Every instinct was to take his hand, hold it, give him her warmth, comfort, whatever he needed. Before the message reached her brain and she could do anything so stupid he was dragging his fingers through thick dark brown hair that had once been streaked by the sun but was now shot through with silver.
Cleve’s grief in the year since his wife’s death had been painful to witness. And he wasn’t the only one. The Mayfly, the six-seater aircraft she’d been flying when she died, had been built by Marlowe Aviation, the company started by Andie’s family right at the beginning of aviation. Both companies had wobbled in the aftermath.
The Air Accident Inquiry had absolved everyone from guilt; it was clear from all the evidence that the aircraft had been brought down by a bird strike. The shocking revelation that Rachel had been in the early stages of pregnancy—something Cleve had kept to himself until the inquest—and the coroner’s suggestion that, since she was such an experienced pilot, nausea or fainting might have contributed to the accident, had made it a double tragedy.
When the enquiry was over Andie’s mother, fearful that her father would follow their grandfather into an early grave, had insisted he take a complete break and, leaving Marlowe Aviation in the capable hands of Immi and her fiancé, her parents were crossing India by bus like a couple of old hippies.
Cleve, on the other hand, had not taken a day off since the funeral, insisting that his responsibility was to his staff and Goldfinch, the company he’d built from nothing.
Andie suspected that deep down he was afraid that if he walked away, didn’t get straight back in the cockpit, he never would. And, once the insurance claim had been settled, Cleve, in the most selfless, most supportive of acts, had ordered a replacement for the wrecked aircraft from Marlowe Aviation. The exact same model in which his wife had died.
Now her sister had called to tell him that it was ready to be collected.
‘I can pick it up,’ she said, quickly. ‘I’ll take the train, stay overnight and fly back tomorrow.’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘There are procedures. Engineering checks to sign off.’
‘I can handle all that.’
Andie had a degree in aircraft engineering and would have been in the design office right now if a good-looking flier, negotiating the purchase of one of her father’s aircraft, hadn’t promised her a job if she got her CPL. If he hadn’t sealed his promise with a kiss that’d had her flying without the need for wings.
Cleve had been wearing a newly minted wedding ring by the time she’d completed her degree and arrived at his office clutching her CPL, but he’d given her a congratulatory hug and kept his promise. His wife, no doubt able to spot her crush from ten thousand feet and used to fending off silly girls, had smiled sympathetically, confident that with her in his bed he was oblivious to such distractions.
‘I just need you to fly me up there, Miranda,’ he said. ‘If it’s not convenient just say and I’ll take the train myself.’
‘I just thought...’ Obviously this was something he felt he had to do but she wasn’t about to let him go through it on his own. ‘When do you want to go?’
‘Now? Oscar Tango is free this afternoon. If the darts team can spare you.’
‘They’ll probably heave a collective sigh of relief,’ she said. ‘I was flying home tomorrow anyway. Immi’s been nagging me about...’ Her sister had been nagging her about a fitting for her bridesmaid dress but she couldn’t bring herself to say the words. ‘If you don’t mind squashing into my little two-seater?’
‘Whatever suits you.’
He held the door for her as she took out her phone and sent a quick text to her sister to let her know she’d be available for the fitting the next day.
‘Is it pink?’ he asked as they crossed to the control office to file a flight plan.
‘Pink?’
‘The dress.’
‘You read my text?’
‘I didn’t have to. I received an invitation to her wedding and I imagine she wants her sisters as bridesmaids. The rare sight of you in a dress is almost enough to tempt me to accept.’
She glanced up at him but the teasing smile that had made her teenage heart stand still was now rarer than a sighting of her in a skirt.
‘If it’s pink with frills there’s no way I’m going to miss it,’ he added.
‘Please... Not even as a joke.’
‘I hope her fiancé has done his duty and lined up a best man to make your day memorable.’
‘Portia’s the oldest.’ The glamorous one that not only the spare men but those who were firmly attached would be lusting after. ‘She has first dibs on the best man.’ And if he was anything like the groom she was welcome to him. ‘Posy and I will have to make do with the ushers.’
‘You’re not impressed with your future brother-in-law?’
‘I didn’t say that.’ Had she?
‘You pulled a face.’
She lifted her shoulders a fraction. ‘Marrying the boss’s daughter is such a cliché. As long as Immi’s happy that’s all that matters.’ Feeling a bit guilty that she hadn’t quite taken to her future brother-in-law, she added, ‘Dad seems to like him.’
‘I congratulate him. Your father has very high standards.’
‘Er...yes...’ Talking about weddings with Cleve was too weird and, relieved to have finally reached the control office, she said, ‘Will you go and fuel up for me while I deal with the paperwork?’
His brows rose a fraction. ‘I’ve never known you let anyone but you touch her,’ he said. ‘You even service herself yourself.’
‘I’m cheap,’ she said, rather than admit that he was the only person she’d allow to touch the aircraft her father had given her on her eighteenth birthday.
The day she’d got her PPL.
The day Cleve had kissed her.
‘Do not drip any fuel on the fuselage,’ she said, taking the keys to the security lock from her pocket.
She would have tossed them to him but he reached out, wrapping his long, cold fingers around her hand to keep her from turning away. His eyes locked onto hers and she stopped breathing.
‘I’m honoured.’
‘Make that suckered,’ she said, just so that he wouldn’t think she was going soft. ‘You’ll be using your card to pay for the fuel.’
She would have turned away but he held her hand for a moment longer until, with a nod, he took the keys and walked away, leaving her normally warm hand like ice.
* * *
‘Do you want to take the stick?’ she asked, out of courtesy rather than any expectation that Cleve would say yes. He wasn’t a back-seat flyer and had no hang-ups about women pilots—he’d married one after all. The fact was, he hadn’t been flying much since the crash.
He complained that his time was fully occupied running the business these days, setting up the new office in Cyprus. And, when he was forced to leave his desk, the murmurs reaching her suggested that he was taking the co-pilot’s seat and letting his first officer have the stick.
That he had lost his nerve.
He shook his head, climbed aboard and closed his eyes as she taxied out to the runway. His attempt at humour on the subject of her bridesmaid dress had apparently drained him of conversation and any excitement about picking up the new aircraft would be inappropriate.