Hot Point (15 page)

Somewhere around first light she shifted and slowly stretched without making any move to escape his arms. It was a long, languid process that he wanted to catalog in every detail. The way her instep slid down the inside of his calf. The way her hand slid from where it had been tucked by her chin, slowly outward to explore across his chest.

The pattern shifted when she hooked a leg over his hips. He'd been rock hard since her first sigh of awakening, but now with the coming dawn, she was aware of it as well.

“Hmm.” She made a small hum of pleasure as she kissed the center of his chest. He could feel the tiny vibrations from her lips.

Then she shifted to kneel over him. Her eyes were still half closed, as if she were sleepwalking. Her hair now flowed about her, halfway between Lady Godiva and Cousin It from
The
Addams
Family
, her face and upper torso invisible behind a veil made entirely of hair. The ends tickled his bare chest. When she leaned down to kiss him, it felt as if he were disappearing into a golden cave that held only them.

Still moving as if more asleep than awake, she took some protection from the supply that had been seriously dented last night and shifted down to sheathe him.

With a deep sigh, she settled over him.

The slow sunlight was a revelation. When she leaned back, her golden skin and perfect shape were open to inspection. When she leaned forward—hunching against the pleasure, her fingers digging into his chest—then his hands were strictly on instrument flight rules, plunging through the gold-blond shield and exploring passages and curves that were beyond his vision.

He lay there, marveling at the look and feel of her, expanding his universe of appreciation for this woman who was taking him flying. The ground fire of last night was building in a spark here and flare-up there until with no more warning than a whispered “Oh God,” they both flashed over into frantic need.

Denise bucked and writhed each time he drove his hips upward into her. She clamped her hands over where his had already been greedily fondling her perfect breasts and used that support as leverage to drive down against him. They writhed and gyrated as if they were the very heart of the firestorm.

Then their groans matched, found a common flow—a shared rhythm as in sync as any music he'd ever found—and finally an explosion that forced hard, gut-wrenching gasps from each of them; it was the only sound he was capable of at that moment. The roaring maelstrom of release had them both shuddering again and again as it rolled over them.

Afterward, after they'd pressed tightly against each other to sustain every last possible moment of release, she slowly collapsed onto him. Still joined, she lay on his chest, her head tucked under his chin.

Her hair now draped as a smooth cascade along his arms and shoulders. He managed to snag a corner of the blanket without disturbing her and pull it over them.

With a deep sigh of contentment, Denise seemed to go to sleep upon him, every limb so loose, every muscle so relaxed that they flowed together.

“I've never made love outdoors before.” Her voice was no more than a murmur.

“Well, I've had sex outdoors before, but never made love like this.” He'd meant it as a joke and a compliment.

It should have been a line and nothing more, but it hadn't come out that way.

Not even a little.

Had he actually just said those words? Had he told a woman that he loved her?

Even worse, had he just told himself that he loved a woman?

That was nowhere in his repertoire. The fact that they'd finished body-shuddering sex moments ago wasn't even a factor he could hide behind. It hadn't sounded that way when he said it. He knew the sound of a stray comment after good sex and this wasn't it. And attaching a word as simple as “good” to what they'd just done was wrong as well.

He sort of peeked around inside his brain, inspected dusty corners looking for some deep-rooted panic, but it just wasn't there. What he found was that he was totally gone on this quiet, petite woman who laughed at his jokes and made love as if they were the ones who'd discovered the concept.

His world had shifted, but nothing else had changed. The sky above was still blue and sunlit. The woman beneath the blanket with him was still warm and languid and felt absolutely perfect there. Without disturbing the blanket, he ran his hand down her back, up that marvelous curve of waist, onto hip, then back up the slender thigh where her knees were still tucked up alongside him.

“You're going to have to make me a promise.” Denise offered a sigh again.

“Sure. What's that?” Vern was pretty pleased that he'd managed to keep the choke out of his voice. A woman requesting a promise was a really bad sign.

“We're going to have to do this as often possible in the future.” Her voice slurred. “I had no idea that's what sex was supposed to be like.” Moments later he was sure she was back asleep while lying on his chest.

He allowed his hand to continue to roam, slowly, gently, appreciating every sensation. Maybe he should have tried being a sculptor so that he could re-create such a form, for he'd certainly never felt anything so magnificent.

Meanwhile his brain kept trying to kick into a panic mode as bad as that fire whorl.

When she said “future,” did she mean as long as they were going out? Or did she mean…the future?

He lay wide awake throughout her nap, which lasted until the sun was well above the trees. Even then, it still had shed no more light on how he was feeling about her requested promise.

Or about the fact he wasn't trying to take it back.

Denise fought against her own worst instincts as they returned to MHA's base. It was lunchtime and her body was hungry. Breakfast had been…forgotten. She hadn't wanted to waste a second of her time with Vern on something as mundane as food.

With him being of a similar mind, they hadn't. So, except for the empty stomach, her body felt glorious. At some time or other in the last eighteen hours, Vern had paid special attention to every single inch of her. She had been quite overwhelmed by her own desire to do the same with him.

Denise had never explored a man's body before. Oh, she'd enjoyed them, some of them. But she'd never explored how a man's skin shivered when she brushed her hair over it. Or how he sighed when she cupped and held him, nothing much else required until he was writhing beneath her touch. Or the time she'd teased him so much that he threw her down on her back and simply took her hard and fast in broad daylight as she wrapped her legs around his hips to keep him as close as possible.

And laughter. Laughter was not familiar to her, but with Vern it was deeply integrated into the lovemaking, sometimes bursting forth over the sheer glory of how they each felt. Saying this was the best sex of her life was like comparing a Black Hawk to her childhood tricycle.

Saying that she was about to be more embarrassed than ever before in her life was equally true.

It was lunchtime at the airbase, and most of MHA's staff were seated at the picnic tables as Vern flew over the field.

Malcolm spotted them coming and rushed across the airstrip to the flatbed service truck. He grabbed a radio and guided Vern in until Denise's shop-box was once again set back on the truck bed as gently as it had been taken away.

Once Vern set them down in Firehawk Oh-Three's parking spot, Denise found that she was terribly reluctant to step down.

What if the tentative beginnings they'd found unraveled in front of everyone's scrutiny? She shoved that thought aside, kicked it in a footlocker, and flipped the lid shut.

What if it had been nothing but a facade? What if they'd both been fooling themselves? That one she clopped on the head with a hammer, dumped down a manhole, and then slid the massive iron cover back in place. For good measure, she imagined a couple of big bolts and torqued them down with an air-impact wrench set on maximum.

What if this meant even half as much to Vern as it did to her?

That one finally stopped her. She would take courage from the fact that she hadn't scared him off yet. She'd revealed more of herself to Vern in the last week than she'd revealed to Jasper in a year. And still he was…holding her door open for her to climb down.

“You're done?”

He reached in and undid her harness. Took her hand to help her down, not that it was a big step. Their packs were set side by side on the ground. She hadn't even heard the heavy cargo door open and close.

“How do you want to play this to the public, Denise?” He cocked his head sideways, and she turned to look.

Through the glass of the still-open helicopter's door, she could see the picnic tables with most of the crews gathered about them. She was in a small, shadowed triangular box of safety at the moment: the chopper behind her, the helicopter door between her and the rest of the MHA team, and Vern.

“We can play casual and circumspect. Or we can be public and to hell with them.”

This time she didn't look out at the people. She looked up at Vern Taylor. His sunglasses were dangling from a shirt pocket by the earpiece so that she could see the softness of his dark eyes. Waiting for her. Giving the choice to her.

“Which would you prefer?” she asked but felt something shifting inside her. Felt the layers of the dutiful, careful, overly self-conscious Denise Conroy slipping away even as she asked.

Vern shook his head slightly. “Lady's choice. Though I'm sure they're speculating even more the longer we linger here.”

Denise didn't look away from his eyes. She could feel that wildness come over her. The wildness that had made her go to dinner with him, slide into his bed, and finally strip down right in front of him at the water's edge in broad daylight.

Not looking away, she drew courage from him that maybe, just maybe, she was okay. And maybe, just maybe she might be worthy of someone who really cared about her. Someone like Vern Taylor.

Once she followed that logic…

She shifted sideways out of the triangular box of “good girl” and helicopter door. She closed it firmly and leaned back against the massive helicopter of her past.

Then she reached out, in plain view of anyone who cared to watch, and pulled Vern Taylor down to kiss her.

He tried to make it small, quick, polite.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him hard into the kiss.

As always, he didn't hesitate more than a moment until she was crushed back against the chopper's smooth metal skin, his hands raking up into her hair.

Whether it lasted a day or a lifetime, Denise knew she had, for perhaps the first time ever, embraced the future without being trapped by the past.

It was one of the headiest moments of her life. And it was punctuated by friendly cheers and applause softened by their trip across the width of the airfield and warmed by her lover's kiss.

* * *

Vern tried to recall the last time he'd felt so damned pleased with the world and came up blank.

All of the service tasks had been taken care of through the bright afternoon, from repacking parachutes to restocking Denise's service inventory—she'd placed an overnight order from Missoula.

They even had time to finish the repaint job on Vern's bird. He'd enjoyed doing that. He, Mickey, and Cal—Jeannie's photographer husband.

Denise's team had laid down the gloss black undercoat in Missoula as part of the repairs.

Now the three of them had worked in silence for some time, amid the bright smell of fresh paint, discussing only where to draw the outlines of the flames to complement the still-intact side.

“Hell of a kiss, dude,” Mickey said without looking over at Vern as he began filling in the outlines of the yellow flame edges.

“Felt good.” Kissing Denise felt way more than good, but there was no way to say that.

They painted a while.

“Where'd you guys go?” Cal asked from deep in the orange.

“Place called Buck Lake.”

“Damn!” Mickey cursed. Vern and Mickey had had a couple of double-date-by-helicopter parties out there. Though they'd never had the whole lake to themselves the way he and Denise had.

“Where's Buck Lake?”

Vern focused on the line of the red flame's heart. “I'll tell Jeannie. You'll like it.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah!” Mickey assured Cal.

Vern tried to recall who they'd taken out there with them on the double date. The two UC Berkeley brunettes? Or maybe the Boston blondes? Mickey could always catalog every conquest they'd made as a team.

Conquests weren't hard. “Hi, babe. Want to go make love in the wilderness? I'll take you there in my firefighting helicopter.” Never failed.

Mickey would remember who they'd taken, but Vern didn't want to ask. Those memories didn't matter after last night and this morning.

It was weird to think about. He wasn't sending Cal and Jeannie out there for a hot date; they were already married. A place he'd always thought of as “great place to take single women” was now “great place to send a couple in love.”

There was that damned phrase again.

That he knew exactly when that change had taken place didn't make it any more comfortable. Rather than it making him uneasy, he was thinking of taking Denise back there in the spring. There was a patch of wildflowers, mostly daisies and buttercups, a couple of hundred yards north of the lake that he could easily imagine her lying in.

“You gonna paint or daydream, buddy?” Mickey warned him. “Shit! I know that look. How can you have that look? The Lady of Steel was actually good?”

Vern considered punching his closest friend in the face. But he'd have been equally shocked himself a week before. The Lady of Steel was perhaps the warmest human being he'd ever met.

So he kept his mouth shut and went back to painting.

* * *

Mark rapped a knife sharply against his beer bottle at the end of the dinner service, and everyone slowly quieted. The twilight evening had spread a festive air over the outdoor tables of the MHA mess area.

The air was warm, but snow had fallen on the higher slopes of Mount Hood while they were out of town. That massive prominence of the eleven-thousand-foot dormant volcano shone in the last of the evening sunlight. Another month and the snow would be down at their level, but this fall evening was exceptionally fine.

Betty had served up great stacks of nachos, grilled enough ribs to satisfy even the hungry maws of the MHA crews, and provided plenty of beer. The music was light and cheerful.

Of course, Vern was in a mood to be pleased by anything, with Denise sitting across from him and making him feel totally teenage goofy. Their ankles were locked together under the picnic table.

Malcolm, Brenna, Mickey, and Bruce had spent much of the meal giving them shit. Vern had handed it right back, and Denise hadn't blushed but once or twice. Vanessa was down beyond Mickey and only occasionally joined in. She was still suffering from first-season shyness, even though she was doing really well.

Denise shot him a grin and ran a bare foot up his leg. She was dressed in an emerald green T-shirt from the Eureka fire they'd fought back in the spring. She was also wearing cutoff shorts that had sent his imagination soaring when she'd walked up to the table. He tried to remember if he'd ever seen Denise Conroy in shorts and flip-flops. By the height of Mickey and Bruce's eyebrows, the answer was probably not.

Clearly, she was doing it to tease him. Vern could really, really get to enjoy being with this woman.

“Shaddup, everyone.” Mark's big voice, though cheerful, had a ring of military command that shut down the last conversations like a load of retardant.

“The good news is that the fire season is officially over for MHA. The U.S. Forest Service released us from contract today under the sole condition that we would renew for next season, which we agreed to.” He raised his beer high and shouted over the applause, “To the MHA team!”

Bottles were raised, clinked together, and drunk from.

“So, all you seasonals, see me for your bonuses before you go. Unless…”

Malcolm winced, then shook his head no—as much to himself as those around him. Denise had told Vern that Malcolm had been torn between staying local and staying on the contract year-round.

“MHA has two simultaneous winter contracts this year. We'll be splitting forces to fulfill those.”

A buzz of conversation erupted throughout the tables. Everyone, including Vern, had assumed they'd be back in Australia like last year. He and Denise had even discussed some of the places they'd like to visit together if there was time.

Making long-term plans already. Wow! He'd missed that one when it went by. It had felt so…normal. Despite the fact that they'd been sprawled naked and spent beneath a warm sun beside a mountain lake at the time. Otherwise normal. Weird.

Nobody looked upset by the team split, but the vocal surprise was universal.

No…it wasn't.

Jeannie, Carly, and their husbands, Steve and Cal, were at the next table over. They showed no surprise at all. If he had to peg them, he'd go more for thoughtful.

He nodded for Denise to turn and check them out. She did this coy, look-without-looking through the sheath of her hair. It was so damn cute to watch. And then he realized that he'd never noticed it before. Just how observant was she? “Very” was the answer now that he knew her.

She turned back to look at him and offered the smallest nod. Whatever had happened last year in Australia—when the Firehawks had split off and they'd done the switcheroo on Oh-Two—was happening again.

Mark was making patting motions and the crowd eventually quieted.

“The MD500s and Twin 212s
are
bound for Australia. TJ and Chutes will lead that group. Your choppers will be going out of Portland via FedEx cargo in five days. Enjoy your time off, because the Aussies will keep you hopping once you're down under. Firehawk One and Two will be shipping out in six days. Vern and Denise, where are you?”

When he raised his hand, Vern felt like the bad boy, which he'd been enough times in high school that even the motion gave him shivers. Denise's hand went right up, just like the star pupil she'd probably been since preschool and kindergarten.

“We'll talk later about which way you're each going.”

The other tables were again abuzz about what the split could possibly mean—except for their table. Everyone was eyeing Vern and Denise speculatively, except for the other Firehawk crews at the next table over.

He ignored Mickey's questions and looked at Denise. Winter contract was typically November through March. Five months.

There was a chance that after less than five days together they'd be going separate ways for months?

He started shaking his head no, only realizing he was doing it when he saw that Denise was doing the same.

Mickey was asking what the hell was going on.

“Excuse us.” They rose to their feet in unison and headed for Mark's table.

Mark, of course, saw them coming. With a casual nod of his head, he indicated that he'd meet them down on the grass airstrip.

* * *

Denise didn't have the nerve to speak. Her old tapes were telling her that she should have known it was too good to last.

She was not in the habit of speaking up for herself. For her aircraft, absolutely, but not for herself.

This time she would. For strength, she held on to Vern's hand and stood out in midfield waiting for Mark. There were some things worth fighting for, and being with Vern right now was way high on her list. She didn't question that he'd become so important to her in such a short time, and not just physically. For the first time in her life, she also understood that there was a woman who she didn't know but who Vern kept thinking was pretty wonderful. She knew if they kept together, she'd start to find that woman as well.