Desperado (3 page)

“National Guard, Special Forces,” he answered flatly, walking by her to climb the steps. She forced herself not to
move back, afraid he might accidentally, or not so accidentally, brush against her. He didn't, but his eyes twinkled knowingly as he explained, “I owed Uncle Sam a pigload of cash for seven years of college loans, and he decided the ‘Nasty Guard' would be a good method of payback. Plus, I always need extra cash. This is my last tour of duty, but if you know a way to get me out now, I'd be eternally grateful.”

“Why am I not surprised?” she muttered under her breath, knowing he'd never felt the loyalty to the military establishment that she had.

“I never took you for a ‘Nasty Girl' type, though,” he added, referring to the crude name given to women of the National Guard.

She arched a brow questioningly, which she regretted immediately when he responded, “Too much starch in your drawers.”

Helen clenched her fists at her sides and counted to ten. “That's it, Captain. This goes on your permanent record.” She made another check mark next to his name and was about to reprimand him further, but the smirk on his face stopped her cold. Just like in the old days, he was goading her into losing her temper. This time she disappointed him by turning away.

Then she had no more time to think about the jerk as she supervised the loading of the aircraft, trying to ignore the many eyes that seemed to rivet questioningly on her behind.

Oh, Lord
. Helen just knew this was going to be the longest day of her life.

A
n hour later, the plane was airborne. Helen had given her unit—ten men and two women—instructions for their upcoming drop near the California/Nevada border, then checked all their equipment and jump gear. The soldiers appeared
relaxed as they chatted softly among themselves, seated on the platform benches that lined both sides of the huge aircraft, but Helen knew they were pumped up with excitement. Regardless of all the precautions, there was always an element of danger, the possibility of injury or death, in any skydiving event.

Despite their usual full-time civilian status, all were experienced paratroopers who made at least one drop each quarter in order to stay on jump status and earn their incentive pay. Half of the soldiers were here today serving their annual two-week National Guard duty—so-called “Weekend Warriors”—but the others were making “pay drops.”

Those in the special forces were hand-chosen for their particular expertise; they were doctors, lawyers, language or communications experts. Often they were used to help train troops in underdeveloped countries.

Even though he said he was in the National Guard, Helen figured Rafe was probably just a pay dropper the rest of the time—one of those occasional skydivers who made practice drops for the military to keep their skills up to date, for a fee. She instantly chastised herself for her lack of charity. Doing pay drops was not dishonorable—for the most part. Many of the men and women who did pay drops in the off-seasons were the same men and women called up to fight forest fires and other natural disasters. The backbone of the peacetime defense forces, they even went into emergency military action when necessary.

Helen looked over at Rafe sitting at the end of the bench on one side, near the tail. He sat several seat lengths apart from the others, further separated by a slight abutment—a loner, as he'd always been. His head rested back against the fuselage, his eyes were closed, and his skin was a mite greenish.

Tucking her clipboard under her arm, she maneuvered her way down the aisle and leaned over him. “Are you sick, soldier?”

His eyes opened lazily. “Why? Are you gonna rub my tummy?”

Helen recoiled, then made another mark after his name on the clipboard. “You're already in serious trouble, Captain. The next step is the stockade.”

“Is it air-conditioned?”

She gritted her teeth. “Your conduct is arrogant and insubordinate. I've tolerated more than I should for old times' sake. Don't push me any further.”

“Listen, Helen. I'm in a bad mood and I'm taking it out on you. Maybe we'd better not talk anymore.”

The plane hit an air pocket and she swayed with the turbulence.

“Buckle your seat belts, ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot droned over the loud speaker. “We've hit a temporary rough spot.”

Reluctantly, Helen sank down on the seat next to Rafe and buckled up. He grinned at her like a mischievous child.

She made a clucking noise that sounded prissy even to her. “You haven't changed one bit.”

“Neither have you.” He smiled wickedly, his eyes making a bold assessment of her body.

“How so?” she asked, against her better judgment.

“You're as prissy as ever.”

Seeing the look of consternation on her face, he leaned over and took the pen out of her hand, making a mark next to his name. “Just saving you the bother, babe,” he explained.

Babe!
She was about to rebuke him for addressing a superior officer in such an intimate manner when he made her protest impossible by asking, “Should you be talking to a lowly soldier like me? Isn't it against the rules or something?” He put special emphasis on the word “rules” as if they were something loathsome. As if he didn't know exactly what the rules said.

When Helen realized she'd played right into his hands,
again
, she forced herself to relax, to cut him a little slack. Rafe had always put her on the defensive, caused her to overreact, made her feel guilty for—well, practically everything—from the way she dressed to the patriotic values she revered.

“I asked you a question, Captain Santiago. Are you ill?”

“Do I look ill?”

“Yes.”

“If I'm ill, do I get to go back to L.A.?”

“No.”

He shrugged. “Then I'm not ill. Just a little hung over.”

“Always looking for the easy way out, aren't you? Let me give you a little bit of advice, as an old friend.”

He raised an eyebrow at her use of the word “friend,” but she continued doggedly, “You're the same as you were back at Stonewall, and that kind of insolence won't cut it in today's Army.”

Now it was Rafe's turn to stiffen. “Lady, you didn't know me then, and you don't know me now.”

Helen felt her face flush with embarrassment. “You're right.” But she couldn't allow his familiarity to go on. “Just don't call me those . . . names. I'm your commanding officer, in case you've forgotten.”

His lips twitched with amusement. “Should I salute?”

“That would be a start.”

“Whatever melts your butter.” He sat up straight and gave her a short, smart salute.

“Well, that's more like it.”

Then he ruined the effect by winking.

She ignored his wink, although it did strange things to the pattern of her breathing. Helen decided to change the subject, to start over on a fresh note. After all, she was the leader of this operation. Surely she could carry on a civil conversation with one of her men. “What have you been doing for the past twelve years?”

He hesitated. “Are we talking major and captain here? Or Helen and Rafe?”

With a quick glance, she saw that they were screened somewhat from the other soldiers by the protruding abutment. She studied him for a long moment. “Two old acquaintances,” she conceded.

“I'm a lawyer.”

“Oh, that's right. I remember reading something in the newspapers. ‘Hotshot L.A. Lawyer Hired by Movie Mogul' or some such thing.” Her voice carried a slight tone of contempt.

“You got it, sweetheart. That's me. Hotshot L.A. lawyer.” He studied his fingernails casually, but Helen could tell that his teeth were gritted.

A woman sitting on the other side of Rafe, several seats away, leaned forward, craning her neck to watch them with interest. In truth, it was Rafe she was ogling like a delicious dessert. Heck, who wouldn't? He was a drop-dead gorgeous hunk. And, much as Helen disliked his values and lifestyle, in all honesty, she couldn't deny her attraction to him, as well. Even after all these years.

Meanwhile, his insolent eyes, fringed with lashes thick as black feather dusters, were visually caressing some intimate parts of her body. Trying to ignore the butterflies in her stomach, Helen hissed, “Stop looking at me like that. It smacks of sexual harassment.”

“No, no, no! If there's one thing I know, it's the law. Sexual harassment is when I'm the ranking officer and I'm forcing my attentions on helpless little you. I'm just a
helpless
man here, admiring a good-looking woman who happens to be wearing a uniform. Don't read anything threatening into that. And, besides, you agreed this was a civilian conversation.”

“I didn't say I feel threatened,” she said, pursing her lips with disgust, “but your insolence is intolerable under any circumstances, military or otherwise. And tasteless.”

“Stop acting like you're sucking a lemon all the time.”

Helen had to clench her fists tightly to keep from slapping the teasing smile off his handsome face. “You are truly the crudest, most arrogant man I've ever met.”

“Yep, that's me. Crude, arrogant, hotshot lawyer.” He didn't look at all upset that Helen had such a low opinion of him.

“Well, at least, you achieved your goal, Mr. Hotshot Legal Eagle. All you ever wanted was to make a ton of money.”

“Right.” His eyes flashed angrily as if he was about to argue with her. But then he deliberately banked their blue fires with a mask of unconcern. “Not everyone gets to be born with a silver spoon in his mouth,
like you
.”

Rafe's gaze riveted on the gold oak leaf cluster on her collar. Before Helen realized what he was about, he flicked one of them with the tips of his fingers, grazing her neck. Fortunately, they were screened from the other soldiers, because Helen felt branded by even that mere touch. His eyes held hers for a moment, hot and smoldering, and an unfamiliar heaviness pulled sensuously at her limbs.

She was going to have Rafe removed from her company the minute they hit the ground. She would never survive two weeks of close company with this prime example of walking testosterone.

“I see you went into the career military, like your daddy wanted you to,” he said suddenly, jarring her back to harsh reality. “I thought you wanted to be an artist. Ah, well, Daddy's girl all the way, huh?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means, Prissy, that you still haven't learned to stand on your own two feet. You do what Daddy tells you to.”

“How do you know the military isn't what I want?”

He shrugged as if the conversation bored him suddenly. Then he noticed the ring on her left hand. Before she had a chance to protest, he took her hand in both of his and traced the large diamond with one forefinger. Alarmed at her racing
pulse, she looked up guiltily to see if anyone was watching, but Rafe's back and the abutment still ensured their privacy.

“So, who's the lucky guy?” There was an odd note in his voice, almost like regret, which puzzled Helen. She decided it was probably sarcasm.

“Elliott Peterson. Colonel Elliott Peterson.”

“Colonel. That figures.”

Helen tried to pull away, but he turned her hand over and began to trace enticing little circles in the palm, holding her eyes the entire time. Helen yearned to close her eyes and yield to the sweet thrumming sensations spiraling from the sensitive skin of her hand to all the important nerve centers in her dormant body. At first, she didn't realize he was still talking to her. “What?”

“How long have you been engaged?”

“Three years.”

His eyes widened, and he made a low snickering sound, shaking his head from side to side. “That figures, too.”

Helen hated the way Rafe made her feel, all jumpy and achy inside. He always had. And he probably knew it. She yanked her hand out of his.

He laughed huskily.

“We haven't been able to coordinate our schedules,” she said defensively.

He snorted rudely with disbelief. “So, do you and the colonel salute each other before you hit the sack? Hey, I'll bet you work hot sex around a schedule, don't you?”

Hot sex?

He hooted gleefully, slapping one hand on his knee. “Oh, Prissy, you are so transparent. You haven't the faintest idea what I mean by hot sex, do you?”

“Now I remember why I always hated you.” She made another note on her clipboard. “You know that I can make the next two weeks very miserable for you, don't you?”

“I'm already miserable,” he pointed out, continuing as if she hadn't even spoken. “I can just picture you and Colonel Sanders—”

“It's Colonel Peterson.”

He waved his hand dismissively and went on. “Your tight-assed military dude probably says, ‘Can I' and ‘May I' and ‘Please.' Probably pats you on the rump afterward for a job well done. And then falls dead asleep before he can do you again.”

Do me?
Helen bit her bottom lip to keep her jaw from dropping open. “There's nothing wrong with politeness.”

“Hah!” Rafe chuckled softly as if suddenly enlightened. “I'll bet you even take that damn clipboard to bed with you.”

She forced herself not to make another mark on the clipboard, knowing that was what he expected. “You're as bad as that sergeant who was yelling those gross jody calls earlier.”

His head snapped back as if she'd slapped him. “I'm not like that jerk, Prissy. He was being a vulgar, sexist slob. I like women and I love sex. That's a natural part of life. And sometimes it's even crude. So what? Why don't you loosen up a little and live?”

Rafe's all-too-accurate assessment of her life cut deeply, but Helen would never admit that. She should get up and walk away before her carefully regulated emotions were exposed for a sham. She should never have stayed to talk with him. She should forget the ways in which his words had wounded her more than a dozen years ago, and still did today. But she stayed, yearning for answers. “Why do you always criticize me, Rafe? For four years at Stonewall, you made my life a nightmare. You—”