The Gauntlet (5 page)

Dammit! He stood, torn, watching as she sat at the terminal, her hands covering her face. Was she crying? She had every right to do so. Troubled, Cam put his hand on the door handle. As an instructor, he played a dual role with the students. First, he had to terrorize them enough to wring out their best, whatever that was. Second, he had to be a support system for them, to encourage them to surpass what they thought was their best. But he’d just gone in there and terrorized her.

Irritated, Cam let his hand slip off the handle. How had Molly gotten through four years at Annapolis? Surely she’d handled far more harassment and pressure than this. He watched as she lifted her head and rubbed her forehead. Her face was pale, but he didn’t see any tears on her cheeks. What kind of woman was she? Molly was a genuine enigma to him. Still, Cam knew without a doubt that they’d shred her in debriefing if she didn’t stand up for her programs—logic and diplomacy were the first to go in those heated exchanges.

Muttering to himself, Cam turned away, not wanting her to discover him still standing there. It would be the ultimate embarrassment to her if she spotted him. A huge part of him wanted to stay. Stay and do what? As he shuffled down the hall toward his office, Cam shook his head. Molly interested him. Maybe the word was
fascinated.
She was unlike any woman in the military he’d met or worked with.

“Too soft,” he said under his breath. “She’s too soft to stand the attacks she’s going to have to go through.”

* * *

Molly tried to dismiss the entire crisis that had taken place, but she couldn’t. Her stomach growled, but she wasn’t hungry. Glancing at her watch, she saw it was 2100. Time to go home and get some sleep. Unsettled, she logged her software program into the files of the computer and shut down the terminal.

Placing the yards of computer printout in her briefcase, she left the room. As she headed from the elevator to the main doors, she saw Captain Sinclair’s office door open, light spilling out into the semidarkened hallway. Hesitating, Molly felt the urge to stop and speak with him. About what? To defend her way of handling situations? He’d made himself perfectly clear about how he thought she should handle them.

It was obvious Sinclair didn’t think much of her, either. Leaving TPS, Molly decided to try to call her friends at Whiting Field. She desperately missed Dana and Maggie. Perhaps they could shed some light on her most recent problems.

* * *

“I think you should’ve decked Martin,” Maggie Donovan told her, anger in her voice. “That kind of jock only understands one thing, Molly, and that’s aggression equal to his own. What he puts out, he gets back.”

“I don’t agree,” Dana Coulter’s voice countered from the other phone. “You said Captain Sinclair broke it up?”

“Yes,” Molly admitted unhappily. She sat on her couch, her legs folded beneath her, the receiver resting against her hand and shoulder.

“He defended you,” Maggie said.

“No, he didn’t,” Molly countered. “I’ve already told you his view of the situation. Martin ripped me open, and he just added salt to my wounds.”

“I think he was trying to get you to see how you need to change your behavior to fit the circumstances,” Dana pointed out. “The fact that he came to your rescue means he’s on your side.”

“He sure didn’t look it. Gosh, gals, Sinclair is like ice all the way through. He could put holes in you with those eyes of his. You should have seen Martin back down. The guy was tripping all over himself, backpedaling.”

“Of course.” Maggie chuckled. “Martin isn’t going to take on his instructor. Martin’s smart for gigging you when you were alone. He’s trying to make you fail, Molly, before you even get a chance.”

“He’s a male chauvinist, that’s all.”

“No,” Dana argued passionately. “Martin’s more than that, Molly. He’s really dangerous to your career. You’ve got to show more backbone. Maggie’s right. That kind of guy only respects an equal response to whatever he throws at you. Sinclair was doing you a favor by telling you how to arm yourself against Martin.”

“Well, if that bastard Martin keeps it up,” Maggie shot back, “I’d hang a sexual harassment suit on him.”

“Sinclair was right there. He heard Martin chewing me out. If there were grounds for it, don’t you think he’d do something about it?”

“There is no man alive who’s going to stand in your corner on a sexual harassment charge unless you bring it to him in writing,” Maggie said vehemently. “Damn, Molly, you can’t be laid-back about this. At Annapolis, Dana and I were there to help defend you against goons like Martin. But we aren’t there anymore, as much as I wish we were. You
have
to start developing that backbone we both know you have.”

“Molly,” Dana begged gently, “Maggie’s upset at Martin, not you. We know you believe diplomacy and a more passive response can win the day, but sometimes it can’t. Take Sinclair’s advice. He wasn’t out to rub salt in your wounds—only to help bind them in the best way he knew how.”

Glumly, Molly nodded. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. If my father hears about this, I’ll just get another chewing-out. I don’t need a third one.”

“Hang tough,” Dana urged. “Sinclair could be your ace in the hole. If things get bad, go to him. Talk to him. I think he’s on your side.”

“And if that doesn’t work,” Maggie added, “deck Martin and tell Sinclair to take a flying leap.”

Laughing, Molly thanked her friends. She hung up and remained on the couch, thinking, the afghan tucked around her legs. Her friends
had
protected her at Annapolis, to a large degree. Maggie’s fierce confidence made her a guard dog of sorts. And Dana was at her shoulder to back up whatever Maggie put into motion. Between her two friends, no upper or lower classman at Annapolis had wanted to put her at risk.

Picking up her cup of tea, Molly sipped the hot liquid pensively. Dana and Maggie had been her buffer zone against the aggressive male world of the military, it was true. Yet she knew she couldn’t handle it the way Maggie did, with equal assertiveness—which was exactly what Sinclair had suggested. And she didn’t possess Dana’s deadly calm voice and bristling defenses that no man dared test.

Looking around her quiet apartment and seeing the clock on the wall tell her it was midnight, Molly sighed. Tomorrow a letter would arrive from Scott, and he would want to know every detail of her week. On Saturday would come the dreaded phone call from her father, who would wring every nuance of the week’s events from her with endless, probing questions. Rubbing her brow, Molly wondered how she was going to tell them about Martin. It was beyond her to think of lying. Perhaps she could avoid telling them.

With a grimace, Molly removed the purple and pink afghan and sat up. Every time she’d tried the ploy of avoiding a topic with her father, he’d ferreted out whatever fact she was trying to hide and made his verbal berating doubly harsh. Molly stood and took the partially filled cup of tea into her modern kitchen. She rinsed out the cup and set it in the dish drainer. How much she missed Dana and Maggie! They’d been such a happy threesome at Whiting Field, their apartment ringing with kidding, laughter and good times, despite the pressures on them.

Looking around, Molly left the kitchen and headed to the huge bathroom to soak in a tub of hot water. To her dismay, her thoughts revolved back to Cam Sinclair. God, but he looked forbidding, yet she was powerfully drawn to him. Why? How? Molly didn’t think Dana was right about Sinclair. He seemed to hate her as much as Martin did. So why was she so drawn to him as a man? What chemistry was at work? It was totally illogical.

* * *

Cam tossed restlessly in his bed, the sheet tangled between his long legs. Light from the street invaded the bedroom, filtering through the pale yellow sheers. He glowered at the clock on the monkeypod nightstand. It was midnight. Why the hell did Molly Rutledge’s vulnerable face hang in front of his eyes every time he shut them?

His guilt over how he’d handled her earlier had made his whole evening miserable. Miracle, his black Labrador, lifted her head from the braided rug that sat parallel to the bed. Her huge brown eyes glimmered with question. Cam waved his arm in her direction.

“Go back to sleep,” he muttered to the dog and turned over, his back toward her. Punching the pillow into the right shape, he lay there, his gaze shifting to the nightstand on the opposite side of the king-size bed. On it were two photos. One was Jeanne dressed in a beautiful orchid gown. The photo had been taken about a year ago, a month before the airliner had crashed, taking her life. Cam stared at it, wanting to feel something…anything. Only numbness followed. Since the day of the crash, his feelings had been destroyed.

The other photo was of his five-year-old son, Sean. He had Cam’s black hair and his mother’s dark brown eyes. Gone. They were both gone. Cam felt Miracle’s paw on the edge of his bed.

“Go lie down,” he ordered the dog. When Jeanne was alive, they’d go to bed and Miracle would jump up and play with them, bouncing crazily from bed to floor and back. Since Jeanne’s death, Cam hadn’t allowed the Lab up on the bed.

Miracle whined, pawing impatiently at the mattress.

Cam turned over. His anger melted away. The dog’s head was tilted, her eyes lifted to look up into his. Reaching out, he patted Miracle’s sleek ebony coat.

“Go lie down, girl. She’s gone. Forever.” He gently removed Miracle’s paw from the bed. “Go on….”

The dog whined softly, wagging her tail in a friendly fashion. Incredible sadness deluged Cam. “There’s no more play, pup. No more….”

Miracle lowered her head and turned away, her paws clacking against the hardwood floor as she made her way over to her braided-rug bed. She plunked down, resting her head on her paws, her eyes never leaving his.

Cam grimaced and turned away, unable to stand the grief he saw in the dog’s sad gaze. In her own way, Miracle missed Jeanne and Sean as much as he did. Playtime had been every night—a free-for-all of fun, laughter and crazy-kid antics. A soft smile tugged at Cam’s mouth as he closed his eyes. Jeanne had been such a child at heart, so spontaneous and filled with life. She saw all that was good in life, while Cam saw the reality of it. Still, he’d looked forward to their playtime, letting Miracle up on the bed. It was silly and childish, but he didn’t care. Jeanne had brought out the child in him—his laughter and hope. Now all that was destroyed.

The only thing left of what they’d shared was four-year-old Miracle. Cam knew the dog remembered Jeanne and Sean, remembered better times. She’d loved Sean dearly, had always been watchful of him, always there as a wonderful and protective companion.

But as Cam closed his eyes again, it wasn’t Jeanne’s or Sean’s face that hovered before him. It was Molly Rutledge’s serious features, her green eyes mirroring genuine hurt, her mouth pursed to hold back the pain he was sure she’d felt from Martin and his own scathing attack.

This was crazy! He didn’t even know her! And yet, as he lay there, Molly haunted him. Just what the hell was it about her that was triggering this ridiculous response? Cam tried to hide from the memory of his urge to go back into the computer room and hold Molly after he’d laced into her. It was her mouth, so delicate and wonderfully shaped, that beckoned to him. And to look into her serene green eyes laced with gold, was to know peace. Peace! Something he’d not felt in the year since his family had been brutally ripped out of his life.

To stare at those sculpted lips was also to acknowledge the heat building almost painfully in his lower body, a strictly carnal hunger that wanted satiation through Molly and no one else. With a groan, Cam pulled the pillow over his head and tried to escape his rampantly wild thoughts and needs. God, he worked with women every day. None of them affected him. Why her? Why soft, slender Molly? She was such a graceful creature among a group of hard, harsh men. Yet, on one level, Cam admired her stubbornness to stick to her guns and be herself, not allowing the situation she lived in to change her convictions. He admired that quiet gutsiness.

The rest of the night held only bits and snatches of light sleep. When dawn came, Cam got up in a foul humor. Miracle, as if sensing his ogreish mood, remained on her braided rug and simply watched him come and go from the master bathroom as he shaved, climbed into his flight suit and then returned to the bed to shut off the clock radio.

Cam went in to the facility early and proceeded directly to the student file drawer that held information on the current students. Locating Molly’s file, he tucked it under his arm and walked down the long, empty hall to the coffee room. After starting the coffee, he sat on a plastic chair at one of the tables and opened the file. Maybe by absorbing every bit of information on Molly Rutledge, he’d finally get over whatever was eating him, and he could enjoy a decent night’s sleep again.

While the coffeemaker gurgled away, Cam riffled through the file. He started at the back, at the beginning of her naval career. The folder was at least two inches thick, containing her Annapolis years and Whiting Field experience. He dug for something in particular, like Miracle tracking a scent. Every prospective Annapolis student had to fill out a biography: why they wanted to attend the elite school.

“Finally…” he muttered. Frowning, Cam began to read her beautiful handwriting with its feminine flourish. Time slipped away as he continued to read page after page, discovering Molly. There was a four-and-a-half-year-old picture of her, taken at high-school graduation. Cam touched the color photo. Molly’s hair had been very long and loose, flowing across her dark blue graduation gown in carefree abandon. She looked hopeful and joyous, her smile warming him even now.

Cam scowled, looking down at Reason For Entering Annapolis. Her brother had originally been scheduled for the academy and had been unexpectedly injured beforehand. Shaking his head, Cam read on. Molly was taking Scott’s place? He looked up. The coffee was ready. So, she had volunteered to step into her brother’s boots and take his place at the academy.

As he got to his feet, Cam’s mind whirled with questions. Did Molly really want to be in the military at all? Had her family forced her into going? Yet, looking at her grades, she was a brilliant aeronautical engineering graduate. She had a nice balance of understanding of math and mechanics, but hadn’t lost her decidedly feminine side in the process.