Page 13 of Crash Course
Doug shifted his backpack higher on his shoulder and shook Cruz’s hand. "Doug Andrews. I’m Mr. Randolph’s pilot. Thanks for handling the trip. I had a conflict." He jerked his chin at the Gulfstream. "How’d she do?"
"Good. She’s a sweet ride."
"That she is. We’re taking a run to Charleston. Any write-ups before we go?"
Cruz shook his head. "Nothing. Easy flight."
Doug held his hand out again and the two men shook. "I’ll let you go. Mr. Randolph is ready. We still need fuel and I need to do my preflight."
The pilot climbed the stairs, probably intending on dropping his gear in the flight deck before doing his preflight check.
Cilla stood just outside the airport office, checking something on her phone. Cruz headed for her just as an older man, in a suit that fit too well not to be custom, stepped through the door. Tall with short dark hair that was graying at the temples, he had the stiff-backed posture of someone accustomed to entering a room and people noticing. Cruz had used that same posture—shoulders back, chin high——frequently to make sure people understood who the alpha dog was.
Based on photos Cruz had seen, this must be Cilla’s father.
The two exchanged a peck on the cheek and a hug as Cruz approached. The man eyed him over Cilla’s shoulder, which, yeah, maybe Cruz found odd since the man’s attention was on Cruz rather than his daughter. But, hey, people were weird cats.
Cilla backed away from the hug and gestured to Cruz. "Dad, this is Cruz Blackwell. Cruz, my father, Darren Randolph."
"Sir, good to meet you. I love your plane."
And maybe your daughter.Doh! Totally not saying that. At least not yet.
But what a thought for a guy who hadn’t yet fully experienced being in love. At least, he didn’t think he’d experienced it and he kinda hoped he’d know when it happened.
"There’s a lot to love," Randolph said.
Whoa.Had this dude read his freaking mind? He ticked back on the last thing he’d said. The plane. Randolph was talking about the plane.
Phew.Cruz nearly laughed over his own mental bedlam. Nothing new there.
"Thank you for taking care of the painting," Randolph said. "First and last time I ever lend my art out." He turned to Cilla. "Did Greg give you any problems?"
She waved it off. "Cruz and Phin took care of it."
"I don’t like the sound of that."
Randolph’s gaze shifted to Cruz and stayed there. Clearly, he expected an explanation and since Cruz represented BARS, he jumped in. "Nothing to be concerned about, sir. Greg wasn’t too happy about letting the painting go. Cilla convinced him he had no legal right to it and we were out of there."
Finally, Randolph gave Cilla a smile that could light Broadway. "That’s my girl. Tough as nails."
"Cruz," Cilla said, "I need to speak with my dad. Would you excuse us?"
"Of course."
He held his hand to Randolph. "I’m sure you’ll hear from my brother, Zeke, but thank you for trusting us. Glad we could recover your property."
"You did a great job, son. Great job."
Son?
That was . . . interesting. Never had a client refer to him as son. Cruz’s own father had been dead for years and maybe Cruz was a tad sensitive to another man referring to him as son. And did Randolph just use a condescending tone with him?
Whether the tone or the phrase alone, it got Cruz’s hackles up. However, straightening Randolph out on Blackwell lineage, and the use of the term "son," wouldn’t help Cruz’s current situation with a still-pissed-off Zeke.
Filter locked in place—bonus points for that—Cruz nodded. "Thank you, sir."
He glanced at Cilla. "Thank you for your help today. Take care."
