Phoenix Alight

by Isadora Montrose

  “Come along, D’Angelo.” Brigham strode down the hall to the debriefing room. “I suppose your brothers and your sister have photographic memories too?”

  Frankie effortlessly kept pace with the shorter officer. His dignified gray head came up only to her chin. “Yes, sir. And my father, sir. The D’Angelos are natural pilots because of it.”

  Three of her four brothers and her twin sister were or had been Air Force officers. Her father, heavily decorated five-star Gen. George D’Angelo, had retired after an illustrious career. Phoenixes had a natural affinity for flight and warfare. All the D’Angelos were Air Force legends. She had every intention of breaking all their service records.

  Outside the debriefing room, an airman saluted them and opened the door. Col. Brigham went in and sat down at the head of the conference table. Frankie followed. She took her seat. Let the games begin.

  “Dammit, D’Angelo, you’ve screwed up our stats again,” complained Maj. O’Brien who had designed the simulation. “But if it was a for-real mission, you’d get another medal.” It sounded complimentary, but O’Brien’s tone was bitter.

  “Thank you, sir,” Frankie replied primly.

  The debriefing lasted just short of a lifetime. Frankie would have appreciated being allowed to rehydrate. But no one had provided her with a glass. She sat politely and correctly answering questions and giving her opinion, while her body temperature rose to fever pitch and her mouth dried.

  George Washington. Good thing she was a flipping phoenix, or she would faint. She knew that this minor torture was passive-aggressive punishment for besting the male pilots who had failed the simulation. Was it her fault she was better than the other test pilots at predicting when and where attacks were likely? Or that she made better suggestions for improving the aircraft?

  Finally, Col. Bingham had had enough of the repetitive questioning. He leaned back in his chair. “I think we have enough data now, O’Brien. I’d like your final report next week at this same hour. Any other business?” he inquired in a tone that meant there was to be none.

  Silence followed his question. “Very well, dismissed.” Brigham rose.

  They filed out of the room. Frankie turned to go to get some water. Brigham spoke quietly for her ears alone. “I’d like a word with you, D’Angelo, when you’ve had a drink.”

  Thank goodness Col. Brigham was in her corner. “Yes, sir.”

  Ten minutes later she was facing him across his empty desk. Except for a single landline the polished surface was bare. “I’ve put you up for promotion, D’Angelo. I thought you should know.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She tried to look pleased. It was difficult when she knew that any male officer with her record would have had their promotion long ago.

  He frowned slightly. “There is some feeling that you’re trading on your family’s reputation, D’Angelo.”

  Van Buren! What a load of bull. “With respect, sir, my record speaks for itself and does not need any reflected glory to enhance it.” She pushed a little phoenix music into her statement to make it register.

  It was absurd that in the twenty-first century she or any other woman needed to prove she was as good as a man at her job, when in fact she was better by some distance. But the military remained a bastion of male privilege. She didn’t feel badly about using her powers of persuasion to convince Brigham that his view of her merits was the correct one. She deserved her promotion on her own achievements.

  Brigham nodded. “I’ll make them read your file. We should know one way or another by the time you are back from your leave. You’re off to Texas, are you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Give my regards to your father. A wedding, is it? One of your brothers?”

  “I will give your message to Dad, sir. My youngest brother Grant is getting married.”

  “Grant, Grant D’Angelo,” Brigham murmured. “What’s his rank?”

  “Grant’s a civilian, sir. He’s an operatic tenor. Fairly famous. But he is marrying an Air Force officer.”

  “Is he?” Brigham grinned. “Your father will be pleased. Do I know her?”

  “Capt. Genevieve Carson, sir. She’s serving as a military attaché at the US Consulate in Frankfurt, sir.* Before that she was with Combat, sir.”

  “Hmph. He could do worse. Well, you enjoy yourself, D’Angelo.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She stood and saluted and about-faced.

  Half an hour later she was on a transport plane headed to Galveston with her Harley. With luck she would be home in Grape Creek by lunchtime tomorrow. This was her first opportunity to get home since Christmas. Her extended clan was gathering in Grape Creek for Grant and Genevieve’s wedding.

  Genevieve Carson had been friends with her and her twin since the second grade. This marriage had Frankie’s full approval. She only hoped that Grant had changed his playboy ways and would be the kind of husband her friend deserved. It was going to be so great to have another sister. And when Grant transformed his mate into a phoenix, that would make the three-way sisterhood even more awesome.

  Last Christmas had been spoiled for her by the presence of her new sister-in-law’s brother. Her brother Harrison’s wife, Tasha, didn’t have much in the way of family. Just her adoptive brother Cameron. Capt. Cameron Reynolds of Special Forces.

  Frankie could have done without his damn bear shifter legs under the D’Angelo harvest table. But Mom and Dad had invited him. She had had to spend her entire Christmas holiday dodging Reynolds. She and Cam had a history. But she was so not going down that road again. General Custer. He’d had his chance and blown it. She didn’t give second chances.

  But there was no reason that Reynolds should be at Grant’s wedding. Capt. Special Fricking Forces presumably was on some top-secret mission of earth-shattering importance. She would be able to enjoy Harrison’s daughter Quincy and Tasha’s daughter Rebecca in a blissful Cameron-Reynolds-free zone.

  Frankie closed her eyes and leaned back against the vibrating wall of the transport. The unpadded bench she was sitting on was designed to pack the maximum number of troops into the aircraft. Comfort had not been a consideration. But Frankie had spent her entire life in the military. She could sleep anywhere.

  *Christmas Flame

  CHAPTER TWO

  Cameron~

  The roar of gunfire yanked Cameron from his stupor. For one heart-stopping moment he was back in Syria, suffocated by pulverized brick dust. Surrounded. Doomed. Then the cool calm of the darkened living room registered.

  He was stateside. Safe. He closed his eyes against the stabbing pain even the dimmest light triggered. Willed his pulse to slow. The gunfire morphed into the growling thunder of a big motorcycle. Behind his lids, as clearly as if he stood watching in the sunlight, he could see Capt. Frankie D’Angelo rumbling up the driveway of her family home.

  She would be astride her oversized, overpowered Harley Davidson. Straddling The Beast, as she had so often straddled him. Of course, when she had ridden him hard, she hadn’t been wearing skin-tight black leathers. But Frankie D’Angelo was even sexier in her own peachy skin. Maybe the sexiest woman alive.

  Not that she wasn’t plenty titillating in black leather. Six-foot-three in her stocking feet, built like his own personal Valkyrie, and twice as beautiful as any woman needed to be, she was every bear’s wet dream. And his own personal fate – whether she liked it or not. Or she had been. He kept forgetting that his bear was dead. No more fated mate for Maj. Reynolds.

  The booming of The Beast faded to a gentle rattle of falling gravel. Silence fell. Over by the main house the muted noises of enthusiastic greetings began. Cam could imagine Frankie dismounting from her motorcycle with a graceful pivot of one long leg before swooping down to pick up her nieces. Their nieces.

  His only sister had married Frankie’s eldest brother. Who just happened to be his commanding officer. Which was some kind of triple-barreled awkward. But for better or worse, he and Frankie D’Angelo were bound together fore
ver, doomed to share every holiday from now until kingdom come.

  Not even for Frankie would he cut his ties to Tasha, Rebecca and Quincy and whatever Tasha’s coming baby turned out to be. They were all the family he had, and even if his bear was dead, he was too much of traditionalist to give them up.

  He must have dozed again. But at least he hadn’t dreamed. Or if he had, he didn’t remember it, which came to the same thing. He needed to pee. Shift. He swung his legs over the couch and reached for the aluminum walker. Propelled it slowly through the living room furniture and down the hall. It took all his concentration, but he made it.

  Score, Reynolds. You made it to go potty. The walk back was hardly better, but he detoured to the kitchen. That was his routine. Sleep. Pee. Drink. Rinse and repeat. With time off for good behavior and meals. The kitchen clock told him he had ten minutes to make it to the D’Angelo’s kitchen for lunch. Shift, shift, shift.

  He was damned if he was going to use that infernal walker in front of Warrior Woman. Fuck that. He’d use the cane. Every step made his damned leg ache. Every stumble wrenched his knee and sent shrapnel slicing through his head. It was almost time for his meds. Were they in his pocket? Or still on the kitchen counter?

  With the mush that passed for his brain these days, he couldn’t be sure. He stopped beside a tree. Leaned on the trunk. Patted his pants pocket. The little vial was there. Good. The drugs made him woozy, but they knocked the pain back to a dull ache, and stopped the nightmares. Good enough.

  Of course, even his psychiatrist, who had no inkling of the hazards of psychotropic drugs to shifters, thought it was time to back off the meds. She worried that he risked addiction. She needn’t. That particular ship had sailed. But he would rather stumble through life like this, than relive his nightmares night after night. Watching his buddies die the first time had been quite sufficient for one lifetime.

  * * *

  Frankie~

  “So where’s the bride?” Frankie demanded as her brother Grant pulled her into a welcoming hug. He laughed and squeezed her harder.

  Mom grabbed her next and held her close. “Naturally, Genevieve is with her family,” Caroline D’Angelo murmured. She passed Frankie to Dad.

  George D’Angelo’s chuckle rumbled through her as he wrapped her up in a fierce embrace and kissed her cheek. “Welcome home, girl. You’ll see Gen later on. After your dress fitting.”

  “What do you mean, dress fitting?” Frankie yelped. “I’m going to wear my dress blues – like I did for Harrison’s wedding. I bought a long skirt and everything.”

  “Not a chance,” Grant said firmly. “Genevieve wants you and Eleanor to wear dresses. And what my girl wants, she gets.” He glared up into his sister’s eyes, daring her to disappoint his bride. At six-foot, Grant was the family shrimp.

  Frankie didn’t exactly want to disappoint Genevieve. Gen had been her friend long before Grant had claimed her*. Her best friend – next to Eleanor. She and Eleanor had been palling around with Genevieve Carson from the first day of second grade. Now she was finally going to be a real part of the D’Angelo family.

  Eleanor leaped down the front steps to the driveway. She too had a hug for her sister. “Welcome home, Frankie,” she cried with her customary enthusiasm. “You won’t be needing The Beast today. Mom and I will drive you over to Miz Trudy’s this afternoon for our fitting. And we’re taking a limo into San Angelo tonight. Let’s put your hog away.”

  Frankie narrowed her eyes at her sister. Not Eleanor too? Surely she could trust her only sister? “What fitting?” She was so not wearing froufrou.

  “Miz Trudy made two dresses, Frankie dear. One for me, and one for you. Nothing to choose between us.” Eleanor waved a hand at her own statuesque figure. As usual when on leave, she was wearing chinos and a button-front shirt. But nothing could disguise her lavish curves.

  “So?” Frankie asked between her teeth.

  Eleanor laughed. “Final fitting today. It’ll be fine. Miz Trudy just made two dresses my size.” She and Frankie were made in the same generous mold as their mom. They had shared clothes all their lives.

  “I. Don’t. Do. Dresses.” Frankie said through her teeth.

  “You do for Genevieve.” Eleanor hugged Frankie again, leathers, helmet and all and gave her a fierce shake into the bargain. “She’s wearing her Nana B’s wedding dress and pearls. All four of us are going to be girlie for our best friend – if it kills us.”

  “Four?” Frankie’s head was already spinning, as it often did when she was with her exuberant, pushy family.

  “You don’t think that I’d be allowed to get married without giving Quincy and Becky a chance to play flower girls again?**” Grant asked.

  “Where are my nieces?” Frankie asked peering around. In addition to attending the wedding of her best friend and her youngest brother, she was looking forward to some quality aunt-time.

  “Swimming with their parents,” Mom said. “Tasha and I picked up their dresses this morning. They look adorable.”

  “Should Tasha be swimming? In her condition?”

  “She’s pregnant, Frankie, not terminal,” Eleanor rolled her eyes. “And she’s got two-and-a-half months to go. Come on, let’s put your bike away.”

  Frankie allowed herself to be persuaded. Eleanor climbed on back and set her hands at Frankie’s waist. Frankie kept The Beast to a gentle putter since her sister was bareheaded. They rolled down the driveway to the huge garage.

  Eleanor produced a garage door opener. There were five SUVs and a compact already parked in there, two deep. Her brothers must be home. Frankie tucked her precious motorcycle into its special niche and carefully covered it.

  “Who else is here?” she asked waving at the other vehicles. She recognized only Mom and Dad’s SUVs and Eleanor’s compact.

  “Just Harrison and Tasha, Grant, and Cameron so far.” Eleanor counted them off on her fingers.

  Millard Fillmore! “What’s Reynolds doing here?” Frankie couldn’t believe that damned bear had had the nerve to show up in Grape Creek, four whole days before the wedding. She had hoped that he wouldn’t be coming at all. Being as Capt. Special Forces was so damned, fricking important.

  Her twin looked troubled. “Mostly sleeping. He’s been here since he got out of the hospital. Didn’t you know?”

  “No, I most certainly did not know. Since when does Capt. Reynolds spend his medical leave in Texas?” Frankie asked through her teeth.

  “Maj. Reynolds is Tasha’s only brother,” Eleanor said reproachfully. “These days, Tasha’s too big around, and too slight everywhere else, to be nursing a great bruiser like Cam. Mom insisted he come here to Grape Creek recuperate. Not that he’s doing much of that.”

  General Custer. That was two, or maybe three, more unpleasant surprises. “When did Reynolds make major?” At Christmas, when his very presence at her family celebration had been a thorn in her side, he had still been wearing his captain’s bars. Like her.

  Eleanor shrugged. “His promotion was pretty recent. Does it matter?”

  “I suppose not.” Of course it did. Cam was not supposed to get his promotion before she earned hers. She set her lips. No point in advertising that she was a sore loser. “What’s Maj. Reynolds recuperating from?” Some damned macho Special Forces bullshit. Top-fricking-secret.

  “Head injury,” Eleanor said crisply. “Broken leg. Knee replacement. Ask Harry for the details. But you won’t get many. And Cam’s even more tight-lipped. I took a look at him, but he’s not what I’d call a cooperative patient. Thank goodness, he’s not mine.”

  “Come on, you must have an opinion, Dr. D’Angelo?” Like Frankie, Eleanor had attended the Air Force Academy and earned an engineering degree. But she had decided to fulfill her healing talent as a doctor. She was now doing her residency in a military hospital, and intended to become an orthopedic surgeon.

  Eleanor shrugged. “Cam’s in rough shape. He needs to do the physical therapy to make the knee replacement wo
rk. But he’s slacking. Of course a head injury makes any kind of rehab more complicated.”

  “Van Buren. Special blasted Forces,” Frankie swore.

  “Cam nearly died on his last mission.” Eleanor’s voice was mild, but Frankie knew that quiet voice meant her sister was pissed. “He’s entitled to some peaceful recuperation. And a little personal space.”

  “Well, why haven’t you healed him, sister dear?” Like all phoenixes, Eleanor had the gift of healing. And since she was trained, presumably the medical knowledge.

  “I sang to him, of course, but he wasn’t receptive. You may get better results.”

  “Me? Why should that bear respond to me?”

  Eleanor laughed. “Frankie, that bear is your fate. Maybe if I sang to him in greater phoenix I could get his immune system back online. Maybe. But for sure he’ll respond to his fated mate.”

  “Cameron Reynolds. Is. Not. My. Fated. Mate.”

  Eleanor just looked at her and shook her head pityingly. “Mom had him in the house at first. But she’s moved him out to the guest house now that Grant is home.”

  “Why with Grant?” What was so special about Grant? “Grant’s an operatic tenor! You’re the doctor.” Another thought occurred to her. “Tell me Grant did not bring his nanny with him.”

  “Mom thought I’d rather share a room with you, twin. As I would. And if you’re asking if Grant brought his manager. No, Linda isn’t here. Yet. She’s invited to the wedding, of course. But she’ll stay in a hotel.”

  Frankie didn’t comment.

  Eleanor continued, “With all of us coming home, and the house full of guests, Mom thought Cam needed to be quieter, and when he’s not singing, Grant can be quiet.”

  Frankie sniffed. “How’s Grant managing without someone to wipe his nose?”

  “Stop sniping at everyone, Frankie.” Eleanor sharpened that quiet voice. “Maybe Grant is a little dependent on Linda Hoskins, but give him a break. Singing is harder than it looks. And the way he hops around the globe, half the time he’s totally jet lagged. He needs someone to handle the details for him.”