than smoke.
Still shrouded in the ominous dreams, she finally managed to surface, opening her eyes a crack, afraid of what she’d find. She blinked, becoming aware of two things. She was in a small airplane—a private jet, by the plush interior and propellerless hum—and she was not alone.
* * *
FROM ACROSS THE AISLE, Seth Gantry watched her come out of the drug-induced sleep. The resemblance had been startling. He’d seen it the moment she stepped from her car into the glare of the headlights. Her hair, a tumble of dark burnished waves cascading around her shoulders. Her body, slim and long, softened by full curves.
It had stopped him like a shotgun blast to his chest. Shanna. He’d stood, too stunned to move. For one breath-stealing moment, he’d believed it really was her standing there. Then she’d turned and he’d seen the woman’s face. And reality had come like a blow.
But even now in the light of the plane’s interior, he could see similarities between the two women. The hair. The wide-set eyes fringed with dark lashes. The high cheekbones.
But he could also see differences. The full, sensual mouth. The patrician features.
And yet when she opened her eyes, he thought they would be blue. As blue as Texas bluebonnets. And as filled with that silent pleading as the last time he’d looked into them.
The woman opened her eyes, blinked, then looked over at him. They weren’t blue at all, but a surprising pale violet. And all he saw in them was a drugged blankness.
She wasn’t Shanna. Not that he’d really believed she was. Except for that split second of insanity. So why did just looking at her hurt so much?
“Hello,” he said, his voice rough with emotions he thought he’d buried years ago. Obviously he hadn’t buried them deep enough. Disappointment sat on his chest, making each breath a hard-won victory.
She blinked again, looking at him with an empty vagueness that confirmed the heavy-duty muscle relaxant had done its job.
The question was: How much did she remember? She looked confused and probably incoherent. But would she experience the usual short-term memory loss?
He hoped so. It would be better if she didn’t remember what had happened to her, he thought, absently rubbing his hand where she’d bitten him. Seth liked fight in a woman. Just not this woman. And not now.
As he watched her, he remembered the feel of her in his arms—her surprising physical strength, as well as her strength of will. He waited expectantly, still seeing Shanna in her and wishing he didn’t.
She offered a drunken lopsided smile. There was no sign of nausea, he thought, pleased with his choice of drugs. Nor any fear in her expression. Yet. He knew it would take a few minutes before she’d be coherent and by then they’d have landed and she wouldn’t be his problem anymore. This was one job he’d be glad to have over.
She frowned and looked around, her gaze questioning. He wondered if every emotion this woman felt showed as clearly on her face, or if it was just her drugged, uninhibited state. Again he felt that tug of interest and found himself wondering about her. He caught himself. It didn’t matter. Actually, it was better not to know. It made things easier. Less personal. And that’s the way he liked them.
“You’re in a plane,” he said in response to the look. “We’ll be landing soon.”
The brows unfurrowed. She blinked and seemed to study the plane as if she thought she should recognize it. Why did he get the feeling she’d been in a private jet before? For the moment, she seemed satisfied with his answer and he was glad of that.
When she looked at him again, the violet eyes registered flashes of random emotions from confusion to curiosity. But it was the intelligence he saw there that worried him. Intelligence and strength of will? Seth hoped he wouldn’t regret that he hadn’t handcuffed her to the seat.
* * *
SHE WAS FLYING? It didn’t surprise her. She felt airborne and wasn’t sure she even needed the aircraft. Her thoughts zipped in and out like fighter planes, so fast she couldn’t catch even one for more than an instant. Her body floated as if weightless, although it seemed to be slumped in the plush seat. Her brain was unable to get her limbs to respond.
She smiled to herself, relishing this alien notnecessarily-unpleasant feeling. If she’d been able to reason, she’d have been horrified at this inability to think or move, let alone the idea of waking in a jet with a strange man. She didn’t even like to have more than a glass of wine because of her need to be in control at all times.
But that Levi was gone. This Levi couldn’t care less. She soared. Free. And it felt...delicious.
While she had no fear of flying, she did wonder how this cowboy had ended up on her magic carpet ride. As she looked over at him, she also wondered who he was and how she felt about him. She had no idea how she should feel about him, since her mind was still senseless and her body wonderfully insensible, but she felt something. In fact, her awareness of him seemed magnified, as if just one touch, even one whiff, would tell her everything she needed to know.
She closed her eyes and sniffed. Mmm. Very male. Unique as fingerprints and just as telling, his masculine scent seemed to fill her with what she knew instinctively were small truths about him. Strong. She smiled as another truth invaded her senses. Sexy. Very sexy. She opened her eyes, drunk with the essence of him, and grinned. At least she thought she grinned.
He gave her a small smile. She thought she felt her grin deepen into a smile, but who knew. She liked to think at least her lips were working.
“Would you care for some juice?” he asked.
Nice voice. Soft, considerate and something else that dodged her grasp. Apprehensive? That didn’t make any sense. What would he have to be apprehensive about?
She passed on the juice with a laborious shake of her head, feeling too far beyond forming the words “No, thank you.”
He didn’t seem to mind. Part of her watched him open an orange juice and take a drink.
His hands drew her attention. Large hands. She blinked, still staring at his long, sensuous fingers, as a jolt of fear shot through her. Odd, she thought, dragging her gaze back to his face. Where had that come from?
Nothing about the man looked dangerous. Certainly not his face. It was a pleasing sculpture of strong angles and planes, broken by the midnight black of his thick cowboy mustache that softened the hardness of bone and muscle to make him downright handsome. The mustache filled his upper lip and curled down past the corner of each side of his wide, well-defined mouth. His hair, the same shiny black, was thick and long enough to brush his collar.
Dressed as he was, he could have passed for one of the ranchers who frequented the Cattleman’s Club in San Antonio. He wore jeans, a blue-checked western shirt, a leather vest, a tooled leather belt with an elk-horn buckle and western boots. A Stetson sat atop a sheepskin coat on the empty seat to his left.
He rested one long, muscular leg on the knee of the other and appeared as complacent as a tomcat sunning himself.
She decided there was nothing about this cowboy that seemed cause for concern. And yet...she couldn’t remember what he was doing here any more than she could remember what she was doing here.
What
