The pain throbbing in his chest was growing as his thoughts centered on Aly. Surprised that the liquor hadn’t dulled his pain as it usually did, Clay pushed himself unceremoniously to his feet. He staggered, falling against the wall to steady himself. Dizziness nearly felled him. He saw the bar manager, Bob Hudson, give him a concerned look, watching from beneath his bushy gray eyebrows. Pressing both hands flat against the unyielding surface, Clay waited until the worst of the vertigo had passed. Then he stumbled out of the corner and raised his hand in farewell to Hudson. The manager nodded a good-night.
The rain had stopped, leaving the air fragrant with newly sprouted grass and leaves. Clay inhaled, weaving drunkenly toward his Corvette in the parking lot. Aly had the duty tonight…. He groaned. Where had that thought come from? How many times had he almost driven to Hangar One to talk with her when she had the duty? And how many times had he stopped himself?
Leaning heavily against his black Corvette, Clay fumbled to find the keys in his pocket. The asphalt gleamed beneath the lights. The ground blurred and that same tidal wave of dizziness hit him again. He threw his hands outward, trying to steady himself, but his feet got tangled and he slipped, hitting the pavement hard. Gasping, he lay there several minutes, completely disoriented.
Stupid, he thought with disgust as he found himself sprawled across the wet asphalt, flat on his face. God, if anyone saw him like this, he’d never live it down. Drank too damn much. Got to get out of here…. As he rolled over and propped himself into a sitting position against the sports car, he shut his eyes. Aly! God, I need to talk with you so much it hurts. I need—
“Hey, this is a pretty picture!”
Clay dragged his eyes open. There, in the shadowy light, stood Starbuck. “Get the hell out of here,” he mumbled.
But Starbuck came and squatted in front of him, grinning lopsidedly. “Well, well, what do you know. You finally drank too much, eh, Cantrell? Trying to drink away your frustration, buddy? Won’t Alyssa give you any?”
Anger flared to life in Clay’s foggy mind. “I hope like hell you say that when I’m sober, Starbuck.”
Grinning and rising to his feet, Starbuck laughed. “You won’t even remember our little chat come tomorrow morning, Cantrell.” And he ambled back toward the O Club.
The phone rang, waking Aly. She threw off the lightweight wool blanket and blindly reached for the phone next to the cot.
“Duty Office, Lieutenant Trayhern speaking.”
“This is Bob Hudson, bar manager of the O Club, Lieutenant.”
She groaned, looking at her watch. It was 0130. “Yes?” What could he possibly want with her?
“I just got a report from one of my people that Lieutenant Cantrell is drunk out in the O Club parking lot. He’s so intoxicated that he can’t walk, much less drive. I know he flies with VP 46, that’s why I called. If shore patrol comes by and finds him lying out there, he’ll be in a lot of hot water. You’d better get over here and rescue his rear before they do.”
“Thanks, Mr. Hudson. I’ll get over there right away.” Damn! Struggling into her sensible black shoes, Aly stood. She was wearing her black jacket and slacks. Throwing her black tie around the collar of her white blouse, she headed for the front office. She didn’t want Clay picked up by the shore patrol, the station’s military police. The damned fool! Grabbing the keys to the duty officer vehicle, she left a message with the the officer of the day at the main gate, informing him that she’d be away from the office for about fifteen minutes.
The gray vehicle started right up. The rain had stopped, and Aly spotted a few stars between the clouds as she drove around the end of the runway, heading toward the central portion of Moffett Field.
To her dismay, she found Clay sleeping in a slouched position against his sports car. He looked like a rumpled Raggedy Andy, and her heart went out to him. His khaki uniform had huge water stains across it, indicating where he’d fallen to the asphalt. As Aly got out, her alarm increased. He had skinned his elbow pretty badly, with blood drying on his lower arm and fingers. But he didn’t appear to be feeling any pain.
Stooping, Aly placed her hand on his shoulder, giving him a gentle shake. “Clay? Clay, wake up!”
Clay realized he was dreaming. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. This was nice: Aly’s husky voice so close to his ear. He actually felt the warmth of her hand on his shoulder. God, but she felt good. Inhaling deeply, he smelled that fragrance she always wore.
“Clay! Dammit, wake up! You can’t sit out in the middle of the parking lot like this.”
Drowsily, he dragged his lashes upward. Aly’s shadowed and concerned face danced before him. “Aly?”
She winced. He’d never called her that before. “You’re drunker than hell, Cantrell.”
“I-is that really you?” And then he grinned, lifting his bloodied hand toward her to find out.
Aly caught his hand, placing it firmly on his thigh. “Yes, it’s me, you damn fool. Can you get up? Walk?”
His brain wasn’t functioning at all. He scowled, looking up into her face. Her eyes were so large. She was so pretty. “Wh-what’s going on?”
“Bob Hudson called me over at the duty office,” and she explained the rest of it to him. Grimly, Aly slipped her arm around his back, placing her hand beneath his arm. “If shore patrol finds us, you’ll get written up so fast it’ll make that head of yours spin faster than it’s already going. Come on, push up with your legs, I’ve got to get you the hell out of here.”
Her words ran together in Clay’s drugged mind. He barely comprehended one-quarter of what she was saying, but Aly’s arm felt good around him, and he tried to follow her angry orders, pushing upward. He rose unsteadily, his weight resting heavily on her. Dizziness assailed him.
“God, Cantrell,” Aly groaned, staggering beneath his weight, “you’re too damned heavy! Straighten up! I can’t carry you!”
Trying, Clay stood on his own two feet, wavering badly. He grinned at her. “See? I made it.”
“Don’t be so proud of yourself, jet jock. The next task is to get you into the duty vehicle.”
Happiness flittered through Clay. This was all a dream. It had to be! Smiling gallantly, he gestured toward the vehicle. “Lead the way, ma’am!”
It was a tussle getting Clay into the passenger seat. He was like limp spaghetti, and Aly had to keep snapping orders at him to get him to react. After placing the seat belt around him, she climbed in. The front of her uniform was smeared with oil, water and dark blood. Angry over Clay’s stupid decision to get drunk, she drove back to Hangar One.
“Where we going?” Clay slurred.
“I’m putting you on the duty office cot where you can sleep off your drunk, Cantrell.” She glared over at him. “You pulled a stupid stunt. What if Starbuck caught you out in the parking lot. Aren’t you concerned that he’ll spread it around Moffett?”
Chuckling, Clay shook his head. “He did—I think…. Besides, that bastard wouldn’t dare. He knows I’d clean his clock for ’im….”
“Boys,” Aly muttered between clenched teeth. “You’re all little boys. Clay, I could just strangle you! This is a bad image for you, for all of us. Just what the hell did you think you were doing?”
Her voice was low with fury, but Clay absorbed the huskiness of it. He closed his eyes, fumbling for her hand. Once he found it, he gave it a squeeze. “I was just trying to forget, Aly.”
Her heart lurching in her breast, Aly pulled her hand free of his, concentrating on driving. Clay’s action startled her. “Forget what?”
With a dramatic sigh, Clay made a wobbly gesture toward her. “You, of course.”
Shock replaced her anger. “Me?” Of course, he hated her twenty-four hours a day. It was probably eating him up inside to have to work with her.
“Yeah,” he answered thickly, staring over at her profile. “You…”
Real pain wove through Aly. “Look, we’re just going to have to put our past behind us, Clay
. I know you hate me. You hate my family, but you can’t keep resurrecting it like this. If you’re drinking every Friday night to escape the fact that you hate me, then—”
“I drink to forget you….”
She traded a quick glance with him. Strands of hair dipped across his brow, and she could see that haunted look back in his eyes once again. “I know,” she answered softly. “Hate does terrible things to people, Cantrell. I wish I knew how to get you to turn it off toward me.”
“N-no…” He lapsed into unconsciousness, limp against the seat.
“Great!” Aly muttered. She, too, had gone on the occasional bender over the years just to relieve the terrible tension she’d lived under. But she’d quickly learned that drinking was no escape. Judging from Cantrell’s condition, he’d really be in the hurt locker for the rest of this night and well into tomorrow. Well, she had the duty until noon tomorrow. Maybe by then she could get him sober enough to drive back to his own apartment and lie around for the rest of the weekend recovering from his monumental stupidity.
The next time Clay regained consciousness, he found himself sprawled across a cot. The overhead light hurt his eyes and he squinted. “Hey,” he called weakly, “what’s going on?”
Aly leaned over him, still breathing hard from practically carrying him from the car into the office and to the cot. “Shut up, Cantrell.” She jerked his tie open at his neck and undid the top button of his long-sleeved khaki shirt. When she saw his eyes dilate and settle on her, she softened her voice. “You’re dead drunk, Clay. Just lie still, okay? You’re safe here.”
Safe…Aly’s words flowed across him. She was leaning over him, her face inches from his as she worked the knot of the tie loose, and then began to unbutton his shirt. “Aly?”
Aly’s fingers froze over the second button. Risking a look at him, she felt her heart give way. Clay’s face was vulnerable-looking, without any of the previous walls to hide his real feelings, his real emotions. She tried to brace herself for his hatred, his anger. “What is it this time, Clay?”
“D-did I ever tell you how pretty you are?” His voice was thick, the words mumbled badly. He smiled into her shadowed blue eyes. “I know you hate my guts, but I think you’re the prettiest lady I’ve ever run into….”
Aly’s fingers trembled, and she couldn’t get the second button undone. Her voice faltering, she whispered, “I’ve never hated you, Clay. Ever.”
Clay scowled. As drunk as he was, he felt Aly’s fingers trembling against his chest. “You—don’t hate me?”
“No. Never did.” She nailed him with a dark look. “You hate me, remember?”
He lapsed back into semiconsciousness, relief surging through him. “You don’t hate me….”
“Cantrell, you’re one sick puppy. Just lie there and shut up! I want to get this shirt off you so I can look at the cut on your elbow.”
Once his shirt was unbuttoned, Aly moved around the cot and slipped her arm beneath his shoulders. “Sit up, Clay.”
He was weak, and grateful for her help. “You’re one hell of a person,” he told her as she helped him sit up and take off the shirt.
“God, I don’t know if I can take all these compliments from you, Cantrell. The past four months you’ve had nothing but bad things to say about me.” She dropped the shirt over a chair and pulled the first-aid kit from a nearby drawer. Her heart wrenched when she sat down, facing Clay. He looked so lost and confused. Without thinking, she brushed errant strands of hair off his perspiring brow.
“I have plenty of compliments for you,” he confided softly.
Examining his right elbow, Aly grimaced. “Well, if you do, you’ve been keeping them all to yourself, Cantrell. Hold still, this is going to hurt,” she said, and she gently applied a warm, soapy cloth to the bloody laceration.
A dull pain drifted up his arm, but Clay was barely aware of it. She was so close, so fragrant and warm. “You make my pain go away….”
Aly tried to steel herself against his admission. “That’s all we have between us, isn’t it, Clay? Pain? Bad memories? I don’t see how I make your pain go away. These past four months, you’ve made me out to be the biggest pain in existence.”
He swallowed hard, focusing on her gentle touch, the warmth of her fingers as she held his arm to doctor it up. “That’s—my fault. I was looking for a fight.”
“I know you were. And you know something, Clay?”
“What?” He longed to reach over and stroke her hair—to find out if it was really as silky as he thought it might be.
Aly brushed some hair from her eyes. Being this close to Clay, knowing how much he affected her, was sheer agony. And now his voice was like balm to her shredded emotions. They were talking, they were close, even if he was drunk. Come morning, Aly was sure he wouldn’t remember any of this. He’d wake up just as cold and distant as before. She hungered for what she instinctively knew they could share with each other. But Clay’s natural warmth and dark voice were what she craved, and right now he was giving them to her. “I’m tired of fighting you,” she admitted quietly.
Reaching out with his other hand, Clay settled it on the crown of her hair, running his fingers through the clean, coppery strands. “I know,” he whispered. Her head snapped up, her eyes wide and startled. Giving her a slight smile, Clay admitted, “So am I.”
Taking in a shaky breath, Aly closed her eyes. She’d never dared dream of this! Of Clay touching her as if she were some priceless, fragile object to be cared for. Each trembling touch of his fingers across her hair sent a widening ache through her. Her mind screamed at her to stop him. He was drunk, and therefore not in charge of his emotions. But each caress was healing to Aly. She held his injured arm between her hands and bowed her head, unable to speak, only to feel.
“Look,” Clay muttered, sliding his fingers across Aly’s high cheekbone, feeling the softness of her flesh, “I don’t hate you, okay?” He lifted her chin, stunned by the tears that made her eyes luminous. He saw such pain in them that he winced. “It was my fault, Aly…all of it….” He cupped her cheek, holding her wavering stare. “I couldn’t help but hate you, hate what your name stood for.”
“I—I know. And I never blamed you for it, Clay.” His touch was incredibly light, but she felt the warmth of his palm and saw the tenderness burning deep in his eyes.
He shook his head. “I still can’t separate you from the past. As much as I want to, I can’t. At least…not yet. But I’m trying.”
She nodded mutely, her heart tearing open a little more. “I—I understand—” A sob caught in her throat, strangling off the rest of her reply.
Clay watched two tears streak down her pale, freckled cheeks. He groaned, understanding the volume of the pain he’d caused her. “I’m sorry…so sorry….” He leaned forward, drawing her to him.
Aly’s breath snagged at Clay’s unexpected move. When his mouth, warm and inviting, moved across her parted lips, all of her anguish dissolved. His mouth was tentative, testing her, relishing her softness. Her mind screamed at her to push away from him. Her heart, which had bled so long without any real sustenance, pleaded with her to consummate the kiss.
A groan started deep within Clay as Aly’s lips grew pliant and willing beneath his hungry exploration. God, she tasted so sweet! So warm and feminine. Lost in the texture and liquid treasure of her mouth, Clay slid his arm around her shoulders, drawing her against him. This was what he’d dreamed of for so long! That luscious mouth of hers moving in hungry accord with his own, matching, meeting his escalating desire.
Hunger swept through Aly. Real hunger. She drowned in the heated strength of his mouth cajoling hers. All her pain, their pain, disappeared in that one molten moment torn out of time. As his tongue caressed her lower lip, she trembled with the real fire raging within her. His breath was hot and moist against her cheek, and with her fingers, she caressed the thick, black hair at his nape. Oh, God, Clay was so strong and yet tender with her. His kiss seared her soul, brough
t her into wild, yearning life and shattered every barrier that had ever been erected between them.
“Sweet,” he whispered against her wet lips. “You’re so sweet and kind, Aly.” He kissed each corner of her mouth. “I’d die to see you smile. I die every time I hear your laughter.” Clay held her close, kissing her damp lashes, inhaling her own special womanly scent. “I’m starving for you…I need you, my sweet woman of fire….”
The duty office was quiet once again, all lights extinguished. Only the shadows and dim light from the hangar stabbed weakly through the window. Aly sat at the desk, staring into the darkness, her heart an open, bleeding wound. For the past three hours, she’d sat there alone, thinking…feeling.
Her arms wrapped around herself because she was feeling nakedly vulnerable after Clay’s kiss, Aly tried to sort through the emotions he’d unleashed within her. It was impossible, she decided bleakly. Reaching up, she touched her lips gently, remembering Clay’s powerful kiss, which had brought her to brightly burning life. His woman of fire…The words haunted her, taunted her, teased her. If only she could be! If only…
But reality told her differently. It was nearly 0500. Soon sunrise would come, and with daylight would come the harsh truth. Clay would wake from his drunken stupor, remembering neither what he’d said to her nor their kiss. He’d go on treating her just as before. Rubbing her aching brow, Aly let the tears fall unhindered. She sniffed, taking another tissue from the box she’d set on the corner of the desk. How much stock could she put in Clay’s drunken admission? Did he really not hate her any longer? Was he just as tired of their battle as she was?
Exhausted, Aly raised her tearstained face, staring sightlessly out the window. Worst of all, she had discovered in that sweet moment out of time that she was in love with Clay Cantrell. And that discovery hurt worse than any other. How it had happened, when it had happened, Aly couldn’t say. Maybe it had happened on their first meeting. Who knew? Pressing her hand against her eyes, Aly cried softly for herself and for Clay. He would never know of her love. He would never accept her love. Love couldn’t turn hatred around. But this one tender, searching kiss had ripped away the truth that lay in her heart: she loved him. Unequivocally. And that was something she’d have to bear the rest of her life alone.
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