Joint Forces (Wingmen Warriors 7)

His smile faded. "Don't worry. I'm not planning to pressure you about getting back together." No pressure about it. Slow and steady won the day with his wife.

"You're not?"

"No." Think strategy, not how much easier it would be to kiss her quiet. Not about how tight the knot twisted in his stomach over the thought that even if he made it home, they weren't any better off than before. "You made yourself clear when you pitched my barbells and books out on the lawn six months ago."

And the reason for that final fight? They'd argued over the flipping family Christmas vacation, for God's sake. She'd insisted his lengthy deployments were taking a toll, making growing apart too easy. His fault. He knew it.

So he'd offered to take leave. Not good enough. She'd wanted to rent a cabin in the mountains, something she insisted they could afford now that she was working.

Hell. As if he needed it thrown in his face that he couldn't provide for his family on his own. As if he needed reminding of all the things she'd had growing up. Things he couldn't come close to giving her.

A fact that had been stewing in his gut for twenty-two years.

"Well, J.T., tossing those possessions on the lawn was just the start of venting problems years in the making. Three months ago proved that." She gripped the length of her hair in her hands and began twisting it into a knot on the back of her head. "We'll just draw up a new set of divorce papers."

His eyes tracked the moves of her hands against her glossy curls. He'd always wondered how the hell she did that trick with her hair, had watched her hundreds of times, the memory of those strands gliding through his fingers never failing to make him hard.

He finished his water, pitched his cup in the trash. "Not until you're up and moving again. The doc said you need to stay off your feet for at least two weeks."

She paused midtwist. "What happened to doctor-patient confidentiality?"

"We're married." For better or worse, they'd vowed. Vows that were about to be broken if he didn't ignore the chemistry and put a stop to this. "I already logged in a call to my commander for a lighter schedule while you recover."

"J.T.," she warned, arms reaching up as she finished securing her hair. "Remember that you left the last time. I'm not the only one who said we don't have a chance."

And that's what he got for talking. All the more reason to guard his words, so she couldn't throw them back in his face later.

He plowed ahead. "I can't be away from the squadron totally now." The drug surveillance flights with the feds were too sensitive to pass off to anyone else. Since he was already in the loop from the overseas mission, he'd been tapped for the flights. Bringing another loadmaster up to speed this late would cost valuable days anyway.

What a helluva time to have a family crisis. "But all my flights will be at night, when Chris is around."

He ignored the burn in his gut that told him those flights would only bring more stress to his wife if she knew the truth about the mission. But there were so many things he could never share about his job.

However, since C-17 night flights were common around Charleston, his wife wouldn't question late takeoffs any more than anyone else in Charleston. All of which made the craft the logical choice to cart the DEA's surveillance equipment—much the same as used during the fateful flight in Rubistan.

With a little luck—okay, a lot of luck—the high-tech equipment loaded down on those pallets would eventually cough up the crucial link to who the hell in the States had sold them out overseas.

And more importantly, how.

J.T. tamped down the twitch of conscience over keeping it from her. After all, he'd had twenty-two years' practice. "I'll be asleep during the day, so you don't have to worry about me being underfoot. But I'll still be on call for whatever you need. Simple. Reasonable."

"I'll manage just fine."

"How do you plan to take care of yourself while Chris is in school? Nikki's exams start next week, so she can't help."

J.T. searched for signs of Rena weakening but she was too preoccupied playing with her hair and driving him crazy. Low-blow time. "You need to be careful for the baby."

Rena sagged back into her pillow. He'd won. "God, J.T., you don't fight back often, but when you do, you sure fight dirty."

"I save it for the battles worth winning." His victory felt hollow as he inventoried the worry, fears, in his proud wife's gaze.

"Fine." Her hands fell back to her lap, a lone curl sneaking free to bob against her chin. "Whatever. You're right and you know it. Thank you for the help."

Where had her fight gone? Seeing Rena deflated, defeated, worried him more than the purpling bruise on her forehead. But he couldn't afford to back down, as dangerous as pressing ahead too hard and fast. "I'll take some stuff back over to the house in the morning."

"Why not now?"

"Because I'm staying here."