Guilt stung Monica yet again. She should be focused on Sydney. Yet what was wrong with needing to see Jack before he took off to drop the SEALs? She just wanted an update without others listening in. For all his insistence that he intended to stay close to her, time alone together had sure been scarce since she'd thrown herself at him a day and a half ago.
Monica fingered the survival vests hanging from hooks alongside shelves of helmets. Rodeo smiled, nodded, but didn't initiate conversation as he and seasoned loadmaster Tag preflighted their helmets and NVGs. Thank God. She wasn't up to crew dog ribbing tonight.
Of course their silent acceptance of her presence said a lot for her and Jack's inability to keep things low-key. Yes, she wanted him, but there had to be more to a relationship than attraction. She knew that. Apparently, Jack knew it now, too, since he seemed to be keeping his distance. She should be relieved. Instead, frustration kicked through her.
The door swung open seconds before Jack entered from the corridor. The room seemed to fill with broad shoulders stretching a tan flight suit to the limit beneath the body armor they'd all begun wearing since the shooting.
Her hormones went on full alert as they always did around this man. At least her armored vest provided better coverage to her reaction than those pageant Band-Aids used to mask her reaction to the cold. Except now her reaction had more to do with something hot. Very hot. Her br**sts definitely weighed heavy and needy and in need of closer contact with Jack right this moment.
His eyes found her. Held. He angled his dark head toward Rodeo and Tag without looking away. "Go on ahead without me, guys. I'll catch up in a minute."
The copilot and loadmaster pushed through the second door outside to the waiting truck, leaving her alone with Jack and an airman deep in paperwork at the desk.
Jack moved toward her with a loose-hipped strut, the black M-9 pistol in his web belt bringing gunslinger images to a Texas girl's mind. The weapon also engendered insidious reminders of danger when even noncombatant medical personnel like herself needed to be armed—at Jack's insistence.
He stopped in front of her, crowding her space just by being him. "You should be in bed."
She wasn't so far gone with her feelings that she couldn't scavenge a face-saving excuse for waiting for him. A valid one at that. "I wanted to make sure everything's okay. I heard you moved up the flight."
"Because of bad weather. Heavy winds expected later tonight. Only a couple hours change." He checked out his helmet and survival vest from the airman behind the desk.
"I thought there might be signs of moving the hostages."
"Nope," he answered without even sparing her a glance. He shrugged into the webbed survival vest. He unhooked his pistol belt and transferred his M-9 to the side holster in the vest, before shifting his attention to preflighting his helmet. His hands skimmed the oxygen hose, searching for breaks or cracks, then checked for frays along the communications cord wrapped neatly around the hose.
"Jack''" she prompted, unsure whether to be worried or pissed.
He tugged the gray helmet over his head. "The possibility of the hostages being moved is always a concern, but not so much now that we're over here since we can be in the air and there before they clear the perimeter."
Crossing to the counter with the oxygen regulator check machine, Jack worked the metal bayonet snaps into the catch until the oxygen mask fit securely around his mouth.
Well, that sure as hell was one way to avoid talking.
He plugged in the regulator hose and adjusted the setting up to 30,000 to check air pressure forced through the hose. Then cranked it back down again.
She waited. He'd have to take the thing off sometime, damn it. Which he did. Only to disappear seconds later into a closet designated for testing his NVGs.
Finally he stepped out. "Monica, I don't have time for this tonight."
A valid—and obvious—excuse to dodge her.
What more did she expect? She'd set the limits and made the appointment with a divorce attorney.
Now wasn't the time to discuss more, anyway. Jack's mission was dangerous enough without a big confrontation before takeoff. She swallowed back the need to ask him if he was as confused as she was by a simple kiss when they'd done so much more in the past.
Much more. Her body reacted with a will of its own.
Yep, the Kevlar vest definitely served her well tonight.
Following him to the door, she watched him walk out into the night, not that Jack ever simply walked. Heavy combat boots ate the distance between him and the humming truck with a lazy arrogance and assurance she once would have found annoying. Yet now she knew enough about these zipper-suited sky gods she treated—knew enough about Jack— to understand that unshakable self-assurance allowed him to place his body in the line of antiaircraft fire in only an aluminum can.
Her stomach pitched. "Jack!"
He glanced back without answering, and though he looked powerfully alive right now, her job left her all too aware of mortality.
"Be careful."
"Piece of cake, babe." He vaulted onto the truck bed with the rest of his crew and the sixteen waiting SEALs.