Hot As Ice

by Merline Lovelace

  He glanced at the plates of the other diners, where the remains of their breakfast swam in pools of rich, dark syrup.

  "All right, I'm game."

  He held out the cellophane pack, obviously ex­pecting her to cook the contents for him. She lifted her mug and treated herself to a leisurely swallow.

  "There's a toaster right behind you. Just take the waffle out of the wrapping and pop it in."

  He got the message. The cellophane crackled un­der his fingers as he eyed her curiously. "Are you trying to tell me women don't cook where you come from?"

  When she came from was what he meant, as everyone at the table silently acknowledged. The major still wasn't ready to admit the truth.

  "Popping a waffle into a toaster hardly qualifies as cooking," she replied breezily, "but you'll find men and women share most household tasks to­day."

  From the furtive glances some of the other males at the table exchanged, it appeared they wouldn't mind a return to the fifties, or at least television's version of it. They'd probably love to have a June Cleaver look-alike in pearls, high heels and flawless makeup vacuuming the house and preparing dinner for Beaver, Wally and Dad.

  Dream on, boys!

  At least she'd set Charlie Stone's feet on the right path for acclimation to his brave new world. She was savoring her small victory over the forces of evil when a sudden doubt hit her. Biting down on her lower lip, she watched Charlie examine the chrome toaster. When the heck had that particular appliance been invented, anyway?

  "Do know how to operate it? You just put the waffle in and..."

  "Push down on the lever," he finished dryly.

  "Good. In that case, we can advance to the mi­crowave. Come on, while your waffles are crisping I'll show you how to nuke bacon."

  "Nuke?" He froze half out of his chair. "You have nukes at this station?"

  "No," Diana said hastily. "It's just an expres­sion, a term we use nowadays for cooking some­thing in the microwave oven."

  It didn't take long for Diana to conclude that ac­climating Charlie Stone to the twenty-first century would take considerably more effort than she'd imagined. Not only had he missed out on four de­cades of technological advancements, his attitude toward women in general and Diana in particular was in serious need of adjustment.

  He spent the morning with the recovery team, lis­tening to their theories on how he survived the ice, but volunteering neither information about his mis­sion nor theories of his own. Nor would he agree to provide urine or blood samples for analysis. Greg Wozniak's repeated hard sell of the cloning process made him doubly wary of donating any bodily flu­ids. Frustrated, the team had no choice but to shut down the on-site recovery effort.

  "That's fine with me," the major rasped. "When do I leave?"

  ''As soon as we can call in a plane to ferry us all out," Dr. Goode said calmly. "We'll fly the team back to the aeromedical research facility at Brooks Air Force Base in San Antonio and continue the tests there."

  "No dice. I'm going back to Edwards."

  "But..."

  "It's my home base. I have..." His face dark­ened. "I once had friends there. Some of them might still be around."

  Dr. Goode took off his rimless glasses and pol­ished them carefully with his shirttail. When he set­tled them back on the bridge of his nose, his eyes were just as hard as his recalcitrant patient's.

  "I'm afraid I can't allow you to set the parame­ters here, Major Stone. You're a biological and medical miracle. You owe it to science to allow us to study you."

  "I guess I don't see it that way, Doc. Not at the moment, anyway. If what you've told me is true— and I'm still not ready to concede that it is—I've lost forty-five years of what would have been my life. I don't plan to spend the next few living under a microscope."

  "Just what do you plan to do?"

  "I'll figure that out when I get back to Califor­nia."

  When Diana repeated the exchange to OMEGA's director later that afternoon, Nick left no doubt as to her role in Charlie Stone's immediate future.

  "You'll have to stay with him, Artemis."

  "For how long?"

  "Until after the president's trip to Russia next month or Stone tells us what happened to his plane, whichever comes first."

  Judging by Charlie's stubborn refusal to talk, Di­ana guessed it would be the former and not the lat­ter.

  "Do you really think we can keep him under wraps for another two weeks?" she asked dubi­ously.

  'The recovery team and oceanographic research­ers there at the station all understand the need for absolute secrecy. We'll make sure the air force per­sonnel at his home base do, too. Just to be certain, though, I'll have Communications run a transmis­sion screen for possible leaks and handle any nec­essary damage control at this end. Your job is to keep Major Stone away from the media or some enterprising soul who might try to sell his story to the tabloids."

  "Which could be anyone or everyone he talks to," she muttered.

  "And they told us this undercover business would be so easy," Lightning replied with a smile in his voice.

  "Yeah, right. Okay, you get Comm working those screens and I'll try to convince Major Stone he can't live without me for the next few weeks."

  The smile lingered in Nick's eyes as he ended the transmission. Diana was one of their best. Like the goddess she was named for, she'd keep Charlie Stone in her bow sights until she brought him to his knees.

  The man didn't have a chance.

  Still smiling, he hit the buzzer on his intercom. Elizabeth Wells's cheerful voice answered a second later. "Yes, sir?'

  The 'sir' still made Nick blink, but he was fast getting used to it. ''Ask Comm to come down, will you?"

  "Right away."

  Leaning back in the buttery-soft leather chair, he stretched out his legs and shoved his hands in his pockets of his slacks. The slacks were hand-tailored, as were his black silk turtleneck and cashmere sports jacket. Nick preferred more casual styles in his clothes, in his home, in the menus he personally selected for his restaurants. Casual and elegant and very, very expensive.

  His smile tipped into a wry grin. If it weren't for the scars he'd accumulated as a youth, even he would have to search hard under the silk and cash­mere to find the remnants of the runty, perpetually hungry pickpocket who'd prowled the alleyways of Cannes.

  That was how Mackenzie found him when she breezed in a few moments later—stretched out like a sleek, well-fed lion. His dark gold hair and rust-colored jacket fostered the image, she thought with a dart of grudging admiration.

  Hey, it didn't hurt to look! She'd learned that much from her ex, who'd also taught her not to come within touching distance of someone like Nick Jensen.

  "You rang?"

  Idly, Nick jingled the change in his pocket. He knew about the communications chiefs messy di­vorce. Knew, too, that the raven-haired ex-navy of­ficer had come to work at OMEGA with a chip the size of New Hampshire on her shoulder. A chip that seemed to double in intensity whenever she was in Nick's immediate vicinity. One of these days, he mused, he might just have to knock it off.

  “I need you to set up a screen of all wire, optical and radio transmissions made by members of the recovery team the Arctic Oceanographic team, and whoever Major Stone meets with when he returns to Edwards Air Force Base. Artemis will supply a daily list."

  "That's going to be some screen!"

  ''Can you and your people do it?''

  Her professional pride scratched, she sent him a look that would have felled a lesser man. "Yes."

  "That's all. Comm."

  "Aye, aye, skipper!"

  Executing a smart about-face, Mackenzie left the lion lazing in his den.

  Deciding to waste no time executing her revised orders, Diana went in search of the major. She found him in the cramped cubbyhole that passed for the station's exercise room. He'd decided to use the time until the C-130 arrived regaining his full strength, he informed her. Crossing her arms, s
he leaned against the wall and watched while his still wary watchdog explained the workings of the er-gonomic bike.

  ''You punch in your age and gender here and set the aerobic level you want to achieve. Then you slip your arm into the cuff and wait for the computer to record your resting heart rate before you start ped­aling."

  "Does everything in your world come equipped with a computer?"

  The research tech thought about it for a moment. "Pretty much."

  Shaking his head, Charlie gestured to the universal gym. "What about this? Do you need anything more than muscle power to operate this?''

  The thin, pallid tech eyed the complicated net­work of bars, pulleys and weights dubiously. "I don't think so. I'll have to get one of the oceanog-raphers to check you out on it, though."

  Diana pushed away from the wall. "I can show him how it works."

  Relieved, the research assistant left the major in her capable hands.

  "The equipment is currently positioned for leg presses. In this configuration, it works your quad­riceps, gluteus maximus, calves and hamstrings."

  Not that Major Stone's needed working.

  Sternly banishing the wayward thought, she locked in the weights, slid into the seat and gripped the foam-covered handles mounted on either side.

  "The principle is to vary the resistance applied to an entire muscle group through exercise." Grunt­ing, Diana raised the stack of weights and brought it down. "You need to maintain a steady rhythm for maximum musculoskeletal and cardiovascular ben­efit."

  The black weights clacking, she gave him a short demonstration. He observed the process with a quiz­zical expression.

  "What?" she asked.

  “Is weight lifting standard training for molecular biologists?"

  "Nope. Only for those addicted to hot fudge sun­daes."

  And for undercover operatives, she added si­lently. Stone's hair would probably stand on end if he caught a glimpse of the torture OMEGA had put Diana and her fellow agents through under the guise of training.

  Then again, maybe it wouldn't. Flying fighters in two wars and subsequently qualifying as a test pilot had probably pegged his endurance meter out at max capacity.

  "You can also work your upper body," she told him.

  Shrugging out of her baggy sweater, she tossed it over a side support. A quick push shoved the sleeves of her thermal silk long Johns up to her elbows. Hopping into the upright chair, she grasped the handlebars.

  "In the forward position, you isolate the deltoids and triceps." Puffing a little, she went to a ten-count. "Eight, nine...ten."

  With a squeak of the chair she spun around and grasped the handlebars from behind. ' 'In reverse po­sition, you... work...the...shoulders. Six. Seven. Eight. Niiii...ne. Ugggh...ten!"

  The iron weights hit with a clatter. Arms hooked over the handlebars, Diana blew a loose strand of hair away from her face. She was puffing in earnest now, and not particularly happy about it.

  "Guess I'm a little out of shape."

  "Not from where I'm standing."

  The gruff reply brought her head up. Her skitter­ing pulse took another jump when she caught the direction of Stone's gaze. It was fixed squarely on her chest.

  "When did women stop wearing brassieres?" he got out on a growl. "Not that I'm complaining, you understand. Just asking."

  "Some of us never started."

  He brought his glance back to hers. ''Well, what do you know? Maybe there might be some benefit to skipping a few decades, after all."

  "Careful," she warned. "You're treading dan­gerous political waters here."

  "How did politics get into the discussion?"

  "There's a whole movement that started back in the seventies called Women's Liberation. It em­braces the concepts of equal pay for equal work, shattering glass ceilings and generally throwing off the shackles that have kept women barefoot, preg­nant and in the kitchen for so long."

  "Cooking being one of those shackles?"

  "You catch on quickly."

  "Maybe. Tell me more about this so-called movement."

  A fond smile tugged at Diana's mouth. "My mother has mellowed considerably over the years, but back then she was what we call a militant fem­inist. She's still quite proud of the fact that she was one of the first to burn her bra in support of the Equal Rights Amendment."

  "She burned her bra?"

  "Right on the steps of the U.S Capitol. As you might suppose, she encouraged my sisters and me to place comfort well ahead of fashion."

  Actually, Diana's avoidance of anything more constricting than an occasional sports bra was based more on her modest curves than her mother's mili­tancy, but Stone didn't require that level of detail. She figured he'd discover soon enough that there were two classes of women in the modern world, those who enhanced their natural assets with under-wire and permanent makeup, and those who couldn't be bothered.

  Besides, he looked like he was having a difficult enough time with the basic concept of women's lib.

  Poor baby, she thought wryly. He went down in the Father Knows Best era and had slept right through the entire sexual revolution. Wait until he found out about birth control pills and breast im­plants, not to mention the latest wonder drug for men.

  Not that Charlie Stone would need it! Judging by the suspicious bulge in his borrowed pants, he was already supercharged.

  To Diana's considerable surprise and annoyance, her own body responded in kind. Her pulse stut­tered, then kicked up another notch. Under the thin long Johns, her nipples tightened to stiff peaks.

  This was absurd!

  Ruthlessly, Diana suppressed the shivery sensa­tion. She was here to do a job, one that demanded all her concentration. She'd be of no use to OMEGA or the major if she couldn't maintain a level of de­tachment. Reminded of her mission, she snagged her sweater from the side bar and nonchalantly tugged it over her head.

  "I'll tell you what," she said as she raked her fingers through her hair. "I've got some leave time coming from my job. Maybe I should fly back to California with you."

  "Why would you do that?"

  "I agree with Dr. Goode. You're a scientific phe­nomenon. If you won't let us study you in a con­trolled environment, maybe you'll let me accom­pany you as a friend and sort of guide to the twenty-first century."

  "A friend, huh?"

  His gaze made another slow slide to her now-covered chest. When his eyes met hers again, the expression in their blue depths was unreadable.

  "Is this an invitation, Dr. Remington?"

  “I beg your pardon?''

  "I don't know what folks call it where you come from," he said brusquely, "but in my neck of the country, the kind of show you just put on followed by an offer to teach a guy the ropes means only one thing."

  Oh, brother! Talk about mixed signals.

  "Just what do you think I'm inviting you to do?"

  "This, for starters."

  Stepping between her knees, he curled a knuckle under her chin. As he bent his head and brought his mouth down to hers, Diana weighed her choices. She could knock his arm aside and follow up with a brutally effective forearm to his throat, thus de­railing her attempts to gain his trust. Or she could let Charlie Stone enjoy his first kiss in forty-five years.

  Which is what she decided to do. The mission came first, after all.

  Head tilted, lashes drifting down, Diana waited patiently for his lips to brush hers. She soon dis­covered Major Stone wasn't an aficionado of the fine art of lip grazing. He went right to mouth-on-mouth...with a skill that sent shock waves through­out her body. Steeling herself against the little ex­plosions of pleasure he detonated under her skin, she waited out the kiss.

  When he raised his head at last, it took everything she had to keep her expression bland.

  "Are you finished?"

  "Yeah."

  "Then I think we need to set matters straight. I wasn't putting on a show or coming on to you, nor do I want you to read a sexual connotation in
to my offer to accompany you back to California. For the record, I'm involved in a relationship."

  "What the heck does that mean?"

  "It means I'm seeing a man. We're, uh, dating."

  Dating didn't come close to describing today's complex mating rituals, but it was the best she could do with her lips still tingling from Charlie Stone's kiss.

  "And this guy isn't going to mind you going back to California with me?"

  He might, if he knew about it. Although Diana and quiet, unassuming Allen hadn't yet discussed, much less agreed to, exclusivity, even he demon­strated a few male territorial characteristics at times.

  She dodged the issue with a shrug. "Things are different these days."

  "They can't be that different."

  She didn't intend to argue the point. "The offer to act as your mentor is still on the table, Major Stone. Take it or leave it."

  Despite his long years of service, Charlie hadn't made a formal study of war. He'd been too busy fighting and flying to hit the military history books. But one of the fundamentals of warfare every sol­dier or sailor learns instinctively is to keep your op­ponent in your gun sights whenever possible.

  His gut told him Diana wasn't the enemy. Hell, he didn't even know if there was an enemy. But until he got the answers to a few more questions, he'd keep her well within his sights. "I'll take it."

  Chapter 5

  The heat. Charlie remembered the heat. It rose in iridescent waves from the hard-baked Mojave sand. Everything in sight seemed to float above the shim­mering, searing cloud.

  It also sucked the air right from your lungs. Paus­ing on the steps of the sleek little air force jet that had transported him and Diana Remington to Ed­wards Air Force Base, California, he drew in a quick breath and squinted through his tinted aviator sun­glasses.

  He'd been issued the glasses and a hastily outfit­ted air force flight suit during the short stopover in Alaska. The lightweight green Nomex uniform and brown leather jacket felt strange to him after years of wearing heavier, clumsier gear. He'd insisted on keeping his own high altitude suit and helmet with him, though, as well as the Colt .45. He carried them now in a bag gripped tight in one fist.