“Pull up a chair, son,” Dobie invited as Gull walked by the table. “I’m looking to add to my retirement account.”

“Land on your head a few more times, you’ll be retiring early.”

Gull kept walking. Outside the rain that had threatened all day fell cool and steady. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he walked into the wet. He turned toward the distant hangar. Maybe he’d wander over, take a look at the plane he’d soon be jumping out of.

He’d jumped three times before he’d applied for the program, just to make sure he had the stomach for it. Now he was anxious, eager to revisit that sensation, to defy his own instincts and shove himself into the high open air.

He’d studied the planes—the Twin Otter, the DC-9—the most commonly used for smoke jumping. He toyed with the idea of taking flying lessons in the off-season, maybe going for his pilot’s license. It never hurt to know you could take control if control needed to be taken.

Then he saw her striding toward him through the rain. Dark and gloom didn’t blur that body. He slowed his pace. Maybe he didn’t need to play poker for this to be his lucky night.

“Nice night,” he said.

“For otters.” Rain dripped off the bill of Rowan’s cap as she studied him. “Making a run for it?”

“Just taking a walk. But I’ve got a car if there’s somewhere you want to go.”

“I’ve got my own ride, thanks, but I’m not going anywhere. You did okay today.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s too bad about Doggett. Bad landing, and a hairline fracture takes him out of the program. I’m figuring he’ll come back next year.”

“He wants it,” Gull agreed.

“It takes more than want, but you’ve got to want it to get it.”

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

On a half laugh, Rowan shook her head. “Do women ever say no to you?”

“Sadly, yes. Then again, a man who just gives up never wins the prize.”

“Believe me, I’m no prize.”

“You’ve got hair like a Roman centurion, the body of a goddess and the face of a Nordic queen. That’s a hell of a package.”

“The package isn’t the prize.”

“No, it’s not. But it sure makes me want to open it up and see what’s in there.”

“A mean temper, a low bullshit threshold and a passion for catching fire. Do yourself a favor, hotshot, and pull somebody else’s shiny ribbon.”

“I’ve got this thing, this... focus. Once I focus on something, I just can’t seem to quit until I figure it all the way out.”

She gave a careless shrug, but she watched him, he noted, with care. “Nothing to figure.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said when she started into the dorm. “I got you to take a walk in the rain with me.”

With one hand on the door, she turned, gave him a pitying smile. “Don’t tell me there’s a romantic in there.”

“Might be.”

“Better be careful then. I might use you just because you’re handy, then crush that romantic heart.”

“My place or yours?”

She laughed—a steamy brothel laugh that shot straight to his loins—then shut the door, metaphorically at least, in his face.

Damned if he hadn’t given her a little itch, she admitted. She liked confident men—men who had the balls, the brains and the skills to back it up. That, and the cat-at-the-mousehole way he looked at her—desire and bottomless patience—brought on a low sexual hum.

And picking up that tune would be a mistake, she reminded herself, then tapped lightly on Cards’s door. She took his grunt as permission to poke her head in.

He looked, to her eye, a little pale, a lot bored and fairly grungy. “How’re you feeling?”

“Shit, I’m okay. Got some bug in my gut this morning. Puked it, and a few internal organs, up.” He sat on his bed, cards spread in front of him. “Managed some time in manufacturing, kept dinner down okay. Just taking it easy till tomorrow. Appreciate you covering for me.”

“No problem. We’re down to twenty-two. One of them’s out with an injury. I think we’ll see him back. See you in the morning then.”

“Hey, want to see a card trick? It’s a good one,” he said before she could retreat.

Tired of his own company, she decided, and gave in to friendship and sat across from him on the bed.

Besides, watching a few lame card tricks was a better segue into sleep than thinking about walking in the rain with Gulliver Curry.

3

Gull lined up in front of the ready room with the other recruits. Across the asphalt the plane that would take them up for their first jump roared, while along the line nerves jangled.

Instructors worked their way down, doing buddy checks. Gull figured his luck was in when Rowan stepped to him. “Have you been checked?”

“No.”

She knelt down so he studied the way her sunflower hair sculpted her head. She checked his boots, his stirrups, worked her way up—leg pockets, leg straps—checked his reserve chute’s expiration date, its retainer pins.

“You smell like peaches.” Her eyes flicked to his. “It’s nice.”

“Lower left reserve strap attached,” she said, continuing her buddy check without comment. “Lower right reserve strap attached. Head in the game, Fast Feet,” she added, then moved on up the list. “If either of us misses a detail, you could be a smear on the ground. Helmet, gloves. You got your letdown rope?”

“Check.”

“You’re good to go.”

“How about you?”

“I’ve been checked, thanks. You’re clear to board.” She moved down to the next recruit.

Gull climbed onto the plane, took a seat on the floor beside Dobie.

“You looking to tap that blonde?” Dobie asked. “The one they call Swede?”

“A man has to have his dreams. You’re getting closer to owing me twenty,” Gull added when Libby ducked through the door.

“Shit. She ain’t jumped yet. I got ten right now says she balks.”

“I can use ten.”

“Welcome aboard,” Rowan announced. “Please bring your seats to their full upright position. Our flying time today will depend on how many of you cry like babies once you’re in the door. Gibbons will be your spotter. Pay attention. Stay in your heads. Are you ready to jump?”