“Who, then?” Winston said, clearly bored and trying to prolong the conversation.
“No telling.”
“Don’t you even have a theory?”
Drake sighed and closed her book, using her finger to mark the spot. “No, I don’t. Lesson learned, Winston. A lot of waiting is part of it. Be prepared for it. Now, unless there was something else?” Drake waited politely for a moment before returning to her book. Winston sighed in frustration.
Suddenly, the noise level near the entrance picked up markedly. In one smooth motion, Drake snapped her book shut, jammed it in her bag, and darted off to shove her way through the crowd to the front door. Two Marine Corps sergeants entered, blazing a path through the waiting crowd for the man behind them.
“Who is it?” Winston asked, struggling to catch up with Drake and the cameraman, who had already positioned himself to get a shot of whoever was entering.
Tombstone Magruder stepped through the door. The tall, lean frame, those piercing dark gray eyes, the short clipped hair now going gray at the temples. She had every line of his face — indeed, of his body — memorized. Her fingers had touched every inch of his skin and she knew his body as well as she knew her own.
Even after all these years since she’d broken off their engagement, she still found herself short of breath when she saw him. No one had ever come close to him, in bed or out of it, and over the years she had become resigned to the fact that no one ever would.
One of the reasons she had been so angry at Winston’s callous remarks about Tombstone’s availability was that that thought had crossed her own mind more than once. She had been foolish, so foolish, not to marry him when she had the chance. Sure, it would have meant compromises in her career, but if she had known how much she would miss him, she would have been willing to make them.
But the compromises only went one way, didn’t they? There was no way he was willing to settle down, no way he would’ve been happy without flying around the world every couple of weeks. Somehow Tomboy, with her own career in the Navy, had been able to stand it. Drake knew she couldn’t have. There was never any hope of a future for them, not as long as Tombstone refused to compromise.
But there could have been, one part of her mind insisted. He would have changed, I know he would. And he’s not in the Navy anymore. He’s retired now, a civilian, although it’s hard to tell it by looking at him.
Indeed, even in civilian clothes, Tombstone Magruder looked every inch the admiral. His erect posture, the ease with which he moved through the crowd of sailors, the lazy way his eyes were half closed as he surveyed the crowd — all said that this was an officer who was used to command and accustomed to being obeyed.
Pamela felt her breathing grow unsteady as he turned in her direction. His eyes passed over her lightly, and then came back to her. They widened slightly and he nodded in acknowledgment of her presence. There was no smile or any change in his expression.
What do you expect from a man nicknamed Tombstone? She shoved her way through the crowd, which didn’t give way for her as it had for him. She stepped in front him, almost too close, and looked up at him. His familiar musk smell reached her.
“Good afternoon, Admiral. Are you headed out to Jefferson?” she asked, holding the mike unobtrusively at her side. It was sensitive enough to pick up any comments he might make.
Tombstone just looked at her for a long moment then said, “I assume you’re waiting for the COD?”
“And I assume it’s waiting for you, isn’t it?”
He studied her for a moment, his gaze lingering over her features, and she knew he was remembering how well they knew each other. With a flash of insight, she realized how desperately lonely he must be these days. Tomboy had seemed to complete part of him, and although he carried on in her absence, there was always a sense that he was withdrawn.
There was a commotion at her side, and then Winston stepped up beside Drake, elbowing her slightly as she did so. She smiled brightly and held out her hand. “You must be Admiral Magruder,” she said. “Cary Winston. I’m working with Pamela now.”
“For. Not with.” Pamela corrected the preposition immediately, and she saw a flash of amusement on Tombstone’s face. As she had known he would, he picked up instantly on the tension between the two women. With just a hint of sardonic amusement in his eyes, he said, “How do you do, Ms. Winston. If you’ll excuse me, I need to check in. I’m certain we’ll have a chance to speak later.” He turned away without saying any more to Drake, and she could have kicked him in the shins. It was evident what he was doing, at least to her and her cameraman. But not so to Winston.
Winston turned back to her, a bemused expression on her face. “Wow. He’s really something.” Another one bites the dust. Just what is it about Tombstone?
Ten minutes later, the check-in clerk was calling out names and leading passengers with their luggage out to the waiting COD. Tombstone was not in line. Then again, Drake did not expect he would have to go through the same procedures that they did. He was probably already on board, perhaps up front talking to the pilots.
But when they followed the clerk across the hot tarmac, piled their luggage as directed, and then proceeded to board through the tail ramp, she was surprised still not to see him. She grabbed a petty officer helping the passengers to their seats and asked, “Isn’t Admiral Magruder on this flight?”
The sailor regarded her levelly. “I’m sorry, ma’am. The movements of senior officials are always classified.”
“Yes, but I saw him in the terminal.”
“If you’d proceed to board, ma’am.”
Frustrated, she started toward the ramp and paused to let Cary Winston and the cameraman precede her. She trotted back to her luggage, as though she’d forgotten something, and took a quick look around the airfield. Sure enough, about four hundred feet away, she saw Tombstone climbing up the boarding ladder and into the cockpit of a Tomcat. She turned back to the crewman who had refused to answer her questions, a grin on her face. As he started for her, she waved to Tombstone, and then trotted back to the COD’s ramp. “Sorry. I forgot my book.”
So he’s flying out in a Tomcat, is he? I wonder how he stays current. And I wonder why the Navy is letting a retired admiral get stick time anyway? Surely they have plenty of pilots who are dying for some stick time. What’s going on here?
“Maybe he’s taking the later flight,” Winston said, disappointment in her voice.
“Maybe,” Drake said. She fastened the restraining harness, tightened the straps, and opened her book. And then again, I bet he beats us out there.
“Who’s that?” Jeremy Greene asked, pointing across the tarmac. Tombstone, halfway up the boarding ladder, twisted around to see Drake’s familiar figure standing near the COD.
Pamela, dammit — why do you always have to be everywhere I am? And why are you here when Tomboy isn’t?
It made no sense at all, the intrusive train of thought that started every time he saw her. Pamela was not responsible for Tomboy being gone. He knew that, kept repeating it to himself. Yet every time he saw his former fiancée, he felt a completely irrational flash of rage that she was here, dogging his footsteps, and Tomboy wasn’t. Tombstone looked down at Greene, who had already completed his preflight and was strapped into his ejection seat. “Ignore her.”
“Civilian, right? Maybe we’ll see her on the boat.”
“Maybe you ought to be a RIO instead of a pilot,” Tombstone said. “You didn’t recognize her?”