Hot As Ice

by Merline Lovelace

  At the thought of her steady companion, some­thing uncomfortably close to guilt fluttered along the edges of Diana's conscience. They hadn't made any promises to each other, she rationalized, cer­tainly hadn't exchanged any pledges. Yet the fact that Allen had barely popped into her mind in the past few days bothered her.

  That wasn't all that bothered her. She couldn't stop thinking about the needs Charlie triggered in her. They seemed to come on so fast, to build with such intensity. She'd have to axe this growing at­traction to the man or...

  Or what? Throw him down on the nearest hori­zontal surface and have her way with him?

  Yes! the insidious little voice in her head whis­pered.

  No! her conscience sternly rebuked.

  That would be all Charlie needed. First his life turns inside out and upside down, then his only an­chor to the twenty-first century decides to jump his bones.

  Not that he'd mind, Diana thought wryly. She suspected Charlie would be more than willing to participate in his own seduction, but her sense of fair play wouldn't allow her to take advantage of his present isolation. Nor would it allow her to avoid the truth any longer. She cared for Allen Mc-Dermott...as a friend. She enjoyed his com­pany... as a friend. But she had a bad case of the hots for the Iceman.

  Sighing, she hit the e-mail icon and zapped out a quick message.

  Hi, Allen—

  This business is taking a bit longer than I ex­pected. I'll call you when I get back in town. We need to talk.

  Diana

  A click of the built-in mouse sent the message out via the powerful wireless transmitter installed in all OMEGA's field computers. Feeling an odd sense of relief, Diana tapped a fingernail on the keys and listened with half an ear to the sounds outside. The busy base didn't shut down operations even at night. Jet engines whined in the distance, revving to an occasional blast of noise as the aircraft roared down the runway and lifted into the sky. Every once in a while, a car whooshed along the roads behind the Visiting Officers' Quarters.

  The sound of the vehicles roused a ripple of cu­riosity. Idly, she hit the icon to connect to the World Wide Web, then did a quick search for Studebaker Golden Hawk. She wanted to see what Charlie's pride and joy had looked like.

  Two clicks later, there it was. Bright red, fin-tailed, dripping with chrome. The white walls had to be at least five inches wide. Smiling, Diana clicked on another Web site, then a third. Suddenly, her fingers froze on the trackball.

  "Restored 1957 Studebaker Golden Hawk," she read breathlessly. "Engine completely recondi­tioned and in full compliance with California's emission control standards. Leather interior and spe­cial trim in primo condition. Offers now being ac­cepted. Andersen International Classic Cars, 661-326-4419."

  Excitement snapped along her nerves. Her fingers flying, she clicked on a dozen more classic car pages and followed the links on those pages to twenty more. After an extensive hunt, she went back to the original Andersen page and pushed the stem of her functional black chronometer.

  "Control, this is Artemis."

  "I read you, Artemis."

  She recognized Mackenzie Blair's voice instantly.

  "Don't you ever go home, Comm?"

  "I'll get a life one of these days," OMEGA's chief of communications drawled. "What's up?"

  "I have a special request. There's a 1957 Golden Hawk advertised online by Anderson International Classic Cars. They list a phone number of 661-326-4419."

  "That's a California area code. Bakersfield, I think."

  Diana heard the click of a keyboard.

  "Yep, that's it. Bakersfield."

  Her excitement took another spike. Bakersfield was less than a hundred miles away!

  Just a few hours ago, she'd ached to give Charlie back his lost years. She couldn't. No one could. But she could darn well give him back this piece of his past.

  "Do me a favor and track down the site owner. If the car's still available, tell him we want to test-drive it pending a possible sale."

  "I take it this is for the Iceman."

  "You got it."

  "Okay, I'll get back to you within the hour."

  "If it's available, I want it delivered to the DV quarters at Edwards by eight o'clock tomorrow morning," Diana warned.

  "I think we can manage that." But -

  ''I also need you to contact the State of California DMV and have them issue a new driver's license in the name of Charles Stone. No doubt his old one has expired."

  "No doubt," Mackenzie said dryly.

  "The DMV will want a home address. Use the Bachelor Officers' Quarters here on base as a tem­porary address. Major Stone can update the license when he decides where he wants to settle."

  "Consider it done. I'll have the necessary papers delivered with the car. Anything else, Artemis?"

  "Yes. Would you check current status on these four people?''

  From memory, she fed Mackenzie the names Charlie had mentioned to the personnel folks earlier.

  "These won't take long. I'll furnish the infor­mation when I get back to you on the car."

  "Thanks."

  Signing off, Diana grinned and stretched like a cat. At times there were definite advantages to work­ing for an agency like OMEGA.

  Charlie woke to the sounds of jet engines revving. For a few seconds he drifted on a comfortable haze between sleep and consciousness. Thoughts bubbled up, percolating through his mind like air bubbles. He should roll out of the rack. Hit the showers. Check in with base ops. They would've sent a run­ner over if they'd laid on a short-notice mission, but it never hurt to...

  His thoughts skittered to a stop like a jet with a heavy boot on the air brakes. Slowly, Charlie opened his eyes. Cradling his head in his hands, he stared up at the ceiling while reality crashed down with a vengeance.

  There wouldn't be any runners from ops. No short-notice missions. He wasn't in his bunk at Adana AB, Turkey, on call to fly highly classified intelligence-gathering missions over the Soviet Un­ion. He was back at Edwards, sprawled across the biggest mattress he'd ever planted his butt on. And from the way the colonel had laid matters on the line yesterday, it might be a considerable stretch of time before he climbed into a cockpit again. If ever.

  He was halfway through his rather considerable repertoire of four-letter words when Diana inter­rupted.

  "Hey, Major," she called through the door. "It's after nine."

  Her voice loosened the iron band that had clamped tight around Charlie's chest. Not all the way, but enough for him to answer when she wanted to know if he planned on getting out of bed today.

  "I'm considering it."

  "Well, get things in gear. I'm hungry, and there's no room service this morning. The club's closed. We'll have to go out for breakfast."

  "Give me ten minutes to shower and shave."

  As it turned out, what should have been simple, familiar acts took him almost half an hour. First he had to figure out how to adjust a showerhead that either drizzled limply or shot out a pulse sharp enough to put out his eye. Then he had to wrestle what was billed as a disposable razor from its wrappings. The damned plastic was sealed tighter than the rubberized neck rings on his helmet. A lot tighter.

  The grim reminder sent him back into the bed­room with a renewed sense of purpose. He might not have a flight scheduled today, but there was something just as critical he intended to get done.

  Standing beside the bed with a towel wrapped around his hips, he ripped the wrappings from the clean skivvies and T-shirts he'd been supplied dur­ing the brief stopover in Alaska. The T-shirt was spun from soft, familiar cotton, but instead of the plain white jockey shorts of his day, these were a crazy purple color. Not only that, but the waistband sported the packager's name and logo in inch-high letters.

  Why in the hell would advertisers stencil their name on underwear? What was the point when no one could see it? Shaking his head, Charlie pulled on his borrowed shirt, pants and socks before shov­ing his feet into his brown
aviator boots. That done, he grabbed the gear bag containing his helmet and flight suit and headed for the door.

  Diana was perched on a stool at the kitchenette's counter, coffee mug in hand. She wore her hip-hugging slacks and the red and green plaid shirt she'd had on when he'd first opened his eyes. Now, as then, the sight of her gleaming green eyes and finger-combed silvery blond waves sent his stomach into a quick spin.

  "You've got time for one cup," she warned as he reached for the coffee maker to pour a shot. "Then we roll."

  "Roll where?"

  "I figure it's time to introduce you to the modern marvels of fast food. After that, we'd better hit the mall. The shopping center," she amplified at his puzzled look. "The temperature's supposed to reach ninety today. I don't know about you, but I'm ready to shed this heavy wool and get comfortable."

  He downed a long swig of coffee. "After that, I want to visit some folks."

  "Right." Reaching across the counter, she re­trieved a printed sheet of paper. "Captain Rivera sent over this status report on the people you asked about."

  Diana didn't mention that she'd augmented the captain's report with the more detailed informa­tion supplied by Mackenzie Blair this morning. OMEGA's communications chief had worked the short list herself and confirmed that two of the peo­ple on the list were dead. Of the others, one, the female, was currently off on a cruise with her hus­band of forty-four years and two of their seventeen grandchildren. Charlie's jaw locked as he skimmed the details provided by OMEGA.

  "Was she a close friend?" Diana asked quietly.

  He forced a shrug. ''We knew each other during the war."

  His one-time fiancée, she guessed. The nurse who'd mustered out and returned home to marry her high school sweetheart. Diana felt another twinge of pity for a man cast adrift from all his former friends as Charlie turned his attention to the fourth person on the list. An aviator turned engineer who'd retired from Lockheed's famous Skunk Works years ago, Harry Simmons now resided in Santa Monica.

  "I recognize this address," Charlie said with a touch of relief mixed with determination. "Harry's folks used to live on Fourth Street. We'd visit them whenever we could get away from the base. His mom would always bake us a strawberry and rhu­barb pie."

  "Looks like they kept the house in the family. Your friend now lives there with his daughter."

  Folding the list, he shoved it into his shirt pocket. "I need to get to Santa Monica."

  ''Not a problem. We can head for the coast after we hit the shopping mall. I've arranged for trans­portation. It's waiting outside."

  While he downed the rest of his coffee, Diana snatched up the day organizer that held her civilian ID and credit cards. A bland smile was all she al­lowed herself as she and Charlie exited the DV quarters into dazzling sunshine.

  The man at her side reached in his pocket for his aviator sunglasses. The glasses in place, he took one step and stopped dead in his tracks. Stunned, he stared at the tomato-red convertible parked ten yards from the door.

  Diana had to admit it was a beauty. Big and clunky by today's standards, but an undeniable work of art. Chrome bumpers gleamed. Five-inch white-walls glistened. In addition to its other accoutre­ments, the four-seater sported sleek silver rockets atop the front fenders and a pair of fuzzy dice hang­ing from the rearview mirror.

  "You'd better drive," she said nonchalantly, dig­ging a set of keys out of the side pocket of her day planner. "I haven't handled a standard in years."

  He didn't say a word, not a word.

  "It's not the same year as your baby," she ad­mitted, dangling the keys. "I couldn't find a '56 for sale, but according to the literature, the '57 got a bigger, better V-8 engine."

  Still Charlie didn't speak.

  "The '57 was offered with four levels of acces­sories," she purred seductively. "This one has leather seats and special chrome interior trim. Check it out."

  Like someone in a trance, he approached the con­vertible and ran his fingers along her fender.

  What was it about men and cars? Diana thought with a smile. A less secure woman might feel just the tiniest dart of envy at the way he caressed the polished metal. Not to mention the adoration in his gaze as it roamed the interior.

  "How did you find her?"

  "On the computer. You can order everything from shoes to Studebakers online these days and have them delivered right to your door."

  Airily, Diana glossed over the extreme measures OMEGA had employed to deliver this particular Studebaker to this particular doorstep by the time she'd specified.

  "You've got her on approval," she warned. "You might not want to keep her when you hear how much she's going to cost you above original price tag of thirty-three hundred."

  "More than a million-eight?"

  "Not hardly!"

  "Then I'll keep her."

  "Just like that?"

  "Just like that." He flashed her a grin. "I don't believe in idling my engines. When I see something I want, I go after it."

  He looked so happy, like a kid at his own birth­day party. With a matching joy feathering around the edges of her heart, Diana tossed him the keys.

  "Okay, Stone, she's yours. Let me call and close the deal for you."

  While she dug her cell phone out of her purse and called the private number OMEGA had sup­plied along with Charlie's updated driver's license, he slid behind the wheel. The Hawk's engine turned over with a well-mannered growl that quickly grew to a rumbling roar. Chrome exhaust pipes rattled. Dust and heat rose in swirls at the rear of the con­vertible.

  Smiling, Diana finalized arrangements for pay­ment and transfer of title. She was reaching for the door handle when Charlie jumped out.

  "Hold on!"

  With a courtesy she found oddly touching, he rounded the front end to open the passenger door for her. He swung it wide, but stepped in front of her before she could slide onto the seat.

  "Looks like I owe you. Again."

  "I'm not keeping a tab."

  "I am. I like to pay my debts."

  "Charlie, it's okay, really. All I did was surf the Web and make a few calls."

  "If you say so." Sliding a hand through her hair, he tipped her head forward and delivered a quick, hard kiss. "Thanks, kid."

  "You're, uh, welcome."

  Her pulse skittering wildly, Diana climbed into the Hawk and immediately let out a yelp. Although it was just nine-thirty or so, the sun had already baked the white leather seat tar-paper hot.

  The heat didn't appear to bother Charlie. Re­claiming his seat behind the wheel, he gunned the engine for another long, satisfying moment before asking for directions.

  "Where's this place we're going for breakfast?"

  "Just across base."

  Toasted by sun and hot leather, Diana guided Charlie through his first experience with a fast-food drive-through. The attendant on headset waited pa­tiently while he studied the menu and the cars backed up behind them.

  "Try an Egg McMuffin and an OJ," Diana finally suggested. "That'll cover at least four of the five basic food groups."

  After claiming their drinks and meal from the at­tendant at the second window, they parked under the shade of a feathery Russian olive tree. While Diana dug into the bag, Charlie observed the activ­ity inside the glassed-in play place.

  "I'm glad to see drive-in hamburger joints haven't gone out of style," he commented after a moment, "but in my day they didn't cater to kids. Just cool cats in black leather jackets and chicks wearing eight layers of petticoats and little chiffon scarves tied around their necks."

  "Most of the cool cats and chicks hang out at the mall these days."

  "The shopping center you told me about?"

  "Right. The next stop on our itinerary. Eat up and we'll hit the road."

  * * *

  Getting to the mall proved as interesting an ex­perience as shopping there.

  The four-lane road leading out the front gate wasn't bad, but when they approached the ramp for
the interstate, Charlie pulled over to the shoulder.

  "What's that?"

  Belatedly, Diana realized that he'd never seen a controlled access, high-speed highway before, much less three levels of concrete roadway wrapped in an intricate cloverleaf pattern.

  "That's 1-405," she answered. "It's a feeder to Interstate 5, which is part of the coast-to-coast in­terstate system."

  "I knew President Eisenhower had started con­struction of a major highway system to replace Route 66," he said slowly, "but never imagined it would result in something like this."

  Diana chose not to shatter his illusions by inform­ing him that the nationwide network of highways Eisenhower had initiated was already severely over­burdened and showing alarming signs of age. He'd find that out for himself soon enough.

  "Do you want me to take the wheel?" she asked. "The traffic will turn nasty the closer we get to L.A."

  "I can manage it."

  "All right, hotshot." With a careless wave, she committed them both to the concrete jungle. "Head straight south."

  He quickly put to rest any worries about his abil­ity to navigate the interstate. He and the Hawk might both be fifties vintage, but they came equipped with superb motoring and cornering skills. The reconditioned, souped-up Studebaker hugged the pavement, its heavy weight providing an unbe­lievably smooth ride compared to today's lighter, if more fuel-efficient vehicles. With the wind whip­ping her hair and the brown-green desert landscape rolling by, Diana didn't even mind the absence of air-conditioning. Much!

  She was more than happy, though, when she spot­ted the signs for the Antelope Valley Mall. She des­perately wanted out of her wool and into something cool and light.

  So did Charlie. He made no effort to hide his amazement at the variety of stores congregated in the open-air, flower-filled plaza just outside town. Judiciously, Diana steered him past trendy bou­tiques geared to the younger set and into a well known, air-conditioned department store.

  "My friend wants comfortable," she declared to the sales clerk in the men's department.

  The clerk eyed Charlie's wide shoulders and lean hips. An appreciative gleam sprang into his eyes.