HIGH HEAVEN

  Quinn Wilder

  It was a chance for a fresh start

  And in her new job as a helicopter pilot at a skiing lodge in the Canadian Rockies, Charlie felt she could put the past behind her. Too bad, though, that her employer, Gallagher Cole, didn't seem to share her view.

  "I'm not quitting before I've started," Charlie told him stubbornly. "If you don't want me here, you should have the guts to fire me!"

  Nevertheless, Charlie gradually found herself drawn to this complex man. Only what hope could there be for her when they each had commitments to somebody else...?

  With many thanks to

  Gord Jeffrey

  who so generously and enthusiastically

  shared his expertise

  on helicopters

  and the heli-skiing industry

  CHAPTER ONE

  Gallagher Cole tried to stare the woman down. When she did not flinch under the scathing scrutiny of his gaze, he felt his ire rise—higher, that was. He was already annoyed beyond belief. He had placed so many hopes in this candidate. That was why he'd saved this meeting for last. Because already in his mind, based on the recommendations of several people he'd thought were his friends, he had given the job to one Charlie James.

  Now, as he skimmed rapidly through his mind over the other people he'd talked to, he realised that he'd interviewed them all with a subconscious lack of interest because he'd been so certain that Charlie would be the one for the job.

  The helicopter industry was small and closed, and when he'd begun his enquiries that one name had come to him again and again. Charlie was an excellent pilot. Charlie had eighteen months' experience on the Bell 212. Charlie met the 'high time' requirement. Best of all, it was known that Charlie wanted out of the Beaufort Sea. He was willing to take less money for more time at home.

  He. Ha, thought Gallagher blackly. How could he have had three separate conversations with old connections from helicopter companies and not have noticed something vaguely stilted about the rave reviews for Charlie James? Something like the complete absence of personal pronouns? Charlie this, Charlie that. Pilot this, individual that. No he. No she. He felt very much like he'd been the victim of a conspiracy. And she'd been the ringleader, charming away loyalties he'd established when he'd worked in the oil patch.

  Dammit. He was going to have to start again. But the problem was that he couldn't just be satisfied with competence. He wanted his passion and his enthusiasm for his company to be mirrored back at him. He thought he had read that potential in between each word of praise for Charlie James, and now he was seething at his own lack of businesslike behaviour, his own lack of foresight. He had to be ready to go in a few weeks. Damn Martin Mick to hell for leaving him stranded on such short notice.

  The silence dragged, but he was preoccupied with his own thoughts, and not the least apologetic about his desire to make her feel uncomfortable. But it was only adding to the slow burn within him that she showed not a sign of discomfort—or the guilt he thought she should be showing.

  A chill permeated the air of the tiny room at the back of the hangar that he used as an office. If she was cold, she was too stubborn to shiver. If she was uncomfortable on the straight-backed wooden chair, she didn't show that either.

  You would think, he told himself righteously, she'd have the decency to be nervous. But he knew that the chair on which she was seated had one leg shorter than the other. The slightest twitch would have sent it rocking—which it was not doing.

  Though his eyes had never left her, he returned his full attention to her, studying her relentlessly. He admitted that she might have turned his head had he encountered her in different circumstances. Her hair was long and shimmering—gold-streaked, with strands that ranged from sun-kissed blonde, to honey-coloured brown. The hair was pulled rather severely off her face, neatly caught in a black ribbon at her nape. But somehow that ponytail had come over her shoulder, and was cascading over her breast, tangled and tawny, looking like liquid sunshine against the dreary backdrop of his office. Gallagher Cole prided himself on not having many weaknesses, but one of them was for deliciously long hair. The fact that some purely male portion of his brain was undoing that silken hair from the bondage of its ribbon served to push his anger a few notches higher.

  A woman blessed with hair like that should, by some balancing law of nature, be cursed with a face as bland as bread dough.

  But the fact was that she was definitely not bland; and even that fact, as out of her control as it might be, managed to irritate him. It was the face of an angel regarding him with sombre composure. A strong face—high cheekbones, a square chin, wide, firm lips, a straight, proud nose. The face might have been almost too strong, save that it was tempered by large, soft-as-suede, golden brown eyes. Though the eyes that met his unblinkingly held a trace of steel, that steel was mingled with an intriguing hint of mystery. Maturity. Wisdom.

  She was tall and slender, almost boyishly built. Her shoulders were wide, like those of a swimmer, her breasts a supple, enticing swell beneath a soft beige brushed-cotton shirt, her waist tiny, her hips non-existent, her legs long and coltish in a pair of beige, multi-pocketed canvas trousers.

  She could have been—and should have been—a model, Gallagher deduced cynically. What she shouldn't have been, and wasn't going to be—at least, not for him—was a helicopter pilot.

  'Miss James,' he finally growled, when she made no move to break the silence he had engineered, 'I feel as though I've been duped.' He watched her narrowly to see how she handled the blunt return of the ball to her court.

  She did not flush. She did not squirm. She did not break her hold on his eyes.

  'Why is that, Mr Cole?' she asked evenly. Her voice was splendid—husky, sensual, and yet natural. That was what was wrong with her, he thought—she seemed natural, unaware or uninterested in her own attractiveness. Which only made him feel more duped than ever.

  'Let's not, play games, Miss James,' he suggested tersely. 'I think you're probably aware that no one from Tundra, Sunrise or Bellview thought to mention to me that you were a woman. Frankly, I find your use of a man's name crafty and unconscionable.'

  She returned his look, golden eyes unwavering, unflinching from the fact that he had obviously switched to hard ball. That happens to be my name, Mr Cole, so my use of it could hardly be seen as unscrupulous. And I'm sure that Wally, Bert and Harold only thought that your expectation would be to interview a helicopter pilot, which I am.'

  'I think,' he narrowed his eyes at her, 'that it might have been ethical, at some point in our communication, for you to have indicated your gender.'

  'Would I be sitting here if I had?' she returned, a hard note in her voice that matched his.

  You most certainly would not be, thought Gallagher, but he said, 'That's hardly the point. With the help of your friends, you deliberately misled me. If your name is really Charlie, I'll eat my hat. I just don't believe that a deception makes a particularly good starting point for a working relationship, so let's just terminate --'

  In one smooth movement she had got out of her chair, swooped his baseball cap off its hook on the back of the door, and taken a document from her shirt pocket. She plunked both in front of him, a hint of fire blazing in those lioness eyes.

  'Charles Cassandra James', the birth certificate read. Gallagher stared at it incredulously. 'Who the hell would name a girl Charles?' he pondered out loud.

  'My grandfather died the night before I was born,' she supplied briefly. 'I don't appreciate being called a liar, Mr Cole. If I used my name to get my foot in the door, I consider that fair play. If some of my industry connections thought enough of my ability to want to see me at least have a shot at this position, that's also fair play. What is not fair play—and is also against the law in this country—is sexual discrimination.'

  Gallagher did not particularly appreciate having the law shoved in his face, or being forced to have a look at his own prejudices. He had always, quite sincerely, believed that he didn't have any prejudices. He thought he believed in total equality for women. He had three sisters, after all! And he would be fighting mad if any of them had been turned down for a job because of her sex. But then they'd all had the sense to choose jobs they were suited for. He was suddenly uncomfortably aware of the fact that he would not choose a woman doctor, and would not want to board a plane with a woman pilot, even if it was one of his sisters. And he most certainly did not want a woman flying a piece of his machinery that was worth a million dollars.

  'OK,' he admitted grudgingly, 'maybe I am a bit of a dinosaur, but I'm simply uncomfortable with the notion of a woman flying a helicopter.' He refrained, just barely, from adding, Especially my helicopter.

  'Why is that, Mr Cole?' For all that her tone was reasonable, there was no mistaking a warrior-like spark in her eyes.

  This was no hollow-headed blonde interested in only her fingernails, her hair and her plans for Friday night, Gallagher conceded. Not that he had a thing against hollow-headed blondes. In fact, that seemed to be exactly what his taste ran to since Synthia. And, even though he found Charlie's no-nonsense attitude less than appealing, she was still an attractive woman. He was not at all sure that an attractive woman and a normal, healthy man could work together as intensively as they would have to and still maintain a strictly professional relationship.

  'Why is that, Mr Cole?' she asked again.

  He supposed that, if he told her about the birds and the bees, he would get slugged for his trouble.

 
; 'Look, Miss James, I believe in equal pay for equal work. I believe in equal opportunity—if we're talking about teaching. But I think there's a reality underlying the best-intentioned philosophies, and that's that men and women are different. They're raised differently, and with different perceptions and expectations of life. And, in my experience, women don't handle crises well. They start looking around for help as soon as the chips are down. This is a very high-pressure kind of flying --'

  'I'm aware of the unique perils of heli-skiing,' she interjected, her tone strained with irritation. 'And I wouldn't be sitting here right now if I was the kind who panicked easily or looked around for help. I'd be dead.'

  'Well, then, you're a different kind of woman from any I've ever met.'

  'I have very little doubt about that,' she stated emphatically.

  Gallagher sighed wearily. The decision was already irrevocably made in his mind. He didn't care if it was narrow-minded. Unfair. Archaic. It was his business, and he would run it how he pleased. Still, he supposed they were going to have to play this out until the end. He had no doubt that she was just the type who would have him in court on discrimination charges if he didn't make a damned good show of going through the motions.

  'How old are you?'

  'Twenty-eight.'

  He whistled. 'You don't look a day over eighteen.' It slipped out, but he wasn't sorry. It was true, and there was no harm in flattering her, either—particularly if it meant staying out of court.

  Except that she did not take his compliment as a peace offering. She regarded him coolly. 'Why is it, Mr Cole, that a woman is supposed to be delighted to be told she looks like a child? I'm twenty-eight years old. I enjoy being twenty-eight. I have no wish to be anything else.'

  ' He glared at her. Hell, but she was touchy. He patted himself on the back for having known instantly and instinctively that he did not want to work with this woman. He conducted the rest of the interview with stiff formality, trying very hard to keep his sense of justification alive in light of the confidence and clarity of her answers.

  Finally, secure in the knowledge that he had given her just about the best interview ever given, he began to wrap it up.

  'Revelstoke is a very small community. Some might even call it boring.' He never had, but some might. 'I think this job would really be more suited to someone with a family, who would want to settle here, make a contribution to the community and the economy.'

  'Actually, I do want to settle in a small community.' A wistful sincerity crept into that no-nonsense tone. 'I like the idea of people knowing my name. I like the idea of a place that's cleaner and safer and more easygoing. I don't think a big city is a good place for . . . for family.'

  Gallagher frowned. Family? That was precisely what was wrong with all these rules and regulations governing what you were allowed to ask people. Well, he didn't have to ask to find out.

  'I didn't realise you were married.'

  'I'm not.'

  Aha, Gallagher thought with cool satisfaction. A woman interested in a family who didn't have a husband. No wonder his warning lights had been flashing crimson since she had strode through the door. She was searching for a husband. And husband-hunters had a terrible tendency to latch on to him.

  'I have a dependant,' she said with soft hesitation.

  Far from softening him, the news that she had a child hardened him even more. She would really be searching for a husband. Maybe she'd assumed heli-skiing attracted some very wealthy men, which it did. But damned if his business was going to be used for a marital shopping-ground!

  It momentarily pricked his conscience that if she had a child she probably really needed a job. Well, tough! She should have kept the one she had had in the Beaufort. Except that she probably wanted to be with her kid. He felt sorry about that. Briefly. And not sorry enough to even consider giving her the job.

  'I think that's about everything. I've got a number of people I want to talk to, Miss James, so why don't I let you know? I'll call you in Calgary in a week, either way.'

  He saw something flicker in her eyes and was mildly ashamed of himself. She knew she was being brushed off.

  'Aren't you going to let me fly?'

  The 'absolutely not' died in his throat. She had shown herself to be a proud woman, and yet there was faint pleading in those magnificent eyes.

  He glanced outside. It was a beautiful, clear mountain day. Leon, his other pilot, had already been up, so the helicopter was ready to go. He didn't have to let her do anything but go up and come down. He sighed, and then shrugged. What the heck? 'OK. We'll go for a spin.'

  They walked past several small planes that he shared the hangar with.

  He couldn't help but notice that she looked at them with that look in her eyes. He didn't want to identify the look, but he did anyway. It was a pilot's look. The look of one who loved flying and flying machines.

  The look in her eyes intensified as they came out of the back door, and to his helicopter. It was a Bell 212, affectionately referred to as a Twin Huey, and her face showed complete reverence. He felt the indifference he wanted to feel for her slip a bit. She so obviously appreciated this machine that represented his dream. Its sleek lines, the custom paint job, the words he hoped would become legend embossed across the side in heavy gold letters. 'High Heaven Heli-Ski'. She turned to him and gave him a dazzling smile that made her extraordinarily beautiful, and erased the no-nonsense, almost militant countenance she had presented in his office.

  And then he knew he was forgotten. He watched her circle the helicopter, carrying out the rather extensive exterior check. She finally nodded her satisfaction and stepped up to the door. He did the same. She did her interior check, then took her seat and belted herself in. Her brow was knitted in calm concentration; she was completely engrossed as she placed the helmet over her head and began the engine pre-start checks.

  Finally, she opened the engine throttles, and a few minutes later they were airborne. Gallagher was one of those people who found it impossible to rub his stomach and pat his head at the same time. He admired the dexterity of helicopter pilots. Getting these birds off the ground and flying them meant that each limb was doing a different task at the same time—hands working the collective and cyclic controls, feet adding and subtracting torque with pedals on the floor. He was glad, and not for the first time, that he was not involved in the complex business of flying this machine. Then he reminded himself sternly that he was supposed to be fearing for his life, not giving this particular pilot his confidence.

  He adjusted his headset, and directed her gruffly to go over the peaks of Mount Begbie. He watched her appraisingly for a while. Her face was expressionless, save for that look of calm confidence. She flew with a skill that looked deceptively effortless, with a finesse he knew he could expect from a pilot with five thousand hours, and yet had not expected from her. Without even being aware of it, he stopped paying attention to her, feeling the ease in his gut that he always felt in these mountains that surrounded his home. They soared towards brilliant snow-capped mountains, swooped over the peaks and down in the valleys.

  'Where do you ski?'

  So much for going up and coming down, he thought. But since they were up, he might as well check out the areas of the Monashee and Selkirk ranges that he had exclusive guiding rights to. He gave her directions, and before he knew it he had given in to the temptation to check most of the fifteen hundred square miles of slopes that, in a month, he would be leading skiers down. There was still some rock showing, he noticed, but soon . . .

  'Do you want me to put her down?'

  'No. Not today.' The words startled him. Not today? Not any day, Charlie James. But it was a lie, and he knew it. She was good, very good, considering how intensely critical he had intended to be of her skill, and how quickly he had forgotten all about who was flying.

  He suspected that she knew he was reluctantly impressed, because she flashed him a grin that held leprechaun mischievousness and made her look about sixteen—not that he would have dared to say it.

  Once back on the ground, they sat in a silence that seemed more pronounced without the steady, distinctive 'wop' of the single rotor system helicopter.