Taking Cover

Crusty lowered the bottle from his lips. "What?"



"The tapes are blank. Demagnetized. Erased. Do you have any idea how that happened?"



The other pilot thumped his bottle back on the table. "They're gonna hang me out to dry."



Nothing but frustration showed in Crusty's eyes. More questioning wouldn't pull anything from him. Better just to reestablish the friendship in hopes the guy would come to him if he had something to spill later. Tanner slugged him on the arm. "Hey, bring it down a notch, bud. Let me buy you another beer. Catch me up on what you hear about the mess over in Sentavo."



"Yeah, you bet." Crusty shrugged his shoulders and shook the tension out of his arms, rippling his wrinkled flight suit. He gestured for a drink, but didn't look away from the bar. His gaze stayed fixed just over Tanner's shoulder.



Tanner twisted in his chair, looking.



Finding.



Her.



Kathleen stood silhouetted in the doorway.



His chair thudded all four legs on the floor in a teeth-jarring landing. No flight suit for her tonight, she'd changed.



Man, had she changed.



Brown leather pants molded themselves to her every curve. They sealed over her trimly muscled calves, up her thighs to cup that bottom he'd tried not to watch all day. Her hair flowed in a fiery curtain around her face, brushing the collar of her satin shirt. Scorching his eyes from across the smoky room.



She leaned over the bar to place her drink order. Her blouse inched up, baring a thin stripe of skin along her back. Twelve years hadn't dimmed the memory of how soft that skin felt beneath his hands, how warm.



Crusty whistled low between his teeth. "Well scuff my shoes and untuck my shirt, she still makes me want to stand up and salute."



Tanner didn't even have to think about his response as he turned back to his college pal. "She doesn't do relationships with flyers."



"Ah, so that explains why she's sitting next to him."



"Him who?" Tanner twisted in his seat again, heedless of any leftover wrench in his back.



Kathleen hitched a hip onto a bar stool next to a man in civilian clothes. The government inspector. Randall Fitzgerald.



The guy's Christmas tree socks matched his tie and suspenders.



Tanner's fingers twitched around his untouched longneck. Kathleen canted forward as if listening to something the man said, then laughed. The husky timbre dive-bombed Tanner's weakened defenses from clear across the room.



Hadn't they agreed to ignore hormones for the good of the investigation? So what was she doing sidling up to Inspector Happy Tie just because he wasn't a flyboy?



Her hair shimmered with the toss of her head. Inspector Randy reached.



He touched her hair.



Tanner's muscles bunched.



Slowly Randall Fitzgerald grasped the stray strand and hooked it behind Kathleen's ear.



Tossing money on the table, Tanner never looked away from the bar. "Been good talking with you, Crusty. Catch you at the squadron later."



Tanner didn't wait for the reply. Before he could rub the bump on his nose as a reminder for caution, he plowed across the bar, straight for his redheaded partner.



Chapter 7



Kathleen scooched back on her bar stool and sipped her lemon water, a much wiser way of removing Randall Fitzgerald's hand from her hair than breaking the guy's fingers. Randall skimmed his knuckles across her cheek anyway, before grasping his vodka tonic.



Of course, survival training had provided her with at least four different techniques for snapping a pinky.



Not that there was anything wrong with him– a nice guy, well groomed, intelligent. She just wasn't interested in anything other than an informal interview, and she hadn't lead him to believe otherwise. Perhaps he needed another reminder.



Kathleen twirled her straw. "How long have you been working at the Palmdale facility?"



"Five years." The gleam in his eyes matched the fluorescent ornaments painted on his Christmas tree suspenders.



Randall dragged his bar stool closer. Of course, he could have been clearing space for the drunken duo plopping down to "fly" the stick and throttle attached to the bar. She decided to give Randall the benefit of the doubt.



"So you like it there?" She watched him for visual clues while she sipped her water.



"Sure. It's a great job. No office politics, since the boss is a million miles away." Randall loosened the knot on his evergreen tie, then leaned an elbow on the bar. "I'm made of free time if you'd like a personal tour of the local hot spots."



Kathleen's smile became pained. The next thing she'd know, this clown would be asking her if she preferred waffles or pancakes for breakfast.



It wasn't fair. Two guys exchanged beer and small talk and it furthered an investigation. A man and woman did the same and it became some kind of mating dance.



But she could handle him. She hadn't hung out with flyers for years without learning a few polite brush-offs. Keep it professional at all costs. Never give an inch. "What exactly do you do out there at the plant?"



"I verify that all the parts are tested, sign for them, then the government takes possession of them."



"Uh-huh." She motioned for a water refill from the bartender by the throttle-style beer taps. "And then?"



Apparently good ol' Randy mistook her interest for impressed fascination. The guy sure did love to talk about himself. Rather than set him straight for pride's sake, Kathleen simply listened and filed information away to sort through later when her head wasn't pounding.



At least her headache wasn't Randall's fault. That pain had a certain blond pilot's name all over it. She'd seen Tanner when she'd stepped in the bar. How could she miss him? He could fill a room with his presence in a way that had nothing to do with his shoulders.



Even with her back to him, she still felt him. Felt the irritatingly predictable awareness that buzzed from her toes right up to the roots of her hair whenever he came near. She started to look over her shoulder just as a shadow fell across the bar.



A broad-shouldered shadow.



The buzz increased to a rippling jolt of heat, like a near miss with an electrical outlet.



A thudding heartbeat later, Tanner stopped beside her and thrust his hand toward Randall Fitzgerald. "Hi. Captain Tanner Bennett. I don't believe we met earlier at the testing site."



The inspector bolted to his feet. "Randall Fitzgerald, government inspector."



"Yes, so my reports tell me." Tanner gripped the inspector's hand, and Kathleen had to give Randall credit. The man didn't wince.



Tanner reached behind Kathleen's back, bracing a palm on the bar. The heat of his arm, his chest a whisper away from her shoulder, embraced her.



What the hell was he doing?



Tanner fingered a lock of hair on her shoulder. "Are you about ready to leave? We've got an early start tomorrow."



"No." She edged her head away until the strand slid free. When had her hair grown so darn long?



"Are you sure? You didn't get much sleep the past couple of nights." His voice lowered to husky intimacy.



"I'm fine." Or she would be after she killed him. First she would stake him out in the desert, slather him with his own honeyed words and set the ants loose.



Then she would kill him.



Kathleen decided not to dignify his comment with an explanation about how her sleepless nights were a byproduct of a late-night visit to the flight line followed by a transcontinental trip home. No need to encourage Randy into thinking they would he sharing those waffles. And the only waffles for Tanner would be dumped on his head. She understood ants loved syrup.



Randall tightened his tie. "Time to call it a night, then. I have an early call myself, Captain Bennett."



"Nice meeting you, Randy."



"You, too. G'night, Kathleen." He didn't even hesitate on his way out the door.



Kathleen pivoted on the bar stool until she faced Tanner eye to eye. "What was that all about?"



"What?" He cocked his head to the side, keeping his arm possessively placed behind her back.



"Don't play dumb jock with me, hotshot. I know you better than that" She shoved his hand off the bar. "You ran the guy off with your macho territory marking."



"I thought you would be glad."



Anger must be cutting off the blood supply to her brain. "Run that one by me again?"



"The guy was hitting on you." The air carried a full measure of musky Tanner and seasoned leather.



"That's your problem because…?" She propped one elbow on the bar, for distance as well as steadying. She couldn't even put on her leather jacket anymore without thinking of him. "I'm thirty-two years old, Bennett. I can handle myself, thanks all the same."



"Excuse me for trying to help. It's obvious he wasn't here to discuss metallurgy and quality control."



"Do you think I don't know that?"



Tanner straightened, his face blank. "So you were meeting him here—socially."



"No." She lowered her voice, which forced her to move closer in order to be heard, but not overheard. "I was asking some informal questions, just like you planned with Crusty."



"Crusty wasn't playing with my hair." Tanner advanced a step. Her knees brushed his thighs. "That guy had his hands all over you."



Kathleen resisted the urge to hop off the bar stool. She held her ground and didn't move, not that she had any choice. Her only other option to avoid contact would be to part her legs.



Not a chance.



Her whole focus narrowed to her tingling knees, and that royally ticked her off. Her hormones would not rule her. "I was handling it just fine until you shouldered your way over here and all but whizzed on his leg. Geez, Bennett! My job places me in an almost exclusively male world, traveling in close quarters with men on a regular basis. Do you think none of them have ever hit on me? Let me tell you, hotshot, I've picked up more than a few skills in turning down a guy without making him mad."



Tanner's eyes honed from pale blue to steely gray in a sharpening flash. "Who's been giving you trouble?"



The need to shout at him almost overwhelmed her. Holding her ground wasn't working. "I do not need a bodyguard."



She yanked her purse off the back of her chair and leaped from the bar stool. Her knees forgot their job for one wobbly second before Kathleen regained her balance. She jammed her purse strap over her shoulder.



"Kathleen, now hold on—"



"Let me make one thing clear, Bennett, in case you were wondering." Her voice rose with each word, and she was too frustrated to care if the whole bar heard her. "I'm mad as hell at you right now. Mad. Angry. Furious. Not turned on!"



She spun on her heel and stalked toward the exit.



Her slam rattled the glasses over the bar. Tanner stared at the closed door and resisted the urge to charge out after her and finish their argument



Jangling glasses silenced. Only the television's low drone filled the room. The bar full of faces trained on him.



A low whistle pealed from Crusty, like a dropping bomb, followed by a growling explosion. "Way to crash and burn, my man."



Tanner didn't bother answering. He traced his thumb over the bump on his nose and counted to ten—then twenty.



She wasn't the only one mad. Although he wasn't sure what made him angrier, her blasé response to the aptly named "Randy's" overtures or the fact that workmates hit on her far too often.



Either way, Tanner's temper stirred like the rumbling percussion of Crusty's imaginary bomb. But another confrontation with Kathleen would only lead them into saying things that would make work even more strained in the morning.



Better to sit, bolt back some buffalo wings and watch the movie. He did not need to extend their discussion to a parking lot.