A Discreet Affair

by Shelley Munro

  “I’m sorry. Christine didn’t tell me much about you.”

  “She shouldn’t have told you anything. This is a mistake.”

  “Haven’t you ever made a mistake before? Give me a second chance.”

  “No, it’s okay. I’m a bit sensitive about my husband. Let’s change the subject.”

  “We can do that. And I understand. I don’t particularly like talking about our sorties either.” Michael moved close enough for her to catch his faint smile.

  The tension inside her seeped away, until the unexpected screech of a cat fighting with another startled an undignified squeak from her. Michael laughed softly and wrapped his arm around her waist.

  “Steady. It’s only a couple of cats.” He halted in the shadows cast by an oak tree, the leaves rustling in the breeze.

  “Pamela.” He smoothed his thumb across her lips. She scarcely breathed while she waited for his next move. “Can I kiss you?”

  Suddenly her fears appeared stupid and out of proportion. Before Thomas entered her life she wouldn’t have thought twice about a few kisses in the moonlight. Funny how her life fell into two parts—before Thomas and after. “Yes, you can kiss me.”

  Immediately he stepped closer, cupping her face with his hands. He touched his lips to hers in a soft yet chaste kiss before he pulled away.

  Swift disappointment filled her. Was that it? Did he intend to act the gentleman and leave the smooching at that? Despite her mental wavering, honesty propelled Pamela to admit she wanted him. She couldn’t explain the compulsion to take their budding relationship further. She just wanted. A snort burst free, the soft hiss of breath bringing a flash of humor. It was obvious she and Christine had more in common than she’d thought.

  “Do you call that a kiss?”

  Michael laughed. “You seem a little jumpy. I didn’t want to scare you. I can do a much better job if you want.”

  He was asking her still? Instead of taking her silent offer, the one backed with a flirty gaze? In lieu of an answer, she lifted one of his hands to her mouth and traced her tongue over his thumb from tip to fleshy base. His sudden intake of breath thrilled her, dared her to tease further. She clutched his hand and guided one of his fingers to her mouth. She traced her lips with his finger before drawing his finger inside and sucking lightly. Michael moved closer, crowding her slighter body until the tree trunk halted farther retreat. His legs brushed hers, his erection digging into her stomach. With one final swipe of her tongue, she released his finger, making an audible pop. Before she said another word, he swooped, lowering his head to claim her mouth.

  At first he kept the kiss light, as if she might still object. She melted into his hard, muscular chest, reveling in the strength and warmth of him. He tasted of beer and tobacco and smelled of bay rum. The man knew how to kiss, using just the right amount of pressure—not too hard and not too soft. His tongue pushed against the corner of her mouth. Her pulse raced, her body starting to ache with need. It had been a long time since a man held her with tenderness and desire. Excitement engulfed her, snaking through her. Warmth tugged at her breasts until they ached for Michael’s touch, his fingers, his mouth. The desire grew when his tongue retreated and teasingly pushed inside her mouth again. Prickly heat and moisture gathered between her legs. She moaned against his mouth, needing more, wanting more, but he kept things slow and easy.

  A gentleman to the end. The thought hurled her back to the past. Women shouldn’t enjoy sex. If they did, they deserved the name of whore. Thomas…

  Michael explored the interior of her mouth, not realizing her mind had drifted. He nibbled at her lips before planting a string of kisses against her jaw. The warmth of his breath on her neck pulled her right back to the moment, her bad angel giving her a swift kick of reminder. Thomas wasn’t here. Besides, he’d been wrong. Her mother was mistaken and she didn’t owe anyone explanations. Sighing, she tilted her head to allow him access. Warm, wet suction on the tender skin a fraction above her collarbone brought a low hum of pleasure. She gripped his shoulders and soaked up every seductive sensation.

  Gradually, he pulled back. The half moon peeked from behind the clouds, bringing light to pierce the darkness. He smiled slowly, and his eyes shone with a faint glitter in the dim light.

  The distinct drone of a plane flying overhead brought a frown to his face. “We should go.”

  Her cottage stood at the far end of the town and backed onto a wheat field. At this time of summer, the wheat stood tall, almost ready to harvest. The wind blew through the blades, making them resonate. The song normally soothed her, bringing to mind waves rushing to shore at the beach. Tonight the sound didn’t calm her agitation. She fumbled with the latch of the small green gate that opened into the cottage garden and paused to stare up at Michael. The moon disappeared again, screening his face from view.

  “Thanks for walking me home.”

  “It’s my pleasure. Can I see you again?”

  Pleasure suffused her at his request. Her eager kisses hadn’t put him off. “I’d like that.”

  “Good. I’ll ring you.” He brushed a quick kiss on her cheek and turned away with a wave. “Do you have a phone?”

  “No, but you can give Christine a message if necessary. Do you see her at the base?”

  “Yes, I can give her a message.”

  Pamela watched him walk away until she could no longer see him. Smiling, she swung the gate open and stepped inside. She closed it behind her, the squeak reminding her she should oil the hinges. Since she’d gone straight from the store to her uncle’s house earlier and had hurried during her brief visit to change for her pub outing, she paused now to check the mail. The bulky envelope she pulled from her mailbox made her wish she hadn’t bothered. The familiar writing on the fat letter belonged to her mother. Already, she imagined the contents—the demands to return home. Why spoil a perfectly good day and memories of Michael and his kisses?

  Chapter Two

  Michael walked back to Biggin Hill with a grin on his face. Not even the drone of the aircraft overhead or the knowledge he’d face the enemy in the air tomorrow and might not return dimmed his pleasure in the evening. Pamela Allison was a knockout with her big blue eyes, glossy brown hair, and tentative smiles. Despite her shyness, she kissed like a dream, once she forgot about holding back. He chuckled out loud, recalling the evening and the expression on Cubby’s face when she’d hit the bull’s-eye. The lady threw a mean dart.

  He walked rapidly down the dark road, avoiding a pothole and a parked car without difficulty.

  Bogle’s death … well, suffice it to say his loss had capped off an awful day. He’d been only too eager to go to the pub instead of facing the empty bed in the room he shared with Bogle. He’d expected he’d leave the pub at closing after drinking himself silly. Instead he’d taken one look at Pamela and wanted her. His grin faded. Spending time with her helped keep the black abyss of despair at bay, and he owed her for that alone.

  A piece of good luck when he’d needed some.

  His fingers crept up to caress the chain holding his dog tags and lucky coin. Some of his friends considered him a bit paranoid about his good-luck charm but, after Owen, he was the one who’d been with the squadron the longest. The lucky coin had gone through the First World War with his father and it would get him through too.

  Besides, the other pilots could talk. They had special rituals they went through before a flight. Touching his lucky coin was one of his. He never went aloft in his Spitfire without his coin. Roburn could yammer all he liked about lucky charms being a load of rubbish. Michael believed in his father’s talisman and that was that.

  He strode past the mess, hesitating briefly and pondering over taking another drink before hitting the hay. Roburn’s raucous laugh decided him. He continued to his room, switching on a light once he stepped inside. Immediately he wished he hadn’t. Bogle’s kit still littered his side of the room. Invisible hands squeezed his ribs, pain splintering through him. He still cou
ldn’t believe his full of life friend would never walk through the door again. They’d gone through training together, rejoicing when their assignments took them to the same squadron. They spent their time off together. Bogle would have made a beeline for Pamela.

  Michael sank onto his bed and buried his head in his hands. A tremor shook his entire body. Maybe he would have a drink after all. On shaky legs, he stood and rifled through the wardrobe. Grunting, he pulled out a bottle. Bogle’s whisky. His friend had intended to save the aged Scottish malt until the end of the war. Well, Bogle’s war ended today and he meant to toast his friend and send him off in style.

  He grabbed a glass and poured a generous slug. “To you, Bogle. May you rest in peace.” He lifted his glass and swallowed. The malt whisky burned down his throat, a peaty explosion of heat.

  “Bogle, old chap. I met a woman today. Pamela. She’s gorgeous. You’d probably say she was too good for me and try to steal her away.” He took another sip of whisky. “If she’d seen you first, I probably wouldn’t stand a chance. But she liked me. I even walked her home and kissed her good night. What about that?” After a final swallow, he set his empty glass aside. “I’d better try to get some sleep. We’ll rise at first light to take on the enemy. Rest in peace, old chap.”

  * * * *

  Pamela delved into her precious store of cocoa before even thinking about facing her mother’s letter. She and her mother—they seemed opposite in every way. Sometimes Pamela wondered if they were mother and daughter or if someone had plopped her down in the wrong nest twenty-four years ago like a stray bird.

  Sighing, she went about the comfortable routine of heating milk, spooning cocoa and half a teaspoon of sugar into a cup.

  She’d never known her father. Maybe if they’d experienced a normal family life or her mother had remarried after her husband’s death, things might have been different. Instead Pamela became her mother’s entire world. During her childhood the attention had been okay, but once she’d grown to an adult and starting dating, the tension started. Her mother had found fault with every man she’d brought home. She criticized Pamela’s appearance, called her a tart, and categorically refused to attend her daughter’s wedding. When Pamela tried to talk about Thomas and her marital problems, her mother turned her back and ignored her pleas. She’d made her bed and, according to her mother, she had to lie in it.

  Yet after Thomas’s death, her mother had expected her to return home. When Pamela refused, her mother’s health suffered and she started suffering chest pains.

  “Heart pains,” Pamela said, shaking her head. Her mother had the constitution of a healthy horse. The aches and pains moved throughout her mother’s body with the speed of a Spitfire chasing the enemy through the sky.

  Pamela picked up her cocoa and her mother’s letter and dropped onto a comfy chair. She stared at the envelope before setting it aside. She’d read the letter tomorrow, otherwise her mother’s complaints and vitriol would keep her awake all night. The last thing she wanted was to spoil a wonderful evening. A good-night kiss from a handsome pilot and a promise to meet in the future. She hugged herself, anticipation already thrumming through her at the idea of seeing Michael again.

  A muffled masculine laugh drifting down the passage to where she sat reminded her of Christine’s presence. Pamela took a sip of her cocoa. Her mother would have a conniption. Sin and virtue remained big topics at the church her mother attended every Sunday. The idea of equating sex with sin made her smile until worry took over again. She hoped Christine knew what she was doing by sleeping with Owen. If rumors started flying, no amount of damage control would restore her cousin’s good reputation.

  * * * *

  “Wake up, sir. It’s time to get up.”

  The light came on, dazzling Michael. Good grief, was it four already? Lyons, their batman, paused until he stirred, seemingly deciding he was actually awake once he’d forced his eyes open.

  Michael glanced across to say something to Bogle before remembering his friend wasn’t there. Gone to the big hangar in the sky. Another pilot would arrive in the next day or two to take Bogle’s place. His throat tightened, and he swallowed to disperse the pain constricting his entire being. Nothing worked. The hollow sensation remained.

  Swiping his hand over suddenly damp eyes, Michael shoved aside the blankets, shivering at the blast of cold. A brisk wash and a quick shave later, he pulled on his uniform and drank his rapidly cooling tea.

  He walked past the mess, getting a strong whiff of smoke. A quick glance through the doorway showed the litter of the previous evening. Overflowing ashtrays and empty glasses covered the tables while someone’s jumper and a pair of black shoes lay discarded in the middle of the floor. They’d need to claim them sharpish or they’d go missing.

  In the dining room several of the other pilots drank tea and ate slices of toast and marmalade. The steward brought out another pile of toast and yawned, looking even worse than Michael felt. He took possession of a spare seat and Owen pushed the teapot toward him.

  “You okay?”

  Michael nodded, unable to squeeze a single word past the knot taking permanent residence in his throat. Maybe a cup of tea would fix that.

  No one said much—pretty normal for this time of the morning. Like the others, Michael was trying to wake up fully and preparing mentally for the day to come. After pouring a cup of tea, he stirred in two teaspoons of sugar and cupped his hands around it, hoping to warm his numb fingers.

  Michael didn’t even try to eat a slice of toast since food didn’t sit easily in his stomach before a sortie. He’d only vomit it up on the drive out to their aircraft.

  Lyons appeared in the doorway. “The transport’s here for the first group, sir.”

  The commanding officer nodded and pushed his cup away to stand. “Let’s go, lads.”

  Michael stood with the others and wandered outside. He shuddered. Some of them still held pieces of toast, slathered with butter and jam. They obviously possessed stronger stomachs than he. One by one they piled into the transport. Once they were aboard, the driver started the vehicle. The drive around the perimeter of the airfield didn’t take long, and they soon arrived at the small hut where pilots always awaited flight orders. Like the others, Michael headed straight for the flight board to learn in which order they’d take off from the strip. Third.

  He went to his locker and pulled out his flight gear—his scarf and his Mae West, also known as a parachute. Finally grabbing his helmet, he made his way back outside.

  The ground crew looked like a colony of ants, fussing around the aircraft. They uncovered the Spitfires and plugged in the starter trolleys ready for takeoff. The darkness lifted and puffs of steam escaped from two pilots who were smoking and attempting social discourse. Michael followed the rest of them across the dewy grass, pausing to light a quick cigarette—the last one for several hours. His hands trembled as he attempted to light a match and he cursed softly. Finally, with the cigarette lit, he took a long drag and held it for a few seconds, the actual act of smoking helping his nerves to settle.

  The morning held the promise of clear skies and sunshine, but soon the ground crew started up the planes, shattering the tranquil peace. One at a time, the Spitfires spluttered to life. Michael puffed the last of his cigarette and ground out the stub with his heel. Time for action. Impatient now, he just wanted to get the job done and return to base again, hopefully in one piece. With a furtive glance at the other pilots and the ground crew, he tugged out his lucky coin and pressed his lips to the metallic surface before slipping it from sight beneath his shirt and silk scarf.

  When one of the ground crew signaled him, Michael jumped onto the wing and stepped into the cockpit. Working automatically, he plugged in his R/T lead and oxygen tube. He went through his standard checklist. The oxygen bottle registered full. The fuel gauge also read full. He checked the brake pressure, the rudder. With a final nod, he crawled from the cockpit and back onto the wing.

  �
��Everything looks good,” he said to the ground crew.

  “We fixed the oil leak last night,” a burly redhead said.

  Michael nodded. “Excellent.” He grabbed his Mae West and went back to the hut where they’d wait for a call to take off. He threw himself down on an empty cot. Some of the men slept, but tension wound Michael too tight today to even consider a catnap. His mind kept circling to Bogle. Already he missed his friend’s ugly mug. He could almost hear his low drawl, the Dorset accent, telling him to concentrate on the job at hand or else he’d get himself killed. And Bogle would be right. He’d seen it before. Men who worried and stressed so much their death became a self-fulfilling prophecy. He didn’t want to go out that way.

  Think about Pamela.

  So he did. He pictured her shy smile, the curve of her lips, and the contradictory glimmer of awareness in her beautiful blue eyes. She’d been married before. Would she let him go farther than a heated kiss or two? A shiver worked through him and this time the reaction contained pure heat and lust. Physical desire. His cock stirred and he shifted on the low cot, every inch of his body suddenly alive. Oh, yes. Thinking about Pamela made him want to live more than anything in the world.

  * * * *

  Pamela woke the next morning to find she rested in the dip of the mattress. Had she overslept? Instinct told her no, but the light-blocking blackout curtains did a good job of making day appear night. She climbed from bed, her thoughts drifting to Michael and the previous evening. The memory of their kisses brought a happy sigh until a shiver racked her body, the cool morning air whispering across her bare skin and nipping through her clothing. She grabbed her dressing gown from behind the door and tugged it on before pulling open the curtains to peer through the tape she’d placed across the glass panes in a crisscross fashion for safety. The war had changed a lot of things, from the Anderson shelter in the tiny garden to the sandbags piled against the wall of her cottage and the shop after the latest spate of bombings. They would help protect against bomb blasts. In theory. The direct hit in the neighboring village struck fear in all of them, the bombing a little too close for comfort. Most village households carried out the officially recommended preparations in case an enemy bomb found them next.