by Lisa Bingham
“Why are we here?” The area was teeming with life—soldiers, sailors, Filipinos. Vehicles crowded the dusty streets and birds looped lazily overhead looking for scraps of food.
“Lunch.”
Gilhouley slid out of his seat, rounding the hood and holding out a hand to help her from the Jeep. This time, rather than offering a show of independence, she accepted his assistance, noticing for the first time that Gilhouley’s palms were calloused and strong. Clearly he wasn’t a stranger to hard work, despite his reputation for finagling.
As soon as she’d planted her feet on the pavement, he reached behind the seat, taking out two paper sacks and two bottles of soda.
“As promised,” he said handing her a cola and a sack.
Her laughter was wry. “This is lunch?”
“Yup.” He popped the “p” between pursed lips.
“Where’d you get it?”
“From the mess hall.”
She squinted up at him. “So you brought me all this way so that I could eat the same meal out of a sack that I would have eaten had I stayed on base?”
“Not quite.”
He snagged her arm, pulling her toward a rough jetty that jutted out into the sparkling water. They were at the far end of a series of docks where palm trees hung low over the sea wall. The wood under her feet was rougher than those used by the military transports, so she supposed this must be an area used for local ferries and pleasure craft.
As they hurried toward the far end, she failed to see the need for rushing. The pier was empty and there wasn’t a boat in sight. But then, just when she was about to demand an explanation or a return trip to the base, a seaplane flew in low over their heads, banked, then landed a few hundred yards out in the bay. When it turned toward them, she stutter-stepped to a halt.
“We’re going up in that?” she asked.
“Is there a problem?”
She couldn’t prevent her slow grin. “No, not at all.”
They’d reached the end of the pier, and Gilhouley lifted his arm in a wide wave. Within seconds, the plane was sputtering toward them, the perfumed air of Manila becoming tainted with the scents of diesel and exhaust.
As soon as it sidled up to the docks, Gilhouley reached out and grabbed the handle to the passenger door.
“After you,” he said.
Gingerly, Rosemary stepped into the plane, bending low until she could perch on one of the seats. Within seconds, Gilhouley followed, fastening the latch firmly behind him.
“Once ‘round the park and don’t spare the horses, Napoli.”
A weathered leprechaun of a man with a shock of curly gray hair turned to grin in Rosemary’s direction.
“And who’s the stunner?”
“Rosemary, this is Gregor Napoli. Gregor, Major Rosemary Dodd.”
Napoli shoved an unlit cigar between his teeth. “Aren’t you only a lieutenant?”
“Don’t remind her, Napoli. Major Dodd is a ‘by-the-book’ kind of woman. If you say anything about the official nature of her position, she’ll remember she has reports or inventory to do and insist I take her back to base. And I’ve been charged with entertaining her for a few hours. So give us your best tour, will you?”
Napoli laughed, a deep belly laugh that caused Rosemary to grin even wider.
“Ever been in a seaplane, Major?” he asked.
“I’ve never been in a plane at all,” she admitted, shoving her sack and drink to the floor. She’d always wanted to ride in a plane. How could she not, stationed so close to Clark Field?
“Then hold on to your hat,” he instructed, pulling back on the throttle enough for the plane to rock and shimmy away from the pier, then turn so that its nose pointed to open water.
Unconsciously, Rosemary gripped Gil’s hand as Napoli increased their speed, racing over the water, the plane bucking beneath her like a mount at full trot. Then, like a show horse taking fences, it shivered one last time before suddenly lifting into the air.
She sucked in her breath as she was pushed deep into her seat. But, wondrously, the plane went up, up, up and the docks disappeared beneath them, making her feel light as a feather.
Leaning forward, she peered out of the window, stunned at the sight that lay below her—a sea so blue it hurt to look at it and the green, green of the islands.
“It’s amazing,” she breathed.
“It is, isn’t it?”
She turned, her nose nearly bumping Gil’s as he leaned over her shoulder to see the view. And for the first time, she realized that she held his hand. Even more troubling was the fact that he didn’t seem inclined to give it back.
Rosemary blinked, acutely conscious of the close confines, of Gilhouley’s shoulder pressing into hers, the length of his thigh pressed up against her own. Casting a nervous glance at Napoli, she wondered what he must be thinking—that she was one of Gilhouley’s girls out for a good time?
But nothing could be further from the truth. Gilhouley was at least ten years her junior and a lieutenant, for heaven’s sake. Napoli couldn’t possibly think that she and Gil…that they…that he…
For several long minutes, the stunning view of the harbor was forgotten as she stared at Gilhouley instead, wondering why she’d never really noticed how…well put-together he was. The younger nurses whispered about him as if he were Errol Flynn, but Rosemary had never really taken that tack. Gilhouley was simply…Gilhouley. Good-natured, wily, a bit of a goofball. With his snapping cornflower blue eyes and yellow-gold hair, he was the epitome of youth. An all-American male in the tropics. A scrapping young officer with an Irish name and a New England accent. Boston, she’d bet.
Oddly, she felt a wave of regret. If she were ten years younger…she might have given her nurses a run for their money. As it was…
Turning blindly toward the window again, she made a show of looking down at the scattered archipelago scattered like a toddler’s toys among its blanket of blue. But it was the warmth of Gilhouley’s body seeping into her own that took up most of her attention.
• • •
Gilhouley knew the moment Rosemary acknowledged him as something other than a junior officer. He watched her eyes widen, her pupils dilate. For a split second, her breath hitched in her throat, then she turned away to gaze out the window—even though he doubted she saw much of what lay below. Her body became so still that the stillness became electric, thrumming between them like a charge of static threatening to snap them both.
He felt the slightest of tugs at his hand, but he refused to let her go. Not now. Not after he’d done everything he possibly could to slowly slip himself into her world.
Dear God, couldn’t she feel it? Couldn’t she feel the want that pounded through his veins, settling in regions of his body that he could not control. He shifted in his seat, hoping to ease his discomfort, yet still managing to brush his shoulder against hers.
“That’s Corregidor,” he said, using his free hand to point out the window, hoping to distract himself from the caramel-colored wisps of hair that the wind had teased around her face. A faint scent of violets enveloped her, and he wondered if she’d taken the sachet he’d sent for her birthday and tucked it somewhere next to her skin. The thought was enough to send a new jolt of heat through his veins. He pointed to some specks in the distance that at first glance looked like a flock of birds.
“There’re some of our boys putting their planes through their paces.”
“You can see so far from up here.”
He nodded. “When the air is right, you can see the earth curve a little toward the horizon and the sun will be white-hot, like a pat of farmer’s butter.”
Her lips twitched at that. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen home-churned butter.” Her brow lifted. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a farm boy, Gilhouley.”
“I’ve led a checkered past.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.”
He pointed to the water below. “There’s one of our ships.”
“Take her in toward shore so she can see more of Luzon, Napoli.”
The plane banked, and Rosemary was unprepared for the move because she fell against Gilhouley, her hand reaching out to brace herself in his lap—and, dear God, if she didn’t land right on the bulge pressing against his zipper. And in that instant, all pretense was stripped away, all artifice, and Gilhouley was suddenly laid bare before her.
He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. For the life of him, he had lost the ability to communicate at all as her dark eyes grew darker, the pupils expanding with an awareness that he could not ignore.
Gilhouley feared she would slap him, hit him, chide him, or that her spine would become ramrod stiff, her tone prickly. But Rosemary adjusted her hand to his knee, then returned her attention to the window, her body curiously still and thoughtful. And Gilhouley had to resist the urge not to shout “hooray!” because he’d thought with that innocent contact, he’d blown things entirely.
Nevertheless, he knew it was too soon to admit anything—that he’d been attracted to her the moment he’d come to Luzon, that he’d been slowly endearing himself to her, that he’d been watching her from afar for far too long. She’d think he was a wolf, a nickname that he’d often proudly earned. But with Rosemary, he didn’t want her to think of him that way. For some reason, it was important that she know he wasn’t dangling her along for a little fun. No, even though he didn’t entirely understand his own attraction to this woman, he did know that somehow, this time, things would be different. He would be different.
And shit almighty, he’d better not screw things up.
• • •
A tinge of red was beginning to bleed into the evening sky when Glory Bee took one last look at her reflection in the mirror, then made her way out of the tent. As far as changing areas went, the tent was primitive, but certainly not the worst she’d ever used. No, it was a bit of adventure performing in the open rather than a smoky, airless theater that reeked of sweat, booze, and stale cigarettes. Here, the breeze was thick with the scents of hot earth, flowers and newly mown grass.
Ducking through the flap, Glory Bee made her way toward the stage at one end of the parade grounds. She had to hand it to the boys in brown. They’d done themselves proud in erecting the structure. It was a near-professional facility complete with colored lights bolted to overhead pipes and a makeshift curtain that looked as if it had been stitched from parachute silk.
Ignoring the curious eyes that followed her every move, Glory Bee tugged on elbow-length gloves, then ran a hand over her waist, smoothing the infinitesimal wrinkles.
The costume was new, a clever concoction made by one of her favorite seamstresses. She was dressed in gold from head to foot—an opera coat made completely of ostrich feathers, a body-hugging skirt and tunic covered in rhinestones and bugle beads. Even her shoes were fashioned of gold satin liberally dusted with beads and rhinestones. From experience, she knew that the minute the lights came up, the effect would be dazzling.
She’d required only a few changes to her usual costume. A seam taken out here, a gusset put in there. Although she was aware of the thickening of her waist, she doubted anyone else would know the difference. Thank god the Base Commander—an old school buddy of Michael’s—had insisted she was not to “completely disrobe.” As if she would. She’d passed that point weeks ago. No, she was aiming for a “classy” routine, one that was more tease than strip. That way, she could cinch in her waist with lacy corselets and corral the fullness of her bosom with silken brassieres and teddies.
Making her way to the wings, she peeked out at the audience. Folding chairs and benches had been set up in the grass, but there were at least as many soldiers sitting on the ground and standing in the aisles. A “sold out” crowd, of sorts.
Not that she’d expected anything else. Despite an influx of females on the base due to the Nursing Corps, white women were scarce in these out-of-the-way Army bases. And the promise of an American girl taking her clothes off was bound to draw an audience. She just hoped there were enough men left manning the fort should that prove necessary. According to Sgt. Wilcox, rumors of Japanese aggression had been running rampant on the base since the evacuation of wives and children had begun last spring—something Michael had failed to tell her when he’d insisted this was the perfect place for her to come and have the baby. But then, he couldn’t have known. He wouldn’t have sent her to the Philippines if he’d thought there was any real danger.
A male quartet in dress uniforms was finishing their rendition of Green Eyes. That meant Glory Bee would be next. She’d rehearsed three separate numbers, two of which involved singing. But this first routine was little more than strutting to music. Enough to whet their appetite for what was to come. Then she’d add to their interest with her trademark, Flying Down to Rio, and finish with a military finale in honor of the locale.
As the quartet crescendoed with their final chord, her heart began to pound in her chest and her throat grew dry. It didn’t matter how many times she’d performed her routines or the number of years she’d been on the stage, she felt the same fluttering nervousness. Even now, as the four men took their bows, her hands shook.
Taking a deep breath, she held the air in her lungs as the lights extinguished. Then, hurrying center stage behind the curtain, she turned her back to the audience and struck her pose—arms up, one knee bent.
For a moment, she felt a brief burst of panic as her nervousness threatened to become full-blown nausea. But then the familiar cadence of the drums filled the air, the curtain whooshed open, and the lights burst on.
Momentarily blinded, she held her pose as a swell of applause and catcalls threatened to drown out her music. But when she felt the familiar pulse of the bass drum shuddering through the soles of her feet, she turned and called out, “Hello, boys!”
A roar rose from the parade grounds. Although she couldn’t see most of the crowd through the glare of the stage lights, she felt each and every one of them. And in that instant as she moved downstage left, her hips swaying, her arms lowering, she felt a rush of joy.
They loved her.
They wanted her.
“Is it hot here in the Philippines?” She called out to the sea of men as they surged to their feet. She paraded downstage right, the hem of her beaded train twitching behind her. Dropping her voice to a growling purr, she added, “Or is it just me?”
The roar from the servicemen hit her system like a shot of pure adrenaline and she turned her back and gazed over her shoulder. The feathers from her opera coat framed her face, fluttering in front of her so that she saw the men on the first few rows through a golden haze.
She pouted playfully. “They warned me that a girl could suffer from heatstroke if she isn’t careful.” More whistles, then a swell of drums. “So I came prepared!”
With exaggerated movements, she unhooked the first fastener to the coat. Then the second. She paused, waiting a beat, two, then dropped the feathery concoction to the stage, exposing a gown that hugged every curve in her exotic arsenal.
The noise from the audience grew so loud, she feared she wouldn’t be able to hear her music, but just in time, the wah, wah of the trumpet cut through the din.
Lifting her arms over her head again, she made a wide circle, waiting for her audience to calm slightly. Once she’d crossed to center stage, she paused for the swell of her music, then began tugging the gloves from her fingers, inch by painful inch, all the while bumping her hips and rolling her shoulders.
“How do you boys stand this weather?”
She’d learned long ago that the way to hold a man’s attention was to give all of her movements an air of reluctance—as if she weren’t really sure if she should take her clothes off. Not here. Not now. So she made a prolonged effort of her glove, held on to it, turned, seemed to reconsider, turned, then finally gave in and tossed it out into the crowd.<
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There was a frenzy of uniforms as the servicemen dove after her glove as if she’d thrown chum to a school of sharks. Then, with a throaty laugh, she repeated the process again, this time, tossing the glove further out. She made a show of regret at having lost both of her gloves—never letting on that she bought them by the gross and couldn’t care less if they were returned to her or not.
“It must be horrible during the day. All that marching. And drilling.” She offered them one last lop-sided smile. Then, turning her back to the audience, she reached behind her to pull down her zipper, inch by agonizing inch. “I’d rather spend my time at the beach.”
With that, she tossed her bodice—into the wings of the stage this time. Gloves she could afford to replace. Hand-beaded costumes, she could not.
Leaving her back to the audience, she made them wait, made them wonder, just how much she was exposing in the front. They could see the delicate lace of her corset, but were her breasts bare…covered…?
She tipped her shoulder up and peered behind her, offering them a well-rehearsed pout.
“I never could stand the heat,” she playfully complained, then reached behind her for the button to her skirt. Then, as the drums suddenly pounded and the trumpets screamed, she allowed her skirt to drop to the floor in a puddle of sequins. She whirled, facing the men wearing little more than a silken teddy, a Merry Widow corselet, and net stockings held up by a pair of satin garters.
She strode the width of the stage, first one way, then the other. Then, perching on a chair that had been positioned on the apron of the stage, she removed one high-heeled shoe, tossing it behind her, then the other.
Several eager men surged toward the edge of the stage, and she toyed with them, remaining just out of reach as she slowly rolled a stocking down over her thighs, her knees, her calves. Pointing her toes until her muscles ached, she made her legs appear as long and a shapely as possible as she removed the first sock, ran it through her fingers as if she were a conjuror handling a magic scarf, then tossed it out to the men. As they tumbled toward their trophy like puppies eager for table scraps, she removed the second stocking and tossed it as well.