The Flyboy's Temptation

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, attempting to be less prickly. “I don’t mean to be rude. I’d just prefer—”

“That I keep my nose out of your business,” he concluded, and she nodded. “Well, ordinarily, that’s a rule I live by, but then, this is not your ordinary circumstance. If I’m being chased and shot at...I’d like to know what I might be eating a bullet for.”

The thing was, Hope had this insane desire to actually tell J.T. everything, to just lay it all on the line and let him know exactly what they were up against, but that wasn’t fair to him. The fact was, this was her burden. She’d helped create the virus; it was up to her to destroy it.

She sighed and said as she turned away to watch the rain through the murky window, “Just get me to South America and you never have to see me again.”

3 (#ulink_163726a8-a3ba-5dca-a5d1-2937d4fea135)

THE RAIN FELL most of the afternoon, which afforded them the opportunity to catch some z’s without fear of snakes or big cats dropping by for a snack, but J.T. knew they couldn’t hole up in the plane forever.

He was already twitchy about being spotted by the guerrillas who hid out in these dense jungles, and it was better to be on the move than hanging around like a sitting duck.

While Hope slept, he climbed up into the cockpit and tried the radio, but it was deader than dead. All of the electronics were fried, which wasn’t a huge surprise, but he wasn’t above praying for a miracle.

Hope stirred, but didn’t awaken, her glasses slipping down her nose a bit. Her red hair had escaped the elastic she’d managed to tie the massive red cloud with and she looked like a hot mess with her torn and tattered blouse and skirt.

And why did he find that incredibly arousing?

Of all the damn wrong times to get some wood going, this was it.

But his cock didn’t care about circumstance—it just wanted what it wanted.

His stomach growled, protesting at the half protein bar that’d long since left his gut, and he wondered what the hell he was going to do to get them out of there alive.

His Air Force training kicked in and he grabbed his map and compass. Granted, he’d never been this far south before—his Mexico trips had been liquor-soaked and of the party-resort type—but he knew enough about the terrain to know that if they were close enough to Guatemala, they could possibly find a small plane and hump it to Brazil within five hours.

The challenge would be making it out of the jungle first.

The second challenge would be finding a trustworthy local to procure a plane.

And the third challenge would be getting back in the air before the mystery shooters who had brought them down in the first place tried to finish the job.

What the hell was she packing that people were willing to kill to have?

He eyed the pack at her feet and gauged how deeply she was sleeping.

Maybe he’d just take a peek. Seemed fair to know what he was risking his life for, right?

Invasion of privacy, Teagan would warn, but J.T. pushed away his brother’s voice. Some things were worth the risk.

But as he started to reach for the pack, her eyelids fluttered open and he casually shifted in his seat as if he’d been seeking a more comfortable position, and she was none the wiser.

“How long was I out?” she asked, rubbing at her eyes and yawning. Distress colored her voice as she looked out the window. “It’s still raining? How long is it supposed to rain?”

“It’s the rain forest, babe. It could rain for days.”

“We have to get out of here,” she protested, twisting in her seat to stretch her back. “Maybe we should just strike out and take our chances.”

“Take our chances with the rain and everything else that’s out there? No, thanks. We have to wait out the storm. Besides, it’ll be night soon and you don’t want to be traipsing around the jungle in the dark.”

She seemed to realize the wisdom of his advice, but as she worried her lip, her gaze darting, he realized she might have a different sort of problem.

“You need to pee?”

Hope lifted her chin, determined to be an adult about things. “Yes.” But her eyes darted again and her teeth returned to her lip. “But what about the jaguars and snakes and all those other things you mentioned?”

“Want me to stand guard?” he offered, to which she scowled. He lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, just trying to help.”

She climbed past him, then after gazing unhappily at the rain, climbed from the plane and disappeared. He chuckled at how ridiculous girls could be about that stuff, but remained mindful of how long she was gone. He might joke, but there were serious dangers lurking in the brush.

Hope reappeared quickly and climbed back inside, her blouse sticking to her skin in all the right places as she shook the water from her hair, and groaned as she sank into the seat.

“I can’t sit in this plane for another ten hours. I’m going insane. I’m used to working fourteen-hour days with barely enough time to shove something down my throat before heading back to my lab. This is torture.”

No, that smoking hot body is torture. It would be his bad karma to be holed up with a sexy scientist. What the hell was wrong with him? Maybe he’d hit his head harder than he’d realized.

During his tours with the Air Force, J.T. had learned how to shut off his brain for long stints, taking the opportunity to doze and conserve energy, which, once you got the hang of it, was rather Zen. Or, well, it was the closest he’d ever get to a Zen state of mind, that was for sure.

“Try to relax. We can’t go anywhere, so we might as well save our energy,” he said, closing his eyes.

“It’s not in my personality to sit idle.”

“There’s always a first time for everything.”

She huffed in annoyance. “Is there nothing that creates a sense of urgency for you?”

He opened his eyes to regard her thoughtfully, then answered, “Sure. A hot meatball sub, which, I might add, is chilling in my fridge as we speak. It was supposed to be my lunch.”

“I’ll add it to my tab,” she quipped.

“You do that,” he murmured. After a moment of strained silence, he reopened his eyes and asked out of sheer curiosity, “So...I take it there’s no Mr. Doc Larsen waiting at home while you traipse around the country?”

Hope laughed awkwardly. “No, no husband at home. But if I did have a husband, he would be fully supportive of my work and my need to traipse about the country, as you put it. Most evolved men are supportive of their wives’ career goals. Please don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who think women should be in the kitchen.”

“Of course not. I support women picking up the tab at dinner. More power to them. Better for my cash flow, too.”

She made a face. “That’s not exactly what I meant.”

“Oh, you mean you still want the guy to pick up the tab for dinner, but heaven help a man who holds a door open for you, right?”

“That’s ridiculous. There’s a difference between chivalry and being a male chauvinist.”

“Look, I’m all for equality for men and women. Some of the best pilots I flew with were women. I’m just saying, there’s nothing wrong with enjoying certain traditional gender roles. Such as...a woman cooking a nice meal for her man. You know what they say—the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

“Then I’m out of luck. I can’t cook to save my life.”

“No?”