"You're a charter pilot?" She couldn't believe it. It - he - was too good to be true. Maybe she did qualify for two miracles in one day after all.
He looked down at her and smiled, making a tiny dimple dance in his cheek. God, he had a dimple, too! Talk about overkill! He held out his hand. "Chance McCall - pilot, thief-catcher, jack-of-all-trades - at your service, ma'am."
She laughed and shook his hand, noticing that he was careful not to grip her fingers too hard. Considering the strength she could feel in that tough hand, she was grateful for his restraint. Some men weren't as considerate. "Sunny Miller, tardy courier and target of thieves. It's nice to meet you, Mr. McCall." "Chance," he said easily. "Let's get this little problem taken care of, then you can call your boss and see if he thinks a charter flight is just what the doctor ordered."
He opened the door of the unmarked office for her, and she stepped inside to find the two security officers, a woman dressed in a severe gray suit and the cretin, who had been handcuffed to his chair. The cretin glared at her when she came in, as if all this were her fault instead of his. "You lyin' bitch - " the cretin began.
Chance McCall reached out and gripped the cretin's shoulder. "Maybe you didn't get the message before," he said in that easy way of his that in no way disguised the iron behind it, "but I don't care for your language. Clean it up." He didn't issue a threat, just an order - and his grip on the cretin's shoulder didn't look gentle.
The cretin flinched and gave him an uneasy look, perhaps remembering how effortlessly this man had manhandled him before. Then he looked at the two airport policemen, as if expecting them to step in. The two men crossed their arms and grinned. Deprived of allies, the cretin opted for silence.
The gray-suited woman looked as if she wanted to protest the rough treatment of her prisoner, but she evidently decided to get on with the business at hand. "I'm Margaret Fayne, director of airport security. I assume you're going to file charges?" "Yes," Sunny said.
"Good," Ms. Fayne said in approval. "I'll need statements from both of you."
"Any idea how long this will take?" Chance asked. "Ms. Miller and I are pressed for time."
"We'll try to hurry things along," Ms. Fayne assured him.
Whether Ms. Fayne was super-efficient or yet another small miracle took place, the paperwork was completed in what Sunny considered to be record time. Not much more than half an hour passed before the cretin was taken away in handcuffs, all the paperwork was prepared and signed, and Sunny and Chance McCall were free to go, having done their civic duty. He waited beside her while she called the office and explained the situation. The supervisor, Wayne Beesham, wasn't happy, but bowed to reality.
"What's this pilot's name again?" he asked.
"Chance McCall."
"Hold on, let me check him out."
Sunny waited. Their computers held a vast database of information on both commercial airlines and private charters. There were some unsavory characters in the charter business, dealing more in drugs than in passengers, and a courier company couldn't afford to be careless. "Where's his home base?"
Sunny repeated the question to Chance.
"Phoenix," he said, and once again she relayed the information.
"Okay, got it. He looks okay. How much is his fee?" Sunny asked.
Mr. Beesham grunted at the reply. "That's a bit high."
"He's here, and he's ready to go."
"What kind of plane is it? I don't want to pay this price for a crop-duster that still won't get you there in time."
Sunny sighed. "Why don't I just put him on the line? It'll save time." She handed the receiver to Chance. "He wants to know about your plane."
Chance took the receiver. "McCall." He listened a moment. "It's a Cessna Skylane. The range is about eight hundred miles at seventy-five percent power, six hours flying time. I'll have to refuel, so I'd rather it be around the midway point, say at Roberts Field in Redmond, Oregon. I can radio ahead and have everything rolling so we won't spend much time on the ground." He glanced at his wristwatch. "With the hour we gain when we cross into the Pacific time zone, she can make it - barely." He listened for another moment, then handed the receiver back to Sunny. "What's the verdict?" she asked.
"I'm authorizing it. For God's sake, get going."
She hung up and grinned at Chance, her blood pumping at the challenge. "It's a go! How long will it take to get airborne?"
"If you let me carry that bag, and we run...fifteen minutes."
Sunny never let the bag out of her possession. She hated to repay his courtesy with a refusal, but caution was so ingrained in her that she couldn't bring herself to take the risk. "It isn't heavy," she lied, tightening her grip on it. "You lead, I'll follow."
One dark eyebrow went up at her reply, but he didn't argue, just led the way through the busy concourse. The private planes were in a different area of the airport, away from the commercial traffic. After several turns and a flight of stairs, they left the terminal and walked across the concrete, the hot afternoon sun beating down on their heads and making her squint. Chance slipped on a pair of sunglasses, then shrugged out of the jacket and carried it in his left hand.
Sunny allowed herself a moment of appreciation at the way his broad shoulders and muscled back filled out the black T-shirt he wore. She might not indulge, but she could certainly admire. If only things were different - but they weren't, she thought, reining in her thoughts. She had to deal with reality, not wishful thinking.