Surrendering To Her Sergeant (49 page)

“What?” Tait almost snarled
it. Ava shook and squeezed her hand harder to Ethan’s, unable to
blame the guy for his horrified shock. “Why? Why the
fuck
, Luna?”

“A-after Ethan got Nichols
d-disconnected…nobody watched the hand pad anymore. We all figured
it was over, right?” The woman’s classic features crumpled in
grief. She shook her head “It wasn’t. The—the pad—”

Ethan prompted her, “What about the
pad?”

“It—it must’ve been because Nichols’s
hand was on it for so long. It k-kept a heat signature.”

“Oh, God!” Ava cried. “It kept the
launch timer going.”

The tension drained from Tait’s jaw.
He looked back to Luna with his chest pumping hard, reading her
intent a full two seconds before Ava and Ethan did. “Give it to me,
Luna.”

The woman backed away, every move
replete with feline grace though she visibly trembled.
“No.”

“Luna!” Tait matched her every step.
“I’m not going to let you do this!”

“Yes you are.” As she nodded, the set
lights played along the salty tracks that poured from her eyes.
“You’re going to let me because you’re a good man, Tait Bommer. You
fly into danger every day to protect your country. You take care of
the bad guys, and you teach the good ones how to make their
countries better. You do good things. And I’m—I’m—”

“Luna! Stop!”

“I’m just…crazy Luna. Lost,
crazy Luna.” She finished it with a tight sob. When she turned her
gaze back up, her eyes were rimmed in the red of her sorrow and the
mushy kohl of her makeup. “But for a while, you made me believe I
could be good, too. And now, I’m going to live up to that. For you.
And for me, too. I’m going to do good, Tait. I
want
to do good.”

“No!
No
!”

“I love you, Weasley.”

Tait tore after her as she
turned and ran into the shadows. Ethan caught his friend in half of
a desperate chokehold. “T-Bomb, what the
fuck
are you—”

“Let me go. I swear to God, Archer,
I’ll shoot your arm off if you don’t!”

“Tait? Shit!”

“Go
. Get out of here. Get the hell off of me, take Ava and go,
damn you!”

With a vicious roar, Ethan granted his
teammate’s wish. Ava struggled to swipe the tears off her face in
order to watch where she ran as Ethan snatched her by the hand and
tugged her the other way.

He heaved the door open and dragged
her out into the controlled pandemonium that now reigned over the
back lot. It was a sea of emergency vehicles, Secret Service
personnel, and studio security. Before Ava joined him in waving
everyone back from the building, she swore she heard a bellow that
filled every corner of the soundstage with its horror and
anguish.

“Luna
!”

Seconds later, a
deafening
boom
rocked the air—and all she heard for a long while was the
stunned ringing of her ears.

“Sergeant Archer! Over
here! Over here, please. Just one more shot. Ms. Chestain, can you
get him to look back over here? We’re from
People
; we want this one for the
cover. Good; good! Yeah, make this the money shot!”

The money shot?

Ethan couldn’t take it anymore. With a
polite but brusque wave, he turned, ran up the steps and past the
two marines standing sentry at the door of Air Force One.
Thankfully, Ava followed him. A hostess welcomed him on behalf of
President Nichols, then led him into a swanky conference room
surrounded by cushy leather chairs, four of which were occupied by
Franzen, Rhett, Rebel, and Kellan. The table was already set with
five huge trays of assorted food, everything from fried chicken,
gourmet pizza, and chili fries to assorted cupcakes and cheesecake
slices.

Ethan ran an admiring gaze over the
dining choices. The spread looked amazing. But the best thing about
this space was how it cut the din of the press throng to nearly
nothing. Thank fuck.

“Hey there, Runway.” Franz cracked a
grin that split his tanned cheeks, lifting a bottle of something
that looked dark, imported and cold. “Nice of you to wave good-bye
to your groupies and join us for the special shuttle home, courtesy
of your new buddy.”

He leaned forward. “No, no,
no, Captain. I’m Runway, not Zsycho.
He’s
the one with the groupies,
remember?”

Rhett snickered. “Groupies, yes. But
President Nichols on speed dial and a ride in Big Bird One?” He
waggled both pointer fingers across the table, a hipster in Class
A’s. “It’s all you, baby; it’s all you.”

Ethan cringed. “Is that your New York
side talking, your London side talking, or your dork-on-a-stick
side talking?” He peered around. “Speaking of the big groupie
magnet, where the hell is he?”

“Z took a few extra days of leave,”
Franz explained. “He and Rayna decided to stay so they can help
Sage and Garrett with little Racer Joseph during the drive back up
the coast.”

Rhett snorted. “Racer Hawkins. That
fits, considering the kid’s rush to get here.”

Franzen took another swig on his beer
and came out of the quaff more somber. “He was still big as a
house. Looks just like Garrett, too. Guess the kid just knew his
mama needed him around. We really didn’t know if Hawk was going to
pull through.”

“Thank God he did.” The soft murmur
came from the woman who sat next to him. Ava was more gorgeous
today than he ever remembered, her lush curls falling over a little
black sweater that covered the top of a white sundress with a full
skirt, with the curves of her legs shown off by a classy pair of
black patent pumps. But her beauty was about more than her
wardrobe. It began in the satiny glow of her skin, shined from her
entrancing eyes, captivated him in every inch of her joyous smile,
and especially the sweet words that spilled from it.

After they took off from LAX, he
accepted a glass of Scotch from the flight attendant and made sure
Ava had some light wine, then leaned his head back and closed his
eyes. It had been three days since the insanity at the soundstage.
Sometimes it felt like only three minutes, sometimes three
years—especially when he relented and gave an interview, only to be
hounded by the journalist to give up details about the episode that
had been ordered as classified. No, he couldn’t talk about the
terrorists or what they’d wanted. No, he couldn’t talk about who’d
been killed or how. Yes, he really did cut off the president’s hand
to save his life. Yes, Bella Lanza was really that gorgeous in real
life. Not quite the truth? Maybe some bubbles were best left
unbroken.

Yeah…life needed a few more bubbles,
period. If the last ten days had illuminated a lesson for him on
top of schmoozing with Hollywood’s elite, spending an unforgettable
day with the president and hitching a ride home on Air Force One,
it was that life—and love—themselves were made up of bubbles:
precious pieces of beauty too often popped in the name of something
as stupid as pride, fear, prejudice…or emotional baggage. Bubbles
needed to be cherished. Bubbles needed to be defended, guarded, and
fought for with all the valiance in a guy’s soul, all the love in
his heart.

Rebel’s soft bayou twang tugged at the
edges of Ethan’s reverie.

“Franz? Did you get an update about
T-Bomb, too?”

Their captain’s features tightened
from serious to grim. “Hospital’s keeping him for a while longer.
The fucker refuses to stay in bed. He sneaks to Luna’s side every
chance he can get. They’re still amazed he walked away from the
blast with just a snapped collarbone and a shit ton of bruises.
Runway, you probably saved his life by trying to pull him back.
Those few seconds made the difference.”

“Psshh
.” Rhett loaded his plate with another slice of pizza. “First
the president, then T-Bomb. Do we have to get him a cape and a
magic ring now?”

Ethan glared. “Stuff that pie into
your hole before I give you something else for it.”

“In your dreams, pretty
boy.”

“And Luna?” Rhett asked after giving
them both a dismissive eye roll. “How’s she doing?”

Franz gave him a look that declared
the answer wouldn’t be pretty. “No change. The blast fucked her up
something fierce. The docs won’t bring her out of the
medically-induced coma yet. They’re hopeful her brain and body will
heal from the rest. She’s a fighter, and all the signs are there
that she’ll pull through, but there just won’t be a definitive
answer for another few days. As we speak, Tait’s brother is flying
to LA, so he won’t be alone in all this.”

“Shay’s a good man,” Kellan commented.
“Is he still with the seventh, out of Florida?”

Franz nodded. “Good memory. But you
know how deep into the shit they still are overseas. Took them a
while to find them, even longer to procure the right paperwork for
his leave.”

Ethan quietly excused himself, making
a beeline for the little hallway that led, if he remembered right,
to the president’s senior staffers’ meeting room. As always, the
talk about Tait made him restless. Both he and T-Bomb had been the
fucking lucky ones during the insanity in LA, each finding the
woman that perfectly snagged their heart. He still couldn’t accept
the monkey wrench fate had decided to hurl at Tait and Luna on the
way to their happy ending. On the other hand, he knew few soldiers
who had stronger spirits than Tait Bommer. If anyone could fight
for Luna like this and win, it would be him.

“Damn,” he muttered. The staffers’
room was even nicer than the dining room. The couches were leather,
the cup holders were backlit, and there was a huge flat screen on
the wall.

“Sergeant Archer?” the flight
attendant appeared in the doorway carrying more beers and a plate
full of jalapeño poppers. Sheez. Hadn’t someone told the woman this
flight was only two and a half hours long? “Is there something I
can help you with?”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, “Just feeling
restless.” Her kind brown eyes and understanding smile gave him a
surge of boldness. “Hey, is the president up and about?” He guessed
that was how they said it in the rarified air of the oval office,
even if it was airborne right now.

“Well, he is,” she answered slowly,
“but the doctors have only cleared him for six hours of work a day
while his hand heals. He’s lucky they were able to reattach it, and
he needs to take it easy.” She laughed a little. “The conference
call he’s on right now will officially push him into seven, meaning
I’m gonna have to get on my bitch broom.”

“Not that,” Ethan teased. He spread
his hands. “No worries. And…sorry. I wasn’t snooping.
Just—”

“Restless,” she finished amiably. “I
get it. My husband’s on a SWAT team in DC. He gets like this after
a shitty op, and he’s never had to cut off the president’s hand
before.”

On his way back to the dining room,
Ethan concluded that Mr. SWAT Team Husband was a seriously lucky
man.

The next second, he counted himself
even luckier.

As he walked past the women’s
bathroom, he heard soft singing. In Spanish. He felt a smile
curling his lips as he braced his hands to either side of the
doorway. Without another word, he patiently waited.

It didn’t take her too long
to finish up. When she slid back the door and confronted him there,
a very startled and damn cute
dios
mio!
popped out of her mouth. Unable to
resist, Ethan caught the last of it with his lips.

And as it happened so many times when
he kissed her, he couldn’t settle for just a tiny taste. Or just a
gentle greeting. He had to have her fire. Her desire. Her passion.
Her gasps.

Her surrender.

It involved the work of three steps to
get her back into the little compartment. It was bigger than a
normal airline bathroom but not by much, meaning he had to be near
her, anyway. While dipping his mouth to hers again, fusing their
connection with the open thrust of his tongue, he dug his hands
into her waist and hiked her onto the little counter next to the
sink. As her little squeal of surprise tickled his ear, his dick
surged to full attention.