Night Is Mine

by M. L. Buchman

  “Let’s run a few tests before turning up the lights.”

  They swung an apparatus over her face and determined in minutes that she was 20/20. Color tests revealed no failure of rods and cones. Every time someone said, “Normal,” after one test or another, the relief piled up inside her. Building broader and deeper. At first she could crawl, then stand. Soon she’d run, and if they kept going, she’d fly.

  A flight surgeon came to the fore and ran his tests, tests she’d had so often that it felt like coming home. And still the room lights remained low, even if the tests were often painfully bright.

  They put drops in her eyes to dilate the pupils. Peter tried to tease her about something while they waited the twenty minutes for her eyes to react. She appreciated his effort, even if it fell flat, drowned in the tension in the crowded room.

  Within an hour of when they’d started, they were done with all their inspections and tests. The doctors and flight surgeon moved to step out of the room. She called them back. They’d speak in front of her or not at all.

  They might as well have left the room for how much of their medical terminology she actually understood.

  At long last, they broke their caucus and the flight surgeon came forward.

  “Captain.” He saluted her formally in the dim light. “We will officially wait three more days to be certain of no relapse. But, other than that one contingency, it is my privilege to inform you that you are certified fit for flight.”

  She covered her mouth with both hands to stop the scream of joy that tried to burst forth. He remained at attention until she nodded for him to finish.

  “No restrictions.”

  She didn’t stop the scream this time.

  As she returned his salute, a cheer broke out in the room. Doctors, nurses, a round of applause that sounded like the accolades of thousands, though it was more likely half a dozen. Someone even riffled her hair. Peter. It had to be.

  She did her best to simply smile, as for a second time tears streaked her cheeks. Emily didn’t wipe her face, hoping that in the dim room nobody noticed them. She’d fly again. That was all that mattered.

  They gave her dark glasses to put on. “We dilated your pupils for the tests. Don’t want them to hurt when we turn on the lights.” She adjusted the glasses and used the motion to discreetly wipe her cheeks.

  A nurse moved toward a wall switch in the now barely discernible shadows.

  As she did so, a shadow of a shadow moved through the room. Coming from a distant corner of the darkened room, he moved out the door without turning to look at her. Without anyone noticing. Even the Secret Service agents didn’t turn to watch him go.

  Mark.

  Her hands now knew the shape of that shadow, could still feel each curve against the inside of her palm. And no one else moved like that, the powerful walk of the dominant male of the species, unchallenged wherever he roamed. And, because of his Special Forces training, near invisible in a lit room.

  Then the lights flashed on and Emily was forced to squeeze her eyes shut despite the dark glasses.

  By the time she could blink them open, he was gone.

  The doctors and Peter moved down past the foot of her bed in what looked very much like a male-bonding session. Congratulating each other on their part of her recovery. It was her body that had done the hard work.

  The nurse came over to check on her, noticed Emily’s attention on the door.

  She looked around, a bit surprised, her eyes finally seeking an empty chair in the far corner of the room.

  “Oh, your guardian angel is gone then.” Her accent had the short clip of a New Englander. “Arrived yesterday afternoon shortly after the President’s visit. Sat there like a stone for the last twenty-four hours. Night nurse said he never moved. Never said a word. Didn’t give his name, but he must have signed in. A lot of decoration on his uniform. I can see who it was, if you’d like.”

  “No. That’s okay. Thanks.”

  Emily leaned back as Peter and the doctors laughed over their mutual triumph. She closed her eyes and did her best to picture the shadow that had left her room only after she’d been declared fit to fly.

  The shadow that had sat silent vigil with her for the longest night of her life and offered his hand in comfort when most needed. Far more important than what she had taken from him afterward. She’d be forever thankful for that hand and the shoulder to cry on.

  Could she have found a more unlikely guardian angel than Major Mark “The Viper” Henderson? And who knew angels could make her feel so damn happy.

  Chapter 29

  He should be shot. Mark didn’t doubt it for a single second.

  The jet engines blasted away loudly enough that he could sit in undisturbed contemplation. One idiot and eighty tons of food and medical supplies in the belly of a C-5 Galaxy. Nine hours until he switched planes at Aviano Air Base in Italy. Seven more back to the carrier.

  And all he could think was that someone should take a gun to his head and put Major Mark Henderson out of his misery. If he could wipe the damn smile off his own face, it might help matters a bit. His cheeks were actually hurting.

  He’d taken absolute, complete, and total advantage of a distressed woman strained far past rational consideration. It had been up to him to set the boundaries, boundaries he’d promised to uphold, and he’d blown right through every one.

  Finagling, hell, demanding the three-day pass the moment he’d confirmed the news report. Calling in a hundred favors to get him to D.C. in record time. Keeping his temper as he passed through the Secret Service, which had been harder than he’d imagined, despite his uncle, General Arnson, clearing the way. He hadn’t expected such a barricade around the First Lady’s pilot and chef; it just wasn’t that important a role.

  And finally to sit and watch and wait with her through the long afternoon, evening, and night. A blond guy with a bandage on his head had held her hand briefly, though that appeared to be more for his own comfort than hers. Parents. Various doctors. Only one or two of the more observant nurses had noticed him seated back in the shadows. His dress uniform so in place at Walter Reed that he’d blended right into the background. They’d wisely let him be when visiting hours ended.

  He didn’t even know why he had come. The hours stretched and he had to face that he was no medic, no doctor. He wasn’t even technically her commanding officer any more. All he could do was wait, and she wouldn’t even know he sat there with her.

  But he’d needed to be there. To sit with Emily Beale in silence, even if that was all he could offer her. The world as a place worth defending made less sense if there weren’t women like Emily Beale in it. Hell, a world without this one and only Emily Beale would suck. No better word for it. For all the hours of silence, he’d come no closer to understanding his own motives. He simply needed to be there. For her. For him.

  The tears. He’d never had power against a woman’s tears. How many nights had he witnessed his own mother weeping? Weeping alone after providing the brave face for his dad, SEAL Commander David Henderson, as he left on no notice for yet another don’t-know-if-you’ll-ever-see-me-again mission. But Dad had survived. Against all odds, survived to retirement. Now the happy couple had a horse ranch in Montana where her man led mountain tours and taught wilderness survival classes and she no longer had to cry alone in the dark.

  When Beale had wept, Mark had crossed to her bed against his own will. Stood for a handful of minutes feeling twice an idiot before taking her hand.

  She had swarmed into his lap and held on like no tomorrow. He had never felt so strong, so powerful as when she’d curled against his chest as her safe place to be. And he’d never been so aroused by any woman as the one in a sheer hospital gown who smelled like springtime and the ocean salt of tears. Every breath, every gasping moment building to the next shuddering sob, had run through his hands and arms, perversely making him stronger.

  He rubbed his face and looked around the echoing cargo bay of the C
-5. Dozens of pallets of food and dozens more of bottled water hitting Aviano before turning south, off to some African disaster.

  If only he could take back what he’d done next. But even as his hand crossed over his face, he could feel his own traitorous smile.

  When she had lain back in the shadows of the soft night light, her gown lying across her lap, he’d forgotten everything else. Forgotten the nurse who had watched him for almost a minute as Beale had wept in his arms before moving quietly about her appointed rounds. Forgotten that Emily Beale was blind and in a fragile state of mind. Forgotten he was a superior officer who could destroy both their careers in an instant.

  All he could see was that slender waist, those perfect breasts—how in the world had he ever imagined that he’d preferred heavily endowed women?—and those strong but lean shoulders that only a soldier could truly appreciate, could truly understand the thousands of hours of back-breaking work they represented.

  He fell on her. There was no other word for it. He’d taken. Ravished. Drunken deep to the point of madness. Okay, there were other words for it.

  And she had responded with moans, twists, lifting herself to him in fluid arches of muscle and flesh. And he had taken. Taken all she could give. And then taken more. Whenever he feared he’d been too rough, gone too far, she’d goaded him on.

  And when she exploded, each time she unraveled in a flash of energy more powerful than any rocket flare, he could only watch and wonder at what he had achieved.

  At long last, she’d curled back against him. Curled in his lap and gone to sleep like a little girl with one hand tucked under her chin. And he’d run his hand up and down the smooth, naked curve of her back. Brushed her hair from across her face so it slipped behind her ear.

  She’d barely murmured when he’d dressed her back in the gown and tucked her beneath the blanket to sleep with the sunrise. A kiss to her forehead and a hand brushed over her silken, sun-gold hair had elicited the softest sigh.

  No question he should be shot.

  She’d woken like a satisfied cat in full morning light. Yet another revelation. An unwinding, unfolding, smug motion he’d love to watch a thousand times more.

  He’d wanted to greet her. Wanted to apologize for all the lines he’d crossed last night. But he’d been riveted in his seat by the languorous way she ran her hand down the body he had so enjoyed pushing past its limits.

  He’d prepared again to cross to her, but the troops arrived. Nurses, doctors, and Secret Service who had acknowledged him again with the barest of nods but the intense scrutiny of military professionals assessing everyone and everything as a potential threat.

  And then the President strode in, exuding confidence. That explained the hard time the Secret Service had given him about sitting in this room.

  The man wasn’t a trained observer; Mark would wager he was invisible to the Commander-in-Chief. He’d chosen a chair in a corner, partly masked by a plant, with the window, now bright with daylight, just to the side so that any observer’s eye would be attracted there rather than to the man made invisible by his uniform, sitting still and out of the way.

  The President. Coming to see the First Lady’s savior. It made sense, he’d supposed. But it was more than that. He and Beale had an ease together. An ease that was hard to discount. The President teased her, had a pet nickname, played with her toes, sat on her bed, held her hand through the tests. Was she sleeping with the President of the United States? Had been for a while by the looks of it. Was that why she’d transferred to the White House?

  Then what had last night meant? Mark could feel the heat of rabid jealousy rise to his face all over again as he sat on the plane over the mid-Atlantic. Then he laughed quietly, thankful the sound became lost in the jet-engine roar. She’d used him exactly as a man would, for a quick bout of sexual relief. Done. Moving on.

  She’d never said a word, not his name, nothing. Not as she lifted her hips hard against his greedy mouth, not as the aftershocks shuddered the length of her body, not as she’d curled back in his lap to sleep, the fingers of one hand hooked into the waistband of his dress slacks.

  Did she even know who had so ravaged her flesh? Did she care?

  Mark considered that he’d been used. That he could live with. Considered that he would probably never cross her thoughts again. That was the problem.

  Clearly she was in tight with the President and all safe with him behind that notorious Secret Service wall of no news in or out. Only Clinton had been so blatant about it that they couldn’t protect him.

  If only he could shear her away from her boyfriend. The Commander-in-Chief was a great guy and all, but he didn’t deserve Beale. Okay, there were a few more problems than that. Making glorious… he shied from the word “love.” Having amazing sex? Didn’t begin to cover it. Glorying in each other’s bodies? Well, he’d certainly gloried in hers and she clearly hadn’t minded.

  How they could be together? That was still a major problem, one he hadn’t solved in four days of thinking of little else.

  What if he tried thinking like a pilot?

  He had a clear target, never clearer, but it was way behind the lines in foreign territory.

  Any number of obstacles impeded his path. Her attachment to the President would blow most people out of the game before they even reached the front lines. But Mark had plenty to worry about before that.

  First, Army Command Policy Regulation 600-20, especially Section 4-14, of which he’d enjoyed breaking almost every single subsection in the night.

  Second, whether or not she’d want him.

  And now third, the second problem was under serious jeopardy from the commander-in-chief himself.

  That simply wouldn’t do. It aborted any plan of attack to solve the first two problems.

  He needed to come up with something Jim would really appreciate.

  First, it had to be way, way, way below the radar.

  Second, it was bound to be really stupid.

  Chapter 30

  “My what?” Emily held the kitchen phone to her ear.

  “There is a…” A pause while Agent Frank Adams cleared his throat and snarled out his contempt for whoever he was facing. “A ‘Marky Herman’ here claiming to be your boyfriend. He won’t hand over his ID, claims he left it back at the hotel.” Frank Adams was clearly pissed. “Do you want me to shoot him?”

  “Hold off on that. I’ll be right down.” She set the pasta water to simmer and turned off the heat under the lobster puttanesca sauce. She could spare ten minutes but not fifteen, or she’d have to start the sauce over.

  Boyfriend? Marky Herman? She almost head-over-heeled down the stairs when the next thought hit. Mark Henderson? If it was, should she be thrilled? She shifted up to jog as she crossed the grounds toward the northwest gate. Or should she have Adams shoot Henderson before he turned her life into even more of a nightmare? Whatever he was doing here, nothing good could come of it. That she knew for certain.

  Emily strode into the trailer, short on breath, and stopped dead in her tracks. She could feel her jaw wagging and could do nothing about it.

  “Hey, babe. I knew y’all lived fancy ’round hereabouts, but this place is the limit. They wouldn’t even let me borrow a phone to call my best gal.”

  Major Mark Henderson stood across the counter from a scowling Frank Adams.

  Except it wasn’t him. His hair, normally loose or tucked into a black beret, now scraggled out of a sweat-stained, Grateful Dead bandanna. A two-day beard shadowed his chin. He wore a Dallas Cowboys souvenir shirt so new that it pegged him as having just attended a game. Tattered jeans and shitkicker, alligator-skin cowboy boots that she’d never seen before and looked as if he’d worn nothing else for a dozen years.

  His mirrored Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses had been replaced by the angular dark glasses Keanu Reeves had worn in The Matrix. He looked like a pop-culture mercenary gone bad. A wealthy one, he’d kept his Kobold watch, completing the outfit. Not just a Cowbo
ys game, probably in a box seat.

  She shook her head, trying to clear the vision. She actually had to tilt her head a little to see her ramrod-straight commander in the man who slouched against one elbow on the counter.

  “Good surprise? Bad surprise? At least you could give me a kiss.”

  Whatever he was playing at, he was doing it undercover. No one would recognize the SOAR major who didn’t know him intimately. She’d best play along until she found out what was going on. A skill they’d practiced endlessly in SERE training, where the first E stood for evasion.

  She moved to him. “Honey! Good surprise. Really good!” The kiss threatened to grow hot. She could feel his heat pouring in and igniting her own way too fast. Before Mark could take it any further, she turned casually and ground her heel on the top of his foot.

  “It’s okay, Frank. I’ll get him out of your hair. Thanks.” She led him out of the public side of the trailer and walked back toward Pennsylvania Avenue until they were well clear of ears, though she couldn’t be sure of electronic ears. So, keep it in code.

  “You can’t just drop in on me here, honey.” She ground out the last word. “I told you that.”

  “I wanted to surprise you, honeybunch, but forgot my damned ID back at the hotel. So they wouldn’t let me in.”

  Sure. His ID would say U.S. Army all over it and clearly that wasn’t the role he was playing.

  “Well, I’m busy. You’re about to make me ruin the sauce for tonight’s dinner. And you can’t come inside. What were you thinking?” He held her hand. When had that happened? The warm afternoon air swirled about them and filled her brain with the rich scent of his warm skin.

  “Only thinking about you, honey.”

  And for the first time since he’d arrived, he actually sounded sincere. She couldn’t deal with this. Not now. Not until she’d had some time to think.