Tropical Depression (Billy Knight Thrillers 1)

I took a deep breath and opened my mouth, with no idea of what sort of clumsy, stupid, fatuous dumbbell thing I was about to say to her. It didn’t matter; just noise, anything to see that smile again.

“Thanks,” rumbled the rusty voice of the big guy on my other side. “Thanks for switching seats. Every now and then I get like that. A little panicky. Just a little. I appreciate it. Usually it’s just when we’re not moving, you know? Something about just sitting there on the runway, I start to picture a big bull’s-eye on top of the plane. I mean, if something went wrong, like another plane coming in on top of us or a fire or a”—he lowered his voice and almost whispered the word—“bomb, I mean we’d be stuck here. They don’t want you to think about it, but hey, no way we could all get off this thing if it was burning. No way. Anyhow.”

He stuck a large soft hand in front of my face. I stared at it stupidly for a long second, disoriented at being jerked back to such a strange place, to such an improbable monologue. He smiled and gave a little dip to his hand to let me know what he had in mind and, instead of strangling him for interrupting, I shook the hand.

“Jordan Loomis,” he said. “I’m an actor. Going back home, back to L.A. Just wrapped ten days on the new Segall flick they’re shooting here. Not a big part, but hey—I think it’ll get noticed. It was pretty right for me. Kind of thing I do well, you know? Sort of second heavy is the technical term. You know, the guy who stands behind the featured villain and cracks his knuckles.” He cracked his knuckles for me and gave me a mean little leer. Then he laughed. “Like that. Seen me before? I was in ‘Evil Breeze’ last year.” He saw my stupid expression. “The miniseries. You didn’t see it? Incredible. It got like a forty share. You don’t watch TV? I don’t blame you. Where y

ou from?”

I stared at him. In spite of wanting to kill him for interrupting, I couldn’t see any harm in the guy. He was even trying not to sweat on me. On the other hand, I could still see that old-coin profile out of the corner of my eye. She was turned to the window, obviously listening, a small smile teasing the side of her mouth. The smile was wonderful, but slightly wicked, like the smile of the Roman senator’s daughter when she sees the face of a sassy Christian as the lions come into the arena.

“Excuse me,” I said to the actor. I turned towards the face at the window. “Pardon me, ma’am,” I said to the woman, dropping my voice and sounding as much like Gary Cooper as I could manage, “but if you don’t strike up a conversation with me immediately, I’m going to have to kill this guy.”

She turned slow, smiling golden eyes on me. I felt the impact of her all the way down to my toes. She gave me a huge, wonderful smile, a smile that was pure mean in the nicest possible way. “In that case,” she said, in a voice like rum and honey, “I have nothing to say to you.”

She turned and looked back out the window.

I was in love.

I mean, I wasn’t in love, not really. I couldn’t be. I didn’t even know her name. She had perfect hands, the most delectable neck I had ever seen, and a great sense of humor. After thirty seconds she seemed so close to my ideal woman that the difference made no difference. But all that was behind me. I couldn’t imagine ever dating again. It was foreign country to me, and the only map I had led to those two graves along Sepulveda. The thought of the territory of Love was still tied up with the sound of dirt hitting wooden boxes.

And yet—

“Listen,” I said, leaning closer to her and just barely restraining myself from putting my mouth on her neck, “I’ll put it another way. If you don’t speak to me, I’m going to switch seats with this guy again. Let him sit here in the middle the whole flight. It’s five hours to L.A.”

She turned back and looked at me. Time slowed. I watched in helpless fascination as she moved her golden eyes across my face, pausing on the scar, down to my neck and shoulders, back up to my eyes.

“You play dirty,” she said finally.

“I play for keeps.”

“Well, then,” she said, and gave a low, throaty laugh that made the skin walk on the back of my neck. She slid a perfect hand over towards me. My mouth felt dry.

“Nancy Hoffman,” she said.

Hoffman, I thought. Hoffman, with that olive tawny skin. I would have thought Mediterranean. Nancy DeLucia. Nancy Sintros. Maybe she was German-Italian. Maybe she was Southern Swiss. Maybe on the day that she was born the angels got together and decided to create a dream come true. It didn’t matter. It had never mattered less in my life.

I don’t think she noticed me gasping for breath as I took her hand. If she did, maybe she thought it was just the heat. At least my hands weren’t clammy. But if this kept up my voice would crack and I’d break out in pimples. “Billy Knight,” I said, concentrating on not holding onto her hand for too long. “You’re not an actress, are you?”

She laughed again. It sounds stupid to say her laugh was musical, but there it was. Her laugh was as full of wistful harmony as Glenn Miller, as raw as Chuck Berry, soulful as Billie Holiday, pure as Ella Fitzgerald, and clean and light as Mozart.

“An actress? Me? Lord, no. What did I say to offend you? I’m a nurse.”

“Fantastic,” I said. I don’t think I use that word twice a year, but that’s what came out. I could feel this thing slipping away from me fast. “And what does your husband do?”

I think I must have said that to hear her laugh again. It worked.

When she was done laughing I felt like applauding. “You cut right to the chase, don’t you, Billy?”

While I was trying to think of a clever answer the plane lurched. The air-conditioning came back on, and we were moving out onto the runway again at last.

There was a ragged, sarcastic cheer from some of the passengers and the intercom came on.

“Sorry for the delay, folks,” the voice said. “We are now first in line for take-off.”

“Hmmph,” said Nancy, “Apology goes a lot further with a complimentary drink.”

“Flight attendants, prepare for departure,” said the intercom, and we were pressed back into our seats as the plane headed down the runway.