Flying High Christmas

  After surviving a fall from an airplane and being shot at by a ruthless gang of drug dealers, the only thing Cara Watson wants for Christmas is the sexy DEA agent who saved her life.

  But the leader of the gang has other ideas.

  It’s up to Dylan Davidson to once again save the feisty redhead and make both of their Christmas wishes come true.

  Reviews for Velvet Vaughn!

  The List by Velvet Vaughn - This was the perfect mix. I couldn't put it down until I finished it. A great romantic mystery. I was surprised with the ending. So many different levels of mystery.

  ~ Indiana GMA, Amazon

  ~*~

  The List - Loved this book from page one! I couldn't put it down and was riveted to each page! I highly recommend this book and the author's other one, A Christmas Miracle. Both keep you wanting to read on and not put the book down!

  ~ Loves to Read, Amazon

  ~*~

  The List - Loved every word of it. It's exciting, full of thrills, very well crafted. It keeps you on your toes. Plus, the hot, sweet, romantic side is sizzling. It has humor, suspense and passionate scenes. Never a boring moment. Loved it!

  ~ Beliriv, Amazon

  ~*~

  The List made my list of great books. The story is riveting and will hold you until the very end.

  ~ JKollett, Amazon

  ~*~

  I really enjoyed "The List", couldn't put it down. The author has done a great job tying the plot to ‘The List.’

  ~ P.T. Bedford, Amazon

  Flying High Christmas

  Velvet Vaughn

  Highland Press Publishing

  Florida

  Flying High Christmas

  An original publication of Highland Press Publishing

  Flying High Christmas © 2015 Velvet Vaughn

  Cover Design 2015 Leanne Burroughs

  Published by Highland Press Publishing at Smashwords

  Produced in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system—except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web—without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information, please contact:

  Highland Press Publishing,

  PO Box 2292, High Springs, FL 32655.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names, save actual historical figures. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  From Print ISBN: 978-1-942606-12-3 (Yuletide Miracle)

  Highland Press Publishing

  http://highlandpress.org

  Wee Dram Imprint

  Flying High Christmas

  To my amazing parents, Jim and Lana.

  “To be a good father and mother requires that the parents defer many of their own needs and desires in favor of the needs of their children. As a consequence of this sacrifice, conscientious parents develop a nobility of character and learn to put into practice the selfless truths taught by the Savior Himself.”

  ~ James E. Faust

  Chapter One

  "I can see the headline now. ‘Careful Cara finally attempts something daring and dies in the process.’ Human interest. My editor will eat it up."

  "Shut. Up," the man named Frankie bellowed, his face an interesting shade of magenta. Cara Watson didn’t think he looked like an instructor when she signed up to learn how to skydive. She should've trusted her instincts. They rarely let her down.

  "Put on the parachute."

  Cara groped behind her for the pack, her eyes glued to the gun trained on her head as she slid the straps over her trembling shoulders. She almost fell backwards. The bag weighed a ton. Hopefully that meant it contained an extra chute.

  "Here's a thought. How about we just head back to the hanger and I wait another month until Christmas to jump. It'll be a Christmas present to myself. I'll even talk a friend into jumping with me. Sound good? More profit for you. Everyone can use a few extra bucks around the holidays. Am I right?"

  Frankie used the hand not holding the gun to grab at one side of his greasy brown hair and yank as he let out a bellow. "Woman, shut the hell up before I shut you up."

  She gulped. No doubt he meant it, judging from the fierce scowl. She glanced at the other man in the plane. He was huge and muscular with dark hair and blue eyes. He'd be drop dead gorgeous if he would quit glowering. He didn’t look like an instructor either. He looked like a warrior. She’d tried chatting him up earlier but quickly learned he possessed the personality of a slab of granite. If these two were representatives of the Flying High Jumping School, she could see why they'd had an immediate opening. So far, she’d learned exactly nothing and they hadn’t even made her sign a waiver. That couldn't be good.

  Her attention was drawn back to Frankie fumbling with the latch, the gun never wavering. He worked the mechanism and the door slid open to a mighty gush of air.

  "Get up."

  "Aren't you going to give me some instructions?" She waved a flippant hand. "You know, tell me what the heck to do?" Her voice rose with each syllable. She was seriously starting to freak out.

  "Get over here." The barked command was apparently the only instruction Frankie would give.

  Using the wall for support, she struggled upright. The parachute almost pulled her back down. She eased closer, feeling the weight of the pack on her back with each step.

  "Okay, don’t panic, how hard could this be?" Steadying herself, she approached the opening. "Jump, pull the cord, float safely to the ground. Piece of cake. People do it all the time, right? You rarely read about someone falling to their death from an airplane." She knew she was rambling but she couldn’t stop. She always babbled when nervous, and her stomach had been one huge knot since she stepped foot on this plane. She groped the pack. Where was that cord?

  "So long, sweetheart."

  As if in slow motion, Frankie’s arm reached out and with a feral grin, he pushed.

  Cara gasped, her eyes widening in horror. For the first time in her life, she was struck speechless. She had the sensation of being suspended in time. Everything stopped: her breath, the hum of the engine, the force of gravity. Her eyes locked on the dark-haired man. Then the bottom literally dropped out from under her. Her feet lost purchase, her arms wind-milled, desperately searching for something solid to grab.

  There was nothing but air.

  Too late she remembered she never did find the ripcord.

  ~*~

  Dylan Davidson closed his eyes and groaned. The woman was a freaking menace. Her motor mouth hadn’t stopped since they boarded. "How does this work, where does this go, should the plane make that noise, what's in the bags?" he mimicked in his head. Her never-ending litany of questions would test the patience of a saint, and he was no saint.

  For the hundredth time, he wondered why Frankie allowed her to tag along. Sure, they used a jumping school as cover for their lucrative drug distribution ring. And Frankie thought the double entendre of "Flying High" was just too damn funny. But no one had ever actually signed up for lessons. Hell, the plane looked like a relic from World War I. He wouldn’t be on it if not absolutely necessary. Loaded down with a hundred kilos of snow white made it imperative, especially since he didn’t trust Frankie.

  But why this woman and why today?

  He was pretty sure he knew the answer to why this woman. He didn’t get more than a glimpse before she donned jumping gear,
but she was a knockout. Amazing body. Thick, lustrous hair. Frankie’s eyes had locked on her lush figure like a starving wolf on a fresh piece of meat.

  But after—Dylan checked his watch—forty-five minutes of nonstop chatter, even her looks couldn’t save her. If there was one thing Frankie wouldn’t tolerate, it was someone questioning his every move.

  Dylan studied her. Copper hair contrasted nicely with the green jumpsuit…okay, not so much a jumpsuit as the coveralls the shifty mechanic used when he worked on the plane. Frankie sniggered as he handed her the grimy garment with Harold stitched in red thread over the left breast pocket. A battered skullcap motorcycle helmet someone left in the hanger barely contained her fiery strands. Her eyes were huge green disks behind the goggles—more contraband from Harold—her gaze trained on the pistol pointed at her head.

  He sighed. He really hadn’t seen this coming or he would've stopped Frankie sooner. If he tried now, either he or the woman would likely get shot and he sure didn’t feel like dying today. He wanted to kick his own ass for allowing Frankie to bring her along.

  The woman’s mouth moved as her hands fumbled along the pack, probably looking for the ripcord. Frankie pushed.

  In that split second between safety and certain death, her eyes met his and locked. Something inside him shifted.

  Then she was gone.

  He had a decision to make: see that the goods arrived safely or save the life of one annoying redhead.

  Dylan didn’t hesitate. He shot to his feet, took two steps and dove headfirst out the cargo door after her. Hell, he had no choice…the woman had fifty pounds of pure cocaine strapped to her back.

  Chapter Two

  If not for the likelihood of impending death, Cara would really enjoy this experience. It was windy and loud, but totally exhilarating. Freeing. She felt like she was flying instead of falling. If her death was inevitable, why not relax and enjoy the ride?

  She could see the headlines in tomorrow’s paper: "Careful Cara plunges to her death thirty years to the day she was born." Dying on your birthday. Good copy.

  She thought about her parents, her brother, her nieces and nephew and a wave of sadness crashed over her. Christmas was just a few weeks away and this would totally ruin the holiday for all of them. She wished she could leave a message to tell them how much she loved them.

  Something grabbed hard on her pack and she felt it give. Fighting g-force, she slid her hands under the straps and latched tightly. She wasn’t about to lose the parachute. Even if she didn’t know how to use it, it was the only thing that would cushion a certain-to-be-excruciating landing.

  Whatever clamped on to the pack refused to let go. She screamed into the wind when a face appeared in front of her. It was him—the man from the plane. He'd come to rescue her! He mouthed, "Hold on to me." She didn’t have to be told twice. She slid her arms around his neck and locked her feet around his waist.

  The man was huge, solid and gorgeous. The ground rapidly approached. She might die soon…she didn’t plan on wasting another second. She fastened her lips to his.

  ~*~

  Dylan groaned. The woman wrapped herself around him like a freaking anaconda and then those plump lips crashed down on his. He almost forgot to pull the ripcord. But sanity, and a healthy desire to live, kicked in and he broke contact to yank the string. The woman clutched tighter as his parachute jerked them up before catching the wind to drift with the breeze. He tried to steer…really, he did. But she attacked his lips again and he was a goner.

  Maybe if he’d focused on the situation instead of the woman, they wouldn’t currently be dangling twenty feet off the ground, their chute a tangled mess in the gnarled limbs of a mighty oak.

  He needed to free them, but she wouldn’t stop kissing him—not that he was complaining. Pecks, nibbles, licks, her lips were amazing, mind-blowing.

  She pulled back, her hands bracketing his face. "You’re a great kisser," she whispered, "and I don’t even know your name."

  "Dylan," he managed.

  "Cara," she said before their mouths met again.

  They could spend all day hanging in the tree sucking face, or he could get them down and find someplace horizontal.

  A loud crack took the decision away from him.

  "Hold on," he yelled, a split-second before the branch snapped and they plummeted to the ground.

  Pain exploded behind his eyes when his back met the earth and the limb landed on his foot. Cara’s weight plus the added bulk of the cocaine forced the air from his lungs. Thankfully, a mound of foliage covered the ground, but it still knocked the wind from him and he was pretty sure the foot was broken.

  Cara slapped his face, crooning to him as he struggled to breathe. He grasped her hands to keep her from hitting him again. "I’m okay," he wheezed.

  "Oh thank goodness." She collapsed on top of him, eliciting another groan from his battered body. "I’m no lightweight. I was afraid I crushed you."

  If he could talk, he’d tell her that her body was perfection, the kind men dreamed of, could make him forget the agonizing pain in his foot. His hands skimmed her hips to grasp the globes of her buttocks. Though he'd dated his share, he'd never really been attracted to waif-thin model-types who were nothing but skin and bones. Give him a woman with curves, some flesh to hang on to, and he was a happy man. Cara made him ecstatic.

  ~*~

  Cara was safely on the ground. She lived through her first death-defying stunt. She felt powerful, invincible. But she couldn’t take all the credit…or any of it, really. "Dylan, you saved my life," she uttered reverently. "I had no idea what to do, where to find the ripcord. Then you appeared like an angel from Heaven." She ignored his scowl. "How can I thank you?"

  She had a pretty good idea how, and her body tingled with possibilities. Something about this man called to her. She knew nothing about him, but when she gazed into his blue eyes, she felt like she'd known him all her life.

  It was stupid, irrational. The exact opposite of what Careful Cara would do. So she went for it, tugging at his shirt to expose a belly rippling with muscle. She wanted to trace the bumps with her tongue. She really hoped he had protection because even though she was throwing caution to the wind, she wasn't stupid. Bold and adventurous was one thing, careless and irresponsible was another.

  Dylan's big hand stalled her progress and he pushed her away. Her eyes shot to his. Did she misread him? She'd never seduced a man before but she thought she'd been doing a pretty decent job.

  "Don’t you want—"

  He cut her off. "Yeah, I want," he growled, a knife suddenly materializing to sever the parachute ropes with jerky movements.

  "But why…?"

  "Listen."

  At first all she heard was sounds of the forest: birds calling to their mates, crickets chirping, wind ruffling brittle leaves barely clinging to stately trees. Christmas was only a month away but you'd never be able to tell by the mild temps. Then she heard the unmistakable drone of an airplane engine.

  "Frankie?"

  He nodded. "My guess is they’re going to land in that field right over there." He indicated an open space of gently blowing grass.

  "Why would he come back? He pushed me out of the plane, remember? Apparently all he wanted was my money," she groused.

  "Because, Red," Dylan explained, "you jacked one point two million from him. I’d say he’s pretty damn pissed."

  One point two million… "What are you talking about? It only cost twenty-nine ninety-nine for the"—she made air quotes—"lessons."

  He pointed with the knife. "That pack strapped to your back."

  She looked over her shoulder, her brows scrunched with doubt. "It's pretty banged up. Unless it holds sentimental value, I doubt Frankie cares one bit about retrieving it."

  "Oh he cares," he confirmed. "It's stuffed with pure Colombian blow."

  Cara struggled to understand Dylan’s words. Colombian blow. He couldn't mean…"Cocaine?" At his terse nod, she slipped the pack
off and lifted the flap. Bags of white powder filled the inside. "Oh God," she whispered. "No wonder I couldn’t find the ripcord."

  "Not the thing to focus on," he remarked, his blade sawing through the last rope. The whine grew louder, the belly of the behemoth barely clearing the treetops. The ends of her hair lashed her face and leaves kicked up from the ground. She suddenly realized she'd lost her helmet somewhere on the descent. "If Frankie catches you, you’re as good as dead," he yelled over the roar of the engine.

  "So we run?"

  "We run," he agreed.

  Cara took off, leaving the drugs behind. When Dylan didn’t follow, she stopped. He was busy strapping on the pack.

  "If we leave it here, Frankie will find it and maybe he won’t come after us," she argued reasonably.

  "First of all, you saw Frankie. You saw Frankie’s stash. He can’t let you live. And second, Red, if you think I’m leaving two mil behind, you're crazy."

  "You said one point two million," she accused.

  He shrugged. "Depends on how you market it on the streets."

  He took a step and winced, barely putting weight on his left foot. He limped to her, noticed the look on her face and sighed, "What?"

  "You’re a dealer, too?"

  He laughed. "You seriously didn’t think I was on that plane to skydive, did you?"

  The way she figured it, she had two options: stay and be killed by a ruthless drug dealer, or take her chances with another ruthless drug dealer, whom she also could identify so he probably couldn’t let her live, either. As far as those choices went, they both sucked. If forced, she’d pick the second because he was hot and oh, could he kiss. She decided on option three.