The Night Is Mine

Chapter 15

15

Too wound up to sleep, Emily went for a walk on the Mall. She moseyed down to visit her old pal Honest Abe, sitting in his pillared marble cabin as he stared out over the Reflecting Pool, and glared at the Capitol where Congress had fought him almost as hard as the South.

She parked her butt on Abe’s front porch and watched Washington wind down for the night. A cart vendor wandered by and enticed her into three tiny scoops of truly exceptional lime gelato as the sun set. The air temperature dropped, and she soon regretted the cold gelato. It was chilly, at least to her desert-thinned blood. No one else looked dressed for the near-Arctic blast.

Tourist buses of bantering high-school kids poured through in shorts and t-shirts, harried parent chaperons dragging behind. Occasional local couples strolled through the gathering twilight. Easy to pick out the locals; they traveled in pairs, not packs.

She’d done the same herself. Come to think of it, her first kiss had been here, pressed up against the cool marble of Lincoln’s seat.

Walter. Walter… Last name gone. Lawrence. Lawrence Walters. That was it. Never Larry. He’d been so emphatic about it that she’d nicknamed him “Never Larry.” And it had stuck. Probably the reason Never Larry never offered a second kiss.

Given the opportunity, would Mark Henderson want a second kiss? Would she let him if he did? Assess, that’s what a pilot’s good at. He was her commanding officer and never should have kissed her in the first place, they both knew it, so that could be discounted for the moment.

The kiss itself, an electric-shock kiss. She grinned back over her shoulder at Abe and gave him a private wink. That was an understatement. Her brain had switched off and her body had switched on in a single instant. She couldn’t say if the kiss lasted five seconds or five minutes.

No question, she’d absolutely remember if she’d ever had a kiss like that before. How could such a hard man have such a soft and gentle mouth? And that rough-palmed hand so tender and strong against her cheek.

And then she pictured the next moment. Major Mark Henderson pinned to a Formica tabletop by a hand wrenched up behind his back hard enough that she knew he’d feel it for days. He’d tapped out with his free hand against the table. A training signal. Several times. Three quick taps meaning she’d gone past initial pain and into serious ouch. The last triple tap gone frantic before she let him go to collapse at her feet. Then did she check on him? No. Apologize? No. She’d stepped over him and gone.

No second kiss there, that was for sure. She considered again. But what if there were a chance?

But there wasn’t. Couldn’t be. And now that she identified that, she could feel all the weariness and rage of the day overwhelm her. Her commanding officer had kissed her. Taken advantage of her first moment of weakness since she’d turned twenty. The first time in nine years. She’d been weak, hurt, confused, and her commanding officer had kissed her.

It was a court-martial offense. Not that she wanted to press charges. But she couldn’t go back. Not if that was all Mark Henderson thought of her, a pretty bit on the side. What next, private training missions? She’d heard that stupid offer too many times when she still flew regular Army. Groping on the flight line. Pinched—

Emily wanted to scream. It had all been so good. So happy. She’d saved Michael’s life and been thanked for it. Had been told she was a good pilot by the toughest commander she’d ever been honored to fly with. A man she could truly admire and look up to who treated her no differently than any other pilot.

And then he’d ruined it by kissing her.

Well, to hell with Major Henderson. When she was done with whatever nonsense her mother had landed her in, she’d put in for a transfer, for her entire crew. They’d proved themselves as the toughest team in the toughest company. Anyone would take her. And if Henderson protested, she’d threaten to go to the Military Conduct Board and then see quite how pig-headed stubborn he was.

She’d only ever dreamed of one man’s kiss. And, joke on her, it was a man she’d never kissed. There was no question that she’d let many relationships die before they started, all because they never measured up to that one imagined kiss. How was that for stupid? Pining after a married man who never had been and never could be hers.

She tried not to look. She tried to turn back to check on her buddy Abraham for a distraction. But she turned the wrong way and spotted the White House. She’d been pining for Peter Matthews since she was six. Twenty-three years. How was that for the definition of lost causes?

And now she worked for his wife, in the same building. The measurable scale for pure, pigheaded masochism was now wholly redefined.

But in all of her daydreams, Peter’s kiss had never sparked like rocket fire inside her. Had never ignited a flame she hadn’t known lurked inside. Hadn’t known a body could contain.

Where was Henderson now? Emily checked her watch. Twenty-four hours, nearly to the minute, since he’d kissed her halfway around the world.

Ten a.m. there. Mark and her crew would be sleeping now. Sacked out for most of the day before rousting for dinner, flight briefing, and the night’s mission. While she sat here, parked on her butt, chilling it on Abe’s marbled front stoop.

Damn, Henderson. She wanted his kiss, if she could have it without him, almost as much as she didn’t want to be here.

This was beyond stupid. Mark stared at a pile of breakfast he didn’t want in the officers’ mess aboard the carrier. Two hours from the base that reminded him constantly of her. Emily Beale had been gone a whole twenty-four hours, and Mark had already managed to estrange the best crew in the entire outfit other than his own.

Who knew what idiocy he’d think up next. Actually, he already knew what it was and couldn’t believe he’d fallen so far from any hint of common sense. But knowing he was about to fall past all redemption probably wasn’t going to stop him.

It was crew change for the carrier, and probably thirty guys were scattered at a dozen tables. He sat alone in the corner, staring at his tray of breakfast, contemplating his waffles and his pending stupidity.

Someone slapped him on top of the head.

He didn’t bother to turn. “Hey, Jim.”

The Mini Boss came around and dropped his own tray across the table from Mark.

“When did you get so dumb?”

“Born dumb.”

“You got that right, bro.” Jim began eating.

Mark played with his Belgian waffle, cutting it into individual squares with his fork.

“You know, I had me this squirrel dog once.”

“You grew up in Chicago.”

“Shush! You don’t mess with a good story.”

Mark shrugged and began dissecting his eggs. He piled bits of scrambled egg in each cut-off waffle square. How had Emily gotten so far under his skin? No one did that to him. Women were strictly catch and release. Pick ’em up, show ’em the best time he knew how so that they both enjoyed themselves, and then go their separate ways. It had always worked out fine.

What had Beale done to him? She wasn’t his type. He liked them all soft and curvy and as easy-going as a summer day. Beale was all bright and slender and edge. She never backed off, probably not once in her life—lots of edge.

“Where was I?”

“Some damn squirrel dog.”

“Right. That dog couldn’t track a duck to save his life. I watched a rabbit scoot between his paws once, and all he did was try to jump aside like he was scared of his own shadow. But he loved them squirrels. He’d go sniffing after them round and round a tree or a bird feeder. Any place they went, he’d try to follow. More than once I saw him staring up into the branches trying to figure out how to climb up there.”

“Dumb dog. And your fake Southern accent sucks.”

Jim aimed a sausage-laden fork at him, “Never said he was smart and your fake human accent sucks too, so shut up. That dog was plumb crazy about squirrels. After a time they got to know him, you see. Got used to him sniffing around because he never did anything but follow them around. So, do you know what that squirrel dog of mine did?”

“I don’t care, but I’ll bet you’re gonna tell me.”

“I’ll tell you, Mark, and you will care because you are dumb like that squirrel dog. I was always the smart roommate. I got Christy, after all.”

“Because I introduced you.”

“But I got her.”

“She’s my cousin, fool. She’s smart and cute and funny, but it’s not like I was ever gonna get her.”

“But I got her,” Jim insisted once more.

Mark waved his fork in the air, “Yeah. Sure. Fine. Tell me about what the damn dog did.”

“See,” Jim flashed one of those grins of his that had done such a fine job of knocking Christy off her feet and into a decade of marriage and two seriously cute kids. “I told you you’d care. So, one day, I let this complete doofus of a mutt out the back door as usual. This time he walks up to one of the squirrels that’s nosing around under our bird feeder and picks him up.”

Mark eyed him.

“Now I’m not talking about little black squirrels. I’m talking about the big grays with the bushy tail and all.” He held up his hands like a fisherman telling a dogfish story instead of a squirrel story.

“Did he kill it?”

“First he turned to look at me, so proud of himself. The big gray gone all catatonic in his mouth. Then the squirrel freaks. Starts kicking and twisting, trying to get away. I swear to you on my love of your cousin, that dog’s eyes crossed as he tried to see what was going on in his own mouth. Drops the squirrel, bolts off around the house, we don’t see him for hours.”

Mark had to laugh. Jim always told a great story.

As his laugh eased off, Jim leaned in close, so Mark leaned in to hear.

“And the punch line? That squirrel ran about halfway back to the trees, looked around, and scooted right back to the bird feeder he’d been plundering to begin with. Damn dog never went out that door of the house again. We always had to use the front door, muddy paw prints in the hall all winter.”

Mark laughed again and ate a piece bacon. Jim always made him feel better.

“So what’s your point, buddy?”

Jim offered him another one of those beaming grins.

“The point of the story, buddy, is that Captain Rick Tully and Admiral James Parker have now finished strolling through here behind your back without you ending your illustrious career by chomping down on them like a dumb squirrel dog about a classified mission involving a woman on your squad. As if they wouldn’t see through that in a heartbeat.”

Mark spun around, but the two men were nowhere to be seen.

He turned slowly back to contemplate his mangled breakfast. He hated to admit that Jim was right. When it came to women, he’d always been the dumb one.