LITMIR.BIZ

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life. A nose too brash to be handsome, a square, tough jaw and cheekbones embracing the genes of a Spanish ancestor. Not handsome, yet appealing in a rudimentary sense.

      Disregarding a scurry of nerves at how his eyes imprisoned hers, Lee jumped out of the plane. On the dock, she saw he was taller than she assumed; she could lay her head on his chest, if she chose.

      Shaking off the image, she closed the seaplane’s door and picked up her metal toolbox. “What can I do for you, Mr. Matteo?” she asked, starting down the floating dock toward the boardwalk and its array of quaint stores and food outlets.

      “I understand you make daily flights to the mainland.”

      “I courier the island’s critical mail Monday through Friday.”

      “Do you take passengers on those runs?”

      “Sometimes. However, it depends on their destination and schedule. If I’m flying mail and we’re going in the same direction and at the same time, passengers are welcome.”

      “Are they welcome at other times during the day?”

      She stopped. They were at the junction of her dock and the boardwalk, and the boy held his dad’s hand.

      “Of course,” she said. “As long as I’m back on time if there’s a mail run.”

      “Ah.” Matteo gazed momentarily across the water where the sun sank below the horizon, leaving a bloodstain on the ocean. Glancing down at the boy, his eyes softened; on her they were all business. “In a week or so, I’ll need temporary shuttling to Renton, Captain Tait. Three, four days at most. My son’s attending the elementary school here, so I need to be back in time to pick him up.”

      “What’s wrong with Lu’s foot ferry?” she asked. Let Lucien Duvall take the man on his sixty-passenger water taxi. It made three daily trips.

      “Nothing’s wrong with his ferry, but you stop at Renton, which means I can walk to work. Lu docks at Seattle, and he leaves at 7:30 a.m. with a five-thirty return. Your eight and three o’clock schedules fit my son—” another glance at the boy “—and me better.”

      My son and me. Did that mean the child’s mother lived elsewhere? Oddly, the notion of a wife waiting in the wings sent a shaft of disappointment through Lee.

      “I’m willing to pay the going rate,” Matteo went on.

      Unable to withhold her amazement, Lee blinked. Temporary or not, a week of daily return flights would cost him. Either he or his company had money. Since he was a stranger to the island—she knew practically every one of its two thousand souls—she’d bet he was the one with money. Probably another of the rich who came to Firewood Island looking for a chunk of so-called “nature,” while building a mansion with an ocean view.

      Although the idea bothered her, where he built his home had nothing to do with her hesitancy. She did not wish to be near him. He was a man with a child. A man who could make her heart skip with a simple hello, there.

      Her no-nonsense black shoes clicking against the wood, she started for the apartment she rented above Art Smarts, a whimsical shop catering to the island’s artsy community.

      Matteo took the heavy toolbox from her grip. “Do you always maintain your own plane?”

      “Every day.” She noticed he carried the toolbox easily, and wondered if he was always a gentleman. Her heart beat a little harder.

      “So, you’re a mechanic, too?” he asked with that Southern inflection.

      “Not officially, but over the years I’ve learned a few things about plane engines.” Most of it from my ex who owns a charter airline. “Don’t worry, Mr. Matteo,” she said, mentally batting Stuart Hershel out of her mind. “I hire a professional to overhaul my plane twice a year.”

      Halting again, she retrieved the toolkit from his grip. Suddenly, she didn’t like his questions. And she certainly didn’t like that she noticed too much about him, which vexed her even more, especially after his scrutiny of the last three days.

      “I could probably help with your situation,” she went on. “However, I won’t be responsible for getting you to work on time. If something goes wrong and I’m late, you’ll be late. And vice versa. If something holds you up here or on the mainland, I can’t wait for you.”

      He held up a hand. “I understand. However, I’ve checked your flight history. Since you were hired by the post office seven months ago, you haven’t missed a day or a time. Nor have you missed your other fares.” His smile canted left. “I’m a lawyer, Miss Lee. Comprehensive research comes with the job.”

      A lawyer. Who’d had her investigated. What else had he discovered? A chill spilled through her bones. Three years ago, she had returned to her hometown to escape a past that haunted her nights.

      He dug a card from a hip pocket. “Call anytime and we’ll set up a schedule. I don’t go to bed until eleven.”

      She studied the print. Rogan B. Matteo, Law Offices of Matteo and Matteo. Address: Renton, where she often docked. Was he part of a husband-and-wife team?

      He said, “I’m having a new one printed up this week, but the cell phone number will stay the same.”

      “Sure,” she said. Intent on reaching her apartment, and trying to shake off his magnetism, she hurried down the boardwalk. All right, she would admit the man seemed like a nice guy. But then lawyers were always nice guys—when they were on your side.

      “Thank you,” he called. “By the way, in case you want to reach me, I’m renting a cabin at The Country Cabin B and B until our new house is ready.”

      Her sister’s place. “Why am I not surprised?” Lee muttered. Kat operated the prettiest, best-priced B and B on the island.

      So. Not only had Rogan Matteo spent the better part of the weekend tailing Lee, he had installed himself in Kat’s life, too. Two sisters with one stone, so to speak.

      Fine. Two could play that game. In a couple hours, while she shared Sunday dinner with her sister, Lee would dig out some information about Lawyer Matteo and those dollars he was willing to dole out like Halloween candy. Dollars Lee could use to safeguard Sky Dash and ensure her plane stayed in the air.

      She would not, absolutely would not, reflect on how or why he made her fingers tingle and her breath quicken.

      Rogan tucked the blankets around his son’s shoulders. “Catch you in the morning, Dan-the-Man.” Leaning in, he kissed the boy’s forehead. After coming home from the dock and the bath/cookie/milk/bedtime story ritual completed, it was time for lights out.

      “’Night, Daddy.” Yawning, Danny turned to the wall.

      Clicking off the bedside lamp, Rogan started for the door.

      The sheets swished. “Dad? Are you really gonna fly in that lady’s plane?”

      Rogan returned to the bed to sit at his son’s hip. “Yeah, buddy, I am. I don’t like you being with a sitter so long after school.”

      What he couldn’t say was he didn’t like the idea of a stranger watching over his child, even though the sitter was a respected woman in the community whose livelihood had been caring for kids after school for almost thirty years. Hell, she came with an arm’s length of glowing reports and references—all of which he’d checked thoroughly.

      But Daniel was his remaining child. Rogan had given too many extra hours to his career when Darby and little Sophie still lived. That mistake had been more costly than he could fathom, and one he would never repeat.

      “But,” Danny whispered, “aren’t you scared?”

      Of flying. Rogan gently squeezed his child’s hand. “Truth?”

      A quick nod.

      “Sort of,” he admitted. “However, I can’t let it stop me from

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