“Sorry.”
“No need. If you can’t shed a few tears when—”
She cut him off, clearly not trusting her emotions to talk about it. “Hey, what’s with you?” She gave his belly a playful jab. “You’ve shrunk.”
Embarrassed, though he didn’t know why, he had certainly worked hard enough to shed the pounds. He gave a little shrug, as if the dramatic change to his physique had snuck up without notice. “You think?”
“Don’t play coy with me, Leonidovich—”
For some reason, all the women he had ever been intimate with, called him Leonidovich. Kyra, of course, was not one of those women, but the two of them had shared an experience that seemed to exceed even the most intimate emotions, bonding them in a way that most people could never understand.
“—you look really good.”
And he felt it: stronger and more energetic, at least a decade younger than his forty-three years. “Thanks.”
“Great in fact.”
Even better, and hearing it from a beauty like Kyra Rynerson was almost enough to make him forget all the rabbit food and all the sweaty hours at the gym. “I’ve been watching my diet a bit.”
She rolled her eyes and turned toward the back of the plane. “Yeah, right, a bit.”
A young man dressed in the blue uniform of a flight steward suddenly materialized from the galley. “I’ll take your bags, sir.”
“Thanks.” Simon grabbed his security case, empty except for his laptop, and followed Kyra through the cabin. The Gulf 5 was Jake’s personal toy, the colors and fabrics done in shades of brown mustard, everything solid and warm and masculine, like the man himself. They settled into one of the conversational areas near the back, away from the galley and flight steward, who had taken a seat directly behind the cockpit. Kyra swiveled her recliner toward the communication console and pressed the FLIGHT-DECK button. “We’re all set, guys. Let’s get this thing back in the air.”
A tiny indicator light marked CO-PILOT flashed green, the man’s crisp reply pulsing through the overhead speaker. “Roger that, Ms. Rynerson. We’ve already gotten clearance. Flight time to Washington is ninety minutes.”
Simon buckled his seat belt and leaned back into the soft calfskin. “I’m surprised you’re not up there yourself.”
“It’s a twenty-plus hour flight,” she answered. “I’ll take a shift after we leave D.C.” She gave him a little smile. “You can take the right seat.”
“I hope you’re kidding.” But he knew better, could see it in the flashing glint of her sea-green eyes.
“Why not? This thing isn’t any harder to fly than that Beech King turboprop you used to get your multiengine.”
“I’ll tell you why not. It’s—”
“That was rhetorical,” she interrupted. “It’ll be a good first lesson.”
“Yeah but—”
“No buts, Leonidovich. This thing is easy to fly.”
“That’s what you told me the first time.” He regretted the words instantly, knowing it would conjure up memories of her dead husband: a day and place neither of them wanted to revisit.
Her eyes seemed to drift, the way a person does when they look back, remembering things both sad and pleasant, then she shook her head, as if to amputate that dangling appendage of her past. “We survived.”
He nodded. That was the quality he admired most about her, her indomitable will to survive. Not many people could have endured such an experience and kept their sanity.
“So what’s the deal?” she asked, making a rather clumsy effort to change the subject. “You’ve got a new friend?”
“What?” He hesitated, not expecting the question. “Why would you think that?”
“Isn’t that why most people our age lose weight?”
The words surprised him, the fact that she thought of him as a contemporary. “Not in my case.” If anything, he suspected it was exactly the opposite, that he was using diet and exercise as a substitution, at least a diversion, from the reality of
“No need. If you can’t shed a few tears when—”
She cut him off, clearly not trusting her emotions to talk about it. “Hey, what’s with you?” She gave his belly a playful jab. “You’ve shrunk.”
Embarrassed, though he didn’t know why, he had certainly worked hard enough to shed the pounds. He gave a little shrug, as if the dramatic change to his physique had snuck up without notice. “You think?”
“Don’t play coy with me, Leonidovich—”
For some reason, all the women he had ever been intimate with, called him Leonidovich. Kyra, of course, was not one of those women, but the two of them had shared an experience that seemed to exceed even the most intimate emotions, bonding them in a way that most people could never understand.
“—you look really good.”
And he felt it: stronger and more energetic, at least a decade younger than his forty-three years. “Thanks.”
“Great in fact.”
Even better, and hearing it from a beauty like Kyra Rynerson was almost enough to make him forget all the rabbit food and all the sweaty hours at the gym. “I’ve been watching my diet a bit.”
She rolled her eyes and turned toward the back of the plane. “Yeah, right, a bit.”
A young man dressed in the blue uniform of a flight steward suddenly materialized from the galley. “I’ll take your bags, sir.”
“Thanks.” Simon grabbed his security case, empty except for his laptop, and followed Kyra through the cabin. The Gulf 5 was Jake’s personal toy, the colors and fabrics done in shades of brown mustard, everything solid and warm and masculine, like the man himself. They settled into one of the conversational areas near the back, away from the galley and flight steward, who had taken a seat directly behind the cockpit. Kyra swiveled her recliner toward the communication console and pressed the FLIGHT-DECK button. “We’re all set, guys. Let’s get this thing back in the air.”
A tiny indicator light marked CO-PILOT flashed green, the man’s crisp reply pulsing through the overhead speaker. “Roger that, Ms. Rynerson. We’ve already gotten clearance. Flight time to Washington is ninety minutes.”
Simon buckled his seat belt and leaned back into the soft calfskin. “I’m surprised you’re not up there yourself.”
“It’s a twenty-plus hour flight,” she answered. “I’ll take a shift after we leave D.C.” She gave him a little smile. “You can take the right seat.”
“I hope you’re kidding.” But he knew better, could see it in the flashing glint of her sea-green eyes.
“Why not? This thing isn’t any harder to fly than that Beech King turboprop you used to get your multiengine.”
“I’ll tell you why not. It’s—”
“That was rhetorical,” she interrupted. “It’ll be a good first lesson.”
“Yeah but—”
“No buts, Leonidovich. This thing is easy to fly.”
“That’s what you told me the first time.” He regretted the words instantly, knowing it would conjure up memories of her dead husband: a day and place neither of them wanted to revisit.
Her eyes seemed to drift, the way a person does when they look back, remembering things both sad and pleasant, then she shook her head, as if to amputate that dangling appendage of her past. “We survived.”
He nodded. That was the quality he admired most about her, her indomitable will to survive. Not many people could have endured such an experience and kept their sanity.
“So what’s the deal?” she asked, making a rather clumsy effort to change the subject. “You’ve got a new friend?”
“What?” He hesitated, not expecting the question. “Why would you think that?”
“Isn’t that why most people our age lose weight?”
The words surprised him, the fact that she thought of him as a contemporary. “Not in my case.” If anything, he suspected it was exactly the opposite, that he was using diet and exercise as a substitution, at least a diversion, from the reality of
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