Christine Pacheco - The Rogue And The Rich Girl

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Jared, this one is for you, light of my life, with thanks for the inspiration and unwavering belief.

Dear Reader,

I don’t remember a time when I didn’t want to be a writer. Even as a child, I spun fantastical tales, an outlet for a very creative imagination. Along the way, several special people encouraged me in ways I’ll never forget.

In elementary school, the librarian actually gave the books I wrote their own shelf and glued checkout cards on the inside covers. In junior high, a teacher gave me a full year’s credit of science projects for writing a book. I can’t forget my mother, either, for always encouraging me to believe I could be anything I dreamed.

A lot of things have changed over the years, but not my love of the written word and the power it holds.

The call from Karen Taylor Richman at Silhouette changed my life, helping me realize a lifelong dream.

It’s my sincere hope that I can capture your heart and engage your emotions, taking you away to the imaginary world I create. Just for a minute, I want you to take time out of your busy schedule for yourself, relax and enjoy.

All my very best wishes to you,

Christine Pacheco

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Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Epilogue

Ace Lawson glanced up from where he crouched on the airplane wing. The taxicab pulled to a halt, and he checked the scarred surface of his watch, not surprised to note it was already ten minutes past the hour.

As the woman opened the back door, he lifted his aviator glasses for a closer look.

Maybe it had been worth the wait.

Ankles, then calves emerged. He swore he heard the whisper of silk as she slipped from the car. But that was impossible—the taxi’s engine hummed loudly. Obviously it had been too long since he’d been with a woman.

She paid the driver, leaning over to do so.

Ace allowed a long, low whistle.

If only he’d known this was a reward, he would have given up the boardroom five years earlier than he had.

The taxi sped off in a cloud of dust, leaving silence between him and the woman. She walked toward him. With one hand she carried a suitcase, with the other she clutched a tooled leather briefcase. In the wink of the morning sun, he noted the bright red of her sculptured nails.

Auburn hair flirted with her shoulders, a few wisps playing across her face in the desert heat. A skirt clung to her thighs, outlining the length of leg. A blazer hugged her shoulders, thankfully minus any scary linebacker padding.

She exuded professionalism, from her spiked heels to silk blouse. Yet none of the armor hid her obviously dormant sensuality.

Ace jumped from the wing, then leaned back against it, dropping his glasses into place, determined to enjoy the show. He told himself she was a client, that her money paid his bills and bought medical supplies he needed to help the underprivileged. But none of that prevented him from watching the soft sway of her hips.

He allowed a quick grin. Her dress-for-success uniform might look good now, but he’d bet dollars to plane tickets she would be wilted in under an hour. Maybe less. And on Cabo de Bello, where artillery had been flying as often as pesky gulls, the rebels would likely find her an amusing diversion.

Oh well, if she wanted to act as though she were going on the Love Boat, he wouldn’t stop her.

“Ace Lawson?” she asked, her voice slightly lilting, oddly intoxicating.

“Yep,” he said, accepting her outstretched hand. Warm. Smooth. Healthy. A hell of a contradiction to some of the women’s hands he’d seen lately. “And you’re late,” he added. Just like his ex had always been.

“Sorry.” Her smile remained firmly in place, although she pulled back her hand.

He wondered if his calluses bothered her. Wondered if the dirt under his nails bothered her. But he’d just finished a run. He wanted a cool shower, a colder beer and a soft pillow, but they were luxuries that had to wait.

“I didn’t realize you meant to take off promptly at ten.”

He ignored the apology. “Are you going to fly dressed like that? Or do you want five minutes to change?”

“Change?” Her smile vanished and she looked at her sheath-style skirt and spike-heeled leather pumps.

He took in the slick package of her chic appearance. Hell, the lady probably spent more each month on clothes than he’d made in the past ten years. What things he could do for others with that kind of money.

“Honey, you look like a million bucks, but your stockings are going to be glued to your legs and my seats eat stockings for lunch.” He shrugged elaborately. “And them heels...”

“My heels? What’s wrong with them?”

He didn’t even try to hide his amusement as she tried to pull the sunken heel from the tar.

“They’re stuck,” he said unnecessarily.

She grimaced.

He grinned, then rubbed his forefinger across the stubble shading his chin. “Tell you what. I’ll give you into something more comfortable. ”

Nicole Jackson arched a tweezed eyebrow at him. He could well imagine an unfortunate underling receiving that harsh, wordless gesture. It might have terrorized some; it entertained him. “Besides, Cessie here isn’t a Learjet.”

She cut a glance to the side, taking in the single-engine plane that sported faded paint.

“I noticed.”

Her tone irritated him. His Cessna was his only worldly possession, and he loved it as if it were the child he always wanted but never had. Heck, he and Cessie had been around the world several times in the past few years. And she’d never failed him. Unlike the women he’d known.

“So what do you say? You want to take me up on my offer? You’re down to four minutes.”

She stared at him—nearly eye to eye, he noticed.

“Where 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.