Joint Forces (Wingmen Warriors #7)

Joint Forces (Wingmen Warriors #7) Page 2

"Great. Just make sure he packs extra bug spray. West Nile virus and all that, you know." Closing the door and hopefully sealing away at least a few more of those tempting memories made in a bed upstairs, she couldn't stop babbling about everything her son should pack. At least she wasn't throwing herself at J.T. as she'd done the last time they'd been alone together.

How flipping unfair that he should look better at forty-two than at twenty. And he'd looked mighty fine at twenty with those brooding eyes focused intently on her while she gobbled up the vision of shoulders stretching his uniform to the limit. Fine enough back then to entice her out of her clothes and virginity in less than two months.

Of course, when he'd returned from Rubistan, it had taken him less than two minutes to talk her out of her clothes.

Rubistan. Her heart clenched tight.

J.T. was alive, she reminded herself. Much more than that she didn't know because this man wouldn't talk to her. He never talked to her. Never had, not about anything that mattered, just let her keep babbling on to fill the silences in their marriage.

And just that fast, her words dried up.

J.T. blinked slowly, gray eyes as shuttered as ever. "I didn't expect to see you here. Your car's not out front."

Good or bad? Did he want to see her? After so many years together she still couldn't read him except in bed. There, she knew his every want, desire. And God, was he ever a man of endless desire.

She shivered in spite of the ninety-five-degree spring day. Rena wrapped her arms around herself and strode past him.

"I left work early and had a friend drive me over to pick up Chris's car from the garage." She stopped at the porch railing, reached to the hanging fern to snap off a dead frond. Her marriage might have withered, but at least she knew bow to keep her plants alive. A skill she'd developed in their early days together, an attempt to fill an empty apartment.

"A friend?"

Her fingers stopped midsnap. Jealousy? From J.T.? No way. Even considering it started a slow spiral of hope that would lead nowhere. Besides, she wouldn't play those kinds of games.

Shifting to face him, she crumpled dead leaves in her fist. "Julia Dawson took me. Then we had a late lunch."

Rena searched for relief in his eyes even as she told herself it shouldn't matter. She waited. Wanted… What? She didn't know anymore around this man. Although being able to hold on to her pride would make a nice start.

Heavy boots thundered across the planked porch until he stood beside her.

She swallowed.

He hooked a boot on the low rung. "The new paint job on Chris's car looks nice, don't you think?"

Paint job? So much for jealousy. Argh! Couldn't the man even acknowledge a normal emotion and throw her a bone here?

She wanted to scream. Stomp her foot. Even smack him. But that was one line neither of them had ever crossed, no matter how heated their arguments became and how many plates she pitched. Never once had their fights turned physical.

Well, except for the very physical release of sex that inevitably followed.

O-kay. No arguing today. Paint talk sounded good after all.

The story of their marriage, talking about things that didn't matter when so many more important things loomed. Divorce papers to sign. Children to bring up in a split home.

Whatever hell he'd endured during his nine-day detainment in Rubistan.

The capture had left bruises on his body, broken bones on another crew member. Heaven only knew what bruises and breaks on J.T.'s soul accompanied those new strands of gray. Part of her longed to hold his big solid body, while another part of her raged over him shutting her out—again.

He gestured toward the blue Cavalier. "The body shop did well sanding down the rust spot. Can't even see it. Just keep on Chris not to park so near the beach at work."

"He's doing well with his job at the restaurant. He's picking up some waiter duties as well as his regular busboy job. Better tips." She pivoted, rested back against the railing, late-afternoon breeze sweeping her hair over her shoulders. "And his grades are holding steady. He's keeping it together in spite of everything that's going on with us."

"He's a great kid."

Side by side, they looked into each other's eyes. Memories leapfrogged back and forth between them as tangibly as her loose dark curls floating on the breeze. Memories of Chris's birth. J.T.'s pride in his son. J.T.'s stoic features softened by a smile when he'd held their daughter, their firstborn.

And in that special moment twenty-one years ago with his daughter, Rena had thought maybe, just maybe everything would work out after all. Even if he'd married a woman he didn't love—a spoiled rich teenager who didn't know how to cook and clean, much less balance a checkbook or clip coupons.

She brushed the windblown hair from her face, tossing the long strands back over her shoulder, J.T.'s eyes watching her every move. Lingering on her hair.

More memories filled the air between them while countless cars cruised past. Images of her hair draped over his bare chest, of J.T. twining a long curl around his finger, tugging her closer. Closer still.

She swayed. "We did a good job with Chris. And Nikki, too. We got that much right, didn't we?"

So much for keeping things light.

Magnolia-scented gusts whispered around them while the hammock squeaked a taunting song from behind J.T. She thought for a minute he might dodge answering a question that delved into deeper waters. She wasn't sure why she even bothered pushing him anymore, pushing herself as well, because deep waters were dangerous for them, both with so many secrets unshared.

"Yeah, Rena. We did." His broad hand fell to rest beside hers on the white railing, not touching. But still she remembered well the pleasure of his calluses rasping against her bare skin.

She knew better now than to ask him what went wrong. If she did, he would sigh, dig in his boot heels to weather the storm while she did all the talking. Or yelling. She didn't like what she was becoming around him.

And she didn't want him to step away yet.

Oh God, she was so weak around this man when simply exchanging body heat across air turned her on. Rena backed toward the steps. "I really need to go. Chris has my car. I was hoping he'd come home sooner so we could trade, but I'm supposed to be at the base hospital in a half hour to head the support group meeting." Babbling again, damn it. "I'll just take Chris's car."

Then she wouldn't have to go inside with J.T. where no doubt they would end up n**ed on the floor in under two seconds. Maybe she needed to learn to be away from the house when J.T. picked up their son for weekend visits. Every meeting put her heart, her sanity, at risk.

"Rena?" He stopped her with a hand on her upper arm just below the sleeve of her peasant blouse. Skin to skin. Her bracelets tinkled in time with wind chimes to ride the magnolia-scented air in a sensuous serenade of more want, and God yes, she could see the desire smoking through his gray eyes, as well.

It wasn't enough. Not anymore.

Had he ever loved her? Somehow she thought maybe she could handle his leaving better if, for at least part of their time together, he'd loved her. If she'd been more to him than the woman he felt honor-bound to marry because the condom broke.

Yes, J.T. was all about honor, which made him even more admirable in her eyes after her father's "imports" business dealings. A cover for laundering Mob money, not that the feds could ever nail him.

J.T. was a man of honor to trust, and trust had been rare for her growing up.

"Rena?" he said again, his grip tightening.

"Oh, uh…" She startled and stared up at him, a long look even in her heels. "What did you say?"

"Is it okay with you if I wait inside? The temp's cranking up out here."

Just as when he'd rung the bell to the home he'd helped restore, this request to enter their house tore at her. They would need to talk soon, but now wasn't the time, when their son could walk in at any minute.

And not when she was seconds away from losing it. "Of course. Make yourself at—" Home. She swallowed down the word like lemonade without sugar.

A flicker of anger snapped in his eyes, a rare display of emotion from J.T., therefore even more potent. Well, damn him, he could get mad all he wanted. At least he would be talking.

The storm clouds in his eyes dispersed, distance reestablished. "Thanks."

"There's tea in the fridge." She inched away. From him. From herself, too, for that matter. From wanting him, hating him, even loving him still a little, which made her resent him all the more. "I need to head back to base. I'll pick up Chris on Sunday."

"I'll bring him back by tomorrow to swap cars."

"Thank you." No arguing. They would be civil about their offspring.

Nodding, J.T. turned away, twisted the doorknob, left her. Her shoulders sagged with her sigh. Rena blinked back tears blurring the setting sun and J.T.'s broad shoulders. She'd already cried countless tears over this man—many of them bathing his bruised body after his return from Rubistan. Yet still he'd rejected her offer of reconciliation. Zipping up his flight suit on the way out of their bed and her life, he'd made his position clear.

They really were over.

She'd spent three months trying to get through to him, to make him talk about something more meaningful than painting a car, if not for a reconciliation, at least to assure herself he was okay. Now, life had left her no choice but to move ahead and make plans for her children.

No question, they would have to talk soon, when Chris wasn't due home and her eyes weren't threatening to overflow. And when the time came for that talk, she would be stronger than the teenage version of herself.

Head held high, she sprinted down the steps on legs more wobbly than her purple high heels.

Punching numbers on the cordless phone, J.T. watched his wife through the lace curtains covering the living-room window. Wind whipped at her white blouse and long purple patchwork skirt, plastering fabric to her gentle curves. Rena's wild dark curls sailed behind her as she unlocked the driver's-side door.

She couldn't get away from him fast enough.

Yeah, that bit. More than it should. He wanted to bury his face in her hair, his body even deeper in hers. And she was running like hell.

He pressed the phone to his ear. It rang once, twice. Ended.

"Flight scheduling. Lieutenant Rokowsky."

Bo? J.T.'s brain stuttered for a second until he remembered the lieutenant had just started working in scheduling to mark time until he recovered from his injuries sustained in Rubistan.

J.T.'s hand gravitated up to his ribs, rubbed over bruises long faded. Bruises bathed by his wife's tears when he'd come home. So much damn emotion, too much to process then or now. He'd only known that no way in hell did he want to put his wife through that again. Since they'd already split, leaving seemed the obvious answer.

"Hi, Bo. Tag here," he said while watching Rena slide behind the wheel of Chris's twodoor Cavalier. "I didn't get a chance to check the schedule since we landed late and I needed to pick up my son. What's on the boards for me next week?"

"You're on a training flight. Monday. Showtime 0600."

"Uh, okay. Got it. Thanks." J.T. peered through the sheer lace and still the car didn't leave. He moved closer until he could discern … Rena slumped over the steering wheel. Her forehead rested on her hands.

He forced himself to stay inside when every muscle inside of him screamed for action. "How long's the flight?"

"You're scheduled for five hours local area, instructing Airman Brad Gilmore."

J.T. winced. "Good God, not Gabby. That guy talks more than a four-year-old overdosing on Mountain Dew and Pixie Stix."

Bo's chuckles turned downright wicked. "What'll you give me not to stop by the flight kitchen and sweet-talk someone there into adding extra caffeine and cookies to his lunch?"