Under Fire. Lindsay McKenna

him smile to himself. He’d pretended to pay full attention to Brad’s story of woe but the whole time, his senses had been acutely focused on Maggie.

      “What are you doing here, Donovan?” Hall growled, straightening and standing next to Bishop’s chair.

      “It’s noon and it’s time to eat. I have a stomach just like you do, Hall.”

      Wes winced. Man, she could come out firing when she wanted to. It was obvious she and Hall didn’t like each other.

      Brad glared at her. “I was just filling in my old friend, Wes Bishop, on working with you. I understand he’s your new RIO.”

      Maggie glanced over at Wes, who was staring innocently up at her. That damned mouth of his was curved in an angelic shape, and she bridled. “If there’s any filling-in to do, it’s my responsibility to do it, Hall. Not yours. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I’ve got to interview Lieutenant Bishop.”

      Hall shrugged. He patted the other RIO’s shoulder. “Later, Wes.”

      “Yeah. Later, Brad. See you around.”

      Nervously, Maggie sat down opposite him. She stowed her purse and garrison cap beneath her chair. Offering her hand after Hall left, she said, “I’m Maggie Donovan. Commander Parkinson told me you’d be over here.”

      Wes noted how long and slender Maggie’s hand was. She didn’t have pretty model’s hands; fingers were too large-knuckled. He clasped and shook it, appreciating her strong grip. “Wes Bishop. Nice to meet the world-famous lady combat-pilot.”

      With a grimace, Maggie noticed his firm yet gentle shake. He had wonderful hands, she thought. Trying to get her wildly rolling feelings under control, Maggie worked to contain her strictly feminine reaction to Bishop and get down to the business at hand. It was impossible to do.

      “There’s been too much publicity on me over the past couple of years,” she griped. “None of it was fair, and the rest was mulch for those rags. I hope you didn’t believe what you read.”

      Wes smiled and picked up his coffee cup, studying her over the rim. “I prefer meeting a person face-to-face before making up my mind.” She was feminine despite her lanky frame, he decided—and touchingly vulnerable. Her hand shook as she picked up the glass of water and sipped. Partly from flying off carrier decks, he thought. Still, there was a softness to Maggie that appealed strongly to him. There was anxiety in the depths of her lovely emerald-green eyes. Automatically, Wes wanted to put her at ease.

      “You’re not what I expected, I have to admit.”

      Maggie tried to appear at ease, although she felt anything but. She tried to figure out her reaction to Wes Bishop logically. Sure, she was nervous about meeting him as an RIO; but more, her heart was doing wild leaps every time he rested those steady blue eyes on her. When had a man’s looks ever made her feel like this? Maggie blamed her nerves. “Oh?”

      “Yeah. I expected a hard-edged broad who walked with a macho swagger and tried to pretend she was one of the boys. You aren’t.”

      Gawking at him for an instant, Maggie was nonplussed. “You shoot straight from the hip, don’t you?”

      “I see you didn’t waste any words on Hall, either,” Wes pointed out mildly.

      “Touché,” she admitted. The waitress came over and Maggie gave her order. She wasn’t really hungry. This man made her so nervous she wanted to drink to quell her reaction, but she needed a clear head so she ordered coffee instead.

      Placing her elbows on the table and resting her chin against her clasped hands, Maggie said, “Commander Parkinson sent me over here.”

      “I know. To check me out.”

      “It’s for both our benefits.”

      “That’s fine. I understand. Hall has a problem with you.”

      “Is that what he told you?”

      “Don’t get your hackles up, Lieutenant.”

      “I will if you swallow the hogwash he fed you.”

      Wes grinned and moved the dainty cup slowly around in its saucer, his large hand huge in comparison to the china. “You’ve got a very distrustful look in those pretty green eyes of yours,” he baited.

      “And you can cut through the jock talk, Bishop. This is strictly business between us.” Still, she’d liked his low, rough tone when he’d complimented her.

      “Just because I compliment you doesn’t mean I’m after your body, Ms. Donovan.” Not that it wasn’t a pleasant thought. Wes liked her lean, greyhound grace. Maggie wasn’t beautiful in the conventional sense. She had a long face to go with that long body of hers. Her eyes were like huge green emeralds framed with thick red lashes. Her nose, he was sure, had been broken, with a bump to attest to it. The rest of it flowed straight and clean down to fine, thin nostrils that flared when she was taking offense. Wes couldn’t decide which he liked more about Maggie: her eyes that telegraphed every emotion, or that pursed set of full lips that had just a touch of impishness.

      Maggie sat digesting his statement. “You give as good as you get, don’t you, Bishop?” she said after a moment.

      “I guess it comes with the territory, Donovan. Pilots think they run the show up there.”

      “RIOs think they run it.”

      Wes leaned forward, a lazy grin on his mouth. “The truth is, we run it together.”

      She felt a glimmer of hope. “You aren’t just B.S.-ing me? You mean that?”

      “To use the words of Commander Parkinson, pilots and RIOs are in a marriage of sorts.” He looked her over nice and slow, deliberately testing her reaction. She frowned. “I wouldn’t mind being ‘married’ to you. And I’m not such a bad catch, either.”

      Maggie stared hard at Wes. The woman in her entertained the fleeting thought of him as a husband. No, he wasn’t a bad catch. And then Maggie bridled at her foolish thoughts. Where were they coming from, anyway? “Where’d you get your sense of humor?”

      “The same place you got yours, Ms. Donovan. My mother’s an Italian woman of fire and passion. My father’s half Cherokee and half Irish.” His grin widened. “I got my mother’s skin color and hair. My father gave me the high cheekbones, blue eyes, his nose and mouth, not to mention my wonderful personality.”

      “Passion, huh?” She had to tear her gaze from the lazy smile that pulled at his mouth—a mouth that any woman would be crazy not to want to kiss.

      “Nothing wrong with a little passion, is there?”

      Maggie’s eyes narrowed. Wes had her way off-balance. Normally she held her own with any arrogant jet jock. “Depends upon where the passion is emphasized, Bishop.” Yes, he was a man of passion, there was no doubt, and Maggie went hot and shaky inside. Was she going crazy? Was the stress finally getting to her? Never had she reacted so strongly and immediately to a man. It had to be her imagination, the stress of her job.

      “Oh.” He gave her an innocent look. “Well, of course it would be a passion to be the best damn RIO you ever had while we work together in the cockpit to win Red Flag.”

      Maggie sat back and her laugh came out full and rolling. With a shake of her head, she rested her elbows on the table again. “You always say the right thing, Bishop?”

      His eyes danced with merriment. He liked her full-throated laughter. He liked a woman who could laugh at herself, as well as at the world around her. “I can’t blame my diplomacy on my Italian side because my mother has absolutely none.”

      “And the Irish have no capacity for diplomacy.”

      “That’s true. I guess the Cherokee blood from my father gave me the saving grace of knowing when to say something and when to keep my mouth shut.”

      “I have