Angel in Armani (10 page)

She’d given in and Googled him in a weak moment. So now she knew all about Lucas Angelo and the Angelo family and their many businesses and their charity work and their accomplishments. Or at least what could be gleaned from the Internet, which seemed to be a large
about
.

And she knew that Lucas had just bought a share of the New York Saints, which spelled out the fact that his net worth had to be pretty damn healthy in no uncertain terms. She’d been vaguely aware that the Saints had been sold. It was hard to completely avoid baseball on Staten Island, but she hadn’t paid much attention to exactly who had bought the team.

Finding out that Prince Charming was one of them had been a surprise. She hadn’t pegged him as a sports nut. So maybe he wasn’t quite so perfect after all.

She’d never been the least bit interested in sports.

But sports nut or not, there was no denying that Dr. Gorgeous had a pretty good life.

For a moment she wished fervently that she could be Lucas Angelo. She didn’t want Prince Charming to rescue her, she wanted to have Prince Charming’s resources so she could rescue herself. Have so much money that she didn’t have to worry about anything.

What would life be like?

Glorious. Easy.

She sighed and cut off the fantasy. Because money would solve her problems yes, but that didn’t mean her life would magically be trouble-free. So she had to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Starting with getting out of the damned car and going to talk to her dad.

*   *   *

Her dad had insisted on making her lunch and she’d given in, happy for a few more minutes’ reprieve before she had to talk to him. She’d almost finished her sandwich when she noticed that her dad had barely touched his.

Uh-oh.

Almost every day of her life that she’d eaten lunch with him, her dad had eaten a tuna melt on whole wheat with a dill pickle on the side. Demolished it with about five rapid bites of each half. He believed in food as fuel, and didn’t like to waste time on things like choosing a different sandwich or making small talk while he ate.

He liked things simple and practical and uncomplicated.

Not that any of those things applied to their current situation. He’d been very quiet for the few weeks since the A-Star had been damaged. Which made her feel even worse about it all.

“Is your leg bothering you?” Sara asked. Pain was one thing that could kill his appetite, but she’d thought it had been well controlled lately. Maybe he’d tried to wean himself down a dose on the meds again.

Her dad shook his head. “No more than usual.” He looked up at her then back down at his plate then back up at her.

The expression on his face made her nervous. “Then what’s up?”

Sean gripped the edge of the table. “Ron came to see me yesterday.”

“Ron?” Her mind was blank for a moment. “You mean Ron Harris?” Ron Harris who was one of her dad’s flying buddies and business rivals not to mention the father of one of her exes, Evan. Evan who was a perfectly nice guy except for that small inability to be faithful to his girlfriend. Or to her, at least. She’d heard he was engaged now—her mother had included the clipping of the announcement in one of her care packets, God knew why—so maybe he’d learned to keep it zipped in the time since they’d parted.

“Yup.”

“That’s nice.” She didn’t know if Ron had been to see her dad since the accident.

Though she didn’t think it likely that Ron dropping by was the news that her dad wanted to share with her.

“He heard about what happened,” Dad said.

Hope bloomed in the pit of her stomach. Ron Harris also had a helicopter charter business. One that was about five times bigger than Charles Air. He had helicopters aplenty. “Can he loan us a helo?” If Ron could help them out there might be some hope.

“No.”

Well, shit.

“He came to offer you a job,” Sean continued. He looked down again and Sara’s stomach clenched again, not in a good way.

“He needs a pilot?”

“He needs someone to work in reception.”

“Reception?” Her throat tightened.

“Taking bookings, handling customers, you know the drill.”

She did. Because she’d done all of that and more for Charles Air, but she was a goddamned pilot. “I want to fly, Dad.”

Sean held up his hands. “I know you do. I told him that.”

She could just imagine Ron’s smug expression when he had. He wasn’t exactly the poster boy for equality. Come to think of it, that should have been a warning about his son.

“Pretty cocky of him to offer a job when I have one,” she said.

Sean stabbed at his cooling tuna melt with his fork. “Darlin’, he can do the math.” He looked up, nailed her with his steel-blue eyes. “And so can I. How much money is there?”

It was the first time he’d asked her about the business in ages. And she was going to have nothing but bad news for him. Her stomach twisted. “Some…”

“Do we need to shut down properly?”

The twist tightened. “Maybe for a little while. Just until the insurance coughs up to fix the rotor.”

“That could take a while.”

“I’m working on it,” she said defensively.

Her dad nodded. “I know you are. But darlin’, if we need to close, then this would be money in the meantime.”

Money. Money they needed.

And it wasn’t like pilot jobs were a dime a dozen. There were plenty of pilots—more than ever thanks to the war—and she knew all too well that given a choice between a guy and a woman, 95 percent of the charter companies would pick the guy. It was a boys’ club in all too many ways and her trump card—her dad, who formerly could’ve opened those doors for her—was persona non grata. A jinx. Pilots could be a superstitious bunch, and none of them would want to catch a dose of the current Charles bad luck.

Which left her with the option of going out and doing something completely mind numbing like temping—she at least could claim some office skills on her résumé—or setting her sights a bit lower and taking any job with a charter company that she could with the hope that luck would swing her way and at some point they’d need a fill-in pilot and she’d be right there on the spot.

Or maybe the insurance gods would suddenly smile on her and decide to cough up the money to fix the A-Star.

Both options seemed equally remote. But here was Ron Harris with his offer and her dad looking wretched about it. Blaming himself for their current predicament, probably. Or blaming her.

She stared down at her plate a moment, willing the urge to scream a protest at the sky away before she either gave in to it or burst into tears.

Working reception for Ron and Evan. It was a job, no matter how much it might stick in her craw to watch Evan swan past her and jump into a helo—she could fly the pants off him any day. A job. Money. Survival.

But she couldn’t quite say yes. Not yet. “Let me think about it, Dad, okay? Just for a couple of days.”

Chapter Seven

“Die, you little bastard,” Sara muttered as she shoved down on the hole punch and pierced the last of the day’s bills with a satisfying
chomp
.

She tugged the paper free, wriggled it into place in the binder, clipped the rings closed, and shoved the whole thing back into place on the shelf next to her in-tray. Another day conquered, and there was still some money in the bank.

Some. Not that much. And there was that job offer staring her in the face. A job. Cash. Something to keep them going. The offer she’d been avoiding giving an answer on for nearly two days now.

A job with no flying.

She pushed away the nasty little thought, her gaze straying to where the A-Star sat in its hangar, rotor still broken. Sadly no magic helicopter repair fairies had appeared to get her out of this jam. She looked away, setting her jaw. Getting the helo trucked up from the Hamptons had been another expense she couldn’t afford, but she couldn’t leave it sitting out in the open at the Jaceks’ airfield. Where anything else could happen. She rubbed her temples, trying to think. Just a few more days. Surely the insurance company would get things in motion by then?

If she just kept on them. Kept nagging. Or begging.

Hell, she’d get down on her knees if it meant not having to work with Evan Harris. She really didn’t know what she’d seen in him, except she’d been young and foolish and Evan had been one of the few guys her age who hung around the airfields as much as she did.

She really didn’t want to be reminded of her past every day of the week. See him smirking past her as he got to fly and she sat in reception taking bookings. He would love that.

He’d never been slow to gloat, Evan.

If only the flow of bills could slow down until she could pry the money out of the insurance company.

They had to slow down.

She pushed her chair back, finger poised over the
OFF
button of the computer, and then the bell over the office door chimed.

“We’re closed,” she sang out as she swiveled in her chair. “I’m sorry—”

The words died on her lips as she saw who was standing there.

Lucas freaking Angelo.

The suit was black this time and the shirt a pristine icy white. The tie was black, too, with only a few small dark-red diamonds breaking up the silken darkness. Against all that black and white, his eyes were very blue.

Lucas freaking goddamned Angelo.

Her chest suddenly felt like it had been stomped on, her mind a blur of kiss-night-hands-touch images that ended in oh-God-I-kind-of-stole-his-car, which was almost enough to cool the rush of heat warming her skin. Almost.

Why was he here? Had he finally gotten around to calling the cops on her? She leaned sideways a little, trying to see if there was anyone with him.

“Don’t worry,” he said drily. “I didn’t bring the police.”

She straightened hastily, pasting her best I-have-no-idea-what-you’re-talking-about expression in place and trying to ignore the memories of their night together that were whirling through her brain again now she knew he wasn’t going to have her arrested. “Why would you bring the police?” she asked, going for innocent.

Brilliant-blue eyes studied her a moment. Then, slowly, one very dark eyebrow lifted at her. “Well, there was that time where you stole my car.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I did not steal your car.” Denial, that was the ticket.

“I woke up, you were gone, and so was the car.”

She folded her arms across her chest, calling his bluff. “I returned a rental car for you. I even paid the bill. That’s not stealing by any definition. I don’t care how much your lawyer charges by the hour, if you try to get that through a court, you’ll get bounced.” Now she was the one bluffing. Hopefully he didn’t know that.

“You left me stranded in the middle of nowhere.” His tone was very flat.

“It looks like you made it back to the city in one piece to me, Dr. Angelo.”

“No thanks to you,” he muttered, mouth thinning.

Even thinned his lips looked pretty good. Nope. She straightened further. She was not going to think about his lips. Or any other part of him.

Yeah, good luck with that
.

“I refunded your fare,” she said. “Was there a problem with the check?” Her mind went horribly blank for a moment as she tried to remember if that payment had gone through already. Because her dwindling bank balance would dwindle a lot more if she’d miscalculated by five grand.

“No problem with the check.”

If he thought she was going to ask him if he had another problem, then he was crazy. “As I said, we’re not open right now—”

“I need a pilot.” His voice, if anything, had gone even flatter. A muscle ticced on the side of his jaw. Her pulse bumped in response.

Oh dear. Dr. Gorgeous was annoyed about something. About what, exactly, other than the car, she had no idea. And the car had been nearly three weeks ago, so surely—if he wasn’t upset enough to involve the police—he should have cooled down about that by now?

Then what he had said finally registered with her brain. He wanted a pilot. Hope flared like a rocket then died just as fast when she remembered she had no helo.

“Well, New York has plenty of those,” she said, trying not to let the disappointment creep through to her voice.

“I want a pilot I know,” he said.

“Is that doctor-speak for you’re offering me a job?” she asked. She was going to have to say no, so might as well just get it over with fast.

“Yes.”

She could have cried. Here was Lucas Angelo on her doorstep. Exactly what she needed.

Exactly what she
wanted
, the evil part of her brain piped up. She stomped on the thought. Hard. She needed his money, not his body. Yet once again the universe was conspiring to make it so that she couldn’t have it. “I’m sorry, but no.”

“Is that no because you don’t want the job or no because your helicopter is damaged?”

She started. “How do you know my helicopter is damaged?”

“You didn’t return my calls. I called Ellen Jacek while I was trying to track you down. She mentioned it. And I made a not-so-gigantic leap of logic to conclude that it hasn’t been fixed yet because you aren’t taking customers.”

“There could be other reasons.”

“Are there other reasons?”

Sara sighed. “No.”

“Why isn’t it fixed?”

“Because the insurance company is dicking me around,” she snapped. “And I don’t have the money to hire a team of lawyers or whatever it takes to speed up insurance companies these days.”

“I see. Okay. We’ll deal with that in a moment. But you haven’t answered my first question. Do you want the job?”

“You haven’t told me what the job is.”

“Helicopter pilot for the New York Saints,” he said. “You know I own one-third of the Saints, yes?”

She nodded as her brain tilted and spun a little. Piloting for the Saints—baseball team or not—sounded a lot better than working a reception desk for Ron Harris.

“I believe someone might have mentioned that,” she said. No way was she confessing to Internet-stalk—er—
researching
him.

“Good. Anyway. We need to someone to ferry people around. Here in New York and in Florida.”