Eden's Dream (22 page)

Another shape emerged. Eden clad still in her bra and panties. Kilpatrick held her in front of him. He wouldn't risk leaving her alone. Noah swallowed bile. He couldn't afford to get emotional. He needed a clear head. Of course he could try jumping the man, but why endanger another life, especially the life of the woman he loved. The shrubbery to the right of him rustled. Aaron Kilpatrick cleared the doorway, shotgun in one hand, Eden's elbow in the other. They shuffled awkwardly toward the shrubbery.

The hatchway remained open. It was Noah's only chance. If he could get inside, he might stand a chance of overpowering Kilpatrick. The bushes across the way rustled. He heard Kilpatrick's muffled oath as he tugged his captive along. They disappeared into the darkness. It was now or never.

In answer to Noah's prayer, the shrubbery shook again.

“Get out where I can see you,” Kilpatrick threatened, footsteps thudding in the direction of the rustling. “If you don't, I'll blow her head off.” After several minutes passed and no one appeared he began swearing.

On tiptoe, Noah approached the open doorway. He hunkered down behind a festering garbage can. His hand covered his nose as he peeked over the lid to see Kilpatrick dragging Eden back toward the open doorway.

Seizing the opportunity, Noah raced for the hatchway and hurled himself inside. He tripped and tumbled down a flight of stairs. He checked himself quickly. No broken bones. The commotion had not gone unnoticed. He heard Kilpatrick's vile threats. “You're a dead man when I find you,” then the sound of running footsteps. Noah made it through the apartment's open door.

Leaping over stacks of papers, he looked around for a place to hide. There must be a closet or bathroom somewhere. Too late. Two sets of footsteps clamored down the stairs causing Noel to scoot down behind the kitchen counter. Peering around the corner, he was able to see Kilpatrick approach.

Aaron Kilpatrick's eyes were wild. He looked like a man gone berserk. The gun wavered erratically. Eden's shoulders shook as she sobbed silently. One bra strap had popped and the bra hung at an odd angle.

“Get out where I can see you,” Kilpatrick yelled, firing twice at the ceiling.

Eden screamed. Simultaneously, another set of footsteps clattered down the stairwell. Kilpatrick swung around to take on the intruder. Noah leaped from his hiding place, tackling Kilpatrick. The two tumbled to the floor and the shotgun fell inches away.

As Noah scuffled with the man, Kareem Warner, gun drawn, loomed above them. He aimed the muzzle at the fallen Kilpatrick's head. “Don't try anything or you're a dead man.”

The howl of sirens pierced the night. Kareem's eyes left Kilpatrick's momentarily. “Help's here.”

A shot rang through the apartment and then a gurgling sound as blood poured from Kilpatrick's mouth. His finger was still on the trigger of his shotgun. Eden screamed. Noah raced toward her, gathering her in his arms.

Policemen poured through the doorway, guns drawn. Neighbors followed. For a brief few seconds Kilpatrick writhed in a pool of his own blood before he went silent.

“Drop the gun. Put your hands in the air. Don't anyone move,” the first cop to arrive shouted.

E
den felt
the trembling begin somewhere behind her kneecaps and work its way upward. Delayed reaction, she decided. She looked down at the still figure of Kilpatrick lying in a pool of his own blood. Her teeth chattered as it finally sunk in. The man had taken his own life. The nightmare was over.

A cop placed his jacket around her shoulders and led her to a rickety chair. “You okay, miss?”

Eden tried to catch Noah's eye, but the cops had him and another man up against the wall. “Leave him alone!” she shouted, pointing a finger at the still figure stretched out on the floor. “That man attacked me and tried to kill us.”

Her words got the cops' attention, and although their guns remained drawn, they'd stopped patting both men down.

“Show me some ID,” the beefier of the two said. Noah was the first to produce his.

“You're Noah Robbins?” Surprise registered in the voice of the heavy cop. He assessed Noah's filthy sweat suit and perspiring face and shook his head. He holstered his gun. “The Noah Robbins?”

“I am.”

“Who's he?” The cop gestured to the man beside Noah.

“Here's my proof, man.” The stranger dug into his jeans pocket, producing a laminated rectangle.

The skinnier of the two cops palmed it, reading aloud. “Kareem Warner, Angel? What the hell kind of ID is this?” Then recognizing the group, “You're with the Angels?” His voice dripped sarcasm. “Self-appointed vigilante is hardly a real job.”

Outside a siren wailed.

“Ambulance is here,” another cop shouted, bouncing downstairs. A flurry of movement followed as paramedics carrying a gurney raced in.

Eden took a step toward Noah. He held his arms open. Forgetting about the medics and the unresponsive man on the floor, she raced toward him. No mistaking what she saw reflected in those eyes. Love. Pure and simple.

“Baby, I was so scared. If anything had happened to you—” His voice broke as he gathered her even closer.

“Shhh! Don't say it.” She wrapped her arms around his waist, rested her head on his chest and said, “I owe you my life.”

“Honey, my life would not be worth living without you.”

It was a heavy-duty confession. She believed him. He'd put his life on the line for her, came through when it really mattered. “I love you,” she whispered. It was true. She did love him, an indisputable fact.

One of the cops cleared his throat, and reality returned. Eden focused on the paramedics who'd given up their attempts at resuscitation. They were loading Kilpatrick's body onto the stretcher, covering him with a sheet. She averted her eyes and pressed her face into Noah's sweatshirt.

“We'll need to take you down to the station,” the same kind cop who'd offered her his jacket said. “And Noah—and his friend?”

“His name is Kareem,” Noah supplied.

Stepping away from Noah, she wrapped the oversize cop's jacket around her body, then snuggled back into the crook of his arm. “I was petrified,” she said. “I thought that monster would kill you.”

“You guys can finish your discussion down at the station,” the portly cop said, nudging them along. “Believe me, you'll be there long enough.”

A
day later
, Eden sat on a raised dais, Noah at her side. To the right of her was Phil Feiner, Pelican's public relations representative, who fielded the more challenging comments and answered questions with questions. Under the table, Noah's hand sought Eden's, squeezing gently. She stared out at the sea of faces, ignoring her queasy stomach and flashing a confident smile. The newspapers had had a field day so far, painting Pelican as a fly-by-night carrier with substandard safety and security practices. Pelican Air, in a futile attempt at damage control, had been forced to call this press conference.

Eden faced reporters, a microphone thrust under her nose. She hated being placed in the spotlight. Even worse was hearing the whole sordid story hashed and rehashed. The irony of it was despite Kilpatrick's role, the press hadn't vilified him. They'd portrayed him as some kind of martyr.

In its inimitable way, the media had painted a picture of a lost young man who'd turned to drugs for solace. Kilpatrick's extremist leanings had been explained as a cry for help. And the airline had been the one placed on trial; management taking a beating. After all, they'd been the ones to terminate a poor ramp agent desperately in need of a job. An emotionally unstable man had been turned out on the street without benefit of counseling. No wonder the poor guy flipped out. Pelican Air had been labeled irresponsible; a carrier with little regard for FAA regulations, the safety of passengers, and respect for its employees.

“Ms. Sommers?”

Eden's attention returned to the press conference. She tuned in just as Phil Feiner adroitly sidestepped a question.

“Ms. Sommers, you were engaged to a pilot who went down in the crash,” a pushy reporter in the third row shouted.

Catching Phil's subtle nod, Eden responded, “I was.”

“That prompted you to conduct your own investigation?”

Eden let Phil answer that question.

“I wouldn't exactly call it Ms. Sommers' investigation,” Phil said. “Let's just say that she had a vested interest in uncovering the truth. Some good has come out of this crash though. As a result of what we've uncovered, Pelican's made several changes—”

“Like getting a new president and chief pilot,” the same bulldog of a journalist muttered, making the entire room titter.

“Yes. We admit there've been changes in senior management…”

“Your president and chief pilot were fired.”

Phil shook his head. “Speculation on everyone's part. Vernon Bond, our president, resigned to pursue other opportunities, and our chief pilot, Jack Windsor, retired.”

“Windsor's decision have anything to do with his relationship with Kilpatrick?” a rotund reporter with a lopsided toupee shouted the question from the middle of the room.

“I'm not sure where you're heading.”

“Must be embarrassing for the man. Your own nephew steals a company car and plants a bomb that kills a bunch of people.”

“What about the breach in security?” another reporter shouted. “Does this mean any Joe Shmoe employee can hand an item to a flight attendant? What about screening procedures?”

“I thought the FAA required all passengers' bags and cargo be scanned?”

“What's to guarantee the same thing wouldn't happen again? That you wouldn't hire another unstable employee who sneaks an explosive onboard,” someone else shouted. “Do you do background checks on these people?”

“Ms. Sommers, is it true that an anonymous person sent you the cargo manifest, providing a major clue?”

“That's true. We never did find out who,” Eden managed to get in. “Noah and I are grateful to the person who sent it.”

“Your passengers are canceling like crazy,” the bulldog interjected. “Your last flight went out practically empty. At this rate your airline's about to go out of business. Ms. Sommers, what will you do if that happens?”

The press conference had rapidly grown out of control. Reporters shouted question after question, not waiting for answers. A diminutive young woman stood. Her voice like a bass drum caused everyone to sit up and listen. “Ms. Sommers, is it true that you and Mr. Robbins are involved?”

Sensing Eden's discomfort, Noah again sought her hand under the table. “Depends on what you mean by involved,” he quipped.

Phil came to their rescue; fingers splayed like a traffic cop. “Ladies and gentlemen, stick to business or there will be no further comments.”

The media continued shouting questions as if he hadn't spoken.

B
ack in her apartment
, Eden flopped onto the divan. “Whoosh! What a day.” She made space for Noah as he slid onto the seat and positioned her head in his lap.

“You did wonderful, sweetheart. Handled those questions like a pro.”

“Couldn't have done it without you.”

He smoothed her hair, and then bent over to brush her lips. “Does that mean I'm finally forgiven?”

“You know it.” She returned his kiss, winding her arms around his neck, pulling him down on top of her. Over the last few days, their relationship had undergone a subtle change. In her mind he'd proven himself; put his life on the line for her. Since then, he'd been there every step of the way. How could she forget all he'd risked coming to her rescue?

“I love you, baby,” he said, nuzzling her neck.

“Then show me.” She squirmed against him.

“Later. Right now there are a few things we need to get straight.”

Eden sighed. “Oh! Oh! Sounds serious.” She pushed into a sitting position, bringing him up with her.

Noah draped an arm around her shoulders; the tips of his fingers drawing circles on her upper arm. His expression grew serious. “Sweetie, what are we going to do about us?”

She could tell by his voice that a flippant response wasn't going to cut it. He meant business. She'd need to choose her words carefully because whatever she said might or might not destroy their new closeness. “What is it you'd like to do about us?”

“I've made no secret of the fact that I love you. And you've admitted to feeling the same way. I'm thirty-five years old. I want marriage, a family.”

This from a man who'd said he'd been badly burned and didn't trust women. Who'd told her that he'd sworn off travel-industry types, dismissing them as shallow and flighty? Though her stomach fluttered, she managed a tiny smile. “Is this a proposal?” And what if it was? Geography alone created a problem. Her job was here, provided the airline survived this scandal.

Noah reached into his pocket withdrawing a little black box. She knew her eyes must be popping out of her head. He snapped the cover open, and she gasped with delight. Sapphire and diamonds. Favorites. No end to his surprises.

“It is, if you'll have me,” he said, holding out the box.

She knew she must look like an idiot with her mouth hanging open. She loved the man, unequivocally, totally, with every ounce of her being. Geography was a straw man's argument. She'd always considered those in commuter marriages crazy, but this was different. Taking the shuttle back and forth from New York to DC would be a piece of cake. In many ways more convenient than a bus. With her travel benefits, it would cost nothing, and she'd have him in her life forever.

“If you're worried about how we'd work out the logistics, things like your job,” Noah said, tuning into what she was thinking, “consider commuting, or better yet, one of my buddies manages a flight academy. They're looking for someone to develop and present courses on coping with the fear of flying. You'd be the perfect presenter.”

“Oh, Noah. You've thought of everything.”

“Wait,” he said, placing a finger on her lips then getting down on his knee. Kahlua chose that exact moment to enter the room, getting in between them, rubbing her head against Noah's legs, and purring as if to say, “Come on, girl. Say yes.” Eden's attention shifted to the man declaring his love. One look at Noah's face, the sincerity reflecting in his eyes, and she needed no further convincing.

“Eden Sommers, will you marry me?” Noah asked.

“Yes! Oh, yes!”

She hurled herself into his arms, almost sending him toppling. Noah steadied her long enough to slip the ring on her finger, then scooped her up.

His kisses sent her whirring into orbit. With purposeful strides, he carried her through the divider and into the space that was her bedroom. “Later's arrived,” he whispered, easing her onto the bed and settling himself on top of her. He stroked the sides of her face, moved downward, and fumbled with the buttons on her shirt. She moved against him, positioning his hands to caress her breasts, to tease the nipples through the lace. Eden cupped his buttocks, pulled him closer, enjoying the heat he put off and the long silky length of him.