“Have you had dinner?”
“Not yet.”
“Want to join us? It’s nothing fancy. Just salad, rice and shrimp.”
“Sounds good, but I’d better go back to my place and take a quick shower first.”
“Go ahead. We’ll wait.”
When he melted into the night, Andi let the screen door pop shut and turned to find two very different expressions on her guests’ faces. Sue Ellen’s brows had lifted in surprise, Crash’s in curiosity. His unspoken question was easier to answer.
“That’s my neighbor…and, uh, ex-husband.”
Crash’s jaw sagged. “That’s Colonel Dave Armstrong? The man you mentioned once the entire time I worked for you—and then in somewhat less-than-flattering terms?”
Okay, maybe not so easy to answer.
“That’s him.”
“He lives next door?”
Grimacing, Andi jerked her chin toward the woman now shrinking down in her chair. “I have Ms. Carson here to thank for that. She somehow forgot to inform me of my neighbor’s identity before I rented this place.”
Sue Ellen’s only defense was a weak smile. Andi let her friend squirm for a moment or two before she pushed back her chair.
“You two entertain yourselves for a few minutes. I’ll get another plate and check on the shrimp.”
Her departure produced a small silence. Frowning, Crash broke it after a moment or two.
“I didn’t meet Andi until some years after her divorce. She didn’t talk about it or her ex, but I got the impression she was still hurting.”
“Divorce is never easy. Trust me on this. I know whereof I speak.”
He leaned back in his chair and studied Sue Ellen through those ridiculously long lashes. They were the same shade of bronze as his short, curly hair but tipped with gold at the end.
Really, the man had no business being so gorgeous.
Or so damned young.
“You mentioned a second husband,” he commented. “How many have you had?”
“Just the two. One Air Force, one civilian, both complete jerks.”
She hesitated, reluctant to open an old wound. Yet his question led naturally to a follow-on.
“Andi told me you lost your wife a few years ago.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“I’m sorry.”
The lashes came down, shielding his eyes. Sue Ellen scratched his deceased wife from the conversational list and fished for another topic.
“So how do you like working with the Navy? Honestly.”
“Honestly?” He raised his head. A smile worked its way into his eyes. “It’s like being dropped butt-first into a vat of brine.”
“That bad, huh?”
“No, not really. They’re good troops and damn good helo pilots. They do talk a different language, though. I can interpret most of the aviation slang, but I’ll admit it took a while to decipher hingehead.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s a hingehead?”
“Me, as it turns out. That’s their term for a major. Lieutenant commander, in Navy parlance. Evidently when you make 0-4, you get a lobotomy and lose half your brain. Or, in some cases, all of it. But they install a hinge so the gray matter can be reinserted later.”
“Ouch. I don’t think I want to hear their term for civil servants.”
“No, you don’t.”
Their laughter greeted Andi when she returned with another place setting of the colorful plastic dinnerware she’d purchased for this occasion. Dave reappeared as she was arranging it on an equally splashy straw place mat.
“That was quick,” Sue Ellen commented.
“Special Tactics never messes around when it comes to food,” Andi said, trying her damnedest to ignore the water glistening on his still-damp hair and the muscled calves left bare by his cargo shorts.
“Dave, this is Bill Steadman, aka Crash. We worked a special project together at Kirtland. He’s now at Whiting Field, attempting to teach Navy pilots how to fly in both the vertical and horizontal planes.”
“A helo driver, huh? Is your background rescue or Special Ops?”
“Mostly rescue.”
The two men indulged in that particular male ritual of crunching each other’s metacarpals without appearing to exert an ounce of pressure.
When they settled at the table, the conversation revolved around the military helicopter community through most of the salad. The leafy spinach and goat cheese had all but disappeared by the time Dave recalled the discussion he’d interrupted with his sudden appearance.
“What was all that talk about book covers, bedcovers and undercover agents?”
“Sue Ellen and Crash were trying to help me come up with a name for the bookstore.”
“What bookstore?”
“My bookstore. I’ve decided to open one.”
His brows snapped together. Lowering his fork, he shot Sue Ellen a frown before pinning Andi with a hard glance.
“When did you decide that?”
“A few weeks ago.”
Not, she wanted to add, that it was any of his business. For the sake of harmony, she bit back the tart comment.
Dave wasn’t as restrained. “Dammit, Andi, the docs said you were supposed to take things easy.”
“I am.”
“By starting up a business?”
“Back off, Armstrong.”
Her eyes flashed a warning Dave couldn’t ignore. His mouth clamped shut with an audible click. Andi waited a beat before turning to Crash.
“Want to help me in the kitchen?”
Jaw tight, Dave’s eyes followed the other two as they exited the deck. His expression was distinctly unhappy when he turned to Sue Ellen.
“Don’t glower at me like that,” she said testily. “I tried to talk her out of it.”
“Obviously you didn’t try hard enough.”
“You know Andi. It takes a Sidewinder missile to knock her off course once she’s locked on.”
“Yeah, well, looks like I need to launch one.”
“No, you don’t!”
Their temporary alliance cracked and split right down the middle. Sue Ellen might stand a foot shorter and weigh a hundred pounds less than Dave Armstrong, but she could bristle like a pit bull in defense of her friend.
“You’ve been off slogging through swamps and barbecuing rattlesnakes. You didn’t see how down Andi got. Or how restless.”
“You were supposed to keep her upbeat and cheerful until I returned.”
“Maybe if you tried sticking around once in a while, Armstrong, other folks wouldn’t have to step in and perform that duty for you.”
His mouth went white at the corners.
Sue Ellen didn’t rescind the harsh criticism, but she did feel a twinge of shame at the low hit. She knew Dave had taken the divorce as hard as Andi. Harder, maybe, since he’d resisted calling it quits for so long. Reluctantly she declared a truce.
“It took me a while, but I’ve come around to this bookstore idea. Andi’s so excited about it. And she’s going at it in slow, methodical steps. Or was, until she signed the lease. You should see the three-ring binder she’s put together. That sucker is five inches thick.”
The frost in his blue eyes thawed a little. Not much but enough for Sue Ellen to breathe normally again. When Dave Armstrong flashed that cold laser stare, he could be just a little intimidating.
“Andi put a similar plan together for our wedding,” he admitted. “Would you believe she drafted individual indexes for my parents and hers? She even laid out a timeline for our honeymoon.”
“Which I suspect went out the window the minute you got her to yourself.”
“As a matter of fact…”
His expression went inward, as if he were reliving memories. X-rated memories, judging by his small, private smile.
Sue Ellen’s prickly animosity faded. She didn’t want to like the man, still less feel sympathy for him. Her loyalty lay squarely with Andi. Yet she had to acknowledge
Dave had his former wife’s best interests at heart.
“Please,” she pleaded. “Don’t do your colonel thing and bark or growl or issue ultimatums. Just talk to Andi about the bookstore. I’m beginning to think it could be just what the doctor ordered. What’s more,” she added, playing her trump card, “it will keep her in Florida. The more time and money she invests in this project, the less she’s likely to pack up and leave us.”
That struck a nerve. Dave drummed his fingers on the table for a few moments, considering what she’d just said. Then his thoughts winged in an entirely different direction.
“What’s with Andi and this guy Steadman?”
“They’re just friends.”
“CHRIST, ANDI. I THOUGHT we were supposed to be friends.”
Unaware he’d echoed Sue Ellen’s blithe description of their relationship, Crash glared at Andi through the steam rising from a pot of spicy Creole shrimp.
“We are.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me about the medical evaluation board when we bumped into each other at Cap’n Sam’s the other night?”
Andi stirred the shrimp, thoroughly pissed at Dave for outing her. After his caustic comments, she’d had no choice but to explain the real impetus behind her abrupt departure from active duty.
“There was no reason to tell you about it,” she said, wielding a long-handled spoon. “It’s no big deal.”
“Yeah, right. Just big enough to put you out of the Air Force.”
“I’d been thinking about hanging up my uniform anyway.”
“Since when? Last I heard, you were single-handedly reorganizing the Joint Chiefs of Staff. You were also up for BG.”
“Making brigadier general isn’t the end all and be all in life.”
“Maybe not, but those stars were yours for the asking.”
His handsome face was carved into lines of worry and frustration on her behalf. Touched, Andi set aside the spoon and laid her hand on his forearm.
“Let it go, Crash. I have.”
“Have you? Really?”
She couldn’t keep up the front in the face of his genuine concern. Sighing, she admitted the truth.
“Okay, I’m human. I can’t entirely erase those sneaky thoughts about what might have been.”
She’d worked so hard, given so much of herself to the Air Force. Even more after the divorce. The sixteen-hour days had numbed the worst of her aching regret and loneliness.
“I’m getting better at erasing every day, though. This bookstore is helping. I haven’t felt this jazzed about a project in a long time. It’s given me a reason to get up in the morning, something to look forward to.”
To Andi’s profound disgust, a wobble had crept into her reply. Crash responded with a curse and came around the counter.
“Christ, I’m sorry.” Curling an arm around her shoulders, he gave them a friendly squeeze. “Here I am harping about the past when I should be sharing your excitement over your bright new future.”
“Mmm.” She sniffed, mortified by her near descent into tears. “It is exciting.”
“I want an engraved invitation to the grand opening.”
“Count on it,” Andi said as the door to the deck slid back on its runner.
From the circle of Crash’s arms she spotted Dave standing frozen in the doorway, looking very much as though he’d just been goosed with a cattle prod.
CHAPTER 6
Dave strode into the command section of the 720th Special Tactics Group at six-twenty the next morning. His BDUs were knife-creased, his pant legs neatly bloused and his mood as black as the polish on his boots.
Despite the hour, his executive officer had beat him in and had the coffee perking. A sharp young captain who’d earned his gray beret as leader of a combat weather team, Kevin Acker popped to attention at his boss’s entrance.
“Morning, sir. Welcome back.”
Dave grunted and made for the coffee. Mug in one hand and his bulging, much-worn leather briefcase in the other, he cut toward his office.
Acker followed with what Dave termed his “morning file.” The folder contained the Early Bird—a compilation of U.S. and international news clippings faxed from the Pentagon every morning—and the classified intelligence summary of the previous twenty-four hours.
“How did the joint exercise go?” the captain asked, placing the file squarely between the other folders arranged in precise stacks on Dave’s desk. Acker had some sort of office feng shui thing going.
“Like most of ’em do,” Dave bit out. “One Charlie Foxtrot after another.”
Acker took the hint. His boss was in no mood for chatter. After reminding Dave he had stand-up with the wing commander at seven and a debrief with the three-star AFSOC commander at nine, the captain beat a hasty retreat.
Dave deposited his coffee mug on the brass shell fragment that served as both coaster and constant reminder of his unit’s mission and tossed his maroon beret onto the credenza behind his desk.
Unlike the cubbyholes occupied by colonels at the Pentagon, offices at field headquarters tended to be bigger, better furnished and more in keeping with the responsibilities that came with commanding an elite force of warriors. Dave’s measured a good thirty by forty, with plenty of room for a double pedestal desk and credenza in dark mahogany, a high-backed executive chair, a conference table large enough for his twelve-person senior staff to gather around and a seating group that included a man-size leather sofa, two easy chairs and a coffee table.
He’d chosen not to put up an I-love-me display of the plaques, awards and military memorabilia he’d collected over the years. Instead he’d instructed his exec to hang black-and-white photos of Special Tactics forces in action. Before Dave made any decision, he’d skim a glance around the gallery. His troops’ grim, determined faces usually clarified even the most complicated issues.
Judging by the stacks of folders on his desk, he was looking at plenty of tough issues today. He took another swig of coffee, flipped open the intelligence summary and tried to bend his mind around events that had happened in every corner of the globe in the past twenty-four hours.
An event not included in the summary kept sabotaging his concentration. Dave tried to put last night out of his mind. Swilled more coffee. Glared at the printed pages. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t blank out the image of Andi cuddled up against another man’s chest.
Finally he abandoned the pretense of even trying. Mouth tight, he lifted his phone and stabbed the intercom button.
Acker answered immediately. “Yes, sir?”
“Get me a personnel rip on a major by the name of Bill Steadman. He’s an Air Force helo driver, currently assigned as an instructor at Whiting Field.”
“Yes, sir.”
AS DAVE’S DAY PROGRESSED, it went from bad to pure crap. Meetings ate up the whole morning. Afternoon brought the grim news that a Special Ops C-130 crashed on takeoff from Kadena Air Force Base, Japan.
Everyone on board walked away, thank God, but the aircraft sustained considerable damage. Dave was tasked to provide representatives for both the Safety Investigation Board being assembled immediately and the Accident Investigation Board to follow.
It was past seven when he departed the base that evening. The tall long-leaf pines crowding U.S. 98 threw pointed shadows across the road. Once over the Navarre Bridge, a soft September dusk painted the dunes with purple shadows and the sea a deep, dark indigo.
Dave was in no mood to appreciate either the view or the balmy seventy-two-degree temperature. Fourteen-and sixteen-hour days were nothing new, but this one sat like a rock on his shoulders. The personnel data he’d reviewed on Major Bill Steadman hadn’t exactly lightened the load.
The helo pilot had racked up a helluva record in his fourteen years of service. Air Force Academy grad, top gun from undergraduate pilot training, two combat tours, staff experience, early promotion to major. It was clear the kid was being groomed for command and top rank.
The c
all Dave made to a friend who’d had Steadman in his unit confirmed that impression. Harry Rockingham swore Crash was not only a highly skilled pilot and a natural leader, he was universally liked by other members of his squadron.
That “universally liked” remained lodged like a burr inside Dave’s head…right along with the image of Andi falling all over Bill Steadman’s chest.
It wasn’t jealousy eating at him. He knew every one of Andi’s moods. He’d seen her face light up with joy, her cheeks suffuse with anger, her eyes grow heavy with desire. He didn’t believe for a second she’d turned to pretty boy Steadman in passion.
But she had turned to him for comfort. Dave had spotted the telltale sheen of tears, caught the uncharacteristic slump to her shoulders. She’d let down her guard with Steadman yet continued to shut Dave out. That pecked at his insides like a big black crow picking at roadkill.
Deciding to take the edge off his frustration with a take-out dinner from his favorite Chinese restaurant, he called ahead to order spicy Szechuan beef and noodles with a side of spring rolls. He’d picked up his order and had begun to head home when he spotted a red Tahoe with D.C. plates angled into a parking slot in front of an empty store. Slowing, Dave squinted to peer through the shop windows.
“Hell!”
Stomping on the brake pedal, he spit out a string of curses and cut the wheel.
His pickup screeched into the slot beside the Tahoe. His boots hit the pavement. Blood thundering in his ears, he slammed through the shop’s front door and let loose with an enraged bellow.
“Are you out of your mind!”
His bull-like roar set off an unintended chain reaction. Andi was already overbalanced near the top of a six-foot ladder, propping a bookcase against the wall with one hand while she attempted to screw it to a brace with the other.
His shout sent her screwdriver flying. Startled, she twisted around and lost her grip on the bookshelves. The heavy case tilted. The ladder wobbled. Andi went airborne.
Leaping over scattered tools and discarded packing materials, Dave caught her just before she hit the floor. He clamped her against him, his heart battering against his ribs, and expressed himself with what he considered admirable restraint given the circumstances.
Ex Marks the Spot (Harlequin Next) Page 6
