“I think that will be all.” The tall Italian police officer glances down at his notes. “Ms. Mayers, are you going to be in Italy long?”

I reach down deep inside me and tap into the absolute last dregs of my patience. This is the fifth or sixth time he’s asked me that question. “No. As soon as I’ve taken a long enough break to satisfy the FAA requirements, I’m getting back into my plane and flying passengers to Athens.”

A few feet away, a couple of youngish men who have been assisting the female police coroner use a backboard to lift the body off the ground. Sullen faced, they shuffle down the hall toward the door that leads to the tarmac.

“And then where will you be?” The officer speaks English, but his thick accent makes it difficult to make out the words.

I grind my teeth together. I can’t figure out if he thinks I killed the guy on the floor or if I just know more than I’m telling him. Either way, I can’t shake the feeling that he believes I’m guilty. And getting trapped in Florence is the last thing I need to have happen right now.

“Athens. And from there, I’m flying to London before making the return trip to Atlanta, Georgia, and eventually back to Texas, where I’ll get a few days off.” Assuming my head doesn’t explode before that point. “If you check my flight logs, you’ll realize that there’s no way I could possibly be involved with this man’s death because I was in the air.”

Ronan edges closer and lightly touches my shoulder.

“Easy,” he mutters. “Pissing off the police isn’t smart.”

I really hate the fact that he’s right.

“Sir.” Ronan’s hand stays on my shoulder as he looks at the officer. “Not only have Ms. Mayers and I spent the past two hours explaining that we merely found the body, that we don’t know anything about the man or how his neck was broken, but before that we completed a long international flight. We’re both tired and hungry. You have our cell phone numbers if you need to reach us, and if those don’t work, I’m sure that the airline can help you get in touch with us.”

“I understand.” The officer nods sympathetically. “And you’re correct. If you wish to leave you’re free to do so.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I blurt out. “You’ve been badgering me for hours, but one word from him-”

“Cassie,” Ronan warns, his tone reminding me of just how much trouble I’ll be in if I aggravate the officer too much. “Let’s go.”

His hand slides down my arm, past my wrist, and his fingers slide between mine, sealing my palm to his. The officer’s gaze tracks the movement and his brows shoot toward his hairline. Great, now he thinks Ronan and I are a couple.

The tiny, hot vibrations his touch sends racing up my arm do nothing to improve my mood.

I try tugging my hand free, but that only causes Ronan to tighten his grip as he leads me away from the scene of a possible crime and toward the door they took the body through.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I hiss at him.

“Getting you away from here before you do or say something stupid that lands you in hot water,” Ronan snaps back. It’s the first time I’ve heard even the faintest edge of temper in his tone.

“I wasn’t going to do anything stupid,” I sputter, even as I inwardly acknowledge that I’d been awfully close to doing just that.

“There’s always a line of cabs standing by, waiting for passengers. We’ll grab one and take it to the hotel.” Ronan slides a sideways glance in my direction. “Where you can get some sleep and maybe lose that chip you’ve been carrying around on your shoulder ever since I met you.”

“If there’s a chip, it’s the result of spending every single day dealing with egotistical, bullheaded co-pilots who think women should be at home making babies rather than in the cabin of a passenger jet.”

“Whoa!” Ronan lets out a low whistle and opens the back door of the nearest cab. “Talk about issues.” He steps back, letting me slide into the cab.

Guilt pierces my gut. Other than that weirdness in the break room when he was talking about love at first sight, Ronan has been quite pleasant. Not only did he not make any disparaging remarks about my flying or continue to make passes at me, the entire time we were flying over the Atlantic Ocean, he was polite, quiet even, seemingly content to leave me to my thoughts. It was nice and not at all what I expected.

I roll this thought over in my head as Ronan crawls into the cab and sits beside me. He says something to the driver-the only word I recognize is the name of the hotel the airline booked us into-and the car pulls away from the curb and into the heavy Florence traffic.

I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry.” The words nearly stick in my throat. I don’t have any practice with apologies.

Even though I’m staring straight ahead at the back of the front seat, I feel Ronan’s eyes boring into me.

“What for?”

Of course, he wants an explanation. Why can’t people just take apologies at face value? It’d be easier.

“For being such a bitch. You don’t deserve it.” If I were a better person, I’d end the conversation right then and there, but I just can’t bring myself to do so. My stubborn, belligerent streak is just too powerful. “Not that you might not change.” He wouldn’t be the first co-pilot I’ve worked with who was sweet as could be only to reveal his true identity when he realized I had no intention of sleeping with him.

Ronan shrugs. “You really haven’t done anything that I didn’t already suspect.”

My brows snap together. I swivel my head to stare at him. The cab pulls up to the curb and stops in front of the hotel.

“What does that mean?” I demand.

“The guy who hired me, Craig Buchanan, he told me about you.” Ronan reaches for the handle and opens the door.

“He did?” I search my brain, trying to put the name with the memory of a face. “What’d he say?”

“Nothing too terrible, I guess.” Ronan gets out of the car. “Just that you’ve had some … disagreements with other pilots in the past. From the little you’ve said, I’m starting to get the impression that they might have given you at least some reason for striking out at them.”

This marks the very first time that anyone, especially a man, has indicated having even the smallest bit of understanding about what I’ve been going through since first signing up to fly Northwest jets.

His comment feels like it deserves some sort of response from me, but I don’t know what to say. Luckily, handing the credit card Northwest supplies to cover expenses while I’m flying for them to the cab driver buys me a little time. I stare at him, my mind whirling, as he slides the card into the little chip reader attached to his phone. Once he hands it back to me, I slip out of the car and move past Ronan, who opted to wait for me beside the cab rather than walking into the hotel and getting the key to his room.

He follows me into the hotel. In the lobby, I hesitate for a second, my gaze bouncing between the desk that’s manned by a pert Italian woman with big eyes and shiny hair and the door just past it that leads to the hotel bar. The illuminated sign above the door says it’s still open for business.

Knowing that I’m probably about to make a big mistake, I turn to Ronan. “After everything that’s happened, I could use a drink. How ‘bout you? My treat.”