“You aren't going to lose.” With all his heart, Chase wished that they were truly mated, so that she could feel his bone-deep confidence in her. “Please, Connie. Trust—”
“Don't you dare tell me to trust you,” Connie snarled at him. “Not again. Not ever again.”
“That's not what I was going to say,” Chase said, with perfect truth. He stared deep into her frightened eyes, willing her to believe him, just this once. “Connie. Trust yourself.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I can't do this.
Connie felt physically sick with nerves, her stomach clenching around the small breakfast Chase had forced her to eat. An excited crowd was gathering around the edges of the airfield, eagerly waiting for the race to start. Connie tried to concentrate on her plane, but it was hard to ignore the way people kept pointing at her and the Spitfire. The back of her neck burned under the heat of hundreds of curious stares.
“That's everything on the pre-flight checklist,” Chase said, ducking under the nose of the plane to rejoin her. “As soon as we get the signal, you'll be cleared for take off. Are you ready?”
“No.” Connie's hands were shaking so badly, she couldn't even do up her flight jacket. “Chase, I can't do this.”
“Here.” Chase carefully fastened her zip for her. “There you go. All set.”
“I mean, I can't fly this race!”
“I know what you meant.” Chase brushed a stray strand of her hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. “And you can. Your practice run earlier was perfect. You comfortably beat everyone else's time.”
“That was just the practice run, with a clear sky. It'll be different with the other planes up there too. What if I can't get past the leaders? What if I make a mistake? What if—”
“Connie. You can do this. Just—” Chase cut himself off, his back stiffening. “What is he doing here?”
Connie followed the direction of his gaze, and her heart leapt with anxiety. “Oh God, this is really happening. It's the race marshal. He must be coming to give us permission to take off.”
“Not him,” Chase said grimly. He was staring hard at an enormous man in a brilliant white suit who was sauntering alongside the approaching marshal. “Him. That's Sammy Smiles.”
Even if Connie hadn't known Sammy was a shifter, she would have thought there was something odd about his bizarrely top-heavy physique and impossibly wide, toothy mouth. Knowing what he truly was, she recognized them as the unmistakable traits of his other form. He looked more like a shark stuffed into a suit than a human being.
He also looked very, very pleased with himself.
“Ms. West?” the marshal said, consulting his clipboard as he came up to them. “Are your pre-flight checks complete?”
Chase thrust the paperwork at the marshal without looking, never breaking eye contact with Sammy. “You're not welcome here, Sammy. Get back behind the line with the other spectators.”
The marshal coughed disapprovingly. “Mr. Smiles, as our very generous sponsor, is personally wishing all the pilots the best of luck before take off.”
A minute ago, Connie wouldn't have thought that she could possibly feel any more sick. “You sponsor the Rydon Cup?”
“Why, didn't I mention that before?” Sammy drawled in a thick Texan accent. He beamed at her, showing double rows of sharp teeth. “And you must be West's daughter. Aren't you just a sweet little thing. Why, who'd have thought such soft, pretty hands could possibly manage to fly a big ol’ plane like this?”
No doubt he'd been intending to psych her out… but his underhanded insult had the opposite effect. She was used to patronizing older men trying to tell her how to look after a plane, as if she hadn't cut her teeth on a torque wrench. The butterflies in her stomach turned into angry bees.
“I flew my first Spitfire when I was seven,” she spat, clenching her fists. “Sitting on my mom's lap. You'll find that I know what I'm doing.”
Chase's chest swelled with pride, his eyes shining with fierce delight as he glanced at her. “Oh, Sammy. You're about to find out that you've jumped out of the frying pan and into the inferno. By the end of today, you are really, really going to regret that you prevented me from piloting.”
A wounded expression spread across Sammy's broad face. “Now, now. I haven't prevented anyone from doing anything. And if you keep making these accusations, son, I'm going to have to insist you speak to my lawyer. But let's not be unfriendly. We all need to put any little differences aside and be good sports. We want a nice, clean race, don't we?”
Connie noticed that Sammy looked hard at Chase as he said this last bit. She r
ealized that the shark shifter was worried that Chase, in pegasus form, might take it upon himself to interfere with the other planes.
“Cheaters always think that everyone else cheats too.” Chase matched Sammy's smile, baring his teeth. “But we're not like you, Sammy. Connie is going to win this race fair and square.”
Sammy gazed up at the plane. “Speaking of a fair race…” he trailed off, glancing at the race marshal meaningfully.