Shane was ninety-nine percent sure he could tell what Miss Sara Wallington was thinking right now, without having to ask her a single question. Because, whether she realized it or not, she was giving off clues like nobody’s business. Really good clues, too. Clues he wanted very badly to pick up and run with. Maybe that washroom at the front of the cabin could prove useful after all… The thought was just forming in his brain when the small jet suddenly gave a lurch. Automatically, Shane gripped the arms of his seat, but not before he was thrown sideways by another jolt. Then forward by another. And backward by another. Immediately, his gaze flew to Sara’s. “What the hell was that?” he asked. She shook her head, her expression—and her ferocious stranglehold on the arms of her own seat—indicating that she was clearly as alarmed as he. But where Shane would have expected someone in a pink sweater and pearls and a bun to fasten her seat belt and start wringing her hands and muttering something like, “We’re all going to die, we’re all going to die,”
