Hold 'Em: Vegas Top Guns, Book 3 (2 page)

As he walked after her, crossing the nearly deserted parking lot, he indulged his salacious smile. Although pissing Leah off might not do any favors for his prospects with his new squadron, he knew what he’d be thinking about that night. The pointed, haughty tone of voice. The snap and flash in her whiskey eyes.

What would she do if she knew?

He remembered her as a newly minted officer, barely twenty-three, with soft cheeks and ambition higher than a skyscraper. Even then she’d had her eyes turned heavenward, set on becoming a pilot. Mike hadn’t given it much thought. After all, her chances had been slim.

Fit and graceful, Leah had realized her ambitions. That power quickened his blood.

But hell if he was going to let her jerk him around by his dick, even if she had no idea of her effect. Play was play. Work was still work. The idea of women flying in combat, even in a teaching capacity, rubbed like a rusted file against everything he’d ever believed.

“How’s your family?” he asked, his long strides easily closing the distance. “Still racing?”

Leah flashed him a frown. He’d almost forgotten that their three months together had been more than sex. They’d talked. Sometimes. Her father had been a professional driver on the Motocross Championship, with her older brothers following suit. Speed was in her blood.

“Not so much,” she said. “Chris had an accident a few years ago that took him out of Supercross, but he and Jake and Dad all run a bike shop now. Yours?”

Mike shrugged, taking note of street names and landmarks as they walked. “Tom made partner and has a six-year-old girl. Shannon moved to New York after she got out of design school. Mom’s convinced she’ll either wind up lesbian or knifed in an alley. I’m not sure which she’d think was worse.”

That got a laugh out of Leah. She touched her hair again. The scraped-back regulation bun did no favors for luscious deep brown hair that used to be cut chin length. The severe style put her features front and center. Her big doe eyes were classic while her lush mouth was crooked at the corner. She looked like she constantly held back a tide of dirty thoughts.

“There’s the BX,” she said, waving a casual hand toward another quiet parking lot. It wasn’t exactly the most professional orientation Mike had ever received. “And down there, that building behind the water tower—that’s the officers’ club. They have a barber.”

“Is that a hint?”

“Yes.”

The idea that she’d been checking him out that closely made his guts take notice. “What’s the club like?”

“Same as any. Dull. Everybody out to impress.”

“So you would recommend…?”

She shifted her weight onto her back foot, looking him up and down. “Are you asking me where I go for a good time?”

“No,
before
the good time.”

Leah narrowed her eyes, but it was like being threatened by a kitten. The only genuine rise he’d dragged out of her had been about her flying. “You can lay off the innuendo, Templeton. I’m not interested.”

“Why, you got a guy? Hell, you could have kids by now for all I know.”

“I don’t see how that’s your business.”

“Come off it, Leah. I see a former lover after, what—six years? I’m just curious how your life’s been.”

“You know that whole two-wars thing going on? I’ve been busy.”

“With ivory-tower types here, sure.”

Leah’s mock indignation flared into something hot and sharp. The skin above her eyes relaxed, her lids going heavy with condescension. A sneer shaped her crooked mouth. She looked like a snotty, angry sorority sister.

“I’ve done four tours,” she said coldly.

“Um…good?”

Of course he’d known. Small world and all that. Their particular corner of the military was a clubby bunch, always up in each other’s shit. Frankly, he was surprised he hadn’t run into her before this evening.

“You know, Mike, you’ve got a lot of nerve pissing me off in the first hour you’re on base.”

“I should’ve waited?”

“Well, let’s just think about the possibilities, shall we?”

Mike permitted a slow smile. “Please do.”

She seemed intent on taking the moment seriously. “This isn’t flying sorties over the enemy. To be honest, it takes a helluva lot more skill.”

“Sure,” he said. “I find it hard to imagine mortal danger. Much easier just to get hit in the face with the real thing.”

As she advanced, her whiskey eyes sparked with a fire that had Mike thinking really,
really
inappropriate things—probably why he was baiting her so badly. Forget the politics and the morality of women as combat pilots, he just wanted the rush of reaching for something dangerous. Leah Girardi was a lit cigarette near a gasoline spill.

She didn’t rail or rant. She didn’t lose her cool. Every minute effort to hold her temper in check stretched across wide cheekbones. Passion
and
control. Mike couldn’t think too long about that combination or he’d embarrass himself with a hard-on in the BX parking lot.

“You’re new here, Captain,” she said, emphasizing his rank. It irked the shit out of him that she had seniority. “And it’s the weekend, so I won’t dog on you too hard.”

“Yet.”

“
Yet
. Because you’ve got a lot to learn before you climb into an F-16 for the Aggressors. No one goes up without the major’s say-so, and he listens to me.”

Mike didn’t actually voice what he was thinking. Sporting a black eye all weekend held no appeal. For a flash, he wondered about the connection between Leah and Major “Fang” Haverty, and why a tickle of jealousy snaked between his ribs.

“So while the rest of us are up in the air come Tuesday morning,” she said, “your butt will be in the simulator.”

“Like hell.”

“You think you can read a few manuals on enemy combat tactics and fly like one? If you do, we’re going to have an even bigger problem than your attitude.”

“You’re the one busting my balls.”

She punched the tip of her finger against his sternum. “Every eight weeks we get another batch of hotshots in here. Other branches of service, other nations. All of them are great pilots with the same piss-poor attitude. They think they already know everything. Our job, Captain, is to show them their weaknesses. That means knowing our opponents until we can fly like them in our sleep, until it’s deep muscle memory.” Leah tossed up her chin, looking him dead in the eye. “So, yeah. You and that simulator are gonna get to know each other
real
well.”

She headed back toward the hangars as the sun slanted long and low across the land. Mike forced himself to follow. His feet were heavy, weighed by his misgivings. Gut instinct and courage were all well and good. He had those in spades, with no doubt as to how he could handle himself during the big show. Anything that smacked of school, however, had his C+ gray matter cringing and looking for an opportunity to play hooky.

Beyond the looming workload, the mere idea of spending weeks, possibly longer, to get into the head of the enemy was almost…sick. He knew it wasn’t a logical reaction and that red force squads were responsible for improving allied pilots from all over the world. Didn’t mean he was into those kinds of head games. He’d spent the last eight years as one of the good guys.

Had he got his way, he’d still be flying over Afghanistan. Brass, however, had decided otherwise. The next time he took to the skies, he’d be wearing a red star on his helmet and ripping through the air in an F-16 painted the same gray camo as a Russian MIG. That held about as much appeal as shoving a lit blowtorch down his shorts.

Still. Leah didn’t need his shit. In her way, she was trying to help. He’d liked her all those years ago and didn’t relish the idea of flaming out in the first few minutes.

“Hey, Princess,” he called, jogging to catch up. “Truce?”

She glared at him. “Whatever. Just take this seriously, would ya, Mike? What we do here is important.”

“Understood, Captain Girardi. I am yours to mold.”

“Cut the crap.” The hangar parking lot was quiet as she glanced around. “Where’s your ride?”

Mike nodded toward his bike. “The BMW over there by the hot pink toy. Yours?”

“The hot pink toy.”

He should’ve known. The Ducati street bike had Leah written all over it—sleek and flashy. But the custom pink paint job made it a chick’s bike. “What’s the engine on that thing? Maybe six hundred ccs?”

“Almost eight fifty, thank you very much. A hundred and forty horsepower.”

“Huh.”

She sighed. “Fine. I’ll bite. Yours?”

“It’s the S1000RR. A hundred and ninety five horsepower.”

“Good for you, Strap Happy. Feel better? You’ve got the bigger dick.”

“Sure as hell hope so.”

“Didn’t you used to be Zoomy or Speedy or some other stupid call sign? What’s the real deal with the new one?”

God, she looked sexy. Forget the sweaty flight suit and the shellacked hair. The pop of her hip against the seat of her bike made him remember how her body had felt under his hands. Toned but soft. Strong but lush in all the right places. She’d tasted amazing. Other lovers had trickled across his history in the years since, yet he still recalled her salty sweetness—so uniquely Leah. Not even one-hundred-twenty-proof moonshine hit his brain faster.

But they’d never been quite right for each other. Something hadn’t clicked. Mike had a good idea of what that was, considering what he’d since learned about his own needs.

He shoved his helmet on his head, doing up the latch with a smile. “Wouldn’t you just like to know, huh?”

“Yeah, I would. Because I know for a fact that whips and chains weren’t your deal.”

“You had three months with me, Leah. You didn’t learn everything.”

“Right,” she said, dragging out the word. She grabbed her helmet too, which matched her bike’s hot pink. “And I’m sure all the good stuff was there in your foot locker. Just never got around to it, eh?”

Mike indulged in an even broader smile. She was hot shit, no doubt. But on this topic she had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. Hell, he hadn’t had a clue either. Not back then. Four months under the tutelage of a very patient, very exacting mistress had revealed sides of himself that had always lurked in shadow.

Leah jumped on her bike and fired up its sweet little engine. Olive drab pulled snug over her ass. The quasi hard-on he’d been sporting gave a twitch when he imagined her straddling him that way.

“I thought you were going to show me the clinic,” he shouted.

“It’s on the way out. Think you can keep up?”

Mike threw a leg over his bike, enjoying how she watched. A playful sizzle lit her wide baby-doll eyes. He kicked his S1000RR to life. Buzzing vibrations shook up through his spine. For a moment they just sat there in the parking lot, gunning the engines, showing off. A laugh started up in his chest. He glanced over and found that same daredevil laughter shaping Leah’s crooked lips into a full-on grin.

She spun the Ducati in a hard arc. The back tire squealed. A jolt of fire shot through Mike’s bones as he tore out after her. The wind against his face was pure energy. Pilots were adrenaline junkies down to the cellular level, and he was no exception. Nothing topped speed.

Other than the idea of Leah holding his riding crop.

What he’d told Major Haverty about his revised call sign was true. Only the crop hadn’t been to use
on
a woman. Used
by
a woman was so much hotter. Maybe if he were very good and very patient…

Skidding to a stop outside another innocuous base building, she gave it a flippant wave. “And there’s the clinic,” she shouted over their loud-as-hell bikes. “Your tour is finito.”

The crazy-cool glint in her eye dared him for more. “Where will you be tomorrow night?” he asked.

“Paulie’s,” she said simply.

Then she was off, tearing down the road toward the base’s main gate.

Chapter Three

By Friday night, Leah wasn’t looking forward to the rest of the weekend. She’d had jack shit to do all day. After cleaning her apartment in the morning, she’d read the newest Vince Flynn and still had hours left to fill.

She’d called Jon and Ryan to see if they wanted to go out, but they had prior commitments. Jon and Heather were going to some French foreign movie—and Leah really didn’t want to know why he’d started laughing when he’d mentioned it. Ryan had been headed out the door to visit Cassandra’s dad in Henderson, even though Cass was working late at the gallery. Family time? That one was beyond strange, but whatever. Leah could find something to do on her own.

So Paulie’s it was, just like she’d told Mike. Not that it had been an invitation. Mostly her default answer for Friday nights.

Only a couple blocks away from the Nellis main gate, Paulie’s was a tidy little hole-in-the-wall joint. When Leah cruised in around twenty-one hundred hours, only about half the tables and booths were filled. No one was up on the karaoke stage. Templeton was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he’d be too wiped out from unpacking boxes to make an appearance.

Unfortunately, the idea of him spending the day moving in led to ideas about him hot. And sweaty. And standing under a steaming shower, washing off the dirt. What would all that new weight through his torso look like when stripped bare? She pictured a rivulet of water dribbling down between his pecs and soap bubbles outlining his abs.