Under Fire. Lindsay McKenna

       Chapter Two

      “Hey, Lieutenant Donovan!” an air crewman from the side office in the hangar shouted. “Commander Parkinson wants to talk to you on the phone.”

      Maggie was head deep in one of Cat’s engines with Chantal when the petty officer called to her. Muttering, Maggie carefully withdrew from the engine intake, with Chantal at her side. Her crew chief gave her a clean rag to wipe off her hands.

      “Thanks, Chantal.”

      “Maybe news about your new RIO?” Chantal guessed.

      Maggie glanced at the watch on her left wrist. It was exactly noon. “I hope so. I’ll be back a little later.”

      “Yes, ma’am. Good hunting,” the chief teased.

      With a grin, Maggie settled her garrison cap on her head. “Thanks.” She entered the little hangar office and picked up the receiver.

      “I think—” Parkinson’s voice on the phone held a degree of humor “—that you’re going to like your replacement RIO, Maggie.”

      Her heart beat a little harder. Nerves. “Oh?”

      “His name is Lieutenant Wes Bishop. I wanted you to come over and check him out here at Ops, but he said he’d rather meet you at the officers’ club for lunch.”

      She frowned. “Great.” Bishop must be one of those jocks who thought he could impress her with lunch and a bottle of wine.

      “Don’t jump to conclusions. He’s a good candidate. Spend all the time you need with him, give him an FAM flight and then get back to me with your assessment and decision.”

      “Yes, sir.” Maggie hung up the phone. Her dark green flight suit had smudges of grease and God knew what else on it from helping Chantal tinker with Cat’s engine. With her degree in aeronautical engineering, Maggie knew a great deal more about the mechanical workings of her plane than most pilots.

      “I look like a pig.”

      “Ma’am?” the petty officer behind the desk asked, raising his head from his paperwork.

      “Oh…nothing.” Maggie spread out her hands before her. Last night she’d taken the polish off her nails to let them breathe for a day or two before coating them with another color. Groaning, she realized that grease was stuck stubbornly beneath them. Great. She was going to look like a grease monkey to this guy.

      Why do I care? He ought to be more worried about what I think of him. With that thought, Maggie tossed the rag into the receptacle for just such items, picked up her purse and slung it over her left shoulder. Leaving the hangar, she hitched a ride in a truck going in the direction of the O club.

      On the way over, Maggie took the mirror out of her purse. Her hair looked frizzy. Not that she had curly hair, but a number of auburn strands had worked their way out of the chignon, especially from her temple area. Putting on some lipstick made her feel a bit better, but Maggie knew, at best, she looked more like a mechanic today than a pilot.

      And then her temper got the better of her. Why should I worry what I look like? Double Standard Donovan. Knock it off. This is business. Strictly business!

      Of course, Maggie thought as the truck dropped her off at the O club, she was going to check out Bishop with a fine-tooth comb. Her mother had trained her to pay attention to faces, voice tones, body language and eyes. Eyes were the most important consideration.

      As she hurried up the concrete sidewalk, she prayed Bishop’s eyes showed honesty and intelligence. Ignoring the small palm trees and bougainvillea that surrounded the spacious O club, Maggie entered through the double doors.

      Taking off her cap, she hesitated in the foyer. Bar or dining room? She snorted softly. Bishop, she was sure, was probably in the bar—like every other macho Navy jet jock. She hated going there because the civilian women groupies were always hanging around trying to hook up with a flier. The games they played made her nauseous. Taking a deep breath, Maggie dived into the huge bar. It was crowded for this time of day, and a number of civilian women mingled with the men dressed in uniform and flight suits. The hunt was on.

      How was she going to find Bishop? It meant she had to walk up and down the entire bar looking at the name on each man’s flight uniform. The cigarette smoke and the loud hard-rock music jarred her frayed nerves, but Maggie persevered, eyeballing each man’s name tag.

      After fifteen minutes of close inspection, Maggie still hadn’t found Bishop in the bar. Going back out to the foyer, she frowned. Okay, she was wrong about Bishop. He wasn’t a groupie jock. At least, not today. Maybe he was on his best behavior. Who knew? She headed to the dining room, a much quieter, well-lit place with lots of greenery, soft music and a far better clientele, in her opinion.

      At the door, she halted. Although the dining room was filled to capacity, Maggie had no trouble singling out her RIO. Her blood boiled. She saw Brad Hall leaning over another man in a dark green flight suit, talking intently. Hall. Maggie narrowed her eyes. The seated man had to be Bishop—she could barely make out his name in gold print emblazoned on the black leather patch on his flight uniform.

      Was Hall a buddy of Bishop’s? Maggie’s hands turned damp as she considered the possibility. Clenching her garrison cap, she gave herself time to check out Bishop without being discovered. Hall was too deeply in conversation with his fellow RIO to even notice her presence.

      When Hall moved from in front of Bishop, it gave Maggie her first clear view of him, and her first impression. Her heart thudded once in her breast to underscore her strictly feminine response to Bishop. God, but he was sinfully handsome! Bishop looked more like a movie star than an honest-to-God RIO earning a Navy paycheck.

      Maggie had to jerk herself up short and stop reacting like that. He must be at least six foot four. He was a big man with broad shoulders, a square face and a strong jaw to go with it. Olive-skinned, Maggie observed, with short black hair and expressive brows above his intense blue eyes. She relaxed slightly. Good, Bishop’s eyes were large and spaced far apart. His high cheekbones and eagle-like nose created a wonderful balance for those appealing eyes that seemed to dance with mischief. As her gaze drifted down to his mouth, Maggie felt herself go weak and shaky.

      Stop this! Maggie Donovan, you’re acting like a girl who’s fallen in love with her first boy! Idiot! But she couldn’t help it as she gazed at the lazy curve of Bishop’s beautifully molded mouth. The lower lip was large and flat, and the corners turned up naturally, as if a slight smile hovered perpetually around his mouth. His upper lip was sculpted and slightly smaller. But together, Maggie decided, those lips composed the most attractive mouth she’d ever seen on any man in her life.

      I’ll bet he’s a real heartbreaker with the groupies. Tall, dark and handsome. Women would fall all over this guy. Overall, Bishop was large boned: but his hands were well shaped, with long fingers—almost artistic, in Maggie’s estimation. He looked Italian, but her finely honed instincts didn’t completely agree with that judgement. There was a certain aura of danger about Bishop—something that made her feel abnormally unsure of herself.

      When he smiled at something Hall said, Maggie groaned inwardly. Bishop’s face beamed; his dazzling smile made her heart race. But his eyes remained cool. Bishop didn’t really think whatever Hall had said was humorous; his eyes would have reflected it. Maggie frowned. No doubt Hall was filling Bishop’s ear about her. Damn it! She didn’t need to get off on the wrong foot with him. As she started forward, Maggie knew it was a two-way street: Bishop could refuse this assignment with her, too. And if her boss felt this man was the best for the job, she didn’t want to lose him because of Hall’s criticism of her—justified or not.

      “It’s a small world,” Maggie challenged Hall, coming up and halting a foot away from her ex-RIO.

      Wes Bishop