look at me."

He'd rather look at her than at the tiny island they were headed for, and it wasn't as if he had to worry about running into anything up here. But obviously she expected him to look out the winds.h.i.+eld while he was flying the plane, so he did that.

"That's better. Why didn't you shave this morning?"

"Got up too late." And it suddenly hit him that if he'd missed this plane, she wouldn't have had a prayer of getting out alive. She barely had one now, but there was a sum chance he'd be able to set this thing down without killing them both.

She sighed. "Jackson, you simply have to pay better attention to your grooming. I'm sure Matt didn't want you going to Aloha Pineapple looking like you just climbed out of bed."

"I was planning to buy a razor and some shaving cream in the drugstore and shave before I went to Aloha." He felt like a little kid being reprimanded, which didn't fit in with his hero schtick at all.

"I'm relieved to hear that. You have a really nice profile, you know."

"I do?" He sat up a little straighter.

"What I can see of it between the bristles sticking out all over that chin of yours. It's hard to believe you grew those porcupine quills in one night. Looks like they could take the rust off a tailpipe."

He laughed. All these months he'd been daydreaming about a Genevieve who was cool and sophisticated, way too cool and sophisticated for the likes of him. He loved being wrong.

"Um, Jackson, if we're going to land on that sorry excuse for an island, don't you have to start getting lower?"

He did, but the whole concept had him dripping with sweat. He shoved gently forward on the wheel and the nose dropped, giving him a view of more ocean and island, less view of sky. He hated to lose the sky. Flying through it at a steady speed had begun to appeal to him. If the b.a.s.t.a.r.d had put more gas in the plane, they could have gone on.

He had no idea what that might have accomplished, without a radio. He'd still have to land all by himself, and in a more populated area he might take out some other innocent folks in the process. No, it was better to land out here. His stomach pitched.

"I don't see anyplace that looks flat." Genevieve's voice trembled slightly.

"Me, either." The island jutted out of the ocean like a chocolate cake made by a six-year-old-brown lava rock with a few decorations of green along the steep sides and near the bottom, where a small crescent beach shone ivory in the sun. The top of the island reminded him of a pitted moonscape. He'd be surprised if it was more than two hundred yards across. There was no sign of life.