Front Lines (Front Lines 1)

Rainy looks again for cops, again sees none, but she does spot a trio of male GIs, two privates and a PFC. She sticks two fingers in her mouth and whistles sharply. “You three. Over here.”

The three GIs are no less drunk than the three sailors, but Rainy figures that’s an advantage, as are the sergeant’s stripes on her shoulder. “Boys, there are some sailors down that alley who have been saying very bad things about the army. Talking about soldiers being lazy, good-for-nothing cowards. A friend of mine stuck up for the army, and now he’s getting beat up.”

The ensuing melee is satisfying to both the soldiers and the sailors, all of whom had just been looking for an excuse to get into a fight.

The beleaguered young man escapes with a cut lip. He nods appreciatively at Rainy.

“Thank you. I believe you may have saved me. My dignity is beyond salvation, but my body remains mostly intact.”

Up close he’s a good-looking fellow with thoughtful yet mischievous brown eyes, and he’s younger than she’d initially thought.

“Think nothing of it.”

“Um . . .”

“Yes?”

“I don’t suppose you’d wish to repair with me to that diner and have a cup of coffee?”

Rainy is shocked and does nothing to hide it. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Halev. Halev Leventhal.”

About half her instincts are telling her to say a polite but firm good-bye. She listens to the other half. “You need some ice on that cut or it will swell up. They’ll have ice at the diner.”

The diner is like every other diner in the city—a narrow, greasy, noisy room with a grill down one side fronted by a counter with round stools, and a row of cramped tables along the other wall. It’s mostly empty, it being too early for dinner and too late for lunch.

Rainy takes charge, ordering some ice and a towel and two cups of coffee. A kind waitress brings ice and a small bandage and clucks sympathetically for a while before being called away to another table.

“Hurt much?” Rainy asks Halev.

“It’s mostly numb,” Halev says, touching the wound experimentally, wincing, and replacing the ice bag. He twists in his stool to look Rainy up and down. “So, you’re a soldier.”

“Is it the uniform that gave it away?”

“Well, that and the steely-eyed determination. What’s your name?”

“Rainy. Rainy Schulterman.”

“Ah, so one of the tribe,” he says. “A Jewish woman soldier.”

“Is that disapproval I hear?”

“How could I possibly disapprove of you?” he says.

Rainy’s not a fool; she knows a flirtatious remark when she hears one, but she pointedly ignores it.

“That’s a rhetorical question that avoids an answer,” she says.

“Yes, but I think you’re overlooking the obvious tone of admiration,” he says.

He’s enjoying sparring with her, and Rainy doesn’t mind that at all. It’s fun sparring with men who think they can make short work of her with leers and condescension.

“Misdirection doesn’t work very well with me, I’m afraid. Neither does flirtation.”

He leans toward her, cocking his head to one side, his eyes judgmental, amused, but not dismissive. “All right, you want a serious answer? My father would disapprove. My grandfather would disapprove. If you listen closely, you may hear the whirring sound of my great-grandfather spinning in his grave. But me?” The judgment and the sly mockery evaporate and a very different look now radiates from those really rather large and soulful eyes. “Me? I approve of anyone who means to rid the world of Adolf Hitler.”

Suddenly they have a second thing in common, beyond sharing a religion and a background.