then lunging forward, pointed along the deck, and the controller fired the catapult. With a roar that made his body ache, she was gone. Zero to 150 in two seconds flat. Six g’s. The best roller-coaster ride ever devised by man, other than a DAP Hawk helicopter in combat.
The plane pulled up its gear as it swung ten degrees to the right and climbed like only an American fighter plane could. The next one was already rolling into position as the catapult returned down the deck and the dance of color-coded deck crews started all over. When rushed, they could repeat this in under a minute all day long.
He already couldn’t spot her. Gone from his life faster than could be possible. Than should be possible.
He shouldn’t have done it. He was her commanding officer, for crying out loud. He’d just risked his career for that kiss. And hers, which was truly unforgivable. He hadn’t even realized how badly he wanted her. Until he received the call to give her up.
And when she’d closed her eyes on so much pain, he’d given in. If he’d known how much her kiss would rock him back on his heels…
With a smile he’d do best to keep to himself, Mark Henderson decided it was worth all the risk for a kiss like that one.
He flexed his abused hand and wondered how much it was going to hurt to work the chopper’s collective on the flight back. A twinge shot all the way into his shoulder where she’d torqued it around. It was going to sting like mad to fly back to base.
She really knew how to handle herself. Damn that was a turn-on. His brain tried to imagine what it would be like to tussle with a woman like that, and his body responded strongly. It made a very nice image.
He pulled the tab on the soda he’d picked up along with his sunglasses. It exploded in a cloudy spray of sugar water covering his face and chest.
Chapter 10
At Ramstein Air Base in Germany, Emily had one hour to sleep, shower, and change into her dress blues. The tiny government Gulfstream jet that flew her to D.C. came equipped with two pilots, a flight attendant way too good at her job to be a soldier, a very well-supplied galley, and a relentless, three-man Secret Service briefing team. And brief they did, for five hours nonstop—from “Affairs of State” the moment she sat down through “Food Security,” not Food Safety, to threat-recognition protocols during the First Lady’s travel, with her recent trip to Zimbabwe as an example.
“The operation manual for my Black Hawk is smaller than your briefing manuals.”
The protest gained her seven seconds of blank stares from all three. Absolutely blank. The three men weren’t amused, didn’t care to comment, and certainly didn’t care about her emotional or mental state. She’d always heard that the Secret Service required that their agents had never had or ever considered having a sense of humor. But it was incredibly daunting in real life to experience that they’d checked their laugh track at the door. Permanently.
D.C. couldn’t come soon enough, until the moment the door flipped open, the stairs unfolded, and there stood Daddy on the tarmac at Andrews Air Force Base. The cold air sent a shiver up her spine. She didn’t remember D.C. being this cold in midwinter, never mind the third week of September. No way this had any chance of turning out well.
Somehow it was all her dad’s fault; she just didn’t know how yet. She definitely didn’t look forward to their fight over his part in grounding her. Maybe if she asked nicely, the three agents would take her back and brief her some more. That would certainly be less painful. But they were all bundling past her, their massive binders locked into even larger briefcases. One paused long enough to stamp her passport, but he too departed in moments.
All that remained were herself, her father, a black SUV, and the pair of agents in black who kept a twenty-four-hour eye on the Director of the FBI.
“Hi, Emily.”
“Hi, Daddy.” He
The plane pulled up its gear as it swung ten degrees to the right and climbed like only an American fighter plane could. The next one was already rolling into position as the catapult returned down the deck and the dance of color-coded deck crews started all over. When rushed, they could repeat this in under a minute all day long.
He already couldn’t spot her. Gone from his life faster than could be possible. Than should be possible.
He shouldn’t have done it. He was her commanding officer, for crying out loud. He’d just risked his career for that kiss. And hers, which was truly unforgivable. He hadn’t even realized how badly he wanted her. Until he received the call to give her up.
And when she’d closed her eyes on so much pain, he’d given in. If he’d known how much her kiss would rock him back on his heels…
With a smile he’d do best to keep to himself, Mark Henderson decided it was worth all the risk for a kiss like that one.
He flexed his abused hand and wondered how much it was going to hurt to work the chopper’s collective on the flight back. A twinge shot all the way into his shoulder where she’d torqued it around. It was going to sting like mad to fly back to base.
She really knew how to handle herself. Damn that was a turn-on. His brain tried to imagine what it would be like to tussle with a woman like that, and his body responded strongly. It made a very nice image.
He pulled the tab on the soda he’d picked up along with his sunglasses. It exploded in a cloudy spray of sugar water covering his face and chest.
Chapter 10
At Ramstein Air Base in Germany, Emily had one hour to sleep, shower, and change into her dress blues. The tiny government Gulfstream jet that flew her to D.C. came equipped with two pilots, a flight attendant way too good at her job to be a soldier, a very well-supplied galley, and a relentless, three-man Secret Service briefing team. And brief they did, for five hours nonstop—from “Affairs of State” the moment she sat down through “Food Security,” not Food Safety, to threat-recognition protocols during the First Lady’s travel, with her recent trip to Zimbabwe as an example.
“The operation manual for my Black Hawk is smaller than your briefing manuals.”
The protest gained her seven seconds of blank stares from all three. Absolutely blank. The three men weren’t amused, didn’t care to comment, and certainly didn’t care about her emotional or mental state. She’d always heard that the Secret Service required that their agents had never had or ever considered having a sense of humor. But it was incredibly daunting in real life to experience that they’d checked their laugh track at the door. Permanently.
D.C. couldn’t come soon enough, until the moment the door flipped open, the stairs unfolded, and there stood Daddy on the tarmac at Andrews Air Force Base. The cold air sent a shiver up her spine. She didn’t remember D.C. being this cold in midwinter, never mind the third week of September. No way this had any chance of turning out well.
Somehow it was all her dad’s fault; she just didn’t know how yet. She definitely didn’t look forward to their fight over his part in grounding her. Maybe if she asked nicely, the three agents would take her back and brief her some more. That would certainly be less painful. But they were all bundling past her, their massive binders locked into even larger briefcases. One paused long enough to stamp her passport, but he too departed in moments.
All that remained were herself, her father, a black SUV, and the pair of agents in black who kept a twenty-four-hour eye on the Director of the FBI.
“Hi, Emily.”
“Hi, Daddy.” He
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