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Too bad, old man. You got me.
Max shifted to the next pilot. Captain Daniel “Crusty” Baker. That rumpled flight suit housed a razor-sharp liaison to the Air Force’s Office of Special Investigations. A dark-ops test pilot with a penchant for junk food— and the only one on the crew who knew Max’s real mission. As much as Max chafed at checking in with anyone, he accepted the military intel contact as necessary if he wanted this operation. And he did. Badly.
He allowed his gaze to stray to the last flyer. The one he’d forced himself not to assess first simply because he wanted to look at her too much.
First Lieutenant Darcy “Wren” Renshaw. Military brat with an impressive Air Force family tree. Top graduate out of ROTC and pilot training. And Papa’s pampered princess, slotted as a last-minute sub on a primo mission.
Max let his gaze linger.
Darcy shot repeated comebacks to her crew while scooping a hand into her thigh pocket. He had to admit. Those were great thighs attached to her sleek body.
She tugged out her blue military hat, then dug deeper. As she reached, he studied the back of her head, the silky cap of short brown hair.
No, wait. Brown wasn’t the exact color and details were important in his job. Right?
He looked again, resisting the urge to test the texture with his fingers. Cinnamon, maybe? Like the stuff a neighbor lady of his used to sprinkle on golden-brown cookies warm from the oven.
Darcy whipped out another bag of sunflower seeds and pitched them across the room, catching Crusty Baker square in the chest. “That’s it, Baker. No more mooching or I’ll tell the flight kitchen to fill your lunch with raw eggs.”
She turned her back on the two pilots, her full attention on Max. “Must be pretty cool wearing a swimsuit to work.”
“Saves on dry cleaning.” Max flipped a mental switch, shutting off all thoughts except his upcoming crew brief.
Darcy propped her elbow on the table, chin on her palm, landing smack in Max’s line of sight. “So you spend a lot of hands-on time with your job?”
Hands-on? With two little words, she’d flipped that switch right back. He told his libido to take a swan dive off the nearest cliff. “With applied science labs at the university—” along with marine mammal training at the Pt. Loma, California, naval facility “—I spend the majority of my time in the water.”
Which was true. Two cardinal rules of undercover work: keep it close to the truth; keep it simple. And a small uncorrupted part of himself resisted lying to an innocent.
Better drown that impulse, too.
“Ever been to Guam before?”
She sure was nosy underneath all that guileless enthusiasm.
He rolled out his rehearsed cover story that mixed in a splash of truth. “I went to the South Pacific a few years ago while writing my dissertation.” Truth, minus the part that the CIA had already recruited him. He’d annotated footnotes while dodging bullets. “I was part of the dolphin rescue team flown out when two calves beached in Guam.”
“Now you’re the one to set them free. How cool to get closure.” She edged forward, her scent of baby powder and soap edging further right into his senses.
“Guess you could call it that.”
Man, she smelled good. Clean and untainted, and so unlike anything he’d been exposed to in years. He’d almost forgotten people like her existed – such rare people were in fact the very reason he’d signed on with the CIA. Back in a time when he’d planned to save the world and have the secret satisfaction of showing up his father.
See, Old Man, I can serve my country as well as you, but on my own terms. No creased uniforms and buzz cuts.
Max nudged a stray sunflower seed with his foot. His ratty deck shoes made an appropriate contrast to the polished sheen of Renshaw’s combat boots.
“So, Doc, did you always want to work with dolphins? Be a marine biologist?”
Time to turn those questions around. “Did you always want to join the Air Force?”
“Yes,” she said. But her eyes said no.
An awkward silence settled. He studied her suddenly guarded eyes and wondered at the reason. She seemed one hundred percent military. Crisp conformity and camaraderie above all.
He knew the type well, just like his old man. The Air Force uniform on the C-17 crew might differ from his father’s Navy whites, but Max recognized the military mantle that transcended service branches. All the same, he felt those glimmering eyes luring him like a mythological siren.
Not wise on the job.
