Taking Cover (Wingmen Warriors #2)

Taking Cover (Wingmen Warriors #2) Page 3

"Doc, your bedside manner sucks."

Her smile tightened. "Chalk it up to sleep deprivation. Two house calls in less than twelve hours qualifies as more TLC than you're issued, soldier. In the civilian world I could have financed a summer home with the overtime you're demanding."

He might as well have been a freshman again, pumping push-ups over some infraction. She wasn't going to cut him any slack. "And you've opted to take it out of my hide, instead."

"Sounds like a plan to me." She smoothed her already immaculate hair. No sneaky strands slipping loose today, her red mane was swept back into her traditional French braid with the short tail secured under.

Tanner frowned. When had he started noticing how she styled her hair? She'd kept it cropped at the Academy, he remembered that much. Until he'd seen it loose on the flight line, he hadn't given much thought to its longer length hidden inside that braid.

Now he couldn't think of anything but wild red strands wind-whipped around her composed face.

Kathleen uncrossed her feet and flicked on the overhead light. "While the conversation is positively stimulating, I've got other patients to see. Ones who want to get well. Sit up and let's take a look."

"Might as well get it over with." Contracting his stomach muscles toppled a domino effect to his back that left Tanner straining not to whimper like a kid. And now he couldn't get his arm from behind his head.

"Bennett?" Compassion darkened her blue eyes. "You can't sit up, can you?"

He offered silence and no movement as his answer, all the concession his pride would allow. As much as he wanted to snap at her, he couldn't. His innate sense of fair play insisted he'd brought this on himself.

"Time to call for a stretcher." She turned on her heel, her tennis shoes squeaking against the tile.

"No!" Tanner arched up. And promptly fell back, his hoarse groan echoing.

Kathleen closed the space to the bed in three quick steps. "Deep breaths. Look at me, Bennett. Focus and breathe until it passes. Try to relax or you'll make it worse. No need to fight everything in this world, hotshot. There you go, in and out. Breathe."

Her voice talked him down, like flying by instinct when the instruments were shot and he couldn't see beyond the clouds. He locked on the timbre of her throaty voice and let it work through the fog of agony.

"Better?"

"Yes." He offered the clipped word rather than risk even a nod.

She braced her hand on the headboard and sighed. "I'm not going to be able to talk you into a stretcher, am I?"

"No."

"Even if I tell you walking out of here could delay your recovery?"

Man, she fought dirty. Lose air time or lose face. Hell or Hades. Same thing.

Almost.

He could grit his way through recovery. Regaining face…

Tanner opened his eyes, wasn't sure when he'd closed them, and allowed himself to gaze straight up into her blue eyes, eyes as clear as an ocean sky. "I can't roll out of here on a stretcher, Doc. I have to fly with these guys again. Trust in the air is everything, could make the difference in a split decision that costs somebody's life." Frustration snapped his restraint. "O'Connell, come on…"

"Okay."

Shock immobilized him as much as his back. "What?"

"If we can haul you out of this bed, and if you can put one foot in front of the other, I'll allow you to walk out of here under your own power. No doubt that flyer ego can manage more miracles than modern medicine."

He searched for sarcasm in her words, in her eyes.

Better not look at her eyes.

Back to her voice. Not a note of sarcasm, just resigned logic.

"Thank you." Gratitude mixed with respect. He understood how difficult backing down could be.

Then he realized he owed her, an uncomfortable thought at best. He would have shrugged it off if he could lift his shoulders. He joked instead, a safe barrier against free-falling into her eyes. "Do you think we could act like I've got some shrapnel in my butt? It would make for better stories around the Officer's Club."

Her laugh, low, throaty and her one unreserved trait, filled his senses. Like a drag of one hundred percent oxygen from his face mask, it invigorated him, left him slightly dizzy.

She chuckled again, dipping her head until he could see every tuck of her braid. Each perfectly spaced weave called to his fingers. He wanted to untwine that restrained fire until it poured over his hands.

Silken fire. He wanted it with a pulsing force that threatened stirrings within him farther south.

And he didn't have anything more than a thin bedspread between his n**ed body and total exposure.

Kathleen gazed down at the 238 pounds of bare-chested man under the rose-colored spread and wondered if she would ever understand Tanner Bennett. Or her own reaction to him.

It went against every principle ingrained in her to let him walk out under his own compromised power. She told herself it was part of treating the ego as well as the man. Keeping the big picture in mind. A really big picture.

But she knew that wasn't her real reason.

She kept remembering the Academy doolie. She'd given him hell as his training officer. No sports jock would warrant special treatment from her, just as she accepted no special treatment for being a woman.

He'd never caved.

Even if she didn't agree with his tactics, she had to admire his warrior spirit. To crush that would be to the detriment of the Air Force.

So her decision was for the Air Force. Right? Not because he looked up at her with those sapphire eyes in which mingled determination and boyish charm.

She extended her hand. "Maybe you can try sitting now."

"Sure." He waved away her hand and inched up on his elbows, paling to match the bleached sheets.

"If you can."

"Of course I can."

More spirit than sense.

"Come on, Bennett. You need help getting up. There's nothing wrong with admitting it's too hard. Here, let me give you a hand." She reached for his arm.

He pressed back into his pillow. "Doc!"

"What?"

Tanner imprisoned her wrist. "I don't think you want to go there."

"Huh?"

"I don't have anything on."

His bare chest suddenly looked all the more exposed, sporting nothing more than his dog tags and a medal nestled in a dusting of golden hair.

"Nothing?" Her wrist screamed with awareness of skin-to-skin contact.

"'Fraid not."

Kathleen tugged her arm free and smoothed her braid, willing her composure to follow suit. "Oh. Well, I'm a doctor, your doctor. It's nothing I haven't seen before in your flight physical."

"Not like this you haven't."

Her hand paused along the back of her head. "Pardon me?"

"Doc. I'm a man. It's morning."

She could feel the color drain from her face until she, as well, no doubt now matched the sheets. "Oh."

"Yeah, oh."

Kathleen looked at the television, the minifridge, the cinderblock walls, anything to keep her gaze from gravitating to where it had no business going. Finally she simply spun on her heel before gravity had its way and her gaze fell straight down.

"Okay, Bennett. Let's find you some sweats." She faced the dresser, rather than the man with a chest as broad as one. "Which drawer?"

"Top shelf of the closet."

Kathleen yanked open the wardrobe door. The musky scent of leather and cedar wafted straight out and into her before she could untangle her thoughts enough to ignore it. His flight suit and jacket dangled from a hook inside the door like a ghostly shadow of the man. Her hand drifted to caress the butter-soft jacket, well-worn and carrying perhaps the slightest hint of his warmth.

What was it about Tanner Bennett? With any other flyer, she would have shrugged the whole thing off while helping him into his boxers.

Not with Bennett. All she could think about was his big, n**ed body under that blanket, and her lack of professionalism infuriated her.

She couldn't have thoughts like this.

Yanking her hand away, she arched up on her toes to reach, searching by touch since she couldn't see into the top shelf. She would pull it together, damn it, get him dressed and turn his case over to Cutter.

And if Cutter let Tanner slide?

Her hands hesitated in their quest. What if Tanner played the friendship card, enabling him to plow back out into combat before he was ready? Her fingers clutched a pair of sweatpants.

Rashes of the battle damage from Tanner's aircraft flashed through her mind—twisted metal. Her medical as well as safety training had stockpiled too many graphic images of wreckage.

Her ex-husband had expected strings pulled. Being married to a flight surgeon entitled him to special treatment, didn't it? Her ex had played that trump card with one of her workmates, and it had almost cost him his life. Thank God, he'd flown an ejection-seat aircraft.

Kathleen knew what she had to do. She understood her job, and no hormonal insanity on her part would interfere with performing her duty for the flyer entrusted into her care.

She yanked free a pair of oversize gray sweatpants and shook them out in front of her as she spun to face Tanner. "Okay, hotshot. Let's get you suited up."

One hundred forty-two.

There were one hundred forty-two ceiling tiles in his sparse infirmary room. Tanner squinted. Or were there a hundred forty-three? The walls wobbled through his mellow haze of drugs.

Not mellow enough to iron out his irritation.

Before, in his VOQ room, Kathleen O'Connell had shed her compassion like unwanted cargo. With cool professionalism she'd helped him dress beneath the privacy of the blanket. He might as well have been a eunuch for all the effect the awkward situation had on her.

Then she'd grounded his sorry, sweatpants-clad butt and parked him in the infirmary—indefinitely. If he had to watch one more minute of the Armed Forces Television Services, his head would explode.

He tried not to think about his crew flying without him. What if the next mission carried the golden BB, the missile that took them down when he wasn't there? How the hell would he live with wondering if he could have prevented it? Not more than a couple of hours ago, the television had announced a C-17 crash out in California. If something like that could happen on a routine mission…

The television show changed to a service announcement full of holiday cheer. "Jingle Bells" or maybe "Silver Bells" swelled into the room. His twin sister had loved carols—

Tanner silenced the television with a thumb jab to the remote.

Definitely too much time to think.

Losing a family member sucked no matter what. Losing that person during the holidays carried an extra burden. The anniversary of her death never slid by without notice.

Tara had been Christmas shopping at the mall, for crying out loud. How could he ever forget that? They'd always gone gift hunting together in the past since his job had been to look out for her.

That Christmas he'd been at the Academy.

And some slime in search of a lone female had lurked, waiting in the back seat of Tara's car. The bastard had kidnapped her. Beaten her. Raped her. Then thrown her unconscious body into a snowbank where she'd died. Alone.

Tanner flung aside the remote, welcoming the stab of pain from the violent gesture. Damn drugs had turned him morbid, lowered his defenses until he couldn't halt the flood of memories.

The cops had found Tara's car later, her packages still in the trunk. She'd bought her twin brother a St. Joseph's medal.

Tanner gripped the silver disk around his neck and steadied his breathing. He'd learned a bitter lesson that Christmas—never, never leave your wingman.

A solid knock on the door pulled Tanner back to the present, and he embraced the distraction. He wouldn't have even minded seeing his hard-hearted doctor. "Yeah. Come in."