THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

rich guy’s toy of the month?
    Women couldn’t stay out of trouble. He knew first hand.
    She raised her head until the bill of her ball cap no longer hid her face. Two of the prettiest doe-shaped amber eyes adorned with thick cinnamon lashes gazed at him tentatively. She chewed on her lip. Hesitant. Fingers trembling.
    Seeing that hit him in the gut.
    No matter what her story was, no woman deserved to be run to ground like an animal by a bunch of hired goons.
    He’d give her a moment to settle her nerves before strapping her into the co-pilot’s seat where he could keep an eye on her. Reaching over, he swatted several rags off a metal box that was tied down behind the right seat.
    Splitting his attention between the controls and her, he turned to tell her she was welcome to sit down. That’s when he got a close look at the cuts and bruises on her legs. Some spots were yellowed from being a day or two old.
    The temper he’d buckled down broke loose. “What the hell happened to you?”
    She backed up a step.
    Damn. Way to go, dickhead. As if she wasn’t a step from diving out of the plane as it was. He had solid control of his flash temper, except for a few things, and nothing snapped his control faster than a man harming a woman. Now he regretted leaving Hack’s airport before having a heart to heart, or fist to nose, with those goons.
    Scrubbing a hand over his face did little to wipe away his anger. Zane took a long breath and tried again. This time in a human voice. “Sorry, didn’t mean to yell. Please, have a seat.” 
    Either she believed him or was too spent to stand bent over any longer and moved toward the metal box. She cupped her arm protectively around her waist as she leaned over and his first thought was she had internal injuries.
    But the movement pulled her T-shirt tight enough to outline a bulge around her middle that didn’t belong to that slender build.
    What could she be wearing like a belt?
    A money belt? Had she stolen something after all?
    Before he could say another word, a call over the radio beckoned him.
    ~*~
    Angel caught the pilot’s pointed look at her arm that shielded the coins hidden beneath her shirt. He’d noticed, been curious, but, thank God, he hadn’t said anything. That would open a line of dialogue she’d just as soon avoid. When he twisted around to face the cockpit, he slid his headset back over his ears and spoke into his mike.
    She eased down onto the makeshift seat.
    Her hand shook when she brushed a loose hair behind her ear.
    Get a grip. She’d accomplished the impossible and gotten away from Mason Lorde. For now .
    Not exactly a textbook escape, but she had no complaints – now that they were airborne. Of course, she’d had her doubts about that back on the runway.
    Who was this guy?
    Why hadn’t he handed her over to Mason’s men?
    She glanced toward heaven for a moment. Not complaining, mind you. Just sayin’ it’s strange.
    He’d known she was hiding on his plane when he taxied out of the hangar, but still lifted off with men chasing them. That departure had been anything but standard. And he’d actually laughed after barely missing those two sport utilities.
    Her stomach muscles hadn’t unclenched yet.
    Had she stowed away with Indiana Jones or a lunatic?
    And now that he’d helped her, what would he want from her? Nobody did anything for free. Especially not men . Every man she’d ever known had used her to get something he wanted.
    “What’s your name?”  The pilot’s deep voice interrupted her thoughts.
    She gazed up into the cocoa eyes of her savior. Big guy, at least three or four inches over six feet. His leather flight jacket hugged impressive shoulders and he had the thick chest of a jock, maybe a linebacker.
    Those warm eyes patiently waiting for an answer didn’t look crazy.
    Short black hair had been cut and styled with careless abandon that pulled off sexy without trying. His face was carved of sharp lines from the narrow nose to his square jaw. Not a soft place anywhere except those thick black eyelashes that would be too pretty on a less rugged male.
    Words flew around her mind when she looked at him.
    Daring. Powerful. Rogue.
    Maybe Indy Jones did exist.
    Constantly monitoring all those gauges and lights in the cockpit, he reached past his seat and snatched up a second pair of headphones that he handed her.
    As she slipped them on, she heard him say, “Now we can talk without yelling and I can monitor the radio.