Her Healing Touch. Lindsay McKenna
jerked her hand away when wild tingles started running up her hand, jolting her. Surprising her. She saw his straight dark brows gather at her obvious reaction.
“Thanks, Sergeant.” Quickly, Angel tucked her hand into the pocket of her coat, her fingers burning like fire itself. Stymied, she said, “Let’s go to the mess hall. They got hot coffee brewin’ and it’s a lot warmer in there than it is out here.” Even though the temperature was hovering in the low fifties, for Angel, who was acclimatized to the tropics, it was cold.
“Sure, a cup of coffee sounds great,” he answered with enthusiasm. Burke fell into step at her side, feeling giddy, elated and excited, in spite of his resolution to keep his emotions in check. Because she was short, he slowed his stride to match hers.
Looking around as they walked toward the back of the cave, Burke shook his head. “This is an incredible facility.” There were a number of Quonset huts set in the back of the cave. To one side, he saw the mouth of a tunnel, disappearing off into the mountain. Battery-powered golf carts carrying supplies and personnel zoomed in and out of it like bees from a hive. The clinks and clanks of crews working on Apache gunships and two Blackhawks echoed through the area. Everywhere he looked, he saw women. Only once did he spot a couple of men working with an otherwise all-women flight crew.
Looking down, he studied Angel’s strong profile. From this angle, she reminded him of Incan reliefs he’d seen carved in stone. He wondered how personal to get with her. Tamping down his desire to ask her a hundred personal questions, he cautioned himself to go slow and let her open up to him—or not, as the case may be. Inwardly, Burke hoped she would. He was dying to know more about the woman, the person, on whom this legend was based.
Approaching the door to the mess hall, Burke opened it for her out of habit. He saw her look up at him, her eyes narrow briefly, and then a sour smile touch her lips.
“Thanks,” she said as she entered.
“You’re down one arm,” he said. “I thought opening a door for you wouldn’t make a gender statement.”
Grinning, Angel moved on into the warm facility. When he came to her side and stood patiently, she looked up and said, “We’re a pretty independent lot down here, Sergeant. My left arm might be in a sling, but I still have a good right arm that can open doors, too.”
“I’ll remember that, Sergeant Paredes.”
Angel heard the wry tone in his voice and saw the glimmer of humor in his gray eyes, too. She turned her attention to the chow hall. The long rows of picnic tables were nearly deserted now that breakfast was over. A few pilots on duty, dressed in black flight uniforms, were huddled at one table over a last cup of coffee, but that was about it.
“Hungry, Sergeant?”
“Yeah, I am.” He rubbed his belly. “The flight down here served food that would kill a dog. I didn’t eat much.”
Chuckling, Angel pointed to the line of aluminum trays at one end of the table. “I haven’t had breakfast yet, either, so let’s belly up to the bar.”
Burke did not make the mistake of rushing ahead to get her a tray. He reminded himself of what she’d said—that she had one good hand to work with. Allowing Angel to precede him, he saw two women cooks, dressed in white, with white caps on their heads, waiting to dish up whatever they wanted from the warming trays in the chow line.
Angel was trying to balance her tray and curse her injured arm simultaneously. After her outburst about him opening the door for her, she figured she’d better ante up and do this by herself. She didn’t like feeling weak or inept. But the tray was getting heavier as the cooks piled on fluffy scrambled eggs, four pieces of whole wheat toast, a rasher of bacon and some citrus fruit.
Reaching the other end of the line, Angel chose a table and set the tray down before she dropped it and embarrassed herself. Gifford’s tray was piled three times as high as hers. Once he reached the table and set it opposite hers, she pointed to the coffee and tea dispenser at the end of the cooks’ line.
“We get our java here.” Angel went over, grabbed a thick white mug and held it under the appropriate nozzle. When Gifford followed and stood nearby, it made her nervous. He was like a big shadow looming over her, she wasn’t used to someone dogging her heels like that. Filling her coffee cup, she quickly stepped away and went back to the table.
As she did, Angel noticed the women pilots covertly watching Gifford. She saw the looks on their faces and grinned to herself. He was good-looking, in a rough kind of way. Well, it never hurt to look, did it? Sitting down, she poured cream and sugar into her cup. When Gifford sat down opposite her, her pulse raced momentarily.
“Smells real good. Better than regular army chow,” he said with a grin. Picking up his fork, he dived into the scrambled eggs.
Angel ate delicately, studying Burke between bites. He ate like a hungry wolf. She liked his short, neatly cut hair. His ears were large and flared away from his skull slightly. All the better to hear with, she was sure. He had a large Adam’s apple and his neck was thick and strong. His broad shoulders made Angel think that this man could carry a lot of responsibility very easily.
She decided that she needed to take the lead, because he was basically a guest on the base. Over the course of the meal, she shared with him why he was here: to be her hands when she needed them. Blushing a bit as she told him how she’d injured her shoulder, she saw him smile fully for the first time. It was a boyish smile, relaxed and unguarded, and as Gifford’s icy expression melted away, she was privy to the man beneath the facade. The enormity of the change surprised her, and again she felt confused by the array of feelings just looking at him produced in her heart.
“I’ve never had tendonitis,” Burke said with sympathy, slathering strawberry jam over one of the pieces of toast on his tray. “Broke my ankle in a parachute jump, though.”
“I broke my ankle once, too,” Angel said, “though not in a chute jump. I can tell you the pain in a tendon is worse than a break.”
Nodding, Burke said, “I’ve treated my share of them off and on through the years, and every guy that had it told me the pain was enough to make you pass out.”
“It is,” Angel murmured, “and I did.” She was finished with breakfast and pushed her tray aside, then picked up her coffee cup. “I sure don’t like being down one arm. It cramps my high-flyin’ style.”
Burke liked her rank sense of humor. He’d never met a paramedic who didn’t have a blistering, sardonic wit. “You don’t strike me as a woman who takes kindly to being in prison.”
Giving him a skeptical look, Angel studied him. Gifford had a soft Southern drawl. “Man or woman, no one likes prison, don’t you think?”
“I guess I didn’t say that right,” he stated, taking a second piece of toast and slathering it with jam. “You strike me as the kind of person who likes her freedom and bucks any boundaries or fences folks might try to put around her.”
Nodding, Angel said, “I see. Yeah, I’m like that, I guess.” Burke had a disturbing ability to see right through her. That made her antsy.
“I don’t know about the Peruvian army, but in the U.S. Army it’s nice having the freedom to do what you’re best at.”
Sipping the coffee, Angel said, “Well, it’s a little different down here if a woman wants to join the male military organization.”
“A lot of prejudice against you, gender-wise?”
“Tons of it.”
Burke studied her. He saw that her eyes were hooded, guarded against him. Sensing that she was feeling him out, that she really wasn’t comfortable around him yet, he asked, “Does it bother you that I’m a man walkin’ in on your turf?”
“Excuse me?”
He lifted his hand. “This is a women’s black ops. I didn’t see too many men as I came through the complex. There must be