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The Right Touch
Eileen Nauman
The Right TouchShe was living dangerouslyAs a TV camera operator and competing fencer, Devorah Hunter had enough to handle. She didn't need a tough, sexy guy like Cal Travis around–she suspected he was a real lady-killer.Yet when she met the notorious pilot at an embassy party in Hong Kong, she was in for some surprises. Devorah had planned on keeping her distance, but somehow her plans and Cal's moves just kept pulling them closer and closer…
Travis Trilogy
The Right Touch
She was living dangerously
As a TV camera operator and competing fencer, Devorah Hunter had enough to handle. She didn’t need a tough, sexy guy like Cal Travis around—she suspected he was a real lady-killer.
Yet when she met the notorious pilot at an embassy party in Hong Kong, she was in for some surprises. Devorah had planned on keeping her distance, but somehow her plans and Cal’s moves just kept pulling them closer and closer…
The Right Touch
Lindsay McKenna
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
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1
“COME ON, CAL, you need to get off this carrier for a while,” Captain Scott Guthrie said as he entered the cramped quarters. He held his friend’s icy gray glare.
“Tell the squadron commander I’m sick,” Cal muttered, lying on the bunk, hands clasped behind his head as he stared grimly up at the ceiling.
Scott leaned against the hatch, shoving his hands into the pockets of his summer uniform. “You’re the guy who’s supposed to be heading up this shindig, remember? Hey, it isn’t every day we get an unexpected week in a port like Hong Kong.”
Cal flinched, his eyes darkening to charcoal. He and his copilot, Chief Stanton, had been the reason for the stay in Hong Kong. Repairs to the carrier’s catapult system were being completed. Cal shut his eyes, unable to deal with the loss shearing through him. His copilot had been like a brother to him. Now he was dead. And Cal was alive. A fluke of fate.
“I’m not up to a party, Scotty. Much less an embassy function,” Cal growled, wrestling with the pain that radiated outward in his chest. He hadn’t slept well since the accident. Four days…God, four nightmarish days. He had been put on waivers immediately after the helicopter had fished him out of the South China Sea. Doctors had checked him over. Reports in triplicate and quadruplicate had been filled out. A talk with his squadron commander. A talk with the chaplain. And then a talk with the psychologist. Cal was sick to death of being poked, prodded and probed. All he wanted was to be left alone to mourn the loss of his best friend.
Scott’s oval face was shadowed with concern as he studied his fellow aviator. “Look,” he began earnestly, “maybe this is what you need, Cal. Get off the ship. Get away from here for a while. We don’t have to report back aboard for three days. Hell, let’s punch the ticket, do our bit for the American consulate, play escort and then hightail it to the Wanchai District over on the island and tie one on for Chief.”
Cal drew in a ragged breath, opening his eyes, staring blindly at the ceiling. “Maybe you’re right.” Get drunk. That was a good idea. Maybe it would dull the pain. He was on flight waivers; he didn’t have to worry about having alcohol in his bloodstream because he wasn’t allowed near one of the combat jets he flew. Ordinarily, he’d toss down a beer or two with his friends. But right now, a couple of double scotches seemed a reasonable alternative. He could forget for a blessed while. He could finally get more than one or two hours’ sleep a night. Cal rubbed his bloodshot eyes and slowly sat up, moving to his feet.
“That’s more like it,” Scott said as Cal pulled on his long-sleeved khaki shirt.
“Where is this party being held?” Cal asked, putting on the shirt and then straightening the tie of the same color at his throat.
“Over on Kowloon. Shangri-La Hotel. Supposed to be a five-star place.” Scott shrugged, a grin curving his lips. “Hell, good chow, good booze and more than likely some very foxy ladies. Us bachelors couldn’t ask for anything more.”
Cal snorted, running a comb through his short, walnut-colored hair. “Right now, all I feel like is a dark corner with my drink and that’s it, not a woman.”
“Just turn on your marine corps charm, smile and be the handsome devil you always are and you’ll survive,” Scott drawled.
Cal picked up his jacket and shrugged into it. Hong Kong in late October was in the low eighties with ninety percent humidity. They’d sweat to death in their uniforms. All part of punching the ticket to get to test pilot school, he reminded himself. Only tonight, he wanted no part of official duties. He didn’t want small talk, coy games being played by a woman—he didn’t want any company at all. Grief wasn’t something he could share. It was too personal. Too explosive in its pain, ripping him apart inwardly every waking moment. If only he could sleep…God, he could escape the hurt.
“I heard from Sam,” Scott went on, “that we’ll be playing escort to a group of national and Olympic amateur fencers from America. They’re over here for an international competition this week. The American embassy is throwing a party for all the competitors. Isn’t that something? Never met a fencer. I knew the sport existed, but I didn’t know it had women in its ranks. Always thought of it as a man’s game. They’ve even got the Russian and Chinese teams here for the meet.”
Cal opened his locker and pulled out his service cap, making sure the black patent leather bill was dust and fingerprint free before he settled it on his head. He shrugged noncommittally. That would mean CIA types posing as businessmen littering the party. Those in the marine corps would be watched like hawks because one slip, one hint of top secret military knowledge would be just what the Russians would love to overhear—or so the undercover men would assume. Well, at the first opportunity, Cal was going to get rid of his assigned female and take a ferry over to Hong Kong and drown his misery in the Wanchai District.
Scott opened the hatch and they both stepped out. “I know what you’re thinking, Cal, and we haven’t got a thing to worry about: we’ve got the complete U.S. fencing team with us. All they gotta do is draw their swords and protect us from these undercover guys, if need be.” He laughed genially as they ambled down the passageway toward the upper-deck stairs. “Wonder if those female fencers are built like bulldogs? Maybe tanks?”
Cal shrugged his broad shoulders. “We’ll find out” was all he muttered.
* * *
“LOOK! HERE THEY COME!” Sarah whispered conspiratorially to Devorah. “Come on, Dev, at least look like you want to meet these gorgeous marine corps pilots.”
Dev wrinkled her freckled nose, casting a quick glance toward the lobby. She could see a contingent of fifteen pilots from the U.S. carrier entering the huge marble and chandeliered area. “I hate blind dates. I don’t care who they are. Why can’t we attend this party alone?”
Sarah touched her short crop of blond hair, her green eyes dancing. “We’re an international event, Dev! Of course the U.S. embassy is going to have us chaperoned.” She rubbed her hands together, tossing her unenthusiastic friend a brilliant smile. “And marines! Oh! I just love a man in uniform. This is turning out better than I’d ever dreamed.”
Dev rolled her eyes. “Correction: you’re an international sensation, I’m not. You’re the top foil fencer in the U.S.” The comment went right over Sarah’s petite head, and Dev smiled benignly. Well, what could she expect? Sarah was only twenty and she was twenty-eight. A world of difference and different experiences, Dev thought, trying to look philosophically upon the evening. Sarah had eyes for any man who was handsome but remained loyal to her steady boyfriend David back home. Besides, for Sarah, life was a nonstop adventure.
Sarah pouted. “You never give yourself credit, Dev. If you weren’t important, they wouldn’t have asked you along.”
Dev grinned, her blue eyes sparkling. “Right. The woman èpèe specialist.”
“Don’t knock it. You and Sue Barnes not only made it acceptable for women to fence one another with heavier weapons, but you’ve also got it legally accepted at the national level. That’s nothing to sniff at. It’s impressive.”
“I just wish Sue was here right now,” Dev groaned.
“Well, if you were having a baby right now, you’d be home, too.”
“Can I say I’m having morning sickness and gracefully bow out of this party we have to attend?”
Sarah laughed. “You’re so funny, Dev. Guess it goes along with your funny name.”
“And funny, gangly body.”
“Oh, stop it!”
Dev laughed with her. “Hey, that’s how I got into èpèe in the first place: I was too tall for foil. Did you ever see a good woman foil fencer over five-foot-six?”
Sarah shook her head. “Small means swift.”
“Right. And large means a bigger target who’s slower moving.” She looked down at herself. “I’m five-foot-nine and a hundred and thirty pounds. That’s why I went into èpè. All épéeists are tall and slender. Merely a matter of self-defense.” She tapped her head. “And smarts.” Foil was a light weapon compared to the épée blade. Because of the difference in styles, many men thought women couldn’t adjust to the more demanding and physical game of èpè. Dev had proved them wrong.
“You’re crazy, Dev! You always make me laugh.”
Dev’s full mouth curved into a smile as she watched her smaller friend’s delight. “Yeah, that’s what the guys at the TV station say, too.”
“Have Minicam, will travel,” Sarah agreed. And then she frowned. “You sure your wrist is healed enough? I mean, when that big guy tried to punch you out because you were the one with the camera…”
Dev looked at her right wrist. Ordinarily, the California sun would have tanned her whole arm; around her wrist the skin was white. The ace bandage had come off two days ago. Dev had spent every moment she could spare from her exhausting job as a camera operator fencing to rebuild the strained muscles. “It should hold up. Coach told me to tape it, but I don’t know. I don’t feel like losing in front of an international television audience. I need all the flexibility I can get to win.” She hadn’t told Coach Jack Gordon there were times when she experienced such excruciating pain that she dropped whatever she was carrying in her right hand. No, if Jack had known that, he would never have allowed her to come to this international meet. She was there to show the rest of the world that women were just as good in épée and sabre as any man in the sport.
Sarah frowned. “Yes, but if one of those big Russian women decides to poke you right there with the steel tip of an pe, you could really get it injured.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it.” Dev put her hand on Sarah’s bare shoulder. The cocktail-length black chemise made Sarah look smashing. Dev, on the other hand, wore a stunning strapless Victor Kosta dress of red-and-white stripes, complementing her auburn hair and blue eyes. “I’m supposed to be big sister, not you,” she teased, laughing.
“I know, I know. Devorah Hunter is our den mother on this trip.” At that moment, Sarah was distracted. Her eyes grew large as she eyed the pilots. “Oh, don’t they look gorgeous?” she breathed.
Dev gave them a practiced once-over. “No,” she drawled, amusement in her tone. “They look like they’re on the prowl.”
“Marines! Real men! Look at them!”
With a shake of her head, Dev excused herself and slid among the rest of the women fencers, making her way to the rear, resting her back against the marble wall. Mrs. Weintraub, wife of one of the officials from the American embassy, began to make introductions. Dev’s eyes sparkled with laughter as she watched the older woman pairing off pilots with fencers based on the criterion of height. Couldn’t have a short marine with a tall fencer, could we? Dev almost laughed aloud and then thought better of it. Most of the women were much younger than her; either Olympic hopefuls for 1988 or international foil fencers in their early twenties. And all short.
Her gaze roved without interest over the pilots. Most of them were short, too, and Dev wondered why, never having had much to do with the military services. The closest she got was when her television station had her and reporter Fred Tucker drive up to Edwards Air Force Base in the Mojave Desert to take pictures of Shuttle landings and astronauts waving as they disembarked from the huge white craft. Dev smiled as she saw Sarah blushing. A decidedly handsome pilot barely a head taller than her gallantly took her arm and escorted her toward the bank of elevators. Sarah was in love, Dev decided humorously, drowning in all that dashing derring-do of the fighter pilot image.
“Uh, Miss—let’s see, dear…” The wife of the embassy official gave Dev a forced smile as she walked over quickly to her. Dev straightened. She saw the woman nervously riffling through the neatly typed lists in her hands. “Oh, dear…what is your name?”
“Dev. Dev Hunter, Mrs. Weintraub,” she supplied, trying to look properly interested. Good! Maybe her name wasn’t on the list, which meant she could go back to her room in the hotel and soak her wrist. It was aching and she had no desire to dance or do anything but rest her arm for the forthcoming meet.
“Oh, dear…I just know they have your name somewhere here.”
Dev looked up. Up into dark-gray eyes that ruthlessly assessed her. She swallowed, caught in the web of his appraisal of her. He was tall. Much taller than any of the other pilots. And his lean face was closed, measured and disapproving. Her heart beat a little more quickly, a reaction that nonplussed her. Whoever he was, he was whipcord lean with squared broad shoulders that were thrown back confidently. An image flitted through her alerted mind: the expression in those almost colorless gray eyes with their huge black pupils warned that he was ready to pounce and shred his next victim. He looked like an eagle. His mouth, although well shaped, was thinned by obvious irritation. But Dev might have been more on guard if the corners of his mouth hadn’t been turned softly upward. At some point, he must have laughed a great deal. He wasn’t laughing now. No, if looks could kill, she’d be dead and so would poor Mrs. Weintraub, who was flustered by the faux pas.
Dev was far more concerned about Mrs. Weintraub’s embarrassment. She appeared to be going into cardiac arrest as she tore through the sheaf of papers in her trembling fingers. Dev reached out and touched her elegantly clad silk shoulder. “It’s quite all right, Mrs. Weintraub.”
“Well, I just know you are a fencer…I feel terrible.”
Dev risked a glance up at the marine corps officer, who was standing there as if bored to death. What was the matter with the arrogant idiot? He was just making Mrs. Weintraub that much more uncomfortable. Her blue eyes darkened when they met his gray ones. “Egotistical” flashed to mind. And then “cold.” Cold and cruelly insensitive. She disliked him intensely in those seconds. Well, she didn’t want to be here, either, but she wasn’t acting like an ass, at least.
Dev’s mouth pursed. “Look, Mrs. Weintraub, it’s all right. I honestly didn’t want to go to the party. I’m really tired with jet lag and—”
“Oh, my dear! I can’t possibly let you go back to your room just because of a silly typing omission!”
Sure you can, Dev thought, trying to look properly chastised that she had even suggested such an alternative. Then another plan formed in her mind, and she looked up, giving the stonelike officer one of her warmest and most brilliant smiles.
“Well, I’m sure the captain, uh—”
“Major,” he corrected her coolly. “Major Cal Travis.”
Dev waved her hand. “Of course! Major. Mrs. Weintraub, I’m sure Major Travis wouldn’t mind a bit if we just called it an evening.” Her eyes widened slightly in a pleading gesture as she held his insolent gaze. “Would you, Major?” she asked sweetly. God, she hated herself for such brash, sickeningly sweet, femme fatale methods. This just wasn’t like her. But at this point, Dev was willing to stoop to such a level to get out of having to go anywhere with this impudent officer!
“Whatever the lady wants,” he drawled with a slight bow.
I’ll bet, you arrogant—
“My gracious, we just can’t have that!” Mrs. Weintraub grabbed the officer by the arm and practically dragged him over. “Dev Hunter, I’d like you to meet your escort for the evening, Major Cal Travis.” She moved from between them and pushed them together. The instant Dev’s forearm came in contact with his hard, masculine body, Dev moved away as if burned.
“Now come, come! Just go up to the twenty-first floor and join the celebration.” Mrs. Weintraub grabbed Cal’s arm and led them toward the bank of elevators.
Once inside one, Dev immediately went to the opposite corner. Her heart was pounding like a snared rabbit’s, yet she met his hard eyes. “I don’t like this any more than you do.”
“Good, at least you aren’t the type to play games,” he said, looking her over as if she were a piece of furniture to be appraised. Cal saw a red stain come to her cheeks and suddenly felt contrite.
Come on, Travis, who do you think you’re talking to? She’s probably twenty-four or -five, never been out of the States before and is completely out of her element, and you’re going to put her in your sights and shoot her down.
He moved his mouth. “Sorry,” he muttered.
Dev’s wrist began to ache, and she focused on that rather than this enigmatic officer who looked just as ill at ease as she felt. Lightly touching her right wrist, she shrugged. “I didn’t want to come to this party, either.”
“Well, at least we agree on one thing.”
She felt his hand settle on her elbow, and he guided her out of the elevator. Her head snapped up, her eyes wide with confusion as she stared up at him. Prickles of pleasure radiated from his touch. For all the anger she saw and felt emanating from him, his hand was firm without being cruel. He seemed to monitor her stride in her cocktail dress and heels so that she wouldn’t have to run to keep up with his longer-legged walk.
“Drink?”
Dev winced inwardly. His voice was like a whip. If she had to stand here for an hour and put in an appearance for the team’s sake, it was going to be agony. “Make it a double scotch, will you?”
He tilted his head, a thaw in his gray eyes and, if she wasn’t imagining it, a slight hint of a smile pulling at one corner of his compressed lips. “We agree on two things. Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Dev raised her chin, her blue eyes flaring. “Yes, sir. Or should I salute you, too?”
Some indecipherable emotion flicked across his face. “Just stand at parade ease and that will do, Ms Hunter.”
Arrogant bastard! She stood there, seething. Well, to hell with him! Dev turned smartly on her white heels, perusing the huge room that was softly lit by the chandeliers overhead. The music was soothing, but she barely heard it as she prowled the perimeter of the two hundred or so guests. The women were in their finest and most colorful plumage, while the men wore a mixture of business suits or uniforms from the various services. An impressive party, Dev decided. Aha—a balcony. Just what she wanted. Perhaps if she went out there and hid, Major Travis with his vinegar personality might not find her and would go home—where he belonged. And then she could go to her room and sleep!
The scintillating lights of Victoria Harbor were mesmerizing as Dev lounged against the wrought-iron balustrade. The sparkling reds, greens and blues from the island of Hong Kong itself danced off the rippling ebony surface so that she quickly became absorbed in the beauty of the night. A heavy cape of stars covered the shoulders of the night above her, and a soft, tangy salt breeze caressed Dev’s face. With a groan, she wriggled out of the heels, her feet already aching. She was used to wearing jogging shoes on the job and fencing shoes on the copper strip when going bouts with fellow fencers. Heels were something to be put in the darkest corner of her apartment closet and forgotten. Why women wore these tortuous, stilted monstrosities was beyond Dev. Then a silly grin split her squarish face. If she believed that, what was she doing wearing them tonight? The inconsistency of human behavior was alive and well, she decided.
After that, so engrossed did she become in the sight of Hong Kong in the distance and a junk sailing by that Dev forgot all about the party and her sourpuss escort.
