Read Online The Sicilian's Unexpected Duty by Michelle Smart - Free Book Online
Authors: Michelle Smart
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joking.’
‘Belt on.’ He started speaking into the mouthpiece of the headphone, talking in fluent French, his whole demeanour altering, adopting a serious hue.
‘You can really fly this thing?’ she asked when he’d stopped speaking and was doing stuff on the dashboard—was it even called a dashboard?
‘I really can.’
‘You’re really qualified?’
‘I really am. Have you got your seat belt on?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then we are good to go.’
And just like that, they were airborne.
And just like that, Cara’s stomach lurched. She actually felt her half-eaten croissant and decaf coffee move inside her.
Slowly, the helicopter rose. At least it seemed slow, their ascent high above the heliport gradual.
Nothing was rushed. Everything in the cockpit was calm. And, as she watched him concentrate, watched him fly the beast they were in, her fears and nerves began to subside.
She’d ridden on planes many times, was used to the smoothness and almost hypnotic hum of the engines. This was different on so many levels.
There were so many things she wanted to ask him, not least of which was how did playboy extraordinaire Pepe Mastrangelo have the discipline to get his pilot’s licence? His intelligence was not in doubt, but this was a man with the attention span of a goldfish—at least with women. She might know next to nothing about flying a helicopter but she knew for certain there was a lot more involved than learning to drive a car.
Surely it was something he would be proud to tell people? Never mind all the double dates they’d shared with Luca and Grace; they’d spent practically a whole weekend together, discussed all the vineyards he owned with his brother, discussed all the travelling he did between those vineyards as his brother liked to base himself on the family estate in Sicily, and not once had he mentioned flying his own helicopter. He hadn’t even hinted at it.
As she looked at him now, relaxed but alert, clearly in his element...it was as if he’d been born to fly.
She wanted to bombard him with questions but, despite the unexpected smoothness of the flight—a smoothness she knew without having to be told came from the skill of his piloting—the nausea in her stomach was spreading, reaching the stage where all her concentration had to be devoted purely to breathing and swallowing the saliva that had filled her mouth.
‘Everything okay in the back?’ he called out to her.
‘All dandy. Thank you.’ She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes.
‘There are sick bags in the side pocket of your chair,’ he said after a few moments of silence had passed.
All she could manage was a grunt.
* * *
It was Cara’s thank you that alerted Pepe to something being wrong. He’d guessed on the jet to Paris from Sicily that she was suffering from motion sickness, had kept a close eye on her sleeping form in case she awoke and needed attention, but nothing had come of it.
He’d piloted enough people in the past decade to know when someone was suffering from it. Right then, he could hear in the deepness of her breathing that she was one of the unfortunate ones. He didn’t imagine she would extend politeness towards him under any other circumstance.
‘There’s a neck pillow in the side pocket too,’ he called out over his shoulder, pressing the button to turn the air conditioning on. ‘If you put it on it’ll help keep your head stable. Find a fixed point in the horizon to focus on. I promise I will make the ride as smooth as I can. The conditions out there are good.’
He received another grunt in return.
If there was one thing he had learned it was that those afflicted by motion sickness were never in the mood for idle chit-chat. All he could do to help on any practical level was concentrate on the job in hand and do his best to keep the craft in as straight a motion as he could. He regretted not taking the ‘doors off’ approach, but at the time had thought it would probably terrify her
‘Belt on.’ He started speaking into the mouthpiece of the headphone, talking in fluent French, his whole demeanour altering, adopting a serious hue.
‘You can really fly this thing?’ she asked when he’d stopped speaking and was doing stuff on the dashboard—was it even called a dashboard?
‘I really can.’
‘You’re really qualified?’
‘I really am. Have you got your seat belt on?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then we are good to go.’
And just like that, they were airborne.
And just like that, Cara’s stomach lurched. She actually felt her half-eaten croissant and decaf coffee move inside her.
Slowly, the helicopter rose. At least it seemed slow, their ascent high above the heliport gradual.
Nothing was rushed. Everything in the cockpit was calm. And, as she watched him concentrate, watched him fly the beast they were in, her fears and nerves began to subside.
She’d ridden on planes many times, was used to the smoothness and almost hypnotic hum of the engines. This was different on so many levels.
There were so many things she wanted to ask him, not least of which was how did playboy extraordinaire Pepe Mastrangelo have the discipline to get his pilot’s licence? His intelligence was not in doubt, but this was a man with the attention span of a goldfish—at least with women. She might know next to nothing about flying a helicopter but she knew for certain there was a lot more involved than learning to drive a car.
Surely it was something he would be proud to tell people? Never mind all the double dates they’d shared with Luca and Grace; they’d spent practically a whole weekend together, discussed all the vineyards he owned with his brother, discussed all the travelling he did between those vineyards as his brother liked to base himself on the family estate in Sicily, and not once had he mentioned flying his own helicopter. He hadn’t even hinted at it.
As she looked at him now, relaxed but alert, clearly in his element...it was as if he’d been born to fly.
She wanted to bombard him with questions but, despite the unexpected smoothness of the flight—a smoothness she knew without having to be told came from the skill of his piloting—the nausea in her stomach was spreading, reaching the stage where all her concentration had to be devoted purely to breathing and swallowing the saliva that had filled her mouth.
‘Everything okay in the back?’ he called out to her.
‘All dandy. Thank you.’ She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes.
‘There are sick bags in the side pocket of your chair,’ he said after a few moments of silence had passed.
All she could manage was a grunt.
* * *
It was Cara’s thank you that alerted Pepe to something being wrong. He’d guessed on the jet to Paris from Sicily that she was suffering from motion sickness, had kept a close eye on her sleeping form in case she awoke and needed attention, but nothing had come of it.
He’d piloted enough people in the past decade to know when someone was suffering from it. Right then, he could hear in the deepness of her breathing that she was one of the unfortunate ones. He didn’t imagine she would extend politeness towards him under any other circumstance.
‘There’s a neck pillow in the side pocket too,’ he called out over his shoulder, pressing the button to turn the air conditioning on. ‘If you put it on it’ll help keep your head stable. Find a fixed point in the horizon to focus on. I promise I will make the ride as smooth as I can. The conditions out there are good.’
He received another grunt in return.
If there was one thing he had learned it was that those afflicted by motion sickness were never in the mood for idle chit-chat. All he could do to help on any practical level was concentrate on the job in hand and do his best to keep the craft in as straight a motion as he could. He regretted not taking the ‘doors off’ approach, but at the time had thought it would probably terrify her
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