Aces Wild

Book 1: Elite Ops

by Emmy Curtis

Genres: Action & Adventure Romance; Contemporary Romance; Military Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

The most elite military pilots in the world are about to engage in some friendly competition. Only this year, someone is changing all the rules... RAF pilot Dexter Stone has been through his fair share of sticky situations. After living through a crash in enemy territory where no one expected him to walk away, the Red Flag training exercises should be a piece of cake--assuming he can keep his mind on the mission and not on the smart mouth of his gorgeous American competition. As one of the few women in a sky full of hotshot flyboys, Maj. Eleanor Daniels has worked day and night to earn a coveted spot at Red Flag. And she's not about to let some cocky British bad boy distract her from winning. But when the games take a deadly turn, he may be her only hope for survival. "What happens when you mix aerial combat training, dogfights, sexy pilots, conspiracies and cover ups and add a big dollop of romance? You have a story that just can't lose." --Heroes & Heartbreakers on Aces Wild "A wild ride of espionage, sabotage, and finding love in extraordinary circumstances." --Fresh Fiction on Aces Wild "Curtis's fast-paced novel avoids the annoying trope of the female soldier having to prove herself to the male soldier. Eleanor and Dex are thrown together right away and work as a team from the beginning. And with a vibrant cast of fellow pilots and soldiers, Aces Wild is an exhilarating start to the Elite Ops series." -- BookPage on Aces Wild

Release date: April 30, 2017

Publisher: Forever Yours

Print pages: 240

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

Royal Air Force pilot Dexter Stone stood outside the hangar and watched the waves of heat undulate above the desert of Las Vegas. He took a deep breath and steadied the jumping in his stomach. It was an alien feeling.

Not only was this the first time he’d flown in a desert environment since he’d crashed his Typhoon aircraft in Iraq, but also this Red Flag training—an exercise that could make or break his reputation—would determine the rest of his career. If he even had one. His career as a pilot, and being a part of the RAF, were everything to him. Everything.

Half of him longed to see a familiar face, and half of him didn’t want to see anyone he’d known before. He just had to get through this in one piece and make sure he returned to the UK with all the bragging rights he could get. Whatever the brass said about Red Flag being a collaborative exercise between the air forces of NATO countries and other allied forces, between the pilots and other crew, it was nothing short of a bloody competition. A hard-fought battle of air supremacy, skills, and balls.

And he had all three. At least he used to.

There were two lines of buses waiting to take the military pilots and crew from the hangar area to the auditorium where the Red Flag intro and safety briefings were going to be given. Dex jumped on the last bus, filled with all the other procrastinators.

He took one of the last seats, next to a woman in uniform. American, it looked like, but he didn’t want to stare. As people got on the bus, he tried to ignore the nudges and not-so-subtle head nods toward him. Bollocks.

A pilot he recognized from Operation Enduring Freedom held out his hand as he walked toward the back of the bus. “Good to see you back, dude,” the guy said.

Dex shook his hand and thanked him, then deliberately turned his gaze out the window to avoid anyone else’s sad-eyed looks. He’d only crashed a plane, not been held captive. Although that, too, had been a close thing.

As he indulged in his own private pity party, he saw his colleague Clicks emerge from the hangar with a cell phone attached to his head as the bus’s doors hissed closed.

Dexter jumped up. “Wait!” he shouted at the driver. He wasn’t going to let Clicks miss the meeting and be grounded. He hammered on the window just above his seatmate’s head. “Clicks! Clicks!” he called. Against all odds, his colleague looked up and saw him. Dex beckoned.

Click waved, ended his call, and ran to the front of the bus. The driver opened the doors and he jumped on. “Thanks, mate,” he called down the aisle as he took a seat at the front.

Dex gave him a nod and sat back down.

“Did you just call him ‘Clits’?” asked the woman next to him.

What? “Did you just say ‘clits’ to me?” he responded with a barely suppressed smile. “Forward much?” In an instant, all thoughts of his crash, his concern over his career, and his desire to keep his head down flew out the window.

“Excuse me? I was just asking you about his call sign.” She sounded indignant, but he had the feeling that she wasn’t at all.

“His call sign is ‘Click.’ Because he doesn’t say much when he’s flying. Just clicks his mic.” He shifted his weight to look at her. “Are you crew?” he asked.

“We’re all crew here, aren’t we?” she replied, tipping her head to one side.

“Of course we are, just one big team,” he agreed, nodding.

She said nothing.

“I’m a pilot,” he said. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he cringed.

Her eyes widened. “Really?”

For a second he thought that he hadn’t made a total dick of himself. Maybe he was in with a…

“How very, very clever of you,” she said, her face giving away her sarcasm.

Nope. He’d made a dick of himself.

He was saved by the guy across the aisle. “Ironman? I thought that was you, man. Good to see you’re back. I flew a sortie with you in Iraq. I was on base when I heard about your dirt poisoning. Awesome to see you back on your feet.”

Dex ran the guy’s face through the very murky filter in his pebble-dashed memory. Then he remembered him. “Grinder, right?” He stuck out his hand. “Thanks.”

Grinder shook it and nodded.

“Dirt poisoning?” his seatmate asked.

Fan-bloody-tastic. “It means I crashed.” He looked at his lap. He should have made his own way to the mission briefing.

She was silent, but when he looked up, she was staring at him, a frown creasing her forehead. “What was it like?” she asked.

He stared back, trying to figure out if she was taking the piss, or genuinely interested. “It hurt,” he said baldly. It had fucking hurt. Both physically and mentally. He’d been able to see the ISIS fighters’ faces when he came to. He couldn’t get out of the cockpit, and he could see them approaching. He still saw them in his nightmares.

He’d been trying to reach for his sidearm, fighting unconsciousness with all his willpower, wondering if they’d try to take him or if he’d have the guts to use his last bullet to kill himself, when he heard gunfire from behind his position. Pinned in his seat, he couldn’t turn around to see if the shooting was aimed at ISIS or at him. It wasn’t until a troop had thumped on his aircraft’s glass canopy and shouted, “Ca va? Ca va?” that he’d realized a French unit had saved him. That was when he’d let go and welcomed oblivion.

“Are you okay?” she asked in a low voice.

His head snapped up. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Her face softened for a split second. “No reason. Everything’s fine.” She paused. “Have you been to Red Flag before?”

He took a breath and slid back into his comfort zone. “A couple of times. A while ago, though. Last time I was here, I was flying a Harrier Jump Jet.” His favorite aircraft. And a sure-as-shit panty dropper. What’s not to love about a plane that can fly at the speed of sound and hover above the bad guys while shooting Maverick missiles?

She nodded thoughtfully. “So, you’re older than you look, is what you’re saying.” She bit her lip, trying not to smile.

He laughed. His Harrier had been retired some ten years before. “Basically, yes. What’s your name?” he asked.

“Eleanor,” she said, looking out the window and shifting uncomfortably.

She didn’t ask for his name, so he decided to just leave it alone. He nodded to himself at his sensible decision. He was different now. More committed to his flying. More careful. Less susceptible to a pretty face. Yeah, right. “What do you do?” He could just look at her name and rank on her uniform, like he would have done with a guy, but the Velcro patch that had the information was positioned on the breast pocket. Even he knew better than to snatch a fast look.

She sighed and turned to him. “I’m sure you’re quite charming in your own country, but here, you’re the enemy. You should get your head in the game and stop flirting with me.”

The tightness in his stomach returned. She was right, but it had been bloody nice not to think about everything that was riding on this week for a few minutes. Wait a minute. “We’re flirting? You just said we were flirting.” He gave her a smug smile and tipped his head to one side. “That’s so sweet.”

“I said you were flirting. Not me.” She had a firm conviction about her.

“When was the last time you flirted with someone, then?” he asked.

“A long time ago,” she replied shortly.

He leaned in to whisper a reply but got a whiff of a subtle scent that made him think of warm nights and drinks with umbrellas. He inhaled deeply. “Maybe you’ve forgotten that this is what flirting is like. Maybe I was sent here by some higher power to remind you.”

“Really?” She looked surprised. “I suppose you could be right. I could have just spent all my adult years surrounded by men and never once realized what I was missing until you sat next to me on this bus. I mean, it’s possible, I suppose.”

Dammit. He couldn’t tell if she was serious or if she was drawing him up for a spectacular fall. But he liked the way she drew out her vowels; he wondered if she spoke like that when she was turned on too. “Maybe you could meet me in my hangar later…I can show you my Typhoon. You can sit in it if you like.”

She gaped in disbelief and pressed her hand to her chest. “Really? Me? In your aircraft? Can I press buttons and everything?”

He was so in, it wasn’t even funny. Eleanor was going to be a great distraction, a beautiful, sharp-witted woman who seemed to make him forget all the pressure he was allowing to fuck with his mind. “Of course you can. Just not the ejector seat. That would probably be bad.” He grinned.

She looked at him as if she couldn’t believe him and then rolled her eyes. Shit. He’d been had.

He groaned. Wow. “Well, it was worth a try.” He shrugged and gave her an apologetic look.

“Oh my God, could you be any more annoying?” she said with a sigh.

“I definitely could. Let’s not forget you started this with all your talk about clits.” Yup, I’m never going to get laid.

“Now that I know you a little, I’m impressed you know what they are,” she said.

He leaned in. “Of course I do.” He paused. “I’ve read all about them.”

Gratifyingly, she laughed. “Don’t tell me, Penthouse reader true stories?”

“Now I’m hurt.” He grinned. “But yes.”

She laughed again. “What’s your call sign?” she asked.

“Big Dick,” he lied. “You want me to tell you why?”

“Is it because Tiny Dick was already taken?” she said with fake sincerity.

“Damn. Who told you?”

“Your pants did.” She nodded toward his crotch.

“Fair enough.” He loved a woman who he could talk shit to like this. He wondered if he would see her again. “Are you going to the mixer tonight?” She might be the only reason he would attend.

The bus’s brakes squealed as they pulled up outside the auditorium. The doors opened and everyone began standing up.

“The mixer? No, not my scene. But nice try.” She stood up and smiled as if she were encouraging a child.

He nodded and stood back to let her out. Let’s hope that’s the only crash and burn I have today.

  

The auditorium where their mission safety brief was scheduled to be was decked out in banners and posters for TechGen-One Industries. Major Eleanor Daniels had never seen anything like it. The hallway that ran around the outside of the theater had stands and booths, all manned by people in TechGen-One polo shirts, asking people to sign up for things and giving away tchotchkes. She took a glossy TGO brochure that was shoved at her.

Since when had Red Flag become a commercial endeavor?

Someone brushed past her, nudging her out of the way, and she realized that she had come to a complete halt at the unfamiliar sight. She turned, thinking it might be the British guy from the bus ride. But nope. Shame. She could do worse than engaging in a battle of wits with the big man with his glinting dark eyes.

“Howdya like the idea of ‘your mission sponsored by TechGen-One Industries’?” Captain Dickbrain Munster spread his arms as if picturing a banner across the wall. Okay, Dickbrain wasn’t his real name, but that was all she had ever called him in her head. He was the juvenile delinquent of the Aggressor Squadron. Not that he was any younger than she was, but he acted like a hormonal teenager pretty much constantly.

She just shook her head, unwilling to engage the idiot-boy.

“Don’t be like that. They’re awesome. They’ve already organized a trip for me to spend a week in California at their sim, testing out their next-gen fighter planes. Something tells me they didn’t offer you that, huh?” he said, smirking. “Guess you should go to the mixer tonight. See if you can use your female charms to get the opportunities I work for.”

Not if you paid me.

She couldn’t keep her mouth shut. “Idiot. You’ll be too old to be useful by the time the next-gen fighters come online,” she said. “They’re wasting your time and the air force’s time. But, hey, it’s day one. They were probably going for the low-hanging fruit, right?” She just couldn’t help but flap her mouth. Why couldn’t she walk away from his shit?

Nevertheless, she had the momentary enjoyment of seeing his smirk falter as the whistle sounded to usher everyone in for the first briefing. As a matter of habit, she patted her flight suit pocket for her notebook and pen—check—as she went to take her seat.

It was a full house in the auditorium. It always was. She spied the insanely hot Englishman she’d been speaking to on the bus sit two rows in front of her. His shoulders were broader than the seat he was sitting in. She bit her lip. He’d made her laugh—inside at least—which was more than anyone else had done since she’d been in Vegas. Red Flag was her test. She was part of the Aggressor Squadron—the team that acted as the enemy during the exercise. It was their job to try to prevent the other units carrying out their missions.

It was a job filled with conflict; she had plenty of friends flying with the allied air forces, most of whom were using Red Flag to shore up their careers. It was her mission to stop them achieving their goals. In order to do her job, and make her career, she had to work to ruin someone else’s. It was no wonder Aggressor Squadron didn’t have a lot of volunteers.

Now, if she was allowed to fake shoot down Munster, she’d be up for that all day every day. But unfortunately, he’d been assigned to Aggressor Squadron too. She sighed. All that was bad, but what was to come was worse: her father, General Daniels.

He hadn’t told her that he’d be there. She couldn’t remember him ever being at Red Flag before. But his presence did nothing to forward her agenda of proving she was a worthy squadron commander. Eleanor knew that some people thought she’d gotten her rank because her father was a general. This was supposed to have been her opportunity to show a wide audience that her flying skills had nothing to do with her parentage and everything to do with talent and hard work.

Someone yelled, “Atten—tion,” and everyone in the room stood. Her father took the stage. She knew she didn’t have to listen to his blather about cooperation and international collaboration, so she found the cute English guy again. At least the back of his head.

She’d heard of Ironman. Everyone had been talking about him for the past year. Everyone knew where they were when they’d gotten news that the legend had been shot down. The hours when they’d all thought he was dead. The excitement when they’d heard he’d been rescued. He certainly hadn’t lost his swagger—that was for sure. He even smelled good. Damn.

“As you can see, things have changed around here.” The general nodded toward the TechGen-One banners adorning the theater. “This year’s Red Flag was going to be canceled due to Pentagon budget cuts, . . .