Authors: Charlotte Boyett-Compo
really outstanding, dude! Thanks for like what you did over there.”
Dáire took the proffered hand, shook it and then went back to Star as the young
couple was led to their table.
“Show-off,” Star whispered to him as he re-buttoned his shirt. She’d seen the
crimson skull with the banners over and above the grinning skeleton face that read
Airborne and Ranger so many times, she no longer noticed it.
“When I came back from Vietnam, punks like that spat on me,” a middle-aged man
commented to his wife loud enough for everyone waiting for a table to hear.
“Yeah, you and me both,” another man agreed sourly. He gave Dáire a nasty look.
“When I got back,” the elderly man said, “they threw us a ticker-tape parade.” He
winked at Dáire. “Everything that goes around comes around, doesn’t it, son?”
“Yes, sir,” Dáire answered.
The two middle-aged couples were called in next, but not before the wife of one
winked at Dáire. Luckily, her husband didn’t see her commission of treason.
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“Cronin, party of two,” the hostess called out.
Sitting down at the table to which they’d been shown, Star leaned over and batted
her eyes at Dáire. “Does ’em the big bad Ranger feel’em better now him’s been
appropriately hero-worshipped?”
Dáire shrugged. “A little worshipping never hurt a guy’s ego, Starlight.” He took
up the menu. “Wouldn’t hurt you to do a little worshipping at my feet, wench.”
“Like, dream on, dude,” Star said in imitation of the young girl’s speech.
Although he still had a bitching headache, Dáire found he was hungry. He took a
sip of the icy water the waitress had placed in front of him and asked Star if she had any
more Excedrin.
“Not this soon,” she said. “It hasn’t even been two hours since you took the other
ones.” She frowned. “Is it that bad?”
“Bad enough,” he replied. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his
chest. “Why are you being so good to me, Star? I don’t deserve it.”
“True,” she said as she ran her fingertip around the rim of her water glass. “Let’s
just say I’m getting senile in my advancing years.”
He smiled at her. “You will be the same gorgeous woman at eighty that you are at
thirty-six.”
Star sighed. “And you’ll still be shooting the shit when you’re ninety.”
“I won’t live that long,” he said. At her frown, he nudged her foot with his beneath
the table. “You’ll have worried me to death long before then.”
Star knew that wasn’t what he’d meant. She looked out across the room. “Did you
call your boss?” she asked. When he didn’t answer, she looked back at him.
“Let’s not discuss this now,” he said.
Before Star could respond, the waitress appeared to take their order. Surprised at
what Dáire ordered, she only ordered a cup of broccoli cheese soup, a small tossed
salad with blue cheese dressing and half a ham sandwich on rye bread for herself.
When she cocked an eyebrow at him, he shrugged.
“Did you happen to see the pizza box beside my door this morning?” he inquired.
“I smelled it as soon as I walked out,” she said.
“That was to be my supper last night.”
She looked down at her hands. “I’m sorry. Now that you mention it, I saw Malcom
with the box last evening.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he told her.
“So when can we discuss it?” she asked, not letting him off the hook.
He met her gaze. “When we get back to the motel.”
“Promise?”
A muscle jumped in Dáire’s cheek. “Yeah, Star, I promise.”
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HardWind
Chapter Seven
It was still raining when they arrived back at the motel. Luckily, Star was able to
find a parking slot close to the inside stairway up to their room. While Dáire brought in
their overnight bags, Star went up to the room to open the door. The room was a bit
musty but cool with the air conditioner humming softly in the background.
“Want me to get some ice?” Dáire asked as he brought in their bags.
“Please.” She picked up the ice bucket and handed it to him. “And some drinks
too.”
“Snacks?”
“Sure,” she answered, turning on the television.
Dáire was gone longer than she would have expected, and when he knocked on the
door, she opened it to find him soaking wet, his hair plastered to his head. He was
carrying a couple of plastic bags.
“What in the world did you do, Cronin?” she asked.
“You said you wanted snacks,” he said, dropping the bags on the round table
beside the door, “so I got snacks.”
“Enough for a party from the looks of it,” she said on a long sigh.
“So I’m a carb freak,” he defended his actions. “If you don’t want the chocolatecovered cherries and peanut brittle—”
“Gimme!” she demanded, heading for the bags.
He snaked an arm around her middle and pulled her back from the table. “I don’t
think so, missy,” he said, swinging her around. He enveloped her in his arms and
pulled her to him. “Say I’m sorry for being facetious, Dairy Crow.”
She wedged her arms up so she could circle his neck. “I’m sorry you were facetious,
Dairy Crow,” she said sweetly.
Lifting her, he walked over to one of the beds and dropped down on it with her still
in his tight grasp. His mouth slanted across hers to stop her from protesting. Drawing
his right leg up, he planted it firmly between her thighs, reveling in the gasp that
tightened her arms around his neck.
Star pulled her mouth from his. “That’s not fair,” she stated. “You’re trying to
distract me and you’re soaking wet, Cronin.”
“Distract you from what?” he asked, lowering his lips to the side of her neck.
“From chastising you for being a carb-o-holic,” she answered.
“I need fuel for the love engine, baby,” he pointed out as he ran the tip of his tongue
into the delicate spiral of her ear.
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Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Star wriggled beneath him, waves of pleasure shuddering through her as he blew
his warm breath into her ear. “You’re not playing fair.”
“Never said I did,” he mumbled, and in a lithe push was off her and striding away
from the bed.
Sitting up, Star watched him strip off his shirt. True to form, he slung it across the
room where it landed on the back of a chair. She smiled as he worked his belt open and
pulled it from his trousers. Watching him unzip did funny things to her lower belly.
“Stop ogling me, woman,” he grumbled.
The wet trousers joined the shirt and Star’s eyes followed him as he opened his
overnight bag and pulled out a pair of shorts.
“Still don’t wear underwear, huh?” she asked.
“What’s this obsession you and Jackson have with me not wearing skivvies?” he
inquired.
“Well, I don’t know about Jackson, but I like knowing there’s nothing between you
and your jeans,” she told him. “Why’s Jackson obsessing about your lack of bippies?”
“He worries about skidmarks,” Dáire said.
“Eeeww!” she protested. “Just a bit more information than I needed.” She watched
him step into the shorts then go into the bathroom for a towel to dry his hair. “I thought
we could go over to Sneaky Pete’s for supper,” she called out to him. “Is that okay?”
“Fine by me, though I’ll have to pass on his Bloody Marias,” he said with a heartfelt
sigh.
“Yeah, I guess you should,” she agreed.
“Do you know how they harvest bone marrow from a donor?” he asked as he came
back to the bed and sat down beside her.
“From your hip,” she answered. “They insert a large, hollow needle, but they’ll put
you out for it. I believe they take like two quarts.”
“Ouch,” he said.
“You’ll be sore for a few days to a few weeks, but there shouldn’t be any other
problems.”
“I don’t suppose…”
The phone on the bedside table chimed and both of them jumped. He looked at her.
“Did you tell anyone we’d be here?”
“No,” she said.
Dáire twisted around and plucked the receiver from its base. “Hello?”
“I want you to check in with me every day,” the voice on the other end of the line
said. “No excuses will be accepted. Is that understood?”
His eyes narrowed with fury, Dáire was clutching the phone so tightly his knuckles
were bleeding of their color. “Yeah,” he barked.
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“Don’t make me be obliged to send an operative to ensure you cooperate, Cronin,”
Gentry warned.
“I said all right!” he snarled into the phone.
“As soon as you are released from the hospital, you are to go to the Pensacola
airport and wait for pickup. You’ll be sent to Bethesda until you are able to return to
duty. That order, by the way, is not negotiable.”
“Damn it, I’m not…” he began but the line went dead, the connection broken.
Cursing, he slammed the receiver down as hard as he could.
Star put a hand on his back, concerned when he jumped at her touch. “Was that
her?” she asked.
“They must be tracking my fucking credit card,” he said. “Goddamn her. Why the
hell can’t she just leave me the fuck alone for once?” He put a hand to his temple where
the headache had come back with a vengeance.
“They’re not going to allow you to leave them, are they, Dáire?” Star asked quietly.
He shook his head. “No,” he said. “They’re not.”
She suspected he knew that when he’d made his rash promise to her, but she was
too tired and too worried about Jillian to take him to task over it.
“If you want me,” he said, not turning around to face her, “that’s the only way it
can be. I’ve seen too much. I know too much and I’ve done things you can’t even begin
to imagine.”
He was rubbing both his temples now, bent slightly forward, his eyes closed. He
sounded as tired as she felt, and she knew all too well how brutally the pain was
lancing through his head. She got up, went to her purse, took out the Excedrin and
shook two more gel caps into her hand. She brought them back to him along with a cold
can of soda.
“Here, baby,” she said softly. When he’d taken the soda and capsules from her, she
went into the bathroom for a wet washcloth, switching off the TV as she went. “Lie
down and let them work.”
Stretching out, Dáire drew his knees up and lay there with his arm thrown over his
eyes. Just like Star, he was prone to migraines and the one beating at his brain was bad
enough to make him shiver—not a good sign.
Star came back with the washcloth, nudged his arm away and laid the cold
compress on his forehead. “You cold?”
“Freezing,” he said.
She helped him get under the covers then moved over to the other bed to sit on the
edge. “Why don’t I let you try to get some sleep?”
“Are you leaving?” he asked.
“For a little while,” she answered. “I’ll be back in a few hours in case you feel like
going to supper.”
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He knew she was upset with him, but right then he hurt too bad to argue with her.
“Be careful,” was all he said.
Star got up, retrieved her purse and keys, and slipped quietly out of the room
without another word.
* * * * *
The storm had passed by the time Star drove out to Gulf Breeze. She needed the
sight of the water—the murky green of the ocean—to soothe her screaming nerves. A
walk in the wet sand with the wind blowing through her unbraided hair, waves
crashing over her bare toes, was the prescription she’d written for herself to help relieve
the pain that was stabbing at her heart.
He would never change, she thought as she watched the waves rolling toward her.
Somewhere in the deepest part of her she’d known that, but had refused to accept it.
Dáire was what he’d been made long ago and never had the old adage of a leopard
being unable to change its spots been truer than in regard to him. Even if he wanted
things to be different—and she truly doubted he did—he was locked into the life he had
chosen and there would be no altering that.
As she stood there, tears formed in her eyes, but she refused to allow them to fall.
She was angry. She was hurt. Most of all, she was torn. A part of her wanted to cut her
losses and walk away while another part wanted desperately to be with Dáire Cronin.
He was the only man she had ever loved, and she feared that would always be the case.
Nothing he had done in the past had altered those feelings. Nothing he would do in the
future would change how she felt about him. He might make her dislike him, mistrust
him, but he would never lose her love.
She knew he was caught securely in the trap of his job. Men like him didn’t just
turn their backs on such an occupation. Once they had been drawn into the web, it was
hell breaking free.
“You are a liability to him,” the woman had stated the day Jillian had been born.
“An albatross hanging around his neck. Why don’t you just cut your losses and let the
man be.”
There had been something in that woman’s gaze that had rankled more than her
obnoxious, demanding attitude. There had been a spark Star recognized as primordial
jealousy. It was there in the steely look, the bitter cast of the mouth, the covetousness
threaded through her words, the body language that shouted overwhelming
resentment toward Star.
“You’re not about to let him slip through your fingers, are you?” Star asked aloud.