Anything, Anywhere, Anytime (6 page)

Humor faded from Rodeo's eyes. "Hey, man, that blows. No wonder you're cranky as hell. You know what? Why wait till the Braves' game to party? I've got a line on this great club in Germany, positively crawling with pilot groupies who can't wait to climb all over a guy in a flight suit. We'll be stopping over on our way back for at least a couple of days."

"No thanks." Depending on how things shook down with Monica, he'd either be a very happy, sated man or ready for a three-day drinking binge— his first since the night after Tina's funeral.

Which said more about Monica's importance in his life than he wanted to admit. He flicked off autopilot.

"Rodeo, if you're ready to log some flight time, I'd like to step in back to check in with Colonel Cullen about new satellite feed images on the drop zone."

Rodeo wadded his empty lunch sack. "No problem."

Jack's grip tightened around the stick as he waggled it lightly. "Ready, Rodeo, do you have the jet?"

The copilot wiggled the stick in tandem response to signify control. "Copy, Cobra. I've got the jet."

"Be back in a few." He reached to unplug his headset. Monica's voice echoed again. His hand paused. Her voice swirled around in his ears and head until she might as well have been sitting next to him.

And she wasn't doing anything more than talking with a Ranger medic in one of the other planes about...

what?

"Roger that," she answered. "Apply the butterfly bandages and I'll check it out once we land."

Jack thumbed the radio call button. "Budweiser two-five, this is Budweiser two-one. Is there a problem?

Over."

Monica's wry laugh cut the airwaves. "No problem, Cobra. A private popped the canister on his gas mask filter and cut his hand. Doesn't sound too bad, though. I'll let you know after I see him. Over."

Over. Yeah, it sure looked that way for them.

The airwaves crackled, Monica-free. Not that it helped. It didn't matter whether she was in his plane, another plane or across the damn ocean. She was in him, with him.

Jack unbuckled and shoved up from his seat. Tucking around and into the stairwell, he gave himself a mental head-thunk. Their showdown after the wedding—once they'd sobered up—had left him positive they were through, certain enough to confirm her appointment with an attorney on the first date they were both scheduled to be back home at Charleston AFB.

Except he wasn't like her, able to segment his life and feelings into neat Ziploc bags or folded packages with clips. He didn't know what the hell he was feeling, except that so much spun inside him along with her voice that he wanted time to let it all settle out.

Boot thuds echoed down the last step, the belly of the plane sprawling, the metal cavern packed full of communications equipment and paratroopers in DCUs—desert camouflage uniforms. He had two weeks with Monica either to figure out what went wrong and fix it so they stood a chance of her being Monica
Korba.
Or decide how to put Monica
Hyatt
out of his head.

Clear mind-set. Simple enough.

Except somehow either task seemed tougher to accomplish than dodging antiaircraft fire while offloading a cargo hold of Rangers into a terrorist compound.

Clearing the last step in the aircraft stairwell, Monica stared out the yawning opening as the ramp lowered to unload the paratroopers onto the tarmac in Rubistan. That same widening portal offered a crystal-clear view of Jack's C-17 parked a few yards away. Tip to tail, 174 feet long with 169 feet of wingspan, it dominated the landscape with its impressive power and size much the same way Jack filled her mind.

She ducked through the side hatch to the stairs leading out into the blinding desert sun. A mild blast from the eighty-degree spring day hit her, preferable to the frigid temps of night or sweltering heats of high noon.

Slowly the decrepit airfield came into focus. Oil stains mottled the cracked parking area. Gritty wind howled across the endless expanse of desert and rock with gusts not daunted in the least by the two-story main building. Sand scraped against peeling paint while the sun baked until the color had blurred to nondescript beige with time. Built in the fifties perhaps, the abandoned terminal extended with rusted hangars spoking off to the sides.

Functional.

Gripping the handrail, she descended, feet finally hitting asphalt. She blinked until her eyes finished adjusting. Rubistan, where her sister waited not more than two hundred miles away. Her boots itched to storm the compound now, to save her sister from one more minute of hell. Not wise, of course.

She needed some of Jack's patience. And if that failed her, she'd lose herself in work. She plowed through the press of people. Surely the medivac team monitoring in-processing could use an extra pair of hands.

Monica threaded through the crowd streaming from the back of the cargo planes, Army troopers in tan DCUs mixed with crew dogs in desert-tan flight suits.

Jack.

His flight suit might be covering every inch of him, but her memory blazed with the image of him striding away from her. Naked. Muscle and man. Once her man.

Bodies jostled around her in an organized pandemonium of sweat and voices, gear and guns. Problem was, she genuinely liked the guy. How could she not? Funny, hot, too damned courageous for his own good.

If only he could apply his attention to detail in the workplace to a relationship, but in day-to-day life, details rolled over him. Problems? What problems? For Jack, they simply didn't exist. Will it so, smile, and problems took care of themselves.

Except life had taught her differently. Life was tough. Keeping it on track was even tougher. She'd been working her tail off since she was nine years old when her mama walked out the door, leaving her behind with two-year-old Sydney.

Daddy's union-wage-purchased, three-bedroom tract house hadn't stood a chance against a big black Mercedes cruising into town. The guy in the back seat was foreign, which was enough for Mama. She'd always been certain overseas meant better, even tried to hook her kids' names on those dreams.

Monica thanked God seven times a day for the fact that Daddy hadn't listened to Mama when it came time to fill out birth certificates. He'd vowed he must have been so excited over his first baby he just goofed.

He'd
meant
to write Monaco, he would add with a wink to Monica.

Next pregnancy, Mama wised up and chose a more conventional name to house her dream. Sydney—for fantasies of Outback rogues.

Fantasies? Reality scraped against Monica in grainy gusts that filled her mouth until she wanted to spit.

A beige hangar with rusted rivets gaped open with the advance team and security forces waiting to escort troops, some to barracks, some to receive additional vaccinations. Her cue to hightail it forward. Troops divided, most pouring toward the airport entrances, a hundred others toward the hangar. Bringing up the rear, a private shuffled forward, CD player in hand, headphones sealed to his ears and two butterfly bandages on his fingers.

Monica tapped his shoulder. "Hey, Private Santuci?"

The private slid his earphones down around his neck, heavy-metal music pulsing through. "Hello, Major."

He saluted with his bandaged hand.

"Glad you kept your fingers in place. Make sure you stop by and see me after the rest of your immunizations before you head off to your quarters so I can make sure you don't need stitches."

"Yes, ma'am, but mess hall first—" the dark-haired soldier rubbed his belly "—then quarters. I'm a growing boy." All six feet four inches of Army soldier grinned.

"I promise not to take long."

"Thanks, ma'am." He saluted with his bandaged hand again before replacing his earphones to pass time in line. His gaze strayed longingly toward the entrance to the mess hall like a kid ready for McDonald's.

Apparently he'd never eaten here before.

Except for the uniform, he actually looked more like a kid on his way to the golden arches to super size his meal, maybe twenty-one at the most. Hell, he even had acne on his chin. And yet he was a trained warrior, ready to put his life on the line for her sister.

The notion humbled her.

"Is he okay?"

Monica jumped, turned, found Jack, not that she needed to look. Of course she did, anyway, finding the sun showcased the hint of curl in his dark hair after hours under a headset.

She folded her arms over her chest. "Minor cut, nothing that should keep him off duty."

"Good."

Jack's face filled her eyes, so very mature with the hardened angles of years and strength. She tore her gaze down and away to the open hangar with tables manned by medic personnel. "I really need to get to work."

"Okay, then." He adjusted his M-9 in the holster on his survival vest. "Don't let me stop you."

"I'll catch up with you later." She charged past.

A long shadow slanted in front of her. Following. Swallowing her. "Jack! Why don't you go ahead to the mess hall and I'll find you later?"

He smiled. Shrugged. "Remember our deal back at Nellis? I'm gonna be stuck to you like a flight suit at high noon."

The smile didn't fool her or dilute the set of his stubborn jaw. "Okay. Fine. Keep up."

She walked faster. Her extra shadow kept pace into the hangar, looming while she talked to the doctor in charge and set up her station at a table with a folding chair for patients. God, she needed him gone before he sliced through her weary resistance like that metal through Santuci's fingers.

She pivoted, sighed. "Please, Jack, I'm here. I'm safe. You can step back at least a couple of feet. I need to tend to my patients, which I can't do with you hovering over me. So unless you need another anthrax shot?"

He paled. "Nope. All set," he asserted quickly. "Already had my first two in the series and won't need the third for another three months."

"Big baby." Stifling a grin, she turned away, reorganizing her medicine bottles in alphabetical order. "Go help someone else. You'll still be able to see me and keep track of my personal safety."

"Mon, you should know I'm not the kind to leave the little woman to fend for herself."

"Little woman?" Anger whipped her around to face him.

He grinned. Just grinned that sexy, unrepentant smile. And damn it, she couldn't help but smile in return. He always could charm her out of a mood, all the more reason to keep her distance. "You are so bad."

"I know. I'm in need of reform. Wanna spank me?"

And then other times he wasn't so charming. "Oh, yes," she said through gritted teeth. "I definitely want to."

Reaching over her tray of bottles and syringes, she whipped a pair of latex gloves from a box. Bumped elbows with her hardheaded hubby. She looked up to snap again.

But couldn't push more angry words free.

Deep brown eyes met hers. So close. The din around her faded from a roar to a dull hum. He raised his hand, took his time, as always, which gave her plenty of time to pull away. She didn't.

Jack tucked a straggling strand of hair behind her ear. "How did it go so wrong?"

Heavy silence settled between them while voices swelled again. Humvees revved outside. An intercom system barked sporadic tinny announcements.

A cleared throat snipped the tension, if not the longing.

Monica peered beyond Jack to find Colonel Drew Cullen waiting with folder in hand. A welcome distraction.

In-processing showed no favors to rank. The colonel in charge dropped into the folding chair. Colonel Cullen, who'd probably once worn earphones around his neck but now wore lines of life, worries, work.

Lines like the ones recently added to Jack's face.

Had she put them there? How many more would she add before their divorce was final?

Divorce. The thought of cutting him out of her life stung like a needle in her chest. Not that Jack showed signs of leaving her side anytime soon.

Monica turned her back on him so she could concentrate on prepping the next injection. "Roll up your sleeve, Colonel. This one's going to burn a bit."

If only life gave warnings before owies.

"Just get to it, Major." Cullen grinned, a few years falling away until he looked a little less foreboding. He crooked his arm until his bicep bulged.

"Relax, Colonel—" she snapped her glove then tapped his flexed muscle "—and it will hurt less."

Jack growled, low and soft and totally predatory. Good God. Thank heaven either the Colonel didn't notice or pretended well. Sheesh, she hadn't even noticed that Colonel Cullen actually was rather hunky until Jack started with the Cro-Magnon growl.

She swabbed, jabbed.

"Well, what do ya know?" The Colonel smiled as she pulled the needle free and swabbed again.

"The third shot in the series doesn't hurt as much as the— Son of a bitch!"

Colonel Cullen winced when the burn apparently kicked in, popped a LifeSaver in his mouth.

She stretched a Band-Aid across his skin. "Sorry about that, Colonel."

Jack dipped into her sight line. "You didn't call him a baby."

Monica peeled off her gloves. "He outranks me."

"Wise move, Major." Hand extending, the Colonel offered his roll of LifeSavers. "Here, Korba. Candy for your boo-boo."

Jack snorted—but took the candy. "Thanks, sir."

Boys.

Cullen unrolled his DCU sleeve. "Korba, meet me in the chow hall after you unload your gear and we can talk more about the satellite images of the drop zone."

Thank God for senior officers and their orders. Now Jack would have to leave.

"Yes, sir." Jack called over his shoulder to Monica, "See you in the mess hall?"

"If you're still there when I'm finished."

"I'll be there." His words echoed clear, the rafters throwing them back at her a couple more times for good measure.

Watching Jack's long legs swallow distance with lazy strides, she didn't doubt him for a minute. She knew the guy well enough to expect his persistence, but she didn't understand why. He couldn't envision how they would mend their differences any more than she could. He just expected great sex— okay, awesome sex