Grayson's Surrender (Wingmen Warriors #1)

Grayson's Surrender (Wingmen Warriors #1) Page 2

His strong, square jaw, set and thrust, already carried the black stubble of a five o'clock shadow, although they'd only just reported in. Of course Gray had always looked like he needed a shave ten minutes after he put down his razor.

An image of him leaning over the bathroom sink wearing nothing but a towel as he shaved flashed through her mind, drawing all the air right out of the cavernous aircraft.

Lori's hand clenched on the oxygen tank. "Hey, Tag. How long's this bottle good for?"

"You only need to carry it around in case there's a rapid decompression and you have to get back to your seat." Tag rapped his knuckles against the yellow canister. "So don't worry. This baby carries fifteen minutes worth."

"Fifteen minutes," Lori echoed, watching Gray disappear into the cockpit to prep the plane for their thirty-hour mission. Her lungs already burned.

Gray angled into the cockpit, frustration firing to life like a C-17's jet engines. Bronco and Lancelot bantered checklist call and responses into their headsets.

"Circuit breakers in," Bronco said into the microphone.

Lancelot ran his hands along the circuit breaker panel. "Checked in pilot."

Bronco mirrored the gesture with his panel. "Checked in co."

Gray grabbed Bronco's headset, snapped the earpieces and barked, "What the hell did you think you were doing?"

Bronco yanked around with a shout, eyes blazing, then relaxed into his seat, the blaze dimming to a mischievous sparkle. He swept a hand across the instruments. "Running the checklist, of course."

"Yeah, right. Try again."

"Running the checklist, sir," he added, not in the least daunted.

Gray braced a hand across the bulkhead blocking any possible escape route for his so-called friend. "You'd better have a good explanation for this one, pal."

"For what?" Captain Tanner "Bronco" Bennett shrugged, his massive chest filling the seat. An Air Force Academy graduate and football tight end, Bronco was a big, blond poster boy for American patriotism. Rumor had it pro ball teams routinely tried to recruit him. Apparently, Bronco preferred to duke it out on battlefields rather than ball fields.

Bronco had picked one hell of a battle to start today. Gray reached to pop his headset again.

The copilot ducked and draped it around his neck. He plastered on a prim air at odds with his bulk and not quite suppressed laugh. "Please, I'm trying to maintain checklist discipline."

Gray yanked the checklist from his hands and slammed it on the console. "You set me up."

A grin twitched along his close-shaven mug. "Set you up?"

"Don't mess with me today."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"You just forgot to mention her?"

"Her?"

Gray stepped forward.

Bronco raised his hands in surrender. "So Lori's on the flight. No big deal. You two are history. This shouldn't be a problem if she doesn't mean anything to you. Right?"

A chuckle sounded beside Gray. He pivoted toward the aircraft commander. Lance "Lancelot" Sinclair was stuffing cookies in his mouth, eyes twinkling as he chewed. Lance swallowed and held out a Ziploc bag full of chocolate chip cookies. "Want one? Julia made 'em fresh yesterday." He raffled the bag. "Good stuff, man."

The warm scent of chocolate wafted from the bag to fill the confined space. Just like the kitchen during one of Lori's cooking jags.

Gray suppressed the urge to tell pretty-boy Lancelot where to stuff his cookies.

Focus on one Judas at a time. Gray pinned Bronco with a glare. "What did you promise O'Connell to get her off this flight?"

"She's sick. Stomach flu. Probably puking her gorgeous guts out as we speak."

Gray almost bought it. Almost. Except he knew Bronco and O'Connell better than that. "What'd you guys promise her?" he pressed.

Bronco's gaze ping-ponged around the cockpit before he mumbled, "The Spain deployment."

"Geeez, Bronco!" Gray chewed on a number of curses swarming in his brain. He could have been sunning on the beach next week. What had he ever done to deserve this day?

Let Lori down.

The failure settled over him like a toxic fog fueling his anger. "Why didn't you just give O'Connell your car? Would have been less valuable. Damn it, I wanted that deployment. Instead I get—"

The copilot's eyes lost their humor. He jabbed a finger toward Gray. "You get to settle unfinished business and move on. We get the old Cutter back." His finger curled into a fist, and he slugged Gray on the arm. "We've missed you this year."

Bronco turning sentimental? That shut Gray up faster than any shouting match. The world had gone freaking nuts today. "What do you care? I'm transferring out at the end of the month, anyway. A few more weeks and I won't be your problem."

"That's not the point."

"There's nothing to settle. Just ask her."

"Why don't you?"

Gray braced a hand on the console and crowded Bronco. "And why don't you—"

"Problem, boys?"

Gray pushed away from the panel. Lt. Col. Zach Dawson hovered in the doorway. The squadron commander, the boss, he would be monitoring the mission as well as serving as the other relief pilot for the overseas flight. The last thing Gray wanted was his private life or lack of one, unrolled for the commander's viewing pleasure during the mission.

Nothing could ground a flyer faster than hints of instability in his home life. A military brat himself, he knew the mantra well. Don't air your dirty laundry in public, son.

He should have held his temper in check and confronted Bronco later. Too late for what-ifs. Gray smoothed his face into an easygoing grin. "No problem, sir."

"You sure?"

Gray slapped Bronco on the shoulder, his smile hitching higher. "Nothing I can't take care of during his next flight physical. You're on the schedule for later this week, aren't you, pal?"

Bronco paled. Lancelot chuckled and stuffed another cookie in his mouth.

"Then let's get this plane off the ground." Lt. Col. Zach Dawson settled into the seat behind the pilot, while Lancelot shoved aside his Ziploc bag.

Gray strapped himself into the other seat behind the copilot and slipped on his headset, grateful for the chance to lose himself in the routine. Routine had carried him through countless Desert Storm missions when he'd been the primary pilot, before he'd gone back to medical school. He could depend on it now, as well.

In a timeless military fashion, disjointed voices wafted through the headset. Checklists from pilots in front and loadmasters in back. A few more minutes and they'd be in the air. Already the escape of flight lured Gray.

Bronco was right. If there wasn't anything left with Lori, being on the mission didn't matter anyway. A thirty-seven-year-old bachelor, he had his life plan set.

He and Lori would spend a few hours together, travel memory lane and move on.

Bronco flashed a thumbs-up. "Checklist complete."

The engine drone built, swelled, vibrating the plane to life. Gray watched Lancelot grip the stick. As skillfully as a kid with a video-game joystick, he eased the throttle forward. No yoke for the C-17 Globemaster III, the mammoth cargo aircraft possessed the same stick and grace of a fighter plane. Smooth as a baby's butt, it rolled forward.

Gray wanted in the pilot's seat, to be in control, but he would get his turn in the cockpit as well as with the patients. He could wait. A small price to pay for having it all.

Having it all?

His thoughts winged back to the woman waiting strapped into one of the red, webbed seats in back. Was she nervous, elegant hands trembling? Or excited, her eyes glittering topaz? With seasoned determination he reeled his thoughts right back into the cockpit.

Forget Lancelot's home-baked cookies and Bronco's psychobabble garbage about Lori only bothering him if she still meant something to him. Gray had created the perfect life for himself where no one would get hurt.

The aircraft picked up speed, roaring down the runway. The copilot's voice rumbled over the headset. "One hundred forty knots."

"Committed to take off," the pilot acknowledged.

Committed. Damn. Even the word beaded Gray with sweat. With his messed-up past, who could blame him? Lori was better off without him.

The nose lifted off the runway.

Committed. To spending the next thirty hours learning how to forget Lori Rutledge once and for all.

Chapter 2

Lori gave up trying to forget about Gray. No way could she dodge thoughts of him while stuck in the middle of this military mission. She couldn't even manage to escape through sleep for more than an hour or two.

After thirteen hours in the air, the plane descended to the antiquated landing strip outside Sentavo. Her stomach lurched in synch. Was Gray piloting? Or one of the others?

She let memories steamroll over her. Not that she seemed to have a choice today.

Memories of meeting Gray through a mutual friend and then dancing for half the night, both knowing that someday they wouldn't go home alone.

Gray singing hokey Karaoke love songs at the Officer's Club, his husky voice growling out the lyrics. Definitely a stylist, not an artist. But so doggone charming.

Their fights about his committing more of himself to his job than he did to her. Gray was the king of keep-it-simple. Keep relationships light.

She'd needed more. She still did.

Throughout the flight, Gray had walked back to talk with all the passengers, as had the rest of the crew. Nothing special, just shooting-the-breeze chitchat. His deliberate refusal for any real conversation with her was conspicuous, thought provoking. Painful.

Damn, but she wanted to see him and have it mean nothing. She didn't want awkward avoidance that hinted at unresolved issues between them.

Meanwhile she was stuck in a webbed military seat surrounded by her co-workers, Gray's co-workers and her memories. Thank heaven in a few minutes she would have more than enough to think about assessing and loading the children.

Were her memories of Sentavo's lush, mountainous landscape accurate, or confused with other childhood "nose pressed to the car window" recollections of a different Eastern European city? Her gypsy childhood trailing her artist parents had left her with a blur of memories from cities all over the world. And a fierce need for roots that had increased with her thirtieth birthday.

A light tap gave the only indication they'd landed, followed by the drag and whine of the engines slowing the aircraft until they taxied to a stop. She gathered her backpack and trailed the others down the load ramp, her stomach flipping another loop-de-loop. Because of the mission, not the man. Right?

Liar.

Old buses littered the tarmac, parked alongside the hangar and shaded by maple and pine bowers. The hangar loomed, nothing more than a rusting warehouse with an oversize door. The children would be waiting inside, her reason for being here, and she couldn't forget that for a minute. Lori strode forward.

Dappled sunlight threaded through the dense trees, patterning lacey shadows on the pitifully thin and cracked asphalt. They'd landed on that? She shivered in spite of the near eighty-degree summer weather.

"Lori."

From behind her, Gray's voice encircled Lori like a warm blanket, like his solid, strong arms. She put two more steps between her and those hot tones before turning to face him. "Smooth flight, Major. I'm impressed."

"Thanks. Lancelot and Bronco put her down, though. The commander and I just relieved them for a few hours over the Atlantic while they snagged a nap." His eyes searched her face as if he might finally say something else, something substantial, then he held fast to his standard behavior for the day and smiled lightly.

Nothing deep.

And absolutely no touching.

"Regardless of who flew when, we're here and those children have waited long enough for a home, for families," Even with a set of affluent parents, she'd waited her whole life for a home, and the ache had sometimes seemed to consume her. God, what must those children, with such greater concerns and fears, be feeling?