a company she’d dreamed of founding since her twentieth birthday.
Spotting a crumpled island brochure under the farthest passenger seat, Lee recalled her last customer clutching the pamphlet in a death grip. Ah, well. Edgy fliers came with the territory.
Reaching down, she snagged the leaflet.
“Hello, there,” a deep voice said from behind.
Snapping around, she bumped her head on the cockpit’s ceiling.
She hadn’t heard him approach, but there he and the boy stood on the weathered pier, gazing at her rump in army-green coveralls, no less, as she leaned over the seat.
Swell. The guy wanted a tête-à-tête now? While her backside hung in his face?
Ignoring the warmth climbing her neck, she scrambled into the pilot’s seat.
“Hey,” she said, as if they hadn’t seen each other three times at precisely 6:30 p.m. in the past seventy-two hours. Be friendly, Lee. He could be a future weekend fare.
His eyes held humor. “Are you Amelia Earhart the Second?”
“I’m Lee Tait,” she stated, a little irked the guy would zero in on a nickname the townsfolk had given her when she received her wings fifteen years ago. “Owner and pilot of Sky Dash.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” He looked askance as if another thought chased through his mind. Then, with the boy close to his side, he offered a handshake. “Nice to meet you, Captain Tait.”
She leaned out the door. His grip was firm, large. A frisson of electricity shot up her arm. “No apology needed.” I’m used to the nickname. “And you are…?”
Shaking his head, he issued a short laugh. “I’m losing it. Rogan Matteo.”
“Rogan.” She tested the name, found it oddly pleasing. But…something niggled. Where had she heard his last name…?
He had quiet, gray eyes and soot-black hair. Although his voice suggested the South, his face revealed a none-too-genteel life. A nose too brash to be handsome, a square, tough jaw and cheekbones embracing the genes of a Spanish ancestor. Not handsome, yet appealing in a rudimentary sense.
Disregarding a scurry of nerves at how his eyes imprisoned hers, Lee jumped out of the plane. On the dock, she saw he was taller than she assumed; she could lay her head on his chest, if she chose.
Shaking off the image, she closed the seaplane’s door and picked up her metal toolbox. “What can I do for you, Mr. Matteo?” she asked, starting down the floating dock toward the boardwalk and its array of quaint stores and food outlets.
“I understand you make daily flights to the mainland.”
“I courier the island’s critical mail Monday through Friday.”
“Do you take passengers on those runs?”
“Sometimes. However, it depends on their destination and schedule. If I’m flying mail and we’re going in the same direction and at the same time, passengers are welcome.”
“Are they welcome at other times during the day?”
She stopped. They were at the junction of her dock and the boardwalk, and the boy held his dad’s hand.
“Of course,” she said. “As long as I’m back on time if there’s a mail run.”
“Ah.” Matteo gazed momentarily across the water where the sun sank below the horizon, leaving a bloodstain on the ocean. Glancing down at the boy, his eyes softened; on her they were all business. “In a week or so, I’ll need temporary shuttling to Renton, Captain Tait. Three, four days at most. My son’s attending the elementary school here, so I need to be back in time to pick him up.”
“What’s wrong with Lu’s foot ferry?” she asked. Let Lucien Duvall take the man on his sixty-passenger water taxi. It made three daily trips.
“Nothing’s wrong with his ferry, but you stop at Renton, which means I can walk to work. Lu docks at Seattle, and he leaves at 7:30 a.m. with a five-thirty return. Your eight and three o’clock schedules fit my son—” another glance at the boy “—and me better.”
My son and me. Did that mean the child’s mother lived elsewhere? Oddly, the notion of a wife waiting in the wings sent a shaft of disappointment through Lee.
“I’m willing to pay the going rate,” Matteo went on.
Unable to withhold her amazement, Lee blinked. Temporary or not, a week of daily return flights would cost him. Either he or his company had money. Since he was a stranger to the island—she knew practically every one of its two thousand souls—she’d bet he was the one with money. Probably another of the rich who came to Firewood Island looking for a chunk of so-called “nature,” while building a mansion with an ocean view.
Although the idea bothered her, where he built his home had nothing to do with her hesitancy. She did not wish to be near him. He was a man with a child. A man who could make her heart skip with a simple hello, there.
Her no-nonsense black shoes clicking against the wood, she started for the apartment she rented above Art Smarts, a whimsical shop catering to the island’s artsy community.
Matteo took the heavy toolbox from her grip. “Do you always maintain your own plane?”
“Every day.” She noticed he carried the toolbox easily, and wondered if he was always a gentleman. Her heart beat a little harder.
“So, you’re a mechanic, too?” he asked with that Southern inflection.
“Not officially, but over the years I’ve learned a few things about plane engines.” Most of it from my ex who owns a charter airline. “Don’t worry, Mr. Matteo,” she said, mentally batting Stuart Hershel out of her mind. “I hire a professional to overhaul my plane twice a year.”
Halting again, she retrieved the toolkit from his grip. Suddenly, she didn’t like his questions. And she certainly didn’t like that she noticed too much about him, which vexed her even more, especially after his scrutiny of the last three days.
“I could probably help with your situation,” she went on. “However, I won’t be responsible for getting you to work on time. If something goes wrong and I’m late, you’ll be late. And vice versa. If something holds you up here or on the mainland, I can’t wait for you.”
He held up a hand. “I understand. However, I’ve checked your flight history. Since you were hired by the post office seven months ago, you haven’t missed a day or a time. Nor have you missed your other fares.” His smile canted left. “I’m a lawyer, Miss Lee. Comprehensive research comes with the job.”
A lawyer. Who’d had her investigated. What else had he discovered? A chill spilled through her bones. Three years ago, she had returned to her hometown to escape a past that haunted her nights.
He dug a card from a hip pocket. “Call anytime and we’ll set up a schedule. I don’t go to bed until eleven.”
She studied the print. Rogan B. Matteo, Law Offices of Matteo and Matteo.
