How embarrassing that would have been. Forget going down in a blaze of combat glory.
She'd been grounded by a snake.
Three days DNEF—duties not including flying. Nobody dared argue with a flight surgeon's verdict. She was stuck flying a desk and passing out mission packages. Probably for the best, since she couldn't stop her hands from shaking. She just wanted to peel off her clothes and climb in the shower before she crumbled. She'd worry later about how she would fall asleep again.
Darcy trailed a finger down the splintered wooden frame until her hand steadied.
A Renshaw warrior shows no fear.
Darcy tossed her shoulders back and plowed inside.
"Bet you can't name everyone from Gilligan's Island. ''
Darcy spun on her heel. Max lounged in a chair tucked in a corner behind the door. One leg slung lazily over the arm of the chair, the other stretched out. His sea-foam windbreaker was zipped halfway up his chest, clashing magnificently with his pineapple-patterned bathing suit.
"Actors or characters?" She reached behind her to close the door—and give herself time to slow her heartbeat.
"You've had a helluva night, so I'll let you off easy with naming the characters."
A simple, shared smile and the room closed in on her with warm intimacy. The jean shorts and T-shirt she'd yanked on over her ribbed tank and panties before going to the infirmary might as well have faded away. Max's gaze cruised a slow ride from her face all the way to her sandals. Those blue-green eyes held full knowledge of how little she'd been wearing earlier.
He'd noticed.
He hadn't forgotten.
And he liked what he saw.
Darcy forced herself to meet Max's probing gaze dead-on. No more backing down for her tonight. She scavenged for a smile and steady steps as she closed the space between them. Leaning against the table beside him, she crossed her ankles unobtrusively to ease the pressure on her leg. "Gilligan, Skipper, Professor, Mary Ann, Ginger and the Howells. To damn easy. Next time, no quarter, Doc. I can hold my own."
"Fair enough. Renshaw scores, winning back her gun." Max lifted a hand from his thigh to reveal her Beretta.
Damn. How the hell had she forgotten it?
He flipped it to hold by the barrel and passed it to her, handle first.
"Thanks." She tested the reassuring weight of her military issue Beretta M-9, the grip still warm from his touch. "The security police weren't too happy with me for discharging my weapon in the VOQ."
An understatement. But then the Base Commander had strutted into the infirmary interview and—surprise, surprise—smoothed things over for the daughter of his old friend Hank Renshaw. Darcy ground her teeth against a fresh kick of frustration over special treatment she didn't want or deserve.
Max nudged aside a shell casing on the floor. "Good thing you were on the first story in a corner room or someone could have caught a stray shot."
"I never miss." She took comfort in the familiar weight.
"Everyone misses sometimes."
"Not me." She pointed the gun away, pushed the release and ejected the clip. "I got my first gun for my fourteenth birthday. A Colt Woodsman, twenty-two caliber. Some fathers like Bronco take their kids to the zoo. Mine took me to the shooting range."
The General, then the Colonel, had wanted to make damned sure his little girl could defend herself next time trouble tried to snatch her away. He'd trained her well.
Darcy switched the gun to her other hand, slid back the action, locked and cleared the chamber. The familiar ritual soothed her tattered nerves.
Nope. She hadn't worried about missing. Once she'd remembered her gun in her bag by the bed, she'd known she could take out the snake. If only she could have done it faster.
Bile burned her throat.
Darcy turned away from Max's prying eyes. She scooped up her flight bag from the floor and sank to the edge of the bed before her knees gave out. She tucked her gun inside. "Thanks for charging to the rescue."
"No problem."