Page 19 of Angel In Armani

Since then he’d decided that, until his life was more under control, and God knew when that would be, casual was the better option.

He’d broken up with Elena well over a year ago now, and he’d stuck to that plan since then. Which was just as well, given that becoming part owner of the New York Saints hadn’t exactly freed up his schedule.

So sue him, he hadn’t said no to Sara Charles when she’d made a move.

He hadn’t been expecting it—hadn’t pegged her for the type—but he’d been more than happy to oblige.

And now he was wondering exactly why he couldn’t consign her to memory where she belonged.

What was it about her exactly? He had no idea. She wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d dated. But there’d been something about her.

His hands flexed … remembering. Her skin. Her mouth. The way she’d felt wrapped around him and calling his name.

Maybe he’d lost his mind due to the storm or something.

Maybe there was a scientific explanation for it. Wasn’t a near-death experience meant to draw people together? It was certainly a theory espoused by almost every Hollywood action movie he’d even seen. He didn’t know the science, though. He’d never been terribly interested in psychology. Too much theory. Not enough scalpels.

The close encounter that he and Sara had had with the tree counted, he supposed.

So was that it? The fact that their systems had been flooded with adrenaline, heightening the experience? Maybe that explained her unexpected pass as well.

He swore suddenly and shoved the paper back into the wallet.

What did it matter why he couldn’t forget her?

She obviously hadn’t wanted to see him again or she wouldn’t have snuck out. And if she’d regretted it since, she’d made no attempt to contact him. She knew who he was, and he wasn’t exactly hard to find on the Internet these days. A few seconds with Google and she would have had contact details for him at the hospitals he worked at, at his office, and at Deacon Field.

So no, it was clear enough that he was the only one having inconvenient flashbacks.

Which meant that he was going to have to do what needed to be done. He was going to accept the situation and really put her out of his mind. And the first step in that was finding another helicopter firm.

Four days later Lucas stood in Alex’s office at Deacon Field, having caught a red-eye back from Orlando to perform emergency surgery on a world-class golfer who’d managed, of all things, to roll his golf cart and smash up his knee pretty good.

He’d endured five hours of flying and twice that in getting through all the airport security bullshit that came with flying these days. All for just over twenty-four hours in Florida. Barely time to be introduced to all the potential players they were trying out or speak to Dan Ellis about the training program.

He was tired and hungry and he very much did not want to turn around and drive back to Manhattan and catch a plane to get back to Vero Beach in the morning. But he definitely didn’t want to get back in a helicopter with the cowboy who’d flown him back from JFK. The guy had decided to show off a little, and it had been only a very iron force of will that had kept Lucas from reacting to the swooping maneuvers he’d put the chopper through or from punching him when they landed. He was the third pilot Lucas had hired so far. And the third who’d come up short in the fly-the-chopper-in-a-manner-that-didn’t-make-him-think-of-imminent-death stakes.

Sara didn’t swoop.

The thought of Sara Charles and the fact that so far, he hadn’t found another chopper pilot who managed to fly the way she did, didn’t improve his mood.

He scowled down at the field, currently empty with the team in Florida.

“What’s eating him? Girl trouble?” Mal said from behind him. Lucas didn’t turn around. He wasn’t in the mood for Mal’s idea of wit.

“Lucas doesn’t do girl trouble,” Alex replied, his voice somewhat amused.

Lucas gritted his teeth.

“Remember, he has his new tap-’em-and-toss-’em policy,” Alex continued. “No trouble to be had.”

Lucas turned at that one. “I do not,” he said, trying not to give in to the urge to toss Alex somewhere, “toss women. We come to mutually agreeable terms”—he held up a hand before either of his so-called best friends could come up with some stupid joke about that—“and we part ways amicably.”

“That’s what he thinks,” Alex said to Mal. “How much do you want to bet there’s a trail of women a mile wide across Manhattan pining for ol’ blue eyes?”

“I don’t have to bet on that,” Mal said. “There’ve been women pining after ol’ blue eyes for the last twenty years. Ever since Texas.”

Lucas rolled his eyes at Mal. “I never noticed you lacking for female company at college, either. Nor,” he pointed out in a steely tone, “do I see any sign of you having a regular girlfriend. And yet, I don’t think you’ve taken a vow of celibacy. Those who live in glass houses…”

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