"Children!" Parnell yanked a clipboard from the wall behind him, flipping rapidly through it. "I got a group of social workers booked, going to a convention."
"I'm the social worker."
"There're six of you."
"One of me, five children. I'm sure Abigail didn't say we were all social workers," ventured Rebecca. But she knew in her heart that the Foundation's director had probably misled the man with her use of sly and creative dialogue. When it came to bargaining, creative dialogue was Abigail Tynan's stock in trade. But bargaining with the likes of Stillman? Yes, Abigail would do that, too. She'd often said she'd bargain with the devil if it meant something good for the youngsters in her care.
She watched Parnell Stillman consult his notes.
"Abigail said, 'important personages, big favor, cheap price.’ I remember now." The old biddie had also reminded Parnell of her association with his Uncle Henry. "I wrote it down."
"Well, that's us," Rebecca said airily, offering a weak smile.
"Forget it. I'm not hauling you. That's final. No women or children. They make too much fuss. Everybody this side of the Continental Divide knows it. I don't even like being nice to women and children. Makes my stomach hurt. You can just take yourself out of here. Tell Abigail the deal's off."
It was just the out Rebecca was looking for. Now she could return to the Foundation and tell Abigail an honest truth—they'd been turned away, bumped from the flight. On the other hand, she thought indignantly, the pilot was being underhanded, unfair and rude. It made her mad. "I will not take myself out of here. You've been paid. You agreed." She hoped the check Abigail had sent hadn't bounced. Otherwise...
"I'll have my accountant send the Foundation a refund."
There was something in the way he said "my accountant." Rebecca eyed the stack of unopened mail on the desk, the disarray of paper in the In-Out basket, all of which was layered with undisturbed dust. Accountant, my foot. His tone held the same touch of superfluity that Abigail Tynan used in promising payments when she knew very well the Foundation's bank account was overdrawn. Rebecca knew just how to counter the pilot's maneuver.
"I'm afraid that won't do," she said. "We must have the refund at once, in cash, so we can make other arrangements. It's urgent that we get to San Francisco."
"Can't. It's against my policy to give cash refunds. Besides, I don't keep cash on hand. Too dangerous. I might get robbed."
"You must not worry about getting robbed too much," Rebecca cooed, skepticism in full flower. "The gate at the entrance was open, your doors were unlocked. There's a plane sitting on the runway with no attendants that I could see. Security appears awfully lax. How many times have you been held up?"
Parnell scowled. The look she was giving him made him feel like something one scraped off a shoe. He didn't like it. "There's always a first time."
"No respectable burglar would be out in this weather," Rebecca said lightly. "Anyway, isn't there some sort of government rule that if passengers are bumped, the airline has to pay double the cost of their tickets?"
The belligerent expression on the captain's unshaven face told Rebecca she'd hit a sore spot.
"Who cares about government regulations? Paper pushers one and all."
"You won't have to be nice to us, Captain Stillman. I wouldn't want to be the cause of inflaming your ulcers. The children and I are used to managing just fine without ordinary courtesies."
Parnell glared at Rebecca. The way she talked reminded him of a bitter mistake he'd once made. "I had a wife like you once," he divulged, tight-jawed. "She spent the whole of our marriage intent on vexing me."
It was incredible, Rebecca thought, how full of himself the man was. She reminded him of his wife? Well, he reminded her of another who'd also been full of himself, shallow of heart and mind. A riposte came to the tip of her tongue, slid off with ease. "Oh? And how long did your marriage last, Captain Stillman? Twenty minutes?"
"Just like her," he muttered.
"I'm honored you think so," Rebecca replied so reverently her tone couldn't be taken for anything except what it was—unveiled sarcasm. She moved outside the office proper and called to the kids. Once they had all trooped the length of the hangar, she directed them to a bench along the inside office wall. "Sit there. Don't get up. You might—"
"I have to wee-wee," said Molly.
Rebecca's face flushed with chagrin. With no other source to ask, she had to direct the inquiry to the captain. "Where's the ladies' room?"
~~~~
Displaying ill-concealed annoyance, Parnell pointed with a pencil, then sat down behind his desk and pretended his unwelcome passengers didn’t exist. Though he did surreptitiously watch Rebecca remove her head scarf and overcoat. She looked young, vibrant, with her dark hair released, cascading in a froth about her shoulders. And much more shapely with her coat off. Much more. She was short, too. Women like her always tried to use that to advantage. Trying to make a man feel big, protective. Well, he didn’t give a hoot in hell. A woman’s shape, size and beauty no longer swayed him. They hadn’t in years.
He knew all about womanly ploys—those provocative games of revealing a little here, a little there until a man was panting like a thirsty pup. He’d suffered the misfortune of becoming easy prey once. It would never happen again. Back when he’d been stupid over women, he’d been in the Navy, stationed at the Pensacola Naval Air Station. The vamp that snagged him had made herself out to be a poor little widowed thing, all alone and with two darling children to raise. Just the memory of it made him sick to his stomach. He’d swallowed every honey-dripped word and married her. All she had done was raise one ruckus after another, and the darlings had turned out to be manipulative brats.
The marriage had spoiled the last three years of the twenty he’d spent in the Navy. At thirty-seven and at loose ends he’d made his way to Idaho where Uncle Henry had settled into crop dusting and hauling cargo. Two years ago Uncle Henry died. Parnell discovered the flying service had been bequeathed to him. The flying service and its mountain of debt.
What he needed, Parnell knew, was a sharp secretary-bookkeeper. But the salary he could offer wouldn’t appeal to a man with a family to feed. That left hiring a woman and he couldn’t make himself do it.
He counted himself among the honorable group of men who liked dogs, was kind to the elderly and had immense control over the needs of the flesh. Control was easy—his failed marriage had left him with a lingering animosity toward women. He didn’t want anything in skirts hanging around the airfield. Secretary or passenger.
His self-imposed celibacy was annoying, but not earth shattering. On the infrequent occasions his flesh drove him to seek out a woman, he went where there was no romance, just bonhomie, crude jokes, loud laughter and inane conversation. If any woman mentioned marriage, he hightailed it on the double; if she mentioned kids, he disappeared faster than a jet stream in a howling wind. He protected himself from female wiles as best he could. His dimples had attracted the widow. Now he kept them concealed behind beard stubble. And he knew for a fact you couldn’t be nice to a woman. First thing you knew she’d attach some unintentional sentiment to word or action. He had it in the back of his mind that women had been molded just to keep a man in misery. It was ironic that God had shorted men a rib just so he could create women. Parnell had decided long ago that he’d just as soon have his rib back.
His introspection was diverted to two of the boys edging crabwise off the bench. The control he had over his libido didn’t extend to his disposition. He glared at them. "Get away from my desk."
"We’re orphans," said Jonesy.
"Tough."
"What’s he look like?" Nicholas whispered.
"Like that hobo old Abigail let sleep in the kitchen last week," Jonesy said.
"Hobo!" Parnell bristled. "Get back to that bench like you were told, you cheeky brat."
Jonesy didn’t budge, but he kept a wary eye on Parnell. "Nicholas is blind," he volunteered. "He
can’t see nothin’ but shadows."
“That’s too bad," said Parnell, shocked and trying to sound mean. "I don’t look like a hobo. I’m an aviator."
Nicholas squinted. "Can I feel your hands and face?"
"Hell no! Back up!"
Jonesy put a retraining arm around the younger boy. "We’re goin’ to San Francisco to see if we can get somebody to adopt us. There’s a big meetin’ with all these people who take handicapped kids."
Parnell’s gaze took in Nicholas, Jonesy, and the other two boys on the bench. Curiosity got the best of him. "What’s wrong with you?" he asked Jonesy.
"I’m fat. Nobody wants a fat kid. Cost too much to feed."
"What about him?" Parnell nodded toward
Yancy.
"He’s got a friend named Scrappy."
"So?"
"Scrappy ain’t real."
"Oh."
"Santee’s got Indian blood. He won’t stay in the city. Folks won’t take him ‘cause he runs away and lives in the woods. Molly has club feet. You got any kids?"
Parnell’s curiosity dried up. "No, and I’m not looking to get any. Move out. Don’t you know how to follow orders?"
"We’ve never been on an airplane before."
"I wish you weren’t—" An idea flew into Parnell’s brain. "Is that so? You scared to fly?"
Jonesy shrugged. Nicholas asked, "Is flying dangerous? What’s it feel like?"
"It can be dangerous." Parnell’s mouth compressed into the thinnest of smiles. "Yep, it sure can." The idea took solid root. He examined it from every direction and decided he had nothing to lose by trying it on...on...he glanced at the manifest on the clipboard...Rebecca Hollis.
"Miss Hollis," he said as soon as she and Molly emerged from the bathroom, "I need to go over the flight with you." He unfolded a pair of charts, topographical and meteorological and spread them over the clutter on his desk. "It’s a cold, bumpy ride. No frills, no food—"
"I know. We brought our own snacks."
Parnell withheld a sigh. "You’re missing the point. Look here. See this chart. This is the flight path from Boise to San Francisco. We’ll be flying over some of the most desolate terrain in the country—"
"What does that matter? We’re not walking."
Parnell dropped into his chair like a deflated balloon. His idea wasn’t working. He shot her his best scowl. "That’s true, but we got crosswind, maybe even wind shear, sleet, snow. The weather isn’t good—" Of course he planned to dip down and fly south of it, but he wasn’t telling her that.
"Are you canceling the flight?"
"Can’t. It’s a mail run. You know the old saying, 'Neither rain nor sleet—'"
"If you feel it’s safe enough to fly the mail..."
"I’m paid to take chances," Parnell said modestly.
"You were also paid to fly us to San Francisco. And back."
All the curses he could think of glowered in Parnell’s dark eyes. "I don’t want a woman and kids aboard my plane. Women are a jinx. Kids are nothing but trouble."
Rebecca shooed Molly back to the bench, out of earshot. She lowered her voice. "I’m sure you’ve been told this before, Captain Stillman. You’re acting like a horse’s rear end. I’m willing to accommodate you. Just refund double our money and we’ll make arrangements elsewhere. The truth is, you don’t look as if you could fly yourself out of a paper bag. It makes me nervous—"
Parnell’s lithe frame went rigid. "Hey! You hoity-toity broad! What do you know about what flyers look like? I suckled in a crop duster, barnstormed at fourteen, flew jets at twenty-two. Lady, I was raised on a wing and a prayer in the literal sense. Don’t look as if I could fly myself out of a paper bag! Maybe I ought to tell you what you don’t look like."
"I didn’t mean to insult you," Rebecca replied so sweetly it gave the lie to her words.
"You sure as hell did."
She glanced over at the children. One and all wore pensive expressions. The conclave in San Francisco meant hope. A hope of finding parents to love and be loved by in return. She couldn’t take that away from the children. Even if it meant they had to tolerate an insufferable prig of a pilot. She turned back to Parnell and met his angry glare.
"All right, I did mean to insult you. I’m sorry. We’ll just sit here quietly until it’s time to board. If that’s all right with you."
It wasn’t, but Parnell knew when he was hoisted on a cleft stick. He knew it because he’d never been any other place in his life.
Flying was his freedom, flying ennobled his actions, and he was inseparable from it. But flying also distanced him from the business side of trying to run an airline single-handedly. Oh, he was a likable man when he wanted to be liked, usually when he was negotiating for freight or mail contracts, but he didn’t like the paperwork. Somehow, when the money came in, it got spent in the wrong order. Like the fares from the Tynan Foundation which had gone to pay his relief pilot who had refused to climb into the cockpit yesterday until he’d had cash in hand.
He should never have let that old bat, Abigail, talk him into flying her 'clients.' But she’d once been a good friend of Uncle Henry’s, bless his debt-ridden departed soul, and they’d done a fair amount of crop dusting for her before Abigail had sold off most of her land and turned what was left of her estate into a foundling home. Parnell eyed Rebecca with an expression longer than a mournful bloodhound’s.
"I’ll send one of the ground crew to tell you when to board. You’ll have to carry your own luggage. Stillman’s doesn’t provide porters."
"Well manage our own luggage. Thank you," Rebecca said, feigning congeniality.
Parnell shoved himself into a sheepskin jacket and stomped out of the office. They could hear his booted footsteps echoing long after he’d disappeared from sight.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
When Jackie Weger isn’t writing she is a traveler of the good earth by foot, train, sloop, mule and pickup. She adores cats, gossip and all things Southern.
Sisters of the Night
Book Two of the Blood & Company Series
By
Linda Lee Williams
Copyright © 2014 by Linda Lee Williams
Cover Artist: Tim Williams
Emaline Hoffbrau…beautiful and beguiling, but will Garrett Thompson—a regular man—break this vulnerable vampire’s heart? Juliana Slater Browning…glamorous and alluring, but will this arrogant vampire end up losing the only man she’s ever loved—her husband, Chad? Gretchen Eberhardt…lovely and enchanting, but will this powerful vampire be able to hang on to Bertram Fulbright—her charming but fickle vampire lover? Three “sisters,” three love stories…Will they have a happily ever after?
Please press “Next Page” on your e-reader for the first chapter of Sisters of the Night.
Sisters of the Night
by Linda Lee Williams
CHAPTER ONE
“Hello, pretty, petite, and perfect,” a male voice said.
Emaline Hoffbrau rotated at the bar where she stood waiting for a Bloody Mary—she just loved tomato juice—and looked up into a handsome, pleasant face.
“That’s your assessment of me?” she remarked.
“Well, actually, I think you’re gorgeous, but I needed three P’s for alliteration.” He raised his eyebrows in a teasing, flirtatious way, and that was when she noticed two things: that his eyes were the gray-green of a Lincoln Park lagoon in summertime and that his hair was the sandy brown of the beaches along Lake Michigan.
He dimpled, extending his hand. “Garrett Thompson.”
“Emaline,” she said, returning his smile as well as his handshake.
Emaline wasn’t psychic, but like most of her ilk—particularly female vampires—she was perceptive. Given his penchant for charm and flattery, she would have sworn that Garrett was one of her own kind.
Her brother set down her drink and then laughed when Garrett shoved a bill at him. Kurt gave her a wink before walking away. Garrett studied Emaline, his smo
ky green eyes suspicious. “What was that all about?”
Emaline’s family owned the Green River Brewery, but she didn’t tell Garrett that—nor that she worked at the establishment. “I’m with my friends,” she said casually. “Would you care to join us?”
“Sure. Why not?”
Emaline smiled as she led the way to the table. Why not, indeed? she thought.
Sonya, Gretchen, and Juliana glanced up when Emaline appeared with her pickup from the bar. Juliana appraised him. “Well, well, well. Whom do we have here?” she asked, her neon eyes glowing.
Juliana was her best friend. Emaline had been her maid of honor when she’d married Chad Browning three years ago; now, they had a daughter. She’d dated Juliana’s cousin, Ambrose Slater—the sexiest, sweetest vampire she’d ever known—until he’d married Abby, the regular woman of his dreams. Such were the perils of being a vampire woman in love with a vampire man, as Gretchen would attest. She had lost Lance, Juliana’s other cousin, to Abby’s sister.
“Garrett, this is Juliana, Gretchen, and Sonya. Ladies, Garrett. He thinks I’m ‘perfect.’”
That brought chuckles from all of the women, who knew how perfect they could be—perfectly beguiling, that was—despite their one imperfection.
Emaline looked to see if he was blushing, but found him smiling, the beer stein held steady in his hand. “Would you like to sit down? Or do we intimidate you?”
“Hell, no,” he said. “Why should four attractive women scare me?”
When they were seated, Sonya, as blond and lovely as Juliana, spoke first. “So, what brings you here tonight, Garrett?”
“I’m with my buddies. They’re watching the Bulls on those big-assed screens in the bar.” He craned his head to see them, but Friday night patrons and wait staff crowded the restaurant.
“Anyway, when I commented on this lovely little lady, they said she probably had a guy in her life and I said, ‘No, if she did, he’d be at the bar getting her drink—and if not, then he wasn’t worth her trouble.’”
Her friends murmured approvingly while Emaline studied him, her smile cool, impervious. Years of dating vampire men had made her immune to smooth talk.