"The real truth is, I've seen plenty of big, strong guys faint," he informed her. "Gender doesn't seem to play a big part in whether someone's going to freeze up and stop breathing in a tense situation."
"I don't freeze up," she told him.
"Yeah, I'm learning that. You did good."
P.J. sat in the dirt. "We're going to have to do that again tonight, aren't we? Walk back through there? Only—God! This time we'll be in the dark."
"Don't think about that now. We've got to get some rest."
She smiled ruefully at him. "Yeah, I'm about ready for a nap. My pulse rate has finally dropped down to a near catatonic two hundred beats per minute."
Harvard couldn't help but laugh as he held out his hand to help her up. Damn, he was proud of her. This day had been wretchedly gruelling—both physically and emotionally. Yet she was still able to make jokes. "You can take the first watch if you want."
"You're kidding. You trust me to stand watch?"
He looked at their hands. She hadn't pulled hers free from his, and he held onto it, linking their fingers together. "I trust you to do everything," he admitted. "My problem's not with you—it's with me. I trust you to pull off your Wonder Woman act without a hitch. I trust you to go into the building through that air duct, and I trust you to find Cat. I trust you to make all the right choices and all the right moves. But I've been in this business long enough to know that sometimes that's not enough. Sometimes you do everything right and you still get killed." He swore softly. "But you know, I even trust you to die with dignity, if it comes down to that."
He was silent, but she seemed to know he had more to say. She waited, watching him. "I just don't trust myself to be able to handle losing you. Not when I've just begun to find you. See, because I'm..." His voice was suddenly husky, and he cleared his throat. "Somehow I've managed to fall in love with you. And if you die... a part of me is going to die, too."
There it was. There he was. Up on the table, all prepped and ready for a little open heart surgery.
He hadn't meant to tell her. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have breathed a word. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have admitted it to himself, let alone to her.
But the circumstances were far from normal.
Harvard held his breath, waiting to see what she would say.
There were so many ways she could respond. She could turn away. She could pretend to misunderstand. She might make light of his words—make believe he was joking.
Instead, she softly touched his face. As he watched, tears flooded her beautiful eyes, and for the first time since he'd met her, she didn't try to fight them.
"Now you know," she whispered, smiling so sweetly, so sadly, "why I couldn't go back with the others. Now you know why I wanted so badly to stay."
Harvard's heart was in his throat. He'd heard the expression before, but he'd never experienced it—not like this. He'd never known these feelings—not with Rachel, not ever.
It was twice the miracle, because although she hadn't told him she loved him, she'd made it more than clear that she felt something for him, too.
He bent to kiss her, and she rose onto her toes to meet him halfway. Her lips were soft and so sweet, he felt himself sway. He could taste the salt of her tears. Her tears. Tough, stoic P.J. was letting him see her cry.
He kissed her again, harder this time. But when he pulled her closer, the gear in his combat vest bumped into the gear in hers, and their two weapons clunked clumsily together. It served as a reminder that this was hardly the time and place for this.
Except there was nowhere else for them to go. And Harvard was well aware that this time they had, these next few hours, could well be the only time they'd ever have.
Unless they turned around and headed down the mountain. Then they'd have the entire rest of their lives, stretching on and on, endlessly into the future. He would have a limitless number of days and nights filled with this woman's beautiful smiles and passionate kisses.
He could see their love affair continue to grow. He could see him on his knees, asking her to be his wife. Hell, with enough time to get used to the idea, she might even say yes. He could see babies with P.J.'s eyes and his wicked grin. He could see them all living, happily ever after, in a little house with a garden that overlooked the ocean.
Harvard nearly picked her up and carried her across that stream, through that minefield and toward the safety of the USS Irvin.
But he couldn't do it. He couldn't have that guaranteed happily ever after.
Because in order to have it, he'd have to leave Joe Catalanotto behind.
And no matter how much Harvard wanted the chance of a future with this woman, he simply couldn't leave his captain for dead.
Everything he was thinking and feeling must have been written on his face, because P.J. touched his cheek as she gazed into his eyes.
"Maybe we don't have forever," she said quietly. "Maybe neither one of us will live to see the sunrise. So, okay. We'll just have to jam the entire rest of our lives into the next six hours." She stood on her toes and kissed him. "Let's go find that hut of Crash's," she whispered. "Don't let me die without making love to you."
Harvard gazed at her, uncertain of what to say and how to say it. Yes. That was the first thing he wanted to say. He wanted to make love to her. As far as last requests went, he couldn't think of a single thing he'd want more. But her assumption was that they were going to die.
He might die tonight, but she wasn't going to. He had very little in his power and under his control, but he could control that. And he'd made up his mind. When he left tonight, he wasn't going to take her with him.
And she wouldn't follow him.
He'd made certain of that by bringing her here, to this cabin alongside this minefield. She'd be safe, and he'd radio Crash and Blue and make sure they knew precisely where she was. And after he got Joe out—if he got Joe out—he'd come back for her. If not, Blue would send a chopper to pick her up in a day or so, after the trouble began to die down.
She misread his silence. "I promise you," she told him, wiping the last of her tears from her eyes. "I'll have no regrets tomorrow."
"But what if we live?" Harvard asked. "What if I pull this off and get Joe out and we're both still alive come tomorrow morning?"
"Yeah, right, I'm really going to regret that"
"That's not what I meant, and you know it, smart ass."
"No regrets," she said again. "I promise." She tugged at his hand. "Come on, Daryl. The clock's running."
Harvard's heart was in his throat because he knew P.J. truly believed neither of them would survive this mission. She thought she had six hours left, but she was ready and willing to share those six hours—the entire rest of her life—with him.
He remembered what she'd told him, her most private, most secret childhood fantasy. When she was a little girl, she'd dreamed that someday she'd find her perfect man, and he'd love her enough to marry her before taking her to bed.
"Marry me." Harvard's words surprised himself nearly as much as they did her.
P.J. stared at him. "Excuse me?"
Still, in some crazy way, it made sense. He warmed quickly to the idea. "Just for tonight. Just in case I—we—don't make it. You told me you'd always hoped that your first lover would be your husband. So marry me. Right here. Right now."
"That was just a silly fantasy," she protested.
"There's no such thing as a silly fantasy. If I'm going to be your lover, let me be your husband first."
"But—"
"You can't argue that you don't have the time to support that kind of commitment, to make a marriage work. There's not much that can go sour in six hours."
"But it won't be legal."
She liked the idea. He could see it in her eyes. But the realistic side of her was embarrassed to admit it.
"Don't be so pragmatic," Harvard argued. "What is marriage, really, besides a promise? A vow given from one person to another. It'll be
as legal as we want it to be."
P.J. was laughing in disbelief. "But—"
Harvard took her hand more firmly in his. "I, Daryl Becker, do solemnly..." She was still laughing. "Well, maybe not solemnly, but anyway, I swear to take you, P.J.—" He broke off. "You know, I don't even know what P.J. stands for."
"That's probably because I've never told you."
"So tell me."
P.J. closed her eyes. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"
"Uh-oh. Yeah. Absolutely."
She opened her eyes and looked at him. "Porsche Jane."
"Portia? That's not so strange. It's pretty. Like in the Shakespeare play?"
P.J. shook her head. "Nope. Porsche like in the really fast car."
Harvard laughed. "I'm not laughing at you," he said quickly. "It's just... It's so cool. I've never met anyone who was named after a car before. Porsche. It suits you."
"I guess it could have been worse. I could've been Maserati. Or even Chevrolet."
"I could see you as a Spitfire," he said. "Spitfire Jane Richards. Oh, yeah."
"Gee, thanks."
"Why Porsche? There's a story there, right?"
"Uh-huh. The nutshell version is that my mother was fourteen when I was born." P.J. crossed her arms. "So are we going to stand here talking for the next six hours, or what?"
Harvard smiled. "First I'm going to marry you. Then we'll get to the or what."
They were going to do this. They were going to go inside that run-down little hut that was guarded by a swamp on one side and a minefield on the other, and they were going to make love.
P.J. was trying so hard not to be nervous. Still, he knew she was scared. But he couldn't help himself—he had to kiss her.
As his mouth touched hers, there was an instant conflagration. His canteen collided with her first aid kit, but he didn't care. He kissed her harder, and she kissed him back just as ferociously. But then his binoculars slammed against her hunting knife, and he pulled back, laughing and wanting desperately to be free of all their gear—and all their clothes.
P.J. was breathless and giddy with laughter, too. "Well, my pulse rate is back up to a healthy three hundred."
Harvard let himself drown for a moment in her eyes. "Yeah. Mine, too." He cleared his throat. "Where was I? Oh, yeah. This marriage thing. I, Daryl Becker, take you, Porsche Jane Richards, to be my lawfully wedded wife. I promise to love you for the rest of my life—whether it's short or long."
P.J. stopped laughing. "You said only for tonight."
Harvard nodded. "I'm hoping that tonight will last a very long time." He squeezed her hand. "Your turn."
"This is silly."
"Yup. Do it anyway. Do it for me."
P.J. took a deep breath. "I, P.J. Richards, take you, Daryl Becker, as my husband for tonight—or for the rest of my life. Depending. And I promise...."
She promised what? Harvard was standing there, waiting for her to say something more, to say something deeply emotional. She wanted to tell him that she loved him, but she couldn't do it. The words stuck in her throat.
But he seemed to understand, because he didn't press her for more. Instead, he bowed his head.
"Dear God, we make these vows to each other here, in Your presence," Harvard said quietly. "There are no judges or pastors or notarized papers to give our words weight or importance. Just You, me and P.J. And really, what the three of us believe is all that truly matters, isn't it?"
He paused, and P.J. could hear the sound of insects in the grass, the stream gurgling over rocks, the rustle of leaves as a gentle breeze brought them a breath of cool ocean air.
Harvard looked up, met her gaze and smiled. "I think that since we haven't been struck down by lightning, we can pretty much assume we've been given an affirmative from the Man." He pulled her closer. "And I don't think I'm going to wait for Him to clear His throat and tell me it's okay to kiss the bride." He lowered his mouth to hers, but stopped a mere whisper from her lips. "You belong to me now, P.J. And I'm all yours. For as long as you want me."
P.J. stood in the jungle on the side of a mountain as Daryl Becker gently lifted her chin and covered her lips with his. She wasn't dressed in a white gown. He wasn't wearing a gleaming dress uniform. They were clad in camouflage gear. They were dirty and sweaty and tired.
None of this should have been romantic, but somehow, someway, it was. Harvard had made it magical.
And even though their vows couldn't possibly have stood up in a court of law, P.J. knew that everything he'd told her was true. She belonged to him. She had for quite some time now. She simply hadn't let herself admit it.
"Let's go inside," he whispered, tugging gently at her hand.
It was then she realized they'd been standing within ten yards of the hut the entire time.
It was covered almost completely by vines and plants. With the thick growth of vegetation, it was camouflaged perfectly.
She could have walked within six feet of it and gone right past, never realizing it was there.
Even the roof had sprouted plant life-long slender stalks with leaves on the end that grew upward in search of the sun.
"You said you wanted a house with a garden," Harvard said with a smile.
P.J. had to laugh. "This house is a garden."
The door was hanging on only one hinge, and it creaked as Harvard pushed it open with the barrel of his rifle.
P.J. held her weapon at the ready. Just because the house looked deserted, that didn't mean it was.
But it was empty. Inside was a single room with a hard-packed dirt floor. There were no plants growing—probably because they died from lack of sun.
It was dim inside, and cool.
Harvard set down his pack, then slipped the strap of his weapon over his shoulder. "I'll be right back." He turned to look at her before he stepped out the door. "I should've carried you over this threshold."
"Don't be prehistoric."
"I think it's supposed to bring luck," he told her. "Or guarantee fertility. Or something. I forget."
P.J. laughed as he went out the door. "In the neighbourhoods I grew up in, those are two hugely different things."
She set her rifle against the wall, then slipped out of her lightweight pack. It was too quiet in there without Harvard. Too dark without his light.
But he was back within minutes, just after she'd taken off her heavy combat vest and put it beside her weapon and pack. He'd cut a whole armload of palm fronds and leaves, and he tossed them onto the floor. He took a tightly rolled, lightweight blanket from his pack and covered the cushion of leaves.
He'd made them a bed.
A wedding bed.
P.J. swallowed, and she heard the sound echo in the stillness.
Harvard was watching her as he unfastened the Velcro straps on his combat vest and unbuttoned the shirt underneath.
His sleeves were rolled up high on his arms, past the bulge of his biceps, and P.J. found herself staring at his muscles.
He had huge arms. They were about as big around as her thighs. Maybe even bigger. His shoulders strained against the seams of his shirt as he opened his canteen and took a drink, all the while watching her.
He was her husband.
Oh, she knew that legally what they'd done, what they'd said, wasn't real. But Harvard clearly had meant the words he'd spoken.
She got a solid rush of pleasure from that now. It was foolish—she knew it was. But she didn't care.
He held out his hand for her, and she went to him. Her husband.
Harvard caught his breath as P.J. slipped her hands inside the open front of his shirt. It was like her to be so bold in an attempt to cover her uncertainty and fear. And she was afraid. He could see it in her eyes. But more powerful than her fear was her trust. She trusted him—if not completely, then at least certainly enough to be here with him now.
He felt giddy with the knowledge. And breathless from the responsibility. A little frightened at the thought of having to hur
t her this first time. And totally turned on by her touch.
He slipped off his vest, turning away from her slightly to set it and the valuable equipment it held on the floor.
Her hands swept up his chest to his neck. She pushed his shirt up and off his shoulders. "You're so beautiful," she murmured, trailing her lips across his chest as she ran her palms down his arms. "You don't know how long I've been wanting to touch you this way."
"Hey, I think that's supposed to be my line." Harvard shook himself free from his shirt, letting it lie where it fell as he pulled her into his arms. Damn, she was so tiny, he could have wrapped his arms around her twice.
He felt the tiniest sliver of doubt. She was so small. And he...he wasn't. The sensation of her hands and mouth caressing him, kissing him, had completely aroused him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so turned on. He wanted her now. Hard and fast, right up against the cabin wall. He wanted to bury himself in her. He wanted to lose his mind in her fire.
But he couldn't do that. He had to take this slow. God help him, he didn't want to hurt her any more than he had to. He was going to have to take his time, be careful, be gentle, stay completely in control.
He kissed her slowly, forcing himself to set a pace that was laid-back and lazy. Because she certainly was going to be nervous and probably a little bit shy—
But then he realized with a shock that she'd already unbuttoned her shirt. He tried to help her pull it off, but he only got in the way as he touched the satiny smoothness of her arms, her back, her stomach. She was wearing a black sports bra. He wanted it off her, too, but he couldn't find the fastener. But then she began unbuckling her belt, and he was completely distracted.
She pulled away from him and sat on the blanket to untie her boot laces.
Harvard did the same, his blood pounding through his veins. His fingers fumbled as she kicked off her boots and socks, and then she was helping him—as if she were the old pro and he the clumsy novice.
She helped him get his boots off. Then, in one fluid motion, she quickly peeled off her pants and pulled her sports bra up and over her head.
Harvard's Education Page 20