know,â Barton said, leaning back on his elbows, âShe didnât tell me why they were out here. I take it heâs teaching her how to skydive.â
âOh, she already does,â Claudette replied, reaching out to brush some sand out of his brown, curly hair. âSays in her jewel thief days she sometimes got on roofs that way. What heâs teaching her is how to make HALO jumps.â
âAs in High Altitude, Low Opening?â
âYes.â Claudette followed the dot as it arced lazily across the sky. âThe poor girl gets bored so easily.â
âI know,â Barton said. âI might have brought a cure for that. How high are they?â
âHe said a little over eight hundred meters. Is it notâ¦windy for this?â Did Barton hear a slight waver in her voice?
âI wouldnât worry,â he said, focusing his binoculars on the distant plane. âMorgan was a professional mercenary for years, like me before The Company hooked me. Heâs probably done this dozens of times.â
âStill it is far. It is sand. And for people who go looking for danger, sometimes things happen.â
Barton looked away from the plane. âYou really love him, donât you?â
âThere they go.â
Barton looked back. He had missed their exit from the plane. Now he watched two forms dropping spread-eagled toward the Southern California desert. Soon he could distinguish which one was the female shape. He could see Felicityâs long hair trailing her like a flag. The wind pressed her jumpsuit against her, as tight as the shrink wrap on a new toy. Her defiant breasts thrust toward the ground. Then she flipped to the side, unexpectedly. Her arms flailed. She seemed out of control.
Barton was on his feet now. The wind seemed cooler, but it was just the new sweat on his brow evaporating. âPull the cord, lover,â he whispered.
Morgan was tacking toward her but he was above her, unable to make contact. When Felicity got so low Barton could see the determination on her face, she suddenly snapped rigid. Her arms were back, her head thrust toward the ground.
âHow fast?â Claudetteâs voice was a hoarse whisper.
âEasy a hundred miles an hour,â Barton said aloud. To himself he screamed âQuit showing off and pull the damned cord.â
Less than four seconds from the ground, two white sport parachutes blossomed simultaneously, and the ache in Bartonâs chest reminded him to breathe. A hundred yards away, Morgan came in at a trot, quickly gathering the billowing silk. Felicity seemed to land harder, rolling twice before coming up on one knee. Her silk canopy threatened to drag her off across the sand, but Morgan was there to help. Barton put down the glasses and moved to assist.
âWait.â Claudette put a hand on Bartonâs arm. âGive them time.â
âThey can use a hand,â he said, but he moved slowlytoward the pair. As he got closer he could hear the tension in their voices.
âI ought to slap you.â Morganâs baritone lapsed back into the Bronx. He whipped off his helmet. Light brown eyes shot fire at his target.
âYou said five hundred feet, for the love of Mike,â Felicity snapped as she dropped her helmet. âYou know I had it timed to the second, even without the altimeter.â
Watching Felicity, Barton thought only a native of Ireland could have hair so red, eyes so green or a brogue so thick. And only this woman could be so irritating and at the same time so exciting.
âI said five hundred feet if everything went smoothly,â Morgan said. âYou were up there doing fucking barrel rolls.â They stood eye to eye now. After a tense moment, Felicityâs voice changed from steel wool to amber honey.
âMorgan, I knew I was okay. I was in control. My hair just got caught in the harness, thatâs all.â
âYou could have been killed,