Aly’s reflexes were fast and skilled. Acting only on instinct, Aly wrenched the wheel to the right, moving quickly into the lane closest to the shoulder of the freeway. A blue car suddenly loomed ahead, skidding sideways, coming directly toward her. Sucking in a breath, Aly slammed on the brakes, putting her car into a spin. The red sports car spun once, twice. The screech of tires, the odor of burning rubber entered Aly’s brain. In seconds she found herself and the sports car off the road on a wet grassy slope, safe.
Sudden silence overtook her. She blinked once in amazement. All the cars involved in the crisis had straightened out. No one had been hit! It was a miracle. Her heart pounding in her chest, Aly leaned back and closed her eyes.
She took long slow breaths, trying to calm her racing pulse. At the sound of a sudden decisive knock on the window of her car, Aly opened her eyes and looked up in surprise.
The concerned face of a man in his late twenties stared back at her. It was still raining lightly, and she could see the darkened splotches appearing on his well-worn leather jacket. It was his eyes that mesmerized Aly. They were large and gray, with huge black pupils, and fringed with thick lashes. Somehow they seemed to penetrate her deepest, most secret self. Strangely she wasn’t put on the defensive by the intensity of his stare. Instead, Aly felt a powerful wave of concern for her emanating from the stranger.
Shakily, she rolled down the window. He crouched, hand on the door.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
His voice was husky, a balm to her jittery nerves. Aly nodded dumbly. “I—yes, I am.”
Clay pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket. “I’m not so sure. You’ve cut yourself,” he said as he reached in and pressed the cloth to the woman’s bloodied hairline. “That was a fine piece of driving you pulled off. I thought for sure you’d bought the farm.” He smiled slightly as she raised her hand, pressing her cool fingertips to where he held the handkerchief in position on her temple. God, but she was pretty. Red hair, too. And then Clay laughed to himself, feeling lighter and happier than he could recall in a long time.
“I got lucky,” the woman admitted hoarsely.
“Red sports car, red hair. It all fits,” he told her, withdrawing his hand from hers. She was pale and shaken. But who wouldn’t be? Hell, her tiny little car had stood every chance of getting smashed between a couple of those careening behemoths. Clay liked her wide, vulnerable blue eyes, and her nose was aristocratic with small, finely flared nostrils. But it was her mouth that he couldn’t drag his gaze away from. Her lips weren’t full, but they weren’t thin, either. It was the delicate shape, maybe, that entranced him. There was utter sensuality about them, and it sent a sheet of heat flowing through him.
She lifted the handkerchief away, staring at the red blood on it. “I don’t even remember hitting my head,” she said softly.
“Probably hit it against the window when you deliberately threw that car of yours into a spin to miss that blue Buick sliding at you. You’d make Parnelli Jones look like a rookie with the moves you put on this girl.” He patted the door fondly, as if to reward the car for its part in the effort.
With a sigh, Aly leaned back, closing her eyes. She kept the cloth pressed firmly against the wound. Head injuries were notorious for bleeding heavily even if this one was a mere scratch. And that was all it was—a little cut on her left temple. The adrenaline was making her weak and shaky in its wake. She needed at least another fifteen minutes to recover. Rogue whined, nosing her gently. Patting him reassuringly, Aly returned her attention to her rescuer.
An unfamiliar warmth surrounded Aly’s pounding heart as she lifted her lashes, drowning in the care exuding from his dove-gray eyes. He had a square face, a stubborn chin, a flexible, intriguing mouth and a nose that had obviously taken some punishment earlier in life. Aly liked his hard, intelligent eyes. He wasn’t a huge man—moderate build and about six-two in height. There was a nice balance to him, she decided. More than anything, she liked his long, expressive, large-knuckled fingers. Hands capable of molding and shaping.
“I—I owe you so much for stopping to see how I was.”
He grinned. “My pleasure. If I’d known it was a beautiful redheaded lady in front of me, I’d have put my Corvette between you and those bruisers that wanted to play bumper cars on the Bayshore.”
A hesitant smile pulled at Aly’s mouth. There was so much warmth radiating from him. She noticed no ring on his left hand. For the first time in five years, Aly felt herself responding to a man on a strictly feminine level. It felt good—right. “I just moved here,” she explained. “My landlord warned me that they call this the Bloody Bayshore.” She shivered, sitting up slightly. “I almost became a part of its legend, didn’t I?”
Out of instinct, maybe need, Clay placed his hand on the woman’s small shoulder. She was getting paler, if that was possible. “Close, but no cigar. Hell of a welcome to this area, wouldn’t you say?” He gently kneaded her left shoulder and neck, feeling her visibly relax beneath his ministration.
“Y-yes, a hell of a welcome,” she agreed faintly. She took the handkerchief away from her head. The bleeding had stopped. “I think I’m going to live, now. Thanks.” She handed the cloth back to him. “You’d better get that home and into some cold water or the stain will never come out.”
Clay folded the handkerchief and placed it in the pocket of his jacket. “I’ll do that. You said you just moved here?” Clay wanted to drown in her dark blue eyes. Her face was porcelain, with freckles sprinkled across her nose and cheeks. Her red hair was shaped into a flattering pixie style that barely brushed the bottom of her delicate earlobes and emphasized the oval contour of her face. Small pearl earrings and a single pearl resting against her throat simply multiplied her femininity.
“Yes, just a week ago,” Aly said, “from Florida.” She turned, realizing suddenly that Rogue must have been tossed around, since he couldn’t wear a seat belt as she did. The Border collie sat, panting, enjoying the sudden attention as Aly ran her hands carefully over him just to make sure he hadn’t broken any bones.
“Your dog okay?”
Aly liked his concern. She liked people who liked animals. It said something good about them as far as she was concerned. Giving Rogue an affectionate pat, Aly returned her attention to the man. “He seems fine. Probably got a few bruises we’ll never know about.”
Clay glanced at the traffic zooming by them. The rain had stopped, leaving only a pall of gray clouds hovering about a thousand feet above them. Typical January weather for the Bay Area. He noted the color creeping back into her face. Her pupils weren’t as dilated. “Looks like you’re feeling a bit better.”
“I am, thank you.” Aly met and held the gray gaze that seemed to silently caress her. Her heart wouldn’t settle down, and she realized that it was him affecting her so strongly, not the reaction to the near accident. “I don’t even know your name. My friends call me Aly.” She offered her hand through the open window.
“Clay. Clay Cantrell.” Clay took her hand, surprised at the firmness of her grip. Grinning, he said, “You’ve never been to California before, eh?”
“I’m brand-new. No, I’ve never been to the state, much less to the fabled city of San Francisco. Rogue and I were going to go shopping for our groceries this morning and stock the shelves of the apartment I just rented.”
Reluctantly, Clay released her fingers. Her flesh was soft and inviting, like the rest of her. She lured powerful emotional responses from him, and it puzzled Clay. No woman had ever affected him like this. Was it the shimmering red hair entwined with gold strands that enticed him? Or those huge blue eyes filled with every feeling she was experiencing? And then he groaned internally, his gaze falling to her parted lips. Lips that were begging to be pleasured and seduced. To his chagrin, he felt himself growing hot and turgid. If he kept up this line of thought, she’d soon know just how she affected him, too. Heat crept into his cheeks.
“Look, I know this is a lousy in
troduction to the Bay Area, and you’re new. If you haven’t got too many irons in the fire, how about if I give you the grand tour of our city this coming Saturday? I’ll even treat you to the best pizza in the world, afterward. We could have dessert at Ghirardelli Square.”
Aly laughed, delighted by Clay’s candor. His eyes crinkled, a smile burning in their depths that stole her heart. His mouth curved deliciously upward, and molten fire stirred deep within her. “As long as we’re both free, I’ll accept your invitation.”
Laughing, Clay dug out notepaper and a pen from the breast pocket of his light blue shirt. “Free, eligible, good-looking and one hell of a good deal.”
Aly couldn’t stop the laughter from bubbling up within her. My God, how great it felt to laugh again! Her world had consisted of nothing but darkness and pressure for so long that she had forgotten that light moments could exist. Clay was like sunlight.
“Here’s my phone number, Aly. Give me a call Friday, after five. Get settled into your new home, and we’ll set up that tour tomorrow evening.” Never had Clay so much wanted any woman to say yes.
Aly liked his style and his easygoing confidence. Clay reminded her strongly of the instructor pilots back at Pensacola. They were cocky veterans, brazenly confident of themselves on every conceivable level. Clay had that same virile bearing—that mark of the lone eagle flying the blue sky in triumph. She liked his lack of pressure about a possible date. “Aren’t you even going to ask me for my address and phone number?”
Giving her a wink, Clay slipped the paper into her waiting fingers. “No, ma’am. I learned a long time ago through the school of hard knocks not to pressure a lady.”
“Sure this isn’t some new line?” Aly teased, meeting his confident smile. He knew she’d call him!
Clay patted the door of the sports car. “I don’t think so. But I’ll let you be the judge of that.” He sobered slightly. “You sure you feel up to getting back into traffic?”
“Yes, thank you.” She held up her hands. “See, they’re not shaking anymore.”
Clay wondered what it would be like to have those long, delicate fingers moving across his body. The thought was startling, intense. Normally, he didn’t think of a woman on such a sensual level, but Aly was incredibly heady stuff. He was happy, he suddenly discovered. Her smile was a rainbow to his dark existence.
Finding his voice, Clay said, “I’ll look forward to your call.”
Aly tucked his phone number into her small black leather purse. “You’ll be hearing from me, Clay.” And then her voice lowered with feeling. “Thank you for stopping. It means a lot to me….”
Clay rose to his feet and threw her a salute. “I’ll see you later, pretty lady. You go ahead and climb back up on the Bayshore and I’ll follow you a ways to make sure you’re doing okay.”
He had to be a military pilot! That stance, that carelessly thrown salute and confident grin smacked of his unknown career. Aly almost called Clay back to ask him if he was a Navy pilot. Of course, he could be Air Force, too. Travis Air Force Base was just north of San Francisco. Shaking her head at the sudden turn of events, she rolled up the car window.
As she maneuvered her Toyota back into the morning rush-hour traffic, Aly told Rogue, “Well, this is quite an interesting start to our life here at Moffett Field. And tomorrow morning I sign on board at the station. I wonder what kind of adventures that will bring?”
Chapter Two
“Welcome on board, Lieutenant Trayhern.” Lieutenant Jack Donnelly stretched his hand across the desk toward her.
Aly took his hand, shaking it. “Thank you, Mr. Donnelly.” All morning she’d filled out forms, signed them, and then filled out some more at the base personnel office. Her hands were sweaty, and she realized that Donnelly had noticed. The sandy-haired officer obviously didn’t like her much. As usual, her Trayhern name had preceded her.
“Take a seat.” Donnelly reached for a file on his desk. “In a minute I’ll have our driver take you over to your new home, VP 46. The CO, Commander Horner, is aware that you’re here, and he wants a few minutes of your time. Induction and all—you’ll get your squadron assignment through him.”
“Sounds good,” Aly said.
There was a savage twist to Donnelly’s smile as he ended the monologue. She glanced around the small office, photos of the graceful P3 Lockheed in a picture frame behind his desk. Moffett was primarily a sub-hunting base, little else. On another wall was a photo of the powerful F-14 Tomcat, the fighter utilized aboard all naval carriers.
“I understand we have an F-14 squadron here,” Aly said.
“Huh?” Donnelly looked up. “Oh, yes. The past five years Moffett’s had a training squadron based here. Normally, F-14s are on a carrier, but because we’re close to the Pacific Ocean and near a deep-water port, the base is utilized as a training site for graduates out of Pensacola before they begin flying those babies onto carriers for the first time.”
“They practice their landings here,” Aly guessed.
“That’s correct. We’ve got some instructor pilots on board who work with the greenhorns. One of them, Lieutenant Jeff Starbuck, is a pretty amusing character.”
Aly managed a small smile. What fighter jock wasn’t colorful?
F-14s made her blood race. If she had been a man, with her top grade-point average at Pensacola, she would have been given the plum assignment of becoming a fighter pilot upon graduation. Instead, because women weren’t allowed to fly combat aircraft, she was appointed to fly the land-based P3. She curbed her disappointment. The chance to fly anything was enough for her. It was her life’s ambition.
“Just sign this last set of papers, Lieutenant Trayhern, and you’re free of us.”
Aly leaned forward and dutifully placed her signature one last time. Finally! Now, she’d get to tour the station, her new home.
The men’s and women’s barracks, the chow hall and Operations, which consisted of meteorology and the control tower, were located on one side of the base. On the other side were three huge blimp hangars that had been modified to serve as the home of AntiSubmarine Warfare Squadron, VP 46. Only the three long, massive airstrips separated the outdated hangars from the more modern side of Moffett. Aly got her first look at the NASA installation on board the station, sitting right across the street from the WAVE barracks. The driver told her that NASA had one of the world’s largest wind tunnels at the state-of-the-art facility. A silly smile curved Aly’s lips. How could the enlisted women sleep when that wind tunnel was revved up right across the street from them? The entire station must shudder when it was activated.
Aly’s eyes widened as they drove around the end of the main runways and toward the gaping mouths of the blimp hangars. The graceful P3s, gray on top and white beneath, had long booms that looked like dangerous needles, extending ten feet from the tail assembly, much like the stinger on a hornet. In the tail boom, she knew, was highly responsive radar equipment. It was sensitive enough to locate and track Soviet submarines far beneath the surface of the ocean. The P3s looked like such graceful steeds. She itched to sit at the controls and feel what it was like to fly one.
“We’re here,” the driver announced, braking the vehicle to a halt. He’d pulled up at the side entrance to Hangar One, the largest of the three. “Just follow that yellow safety line, Lieutenant. About halfway down on the left is Commander Horner’s office. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.” Aly climbed out. She was in her black wool uniform, with a white blouse and black tie. Placing the garrison cap on her head, she pulled the black leather purse over her left shoulder. The right hand had to be free to salute with. Shutting the door, Aly took a deep breath, trying to stabilize her wildly fluctuating emotions.
As she walked down the concrete expanse toward her destination, her black heels clicking sharply, Aly absorbed the spectacle to her right. At least four P3s were in for maintenance. In the 1930s, the driver had told her, Moffett had been the largest blimp station on the Wes
t Coast. With the advent of propeller-driven planes, the blimps had met a slow and eventual death. The hangars were now used for the more advanced aircraft that succeeded them.
Horner’s office was easy to find. His chief yeoman looked up when Aly entered. She felt instant camaraderie with the woman because she had red hair, too. Trying not to appear nervous, Aly offered her a small smile.
“Hi. I’m—”
The yeoman broke into a genuine smile. “Don’t say it, I know.” She pointed toward the gold aviator wings that rested over the top of Aly’s left breast pocket. “You’re Lieutenant Trayhern. I’m Chief Yoeman Jo Ann Prater. Welcome aboard.”
Relief flowed through Aly. This woman was the first person at the base to smile and sound as if she was honestly glad to see her. Was Prater unaware of the blackened Trayhern history? Probably. Anyone who carried the memory never treated her with such unabashed cordiality. In the military mind and heart, the worst thing one could be was a traitor to his country.
“Thanks, Chief.” Aly took her hand, shaking it.
“Commander Horner is expecting you. Go on in.”
Swallowing hard, Aly nodded and walked past the desk and through another opened door. This was her new boss. Dear God, don’t let him hate me. Let him judge me on my own merits, not the past. Not—
“Lieutenant Trayhern, come on in.” Horner rose, extending his hand.
A weight formed in Aly’s stomach as she appraised Horner’s narrow face. A cry started deep within her as she saw barely veiled animosity in the CO’s narrowed eyes. He hated her. For the past? For the fact that she was a woman in his male world? Probably both, she decided with disappointment, shaking his hand. “Commander Horner,” she said, her voice firm and unruffled-sounding. A far cry from all the violent emotions clamoring deep within her.
“Have a seat, Miss Trayhern.” And then Horner cocked his head in her direction, pulling out a pipe and beginning to fill it after he sat down. “Or, do you prefer Ms.?”
No Surrender Page 2
