Or maybe she just preferred pampered snooze-ins.
Regardless, she’d sure made the effort to look nice this morning. Her sleek black hair brushed her cheeks as she yawned, oversized gold hoops peeking through the strands.
Wearing a beige baby doll sweater dress, she could have been a kid home from college out for breakfast with Dad, which made him feel like some kind of pervert for checking out the way the crocheted overlay along the top of the dress accented the gentle swell of her breasts. If he looked at her long length of legs stretching from the short hem, he would be toast. He eyed her gold knee boots—no heels—and reminded himself that leather covered scars. Her crutch was propped against the wall. She was frailer right now than her temperament would indicate. He needed to remember that.
Shaking his head, he snagged a biscuit and headed back to his table. Maybe this meal would finally convince the diva to move on. Meanwhile, he might as well eat to pass time until his oh eight hundred meeting with Special Agent Barrera to move Mason Randolph and Jill Walczak, then he would head straight into mission planning for the final test flight to clear before the big unveiling. They would have to bring in another loadmaster from the squadron, which made his gut clench with frustration, but the change couldn’t be helped. He only hoped that with one near-fatal accident in this test, he wasn’t tempting fate by changing up things just to stay on schedule.
A very high-profile schedule with billions of defense dollars riding on the outcome.
He angled sideways, weaving through the closely packed tables, nodding at the occasional called-out greeting, and ignoring the inquisitive expressions. He took his seat at the table across from Livia, and his boot started tapping before he could even pour hot sauce on his eggs. This was a really crappy idea. She had to see that.
She blew into her steaming latte, her glossy lips pursed in a display that sent his pulse into overdrive.
His foot tapped faster. He averted his eyes. Across the room at a corner table, he saw Annette Santos, the woman Livia had said was dating Chuck Tanaka. But she wasn’t dining with the wounded airman. She stood at the omelet chef’s workstation with Tanaka’s physical therapist . . . Rex searched his memory. He’d learned to be good with names, a must in his job. Garrett Ferguson. Right. The guy was a civilian contracted to work at the base hospital, since the facility was short-staffed.
What was Annette Santos doing with Chuck’s physical therapist? Neither made any overtly romantic moves, but of course this wasn’t the place for PDAs—public displays of affection. The woman damn well better not be stepping out on Chuck. He’d been through enough already.
The couple took their omelets and returned to sit with Vince Deluca and his fiancée, a nurse who worked at a local free clinic. The meeting probably had something to do with Chuck’s care. Rex made a mental note to ask Deluca—a gossip hound anyway—for the scoop later. And later would come sooner if he got this breakfast over with.
He jabbed his fork into his eggs. Maybe if he could get her talking about herself, they would be through with this ill-advised idea once and for all, and he could put Livia Cicero in his past. “What made you want to be a world-famous singer?”
“What made you want to fly airplanes?” She sipped her latte, leaving a light pink gloss lip outline on the bone-white china.
“It’s what I do.”
“Exactly.” She forked a strawberry with mangling force, and when he didn’t speak, she finally continued, “Actually, my mother was an opera singer.”
So Livia came by the diva personality naturally. “Have I heard of her?”
“Likely not. She is quite the star of Italy, but she never quite made the leap to international fame.” She shoved the smashed fruit into her mouth.
“Unlike her daughter.” He doubled over a sausage link on his fork.
Livia dabbed her glossy lips, looking down and away. “Ah, but I am not a true artist. I am what you in America would call a sellout.”
Now that wasn’t what he’d expected in sharing time. He’d figured she would regale him with overly dramatic tales of her life of success. Instead, she hung her head.
Seeing this in-your-face woman’s spirit cowed pissed him off. “That’s a crock.”
He slathered grape jelly on his biscuit.
“A crock?” Her napkin slid away to reveal a hesitant smile. “I assume you mean that word in my defense.”
“You assume correctly.” He leaned forward on his elbow, butter knife still in his hand. “You’ve achieved fame and fortune beyond what your mother did. You deserve to be proud.”
She set her napkin by her crystal dish, smoothing wrinkles on the linen tablecloth. “Classical artists don’t always see it that way.” She glanced up. “Needless to say, the whole Las Vegas possibility has horrified my mother.”
As a life rule, he made a point of playing things cool, tactful, but he couldn’t hold back. “Your mom doesn’t sound like much of a parent. Parents are proud of their kids and make sure they know it.” Like he’d done with his sons, who he spoke to about once a month?
Shit.
He stuffed half a biscuit into his mouth.
Livia shrugged, drawing his eyes straight to her breasts moving enticingly under her sweater dress.
“Music is her passion. My father, her family, everything else comes second. I understood the rules when I made my choice for the popular music.”
His gaze snapped up to her face, where it belonged. He placed the rest of his biscuit back on his plate. “I heard you sing back in Turkey, that time you did some warm-ups with your friend Chloe playing the piano. It sounded to me like you’ve had classical training.”
“My mother insisted on it from a young age.”
“So you could have gone the opera route.”
“Perhaps. My mother always said I needed to work more if I wanted to break in. Now I’ll never know.” She finished her coffee.
“Do you want to?” He touched her elbow, forcing her to look back at him, not brush this off. This was her life, damn it. She shouldn’t let her mother intimidate her—granted that the woman must be one hell of an intimidating human being if she could overshadow Livia. “I don’t know a lot about music, but you’re still young.”
She tossed aside her twisted napkin, her arm inching away from his impulsive touch. “There’s not going to be a Las Vegas deal. There is no deal anywhere.”
The sounds of the dining room faded as his focus narrowed. He heard the starchy pride, the prickly defensiveness in her voice.
Ah hell. He’d wanted to be wrong about the vulnerability he saw in her. “I’m sorry to hear that, Livia.”
“Actually, that’s not entirely true. I was offered a tryout for a show, but I know the truth. Even if I do manage to recover from the injury to my leg, I do not have the vocal cords I used to. The damage from smoke inhalation during the explosion in Turkey was too much.”
His throat closed up so tight he could have sworn he tasted the smoke. That mission—his mission—had done this. His fists clenched on the table. “I’m so damn sorry.”
For more than he could ever say.
“Perhaps my voice would still be considered good enough for some small venue, but I’m not content with that.” Her chin tipped with a Roman bravado. “I can’t be a shadow of who I was.”
“Believe me, lady, there’s not a chance of you ever being a shadow.”
Her eyes went wide, long dark lashes sweeping up, and now that he looked closer, she wasn’t even wearing makeup beyond her lip gloss. She was just that damn beautiful, dynamic.
Hot.
She smiled again, apparently as good an actress as she’d once been a singer. “None of that matters now. It is what you would call mute—wait.” She held up a French-manicured finger. “That is not the right word.”
“You’re close.” He couldn’t hold back the grin at her vocab quirks. “Moot.”
“Like boot. I have it now.” She sniffed regally. Or was that just a cover to mask holdin
g back tears?
“Mute is the word for no voice, so I guess that is right, too. I have no voice anymore. I have no direction.”
No wonder she’d spent so much time hanging out with Chuck Tanaka. She’d experienced her fair share of loss, even if the outward wounds weren’t as apparent.
“There’s one thing I know for sure.” He kept his hands planted on his side of the table this time but infused conviction in his voice if not in a comforting touch. “You will find your voice again. You’ll find a new direction and pursue it with every bit as much passion as you put into your music.”
Her eyes sparked with anger, her famous temper flecking shards of white ice in her eyes. “What if you couldn’t fly any longer? Would you just be able to pick up some new passion?”
“I didn’t say it would be easy. In fact, I think it would be hellishly hard, but I believe—I know—you’re that tough.”
Her temper faded as quickly as it had sparked. She smiled. But damn, smile seemed such an inadequate word to describe the way her beautiful face lit up over a few words he’d just tossed out there.
“Thank you, Rex Scanlon. That is probably the most lovely compliment anyone has ever given me.”
“Uh, you’re welc—”
She leaned across the table and kissed him. Right there in public with God and everyone else in the Officers’ Club watching, she pressed her soft, sweet lips to his, holding contact in an unmistakably sensual moment, even if she kept her hands firmly planted on the table by her uneaten compote.
He needed to ease her away in a manner that wouldn’t embarrass her—well, any more than they’d both already embarrassed the hell out of themselves with her impulsive act. But damn, she tasted good. Felt good. Stirred him so hot, hard, and fast he was damn glad the table masked his response. One simple kiss, and she had him buzzing with desire.
Buzzing?
Shit. He was hard, all right. But the buzzing was his BlackBerry. His work. His job. Something this woman had made him forget, even if only for a few drawn-out seconds.
Rex slid his hand down her face for a selfish second before he gripped her shoulders and carefully urged her away. “I’m sorry.”
Sorry for more than just the damn interruption. Sorry for things he didn’t even know how to put into words.
He unclipped his BlackBerry and clicked on the message—from Special Agent Barrera. He scrolled through the e-mail:There’s been an attempt made on Randolph and Walczak. Call in immediately.
Mason paced around the squadron briefing room, a space too small for him to stand a chance at working off his nervous energy as he waited for Jill to finish her interview with Barrera, Scanlon, and Gallardo.
Things had moved fast once that hole burned through the carpet in their temporary quarters. God, he didn’t even want to think of what could have happened if the tainted vitamins had made it into the dog’s bowl, or, heaven forbid, if some of the corrosive acid had sloshed onto Jill. Boo had stayed by Jill’s side ever since. Barrera hadn’t even bothered objecting to the guard dog’s constant presence.
While Mason was thankful for the dog’s presence, he wanted to be the one by her side, and nothing less would suffice.
His boots plowed tracks through the industrial carpet as he made his way back and forth past the long table with eight swivel chairs. At least he wasn’t facing this alone. Aside from the official detail in with Jill now, Mason had the support of his crew buddies who were trying to take his mind off how damn much he hated the plan of using Jill as bait for a killer who always seemed to be two steps ahead of them.
Vince and Jimmy both waited with him, Jimmy having run straight over from the gym and Vince cutting out on breakfast with his fiancée. Both men now sat at the briefing table with their laptops open, working on mission planning notes for the upcoming final test flight—the flight Mason wouldn’t be flying.
“Hey,” Vince said without looking up as he clicked the down arrow through pages. “Did you hear the colonel’s now a groupie?”
Mason stopped dead in his tracks. WTF? “I appreciate that you’re trying to take my mind off things, but that’s a little out there. Even coming from you.”
Vince minimized his computer screen, a goofy-ass grin on his face. “I couldn’t make up shit this good.”
“You’re going to have to explain that one.”
“Shay and I were having breakfast with Chuck Tanaka’s girlfriend and his physical therapist—the guy asked to meet us to get some insights on how to better motivate Chuck. So anyway, we went to the Officers’ Club, and no shit, who do we see but Colonel Scanlon sharing eggs and sausage links with a certain visiting dignitary. None other than Livia Cicero.”
Jimmy slammed his computer shut. “You’re yanking our chains.”
Okay, so that was the last thing Mason had expected to hear, either, but who the hell cared right now? Not him. Not when some whack job had painted a target on Jill’s back. “He was probably just escorting her.”
“The colonel as an escort? Okay,” Vince bobbed his big, shaved head, “I’m not even going to touch that one. Besides, by the end of the meal, they were sharing more than food. The whole club saw them in a full-out PDA.”
Even über-chill Jimmy choked on a cough. “A no-shit public display of affection? In uniform? In public? Colonel Scanlon?”
Vapor grinned. “None other. She laid a lip-lock on him that had the general’s wife spewing orange juice out her nose.”
Jimmy drummed his fingers along his closed laptop. “So, does that make the pop star a military groupie? Or maybe the colonel’s actually a roadie.”
Vince scrubbed his head. “Either way, coulda knocked me over with a feather.”
Jimmy backed away from his bulked-up crewmate. “Would have taken a damn big feather.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Vince waved away the comment. “I’m just wondering how the colonel and the singer kept this all quiet back when we escorted her on that USO trip to Turkey last spring. He’s even better at keeping secrets than I would have imagined.”
Jimmy cut a sideways glance at Mason. “I thought you were putting the moves on her at one time, Smooth.”
Some of the bottled frustration leaked free and he snapped curtly, “Good God, I don’t chase every woman that crosses my path.”
He was cranky and knew it, but he certainly didn’t need this sort of crap floating around for Jill to hear right now when things were so unsettled—but so damn hot—between them.
“Ease up, pal.” Jimmy leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I’m asking because if that serial killer thinks Livia Cicero means something to you, she would make for one helluva high-profile target.”
“Fuck,” Vapor hissed. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
Mason mentally kicked himself because it hadn’t crossed his mind either, and it should have. If these guys thought there was a connection, someone else—a killer—could as well. Damn it all, he would find this person. Determination jelled with his bottled rage. This bastard didn’t know who the hell he was dealing with.
Jimmy ducked into his line of sight. “So, dude? Did you?”
Mason shook his head. “I never asked Livia Cicero out. I was already seeing someone at the time. There are plenty of bad names you can call me, but ‘cheater’ isn’t one of them.”
The door clicked a warning just before it opened. Werewolf, Gucci, and the contractor Lee Drummond strode in, reminding Mason of the mission planning scheduled for this morning. By the middle of the night, they would be flying the final test flight—without him. This time Werewolf and Gucci would pilot the Predator in practice for their part in keeping a security watch during the hypersonic flight for the visiting dignitaries.
Werewolf tapped the back of Mason’s head. “Somebody’s cranky today.”
Mason spun his chair to face Werewolf. “Having someone kill the people around me tends to do that.”
Werewolf dropped into the seat beside Gucci. “Sorry, dude, my mouth runs ahead of my br
ain.” He pointed to Mason’s gnawed boot. “What’s up with that? The boss is a stickler about uniform standards.”
There hadn’t been time to get replacements. It had been futile to hope that no one would notice.
Dr. Drummond slid into a chair at the head and began unloading her portfolio, lining up her PDA, her leather binder, her pen, and her water bottle with her normal precision. “Doesn’t Jill Walczak have a dog now?”
“I do believe she does,” Vince said, even though he knew full well since he’d seen Boo with Jill a half hour earlier. “That must have hurt your leg having the dog chew on your boot like that. Shay’s hairy mutt did that to my favorite pair of shit kickers once. Lucky for me, her little yipper has tiny teeth. Oh, hey wait, you must have had your boots off when the dog chewed it. In fact, the boots must have been off for a long time, given how gnawed up that boot is.”
“I fell asleep on the sofa with my boots on.” Let them “chew” on that answer.
Werewolf winked at Gucci. “Okay, he’s so cranky, that’s proof positive he’s not getting any.”
Gucci sighed, flipping open her pink legal pad. “You men can be such pigs—and before you ask”—she tucked her silver etched pen behind her ear—“I’m cranky because my boyfriend didn’t let me get enough sleep.”
Vince pulled a granola bar from his flight bag. “I gotta agree with Gucci. That cranky thing isn’t much of an indicator. I’m feeling crabby because Shay keeps pushing these tree bark bars on me thinking I’ll give up doughnuts. Gage is perky as a cheerleader even though Chloe is out of town, and we know he’s not screwing around on her.” Vince pivoted fast in the chair. “You aren’t cheating, are you?”
“You’re joking, right? Chloe may be small, but I wouldn’t recommend pissing her off. She’s well on her way to her brown belt in karate.”
Werewolf opened and closed his fingers in a “talk, talk, talk” symbol. “Fine. Everyone’s happily hooked up, enough so you’re even willing to eat tree bark.”
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