“Okay.  What am I supposed to do with the rest of my day?”   “Find something, Broots.  Or call Debbie.  Or take the rest of the day off.  I don’t care.”  She hoped he could imagine her rolling her eyes, even though she wasn’t there.  And then she turned off the phone.    There was still an hour before they reached Moose Jaw.  Months ago, she had thrown a book haphazardly into the travel bag she kept on the chopper reserved for her.  Unfortunately, she thought it was The Saddest Little Valentine, a romance book Jarod had written for her—about her, actually—as a little joke.  She’d have to find her reserve pair of reading glasses, somewhere in the bottom of the bag, to read it, though.  Besides, by the middle of the book, she always got pissed that the beautiful “Tiffany” Parker had more great sex in a day than she’d had in the last twenty years.   And she wouldn’t give Jarod the satisfaction of learning how dog-eared the pages were.   She shifted in her chair until she was as comfortable as she was going to get.   So? she thought at herself, it wasn’t a bad book.  Who cares if Jarod kicks Danielle Steele’s ass? And then, the low hiss of air gliding across the wings lulled her eyelids over her tired gray eyes.   The plane’s wheels screeched as the 747 bounced onto the runway, jolting her from a cozy nap.  Jarod was watching her as she wiped gunk from her eyes and stretched as well as she could in her seat, her shoulders aching.    He was smiling, but he balanced two cups of coffee in his hands.  She could smell a mixture of hazelnut and French vanilla; flying commercially had become more expensive, but a lot more pleasant when they began building cappuccino machines into the airplanes.  As far as she was concerned, the stranger who had once been the bane of her existence was, at the moment, a Godsend.  She reached up sleepily, and Jarod plopped the French vanilla cup into her hand.  It was just warm enough, and good. She stared at him over the Styrofoam cup.  She was not going to let him lull her into a false sense of intimacy.  “How long have you been watching me sleep?”   “About twenty minutes.”   “I want to remind you that I haven’t agreed to that little—”   The voice of the pilot interrupted her.  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Moose Jaw.  The temperature here is seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit and skies are clear.   I would like to thank the crew of Air Canada Flight 3459 for a successful flight.  For those of you staying with us to Calgary, the crew will be serving refreshments after all other passengers are released.  We ask you to remain seated until the aircraft has come to a complete stop.  Thank you for flying Air Canada.”  The pilot repeated her message in French, and then a member of the flight crew came over the intercom to announce the destinations and gates of the other flights.   A moment later, they were at the gate.  She unsnapped her seatbelt—and realized with a start that she hadn’t snapped it back on before she slept.  “Jarod—”   He’d gotten out of his seat on the aisle.  He had a black leather backpack slung over his shoulder.  “The baggage claim is one floor down.  Go out the staff door, take a left.  It’s the only freestanding building.  The sign is hand-lettered.  Dream Flights.” He smirked at her.  “Ask for Ron.  Or Kevin.  They’ll know where to take you.”   He turned, and she jumped up and grabbed him on the arm.  There was no tenderness to the gesture.     “Where, exactly, do you think you’re going?”   His expression was bland.  “Away, Director.  Assuming that you’re giving me a choice.”   “Jarod, you’re not leaving me alone here.  Not if this is some wild goose chase.”   “I’m sure you can find something to do at my house, Miss Parker, while I take care of a little business.  And I can promise you, you’ll see me again.  I can’t stay away for long.”  His tone was light and a bit too sarcastic for her taste—though she probably couldn’t point fingers.   He was gone.   Again.  She didn’t know where he was going or how long he was going to be there.  Frankly, she didn’t care that much.  This was starting to smell like one of his old games.   And it was pissing her off.   She grabbed the woven black bag from underneath the seat and wriggled between a girl with nose rings and an old woman with a cane.  Far in front of her, she spotted  gray-at-the-temples, fifty year old Jarod, conversing with a smiling young flight attendant before vanishing out the door.  Good riddance, she thought, and wondered when she’d see him again.   As she walked down the isle, she tossed the used cell and the half-empty cup into a wastebasket.  She would buy another phone at the little depot, one of the only airport stores in Moose Jaw.  At least she could look forward to her flight.   Parker had ridden the Centre’s corporate jet many times in fifty years of life.  It was plush and had six rows of seats.  It had a mini-bar, an incredible surround sound system, a small but pleasant bathroom, good food, skilled security, and she could bring her gun.  It beat the hell out of flying commercial. Somehow, she had expected a private plane to be equally as pleasant, or at least as good as a commercial flight.   She almost passed out when she saw the three Cessnas in Dream Flights’ small hangar.  Any one of the airplanes could have fit in her office.  Well, diagonally, anyway.  Of course, she had seen private planes before.  She’d just never thought she’d have to get in one.   Parker was not afraid of heights, not any more than a rational person would be.  Nor was she afraid of being in an airplane crash; that was unlikely, and besides, there were worse ways to die. However, she was, ever so slightly, claustrophobic.   Ron, who was American but had a rangy Midwestern accent, had let her pick.  Not that there was a difference.  “So you’re Miss Parker,” he’d said when he saw her, and looked her up and down, though not with the sense of appraisal that men his age had once given her.  He stared like he was trying to see if she had guts.  Like she was a man.  Like he didn’t believe his next phrase.  “Jarod says you’re nuts about these things.”   “Oh, absolutely crazy about them,” she’d replied.   The damn plane bounced with every change in the wind.  She was just glad she didn’t get airsick.  She clutched the armrest in the copilot’s seat until her knuckles turned white.  Next to her feet was an oxygen tank, just in case.   One.   The headset was a little too big.  “How long have you known Jarod?”   Longer than you have. “We’re old friends.  But I knew him for years,” she answered honestly.   “What, did you go to school together or something?  Date?”   “Something like that.  You?”   “Going on five years now.  He comes down to the hangar once a week for a soda if he’s not flying.  Flies a lot, though.  Sometimes, he pilots the planes himself.  You know, he’s crazy as hell.  Has the freakiest stories.”   “I can imagine.”