The Right Touch

His eyes glittered as he studied her. “So what’s wrong with enjoying women?”

“Nothing. Not a thing. It’s just that I’m not prepared to be one of your conquests, that’s all.”

“Well,” he drawled, “I’m not stupid enough to invite myself in here, judging by the way you handle those weapons. Don’t worry, I’ll behave myself.”

Dev lifted her chin, meeting his smile. Cal seemed so warm and open; in that moment, she liked him. He wasn’t afraid to poke fun at himself. She liked his honesty.

“They’re called pes,” she said, slipping the pistol-grip handle back onto the threaded steel that was welded to the blade.

“They’re called dangerous.”

She liked his mellow laughter. After taking a screwdriver and tightening the bolt, she handed him the épée butt first. “Nah, they’re not dangerous and neither am I.”

Cal sat up, gingerly holding the long, triangular blade. “Correction: any redhead is dangerous.”

“Just ones without freckles. See? I have freckles. Your basic, harmless type.”

“In my book, no redhead is harmless.”

“And I’ll bet you’ve got lots and lots of experience under your belt with women from around the world.”

The knock at the door broke their friendly mood. Dev got lithely to her feet, skipping across the room. Cal sat back, enjoying watching her. The houseboy, dressed in black slacks and a white top, brought in the coffee. He placed it on the table, bowed, then left. Dev flopped down, crossed her legs beneath the table and poured. When she handed Cal the cup and saucer, he had the oddest expression on his face.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.

Cal shook his head slightly, taking the fragrant coffee from her. “Don’t mind me, Dev. I’m drunk, remember?” She was so natural and unaffected. She had a way about her that shook his deteriorating control. Dev wore no makeup, looked utterly delicious in a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt that lovingly outlined every contour and valley of her body and matched his wit at every turn. He saw her eyes darken momentarily with concern.

“It’s starting to get to you, isn’t it? First the dizziness, and next, you’ll pass out.” She wrinkled her nose. “Or worse, get sick. I hate getting sick. That’s why I never drink much. Except for tonight.”

You’re getting to me, Cal thought. “Did I drive you to drink tonight?”

“You know you did.”

“I haven’t been very good company,” he agreed.

She tilted her head. “Are you feeling worse? You’re looking pale.”

“A little,” he lied.

“Are pilots known for understatement?”

He sipped the scaldingly hot liquid, hoping to quell the increasing hunger coming to life in him. What would it be like to kiss those full, smiling lips that quirked, pouted and compressed according to her quicksilver mood? Or to allow his hands to outline those wonderfully shaped breasts? Or…Cal took a very long breath and expelled it slowly. Well, he was drunk. And he wasn’t feeling any pain now over Chief’s death. He was feeling another kind of pain, a sharp ache deep inside his chest, one that he couldn’t quite identify, having never felt it before. “Probably,” he admitted, forcing down more coffee.

Dev poured herself some and added a hefty portion of cream and sugar to it. All the while, she was watching him. “I’m not exactly sober myself.”

“You hold your liquor real well,” he congratulated her.

“So do you. But I don’t see how you’re managing.”

Dev was so flustered by the keen, incisive look Cal gave her that she nearly dropped the saucer. She quickly set it down on the table in front of her, getting back to work on the second èpè. The silence became awesome, and inwardly Dev tensed, realizing he was watching her every move.

“When do you fence in this competition coming up?” Cal asked, trying to ease the uneasiness between them.

“Wednesday. I’m lucky, I have a chance to recover from jet lag before I have to go out on the strip.”

“Strip?”

Dev eyed him, noticing he had a silly smile on his mouth. A mouth that was used to giving orders and having them carried out. She wondered blankly what it would be like to be kissed by a mouth like that. “Uh, we fence on a copper-mesh strip that’s approximately forty-six feet long and six-and-a-half feet wide. Epèe and foil are electrically scored, and the copper strip grounds us. Officially, it’s known as a piste, but we call it the strip, instead.”

Cal finished the first cup, awkwardly pouring a second one, spilling a few drops on the table. “How long are you going to be here in Hong Kong?”

“A week. I have to fence Wednesday and Friday. We leave on Sunday. What about you? How long will you be here?” She looked up, struck by how relaxed Cal looked.

“One week.”

“Must be nice. A paid vacation to ports all over the world.”

He grimaced, not meeting her teasing blue gaze. “Yeah, I suppose it is.”

Dev picked up the bell guard. A flash of pain shot through her fingers and then up to her elbow. Her fingers became nerveless, and the bell dropped to the carpet. She bit down hard on her lower lip, instantly covering her injured wrist with her other hand.

“What’s wrong?” Cal put the cup down on the table and leaned forward.

“Oh, nothing,” she muttered. Damn it! She got up, holding her wrist, the pain increasing. She was so absorbed by the fact her wrist was giving her trouble again that she didn’t notice Cal get to his feet. It was only when his long fingers gently pulled her hand from her throbbing wrist that she realized he was there, standing over her. His brows were drawn down as he carefully examined the injury. Her pulse jumped; her heart thudded in her breast. Dev could feel the power radiating from Cal, making her dizzy, frightening her, thrilling her. She could smell his subtle cologne, and her nostrils flared as he carefully turned her hand over.

“What did you do? Strain it? Looks a little swollen here,” he said, lightly running his thumb across the affected area.

“I—I sprained it about three weeks ago.” She sounded like a stammering eighteen-year-old.

Cal drew up her hand, positioning her wrist in a better light. “Yeah, there’s still some bruising. You can barely see it, though.” He looked up, his face inches from hers. “What happened? Did you hurt yourself fencing?”

His eyes were so wide and inquiring that Dev lost herself in them. Eyes that were at once intelligent, clear and yet filled with genuine concern. He wasn’t a sham, after all; she knew it in her heart. This was another side to the enigmatic Cal Travis. Dev blinked, shaken. She reclaimed her hand and took a step away from him. “No…I got shoved down by a couple of union guys about three weeks ago.”

“What?”

Dev’s lashes flew up at his growl. “I’m a television camera operator. The reporter, Tucker, and I had to go out and cover a strike. He wanted some close-ups of the union people having words with the police, and he ordered me into the confrontation. One of the guys tried to tear the camera off my shoulder and out of my hands.” Dev shrugged. “I held on to it, but me and the camera both went flying.” She glanced down at her wrist. “I took a bad strain, and I’ve been trying to baby my wrist along ever since then so I can fence at my best in this competition.”

Cal’s eyes flashed with anger. “Tucker was a fool to let you that close to something like that,” he snapped. “What’s the idiot got for a brain? A pea?”

Dev gave him a feeble smile. “Don’t be angry at him. He’s always where the action is. I only banged up my wrist a little,” she lied.

Cal threw his hands on his hips, assessing her. “That épée must weigh around a pound and a half. If you can’t even hold a lightweight piece of aluminum with that hand, how are you going to fence?”

Dev raised her eyebrows, pleased by his insight. “Good question. I’ll probably have to wrap it tightly and pray it holds up during the bouts. I’ll be back in a minute. I want to get a warm cloth and wrap my wrist.”

“No, sit down here. Let me do it.”

“But—”

“Sit down.”

Dev sat, rather shocked, watching him stalk to the bathroom. When Cal came back with the washcloth and hunched down in front of her, Dev held out her wrist. “I want you to know, I don’t normally take orders from anyone.”

Cal wrapped the cloth around her wrist, holding it between his hands. He raised his chin, meeting her cool blue eyes. Eyes that were flecked with gold spikes in their depths. “You’re pulling back from me. I guess sometimes retreat is the better part of valor.”

“You’re impossible, Travis.”

A grin lurked around his mouth. “Yeah, I know. And you like me that way.”

A flush invaded her cheeks. “I didn’t say I liked you at all!” she blustered, her flesh tingling madly where his hands rested. His touch was firm without being painful. As a matter of fact, her wrist felt better already.

“You also admitted I was handsome.”

“And a playboy. Don’t forget the last label. It’s the most important one.”

“What do you have against me enjoying the woman I want to give my undivided attention to?” he asked huskily, the vibration of his voice moving through her like a sensual drug.

Dev wanted to run. She was reeling from his decidedly masculine aura. “Nothing. Everything,” she muttered, refusing to meet his eyes.

“If you were my woman, you wouldn’t be saying that,” he told her softly, his voice deep, penetrating.

Her defenses were up; the red light was going off in the back of her head, and she was trembling. Trembling! And it wasn’t from fear. It was from the promise in Cal’s intimate baritone, aimed at her. She swallowed. “My wrist feels better now.”

He shook his head, removing the cloth and then refolding it around her wrist. “Why are you afraid of me, Dev Hunter?”

Cautiously, she met his frank gray eyes. “You make me feel as if I’m being hunted.” She was completely unprepared as his hand left her wrist and framed her face, tilting her head slightly upward. His breath was moist against her flesh as he bent his head.

“You are….” he said thickly, his mouth slanting across her parted lips as he slowly drew her to her feet.

The breath was stolen from her body, replaced by the gentle invasion of his mouth, tasting, testing and teasing her lips. Her world shattered into a million golden fragments as Dev felt his hands frame her face, deepening the exploration, coaxing her to partake of the heat that boiled within them. She had no time to react, her hands automatically lifting to rest against the hardened muscles of his upper arms. The scent of Cal entered her nostrils, and she tasted the maleness of him. A driving hunger flared to life in her lower body, liquid fire racing through her as he continued to gently tease her lips with little nips, his tongue lightly stroking her flesh with unexpected tenderness. Her knees weakened, and Dev trembled outwardly as his onslaught continued. Somewhere in her stunned, incoherent mind, Dev recognized that if Cal had been ruthless or brutal, she would have reacted negatively. Instead, he had surprised her again. He was a man of war. Someone who was used to flexing his muscles and using his strength. But he wasn’t capable of using force on her. Dev found herself capitulating to his coaxing.

Cal slowly broke the kiss, need screaming through his hardened body. “God, you’re so sweet,” he rasped, looking deep into her dazed cobalt eyes. “Sweet and good and all woman.”

Dev blinked, languorously. If it weren’t for Cal’s fingers spanning her jaw, she would have slumped against him, dizzied by his kiss. She had never savored the utter raw sensuality of a kiss before as she had with him. Confusion darkened her eyes as she basked in his warmth. Dev saw a hint of a smile tugging at his wonderfully shaped mouth.

“Come on, I think you’d better sit down before you fall down.” Cal led her over to the settee, briefly keeping his hand on her arm. He picked up the cloth that Dev had allowed to drop to the carpet when he had kissed her. Going to the bathroom, he wet it again. Dev gave him a guarded look as he walked back toward her; he saw her defenses going up. Could he blame her? As he hunched down, Cal felt a wave of dizziness race through him. Not because of her giving, vulnerable kiss, either—because of the damn liquor he had consumed. Wrapping her wrist once more, he cursed himself. Now he wanted to be sober. To be clearheaded. Dev interested him. She was different. Independent. And she didn’t play games. Cal didn’t regret the kiss, but he regretted how he was feeling. It had been a stupid, immature idea to drink. Normally he’d have had a few beers, that was all. No carrier pilot lasted long if he hit the bottle.

“I have a favor to ask,” he began, meeting her grave eyes, “and I know you’ll probably think I’m playing a game when I ask you.”

Dev’s arm tingled where Cal’s hand rested. Her voice was soft when she answered. “Are you feeling bad?”

A mocking smile lingered on Cal’s mouth. “Not from kissing you, believe me. It’s from the scotch.” His brows drew downward. “To make a long story very short, Dev, I’ve had about seven hours’ sleep the past four days. All that liquor and I’m ready to keel over.”

“You’ll never make it back to your ship.”

“No, I won’t.” He glanced toward the beds. “If you could let me just kick off my shoes and sleep for a few hours—”

Her eyes flickered with concern. “Four days? Cal, what happened? I mean—”

His mouth thinned. “I can’t talk about it, Dev. Trust me, all right? Just let me get a few hours and then I’ll leave. I promise I’ll keep my hands off you. No games, my redheaded witch.”

She studied him for a moment. Her instincts always ran true, no matter how the rest of her was feeling. She searched Cal’s face, noticing that the skin was drawn tautly across his flesh, dark shadows beneath his eyes.

“Okay. Go lie down. I’m tired, too. Do you want a shower? The hotel supplies robes—”

Cal slowly stood up. “No. I’ve taken enough advantage of your generosity already, Dev. If I can grab a few hours, that’s all I’ll need.” He walked over to the bed, turned the lamp off and sat down. Dev watched as he took off his shoes, then stretched out, his hands behind his head. She got up, moving to the hall and shutting off another switch, which darkened the entire suite. Her lips still tingled from the coaxing fire of his kiss, and dazedly, she wandered into the bathroom to have her bath. The evening was turning out to be incredible in so many ways.

Dev languished in the orange-scented bath salts, her thick mane piled on her head. If someone had told her she would be meeting a devastatingly handsome man, a marine corps fighter pilot, she would have roared with laughter. And then to have him in her room, sleeping in one of the beds! If Sarah ever found out, her twenty-year-old eyes would widen to saucer proportions, and her mouth would drop open. Dev smiled. Cal Travis, you are something else. A breed apart. An interesting man. A fascinating human being. She mulled over the facets of him that she had glimpsed that evening. Putting them all together, Dev confirmed her belief that something tragic had happened lately to Cal. After he had kissed her and she had opened her eyes, Dev had seen grief in his gaze. Raw anguish that hadn’t yet been expressed. She sighed tiredly, rising from the water and stepping onto the rug, wrapping the thick white towel around her and drying off.

Slipping into her lavender-sprigged, knee-length gown, Dev quietly opened the door, shutting off both the bathroom and hall lights. She waited a few moments, allowing her eyes to adjust to the gloomy darkness. A slight smile chased across her lips: she could hear Cal’s occasional soft snore breaking the silence. Padding barefoot into the main room, she noted that she had left the gauzy blue panels drawn across the huge wall of windows. The lights of Hong Kong shed a luminescence into the room, making it easy to see where she was walking.

Dev hesitated after pulling back the covers on her own bed, turning to look at Cal. He had rolled onto his side, legs slightly drawn up toward his chest, arms around the pillow he had laid his head on. In sleep, he looked vulnerable, and her heart gave a funny lurch. No longer did the corners of his mouth pull in as if he were experiencing some pain known only to himself. Dev felt sudden compassion for him and, walking around the bed, drew a lightweight blanket up across his body. Several strands of his dark-walnut hair had dipped down across his brow. She leaned over, coaxing them into place with her fingers.

“Good night, Cal,” she whispered. “I hope you’ve escaped all that hurt I saw in your eyes.” Dev straightened up, her own eyes fraught with worry. She recalled the only time in her life when she had gotten miserably drunk and on a great deal less than what Cal had probably consumed. Dev gnawed on her lower lip for a while before going back to her bed and slipping between the cool, crisp sheets. If Cal hadn’t slept much in four days, he wasn’t going to be getting up in a few hours feeling fit. Or even human. Dev found herself hoping he would sleep through the night and be around when she woke up in the morning. Her dreamy side wished that. Her realistic side chided her: Cal would get up in a few hours and quietly walk out of her life, never to be seen again. She snuggled into her pillow. Despite everything, she liked Cal Travis. Despite his obvious love of himself, he did have some face-saving traits that endeared him to her. On that thought, Dev spiraled into the welcoming folds of sleep.

* * *

CAL MOVED RESTLESSLY in a stupor that straddled sleep and the nightmarish reality that haunted him. He twisted his head to one side, feeling a rivulet of sweat running down from his temple, across his jaw. His mouth moved, unintelligible words torn from him. Chief was smiling. Even though his friend wore the mandatory oxygen mask, Cal could always tell when his copilot was smiling because the corners of his chocolate-brown eyes crinkled. He smiled back beneath the rubber of his own face mask. They were running through the last compulsory checks on their A-6 Intruder jet. It stood poised in front of the catapult that would soon sling them like an arrow off the deck of the carrier and into the pink dawn.

“Hey, you know you have to see my sister, Kaya, when you make it to test pilot school,” Chief teased him, flipping on a few more switches with his gloved hand.

Cal leaned over, his gray gaze making a final sweep of the instruments. “Told you I would.”

“I’ll scalp you if you don’t, buddy,” he teased good-naturedly, giving Cal a light punch on the right shoulder.

“I promise. I promise.” Cal looked over at his friend, with whom he had flown for over a year and a half. Joe was a full-blooded Hopi Indian, one of the first Hopi to make it through the rank and file to become a fighter pilot. Maybe it was because they were both taciturn, revealing little of themselves, that they had initially been drawn to each other. Cal wasn’t sure. What he was sure of was that Chief, his teasing nickname for Joe, was the very best of the fighter pilot breed. They were top scorers in competitions around the world in air-to-air and air-to-ground target practice. Cal and Chief were inseparable.

“My sister’s pretty. So just keep your hands to yourself, Travis.”

Cal laughed, bringing the canopy down and locking it. His long fingers folded over the dual throttles. “If she wasn’t your sister, she wouldn’t be safe.”

Chief gave him a dangerous look laced with amusement, throwing him a thumbs-up sign. “I know. Okay, check complete. Let’s get this baby airborne, I want to play eagle.”

The hookup man on deck, crouched beneath the A-6 Intruder, handed the plane off to the catapult officer, who stood a few feet off the wingtip. The cat officer thrust his right hand, two fingers extended, into the air and waved it in a rapid rotating motion. Cal scanned his instruments and moved the control stick forward and back, from right stop to left stop. He saw four other deck-crew troubleshooters rapidly moving down the expanse of his aircraft, searching for leaks, proper engine function, control movement or anything abnormal. When one of the crewmen gave a thumbs-up, the cat officer looked down at the hookup man, still kneeling by the aircraft’s hook that was now linked to the steam catapult.

Automatically, Cal asked, “Harness tight?” The raw power of the catapult, hurling the A-6 off the deck at one hundred eighty miles per hour, could snap a neck. The crisscross of harnesses kept Cal and Chief tightly strapped to their individual ejection seats, pinned in one position. Cal always had bruises on his shoulders from the straps biting deeply into his flesh.

“Yeah. Tight enough to make a pig squeal. Brakes full power,” Chief replied.

Cal saw the hookup man scurry away from beneath their A-6. Immediately, his gaze moved to the yellow-vested cat officer. Cal snapped off a salute, preparing himself for the release.

“We’re going to get the signal,” he said, watching as the shooter, who stood over the catapult console on the edge of the deck, raised both arms skyward. The cat officer took a wide stance, his left hand in the air, two fingers extended. He returned Cal’s salute, then suddenly dropped to one knee, signaling the shooter to press the button that would send them down the deck.

Cal heard the call from the control tower that sat above them. The dawn was turning a brilliant red and pink; the South China Sea was placid on that beautiful late October morning. But Cal didn’t notice. He was locked into one of the most dangerous maneuvers ever to be performed by any pilot in any jet—takeoff from a carrier. The jet began to scream, trembling and howling like a banshee around him and his copilot as he arced the throttles to full power. Then, at a hand signal from the navy crewman who stood five yards away from the wingtip of the jet, he knotched them into afterburner range. Cal braced himself, unconsciously pressing his helmet back into the seat and keeping his neck relaxed. His fingers tightened imperceptibly around the stick.

The wrenching jerk of the catapult driving the screaming jet down the expanse shattered the aircraft’s immobility. There would be five seconds of thousands of tons of catapult pressure pushing the jet, giving it enough speed to safely hurl it off the carrier.

It was then that Cal heard an explosion. The jet suddenly lagged beneath them. His gaze snapped to the engine manifold pressure. The engines were screamingly alive. The catapult! So many thoughts sheared through his steel-trap mind. He had decisions to make: slam on the brakes and shut down the engines, try to stop before they hit the lip of the deck and slid over the edge of the carrier or— No, it was too late! Too much yardage had been eaten up. His hand pressed against the throttles, willing the engines that were shrieking around them to have the power to lift them. Too late! Too late! His eyes bulged as he saw that the manifold pressure wasn’t enough to lift the jet’s tonnage off the deck. His breath froze in his throat. He heard Chief’s curse.

The A-6 screamed off the carrier, but Cal felt the jet drag, and he kept the throttles to the fire wall, working the sluggish rudders to turn the aircraft out of the path of the carrier. If they dropped below the bow and crashed, the ship would be heavily damaged. Teeth clenched, his body straining against the harness, Cal wrenched the stick to port, praying the jet would make the turn before they hit the gray-green water coming up fast. And then…water spewed in avalanching sheets around them as they hit the ocean’s surface. Cal wrenched back with all his strength, keeping the nose of the jet up so that they wouldn’t tunnel in, giving them precious seconds to break free as the jet’s stubby wings kept them on top of the water. His teeth ground together. Pain soared up through his left hand as the stick was ripped out of his fingers.

Frantically, Cal and Chief worked open the jammed canopy. Steam shot skyward as seawater rushed into the hot engines. Water gurgled and burped into the cockpit. Cal’s hands trembled badly as he worked to unsnap all his harnesses. He glanced over at Chief. He was doing the same.