Troubleshooters - Into The Night Part 22

Said curling iron was hot enough to require sticking her finger under cold running water after touching ita"dumb move.

Joan leaned in toward the mirror for a closer look at the dark circles beneath her eyes. "G.o.d, I hate jet lag. I need some of that special makeupa"you know, the kind that you buy after you get into a car accident and meet your airbag face-to-face... ?" What she really needed was a longer nap. She shut off the water and dried her hands.

"Actually," Muldoon called back to her, shutting the door behind him with a click, "you can relax, because your lunch date is about to be postponed."

The phone rang. There was an extension right there in the bathroom, but Joan stuck her head out the door to look at Muldoon. What, was he psychic or something?

He was standing politely by the door, but was looking around her room, at her laptop set up on the desk surrounded by an embarra.s.sing number of empty coffee cups, at the silk dress on a hanger that she'd decided not to wear to this lunch because it was a little too youthful and flirty, at the still-unmade bed that she'd crawled back into for an hour after spending that exhausting morning with her crazy brother.

And with Muldoon. She'd spent the entire morning with Muldoon, too. It was entirely possible that the most exhausting part of the morning had come after he'd stripped down to his T-s.h.i.+rt and muscled Donny into the shower, then into his pajamas and, once clean, into his sleeping bag on the closet floor.

Because then there they were. Standing guard against the hordes of roving aliens while Donny slept the sleep of the dead.

Alone in her mother's house, in her tomblike living room, where that stupid clocka"the loudest clock in the entire d.a.m.n worlda"ticked.

Joan had always hated that clock.

They'd sat there, surrounded by that infernal ticking, and Joan had babbled on and on about G.o.d knows what, talking about anything and everything to avoid discussing the subjects that really mattered. Like how completely freaked she got whenever she came into this house that she had no choice but to come to at least once a year because Donny never left. How awful it had been growing up under the shadow of Donny's illness. How badly she wanted Muldoon to tear her clothes off in a fit of pa.s.sion that was violent enough to knock over that stupid clock, or at least noisy enough to drown out the ticking for a little while.

He now met her eyes as if he could read her mind, and she retreated back into the bathroom and picked up the ringing phone. "DaCosta."

"Hey, Joan, it's Tom Paoletti. I'm glad I caught you."

"No lunch today, huh?"

"Yeah, sorry about that. We'll have to reschedule. My timetable for a certain... project has just s.h.i.+fted, and..."

Joan shut off her curling iron. "It's not a problem, Commander."

"Good. I've made arrangements for you to have access to the base while we're gone through Lieutenant Steve McKinney, from the public affairs office."

"Gone?" she repeated. We, he'd said. She stretched the headset cord so that she could again lean out of the bathroom and look at Muldoon. "Are you going somewhere?" she asked.

Muldoon nodded while Tom answered. "Training op. We'll be off base for about forty-eight hoursa"we'll be back before you know it. Steve's a nice guy. He'll be able to answer any questions and even help you set up some of those photo ops you're looking for."

"Steve McKinney." Joan went back into the bathroom and wrote the name on a piece of toilet paper with eyeliner, digesting what Tom had just told her. Muldoon was going to be gone for forty-eight hours. And when he came back, Brooke would be in town.

s.h.i.+t.

"I also wanted to leave you Kellya"my fianceasa"cell number," Tom told her. "She didn't want to call and bother you, but she asked me to let you know that she's having an impromptu dinnera"really casuala"at our place tonight. It's something some of the wives and girlfriends like to do when we go wheels up like this. She told me to tell you that you're welcome to join thema"you know, get a glimpse of that aspect of military life, if you want."

"That's ... very nice," Joan told him as she wrote down the number he rattled off. It was more than nice, it was brilliant. She could picture Brooke surrounded by a group of wholesome-looking young women, bonding over coffee. Myra was going to love that. "I'll definitely give her a call."

"Great. Again, I'm sorry about lunch."

"You're forgiven."

His laughter was a warm rumble in her ear. "I'm glad. Look, Joan, as long as I have you on the phone ... I know Lieutenant Muldoon spoke to you about this, and I understand you don't have the authority to make these kinds of decisions, but I really think this is the wrong time for President Bryant to come out here to the base. I mean, a low-profile tour would be one thing, but for the kind of dog and pony show that the White House is looking to put together... ?"

"I'll do my best to see that your reservations are brought to the attention of as many decision makers as possible, Commander," she told him. "At least then you'll be on record. And if something does go wronga""

"I can say I told you so?" he interrupted. "That's not what I'm looking for. That's not good enough."

"I'm sorry, sir," she said. "But I just don't have the kind of influence to help you out."

"Do the best you can," he told her. "And if you see Muldoon, tell him to get his b.u.t.t back to the base, ASAP."

"Good lucka"wherever you're going," Joan said.

"Thanks. Catch you later."

Joan hung up the phone and went out of the bathroom.

Muldoon was still standing by the door.

"Is this really just a training op?" she asked him.

He looked her in the eye. "Yes, it is."

"Which is what you would tell me even if it wasn't, right?"

Muldoon nodded. "Yeah. But this one really is training."

"Which is also what you'd say," she pointed out.

"Yeah."

"Where are youa"

"I can't tell you. You know that."

"Yes," she said. "Of course. I'm sorry. I'm just..."

He was looking at her a little too intently, so she forced a smile despite her sudden realization that any given moment this mana"and Cosmo and Gillman and Jenk and Sam Starrett and all of the other fabulous, wonderful men of Team Sixteen that she'd met over the past few daysa"might be thrust into any one of the numerous hot spots around the world where the U.S.'s Special Operations forces were going head-to-head with terrorists.

Forty-eight hours from any given moment, Joan could well be attending Mike Muldoon's funeral. She suddenly wanted to sit down, but she forced herself to stay standing, to keep smiling at him.

"You have my cell phone number, right?" he asked. "In case you need me? I mean, I'm sure Steve McKinney will be able to handle any problems, but..."

"I'll be fine," Joan told him. "Just... be careful, okay?"

He took a step toward her, and she turned away, suddenly afraid of what he had seen in her eyes.

G.o.d, what had he seen in her eyes?

l.u.s.t? Probably, G.o.d help her. He certainly was attractive, with his quiet, clean strength and the intelligence that lurked in those pretty blue eyes.

Longing? For surea"and that was even worse than l.u.s.t. She could feel it still, bubbling within her, a rolling boil of feelings and emotions she was afraid to examine too closely for fear of what she might find.

It gave her a sense of immediacy, a sharp awareness that tomorrow was not always guaranteed.

It made her want to throw herself into Muldoon's arms and cling to him and beg him to come back in one piece.

It made her want him.

Yeah, right. Like she hadn't wanted this guya"Lieutenant Young and Perfecta"before this. Nice try at fooling yourself, Joan. Still, here it was. Up at the surface. Impossible to ignore. Everything she'd spent the past few days running from.

Thisa"what she was feeling right nowa"was why all those women married men they'd known for only a few days during World War Two.

Of course, this man wasn't exactly asking her to marry him, now, was he?

Joan briefly closed her eyes and lived their entire potential love affair in the s.p.a.ce of three heartbeats. She coulda"right nowa"turn back to him and meet his eyes and let him see what she was thinking, what she was feelinga"all of her concern and l.u.s.t and longing and fear that this might be the last time she saw him alive. She didn't doubt at all that within ten seconds she would be in his arms, kissing him.

And oh, G.o.d, just thinking about kissing him, about losing herself in him, his mouth on hers, his tongue, his ... It almost made her turn around, but in her mind that kiss became lovemaking and that lovemaking became an ill-thought-out, awkward, ill-timed, mismatched relations.h.i.+p based on physical attraction and temporary insanity, with all of its missed expectations and pressures and failures and bitter disappointments.

Joan stood there with her back to Mike Muldoon and knew if she turned to face him that their friends.h.i.+p would turn from a thing of joy and laughter to a hardened, blackened little lump of resentment and pain. Sure, it would take slightly longer than three heartbeats to do so, but it would happen just the same.

She liked this guy.

That wasn't the big news flash here. The news flash had to do with just how much she liked this guy.

Enough so that her feelings for him trumped all of the confused emotions that came with that l.u.s.t and longing. She had to smile at the irony of that. The truth was that she liked Muldoon way too much to sleep with him. If she didn't like him so d.a.m.n much, she'd do him, as he'd so eloquently put it yesterday at lunch. What would he say if she told him that?

But instead of revealing intimate secrets that were best kept to herself, Joan opened her eyes and found herself gazing at her laptop.

"Will you be back in time for the admiral's party?" she asked, able to turn and face him now that her anxiety could be blamed on a far more reasonable feara"that Brooke Bryant would be without an escort for a very important social event.

It was actually laughable how little she cared about that right now, but he didn't know that.

"It'll be tight, but yeah. I'll make it," Muldoon told her.

Now if she could only make him stop looking at her like thata"as if he wanted to throw her down on her bed and...

"Good, because I emailed Brooke and, you know, told her all about you. She's really looking forward to meeting you. Very enthusiastic." Joan didn't bat an eye as she spun Brooke's emailed response of "Whatever" into something that sounded more enticing. "I told her to bring her whip. She emailed back and asked which one."

Surprise took over everything else that was written on his too-expressive face. But then he laughed. "Very funny, Joan."

She forced herself not to smile. "Hey, I'm serious."

"Right."

"I am."

"Okay, fine," Muldoon pretended to surrender but then counterattacked. "Give me her email address so I can write to her myself. I want to help her pick one out from her vast S and M collection."

Joan was so busted, and they both knew it. But she refused to quit the game, giving him a holier-than-thou look instead. "I'm afraid I can't give out Brooke Bryant's email address to just anyone."

"Give me yours, then," he countered. "I'll email you and you can forward it to Brooke. If she wants to write back to me, then she can. If not..." He shrugged.

"You'll have access to email where you're going?" She fished through her handbag, searching for one of her business cards.

"Yeah," he told her. "At least part of the time."

She handed him her card with her email address on it. "It is just training you'll be doing, isn't it?" She tried to see inside of his head.

Muldoon just smiled as he glanced at her card, then tucked it into his pocket. "I'll call you later to make sure Steve's getting it done for you." He opened the door to let himself out, then turned back to add, "I'm still your official liaison. You have any trouble, call me, Joan. I'll get back to you as soon as lean."

"Be careful," she said again.

"Being careful isn't quite part of the job description, but we work hard to make sure all the men in the team are as safe as possible."

"Good," Joan said. "That's good. That's... good to hear."

He stood there, then, just looking at her, halfway out the door.

"Thanks again for this morning," she told him. It wasn't too late to rush toward him and kiss him.

Muldoon nodded, lingering just a moment longer as if he knew she was weakening in her resolve.

But she wasn't. She was strong. She gazed back at him and let herself like him. A lot. Too much to move and blow it.

A year from now she still wanted him to be her friend and not a former lover that she was too embarra.s.sed to call and talk to.

"I'll see you on Sat.u.r.day," he finally said, and shut the door behind him.

Mary Lou was waiting for him, right there in the corridor of the Team Sixteen building.

Jesus, Sam couldn't believe it. She was right outside of Lieutenant Jacquette's office.

Several weeks ago, the XO had spoken to Sam about Mary Lou's relentless on-base visits. "Tell your wife that the proper time for her to talk to you is when you're home. Tell her that other officersa"higher ranking officers on basea"are starting to comment on the fact that she's always here, checking up on you, distracting you and everyone else, making it impossible for you to do your job. Tell her how bad it makes you look when she comes here like that."

Sam had told her. But here she was. Back again. G.o.d d.a.m.n it. And Jazz Jacquette was walking down the hall. He gave Sam a long, pointed look before going into his office.

"You're not supposed to be here." Sam was all but drowning in frustration. "I thought we got this settled weeks ago, Mary Lou. What do I have to do to get through to you?"

"I got your message. About you going out of town? But I needed to talk to you before you left." She must've just gotten off from work. She was still wearing her uniform and her hair was limp around a face slightly greasy from hours at the French fry machine. Her makeup had long since worn off from the heat and she looked even younger than twenty-two years old.

As if twenty-two wasn't ridiculously young enough.

Sam felt a twinge of guilt. This was his fault. He'd known she was young that first night he picked her up at the Lady-bug Lounge. Young, with a lousy education, and a lousier childhood.

She'd never told him about it specifically, but he'd gathered early on that she and her mother had had some kind of falling out quite a few years ago. There had been some kind of betrayala"exactly what, he wasn't sure. The tune he'd brought it up, shortly after their wedding, she'd changed the subject and started talking about the curtains she was planning to hang in the kitchen.

Curtains. Jesus.

He couldn't count how many times he'd tried to talk to her about real things, serious things that mattered to him, but she quickly brought the conversation back to such important topics of discussion as when was it time to cut the baby's toe-nails or the difference between using green or yellow split peas in pea soup.

Of course, it wasn't her scintillating conversation that had drawn him to her in the first place. It was the way she'd looked out on that dance floor in those cutoff jeans and an overburdened tank top.