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Temptation Bay
By Anna Sullivan Grand Central Publishing
Copyright © 2013 Anna Sullivan
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4555-2535-5
CHAPTER 1
Portland Tower. This is N277HK requesting approach."
"N277HK hold your position. We have outgoing."
"Roger that, Portland Tower, holding," Maggie Solomon said from the cockpit of her AS355 Twinstar helicopter, hovering at a safe distance and altitude over the Maine coastline east of Portland International Jetport.
She didn't mind hovering. Things were so much more appealing from the air. Less ... messy. A little distance was never a bad thing. A fitting rule of thumb, she thought, for life in general.
"You got a fare, Maggie, or just cargo?"
"It's a suit, so I guess it depends on your outlook."
The radio was quiet for a few seconds while the controller dealt with the outgoing traffic, which turned out to be a small commercial jet taking off. "Roger that, N277HK," the controller said once the plane was airborne and safely away. "By suit I take it you mean some sort of corporate stiff."
"Lawyer." Maggie patted her control panel lightly. "I'll have my baby fumigated later."
A slight laugh crackled through the radio static. "Come on in, one thousand."
"Roger that." Maggie brought the 'copter in for a landing, and saw her fare, standing at the edge of the tarmac like one of those Easter Island statues she'd seen in National Geographic. Inscrutable expression, oddly compelling, just a little scary.
Most people hunched automatically, instinctive fear of thirty-five feet of rotor blade edged with stainless steel spinning at approximately 400 rpm right about head level. Dexter Keegan just stood there, not moving, even though the wind was fierce enough to scour the paint from the buildings, not to mention mold his suit to his body—his long, lean, nicely muscled body. The kind of muscles that came from a gym, she told herself, and when she realized she was staring, she took a good long look at the suit again, because the suit, with its crisp white shirt and almost military cut, instantly put her back up.
Too bad, because she liked looking at him, in spite of the bland lawyer expression that said "trust me," and made her want to do exactly the opposite. His hair was dark and just a bit too long, his features a shade too handsome, and his attitude struck her as self-confident, with an edge of swagger. Swagger irritated the hell out of her.
His gaze found hers through the chopper's windows, dark eyes cool and shadowed. There were depths there, Maggie thought, and despite her better instincts, she found herself intrigued. Maybe if he relaxed enough to get out of that suit he'd be worth a fling. She didn't have them often, and not with anyone she could get seriously involved with. But this man didn't strike her as being any more interested in entanglements than she was. Entanglements were a while off in her life plan.
She powered down the helicopter and put on her business face as she climbed out. "Dexter Keegan?" she said, holding out her hand.
He took it. "Call me Dex, Miss ..."
"Solomon," Maggie said, taking her hand back and telling herself he hadn't held it a bit too long. And that she hadn't been flattered by it.
"You have a first name?"
"Yes." She stepped around him to retrieve his luggage.
"I'll get that."
"Part of the service," she said, shouldering the hanging bag and snagging the roller. She noted the quick flash of irritation that crossed his face and remembered her first rule of operation: make the customer happy. Word of mouth traveled a long way in the blogosphere, and he looked like a guy who knew his way around a cutting phrase.
And maybe the keyboard was mightier than the sword in the twenty-first century, but she'd be damned if she let the potential for bad press compromise—
He reached for the suitcase. She nipped it away. "Really," she said through her teeth, "It's no trouble."
"Something to prove?" he said equably.
Maggie shrugged, a lift and drop of one shoulder. She always had something to prove. And if it rankled that Dexter Keegan had read her so easily, at least she looked away before he saw the little snap of peevishness in her eyes because she was attracted to him, and she didn't want to be.
But that wasn't his fault.
So she handed him the shoulder bag—compromising as much as she could manage—and waited until he stowed it, then lifted in the roller and secured the luggage net.
She opened the passenger door and stood back while he climbed in, and nearly took a right to the jaw when he reached for the door handle just as she leaned in to buckle his harness.
He lifted both hands, his expression missing only a pair of waggling brows.
"I need to make sure it's properly latched," she said, adding in a deadpan voice, "Wouldn't want you to fall out," cinching the straps tight before she stepped back. "I'd hate to have wasted the trip. Fuel is an ugly price these days," she said before she secured the door and headed around the front of the Twinstar.
He gave her a look through the glass, mostly amusement. At least the man could take a joke, she allowed, and by the time she'd boosted herself into the pilot's seat, she was almost optimistic about having to spend the next twenty minutes with him.
She completed her pre-flight checklist before slipping on her headphones, unhooking the ones hanging behind the passenger's seat and handing them to Keegan. "All set?" she asked him.
"You're driving."
She smiled, just a little, and put him out of her mind. Or rather labeled him, which amounted to the same thing. Instead of an attractive man he was simply a tourist. She knew how to handle tourists.
"Portland Tower, N277HK requesting clearance."
"N277HK, this is Portland Tower. You're cleared for liftoff. Keep it under a thousand, Maggie, I'll hold traffic until you're away."
"Roger that, Portland, and thanks."
"Maggie," her passenger said.
She ignored him, grasping the stick on her left that lifted the bird and the control lever in front of her that moved them forward. Her feet were already resting on the pedals that served as the rudder, determining the pitch of the tail rotor and turning the helicopter left or right. In a choreography that was as natural to her as breathing, she lifted the Twinstar off the tarmac and put it into a smooth turning climb that took them out over the Atlantic coastline, her spirit soaring along with the bird.
She loved this, loved that weightless moment when she hit altitude and leveled off, when her stomach dropped out and she went a little breathless and a lot awestruck. No matter how often she flew, plane or helicopter, it was never anything less than pure magic. Utter freedom. It was the only time in her life when she was truly at peace and absolutely her own woman because she'd built a thriving business around something she loved, something she never allowed to be just business. And even though she knew Mr. Dexter Keegan could see the childish delight on her face, she didn't care. She simply let herself feel.
When she reached the height and distance she wanted, she checked in with the tower, reported her stats, and was given the all clear, meaning she was out of range to present any impediment to airport traffic.
"If you look to your right there's a wonderful view of the city of Portland, Mr. Keegan," she said.
"Dex."
"If you have some time on your way back through, the Old Port district is a great way to spend a day," she continued evenly, more at ease than she ever was on the ground.
"I doubt I'll have time for shopping and sightseeing."
Maggie glanced over at him, and saw a veteran flier, calm and relaxed. To all appearances. What she felt from him was different. What she felt was alertness, energy, focus. His eyes never stopped scanning the skyline, and yet she felt like she was being watched.
She didn't comment' those were personal observations, and personal observations invited personal questions. Instead, she swung the Twinstar wide in the usual flight pattern, and lost herself in what she loved.
"The extreme point of land below us is Cape Elizabeth," she said, filtering the radio chatter and keeping an eye out for birds from the other charter services that worked the Portland area. "As we move northeast, you'll see dozens of islands, large and small. In all there are nearly 3,000 islands along the Maine coast. Only Louisiana and Florida have longer coastlines."
"Fascinating," he said, with a tinge of sarcasm Maggie told herself she'd imagined, as when she looked over she didn't see it on his face.
Then again, self-control was a vital tool in his line of work, and winning or losing might hinge on how good a show he put on. "I can lose the spiel, but I have to stick to the flight plan."
His eyes shot to hers, boredom sharpening into irritation that was quickly smoothed over. "Lot on my mind," he said, the practiced, chagrined smile making it an apology as well as an explanation.
Maggie had nothing to say to that, so she said nothing.
"For a tour guide you're not very talkative."
"I get the feeling you prefer it that way."
"I don't want the spiel," he corrected her. "I'm not against conversation in general though, and since I'm the customer, and it's your policy to make the customer happy ..."
"It's not usually this difficult," she said, and she'd ferried some pretty wobbly fliers in her time as a pilot. Then again, an airsickness bag wouldn't solve this problem. Maybe a cold shower. Or a bullet. She glanced over at him. A silver bullet. And maybe some Holy Water. Dex Keegan had wolf written all over him, wolf with a veneer of civility, which was a devastating combination. What woman didn't want a gentleman in the dining room and a beast in the bedroom?
"What's going on between the headphones?" Dex wondered into the silence—silence being a relative term in a helicopter.
"Thwarting gravity."
"Nope, flying for you is like driving for most people. You do it without even thinking."
"How about landing, can I think about that?"
"Sure, but you weren't thinking about landing, either."
"I'm beginning to think about crashing."
Dex chuckled, and it was such a rich, infectious sound she couldn't help but smile. At him. That wasn't good. Especially when she caught the glint in his eye. That glint told her he thought he'd won. Which meant she'd lost.
Maggie hated losing. "Mr. Keegan, why are you baiting me?"
He sat back in his seat, and just when she thought she'd gotten the last word, he said, "I'm a lawyer. It's what I do."
She slanted him a sideways glance. "You cross examine every stranger you encounter?"
"You're more likely to get truthful answers when you keep people a little off balance, don't give them time to think."
"So I'm not just a liar, I'm neither smart enough nor imaginative enough to lie on the spur of the moment."
"Everyone has an agenda," he said mildly.
"Including you, Mr. Keegan?"
"Including me. But you knew that already."
"Very cynical."
"It saves time."
Maggie huffed out a breath, as much humor as derision. "Suppose you ask your questions, and I'll do my best not to mislead you. Or at least confine my lies to the little white kind."
He laughed, full out this time, a contagious peal of sound that tugged at some part of her she had no intention of acknowledging. She didn't so much as smile, tempting as it was.
"Tell me about the island."
It surprised her enough to have her glancing over at him. Their eyes met, held. The air between them began to ... sizzle, she admitted, before she turned away. And warned herself not to look at him again—or at least not to get so caught up it took her a moment to remember where she was in the conversation. She recovered admirably, she decided. "I figured you knew all about the island, seeing as you have business there."
"It would be helpful to get the impressions of a native."
"Isn't it a shame I left my grass skirt and coconut bra back at the hut."
"I've been to Hawaii," he said, although the once over he gave her, complete with the kind of speculative edge that said he was imagining her in the bra, gave her a nice little ego bump. "I'm more interested in what Windfall Island has to offer."
"Windfall," Maggie echoed, and although she knew he had ulterior motives, suspicion couldn't drown out the surge of warmth she always felt. Windfall Island wasn't just a dot on the map' it was, simply, home.
Her father had meant it to be a prison when he'd banished her there. He'd never know the amazing gift he'd given her, could never understand what it meant to love unconditionally. Windfall was hers' it had been since the day she'd set foot there.
"You strike me as a man who does his homework," she said, "but if you want a firsthand account, I can give you the island's background, tell you how it got its name, that sort of thing."
"I'd rather talk about the present."
"Not big on history?"
He shifted a little in his seat, and she could feel his eyes on her. "Is there a reason you don't want to discuss the island?"
"Oh, I don't know, because I feel like I'm getting the third degree? I'm your pilot, not your witness."
It was his turn to use silence as a response. He settled back in his seat, eyes forward again, oozing nonchalance.
Maggie glanced over at him, not buying it.
"I'm really just trying to get a feel for the place," he finally offered.
Maggie smiled a little, fondly. Growing up, she'd never really felt she belonged anywhere. That just meant she got to choose her home, and she was lucky enough to have been welcomed with open arms to Windfall Island. The place might be peopled with the truly eccentric and the downright loopy, but there was no place on Earth she'd rather live. "Windfall has to be experienced."
"That's my intention."
"And I'm happy to provide transportation."
"It's a small community, a small, close-knit community. And I won't be around long enough to—"
"To what? To waste your time getting to know people?"
"Maybe you missed the part about my time crunch."
"No, I got that loud and clear," she said, shooting him a wry grin. "Just like I didn't miss your reason for coming to Windfall, because you didn't give me one."
"Can't," he corrected, "On the instruction of my client."
Maggie snorted. "That sounds like a line."
"It is a line. From the Bar Association."
"Have they met you? Because you do fine without a script."
"Be careful, I think you just complimented me."
"That wasn't a compliment' it was a commentary on your ability to prevaricate."
"Yeah, I'm taking that as a compliment too."
"Well, prevarication is probably a required course in law school. I bet you got an A."
"You just can't help yourself, can you?" He sat back, crossed his feet at the ankles. "Keep the compliments coming' I can take it."
She grinned over at him, caught him grinning back, and when her pulse scrambled she turned forward again. Before he could see it too. And comment on it. Not that she couldn't fend him off—once she got her nerve endings to stop throbbing so her brain could kick back in. She just had to stop thinking about how much she liked the shape of his mouth, not to mention the rest of him—including his brain, which she was finding delightfully agile. Probably like his body.
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, dug for strength.
"Admit it," he said in his richly amused voice. "You're enjoying this."
Maybe, Maggie thought, but she didn't like being called on it, especially with Dex Keegan's brand of smug confidence. In fact, it pissed her off enough to want to put him in his place. "You want to know about Windfall? These aren't the families who came over on the Mayflower looking for religious freedom. You won't find any Brewsters or Bradfords or Aldens in the phone book. Windfall was settled by outcasts, by escaped slaves and shipwrecked sailors, some of them just one short step up from pirates. They took native American women for wives, and they're proud of that heritage, proud enough to make native an insult."
"I didn't mean—"
"It was the way you tossed it off," she said, still riding that defensive surge. "They didn't build stately mansions on huge tracts of land, and every man of every color was free, or as free as possible on an island run with an iron fist. It was a hard place inhabited by hard people."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Temptation Bay by Anna Sullivan. Copyright © 2013 Anna Sullivan. Excerpted by permission of Grand Central Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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