“It’s very dear. The only reason I learned to fly at all was because my brother owns a small air cargo operation just north of Dublin. He knew how much I loved being in the air, so he took pity on me. He couldn’t afford to give me totally free lessons, but all I had to pay for was fuel.”

Lars glanced at her and smiled. “I am so glad you love to fly. It is one of my passions.”

Tamara couldn’t help herself. The words burst from her before she could modulate them. “What are your other ones?”

Color rose from the open neck of his buff-colored linen shirt. Her headset crackled with a spate of instructions from the tower and he said, “They have cleared us for takeoff, fraulein. We will talk more once we are airborne. Place your feet on the rudders and your hands on the yoke. Feel what I do with them. Watch what I do with the throttle and keep an eye on these sets of instruments.” He ran his index finger down a row of round dials between them. She noticed two identical rows and understood one was for each engine. He’d sidestepped her question about his passions, but there’d be time to ask again between now and Seattle.

She curled her hands around the yoke and settled her feet lightly on the rudder pedals. In an odd way, it almost felt as if he were caressing her through the plane’s controls. Tamara almost laughed aloud at her wishful thinking. Powerful jet engines revved. The plane bounded down the runway and rose smoothly into the air. She felt when he let up on the right rudder pedal, felt when he evened out the yoke, watched the instrument display needles hover at the top of the green zone before settling back to where they had a larger safety margin. All the while, she eyed him sidelong through lowered lashes.

Lars flew the plane as if it were an extension of his body. He seemed to sense its needs in his bones, responding before the plane needed his intervention. He looked her way, caught her gaze on him, and hastily returned his attention to the instrument panel. Tamara looked away also, but his smoke-colored eyes remained in her mind. So did his thick, white-blonde hair and athlete’s build.

“So.” His voice sounded strained. “We have just passed through ten thousand feet. I understand you do not usually fly so high in the small planes without pressurized cabins, but what is important about ten thousand feet?”

She captured her lower lip between her teeth and tried to focus on something other than Lars’ hands and wishing they were moving over her body rather than on the airplane’s controls. “Takeoffs and landings are when the plane is vulnerable, in most danger of crashing.” She took a breath, thinking. “With the small planes, it’s a relief to get enough altitude so there is a cushion, in case I have to plan an emergency landing. I’m thinking it might be similar, but this plane is so heavy, if we lost power, surely we’d die.”

He shook his head. “As I said earlier, the mechanics are the same. The more distance we are from the ground, the more time I have to come up with Plan B if something goes wrong.” In a move that both shocked and thrilled her, he reached across the cockpit and placed a hand on her thigh. “Tell me about yourself, fraulein. I wish to get to know you.”

Heat swooshed from her chest to the top of her head. “That doesn’t sound like a flying lesson.”

He cocked his head to one side. “The only things left to do are,” he held up one finger and tapped her thigh with it, “climb to cruising altitude and,” he held up a second finger, “set a course. They are the same as you already know.” He tightened his fingers across the top of her thigh, stroking her. “I know this airplane. Let me get to know you.”

Her crotch flooded with moisture; breath clotted in her throat. Tamara struggled to understand how his touch affected her so strongly. She wriggled in her seat and clamped her legs together. “Sure and my life hasn’t been very interesting—” she began.

He ignored her disclaimer. “Were you born in Dublin?”

“Yes. Well, not precisely. My family is from Drogheda, maybe fifty kilometers north of Dublin. It’s on the River Boyne just before it runs into the Irish Sea.”

“Ja.” His fingers inscribed small circles on top of her leg. “I know it. A port town. I spent time in Northern Ireland. We retreated to Drogheda by boat when things got too dangerous.”

Tamara twisted in her seat and gazed at him. “You’ve had quite the adventuresome life. Maybe you could be telling me about it, rather than my poor recitation.”

He punched in some numbers, and then turned and met her gaze. “There. We are at cruise altitude, and I have engaged the autopilot. I wish to get to know who you are, Tamara MacBride. I have had very little practice at this sort of thing, but you sharing what you want to about your life must be a first step. Otherwise, you will remain an enigma to me.”

“Very little practice, is it? What about your wife?” she blurted.

He drew back as if she’d shot him. “Wife? What wife?”

“The one you were unfaithful to back in the airport terminal.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. There. She’d gotten it out in the open. Maybe she hadn’t been particularly elegant about it, but she’d become heartily sick of her cloak-and-dagger existence with Jaret.

A slow grin started with his mouth and finally reached his eyes. “I understand better now.” He moved his hand from her leg to her crossed arms. “There is no wife. Not even a girlfriend. I have not led the sort of life that lends itself to emotional entanglements.”

“Really?” Her voice came out as a squeak. She tried for composure, but made a grab for his hand and clung to it. She wanted to jump out of her seat and dance up and down the aisle, but restrained herself.

“Really.” Something warm and tender shaded his eyes to charcoal. “Now will you tell me about yourself?”

“Oh. Sure and I’d forgotten that was what began this.”

His jaw tightened in what might have been resolve. “I did not mean for us to begin by pawing one another in that bathroom.” He shrugged, looking sheepish. “You are a very beautiful woman. It was impossible to restrain myself once I knew you wanted me as desperately as I craved you.” He squeezed her hand. “Who are you, fraulein? I assumed you were not married because no husband would ever agree to you posing as Jaret Chen’s woman, but I wondered about a boyfriend, or maybe a fiancé back in Ireland.”

“I’ve had both.” She shook hair out of her eyes, still trying to wrap her mind around Lars not being attached. She’d thought it so many times, it had turned into reality.

“Start at the beginning,” he suggested. “It is easier that way.”

“I come from a big family. One sister, but you already know about poor Moira, and four brothers. I’m sort of in the middle of the pack. Mum and Da are still alive, and still married. They moved to the outskirts of Dublin before I started secondary school. Da is a jeweler and a better opportunity opened up for him. Mum plays violin; she got tapped by the Dublin Symphony soon after we moved.”

Tamara considered what else she could share. Her entire family were shifters, but that part had no place here. It was also a reason Lars wouldn’t be interested in her, and not something she could hide, at least not for very long. She clamped her jaws together, her earlier elation fading like a sunset gone bad. “This isn’t a good idea.”

“Why not?” He smiled encouragingly. “You were doing fine.”

“I, er, that is, I’m not as free as I was thinking I was.”

He knit his brows together. “Help me understand. That is not the type of thing one forgets.”

“I can’t talk about it.” She let go of his hand as if it were a poisonous snake. “Maybe it would be a good idea for me to spend some time in the cabin.” Unbuckling her seat harness, she stumbled through the cockpit door. Thank the bloody saints she made it all the way to the head before tears overcame her resolve to not break down. She closeted herself inside the tiny bathroom and dropped her head into her hands.