by Cindy Gerard
“We were getting worried, because they’d been gone too long. They finally radioed in to report that Taliban fighters were randomly killing the villagers, and they requested permission to engage. I got hold of our command post, and Mike relayed the urgency of the situation. They denied us permission to intervene.”
“What . . . why?” The bewilderment in her tone was eclipsed only by outrage.
“The answer to that comes later. Mike tried to call the guys back to the chopper, but he couldn’t raise them. We knew then that they were in trouble. Mike and Webber had to stay with the bird, so Taggart and I went out to scout.”
He stopped again, his throat suddenly thick. “The Taliban had them. And we were way outnumbered. We hightailed it back to the bird, relayed the info to Mike, and he radioed command, again requesting permission to engage. They told him to stand down and wait for airship support.”
“So you waited?”
“Hell, no. Mike lifted off, and we headed for the village. And all we found were bodies. All of our guys dead, along with the villagers.”
He had a vague recollection of Taggart screaming at the top of his lungs, leaning on the mini-gun, and scattering Taliban in every direction.
“I don’t remember a lot after that. We took a direct hit and went down. Webber was dead on impact. I was unconscious. Taggart had a broken leg. Mike had a dislocated shoulder and some pretty bad burns. Somehow, he managed to drag us both out of the bird and behind cover before the chopper exploded. Next thing I remember, I was in a military hospital. And I’d been charged with negligence in the line of duty, willfully disobeying orders, dereliction of duty, and being responsible for the deaths of my team members and innocent civilians.”
“How could they do that to you?”
“Not just me. Mike and Taggart, too. Our court-martial was scheduled. Then, suddenly, it wasn’t. Mike had cut a deal. We ended up with less than honorable discharges, and they let us go.”
“But you didn’t do anything wrong! Why would Mike settle for that? Why not fight it in court?”
“That was my question. Taggart’s, too. It was tough to swallow, but it looked like Mike had betrayed us. Cut himself a deal and dragged us down in the dirt with him. At least, that’s what we thought at the time.”
“What was his explanation?”
“He didn’t stick around long enough to give us one. We wouldn’t have listened anyway. Hate isn’t a strong enough word for what I felt for him back then. Anyway, Mike dropped off the grid, ended up down in Peru, drinking his way through several years before he finally got sober. I didn’t know that until later, because I dropped out, too. I found out later that Taggart had signed up with the first military contractor who would take him and ended up back in Afghanistan fighting the Taliban again.”
“Where did you go?”
“I couldn’t face my family. I wasn’t guilty of anything, but I felt like I was. I didn’t want to hear their sympathy or see the questions in their eyes that they were afraid to ask. So I split for Australia. Did a lot of surfing, some modeling, and generally tuned out. Then Eva Salinas came along.”
“Eva? How does she possibly tie in?”
He dragged a hand through his hair. “It’s complicated. Her husband was killed in Operation Slam Dunk.”
“Oh. My God.”
“She’d been told he’d died in a training accident. Then, eight years later, the file on OSD mysteriously found its way into her hands. It laid the blame squarely on Mike’s shoulders, and she made it her mission to find him and make him own up to what he’d done.”
“Only he hadn’t done anything wrong.”
“That’s what she finally figured out. She and Mike also figured out that our commanding officer in Afghanistan, a man we all idolized, had set us up. He had a lucrative side business with the Taliban, cashing in on the opium trade. We’d been too effective rooting them out, and Brewster—our CO—needed to put us out of commission.”
“So you weren’t expected to come back from the mission that night?”
Pure rage burned in his belly. “None of us was supposed to walk away alive. The three of us ended up as pesky loose ends. He hadn’t counted on us living, just like he hadn’t counted on Mike making a deal that broke our spirits but saved our lives.”
“So Mike didn’t sell you out. He saved you.”
“Yeah. Too bad it took eight years to get it sorted out and to take down the man who set us up to die.”
25
Rhonda ate dinner alone in the hotel restaurant that night, hoping Cooper would make an appearance, railing at herself for the all-time-stupid move of leading with her libido last night. And with her heart this afternoon.
When it became clear he wasn’t going to show up, she finished her meal and headed back to her room.
Damn him, she thought, as she walked past his door. Why did he have to turn out to be a nice guy? Why had she asked him about the One-Eyed Jacks last night—and, worse, why did he have to decide to tell her about them and about what had happened in Afghanistan?
She didn’t want to know this much about him. They were only supposed to share a few laughs and hot sex. Now she had way more insight into who he was and what made him tick than she wanted.
His story had forced her to look beyond his blatant sex appeal to the man who’d been through hell and back. He’d suffered, cut himself off from his family, his life, his friends. Even from his own country for eight long years.
She slipped her key card into the lock, then went inside and closed the door. Thank God Eva had brought the truth to light and the three men had reunited and been cleared.
It made her feel small for not sharing her own truths with him. And made her realize something that she tended to overlook: she wasn’t the only person who’d experienced catastrophic loss.
She tossed the card onto the credenza, and as she walked past the bed, she remembered him there, golden and gorgeous, smiling and sexy.
And why did he have to be so generous in bed? So thorough and selfless. So sweet. And funny. He hadn’t been afraid to make fun of himself; his story about Hondo had amused her . . . and softened her.
And what had she contributed? Her passion for vintage angora and a playful lie about wanting to be a cowgirl. Nothing that made her feel vulnerable. The way he must have felt this afternoon.
The way he must feel tonight.
Or maybe he actually felt liberated, as he’d said when they’d pulled up to the hotel.
“I’ve never told that to anyone before.” He’d sounded self-conscious yet a little relieved. As if a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “Bet you’re sorry you ever asked about the One-Eyed Jacks.”
She was sorry, all right; she didn’t want to know him that well. But she did now, whether she wanted to or not.
Thoughtful, she undressed and headed for the shower.
What would it be like, she wondered as she adjusted the water temperature, to share something that personal and that painful with him? Telling Cooper about Dan . . . wow, it hurt even to think his name . . . Would it make her feel even more vulnerable than she felt now? Or would it be liberating, as Cooper had claimed?
She’d never know. Never know what it felt like to have a man understand why she was like she was. Never experience what it felt like to have a man look at her with empathy and understanding and see more than what she’d chosen to show the world, a ball-busting flirt in a skintight sweater.
She knew she hid behind her looks—which made her no different from Jamie Cooper.
She gave the faucet a hard twist and reached for her towel. Double damn him.
The only thing she knew for certain was that she’d been smart to lay the ground rules last night and put a stop to their “fling” this morning.
They’d agreed that anything more than a fling would jeopardize their profes
sional code. On top of that, it was becoming increasingly clear that if she didn’t end things swiftly and cleanly, she’d have a hard time ending them at all.
Long-term was not on her agenda, and it wasn’t on Jamie’s, either.
She smoothed on body lotion, then slipped into a fresh blue nightie and dried her hair. Yup. She was right to have put a stop to things this morning.
So she really had no answer for why she lifted her key card from the credenza, tiptoed across the hall, and rapped softly on his door.
• • •
She had him on his back again, panting and destroyed. She’d knocked on his door, taken advantage of his complete surprise, backed him up to the bed, and annihilated him. It had taken all of five minutes—that’s how quickly she’d taken him to heaven.
He swore he’d heard angel harps.
Or maybe that was his ears ringing.
Still gasping for breath, he knotted a handful of her hair in his fist and tipped her face up to his. “It . . . would seem . . . that I’m not on the same page as you . . . after all. I could have sworn this wasn’t supposed to happen again.”
“Are you saying you want me to leave?”
“Hell, no! Just . . . let me catch my breath . . . while I wait for the blood to get back up to my brain, so I can figure this out.”
“Fine. I’ll leave.”
He laughed and pulled her back down. “Don’t make me wrestle you. The shape I’m in now . . . you’d win. My fragile ego couldn’t take it.”
She rolled her eyes but relaxed and settled back against him. One long, silky leg draped over his . . . lap. Her head nestled on his shoulder. A perfect breast smooshed against his chest. His hand felt like lead when he lifted it, then slowly ran it down her back, dipping low over the delicious curve of her ass. She felt like heaven. She smelled like sin.
And he was as confused as hell.
“What changed your mind?”
She inhaled deeply, and there was no missing the self-rebuke in that breath. “It wasn’t my mind that compelled me to come to your room.”
“Hmm. I know men do a lot of thinking with their di—”
“Shut up, Cooper.”
He chuckled. “Damn chemistry. Always causing trouble.”
He felt her lips curve up against his collarbone. “You really do want me to go, don’t you?”
He shifted to his side, reached between them, then touched her in that place that made her moan. “No,” he whispered as his fingers finessed her tender flesh, massaging, dipping inside, until she was wet and swollen and he was hard as stone again. “What I really, really want is for you to come.”
• • •
Much later—Coop had taken his sweet time with her—he lay in the dark, listening to her breathe as she slept beside him.
So, he thought, slowly sifting her hair through his fingers. Her showing up was prompted only by an itch she needed scratched. At least, that’s what she’d said.
But actions speak louder than words.
And she’d touched him differently from last night. With more tenderness, more . . . he wasn’t sure what.
He was probably just loopy from the great sex, reading something into her touches, her kisses, her eyes when he’d risen above her. He’d never seen her so . . . open. Attentive, even caring, surprisingly vulnerable.
A rush of tenderness swept through him, along with an odd longing. What if they could take this further?
And that was loopy. This little interlude was as temporary as those bubbles he used to play with when he was a kid. Bright and beautiful, then gone with a small gust of wind.
They had an agreement, and he was okay with that. He had to be, since they worked together. Problem was, the more time he spent with this spectacular, free-spirited, and damn fun-to-be-around woman, the more he questioned the rules.
And more and more, he found himself thinking, the hell with rules.
He was deeper into her than he’d ever been into a woman, but last night, she’d made it crystal-clear that she’d boot him out of her bed if he started making “commitment” noises. And it was way too soon to be thinking in those terms, anyway.
She’d come here because she had an itch he could scratch.
Fact was, he wasn’t sure he even cared what had brought her here. He was just damn glad she’d come.
Several times.
He grinned, kissed the top of her head, and settled in to sleep.
Friday
The easy way is always mined.
—Edward A. Murphy
26
4:14 a.m., Colorado Springs, Colorado
It took Rhonda a while to push through the heavy cobwebs of sleep and realize that a phone was ringing.
Suddenly wide awake, she sat up in bed and looked around the room, lit only by a tiny slice of light from under the bathroom door.
A hotel-room bathroom door. And not her hotel room.
A strong arm reached out and wrapped around her waist, pulling her back down beside him.
“Wake up—your phone’s ringing,” she said. When he cinched his arm tighter, she rolled away from him and out of bed. “Get the phone,” she repeated.
“Time is it?” he mumbled into his pillow.
She glanced at the bedside alarm. “Four fifteen.”
He rolled onto his back, then dragged his hands roughly over his face. “This can’t be good.”
He reached for his phone and, after some fumbling, turned on the bedside lamp. “’Lo,” he said softly as she scooped her nightgown off the floor and headed for the bathroom.
Once inside, she dragged on her shift, then stared at herself in the mirror.
Her hair was a mess. She still felt a little boneless. And she had . . . She squinted and leaned closer to the mirror to get a better look.
“Oh. My. God.”
A hickey on her left breast peeked above the top of her nightie. Heat flooded her face, and she closed her eyes. Unfortunately, she remembered asking him to give her one. Asking him to mark her in the heat of a very rowdy and arousing act that had apparently made her crazy.
“Rhonda.” His voice carried loud and clear through the bathroom door, and he sounded wide awake now. When she stepped out into the bedroom, he was already out of bed and stepping into his boxers. “You need to get dressed. Get your things together. We’re moving out.”
“What’s going on? Oh, God, did something happen with Eva?”
“No.” He glanced over his shoulder, then crossed the room to her. “This has nothing to do with what’s going on back at Langley.” He pulled her into his arms and lowered his cheek to the top of her head. “Eva’s fine. We’ve had a change in orders.”
“What kind of change?”
He stepped back and cupped her shoulders in his hands. “All I know is that we’re no longer going to Utah.”
“Where are we going?”
“I don’t know. I’ll tell you everything Nate told me on the way to the airport; right now, we need to boogie. We’re going wheels up at five fifteen.”
Then he kissed her. “Meet me here in half an hour.”
• • •
A U.S. Air Force pilot stood beside the open air door of a small business jet that was revved up and waiting for them. The pilot appeared to be in his early fifties, and, as expected from the Air Force, he was fit and trim in his flight suit.
“Captain Ramsey.” Coop extended a hand after reading the pilot’s nameplate on his breast pocket. He had to shout to be heard above the jet engine’s roar. “Cooper and Burns, reporting as instructed.”
“’Morning, sir, ma’am.” Ramsey returned Coop’s handshake, then shook Rhonda’s hand. “I’ll need to see some ID, please. Then we can get airborne.”
Coop dug into his hip pocket for his wallet and credentials, while Rhonda produ
ced hers from her purse.
Ramsey looked them over, handed them back with a nod, and lifted his hand, inviting them to board. “I’ll take care of that luggage, sir, ma’am.”
They’d both traveled light, with only one bag apiece plus Rhonda’s tablet and purse, which had made for quick packing.
“I didn’t know that the Air Force flies private jets these days,” Coop said, fishing for information as Ramsey closed the air stairs behind them, shutting out the bulk of the engine noise.
“Some days we do, sir,” Ramsey replied without any inflection that might reveal if this was par for the course or as out of sync as it felt to Coop.
“First Lieutenant Baxter,” Ramsey said with a nod toward the cockpit, where the copilot sat.
Baxter was younger but no less professional than Ramsey, although he did execute a classic double take when he got an eyeful of the Bombshell. “Welcome aboard,” he said, then turned back to the instrument panel and his preflight checklist.
“If you’d be kind enough to buckle up,” Ramsey instructed, “we’ll get you to your destination.”
“And where exactly would that be?” Coop asked.
Ramsey slipped into the cockpit as if he hadn’t heard him and shut the door.
“The plot thickens,” Rhonda said dryly. “Did you notice the windows?”
Yeah. He had. They’d all been painted black—on the outside, to make certain no one inside could scrape it off. “I think this is what you call running blind,” he said.
“Ya think?” Her eyes were wide and more than a little nervous. “What’s going on?”
Coop lifted a shoulder as the Gulfstream eased forward and started taxiing down the runway. “Blackout measures are generally reserved for night ops, so the bad guys can’t see you coming. And Air Force personnel flying a civilian jet? I’ve got no explanation for that.”
“Does this happen often? Last-minute schedule changes, all this cloak-and-dagger?”
