Joint Forces (Wingmen Warriors 7)

Straightening from the car, she flattened a hand to his face and patted. "But guys who play nice don't get hurt."

Miranda stroked her fingers along his chin on her way past, leaving him standing alone by the car wondering how in the hell he ever could have thought Miranda Casale was hot. She was a freaking snake in Lyrca. His cheek itched where she'd touched him.

As his dad would say, he was in a crapload of trouble.

Chris jerked open the car door, double-checked the back seat to make sure it was empty and climbed behind the wheel.

Locked the doors really fast.

Part of him wanted to crawl away and hide. Okay, most of him wanted to do that, but he'd been hiding for a couple of weeks now. Instead of getting better, things were getting worse.

He felt like puking. But he wouldn't. He would be like his dad. This was the time to be a man.

He would have to come clean.

God, did Miranda really think he was stupid enough to believe nothing was going on? If there had been any doubts before, her little chat cinched it for him.

If he'd been a mule once—his stomach roiled—then they would use that as leverage to make him do other things. Maybe worse things.

Sweat popped on his forehead, feeding his zits. He would have to do something. He would have to talk to his dad after his flight.

Used to be he could talk to his mom easier, but his dad and even Mr. Haugen were both right about keeping women safe. A pregnant chick needed to be protected most of all. No question, his dad wouldn't want this dumped on her. His dad also wouldn't want her left at home alone with this kind of crap hanging over their heads.

The car accident.

Sweat iced. His stomach pitched. Chris scrambled for the handle, stumbling out of the car with half a second to spare before he lost his supper on the gravel.

Doubled over, gripping his knees, he gasped for clean air that didn't stink like Miranda's cologne, fried fish and a screwed-up life.

God. What a wuss. He dragged the tail of his T-shirt over his mouth and staggered back into the car.

He didn't have time to be sick. He needed to get home to his mom. And if he wanted to make it there without more pit stops to heave up his guts, he couldn't think about what might happen next.

Rena flipped pages of her gardening magazine, reclining on the sofa, her head propped by two pillows, her feet up on the armrest. Hot chamomile tea steamed on the coffee table. Cool air conditioner blew through the silence. A totally peaceful way to end the day.

If it weren't for the fact one of those pillows under her head carried J.T.'s scent.

He'd always had a distinctive air. Earthy, sexy. And, ohmigod, how pregnancy heightened her sense of smell, leaving her all the more susceptible to the woodsy soap swirl curling through her with each inhale.

She flipped pages, lingered on an herb garden layout. Odd how smells became associated with emotions. She'd been pruning her oregano plant when she'd heard about J.T. overseas. She still couldn't eat spaghetti.

But a single sniff of J.T.'s soap, and she found her eyes drifting shut so she could isolate that one intense sensation. Remember the very second she'd met the man and he'd bombarded all her senses. The magazine flopped onto her chest.

In those days, he'd been a C-141 loadmaster, stationed in New Jersey. She and three friends from her private girls' school had piled into her car and driven over the New York state line for a peek at those flyboys at their air show.

One look at J.T. and she was toast. She still firmly believed she would have fallen for him, no matter what her background. She hadn't felt the same tug to any of the other fly-boys that day.

But her past had made her a pure sitting duck for the explosive attraction that rolled over her the first time she saw him. She didn't stand a chance thanks to the combination of her all-girl environment and lack of experience. What teenage boy would risk her father's displeasure by dating her?

J.T. had quietly dared plenty when it came to risking her family's "displeasure," and she would have loved him for that alone.

Still she could remember the feel of his hand on her elbow as he'd steadied her along the back ramp into the plane. And then he'd been waiting for her when she exited the side hatch. She never knew who he'd convinced to take over for him, but suddenly he was free to escort her around the air show.

He'd bought her a hamburger and she totally forgot what fillet mignon tasted like, just knew nothing could be as good as that charbroiled burger mixed with her first taste of love.

The telephone rang, jarring her out of her fog.

She pitched the magazine onto the coffee table, reaching for the cordless phone beside her teacup. "Hello?"