Under Fire

“Oh…nothing.” Maggie spread out her hands before her. Last night she’d taken the polish off her nails to let them breathe for a day or two before coating them with another color. Groaning, she realized that grease was stuck stubbornly beneath them. Great. She was going to look like a grease monkey to this guy.

Why do I care? He ought to be more worried about what I think of him. With that thought, Maggie tossed the rag into the receptacle for just such items, picked up her purse and slung it over her left shoulder. Leaving the hangar, she hitched a ride in a truck going in the direction of the O club.

On the way over, Maggie took the mirror out of her purse. Her hair looked frizzy. Not that she had curly hair, but a number of auburn strands had worked their way out of the chignon, especially from her temple area. Putting on some lipstick made her feel a bit better, but Maggie knew, at best, she looked more like a mechanic today than a pilot.

And then her temper got the better of her. Why should I worry what I look like? Double Standard Donovan. Knock it off. This is business. Strictly business!

Of course, Maggie thought as the truck dropped her off at the O club, she was going to check out Bishop with a fine-tooth comb. Her mother had trained her to pay attention to faces, voice tones, body language and eyes. Eyes were the most important consideration.

As she hurried up the concrete sidewalk, she prayed Bishop’s eyes showed honesty and intelligence. Ignoring the small palm trees and bougainvillea that surrounded the spacious O club, Maggie entered through the double doors.

Taking off her cap, she hesitated in the foyer. Bar or dining room? She snorted softly. Bishop, she was sure, was probably in the bar—like every other macho Navy jet jock. She hated going there because the civilian women groupies were always hanging around trying to hook up with a flier. The games they played made her nauseous. Taking a deep breath, Maggie dived into the huge bar. It was crowded for this time of day, and a number of civilian women mingled with the men dressed in uniform and flight suits. The hunt was on.

How was she going to find Bishop? It meant she had to walk up and down the entire bar looking at the name on each man’s flight uniform. The cigarette smoke and the loud hard-rock music jarred her frayed nerves, but Maggie persevered, eyeballing each man’s name tag.

After fifteen minutes of close inspection, Maggie still hadn’t found Bishop in the bar. Going back out to the foyer, she frowned. Okay, she was wrong about Bishop. He wasn’t a groupie jock. At least, not today. Maybe he was on his best behavior. Who knew? She headed to the dining room, a much quieter, well-lit place with lots of greenery, soft music and a far better clientele, in her opinion.

At the door, she halted. Although the dining room was filled to capacity, Maggie had no trouble singling out her RIO. Her blood boiled. She saw Brad Hall leaning over another man in a dark green flight suit, talking intently. Hall. Maggie narrowed her eyes. The seated man had to be Bishop—she could barely make out his name in gold print emblazoned on the black leather patch on his flight uniform.

Was Hall a buddy of Bishop’s? Maggie’s hands turned damp as she considered the possibility. Clenching her garrison cap, she gave herself time to check out Bishop without being discovered. Hall was too deeply in conversation with his fellow RIO to even notice her presence.

When Hall moved from in front of Bishop, it gave Maggie her first clear view of him, and her first impression. Her heart thudded once in her breast to underscore her strictly feminine response to Bishop. God, but he was sinfully handsome! Bishop looked more like a movie star than an honest-to-God RIO earning a Navy paycheck.

Maggie had to jerk herself up short and stop reacting like that. He must be at least six foot four. He was a big man with broad shoulders, a square face and a strong jaw to go with it. Olive-skinned, Maggie observed, with short black hair and expressive brows above his intense blue eyes. She relaxed slightly. Good, Bishop’s eyes were large and spaced far apart. His high cheekbones and eagle-like nose created a wonderful balance for those appealing eyes that seemed to dance with mischief. As her gaze drifted down to his mouth, Maggie felt herself go weak and shaky.

Stop this! Maggie Donovan, you’re acting like a girl who’s fallen in love with her first boy! Idiot! But she couldn’t help it as she gazed at the lazy curve of Bishop’s beautifully molded mouth. The lower lip was large and flat, and the corners turned up naturally, as if a slight smile hovered perpetually around his mouth. His upper lip was sculpted and slightly smaller. But together, Maggie decided, those lips composed the most attractive mouth she’d ever seen on any man in her life.

I’ll bet he’s a real heartbreaker with the groupies. Tall, dark and handsome. Women would fall all over this guy. Overall, Bishop was large boned: but his hands were well shaped, with long fingers—almost artistic, in Maggie’s estimation. He looked Italian, but her finely honed instincts didn’t completely agree with that judgement. There was a certain aura of danger about Bishop—something that made her feel abnormally unsure of herself.

When he smiled at something Hall said, Maggie groaned inwardly. Bishop’s face beamed; his dazzling smile made her heart race. But his eyes remained cool. Bishop didn’t really think whatever Hall had said was humorous; his eyes would have reflected it. Maggie frowned. No doubt Hall was filling Bishop’s ear about her. Damn it! She didn’t need to get off on the wrong foot with him. As she started forward, Maggie knew it was a two-way street: Bishop could refuse this assignment with her, too. And if her boss felt this man was the best for the job, she didn’t want to lose him because of Hall’s criticism of her—justified or not.

“It’s a small world,” Maggie challenged Hall, coming up and halting a foot away from her ex-RIO.

Wes Bishop rested his chin against his hands, and watched with interest. Something had whispered to him earlier to look up toward the entrance of the dining room. He knew immediately that the red-haired woman in a green flight uniform had to be Maggie Donovan. Her five-minute inspection of him made him smile to himself. He’d pretended to pay full attention to Brad’s story of woe but the whole time, his senses had been acutely focused on Maggie.

“What are you doing here, Donovan?” Hall growled, straightening and standing next to Bishop’s chair.

“It’s noon and it’s time to eat. I have a stomach just like you do, Hall.”

Wes winced. Man, she could come out firing when she wanted to. It was obvious she and Hall didn’t like each other.

Brad glared at her. “I was just filling in my old friend, Wes Bishop, on working with you. I understand he’s your new RIO.”

Maggie glanced over at Wes, who was staring innocently up at her. That damned mouth of his was curved in an angelic shape, and she bridled. “If there’s any filling-in to do, it’s my responsibility to do it, Hall. Not yours. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I’ve got to interview Lieutenant Bishop.”

Hall shrugged. He patted the other RIO’s shoulder. “Later, Wes.”

“Yeah. Later, Brad. See you around.”

Nervously, Maggie sat down opposite him. She stowed her purse and garrison cap beneath her chair. Offering her hand after Hall left, she said, “I’m Maggie Donovan. Commander Parkinson told me you’d be over here.”

Wes noted how long and slender Maggie’s hand was. She didn’t have pretty model’s hands; fingers were too large-knuckled. He clasped and shook it, appreciating her strong grip. “Wes Bishop. Nice to meet the world-famous lady combat-pilot.”

With a grimace, Maggie noticed his firm yet gentle shake. He had wonderful hands, she thought. Trying to get her wildly rolling feelings under control, Maggie worked to contain her strictly feminine reaction to Bishop and get down to the business at hand. It was impossible to do.

“There’s been too much publicity on me over the past couple of years,” she griped. “None of it was fair, and the rest was mulch for those rags. I hope you didn’t believe what you read.”

Wes smiled and picked up his coffee cup, studying her over the rim. “I prefer meeting a person face-to-face before making up my mind.” She was feminine despite her lanky frame, he decided—and touchingly vulnerable. Her hand shook as she picked up the glass of water and sipped. Partly from flying off carrier decks, he thought. Still, there was a softness to Maggie that appealed strongly to him. There was anxiety in the depths of her lovely emerald-green eyes. Automatically, Wes wanted to put her at ease.

“You’re not what I expected, I have to admit.”

Maggie tried to appear at ease, although she felt anything but. She tried to figure out her reaction to Wes Bishop logically. Sure, she was nervous about meeting him as an RIO; but more, her heart was doing wild leaps every time he rested those steady blue eyes on her. When had a man’s looks ever made her feel like this? Maggie blamed her nerves. “Oh?”

“Yeah. I expected a hard-edged broad who walked with a macho swagger and tried to pretend she was one of the boys. You aren’t.”

Gawking at him for an instant, Maggie was nonplussed. “You shoot straight from the hip, don’t you?”

“I see you didn’t waste any words on Hall, either,” Wes pointed out mildly.

“Touché,” she admitted. The waitress came over and Maggie gave her order. She wasn’t really hungry. This man made her so nervous she wanted to drink to quell her reaction, but she needed a clear head so she ordered coffee instead.

Placing her elbows on the table and resting her chin against her clasped hands, Maggie said, “Commander Parkinson sent me over here.”

“I know. To check me out.”

“It’s for both our benefits.”

“That’s fine. I understand. Hall has a problem with you.”

“Is that what he told you?”

“Don’t get your hackles up, Lieutenant.”

“I will if you swallow the hogwash he fed you.”

Wes grinned and moved the dainty cup slowly around in its saucer, his large hand huge in comparison to the china. “You’ve got a very distrustful look in those pretty green eyes of yours,” he baited.

“And you can cut through the jock talk, Bishop. This is strictly business between us.” Still, she’d liked his low, rough tone when he’d complimented her.

“Just because I compliment you doesn’t mean I’m after your body, Ms. Donovan.” Not that it wasn’t a pleasant thought. Wes liked her lean, greyhound grace. Maggie wasn’t beautiful in the conventional sense. She had a long face to go with that long body of hers. Her eyes were like huge green emeralds framed with thick red lashes. Her nose, he was sure, had been broken, with a bump to attest to it. The rest of it flowed straight and clean down to fine, thin nostrils that flared when she was taking offense. Wes couldn’t decide which he liked more about Maggie: her eyes that telegraphed every emotion, or that pursed set of full lips that had just a touch of impishness.

Maggie sat digesting his statement. “You give as good as you get, don’t you, Bishop?” she said after a moment.

“I guess it comes with the territory, Donovan. Pilots think they run the show up there.”

“RIOs think they run it.”

Wes leaned forward, a lazy grin on his mouth. “The truth is, we run it together.”