Taking Cover

“Not like this you haven’t.”

Her hand paused along the back of her head. “Pardon me?”

“Doc. I’m a man. It’s morning.”

She could feel the color drain from her face until she, as well, no doubt now matched the sheets. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

Kathleen looked at the television, the minifridge, the cinderblock walls, anything to keep her gaze from gravitating to where it had no business going. Finally she simply spun on her heel before gravity had its way and her gaze fell straight down.

“Okay, Bennett. Let’s find you some sweats.” She faced the dresser, rather than the man with a chest as broad as one. “Which drawer?”

“Top shelf of the closet.”

Kathleen yanked open the wardrobe door. The musky scent of leather and cedar wafted straight out and into her before she could untangle her thoughts enough to ignore it. His flight suit and jacket dangled from a hook inside the door like a ghostly shadow of the man. Her hand drifted to caress the butter-soft jacket, well-worn and carrying perhaps the slightest hint of his warmth.

What was it about Tanner Bennett? With any other flyer, she would have shrugged the whole thing off while helping him into his boxers.

Not with Bennett. All she could think about was his big, naked body under that blanket, and her lack of professionalism infuriated her.

She couldn’t have thoughts like this.

Yanking her hand away, she arched up on her toes to reach, searching by touch since she couldn’t see into the top shelf. She would pull it together, damn it, get him dressed and turn his case over to Cutter.

And if Cutter let Tanner slide?

Her hands hesitated in their quest. What if Tanner played the friendship card, enabling him to plow back out into combat before he was ready? Her fingers clutched a pair of sweatpants.

Flashes of the battle damage from Tanner’s aircraft flashed through her mind—twisted metal. Her medical as well as safety training had stockpiled too many graphic images of wreckage.

Her ex-husband had expected strings pulled. Being married to a flight surgeon entitled him to special treatment, didn’t it? Her ex had played that trump card with one of her workmates, and it had almost cost him his life. Thank God, he’d flown an ejection-seat aircraft.

Kathleen knew what she had to do. She understood her job, and no hormonal insanity on her part would interfere with performing her duty for the flyer entrusted into her care.

She yanked free a pair of oversize gray sweatpants and shook them out in front of her as she spun to face Tanner. “Okay, hotshot. Let’s get you suited up.”

One hundred forty-two.

There were one hundred forty-two ceiling tiles in his sparse infirmary room. Tanner squinted. Or were there a hundred forty-three? The walls wobbled through his mellow haze of drugs.

Not mellow enough to iron out his irritation.

Before, in his VOQ room, Kathleen O’Connell had shed her compassion like unwanted cargo. With cool professionalism she’d helped him dress beneath the privacy of the blanket. He might as well have been a eunuch for all the effect the awkward situation had on her.

Then she’d grounded his sorry, sweatpants-clad butt and parked him in the infirmary—indefinitely. If he had to watch one more minute of the Armed Forces Television Services, his head would explode.

He tried not to think about his crew flying without him. What if the next mission carried the golden BB, the missile that took them down when he wasn’t there? How the hell would he live with wondering if he could have prevented it? Not more than a couple of hours ago, the television had announced a C-17 crash out in California. If something like that could happen on a routine mission…

The television show changed to a service announcement full of holiday cheer. “Jingle Bells” or maybe “Silver Bells” swelled into the room. His twin sister had loved carols—

Tanner silenced the television with a thumb jab to the remote.

Definitely too much time to think.

Losing a family member sucked no matter what. Losing that person during the holidays carried an extra burden. The anniversary of her death never slid by without notice.

Tara had been Christmas shopping at the mall, for crying out loud. How could he ever forget that? They’d always gone gift hunting together in the past since his job had been to look out for her.

That Christmas he’d been at the Academy.

And some slime in search of a lone female had lurked, waiting in the back seat of Tara’s car. The bastard had kidnapped her. Beaten her. Raped her. Then thrown her unconscious body into a snowbank where she’d died. Alone.

Tanner flung aside the remote, welcoming the stab of pain from the violent gesture. Damn drugs had turned him morbid, lowered his defenses until he couldn’t halt the flood of memories.

The cops had found Tara’s car later, her packages still in the trunk. She’d bought her twin brother a St. Joseph’s medal.

Tanner gripped the silver disk around his neck and steadied his breathing. He’d learned a bitter lesson that Christmas—never, never leave your wingman.

A solid knock on the door pulled Tanner back to the present, and he embraced the distraction. He wouldn’t have even minded seeing his hard-hearted doctor. “Yeah. Come in.”

The door swung open and Major Grayson “Cutter” Clark strode through, wearing a flight suit and a cocky grin. “Hey, pal. Check out the nifty nightie they issued you.”

Tanner shifted in the cotton hospital gown. Damn thing didn’t fit right anyway. “About time you decided to drop in. Where were you when I needed you, bud?”

“Sorry, but I wasn’t on call. Only just now heard the news over at the clinic. I thought for sure O’Connell would have you in traction. Too bad. I had the big piñata joke all ready to go.”

Tanner snorted, then winced. He could always count on crew dog camaraderie to lighten his mood. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“Builds character.” Cutter snagged the clipboard from the foot of Tanner’s bed. He flipped pages. “Hmmm. Good stuff she’s got you on. Demerol, no less. You must have wrecked yourself to be hurting through all this.”

Tanner grunted. “A day off my feet and I’ll be fine.”

“Then you and O’Connell can tangle it up again.”

Thoughts of her dressing him slid right through that Demerol haze. “What do you mean?”

“Your set-to on the flight line last night is all the talk around the briefing room.”

“Great.”

Cutter sank into a chair, hooked his boot over one knee and dropped the chart to rest on his leg. “Don’t get your boxers in a twist. Nobody expected anything different from the two of you when O’Connell showed.”

“What do you mean?”

A brow shot right toward Cutter’s dark hairline. “You’re yanking my chain, right? Your arguments are legendary. Tag once suggested tying you two together, gladiator-style, and just tossing you into the arena to have it out. Two walk in. One walks out. Colonel Dawson giving that signature thumbs-up and thumbs-down of his.”

Laughter stirred in Tanner’s chest, begging to be set free even though he knew it would drop-kick him right between the shoulder blades.