Page 33 of Angel In Armani

Hands off. Eyes off. Mind off. Nothing to do—or think about—but take off, fly, then repeat in Florida to deposit him safely at their destination.

Easy. Nothing she hadn’t done hundreds or thousands of times before. She wasn’t going to screw this up. If she did, Charles Air would probably be dead in the water.

She wasn’t going to let that happen. So. Hormones were to be reined in, Lucas Angelo was to be ignored as far as possible without being actively rude, and everything would be fine.

She wasn’t going to think about the fact that her luck had turned in her life into something pretty far from fine lately.

But as she stared up at the stadium—they’d wanted to see if the parking lot was a good temporary helipad—she wasn’t so sure.

So much space. The stadium, with its tower and the field, suddenly felt enormous. What would it be like to own something like this?

Hell, she’d settle for owning something a fraction of the size. Like a working helo.

But before she could disappear down that particular rabbit hole again, she saw Lucas emerge from one of the gates in the side of the vast concrete structure. He wore a suit as usual and carried a garment bag and a carry-on.

Nerves buzzed. “Just a job,” she said and climbed out of the helo so she could wait for him.

As soon as her foot hit the tarmac she almost turned around and climbed back in. After all, she’d never waited for him like this before; always let him be shown to the chopper by the reception staff. He knew the drill of how to buckle himself in and stow his luggage.

But that was in the A-Star, and this was a whole new helicopter. She’d need to show him where everything went. She bit her lip, hand on the edge of the door. She hadn’t thought about how she’d have to stand here and watch him walk that goddamned master-of-the-universe stupidly sexy walk toward her.

But she did. And the gloomy day meant hiding behind sunglasses was out. So she steeled her spine and her face and pretended that she didn’t care in the slightest that Lucas Angelo was striding toward her dressed in yet another perfectly cut suit.

She couldn’t tell from this distance if it was very dark gray or maybe very dark blue, but his tie was mostly silver with blue and yellow stripes.

Which were the colors of the New York Saints. Another thing she’d spent several hours studying last night after she’d accepted Lucas’s offer. Given herself a crash course in the history of what seemed to be the worst team in Major League Baseball and the three men who’d just bought the franchise.

It was intriguing, really. Lucas was—other than in bed—a study in control. A surgeon. She was fairly sure that only people who were very fond of being able to order the world around them became surgeons. And yet here he was, taking on what had to be a terrible bet. A team that hadn’t won a World Series in so long that it was ridiculous. A team with serious financial woes.

Why? It didn’t seem to fit with the rest of him. Which made her stupid heart give the tiniest of hopeful bumps as she watched him close the distance between them.

For one long moment their eyes locked. Then her nerve broke and she turned back to the helo for a moment, fussing with the handle on the door for no reason before she got brave enough to turn back.

And there he was. Just a foot or so away. Close enough to touch. Definitely close enough that a hint of that spicy Lucas scent hit her even through the smell of fuel and machine that surrounded her.

“Sara,” he said. “Sorry I’m a little late.” He smiled down at her, blue eyes warm.

Too warm. Too close. She felt her face go hot. His smile widened.

She tried to remember what he’d said. Something about being late? He was maybe two minutes past when he’d said he’d arrive. They had plenty of time to get to JFK.

“It’s no problem, Dr. Angelo,” she said.

“It’s Lucas,” he said. “I think we left Dr. Angelo back in the Hamptons.”

Crap. He’d brought it up. Why oh why had he brought that up? Her face went from hot to supernova, and she looked down at her shoes for a moment.

“So how do you like my ballpark?” Lucas asked.

Change of subject. Thank God. She risked looking up again. His expression had eased to something less intense. Still gorgeous but manageable. “Well, I haven’t really seen a lot of it yet. But it seems nice.”

Lucas grinned. “That was diplomatic of you.”

She smiled ruefully. Deacon Field might be a Staten Island icon but it wasn’t going to win any awards for architectural splendor.

“Is that supposed to be a halo?” she asked, pointing at the strange silver glass structure that was built into the angled roof of the office tower spiking above the stadium.

Lucas shook his head. “Apparently so. Butt-ugly, isn’t it?”

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