Bring On the Dusk (13 page)

Well, she'd had enough of that.

Thoughts of him had grown to be a constant companion at her side. As if he sat in her two-seat helicopter even when she flew solo. Rather than scattering her attention, thoughts of him steadied her, making her feel sharper and more complete.

She and Trisha flew their Little Birds back toward the
Peleliu
before they ran out of fuel. But as she pulled away from the
Hong
4
, she flew backward for the first few hundred yards before turning the helo. It wasn't to keep her guns aimed at the ship, which was completely under control. She reversed out because she so enjoyed watching Michael prowl the deck.

She'd been waiting for him to come to her, but it wasn't going to work that way. Not with Michael—she understood that now. It wasn't how he'd think. He'd think that it was the woman's choice to come to him or not.

The guy was just too damn decent.

Or too damned smart.

He'd now waited long enough that she no longer had any choice in the matter. She felt lassoed. But she didn't feel any desire to fight the rope.

* * *

Michael sat, not eating yet another meal, and considered the many things he had learned about Captain Casperson over the last week. Not one of them had made her the least bit less attractive. It was like the woman had been assigned to him as a mission to unravel. She not only occupied too many of his waking thoughts, but she'd started to occupy his sleeping ones as well.

He could attribute his initial reaction to her physicality. Blond hair that floated behind her like a banner. Blue eyes that never let him look away because they drilled past all of his guards. A shape that, well, that he simply couldn't wait to get his hands on.

She worked out constantly enough to be a Delta operator. If he went for a run, she'd be there circling the hangar deck, as light-footed as any soldier he'd ever seen. He couldn't hit the aircraft-spares cargo space that had been turned into a weight room without finding her on the bench moving an impressive amount of weight up and down.

And there was no way in hell he was going to trust himself on a wrestling mat with a woman sporting such perfect curves. At least not with an audience. Even thinking of her was causing body reactions stronger than the ones he felt anywhere outside a bedroom or an actual mission. She looked like both a model soldier and a soldier model.

Damn. He wanted her so badly. He'd never wanted anyone or anything as much, other than his desire to always be the best. And now that he'd assessed her as being the very best, it only added to his desire to have her.

She kept infiltrating his thoughts. Another portion of her insidious and, he was sure, unconscious methodology to achieve that was how the woman flew. Claudia Casperson was such a joy to watch in the air.

Michael had been leaning out the cargo bay door of the Black Hawk as they flew up to take control of the
Hong
4
. For the first time all week, he was actually glad that he wasn't flying with Claudia, simply so that he had this chance to see her in action.

She had set up a slewing, jinky pattern around the
Hong
that made her almost impossible to target, but kept her guns oriented at the ship. Trisha was doing something similar, but not with the same panache—a panache that would make for a very uncomfortable ride.

It took him a moment to understand what she was doing. She was treating the waves themselves as if they were trees to be hopped over in a nap-of-earth flight that followed their asymmetric curves, except she was doing it while flying sideways with all of her weapons pointed inward.

The woman was absolute magic aloft.

And then there was the way she went quiet. Not quiet and closed like the shy Connie Davis. Nor quiet and thoughtful like Bill. Instead she simply became peaceful.

He was going to be in serious trouble the next time they were alone together. And he knew he couldn't wait much longer. If she didn't decide to find him soon, he'd have to break his own rules about good manners and go find her.

She'd been in the mess hall after he returned from the
Hong
. A Danish destroyer had come alongside to take the ship in tow. They were talking about pumping out what little fuel oil remained and scuttling the ship. She was in terrible shape and no one, least of all the Korean owners, wanted her back.

Seeking patience, Michael left the mess hall before Claudia was done eating and went to sit at one of his favorite spots aboard the
Peleliu
. He'd found “the beach” during his first explorations of the eight-hundred-foot-long, nineteen-deck-high amphibious assault ship.

It lay deep in the heart of the ship, right at sea level. Sly Stowell's landing craft lived inside the well deck of the ship, a cavernous space open to the sea and awash in a few scant feet of water. Landing craft were driven up to the steel ramp—the beach—for storage in the garages above. Also parked there were the Humvees, tanks, and other vehicles that Sly transported ashore. Without the Marines aboard, most of the hardware had been offloaded and the area was quite isolated.

When not in use, the steel ramp made for a quiet, sloping, sand-less beach deep in the heart of the ship. Dead astern, the massive rear gate was raised only a few feet, exposing the dark night sea but not allowing any following waves to sweep the well deck. Behind him, soft red work lights, the better to maintain night vision, offered the only light, filling the space with shadows and rumors.

He barely heard the approaching footsteps. The pattern wasn't right for someone being stealthy; they were just light-footed. His pulse rose along with his ridiculous hopes. This ship was big enough to carry twenty-five hundred personnel, even if it carried well under five hundred at the moment. The chances of Claudia being that special one of five hundred coming here…

The steps halted at the top of the ramp for a moment, then came down from behind him. It was her—he'd recognize that rhythm anywhere. He could easily imagine the soft sway of her hips and the swish of her ponytail as Claudia came down the ramp, but he resisted the urge to turn and watch.

“Michael.” Her voice hadn't a tone of surprise or greeting, just an acceptance that of course he was here, of all places.

The timing wasn't right for her to have hunted him from the mess hall to here. This was simply a place she too had found and liked. She settled on the hard steel about a foot to his side. Despite the smell of sea salt and ship's steel, her fragrance stood out, offering the same freshness of life she'd brought to the Somali desert.

They sat some time in silence in the cavernous space, listening to the soft slap of the foot of water in the well deck slopping against the walls. Beyond the partially raised stern hatch, the phosphorescent wake rolled off into the night.

“Why.” He didn't make it a question this time. “All week I've been trying to puzzle out why you kissed me. I'm not complaining. I'm simply trying to understand.”

“Do you need a why?”

He was used to missions where he didn't know why. The orders simply said, “Go there, do that, and come back alive
after
you've accomplished the mission.” And he did. As a colonel, he didn't often receive orders without a why anymore, but they still happened on occasion.

He wasn't used to a woman without a why. The why usually had to do with sex and not much else. Even with—

No, he was done with comparing Claudia to anyone else, because it simply didn't work. She was in a whole different class from any woman he'd ever met—a class he certainly wasn't any part of. She was the sophisticate. He knew nothing about her past beyond the desert. She was obviously well educated by a very good school, maybe even West Point, and well read. He was a kid from the Oregon woods who'd graduated from college without attending much of it and had been fighting his way upward ever since. She had more poise and built-in class than any woman he'd ever sat beside.

“You make me feel…scruffy.”

Her quick laugh mirrored his own feelings of surprise.

“I meant—”

“No,” she cut him off. “Don't try to explain. It's too perfect. The most skilled field soldier on the planet, totally flummoxed by a kiss. Picturing you as a scruffy puppy dog is simply too perfect. I once knew a Yorkshire terrier named Bailey. Maybe I'll just call you Bailey from now on.”

He smiled in response. He was half tempted to dance around her and bark just to hear that laugh again. It lit up her face like…an emergency flare? Damn, but he was crappy at metaphors. And she was the first woman who ever made him wish he knew how to use them, because normal words just didn't describe how he felt around her.

“You are about the least scruffy person on the planet, Michael. You're like this shining beacon of what a man should be. It's no big surprise that every man on the entire ship looks up to you and doesn't dare speak to you.”

“Say what?” That made no sense at all.

“See, that's part of it. You don't even see it in yourself. You certainly don't brag about it. You already
are
what every soldier wants to be. That's why most of them don't speak to you. It's not because you're such a reticent bastard, though that's a part of it. It's that they're too in awe. Now you know why I find it so delightful that I flummoxed you with a kiss.”

“It was a hell of a kiss. And I'm not totally flummoxed. I'm just…” He trailed off, trying to think of just what he was. She was eyeing him with a slight twist of her head that really showed off the shape of her neck. He wanted to run his fingers along it just to see how it felt. To see if she shivered when he did so.

“Okay,” he finally had to admit. “That does describe the feeling pretty well.”

He turned to watch the waves continue to roll past the stern of the
Peleliu
as she made her way lazily eastward in a broad circling pattern of holding station in the area. The quarter moon was setting directly astern, filling the well deck with the last of its cool light. Since last week's mission…or had it been two weeks? Anyway, since then, the ship had continued on a leisurely patrol, letting the helicopters and drone do most of the flying.

The ship's silence extended until it lay upon them as if they were alone in all the ocean. The thrum of the ship's engines, now running at little more than an idle, was a barely defined bass note that only served to emphasize their remoteness.

Claudia brushed her fingers ever so lightly along his arm.

When he turned to look at her, she leaned forward and kissed him. It was no testing brush of warmth on the ship's deck. It was no blaze of heat that launched a mission.

Instead it was a soft opening, a bloom of warmth and heat and flavor like the finest dish ever served. It built slowly, like a timer fuse, but struck with the heat of a flash-bang distracter charge that echoed down through his bloodstream. He'd have winced at the lousy comparisons if one hundred percent of his attention wasn't busy being consumed. Just as his body had earlier craved calories, now his nervous system craved more of Claudia Casperson.

He did brush his hand down that exquisite neck, but she wasn't the only one who shivered. In that timeless passage, though they touched only at lips and fingertips, he felt transformed—as if he really could do anything. As if he just might be as she saw him.

He'd never in his life felt as powerful as he did kissing Claudia Jean Casperson.

She rested a hand on his chest. Not pushing him away, rather anchoring him in place.

When at last they broke apart—though she didn't remove her hand, for which he was grateful—and he could again think, he whispered to her softly.

“Okay, ‘flummoxed' doesn't begin to cover that.”

“No,” she agreed easily. “But ‘lovely' covers it very nicely.”

No one had ever described something he'd done as “lovely.” He liked the way that made him sound. He was a man capable of making a woman feel lovely. It sounded like a truly amazing achievement when spoken in such a soft, husky whisper, as if she were short of breath from a training run.

More important, he was capable of making this particular woman feel lovely, which counted for much, much more. She had a way with words that he lacked. She didn't use them as barrage weapons—that was Trisha's game—but rather as highlights. Her words were targeted strikes that went straight to the point. And she did feel absolutely lovely.

“Ah-hem.” Someone cleared their throat from the head of the ramp.

Michael twisted around to see one of the female petty officers watching them curiously. He hadn't even heard her approach, despite her booted feet. And he'd just been kissing an officer of inferior rank, granted in a different regiment of the Army, but still, it was completely out of line. At least Claudia wasn't an enlisted, but it was still a punishable offense.

“Excuse me, sirs, but we have a craft inbound.”

They both scrambled to the head of the ramp and joined the petty officer. As if by some mutual agreement, they didn't make a hasty exit like blushing teenagers. He felt giddy enough to be one, but that didn't mean he had to show it.

The petty officer moved to the ramp controls, lowering the rear gate of the well deck until it dipped into the waves, making a “wet beach” at the ship's stern two hundred feet away.

A small black dot appeared in the low moonlight still skimming across the sea. In moments, the black dot became defined by red, green, and white running lights. It skidded strangely across the waves as if sliding.

“The LCAC,” Claudia said before he could. She must have felt his next question. “I served almost a full tour aboard the
Peleliu
when I was still in the Corps. Rode Petty Officer Stowell's landing craft air cushion several times.”

She'd been a Marine. That meant Annapolis rather than West Point. He hadn't known that, but he should have—could feel it in her manners and stance. Not gung-ho Marine, but a confidence that was still unmistakable. In so many of the Tier 2 outfits—the Marine Corps, Green Berets, and Rangers—that confidence shifted over into cocky.