Learning To Fly Read online

  Table of Contents

  Learning To Fly

  Copyright

  Dedication

  PRAISE FOR AUTHOR

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also Available

  Thank you for purchasing this Wild Rose Press, Inc. publication.

  Learning To Fly

  by

  Melissa Snark

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Learning To Fly

  COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Melissa Snark

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Angela Anderson

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewilderroses.com

  Publishing History

  First Scarlet Rose Edition, August 2012

  Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-595-9

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  My thanks to my wonderful husband, Christopher,

  for all of his support and for believing in me.

  PRAISE FOR AUTHOR

  Melissa Snark

  AND HER BOOKS

  A CAT’S TALE

  “I do enjoy a good story, regardless of genre, and that’s what makes A Cat’s Tale a good read: it tells a good story. But then, add to that the saucy erotic and intimate nature of the relationship between our two lead characters, and you have a hot erotic love story, with an actual plot!”

  ~Texas Straight-Talk Reviews

  Chapter One

  Early Saturday morning, the landline rang as Cassandra Claeys was on her way out the door. For a split second, she considered letting it go to the answering machine because she was already late to meet friends at a coffee shop. However, the possibility of it being her new client, an architect from Los Lobos, California, made her hesitate.

  Kyle McCleod. Although they had never met in person, she leapt at any opportunity to speak with him. She could listen to him all day for the simple pleasure of hearing him speak and never registered a word he’d said. The man had a voice like whiskey and blended cream—smooth, dulcet, just the hint of a brogue—alluding to Irish roots. He caressed her with that voice, caused her insides to turn to warm and gooey like the center of a truffle or a warm chocolate lava cake. His dialect marked him as American, but the way he spoke hinted at a touch of eastern Ireland, reminding her of the year she’d spent as a child in Dublin.

  Cassie grabbed for the phone. “Hello?”

  “Is this Cassandra Claeys?”

  Cassie shifted her purse to her right shoulder to get a more comfortable grip on the receiver. “Yes, this is she. Who’s calling?”

  “Ms. Claeys, this is Agent Riona Knoshoghi with the FBI.” The woman pronounced Cassie’s name with a distinct Japanese accent, rolling her Rs into a liquid consonant.

  “Yes?” She clutched the phone, trying to stem a rising tide of anxiety. She did not receive calls from the Federal Bureau of Investigation every day, but she did live in constant dread of the event, hoping it would never come.

  “I need to notify you that Simon Lynch is out of prison, ma’am.”

  Her grip tightened on the phone and white noise filled her ears. Her breath came short and rapid, and pressure increased on her chest like a giant hand trying to crush her ribcage. On the verge of panic, Cassie’s mind went blank.

  “Ms. Claeys? Are you still there?” Agent Knoshoghi attempted to gain her attention with increasing urgency.

  Her lungs burned from lack of oxygen. Right before she passed out, her nostrils flared and she sucked down a great gulp of air. Her lightheadedness passed after a few seconds. The agent said her name again.

  “I’m sorry. Yes, I’m here. Repeat that. Please,” Cassie said.

  The agent paused before she spoke again. “Ma’am, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but Simon Lynch is out of prison.”

  “How?” Cassie asked. This had to be a bad joke. Please let it be a bad joke.

  “How?” The agent fell silent, trying to suss out her meaning.

  “He had a life sentence. Several consecutive life sentences. Who the hell let him out?” Her voice grew more strident with each passing second. She sounded accusing, but right then she didn’t care.

  The agent maintained her professional demeanor and made a cool reply. “Please calm down, Ms. Claeys, and I’ll explain. No one let him out. Lynch escaped.”

  “How long ago did he escape?” Cassie shook from head to toe. Her knuckles were white on the receiver.

  Papers rustled in the background. “Lynch disappeared from his cell at San Quentin sometime last night. He was last seen around nine o’clock at lockdown. During the morning head check, the guards found his cell empty.”

  Cassie’s gaze flew to the digital clock over her oven. She performed a hasty mental calculation. “That’s what, twelve hours ago?”

  “At the most. Please bear in mind that the prison is a maximum security facility, so it took time for him to circumvent the security. We called you as soon as he was discovered missing, Ms. Claeys. Now, I need to arrange for you to be brought into protective custody.”

  Cassie’s lips formed a reply, but she never spoke. She slammed down the phone, cutting off whatever instructions Agent Knoshoghi might have offered. Her panicked gaze flew about her two bedroom townhome. Options fell through her mind in a terrified jumble. What to do? She had to get out; she had to run.

  Who could she trust? Not the police who had already failed her more than once. Where should she go? Not her friends. She wouldn’t endanger people she cared about, and besides, Lynch would find her if she ran anywhere predictable.

  Twelve hours…Lynch had a twelve hour lead on the authorities. There were less than twenty miles between San Quentin and San Francisco. He could be anywhere, even right outside her front door.

  Her distracted gaze fell on the handwritten note from Kyle McCleod. It rested atop a welcome packet to her new job as his illustrator on an architectural project that started in a week. Right then and there, Cassie made her decision. She grabbed the paperwork and shoved it into her handbag. Then she checked the front window of her townhome and peered out at the busy sidewalks full of joggers, dog walkers, and parents taking their children to the playground across the street. She saw no sign of Lynch.

  She slung her purse over her shoulder and grabbed her cell phone. She took nothing else. She hurried out the front door and slammed it behind her.

  She ran and never looked back.

  ****

  Seven hours later, a yellow taxi deposited Cassie at her final destination. She paid the driver and watched as the cab pulled away. Once it passed out of sight, she trudged the remainder of the way up the road to the house at the top of the hill. Out front, she spotted a man trimming a hedge.

  “Excuse me, can you tell me where to find Mr. McCleod?” She stopped a safe distance from the groundskeeper, respecting both the man and his pruning shears. She flashed a smile, keeping
one hand balanced on the leather purse slung over her shoulder.

  The paved road leading up to the wrought iron gate of the estate lacked a sidewalk, so she stood on the gravel shoulder. The front entryway stood open in an inviting manner, as if to say, “welcome friends and neighbors.” Despite the gardener’s relentless scowl, Cassie felt good about her impulsive decision to arrive a week early and unannounced at her new job.

  The man paused in the act of trimming the hedge. His coal black eyes squinted at her over his handlebar mustache. He bristled with suspicion. “Who’re you?”

  “Cassandra Claeys.” She offered a nervous hand and glanced over her shoulder. Maybe it had been a mistake to dismiss the taxi so soon. Her initial optimism suffered a burst of suffocating doubt and dampened her enthusiasm.

  “What do you want?” The man spoke with a rolling Welsh accent. He made no move to shake her hand, snubbing her effort to be cordial.

  Cassie arched her brow and took a step backward. “I’m supposed to be working for Mr. McCleod.”

  “First I’ve heard of a new employee.” The groundskeeper closed the shears and severed a number of green branches from the bush. “Henry Arthur.”

  “Humph. I do believe you’ve two first names, Mr. Arthur.” She did not extend her hand a second time. The hint of reprimand in her voice provoked a snort from the gardener.

  “Harrumph.” The contrary man frowned in an effort not to smile.

  Cassie maintained a bland expression and gave him a nod. “Well, it was nice meeting you.”

  His nostrils flared and he set down the shears. “I suppose I’ll show you up to the house and the Missus will get you a room. Do you have any baggage?”

  “Just my purse.” She followed him past the gates and onto the grounds. Her admiring gaze took in the main house, a masterful postmodern structure, set against the rugged coastal landscape. Her fingers itched for the pencils and sketchpad tucked away within her bag.

  Mr. Arthur passed Cassie off to the affable Shelly Arthur. The woman exuded good cheer, singing her words in a lilting Irish accent. Where her husband was tall and lean, Mrs. Arthur was short and plump. She wore purple, head to toe, like a tiny sugar plum fairy.

  Shelly chased her grumbling husband from the kitchen with a rolled towel. “You shouldn’t pay any mind to Mr. Arthur, m’dear. I swear that man gets grumpier every day!”

  Cassie chuckled and then grinned with the gratification of discovery. “Are you from Dublin, Mrs. Arthur?”

  Bright eyes regarded her with distinct pleasure. “Aye, that I am! Born and bred in Fingal, raised in Dublin. How did you know?”

  “My mom and I spent a year there when I was a child. She taught French and piano. She was madly in love with this musician from Fingal until she found out he was married.”

  “Oh my, that sounds deliciously scandalous.” Laughing, Shelly made a show of fanning her face with her hand. “I have a feeling we’re going to have a wonderful time trading tales. Now, let’s see about getting you settled, shall we?”

  Shelly escorted Cassie to a guest bedroom. “You should have plenty of time to make yourself at home. Let me know if there’s anything you need. Dinner is at six. We’ll be having corned beef and cabbage.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Arthur.” She stowed her purse beside the bed, feeling self-conscious about her lack of luggage even though Mrs. Arthur did not seem to notice.

  The housekeeper shook with jolly laughter. “Goodness, call me Shelly. The only person who calls me ‘missus’ is the mister.”

  Cassandra grinned. “Thank you, Shelly.”

  After exploring her spacious suite, Cassie returned to the kitchen where she found Mr. Arthur with his hand in the cookie jar. The man made a guilty production of removing a handful of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. He lowered the lid back onto the jar so it closed with a soft clink.

  He glowered at Cassie. “Yeah?”

  She bit the inside of her cheek to stop from grinning. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a walk and stretch my legs. It’s quite a trip from San Francisco. Are there any hiking trails nearby?”

  “Sure, plenty of trails. They’re safe, but don’t get too close to the water. Kyle and Kieran will be around this evening.”

  “Thank you.” She hesitated. “Kieran? Does Kyle have a brother?”

  “Sure does. Kieran is the oldest of the pair. Before she passed, bless her soul, Mrs. McCleod was a firm believer in symmetry. The boys have the same initials—KCM.” His stare dared her to make another impertinent observation, although Cassie was not sure why he seemed to object to her innocent question.

  “Oh.” She resisted the temptation to inquire further after the brothers. If she had questions, then Shelly promised to be a more viable source of information.

  “I’m off to attend to my business. There’s an overgrown hedge on the south wall.” Crumbs covered his mustache.

  “Have at it!” She waved him on his way.

  He shot her a parting scowl. “Don’t fall into the ocean, or Missus Arthur will have my sideburns on a platter.”

  “I’ll try not to!”

  She waited until the strange man had gone before she left the house via the backdoor. She passed across a manicured yard and through a back gate. A high fence defined the estate’s grounds from the wild areas surrounding it. She followed the first trail she encountered and headed toward the ocean at a brisk pace. The craggy terrain required careful negotiation as she navigated rocky bluffs and steep slopes. Thanks to mid-summer heat, the surrounding landscape was dry and full of brown vegetation.

  The late afternoon sun hung in the sky; not a single cloud marred the blue. Overhead, a hawk shrieked and Cassie tilted back her head. She caught a glimpse of spread wings and a fanned red tail. The bird crested and dipped, riding the wind, and then disappeared from sight.

  Hoping to get another look at it, she altered course and hastened her pace. The bird cried out again, drawing her attention, so she had her gaze turned up when she ran straight into a cluster of overgrown bushes. A branch whipped past her face, almost catching her eye.

  “Ouch. Damn it! Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. I’ve been reduced to talking to myself.” Hands lifted to protect her face, she stumbled forward, attempting to find her way free of the thicket. The brambles snagged her hair like grasping fingers.

  “I can see the headlines now…San Francisco woman discovered dead. Murderous plants suspected. More at ten…”

  A minute later, she freed the last strand of hair from the thorns and escaped with only a few scratches on her hands to show for the ordeal. Combing her fingers through her hair, she removed broken bits of branches and pine needles.

  Reaching the top of a hill, she stopped to catch her breath, enjoying the cool ocean breeze. A short distance ahead, waves roared and she caught her first glimpse of white crests. Determined, she soldiered on, regarding the view ahead as her final reward.

  Cassie came to a precarious halt atop an outcropping of rock and gazed down upon the coastline. The water churned and crashed in a white-blue blur. The setting sun hung above the horizon. The brisk wind whipped her hair, and she shoved long strands from her face.

  The tumultuous ocean helped settle some of her anxiety. Even so, her thoughts churned with unrest. Had she done the right thing coming here? Should she have run farther? Faster? Was there anywhere she could go that Simon Lynch would not follow?

  At the same time, she looked forward to finally meeting her dulcet-toned employer with giddy anticipation. If he measured up to his voice, he promised to be a stunning specimen of a man. It had been a long time since a man had stirred such a provocative response within her.

  “Excuse me, but this is private property. Are you lost?” The unexpected male voice came from behind her and interrupted her reverie.

  Cassie shrieked in surprise and fear. She twisted to face the threat behind her and found a menacing man looming over her. Her foot hit an uneven patch of ground and her ankle twisted to the
side. Her arms windmilled to help keep her upright.

  “Careful, watch your step,” he said, and reached for her.

  “Don’t touch me!” She panicked and her adrenaline surged. Cassie retreated further, struggling to control her fight or flee reaction. He stopped dead in his tracks, a stunned expression on his face. In a heartbeat, his entire demeanor changed from aggressive to watchful. Then, he shouted a warning and lunged for her, missing by inches.

  Loose gravel rolled beneath her feet and took her for a ride. Arms flailing, she lost her balance and went ass-over-end, tumbling down the hill. She grunted and yelped, trying and failing to recover. She made a blind grab, clawing for a handhold. Her feet went over the side of the cliff and her fingers found a tree root. Her shoulder wrenched in the socket when she jerked to a sudden halt. The world spun as she dangled above the churning ocean.

  For a second, Cassie could only gape at the water in uncomprehending shock. Her other hand latched onto the tree root with a death grip. Loose pebbles rained past her face and a rock hit her hard on the temple, so she winced and turned her face away. Below, waves broke over jutting rocks.

  “Give me your hand.”

  She looked up to find the man above her, leaning over the edge. His arm extended, bringing his hand within reach. “Give me your hand,” he said again.

  “I can’t.”

  “You can.”

  Cassie whimpered with fear. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears and her pulse raced, and yet everything seemed to have slowed. She couldn’t risk letting go and place her life in the hands of a stranger.

  “Trust me,” he said. So strong, so steady. His voice diverted her attention from her predicament. She recognized those honeyed tones from prior phone conversations. She had dreamt about that voice into the late hours of the night, one hand buried deep beneath the covers, imagining a face and body to match even though she had known that reality could never live up to her fantasy.

  “Kyle?” She craned her neck to get a better look at his face. Shadows obscured his features, but in that moment she wouldn’t have cared if he looked like a troll.