Buch lesen: «Mysterious Millionaire»
He leaned in close, as if to kiss her.
If she’d wanted to shove him away, she had ample opportunity. In no way was he forcing himself or taking advantage. She should have objected…
Instead she tilted her chin up, welcoming his kiss. When his lips brushed hers, a brilliant flash of white heat exploded behind her eyes and blinded her to common sense. A burst of passion surged, forceful and challenging. She wanted the kiss to deepen and continue for long, intense moments. She wanted to know his body in every sense of the word. Her ferocious need for him felt like nothing she’d experienced, as though they were meant to be together.
She had to be mistaken. The maid and the millionaire?
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Liz Norton – Working her way through law school, earning money as a part-time karate instructor and part-time private eye, she goes undercover as a maid.
Ben Crawford – His reputation as a millionaire adventurer masks his hard work, dedication to his family and his love for his five-year-old daughter, Natalie.
Jerod Crawford – The seventy-six-year-old patriarch of the wealthy, powerful family suffers from a brain tumour.
Charlene Crawford – Jerod’s gold-digging trophy wife has a talent for ticking people off.
Patrice and Monte Welles – Ben’s sister and her husband expect to inherit a fortune when her grandfather dies.
Al Mancini – As an almost-retired general practitioner, the doctor is out of his element in treating a brain tumour.
Tony Lansing – His drinking problem clouds his judgement as the Crawford family attorney.
Ramon Stephens – A male model, he knows everybody’s secrets.
Victoria Crawford – Ben’s estranged wife is suing for sole custody of their daughter.
Annette Peltier – Being a housemaid sparks her Cinderella dreams and fantasies.
Rachel Frakes – As housekeeper for the Crawford family, she demands perfection from her staff.
Harry Schooner – The former cop and owner of Schooner Detective Agency looks forward to retirement.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
For Cassie Miles, the best part about writing a story set in Eagle County near the Vail ski area is the ready-made excuse to head into the mountains for research. Though the winter snows are great for skiing, her favourite season is autumn, when the aspens turn gold.
The rest of the time Cassie lives in Denver, where she takes urban hikes around Cheesman Park, reads a ton and critiques often. Her current plans include a Vespa and a road trip, despite eye-rolling objections from her adult children.
Mysterious Millionaire
CASSIE MILES
MILLS & BOON
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To those who love guitars and wooden boats.
As always, to Rick.
Chapter One
Being a part-time private eye put a serious crimp in Liz Norton’s social life. At half-past eleven on a Friday night in May, she ought to be wearing lip gloss, dancing, flirting and licking the suds off a beer that somebody else had paid for. Instead, she’d spent the past two hours and seventeen minutes on stakeout with Harry Schooner, her sixty-something boss.
She slouched behind the steering wheel of Harry’s beat-up Chevy. Even with the windows cracked for ventilation, she still smelled stale hamburger buns from the crumpled bags littering the backseat. On the plus side, the cruddy, old car blended with the rundown Denver neighborhood where they were parked at the curb away from the streetlight, watching and waiting.
In the passenger seat, Harry pressed his fist against his chest and grunted.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Heartburn.”
His digestive system provided a source of constant complaint. Long ago, she’d given up lecturing him on the evils of a strictly fast-food diet. “Did you take your pill?”
“What are you? My mother?”
“A concerned employee,” she said. “If you keel over from a heart attack, where am I going to find another job as glamorous as this one?”
He peeled off the silver wrapping on a roll of antacid tablets, popped the last one in his mouth and tossed the wrapper over his shoulder into the trashed-out backseat. “That reminds me. You’re done with your semester. Right?”
“Took my last exam two days ago.”
At age twenty-six, she’d put herself halfway through law school. The accomplishment made her proud, even though she still heard echoes of her mother’s refrain: “Why bother with an education? The only way a girl like you can make it is to find a man to support you.” This bit of advice came right before the grooming tips: “Lighten your hair, shorten your skirts and stand up straight so your boobs stick out.”
Of course, Liz did the exact opposite. Her thick, multicolored blond hair remained undyed and unstyled—except for her own occasional hacking to keep the jagged ends near chin-length. Her wardrobe included exactly one skirt—knee-length and khaki—that she’d picked up at a thrift store for a buck. Mostly, she wore jeans and T-shirts. Tonight, a faded brown one under a black windbreaker. As for Mom’s advice to show off her chest, Liz had given up on that plan long ago. Even if she arched her back like a pretzel, nobody would ever confuse her with a beauty queen.
Her twice-married mom had actually done her a favor when she’d shoved her only daughter out the door on her eighteenth birthday and told her that she was on her own.
Liz had done okay. Without a man.
Harry groaned again and shifted in the passenger seat. “You’ll come to work for me full-time during your summer break. I could use the help. I’m getting too damn old for this job.”
“Thanks, Harry.” She’d been counting on this summer job. “But I still need Monday and Wednesday nights free to teach the under-twelve kids at the karate school.”
“I got no problem with that.” He made a wheezy noise through his nostrils and shrugged his heavy shoulders. His formerly athletic physique had settled into a doughy lump. Only his close-cropped white hair suggested the discipline of long-ago military service and twenty years as a cop. “How’s my grandson doing at karate?”
“Not exactly a black belt, but he’s hanging in there.” She’d met Harry at Dragon Lou’s Karate School when he’d come to watch his six-year-old grandson and ended up offering Liz a couple of part-time assignments.
Some aspects of being a P. I. were just plain nasty, like serving subpoenas or confirming the suspicions of a heartbroken wife about her cheating husband. But Liz enjoyed the occasional undercover disguise. Most of all, she liked grumpy old Harry and his two grown daughters. The Schooners represented the family she’d never had.
She peered through the scummy windshield at a ramshackle bungalow, landscaped with weeds and two rusty vehicles up on blocks. Gangsta music blared through the open windows. In the past hour, a half-dozen visitors had come and gone. She’d caught glimpses of three or four skinny children playing, even though it was way past normal bedtime, and she hoped the drug dealers inside the house weren’t selling in front of the kids. Or to them.
“Are you sure we have the right address?”
“My source gave me the place, but not the time. He’ll be here tonight.” Harry rubbed his palms together. “Once we have photos of Mr. Crawford making a drug buy, we’re in for a real big payday.”
Liz found it hard to believe that Ben Crawford—millionaire adventurer and playboy—would show up in person. Didn’t rich people hire underlings to do their dirty work?
But she hoped Harry was right. The Schooner Detective Agency could use the cash. They’d been retained by Ben’s estranged wife, Victoria, who wanted enough dirt on her husband to void the prenup and gain sole custody of their five-year-old daughter. Photos of Ben making a drug buy would insure that Victoria got what she wanted, and she’d promised a huge bonus for the results.
Though Liz felt a twinge of regret about separating a father from his child, Ben Crawford deserved to be exposed. He’d been born with every advantage and was throwing his life away on drugs. In her book, that made him a lousy human being and definitely an unfit father.
A shiny, black Mustang glided to the curb in front of the house. This had to be their millionaire.
Harry shoved the camera into her hands. “You take the pictures. Don’t worry. I’ll back you up.”
“Stay in the car, Harry.”
“Get close to the front window,” he said as he flipped open the glove compartment and took out an ancient Remington automatic.
A jolt of adrenaline turned her stakeout lethargy to tension. If Harry started waving his gun, this situation could get ugly. “Put that thing away.”
“Don’t you worry, Missy. I don’t plan to shoot anybody.” With another grunt, he opened his car door. “Go for the money shot. Crawford with the drugs in his hand.”
The camera was foolproof—geared to automatically focus and adjust to minimal lighting. But she doubted she’d get a chance to use it. Most of the visitors to the house went inside, did their business and came out with hands shoved deeply into their pockets.
She darted across the street toward the dealer’s house and ducked behind one of the junker cars in the driveway. Ben Crawford stood at the front door beside a bare bulb porch light. His shaggy brown hair fell over the collar of his worn denim shirt, only a few shades lighter than his jeans. He looked like a tall, rangy cowboy who had somehow gotten lost in the big city.
Holding the camera to her eye, Liz zoomed in on his face. Wow. Not only rich but incredibly good-looking, he had a firm jaw, high cheekbones and deep-set eyes. What was he doing here?
She pulled back on the zoom to include the dealer in his black mesh T-shirt and striped track pants. He pushed open the torn screen door and stepped onto the concrete slab porch under a rusted metal awning.
The pounding beat of rap music covered any noise Liz made as she clicked off several photos to make sure she caught them together.
Instead of going inside, Ben remained on the porch. For a moment, she hoped he wasn’t here to make a buy, that there was a legitimate reason. Then he pulled a roll of bills from his pocket. The dealer handed over three brown, plastic vials.
Click. Click. Click. She had the money shot. A big payday for the Schooner Detective Agency.
The two men shook hands. Ben pivoted and returned to his Mustang while the dealer stood on the porch and watched Ben’s taillights as he drove away.
Another man with a scraggly beard staggered outside and pointed.
Liz glanced over her shoulder to see what they were looking at. Harry crouched between two cars at the curb, his white hair gleaming in the moonlight.
“Hey, old man.” The dealer came off the porch. “What the hell you doing?”
Harry straightened his stiff joints. “Guess I got lost.”
“You watching us?” The two men stepped into the yard. From down the street, she heard ferocious barking, the prelude to a fight, and she knew Harry wasn’t up to it.
She stashed the camera in the pocket of her windbreaker and rushed toward her partner. “There you are, Gramps. I’ve been looking all over for you.” To the two men in the yard, she said, “Sorry if he bothered you. He wanders sometimes.”
Their cold sneers told her that they weren’t buying her story. The dealer snapped, “Stop right there, bitch.”
“I’ll just take Gramps home and—”
The crack of a gunshot brought her to a halt. She froze at the edge of the yard, praying that Harry wouldn’t return fire. A shootout wouldn’t be good for anybody.
Liz turned and faced the two men, who swaggered toward her. Her pulse raced, not so much from fear as uncertainty. She didn’t know what to expect. Forcing an innocent smile, she said, “There’s no need for guns.”
“What’s in your pocket? You carrying heat?”
As long as they didn’t immobilize her, she ought to be able to take these two guys. Her five years studying martial arts at Dragon Lou’s gave her an edge. Liz was capable of shattering a cinderblock with her bare hand.
From across the street, Harry yelled, “Leave her alone.”
Please, Harry. Please don’t use your gun. She had to act fast. No time to wait and see.
Liz aimed a flying kick at the bearded guy, neatly disarming him. Before his buddy could react, she whirled, chopped at his arm and kicked again. Though her hand missed, the heavy sole of her boot connected with his knee, and he stumbled.
The bearded man grabbed her forearm. Worst possible scenario. Both men had more brute strength than she did. Her advantage was speed and agility. She twisted and flipped, wrenching her arm free. He still clung to the sleeve of her windbreaker. She escaped by slipping out of her jacket.
Before they could brace themselves for another assault, she unleashed a series of kicks and straight-hand chops. Not a pretty, precise display. She wouldn’t win any tournament points for style, but she got the job done with several swift blows to vulnerable parts of their anatomy. Throat. Gut. Groin.
Both were on their knees.
Another man rushed out the door. And another.
Behind her back, she heard Harry fire his automatic. Five shots.
She ran for the car.
Harry collapsed into the passenger side as she dived behind the wheel and cranked the ignition. Without turning on the headlights, she burned rubber and tore down the street.
Gunfire exploded behind them.
Liz didn’t cut her speed until they reached a major intersection, where she turned on the headlights and merged into traffic. Her heart hammered inside her rib cage. They could have been killed. The aftermath of intense danger exploded behind her eyelids like belated fireworks.
Thank God for Dragon Lou and his martial arts training.
Beside her in the passenger seat, Harry was breathing heavily. With the back of his hand, he wiped sweat from his forehead. “Did you get the pictures?”
She cringed. “The camera was in my windbreaker. The bearded guy pulled it off me.”
“It’s okay.”
“But you’re not.” She took note of his pasty complexion and heaving chest. “I’m taking you to the emergency room.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Kick the old man out of the way and take over his business.”
“Yeah, that’s my evil plan. Adding your debt to my student loans.” Sarcasm covered her concern for him. “That’s every girl’s dream.”
“Seriously, Liz. I don’t need a doc.” He exhaled in a long whoosh that dissolved into a hacking cough. “This was a little too much excitement for the old ticker.”
“Is this your way of telling me that you have heart problems?”
“Forget it. Just drive back to the office.”
Checking her rearview mirrors, she continued along Colfax Avenue. She didn’t see anyone following them; they’d made a clean getaway. Just in case, she turned south at the next intersection and drove toward the highway. “We need to call the police.”
“Nope.”
“Harry, those guys shot at us. They assaulted us.”
“But I returned fire.” He cleared his throat, breathing more easily. His clenched fist lifted from his chest. “And you kicked ass. You might look like a Pop-Tart, but you were a fire-breathing dragon.”
“My form wasn’t terrific.”
“You did good.” He reached over and patted her shoulder. Always stingy with his compliments, Harry followed up with a complaint. “Too bad you messed up and lost the camera.”
“Don’t even think about taking the cost out of my wages.” At a stoplight, she studied him again. He seemed to have recovered. “We need to fill out a police report. Those people are dealing drugs.”
“And I guarantee that the narcs are well aware. Leave the drug dealers to the cops, we’ve got problems of our own. Like how to get that juicy bonus from Victoria.”
Tomorrow, she’d put in a call to a friend at the Denver PD. At the very least, she wanted to see those children removed from a dangerous environment.
Harry sat up straighter. “Time to switch to Plan B.”
“I don’t like the sound of this.”
“My source is the housekeeper who works at the Crawford estate near Evergreen. She can—”
“Wait a sec. How did you get to know a housekeeper?” She glanced toward the backseat. “You’ve never tidied up anything in your whole life.”
“I served with her dad in Vietnam, and we stay in touch. Her name is Rachel Frakes. She’s actually the one who recommended me to Victoria.”
That connection explained a lot. The Schooner Detective Agency wasn’t usually the first choice of the rich and famous. “What’s Plan B?”
“Rachel gets you inside the estate. While you’re there, you dig up the dirt on Ben.”
“An undercover assignment.”
That didn’t sound too shabby. Maybe she’d impersonate a fancy-pants interior decorator. Or a horse wrangler. An upscale estate near Evergreen had to have several acres and a stable. Or she could be a guest—maybe an eccentric jet-setting heiress. A descendant of the Romanov czars. “Who am I supposed to be?”
He almost smiled. “You’ll see.”
Chapter Two
The next afternoon, Liz tromped down the back staircase from her brand-new undercover home—a third-floor garret at the Crawford mansion. Her starched gray uniform with the white apron reminded her of a Pilgrim costume she’d worn in fourth grade. The hem drooped below her knees, which was probably a good thing because she belatedly realized that she hadn’t shaved her legs since before she started studying for final exams. Entering the kitchen, she adjusted the starched white cap that clung with four bobby pins to her unruly blond hair.
A maid. She was supposed to be a maid. The thrills just kept coming.
At the bottom of the staircase, Rachel the housekeeper stood with fists planted on her hips. She was a tall, solidly built woman who would have fit right in with the Russian women’s weightlifting team. Her short blond hair was neatly slicked back away from her face. “Liz, may I remind you that a maid is supposed to be as unobtrusive as a piece of furniture.”
“Okay.” Call me Chippendale.
“While descending the staircase, you sounded like a herd of bison. We walk softly on the pads of our feet.”
“If I walk softly, can I carry a big stick?”
Rachel’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Surely, you don’t intend to hit anything.”
“I’m joking.” If this had been a real job, Liz would have already quit. “Any other advice?”
“The proper answer to a question is yes or no. Not ‘okay.’ And certainly not a joke. Is that clear?”
Liz poked at her silly white cap. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Do something with your hair. It’s all over the place.”
She bit the inside of her mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”
“No perfume. No nail polish. No makeup.”
“No problem.” That part of the assignment suited her normal procedure. “You know, Rachel, Harry and I really appreciate this—”
“Say nothing more.” She pulled the door to the stairwell closed, making sure they were alone. “If anyone finds out what you’re doing here, I’ll deny any knowledge of your true profession.”
“Yes, ma’am.” In a low voice, she asked, “What can you tell me about Ben?”
“A fine-looking man but brooding. When Victoria told me about his drug problem, I had to act. I can’t stand the thought of his daughter being raised by an addict.”
“He doesn’t usually live here, does he?”
“His home is in Seattle where he runs Crawford Aero-Equipment. They supply parts to the big airplane manufacturers and also build small custom jets.”
Seemed like an extremely responsible job for a drug addict. “Why is he in Colorado?”
“This is his grandfather’s house. Jerod Crawford.” Her forehead pinched. “Jerod is a generous, brave man. He’s dying from a brain tumor.”
“And his grandson came home to take care of him.”
Again, Ben’s behavior wasn’t what she’d expect from a druggie degenerate. Maybe he was here to make sure he inherited big bucks when grandpa died.
“For right now, you’re needed in the kitchen,” Rachel said. “We have a dinner party for sixteen scheduled for this evening.”
Maybe some of these guests would provide negative evidence she could use against Ben. “Anybody I should watch for?”
“In what sense?”
“Other drug users. He must have gotten the name of his dealer from somebody.”
“That’s for you to investigate,” Rachel said. “In the meantime, report to the kitchen.”
“I’ll be there in a flash. Right after I comb my hair.”
Liz tiptoed up the stairs to the second floor. No matter what Rachel thought, her first order of business was to locate Ben’s bedroom and search for his drug stash. She opened the door and stepped into the center of a long hallway decorated with oil paintings of landscapes hung above a natural cedar wainscoting. She peeked into an open door and saw an attractive bedroom with rustic furnishings—nothing opulent but a hundred times better than the tiny garret on the third floor where she’d dropped off her backpack and changed into the starchy maid outfit.
A tall brunette in a black pantsuit emerged from one of the rooms and stalked down the hallway.
Though Liz beamed a friendly smile, the brunette went past her without acknowledging her presence. Apparently, this was what it felt like to be furniture.
“Excuse me,” Liz piped up.
The woman paused. “What?”
“I’m new here. And I’m looking for Ben’s bedroom.”
“My brother’s room is right down there. Close to Grandpa.”
The double doors to Jerod’s room were open, and she heard other people inside. “Thank you.”
There were too many people milling around to make a thorough search of Ben’s room. Later, she’d come back. And right now? Liz wasn’t anxious to report for maid duty in the kitchen. She’d use this time to explore, to get a sense of this sprawling house and the acreage that surrounded it.
On the drive here, she hadn’t seen much. After the turnoff in Evergreen, she’d gone three-point-four miles on a narrow road that twisted through a thick forest of ponderosa pine, spruce and conifer. A wrought-iron gate between two stone pillars protected the entrance, and a chain-link fence enclosed the grounds. She’d had to identify herself over an intercom before the gates opened electronically.
The stone-and-cedar mansion nestled against a granite ridge. The main section rose three stories. Several different levels—landscaped terraces and cantilevered decks—made the house seem as though it had grown organically from the surrounding rocks and trees.
Liz went down a short hallway beside the staircase. A beveled glass door opened onto the second-story outdoor walkway made of wood planks. At the far end, the walkway opened onto a huge, sunlit deck.
Towering pines edged up to the railing. Hummingbird feeders and birdhouses hung from the branches. Several padded, redwood chairs and chaises faced outward to enjoy the view, but no one was outside. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined this side of the house, which was very likely Jerod Crawford’s bedroom. Lucky for her, the drapes were closed.
As Liz walked to the railing, a fresh mountain breeze caressed her cheeks. Twitters from chipmunks and birds serenaded her. Multicolored petunias in attached wooden flower boxes bobbed cheerfully.
People like her didn’t live in places like this. A grassy field dotted with scarlet Indian paintbrush and daisies rolled downhill, past a barn and another outbuilding, to a shimmering blue lake, surrounded by pines. In the distance, snow-covered peaks formed a majestic skyline.
At the edge of the lake, a wood dock stretched into the water. Though she was over a hundred yards away, she thought she recognized Ben. He faced a woman with platinum-blond hair and a bright red sweater.
Though Liz couldn’t hear their words, they were obviously arguing. The woman gestured angrily. Ben pulled back as though he couldn’t stand being close to her.
She stamped her foot.
And then, she slapped him.
BEN RESTRAINED AN URGE to strike back at Charlene. Much as she had earned the right to have her ass thrown off his grandpa’s property, that wasn’t Ben’s call.
Through tight lips, he said, “You’re not always going to have things your way.”
“No matter what you think, I’m the one in charge around here. Me. I’m Jerod’s wife.”
A ridiculous but undeniably true statement. At age thirty-six, she was only two years older than Ben himself. He hated having to consult with her on his grandpa’s medical care and would never understand why the old man listened to her.
“Be reasonable, Charlene. I’ve been talking to specialists and neurosurgeons. They think Jerod’s tumor could be removed.”
“I don’t want your doctors.” She screeched like a harpy. “Jerod is happy with Dr. Mancini. And so am I.”
Dr. Al Mancini had been the Crawford family doctor for years, and he was competent to treat sniffles and scraped knees. But a brain tumor? “Mancini isn’t even practicing anymore. He’s retired.”
“And Jerod is his only patient. Dr. Mancini comes here every single day. Your specialist would put Jerod in the hospital. And he refuses.”
Unfortunately, Charlene was correct. His stubborn, Texas-born grandpa had planted himself here and wouldn’t budge. Every day, the tumor inside his head continued to grow. His vision was seriously impaired, and he barely had the strength to get out of his wheelchair. “If not an operation, he needs access to other treatments. Radiation. Cutting-edge medications.”
“He won’t go. And I’m not going to force him.”
For the moment, he abandoned this topic. There were other bones to pick. “At least, cancel your damn dinner party. Jerod needs peace and quiet.”
“You want to pretend like he’s already dead. Well, he’s not. He needs activity and excitement. That’s why he married me.”
“Really? I thought it had more to do with your thirty-six double-D chest.”
She slapped him again. This time, he’d earned it.
With a swish of her hips, Charlene flounced up the hill toward the house.
Five years ago, when his grandpa had announced that he wanted to marry a Las Vegas showgirl, Ben had been almost proud of the old guy. After a lifetime of hard work that had started in the Texas oil fields, Jerod had the right to amuse himself. Even if it meant the rest of the family had to put up with a gold digger.
Charlene had readily agreed to a very generous prenuptial agreement. Whether their marriage was ended by divorce or death, she walked away with a cool half million in cash. Not a bad deal.
Ben had expected Charlene to divorce his grandpa after a year and grab the cash, but she’d stayed…and stayed…and stayed. In her shallow way, she might even love Jerod. And he had to admit that their May–December marriage had turned out better than his. Nothing good had come from that union, except for his daughter.
He walked to the end of the small dock. A spring wind rippled the waters. Trout were jumping. In the rolling foothills of Colorado, he saw the swells of the ocean. He missed his home in Seattle that overlooked the sea, but he cherished every moment here with his grandpa as the old man prepared for his final voyage.
Behind his back, Ben heard someone step onto the dock. Had Charlene come back? He turned and saw a gray maid’s uniform. “What is it?”
“You must be Ben.” She marched toward him with her hand outthrust. “I’m Liz Norton. The new maid.”
He accepted her handshake. Though she was a slender little thing, her grip was strong. He took a second look at her. The expression in her luminous green eyes showed a surprising challenge. Not the usual demeanor for household staff. “Is this your first job as a servant?”
“Servant?” Her nose wrinkled in disgust. “I can’t say that I like that job description. Sounds like I ought to curtsey.”
“I suppose you have a more politically correct job title in mind.”
She pulled her hand away from his grasp and thought for half a second. “Housekeeping engineer.”
In spite of her droopy gray uniform, she radiated electricity, which might explain why her hair looked like she’d stuck her finger in a wall socket. He would have dismissed her as being too cute. Except for the sharp intelligence in her green eyes.
“Nice place you’ve got here.” She stepped up beside him. “Are there horses?”
“Not anymore. Horses were my grandmother’s passion. Arabians. God, they were beautiful.” He had fond memories of grooming the horses with his grandmother. “After she passed away, ten years ago, Jerod sold them to someone who would love them as much as she had.”
“Wise decision. Every living creature needs to be with someone who loves them.”
A hell of a profound statement. “Are you? With someone who loves you?”
“I do okay.” She cocked her head and looked up at him. “How about you, Ben? Who loves you?”
“My daughter,” he responded quickly. “Natalie.”
Her expression went blank as if she had something to hide. All of a sudden, her adorable freckled face seemed less innocent. He wondered why she’d approached him, why she spoke of love.
There had been incidents in the past when female employees had tried to seduce him, but Liz’s body language wasn’t flirtatious. Her arms hung loosely at her sides. Her feet were planted solidly. Something else motivated her.
“You have a reputation as an adventurer,” she said. “What kind of stuff do you do? Something with the airplanes you manufacture?”
“I test-pilot our planes. Not for adventure. It’s work.”
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