Course of Action: Crossfire (10 page)

“Dan!”

“Open it. Please?” He nudged the box near her hand, which was still resting on his chest.

She shook her head. Dan slid his arm behind her back, curving it around her waist, keeping her close as she cupped the box into her hands. “I—I never expected this, Dan.”

“I did.” He watched with trepidation as she opened it. Never had he wanted anything more than this moment with Cait. “Do you like them?” His voice was a little strained.

“Oh, Dan...” Cait pressed her hand against her lips, giving him a teary look.

“Are they okay?”

She looked down at the set of rings. “They're beautiful.” She held the box up so that the moonlight washed over it. “Is that a green diamond, Dan?”

“It is.” He gave her a concerned look. “I know it's not the exact color of your eyes, but when I saw it, I wanted it for you.”

Cait gently touched the small diamond glittering fiercely in the gold setting. “I love it.” She looked at him, whispering, “I love you...” She leaned forward, her hand against his jaw, giving him a long, slow kiss.

Dan caressed her nape as they eased apart. “Marry me, Cait? We've waited a hell of a long time for one another. I don't want to spend another day apart from you if I can help it.” He lost his smile, seeing distress come into her large, readable eyes.

“I'll marry you, Dan,” she whispered unsteadily. “But...not right now. My parents are in deep mourning for Ben. Could we wait a bit? Give them the time they need to get over his loss?”

Dan tucked her beneath his arm, drawing her against him. “Of course. We don't even have to say anything about this to them until you think the timing is right. This is just between you and me, Cait.” He pulled back enough to meet her darkened eyes, wanting to reassure her. “Okay?”

Cait nodded, pressed her cheek against his chest, giving him a squeeze. “Yes, thank you for understanding.”

“Your parents are hurting,” Dan said gruffly, kissing her hair. “I get that. But, Cait, I love you. I'm not going to let any more time slip by before I tell you what I want to share with you. I want to wake up every morning in this bed with you in my arms.” He caressed her warm, soft shoulder, watching hope and love come to her eyes as she studied him. “And if that means waiting a year before we marry, I'm fine with that. What I need is you. And now I have you.” His voice deepened with emotion. “I'm not ever letting you go.”

Sighing, Cait whispered, “I feel the same way. And it may take a year before my parents emerge from that tunnel of grief. I mean...I still cry suddenly, out of the blue, and when I do, I know it's grief working its way through me.”

“I know,” Dan rasped, sliding his hand against her hair, holding her tighter for a moment.

“You, too?”

“Yes. He was like a brother to me, Cait. Ben will be in our hearts and our memories from now on. I'll never forget him, but your parents have a different path to take to mourn the loss of their only son.” Dan knew Cait's grief would last a long time, as well. She and Ben had been so damned close.

“Thank you for understanding,” she wobbled, sniffing.

“I want you to be happy, Cait,” he growled. “I'll do everything I can to always see that smile in your eyes.”

“You do, believe me, you do,” Cait whispered, kissing his chest.

Dan knew that Cait had choices to make. She could opt to wear the green diamond engagement ring. Or not. Her mother would spot it immediately, and that could turn into an upsetting situation for Cait and her. And them. Dan didn't want to put Cait in that kind of a position. He gently eased the box from her hand. “Tell you what. We'll just put the rings in the bedside table for now until you feel it's the right time to tell your parents. Then, when it's right, you can let me slip that engagement ring on your finger.” Because Dan could feel Cait being torn over this very issue. And he didn't want her to feel guilty. She still had a lot of grieving to do first.

It wasn't his intent to pressure her, rather, to let her know unequivocally that he loved her and he wanted her as his wife. They'd waited so long for one another. The fact that they were living together and would continue to do so, sent a very clear, nonverbal signal to her parents, anyway. They knew what was coming sooner or later, but to push it too soon on the three of them would be a bad move. Dan could feel the tension in Cait dissolve beneath his words. “That an okay plan, sweetheart?”

“Yes, wonderful. Thank you...”

Dan slid her hair aside, nibbling on her nape, feeling the goose bumps rise in the wake of his tender kisses and gentle nips. She moved her breasts against him. She was so sensual. So sexual. And so in love with him. He gave her flesh a nip and then soothed the area with his tongue.

“We have one more thing to talk about,” he told her.

Cait lifted her chin, melting beneath his dark, burning look. “What else could there possibly be to talk about?”

“I've been busy since I started living here with you,” Dan said, his thumb sliding across the warm slope of her cheek. Looking deeply into her aroused eyes, her lashes framing their deep green color, he said, “I'm not going to stay in the Army, Cait.”

Stunned, she sat up, staring openmouthed at him. “What? I mean, why? You love the Army, Dan! And your leg is healing wonderfully. There's every chance that you could meet all the physical qualifications to remain in Special Forces.”

He heard the stunned quality in her voice and saw it in her eyes. He smiled gently at her. “Would it bother you if I left the Army? Start a real life here with you instead?” Cait's face crumpled with emotions and tears leaped to her eyes. Yeah, he had his answer all right. And Dan had known all along that Cait was trying to steel herself against his leaving once he was well enough to go back into Special Forces. She would wait and worry. He'd be gone on deployments for six months to a year at a time. She'd be alone. Again. Like always. They'd be separated. Like always.

“A-are you serious, Dan?” Cait wiped the tears from her eyes, her heart beating with hope over the possibility.

He caressed her cheek and leaned over, giving her a quick kiss on the mouth. “I've already got a job lined up for when my enlistment is up. That's eight months from now, Cait. I'll be the head of security for a shipping company here in Honolulu. It'll be a nine-to-five job, five days a week.” He smiled a little, emotion thick in his voice. “It means I'll be coming home to you every night. We can have a life, Cait. A
real
life.”

“Oh, God.” Her voice trembled and more tears fell. “I—I never expected this, Dan.”

“I know you didn't,” he soothed, kissing her wrinkled brow, her cheek, and tasting her salty tears as they fell. “Are you okay with it?”

“More than okay with it.”

Dan searched her radiant expression, saw relief shining in her eyes. “I've lost so many years away from you, Cait. I don't want any more separations. I don't want you worrying about whether I'm going to get killed or not. You've lost Ben. That's enough...”

With a moan of joy, Cait threw herself into his arms, clinging to him, holding him as tight as she could. “Oh, Dan! I love you so much! So much!” She sobbed, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder.

Closing his eyes, Dan relaxed against the headboard, the woman he loved more than life itself in his arms. She'd been so brave, so strong, for so long by herself. He swept his fingers through her hair, caressing her graceful back, holding her close while she cried out her relief. And he fully understood her tears this time. Dan knew Cait had been dreading his going back and being deployed once more. He would catch her at odd moments when they were together when he could almost hear her thoughts. Cait would have worried herself endlessly if he'd gone back into Special Forces.

He loved her, and this was about more than what he wanted out of life from now on. It was what they needed in order to make a go at their relationship. And he knew, in order for them to have a fair chance at success, it meant giving up something he loved because he loved Cait more. It was that simple. Dan had no regrets about the decision.

Her sobs lessened and he could feel her warm tears running down his chest. Cait's sense of relief was palpable. Dan knew she'd never have asked him to leave the Army. She, of all people, understood it—what he did and how much he loved what he did. Now, as he kissed her hair, caressed her small shoulder, she knew that he loved her more than anything. They would have to wait to break the news of their engagement to her parents. In the meantime, they would have a chance to really live together. Loving one another. Making the compromises he knew would have to be made so they could work as the good team that they were. They were already, automatically, doing that precisely because they did love one another. Nuzzling into her hair, kissing the top of her ear and angling her head, he captured her soft, willing mouth. Just the simple act of kissing Cait was enough to make Dan happy to turn his life inside out for her. He'd found love a long time ago, nursed it, nurtured it and finally been brave enough to act upon it.

Cait deserved a man like him, who was loyal and true. Dan knew he could be all that and so much more to this healer who'd mended so many people's lives. She had a world of patience, of kindness and compassion for those who were suffering. She brought out the goodness in him, and he wanted to spend the rest of his life returning all that she had selflessly given to him. Knowing how much Cait loved children, Dan knew that once they were officially married with her parents' blessing, it probably wouldn't be too long before she became pregnant.

Heat rolled through him as he splayed his large hand out across her soft belly. Someday, she would carry his son or daughter within her. It only made Dan love Cait more fiercely than before. She would be such a good mother, and he would be sure not to emulate the broken, dysfunctional home life of his childhood with her or their children. Life was too short and Dan knew every day counted. And he would relish each one with this woman who loved him against all odds. Forever.

* * * * *

Desert
Heat

Merline Lovelace

Chapter 1

“M
ajan one, this is Majan one-five.”

“Go ahead, one-five.”

Master Sergeant Pete Winborne kneeled beside the injured crewman, shielding him with his body. Two other pararescuemen, known in the military as PJs, worked frantically to staunch the blood spurting from a femoral artery. The remaining three PJs on Pete's team stood with weapons ready, their faces grim and their eyes on the figures that had just topped a distant dune. Squinting through the shimmering desert heat, he radioed the heavily armed Pave Hawk helicopter circling overhead.

“Enemy at one-two-zero degrees. Four hundred meters. Target description, troops in the open.”

“Roger, one-five, we see 'em.”

The Royal Air Force chopper broke hard right and acquired the target. Pete kept one eye on the deadly tracers that arced from the side-mounted 50-caliber machine gun, the other on the PJs now transferring their Code Alpha to the rescue litter.

Part combat troops, part emergency ER docs, these pararescuemen had completed two years of brutal training to land here, in the searing desert of southern Oman, working desperately to package a critically wounded troop for the flight back to base.

“Majan one-five, target destroyed but we see a second wave of big uglies to the north.”

Hell! That was all they needed. Another wave of hostiles. A quick glance at the wounded troop showed that his squad had the man stabilized enough to move. Jaw tight, Pete called for extraction.

“Majan one, ready for ex-fil.”

“Roger that, one-five.”

Ordinarily the Pave Hawk would set down so the PJs could slide the litter into the open bay and scramble aboard. But this area of operations contained nothing but mountainous sand dunes. Not a level patch of dirt anywhere in sight. So the Pave Hawk went into a hover, throwing up a maelstrom of whirling, biting sand, and lowered the hoist. Working with grim efficiency, the PJs attached the litter to the hoist. Once it and the PJ accompanying it had been hauled into the bay, the remainder of the squad went up.

While one of the team started an IV and another cut off their patient's uniform to check for additional wounds, the Pave Hawk banked sharply and ripped across the dunes. The powerful, much-modified Sikorsky chopper could travel at more than 220 miles per hour. In this instance, every second counted.

They touched down at Thumrait Air Base exactly seventeen minutes later. Well within the vital one-hour parameter to locate, stabilize and transport a Code Alpha to a field hospital. Pete verified the time and sat back on his heels, grinning.

“You did it, dudes.”

Whoops and high fives erupted all around. Even the “patient” popped up to slap palms. A PJ himself, the Omani sergeant hadn't been very happy about playing the injured soldier in this live-fire exercise. Drenched now in fake blood and sucking saline through an IV, he was only too happy to extract the needle and swab off some of the blood.

They debriefed at the TOC—Tactical Operations Center—before breaking down and cleaning their weapons and stowing their gear. A battle-hardened team of US, UAE and Omani airmen, they'd been at Thumrait for almost two weeks now. Pete couldn't fault the facilities, the accommodations or the men he'd come to know and respect during this combined exercise arranged by Prince Malik al Said. A distant relative of Oman's ruling sultan, the prince served as Chief of Operations for the Royal Air Force and was determined to ensure his country could meet any threat in this dangerous and highly volatile region.

Pete had acted as the prince's escort during his visit to the USAF Pararescue School at Kirtland Air Force Base, New Mexico, last year. He'd also flown several training missions with Prince Malik. In his opinion, the Omani's keen intelligence and skills as a pilot more than matched his reputation as an international jet-setter.

A very well-deserved reputation, according to the tabloids. Which was why Pete wasn't surprised to see al Said's face smiling up from the front page of one of the newspapers tossed on a table in the TOC's lounge. The face beside the prince's, however, stopped him in his tracks.

“Hey, Najjar!” He hailed one of the Omani PJs just entering the lounge. “Translate this headline for me, will you?”

Najjar's English was a whole lot better than Pete's limited Arabic. He needed only a brief glance at the headline to reel off a quick translation.

“‘By special invitation from Prince Malik al Said, internationally renowned opera star Riley Fairchild will perform tomorrow evening at the Royal Opera House.'”

Christ! It
was
her.

Riley Fairchild.

Blonde, beautiful and a complete bitch.

That last was according to her mother. Meredith Fairchild's caustic commentary on her ungrateful offspring should have sent Pete running for cover when he'd encountered both mother and daughter at Josh and Aly's wedding. God knew, he'd accumulated enough scars from his own marriage to a spoiled diva.

Head cheerleader Nancy Sue Collins had starred in the wet dreams of just about every male attending high school in Rush Springs, Texas. As curvaceous as she was addicted to the adulation of her lovesick admirers, she'd picked Pete—the football team's all-state cornerback—to be her chosen mate. She'd even strutted her stuff and told everyone how proud she was when Pete and his fellow Sidewinders all enlisted the day after graduation.

Then came basic and twenty grueling months of Special Ops training. Didn't take Nancy Sue long to discover the wife of a low-ranking trainee on a big, bustling military base was a small frog in a
very
large pond. She hightailed it back to Texas before Pete finished Phase One of PJ training. He got served with divorce papers halfway through Phase Two. Six months later, Nancy Sue married the wealthiest man in Rush Springs. The new-and-used car dealer was twice her age, a fact she dismissed with a defiant toss of her hair when she bumped into Pete at Josh and Aly's reception.

She'd shown up uninvited, he'd learned later. But since she'd been part of their crowd way back when, no one said anything. Pete would be the first to admit she'd looked as lush and sensual as ever. But her brittle smile and the champagne she'd guzzled nonstop suggested her second marriage wasn't working out any better than the first.

Which was probably why Pete had tried to ignore his ex-wife and zero in instead on the delectable Riley Fairchild. Despite her mother's bitter comment, the gorgeous singer had a tumble of honey-blond hair and the serene, almost ethereal face of a Madonna. Ha! Some Madonna! She'd cut off Pete at the knees with an icy stare and about six well-chosen words. He was still licking his wounds when she got up to serenade the bride and groom at their reception.

Pete wasn't into opera. Didn't know Puccini from Pink Floyd. And he didn't find out until later that Riley Fairchild had made a phenomenally successful crossover into pop. At the time, all he knew was that her incredible rendition of “I Will Always Love You” brought tears to Aly's eyes and a fist-sized lump to everyone else's throat.

Now she was here. In Oman. Performing tomorrow night at the Royal Opera House in Muscat. Helluva small world, Pete thought wryly as he departed the TOC.

The desert heat hit him like a balled fist. He should be used to it after almost two weeks in Oman. He wasn't. Squinting through his Ray-Ban sunglasses, he started across the compound. Originally an oil depot, Thumrait had been converted to a busy military base. Oman's ruling sultan had allowed the US, UK and Allied air forces to stage out of Thumrait during Desert Shield, Desert Storm and the on-going global war on terror. In support of those operations, the US had established a major war reserve matériel depot here. Row after row of sand-colored storage facilities were filled to the rafters with medical supplies, munitions, fuels, vehicles, rations and a whole host of other consumables.

Angling between two rows of rectangular warehouses, Pete made for the Containerized Housing Units that served as housing for transient personnel. The boxcar-like CHUs came equipped with air-conditioning, phone and data links, and hot and cold running water. All the comforts of home—if your home was a six-by-twenty-foot box. Rows of CHUs stretched almost to the razor-wire-topped fence protecting the perimeter. The fence kept out the locals but not the wind-driven sand. Mountains of it piled up every day, obscuring walkways and obstructing runways that had to be swept continuously by the army of locals employed at the base.

Pete shared a two-man CHU with the ranking Omani noncom for the duration of their combined Special Operations exercise. Faisal was at the Tactical Ops Center, preparing for a night exercise, so Pete treated himself to a long, cool shower before padding naked to the minifridge and popping the top of an ice-cold beer. Although Oman was a Muslim country and alcohol forbidden to its natives, visitors were permitted to indulge in the privacy of their homes, hotel rooms or on-base quarters.

The Heineken went a long way to washing the sand from his throat and gullet, but the call from the TOC some moments later almost made him choke on it.

“Sergeant Winborne, we're patching through a call for you.”

“From?”

“Prince Malik al Said. Hold, please.”

Hell! Nothing like standing stark naked, beer in hand and taking a call from royalty. Trying to ignore the air-conditioning that was now shrinking certain parts of his anatomy to minuscule proportions, Pete set aside his beer.

“I just received a report on the exercise this morning,” the prince said in flawless English when he came on line. Educated at the École Spéciale Militaire de Saint-Cyr in France, with follow-on flight training in the United States and Great Britain, Malik al Said was fluent in a half dozen languages. “I'm pleased, Pete. Very pleased.”

“So am I, Your Highness. Our guys did good.”

“But pararescue... Only the best of the best are worthy to become PJs.”

Pete wouldn't argue with that. Every PJ worth his salt trained every day to make their creed—That Others May Live—more than just a slogan. Like the air commandos before them, they would do whatever it took to rescue stranded troops or downed crew members. They could enter hostile territory by parachute, scuba, motorcycles, snowmobiles or skis. Climb up or rappel down sheer mountain precipices. Fight their way out of deadly ambushes and firefights. They were also fully qualified EMTs. Their brutal training regimen resulted in the highest washout rate among any of the military branches, including Army Rangers and Navy SEALs. Less than fifteen percent of all personnel who entered PJ school earned the right to wear the coveted maroon beret.

“You must convey my congratulations to the men,” the prince continued.

“I will, sir.”

“And to celebrate, I'm ordering a two-day stand-down. Rest, my friend, and enjoy this well-deserved break.”

“Thank you, I will. Or...”

The idea that popped into Pete's head was so crazy he decided later it had to have been the beer talking.

“Yes?” the prince asked.

“I saw in the papers that Riley Fairchild is performing in Muscat tomorrow evening. I met her once, back in the States. Briefly.”

“Did you? Then you must come and hear her perform. I shall tell my people to have a ticket waiting for you at the box office. And,” the prince added after a brief pause, “I will have them arrange an appointment with my tailor. The event tomorrow evening is white-tie, as I'm sure you must know.”

Hell, no, he didn't know!

“You cannot wear your dress uniform,” al Said cautioned. “Not in such a setting.”

Translation: Not with Oman walking a delicate tightrope between East and West. There were sure to be high-powered diplomats there from both sides of the power struggle. No need to flash a US uniform loaded with combat badges and campaign ribbons in their faces.

Pete started to tell the prince to forget the whole thing, but al Said didn't give him a chance. “My people will attend to the details and call you,” he said briskly. “Go with God, my friend.”

“Your Highness...”

Too late. The prince had cut the connection.

Smart, Winborne! Real smart! Talk yourself
out
of a couple lazy-ass days and
into
a fancy dress function up in Muscat!

Shaking his head, Pete finished his beer, tossed the can into the trash and stretched out on his rack. The mental and physical stress of the past few hours should have seeped out of his pores the way it always did, slowly and with a detailed, step-by-step review of each phase of the rescue operation just completed.

Instead, he found himself prey to a different kind of tension. This one settled low in his belly and knotted just a little tighter each time his thoughts drifted to Riley Fairchild.

What the hell! So she had the personality of a she-wolf with a thorn in her paw, she could still sing like nothing Pete had ever heard. It would almost be worth it to make the trip up to Muscat and gussy up in white tie and tails.

Almost.

* * *

Thumrait Air Base was a little over 900 kilometers southwest of Oman's capital city. Ten-plus hours by truck or four-wheel drive. Even longer if you climbed aboard a camel and followed the ancient frankincense trading route through the desert.

Pete might have used the arduous journey as an excuse to bow out if a Royal Air Force C-130 Hercules didn't made regular runs between the base and Muscat. So he hauled his butt aboard the cargo plane a little after eight the next morning and was in the capital by eleven.

The ride in from the airport took him through the near blinding sunshine along spotless new highways. Muscat wasn't as flashy as Dubai or Abu Dhabi, its glitzy neighbors to the north. No world's tallest buildings or monster shopping malls with indoor ski slopes. Although modern and more progressive, Oman incorporated its past into its present.

The capital city formed a crescent fronting the cobalt waters of the Arabian Sea. Red, barren mountains ringed its perimeter, holding the desert at bay. The old section of the city was a jumble of narrow streets and busy souks fronting the harbor, where dhows laden with silks and spices from all over the world once found anchorage. Oil tankers, cargo ships, the royal yachts and the occasional cruise ship now rode the turquoise waters.