The Gauntlet (11 page)

“Oh?” The word came out silkily, with a lethal edge to it.

“On both flights she’s been assigned to me, she drops the damn pencil, the knee pad and God knows what else before a test. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“She’s not incapable.” Cam recalled the library incident with Molly. When nervous, she dropped things and ran into things. He was sure she’d be very nervous flying with Martin, who obviously disliked her.

“We disagree, sir.”

“Look, Martin, you’re going to have to put aside your personal prejudice and try to get along. Surely this isn’t the first time you’ve run into a situation involving working with a person you didn’t like. You have to make it work.”

“Is this little talk all because I threw her damn cookie into the wastebasket?”

Cam shook his head. “Just the straw that broke the camel’s back, Mr. Martin. What has you so set against a woman in our business?”

“Where I come from down in Texas, women are good for one thing, and that’s flat on their back.”

“Real redneck, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir. I am. And I don’t make no bones about it. Usually, I can keep my personal opinions out of my career because there are very few broads involved with it. I can’t help it if Rutledge managed to get here on her back.”

Cam’s hand tightened on the arm of his leather chair. He stood slowly. “Martin, let me make it real clear to you—back off and start treating Ensign Rutledge with respect. I will not tolerate your attitude, nor will the commandant, if this gets to his attention. Do you read me loud and clear?”

His eyes flashing, Martin came to attention. “Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed,” Cam growled. He stood there, breathing hard after Martin had left, anger boiling through him. The stupid bastard really believed what he said. Should he alert the commandant to the deteriorating situation? Or would this talk with Martin force the pilot to cool off and back down?

A pile of paperwork stared back at Cam. It was the last thing he wanted to do. He hadn’t seen Molly all day, except once, in a hall, when they were going in opposite directions. He wanted to thank her for her thoughtfulness. Everyone except Martin had gradually found out that Molly had baked the cookies. She hadn’t told anyone, but Lee had seen her bring them in early. Cam surmised that Molly would rather have had no one know it was her. Martin probably thought she was bringing cookies to butter up her instructor, Vic Norton.

Disgruntled and restless about Martin, Cam finally sat down. His office door was open, and he heard Molly’s lilting laughter floating down the hall. Pen poised in hand, he hoped she was coming this way. He wasn’t disappointed.

“Hi.” Molly smiled and poked her head around the corner.

“Hi. Come on in.” Cam looked at his watch. “You’ve got ten minutes before the next class starts.” She looked breathless and excruciatingly beautiful. She shifted the load of books against her hip.

“Okay.”

“Shut the door.”

Molly’s heart beat a little harder as she quietly closed the office door. Turning around, she melted beneath Cam’s blue gaze. The harshness that was normally there was gone. It stunned her. It excited her. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Cam said lazily, leaning back in his chair. He grinned and opened the side drawer of his desk. “I just wanted to thank you personally for making the cookies. As you can see, I’ve got them hidden where no one can get their grubby mitts on them.”

Smiling, Molly looked into the drawer. “Yep, they’re all there. I bet you’ve got them counted.”

“How’d you know?”

“Give me a break. What man isn’t a little boy underneath that macho facade? Really, I don’t think you realized how much you helped me last week, Cam. I tried to think of a way to show my thanks.”

He liked the flushed quality of Molly’s cheeks and the sparkling green and gold of her eyes. “You cook as good as you bake?”

“Sure do.”

Cam groaned. “Listen, you don’t know what the smell of those cookies did for me this morning.”

Softly she asked, “What?”

“It just brought back a lot of good, warm memories. Bread baking in the kitchen, lemon tea smelling fragrant and filling the air… Little things.” Cam roused himself from his thoughts, seeing sadness in Molly’s eyes. “It was a nice gift, Molly. Thanks.”

“From the sounds of it, maybe what you need is a good home-cooked meal.”

“Is that an offer?” Cam couldn’t stop himself. By regulations, he shouldn’t be fraternizing with Molly.

“Sure is. How about this Saturday I cook for you? Come over about 1700?”

The offer of a real home-cooked meal was too big a temptation. An even larger one was spending time alone with Molly. “You got a deal, Miss Molly Rutledge.”

“Great! It’ll feel good to cook for someone other than myself. Dana, Maggie and I took turns cooking at Whiting Field until I got washed out. We had great dinners every night.”

“I’d settle for one great dinner,” Cam said fervently, meaning it.

“You’ve got it.” Molly glanced at her wristwatch. “Oh, I’ve got to run! See you later, Cam—I mean, Captain Sinclair.” Molly turned and bumped into the edge of the desk. Her books went flying.

Cam got up and quickly retrieved them for her. She looked terribly embarrassed.

“I’m such a klutz. I’m sorry—”

“No,” he told her in a low voice filled with emotion. “Don’t you
ever
dare apologize for the way you are, Molly.” He put the books in her waiting arms, holding her shocked gaze. “I like you just the way you are. Understand?“

Chapter Seven

T
he doorbell of Molly’s apartment rang. She gave a flustered moan, wiped her hands on a towel and hurried out of the kitchen. Glancing over at the formal dining room, the glass-topped bamboo table set to perfection, she moved to the living room. She had spent all day Saturday cleaning and cooking in preparation for Cam’s arrival.

Breathless, Molly hesitated at the door, looking down at herself. Was she dressed too casually? Should she have gotten her nails manicured? There hadn’t been time! Quickly touching her nearly shoulder-length blond hair, she answered the door.

Cam smiled tentatively as the door opened. His smile widened in appreciation as Molly appeared before him, looking a bit bedraggled. His heart beat heavily in response to the pristine simplicity of her beauty. She wore no makeup, yet her emerald eyes and the natural ripe color of her lips were emphasized by the pink flush on her cheeks. As always, her hair was pleasantly mussed—the kind of hair a man could find such great pleasure in tunneling his hands through.

“Hi…I know I’m a little early.”

“No, that’s okay. Come in.” Molly’s stomach clenched with nervousness at the shadow in his blue eyes as he looked her over. She should have brushed her hair before answering the door. Touching the throat of her ruby-colored blouse, Molly said by way of apology, “You couldn’t tell I came from a home where Miss Manners was born and raised.”

Cam held out a bottle of wine to her. “Where I come from, we didn’t know who Miss Manners was. Here…I hope this is a suitable wine for the fabulous-smelling dinner you’re cooking.” The pleasure on her face made Cam feel damn good about himself as she cradled the wine in her hands.

“Wonderful! A red Grenache! It will be perfect with the meal.” She shut the door. Cam was wearing comfortable clothes, which made her feel better about her choice of a blouse and white slacks. The July evening was warm without being humid, and Molly had opened the huge living-room and dining-room windows to the saltily fragrant breezes of the Chesapeake.

She stood uncertainly, gawking at Cam. How terribly handsome he was—even better looking, she thought, in civilian clothes. His ivory-colored chamois shirt was open and revealed the powerful column of his neck and a bit of dark hair showing above the white T-shirt he wore beneath it. His sleeves were neatly rolled up and cuffed at his elbows. She liked the pale blue slacks that matched the color of his eyes. They outlined the male perfection of his narrow hips. Normally Cam had a five o’clock beard at this time of day. It was obvious he’d shaved before he’d come over.

“Please, come in.”

“Need any help in the kitchen?” Cam saw how nervous she was, as her hands restlessly cradled the bottle of wine. Was she going to start bumping into things and dropping things? She had such a touching vulnerability woven into her insecurity.

“Well…”

“Back home in Montana, Ma always had us in the kitchen helping. As soon as I was tall enough to reach the sink, I was trained for kitchen duty.”

Smiling, Molly relaxed because Cam was relaxed. She found herself beginning to enjoy his presence as never before. “If you’ve got that kind of training, I’d better take advantage of it. You can open the wine and pour it for us. All I have to do is get the bread out of the oven, and we’ll be ready to eat.”

“Sounds great.” Cam inhaled deeply. “Whatever you’re cooking, it smells like heaven.”

She colored fiercely beneath his praise. “I don’t know about heaven. We’re going to have standing-rib roast of beef, cranberry ported apples and choux-paste fritters. And,” Molly added with a soft smile, “bread made with my own hands. For dessert, I’ve made a cherry filbert sundae pie.” The hardness usually present in Cam’s face was miraculously absent. Molly saw his eyes dancing with life for the first time. Could home-cooked food mean
that
much to him? No, that was impossible. Later, she would ask him about his past. Perhaps he was divorced and missed home life. So many pilots’ marriages fell apart because they were gone to sea for three to six months at a time. Cam could be another casualty of the “unfeeling” military mission. And so could his ex-wife and, possibly, his children.

Touching his stomach, Cam shook his head. “Molly Rutledge, you’re an angel placed in my path. The dinner sounds like heaven, believe me.” He saw her eyes grow lustrous beneath his heartfelt compliment. The apartment mirrored Molly completely, Cam thought, looking around as they headed for the kitchen. He was struck by the fact that her decor was Far Eastern. The Oriental motif added an aura of serenity that made Cam feel utterly contented; the tension that normally gripped his shoulders melted away.

“I’m no angel, believe me,” Molly was saying, gesturing toward herself. “My hair needs combing, I should have manicured my nails—”

Cam reached out unthinkingly, cupping her small shoulders with his large hands. “I like you just the way you are. In my eyes, you look perfect. Okay?” He held her shy gaze. Giving her a gentle shake, he finally got her to smile.

“Okay, okay. Thank you. I’ll stop worrying about my appearance.”

“Good,” he praised, not wanting to release her, yet knowing he must. The ruby blouse was made of pure silk, sliding sensuously against her skin, and Molly’s cheeks matched its rosiness. He’d lived for this day—this time with her without the demands of school dictating what was or was not appropriate between them.

Shaken by the intensity of his touch and voice, Molly turned away. The kitchen was ultramodern, with the bar in the middle of the room. She handed Cam the opener and brought down two fine crystal wineglasses. Her hands shook as she opened the oven and brought out a golden loaf of perfectly baked bread. Setting it on the countertop, she brushed it with melted butter.

“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble for me,” Cam commented, pouring the wine. He recorked the bottle and set it in the refrigerator.

“You’re worth it.”

“Music to my ears.” Cam walked over and placed her glass of wine on the counter near her. Then, leaning against the bar, he took a sip of his own.

“There’s no secret to you, Cam.” She laughed, taking the loaf out of the pan and placing it on a breadboard to slice it. “You sound like a male chauvinist.”

He shrugged. “There’s a little of that in me.”

“It’s not a sin to enjoy good food. I love to cook. Dana and Maggie always jumped for joy when it was my turn in the kitchen.”

“I’ll bet they made things like beans and wieners.”

“Worse—frozen dinners.” Molly made a face, quickly slicing the fragrant-smelling bread. “It was terrible. Both of them are terrible cooks. Dana has an excuse, but Maggie didn’t. Her mother is a fabulous cook.”

“It never rubbed off on her, eh?” Cam watched as she placed the sliced bread in a red-and-white checked towel already folded into an oval-shaped bamboo basket.

“No, not on Maggie. She’s a twenty-first-century woman.”

“You seem to be a throwback to the nineteenth century.”

Molly looked up, held gently by his gaze. There was such strength to Cam, and yet, as she was discovering, an incredible facet of sensitivity. “Now, why would you say that?” She set the bread in front of him. “Here, go put this on the table.”

He picked up the basket. “You’re old-fashioned.”

“Pooh.” Taking the standing-rib roast out of the oven, Molly transferred the succulent meat to a large oval platter. When Cam returned, she put him to work. “Here, start carving. Is that a nineteenth-century woman talking?”

He grinned and thoughtfully began to carve the steaming roast. “Saying you’re old-fashioned isn’t an insult. It’s a compliment.”

“Apology accepted, Captain Sinclair,” she teased. The Caesar salad had been made minutes earlier, and Molly carried it to the table. The apartment was filled with a delightful concoction of fragrances that she loved. Right now, the place seemed like a home, not a lonely box where she lived. It was Cam’s larger-than-life presence that completed the space for Molly, and she absorbed every moment with him like a flower starved for sunlight.

Cam brought in the platter and set it in the center of the table. Molly gestured for him to sit down. The bamboo chairs were on casters and had upholstered seats in a muted green and maroon fabric. The table looked as if it had come out of
Good Housekeeping
or some other magazine that exhorted the feminine arts of cooking and decorating. Cam appreciated every little nuance Molly had thoughtfully added to the atmosphere.

“Do you always cook like this?” Cam wanted to know, seating her at the table first.

“When it was my turn, I did.” She laughed. “After Maggie and Dana’s two weeks of frozen dinners, take-out and pizzas, I was starved for good, sound food.”