If A Man Answers

by Merline Lovelace

  There wasn’t much to it, though, on top or on bottom. Sequined strips of black satin banded her breasts and the mid-thigh hem, without a great deal of black crepe in between. Oh, well, the sinful creation certainly pulled out every stop she had.

  Clipping on a pair of square rhinestone-and-jet earrings, Molly gave her upswept hair a final pat, then picked up her black mesh evening bag and headed downstairs. At the sound of her stiletto heels on the oak steps, Sam pushed himself out of the single rattan chair in her living room.

  When she caught sight of him standing straight and tall at the bottom of the stairs, she stopped abruptly.

  “Wow!”

  If her little black dress constituted close to the minimum coverage required by law, just the opposite held true for Sam. What seemed like a half acre of midnight blue uniform molded his broad shoulders and otherwise mouthwatering form. The short, tailored jacket sported silver-edged shoulder boards embroidered with gold oak leaves, shiny silver wings and an array of colorful medals. A snowy white pleated shirt formed a startling contrast. The navy satin bow tie and cummerbund circling his lean waist matched the stripe running down the outsides of his pants’ legs. With his neatly trimmed dark hair, gray eyes and tanned skin, he looked like every woman’s fantasy come to life...in or out of uniform.

  “I’ll see that wow and raise you one,” Sam murmured, devouring her from neck to knees.

  The sudden heat in his eyes sent a prickle of pleasure through Molly. He’d seen her at her worst, with brown mush layered across her cheeks and coffee staining her front. Now he was seeing her at her best, and he certainly seemed to appreciate the view. For a moment she could have sworn she was Cinderella, about to depart for the ball with her handsome prince.

  Then a small frown puckered Sam’s brow. “I thought you said Kaplan was coming here to wire you?”

  Molly slid back into reality with a thud.

  “He is.” She twisted the gold bracelet watch on her left wrist to check the time. “He said he’d be here by seven. I wonder where he is?”

  “I’m wondering where he’s going to plant his listening device.”

  “Right here,” she replied dryly, dangling her little bag by one hand. “I’m not letting this sucker out of my hands for the rest of the night.”

  “Just so you know, I have the same plans for you.” He strolled forward and curled a knuckle to brush it down her cheek. “It’s not too late to change your mind about this, Molly.”

  For a moment, she was tempted. Really tempted. Confronting Congressman Walters in a public forum had seemed like a good idea when she’d first thought about it. Now, with the face-off imminent, she wasn’t ashamed to admit she was having second and third thoughts.

  If the bell hadn’t rung at that moment, she might even have wimped out and saved both herself and Sam the terror that followed. Instead, she merely smiled.

  “We’re all dressed up. We might as well go to the ball.”

  Detective Kaplan had dressed for the ball, too. Dark-jowled, dark-eyed and obviously uncomfortable in a tux that strained over his stomach, he greeted both her and Sam, then introduced Detective Sergeant Dee Santos. The short, henna-haired Hispanic, looking more elegant than her partner in pale, oyster-colored satin pants and a matching jacket, skimmed a quick look over Molly’s outfit.

  “Nice threads.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I hope I don’t have to try to conceal anything under them.”

  Pointedly avoiding Sam’s sardonic look, Molly held out the black mesh evening bag.

  “Will this work?”

  “Perfectly!”

  Propping her briefcase on the gnarled cypress tree stump that did duty as an end table, Santos snapped open the lid. The bite-sized package of electronics she pulled out looked more like a handheld tape recorder than the high-tech bit of electronics Kaplan had described to Molly. The police officer fiddled with a couple of protruding wires, adjusted an antenna, and flicked a switch. Static screeched through the air, then the tiny black box lapsed into silence.

  “This little baby will pick up normal conversation with no problem,” Santos said as she clipped the black button inside the lining of the purse. “We’ll have a lot of background noise to filter out at the club, though. It’ll help if you get as up close and personal with the target as possible.”

  Target. Molly’s skin rippled at the word.

  Folding over the mesh flap, Santos handed her back the bag. “Better yet, try to get our boy alone, off to a corner or in one of the anterooms.”

  “No way,” Sam said flatly.

  Both detectives looked at him in surprise.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said with a little less whip. “First, we’re dealing with a man suspected of murder here. Second, it’s going to look odd, to say the least, if I stand around twiddling my thumbs while another man whisks my woman off to a corner or a private room to huddle.”

  His blatant use of the possessive caught Molly off guard. Sam, too, if the quick, frowning glance he threw her was any indication. Her independent spirit instantly raised its head, but her objection formed with something less than its usual force. Molly didn’t have any great desire to huddle in a corner with Congressman Walters. Even more to the point, a contrary, deeply visceral part of her wanted Sam to claim her, to tell her he was ready to share more than his couch with her.

  “I suppose you have a point there,” Dee Santos conceded with a shrug. “We’ll just have to hope the receiver filters out the background noise enough to keep any conversation between Ms. Duncan and the congressman audible.” Flicking the switch once more, she nodded to Molly. “Say something. Anything. I need a voice print.”

  “A voice print?” Interest flared in Molly’s eyes. “Does this device record individual vocal signatures?”

  “Not signatures, exactly. The technology isn’t that advanced yet. The best we can do is run a print that helps distinguish between speakers when there’s a lot of background noise, as there will be tonight.” She glanced down at the palm-sized device she held in her hand. “Okay, I’ve got you. Ready to go?”

  Swiping a damp palm down the side of her dress, Molly nodded. Kaplan caught the small movement. His jowls creased in a reassuring smile.

  “Don’t worry, Ms. Duncan. Detective Santos and I are meeting the base chief of security at the club. We’ll have you covered from the moment you walk in the front door.”

  “So will I,” Sam said grimly as he followed Molly and the others to the front door.

  Molly had only visited a military post once before. Nellis Air Force Base, she soon discovered, bore little resemblance to ramshackle, WWII-era Fort Devans a few miles outside of Boston. Even in the descending darkness, she noted the professionalism of the guard who saluted and waved them through the gate. As they followed the stream of traffic heading for the Officers’ Club, a jet roared down the runway, its engines glowing like twin red suns as it soared into the night Another followed a few seconds later, adding to the thunder that rolled across the sky.

  The military honor guard that snapped to attention and whipped their swords into a flashing arch at the entrance to the Officers’ Club impressed her even more. Spit-shined and sharp in their white ascots and blue uniforms, the men and women who formed the honor guard looked young and invincible and proud.

  Sam returned their salute, greeting several by name as he escorted Molly up the steps. A square-jawed young sergeant opened the door for them.

  “Good to see you back, Major Henderson.”

  “Good to be back, Brent,” Sam answered easily. “I heard that AGS aced the ORI last month. You must have been TDY at the time.”

  Molly had no idea what the alphabet soup of acronyms meant, but the huge grin that split the young man’s face told her it was some kind of inside joke. Taking a moment to simply absorb the unfamiliar sights and sounds, she waited beside a bank of feathery ferns while Sam stepped up to a linen-draped table to confirm the last-minute table
reservations he’d wrangled for them.

  He was just turning back to Molly when a husky voice floated through the crowded hall.

  “Sam? I thought that was you.”

  A tall, sloe-eyed woman with a sweep of rich auburn hair strolled forward. The side slit in her floor-length uniform skirt showed just enough leg for several men to turn for a second look.

  Molly had never seen the stunning officer before, but the husky, dark-as-chocolate voice struck a chord. Memory kicked in when the woman flowed into Sam’s arms with a naturalness that said she’d been there before.

  This had to be the woman who’d answered Sam’s phone the first time Molly called to complain about his music. The one who promised to give him the message when he got out of the shower.

  Sam hadn’t gotten the message. Observing the expression on the officer’s face as she practically fused with Sam in the crowded hallway, Molly wasn’t surprised. Obviously, she’d had other things on her mind that night.

  Tonight, too.

  “You’re looking great,” she told him. “Better than great. Good enough to eat.”

  Laughing, Sam disengaged. “You’re looking pretty good, too, Janet. How’s the intelligence business?”

  The redhead wrinkled her nose. “Not very intelligent. We’re going through another manpower reduction, just when things are heating up in the Gulf again.”

  She angled her head, her eyes unreadable, but Molly’s keen ear didn’t miss the intimate concern that rippled through her voice.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Lifting his head, Sam met Molly’s interested gaze. “Better than I have in a long time,” he replied with a slow, private smile. “Come on, I want you to meet someone.”

  In the few seconds it took for Sam to escort the officer across the hallway, the two women communicated with swift, unerring accuracy. Molly had no difficulty interpreting or answering the silent message that flashed in the slanted, violet eyes.

  He was mine first.

  Tough. He’s mine now.

  This time, her independent spirit didn’t so much as whisper a protest at the flagrant use of the possessive.

  “Captain Green and I have already met,” she said when Sam had performed the introductions. “Or rather, we’ve spoken.”

  “Have we?”

  “I think you answered the phone one night when I called Sam’s house to talk to him about Buck Randoll.”

  The redhead’s nose wrinkled once again. Obviously, she didn’t remember the irate phone message she’d promised to pass on.

  “Are you a fan, too?”

  “I don’t know if I’d go quite that far. Let’s just say Sam’s encouraging me to develop more of an appreciation for the man’s artistry.”

  Once again, the two women communicated without words. Something that might have been regret shone in the captain’s extraordinary eyes for a moment, then her mouth curved in her first genuine smile.

  “Better you than me. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  She turned to the man at her side. “I’m here with Doc and Mindy and her husband. Would you two like to join us? We can do some quick table shuffling.”

  “Maybe we’ll join you for a drink after dinner,” Sam said easily. “We’re sitting at one of the 442d tables.”

  “Uh, oh! You’re in for a lively night, Molly. The 442d holds the record for the most trips to the grog bowl. See you later.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  Sam grinned and edged her aside to let another group of officers and their ladies pass.

  “Don’t worry. They don’t go after civilians... much. There are Kaplan and Santos.”

  With reinforcements, Molly noted. A balding, ramrod straight officer with a glittering array of medals on his chest accompanied the two detectives.

  “Good to see you, Sam,” he said, thrusting out his hand.

  “You, too, sir.”

  “How’s the head?”

  “Still there. This is Ms. Duncan. Molly Duncan. Molly, this is Colonel Scott, chief of security for the base.”

  Flinty blue eyes measured her. Evidently she passed his test. His craggy face creased into a smile.

  “Why don’t we go into the club manager’s office?” he suggested. “We can go over the security arrangements there and test this equipment you’re wearing?”

  “Carrying,” Sam amended dryly.

  The colonel had more sense than to comment on that one.

  Fifteen minutes later, Molly and Sam joined the throng slowly filling the club’s main ballroom and made their way to their table. They halted frequently while Sam returned greetings and introduced Molly to a host of friends and acquaintances. Halfway across the room, she gave up trying to remember names and faces. There were too many.

  Her nerves fluttered even more than the blue-andsilver foil streamers draped from the chandeliers to form a glittering overhead canopy. Hundreds of long, slender blue tapers flickered in glass hurricane lamps. The flickering light added to the festive air, but made it impossible to see much more than a few yards away.

  She clutched Sam’s arm, skimming the sea of midnight blue that surrounded her. The few civilians in tuxes scattered through the crowd almost got lost amid the colorful glitter of medals and glinting silver shoulder boards.

  Almost.

  A few stood out Several of them Molly recognized instantly. One was the mayor of Las Vegas, a portly, red-faced man already sweating profusely. Another was a real estate developer who chaired the Chamber of Commerce, which met regularly with the Tourist Bureau. But it was the tall, distinguished civilian with the shock of prematurely gray hair who riveted her attention. Her fingers dug into Sam’s arm as he pulled out her chair.

  “There he is,” she hissed in his ear.

  “I saw him.”

  “Shouldn’t we go over and talk to him?”

  “Not now,” he said calmly. “Mr. Vice is about to ring the chimes. We’ll have to wait until the smoking lamp is lit.”

  “Whenever that is,” Molly muttered.

  A long, lanky major with a white-walled buzz cut and an infectious grin jumped up to assist Sam with the onerous task of pushing in her chair.

  “That, sweet thang, is right after the rubber chicken and right before the speeches. I’m Rock, short for Rocket, as in straight up. What in the world is a first-class hottie like you doing with Drac?”

  “Drac?” Molly arched a look at Sam. “As in Dracula?”

  “As in Dracm,” Rock supplied, “a fourteenth-century dragon who owned the skies and belched fire, among other things. Why don’t you dump the old man and run away with me?”

  Startled, Molly glanced from him to the woman seated on the other side of his empty chair. The laughing mother-to-be folded her hands across her bulging stomach.

  “Please! Take him off my hands and I’ll give you my firstborn. My second, third, fourth and fifth, too. Heck, I’ll even throw in the dog, and run off with the old man you came with as soon as I pop.”

  “Which we hope won’t happen tonight,” Sam drawled. “You provided enough entertainment by delivering number five at the squadron picnic.” Grinning, he bent over to brush a kiss across her mouth. “Hello, Peg.”

  “Hello, Drac.”

  “Got this one named yet? As best I recall, the last one went by ‘it’ for three months while Rock tried to sell you on ‘Falcon.’”

  “As a matter of fact, we have a name all picked out.” Her hand reached up to curl around his. “How does Samuel Czcynsky sound to you?”

  His strong, tanned fingers gripped hers. “Pretty damn good.”

  She clung to his hand for a moment, sharing what was obviously a vivid memory. Rock shared it with Molly a few moments later, after the flurry of introductions had been completed and Sam turned his attention to the bashful young wife seated on his other side.

  “Drac and I participated in some cold weather tests a year or so ago,” he told her quietly. “My plane took a bird strike and I h
ad to bail out over some nasty seas. Drac stayed right over me, talking to me, swearing at me, threatening to wring my scrawny neck if I died on him. The rescue chopper arrived and hauled my frozen butt out of the water just before hypothermia took me under for the last time.”

  He paused, his face seeming to fold in on itself as an icy vision held him in its grip.

  “Drac made it back to base on pure fumes, and Peg swore she’d name this one after him whether it was a boy or girl. She thinks a lot of him.” His gaze slid past Molly’s shoulder to the man at her side. “We all do,” he finished softly.

  “So I’ve gathered.”

  “What about you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What do you think of the Drac Man?”

  The seriousness in Rock’s homely handsome face told Molly that she’d better give the right answer. It came easy.

  “I think a lot of him, too.”

  “Good.”

  When someone else at the table claimed the young pilot’s attention, Molly leaned back. A small tilt to her head allowed her to study the man with his arm looped along the back of her chair. For all the jokes and banter being tossed around, it was obvious that Sam commanded these officers’ respect. Only gradually did she realize that he’d also commanded most of them in battle. Almost all of them were veterans of Desert Storm. A few had also seen some hot action in Bosnia.

  Sam belonged here, she thought with an aching sense of loss...for him, for the men and women he once led. He was a warrior at heart. He and the others all shared the same values, the same dangers, the same dedication to their country. Yet as incredible as it seemed, he harbored no bitterness as a result of his accident, no resentment toward an Air Force that would soon put him permanently on the shelf.

  He was, as Davinia had said, real trophy quality.

  At that moment, the last of Molly’s hesitations fell away. Watching his easy smile, seeing his gray eyes light with laughter, feeling the warmth of the arm that circled her bare shoulders, she felt herself sliding the rest of the way down that slippery slope Buck Randall had called love. Her heart opened, and she knew her slide wouldn’t stop for a long, long time.