"Not much, but my Squadron Commander says your hands brought the plane down safely."
Scratching along the neck of his flight suit, Crusty knocked his squadron scarf farther askew. "That doesn't mean they're not going to try and pin this on me by claiming something happened earlier."
"Did it? Hey, we're human. All it takes is for the airspeed to be a little off during the drop, the wings cranked—"
"No!" Crusty snatched his beer from the table. "Damn it, they always want to blame it on the pilot. It's easier than admitting they screwed up somewhere higher in the chain."
"I hear you." He understood too well, and it tore at him. A part of him sided with the brotherhood, didn't want it to be a career-ending crew mistake. "I don't want it to be your fault, but we gotta figure this one out before it happens again."
"Check the in-flight tapes." Crusty tipped his beer, nursing a long swig.
"Wish I could." Tanner eased his chair back on two legs. He searched his friend's eyes and waited.
Crusty lowered the bottle from his lips. "What?"
"The tapes are blank. Demagnetized. Erased. Do you have any idea how that happened?"
The other pilot thumped his bottle back on the table. "They're gonna hang me out to dry."
Nothing but frustration showed in Crusty's eyes. More questioning wouldn't pull anything from him. Better just to reestablish the friendship in hopes the guy would come to him if he had something to spill later. Tanner slugged him on the arm. "Hey, bring it down a notch, bud. Let me buy you another beer. Catch me up on what you hear about the mess over in Sentavo."
"Yeah, you bet." Crusty shrugged his shoulders and shook the tension out of his arms, rippling his wrinkled flight suit. He gestured for a drink, but didn't look away from the bar. His gaze stayed fixed just over Tanner's shoulder.
Tanner twisted in his chair, looking.
Finding.
Her.
Kathleen stood silhouetted in the doorway.
His chair thudded all four legs on the floor in a teeth-jarring landing. No flight suit for her tonight, she'd changed.
Man, had she changed.
Brown leather pants molded themselves to her every curve. They sealed over her trimly muscled calves, up her thighs to cup that bottom he'd tried not to watch all day. Her hair flowed in a fiery curtain around her face, brushing the collar of her satin shirt. Scorching his eyes from across the smoky room.
She leaned over the bar to place her drink order. Her blouse inched up, baring a thin stripe of skin along her back. Twelve years hadn't dimmed the memory of how soft that skin felt beneath his hands, how warm.
Crusty whistled low between his teeth. "Well scuff my shoes and untuck my shirt, she still makes me want to stand up and salute."
Tanner didn't even have to think about his response as he turned back to his college pal. "She doesn't do relationships with flyers."
"Ah, so that explains why she's sitting next to him."
"Him who?" Tanner twisted in his seat again, heedless of any leftover wrench in his back.
Kathleen hitched a hip onto a bar stool next to a man in civilian clothes. The government inspector. Randall Fitzgerald.
The guy's Christmas tree socks matched his tie and suspenders.
Tanner's fingers twitched around his untouched longneck. Kathleen canted forward as if listening to something the man said, then laughed. The husky timbre dive-bombed Tanner's weakened defenses from clear across the room.
Hadn't they agreed to ignore hormones for the good of the investigation? So what was she doing sidling up to Inspector Happy Tie just because he wasn't a flyboy?
Her hair shimmered with the toss of her head. Inspector Randy reached.
He touched her hair.