The Right Touch

“I’m in trouble, I’m in trouble,” Chief yelled.

Cal released the last hitch on his harness, twisting. Water slopped in over them. He felt the jet’s nose begin to drop. It would be a matter of seconds before they were swallowed by the ocean. Cal tried to help Chief get the lap harness released. The thick, heavy, leather lap belt was held by a stout aluminum device. Water washed up to their chests.

“It won’t come….” Cal said, gasping. He twisted back again, pulling his survival knife from his belt, throwing off the sheath.

“Jump, Cal!” Chief cried hoarsely. The jet was sliding in, wing down. Sliding into a cold, watery grave.

Cal cursed, sawing into the confining leather belt. “No! Shut up, damn it!”

Water closed over them. Cal took a deep breath into his lungs, clinging to the belt as the jet sliced downward with frightening speed. The knife made huge, gaping tears across the leather. Cal felt his chest expand as if it would burst. Two more cuts…God…just two more and Chief would be free. The aircraft suddenly rolled over. As it did, the action wrenched Cal, who had nothing holding him in the cockpit other than one hand on the leather belt, free. His gloved hands clawed outward as he felt himself tumbling, trying desperately to grab for the cockpit frame. Fire arched through his chest. Water funneled up into his nose and down into his throat. He was going to drown. Chief! Oh, God, Chief! Cal struck out toward the surface that seemed so far away, blackness closing in on him. Only one thought screamed through him: Chief was going down with the jet. He would drown. He’d die. Oh, God, no…not Chief! Not his best friend.

“Cal, Cal, it’s all right…shh, it’s all right. You’re safe…safe.” A soft voice crooned to him.

Cal shuddered, still hooked into the nightmare of survival that haunted him, as he broke the surface of the gray sea. Gasping, he vomited up the sea he had swallowed, flailing weakly to stay afloat. Instinctively, he pulled the cords on his life vest and it inflated immediately, holding his head and shoulders above water. He cried out Chief’s name, oblivious to the rescue helicopter that had been launched immediately after the accident. He felt cool hands on his face, fingers gently combing through his hair, and he sobbed. Chief was dead. The only real friend he had ever made was dead. Heading fifty fathoms down in a jet while he floated on the surface, rasping and swallowing the life-giving oxygen.

“You’re safe now, Cal. Relax. Come on, you’re going to be all right….” Cal felt movement. It wasn’t the movement of the ocean that embraced him. He forced open his tightly shut eyes, aware of sweat running down his taut face. Dark. It was so dark. Cal felt the moist warmth of a cloth against his face. Heat. It felt so good and he was so cold. Icy cold in the water. Automatically, he began to relax. Someone was gently running a hand across his trembling shoulders, and he visibly responded to these tentative ministrations. Where was he? Where?

“Chief?” His voice came out in a raw whisper.

“No. It’s me, Dev. Just rest, Cal. You’ve been through a lot. Just close your eyes and rest. You’re safe. I promise you….”

Her voice was so close, so rich and husky. Cal closed his eyes, trusting her. Trusting her hands that were easing the coldness and terror out of him.

“But…Chief…”

“He’s gone, Cal. You couldn’t help him. But you’re alive. Alive. Come on, try to rest. You’re so tired.”

A huge pressure welled up like a fist within his chest, and Cal turned his face, burying it in the soft warmth of her. He shut his eyes tightly, fighting the pressure, trying to wrestle with the grief and loss. The instant her trembling hand settled on his hair, he blindly reached out, his arms sliding around her body. He felt scalding tears pummeling the back of his eyes, and he felt her arms embracing him. Holding him and rocking him. The pain was like a fist ripping through him, and a low, tortured sob tore from him, sending a shudder through his entire body. The sounds were so foreign to him, so strange. But he couldn’t help himself. Animallike sounds shattered him, expressing the loss, and all the while, she held him. Held him and murmured soft, unintelligible words meant to heal.

3

CAL FORCED HIS EYES OPEN to mere slits. His head was throbbing like a kettledrum, and his mouth felt as if an army had tramped through it. His scowl deepened as he realized someone was sitting very close to him. He forced his lids higher, his vision unfocused. Light was cascading from a hall, slanting into the room, backlighting the unruly auburn hair that framed her concerned face. Her eyes were cobalt as she sat there in silence, leaning across him, her one hand resting near his hip.

He moved his mouth, trying to form coherent words. He felt drugged and incapable of speech. “Where?”

“You’re in my hotel room, Cal. The Shangri-La Hotel. Remember?” Her voice was low. He was grateful for that; each sound multiplied and reverberated through his pounding skull. His eyes slitted again as he tried to piece together the jumble of events, separating the present from the accident. And Chief. Giving him an understanding smile, she sat up, removing her hand.

“You’ve had a rough twenty-four hours, Cal.”

He forced his limited attention back to her. Back to her kind and beautiful face. He knew her. Yes, Dev was her name. Wasn’t it?

“Dev?” His voice was raw as if he had been screaming at the top of his lungs for hours. Had he?

“Touche, Major Travis. You’re starting to remember, I see. How about some water? You’ve been very sick. I think you’re close to dehydration.”

The information was too much for him to assimilate. Twenty-four hours. What was she talking about? And sick? Why? The water sounded heavenly. “Yeah…water… please….” It hurt to talk. Croak would be a more appropriate word, he thought blearily. He watched through blurred vision as she rosé and went over to a table. What was she wearing? White knickers and socks and a red T-shirt? That didn’t make sense. He closed his eyes, dizziness making him nauseated. The moment the cool dryness of her arm slid beneath his sweaty neck and she supported him with her body, Cal reopened his eyes. He rested his head against the softness of her breast and shoulder as she pressed the glass to his lips. The coldness soothed his raw throat, cleansing his mouth of the bile taste. He sucked up the water thirstily, some of it dribbling from the corners of his mouth.

“There’s more,” Dev said, setting down the glass and then blotting Cal’s mouth and stubbled chin. She poured another glass; he stared at it like a man who had been in the desert and was about to die from lack of water. Finally though, his thirst was satisfied, and dizziness forced him to close his eyes once again. He heard the steady beat of her heart, nuzzled his bearded cheek into the hollow between her breasts and took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Feel a bit better?” she asked, holding him.

“A little.”

Dev gently laid him back down, pulling the blankets up across his naked chest. “Go back to sleep, Cal. I’ll be here if you need me.”

Her voice was like thick, soothing honey pouring over him, somehow easing his spinning head and exhaustion. He looked up into her eyes, lost in their luminous softness, and felt safe from the storm’s remnants. Cal wanted to say “Thank you,” but total fatigue dragged him back into the healing realm of sleep.

* * *

SHE WAS SITTING BY HIM when he awoke the second time, her eyes filled with worry. She was chewing on that full lower lip that he sharply remembered kissing. Cal was dully aware that it was barely dawn, the sky lavender through the panels drawn across the windows. The low lighting from the hall shadowed her pale face, and he wondered why darkness lingered beneath her glorious blue eyes. “How do you feel?” she ventured softly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Cal felt the dry warmth on his cool, damp flesh. It felt good. Stabilizing. “Like hell,” he answered, finding his voice a rasp.

“Do you remember where you are?”

Memory of the room and of Dev eventually congealed in his sluggish brain. Cal felt as if someone had taken a bottle brush to his mind and wiped it clean of everything other than Dev’s haunting voice. Cal moved his gaze back up to her. “I think I do. You look tired.”

Again that slight smile. Her hair curled around her head and shoulders. She looked like a winsome child. “It can’t be because I’ve been playing nursemaid to you for almost thirty-six hours. I have to hand it to you: when you want to get drunk, you really go all the way, Major.”

Cal frowned. “Thirty-six hours? What are you talking about?” He struggled into a sitting position, his head throbbing. The sheet and blankets fell away, revealing his powerful chest and hard, flat belly. He looked down at himself and then up at her, questions in his gray eyes.

Dev shrugged apologetically. “The first twenty-four hours you were sick. You sweated a lot. I had to take off your clothes because they were soaked. The next twelve hours you slept like a baby. No nightmares…”

His mouth tightened at her whispered words. “Nightmares?”

Dev’s expression grew soft. “Yes. You kept reliving the accident, Cal.” She couldn’t meet his narrowed gaze. “I’m sorry about Chief. My God, you almost died, too, trying to save him.” Dev shyly reached out, her hand sliding across his, her voice quavering. “How tragic….”

Cal groaned and pulled his hand away from hers, covering his face. He leaned back against the headboard, bringing up his knees beneath the covers. “Damn it,” he muttered thickly.

Dev rosé, sensing that he didn’t want her near him. That hurt her. In the past day and a half, she had grown close to Cal as he relived the raw grief. He had found release in her arms. “Listen, I’ve got to go jog three miles. Part of my daily exercise routine. I’ll be back in a little while.” Nervously, she slipped into her jogging shoes to complete her outfit—baggy pink sweatpants and shirt. Dev felt his eyes on her as she straightened up, a knot forming in her shrinking stomach. As Dev met his predatorlike gaze, she pulled on a red sweatband. “The hotel supplies razors and that sort of thing if you feel like getting cleaned up.” Grabbing her wristwatch and a key for the room, she quietly left the stilted silence, glad to escape Cal’s wariness.

Cal sat there in bed, feeling utterly embarrassed and angry with himself. Dawn was creeping over the horizon behind the island of Hong Kong, the golden rays reaching and stretching out in brilliant arms. Dawn. The time of their accident. Of Chief’s death. He rubbed his face, aware of the sharp stubble of his beard. Then he became aware that he needed a shower. Badly. His head ached but not so severely as to stop him from getting up. Throwing back the covers, he noted with chagrin that he wore only his briefs. As he slowly got to his feet, he looked around for his uniform. The room was neatly picked up with the exception of Dev’s épée still on the coffee table. Grumbling to himself, Cal stared at the clock on the bed table—5:30 A.M. What day was it? He found his aviator’s watch on the stand next to the clock. Wednesday morning? No. Impossible! He glared at his watch in his open palm. The party had been Monday night. Where—

“Damn it,” Cal muttered, stalking off toward the bathroom, ruthlessly combing his spotty memory for details. The scalding-hot shower washed away the sweat of fear from his body. It improved his mood about one degree. The bathroom was steamy and warm as he wrapped a thick white towel around his waist and then shaved. Borrowing Dev’s tortoiseshell comb, Cal tamed his wet hair into place, looking a hell of a lot better than he felt. His mood deteriorated even more when he couldn’t find his uniform anywhere. He searched each closet and found many white fencing uniforms, a few dresses and slacks but no uniform.

Disgruntled, Cal shrugged into one of the thick terry-cloth robes the hotel provided and padded into the room. He called down for coffee, then went over to the windows and stared stonily out. Several junks floated past the hotel. The cobblestoned shore nearby was lined with many of Hong Kong’s citizens going through their morning t’ai chi ch’uan exercises. Then he spotted Dev off in the distance, jogging back toward the hotel along the wharf. Some of his anger dissipated as Cal watched her stride with long-legged confidence, her auburn hair captured in a ponytail, drifting out behind her with each rhythmic step. As Dev drew closer, he could see the flush to her cheeks, thinking that she looked beautiful. Scowling, Cal turned when the houseboy announced himself. Coffee had arrived. Thank God.

Dev knocked before she opened the door to her room, just to make sure Cal had had time to dress. Her heart was pounding strongly in her breast, and that wasn’t from the workout. She closed the door and walked down the hall. At the end of the hall, Dev halted, her lips parting.

“Oh.” She stared stupidly across the room at Cal, who was sitting on the settee, coffee in hand, observing her. Instantly, she flushed and pulled the damp sweatband off her brow.

“It looked like you were having a good run.”

Dev walked over to the bed and sat down, unlacing her shoes. She was surprised at the quiet quality of Cal’s voice. Was he angry? He was a man of immense pride, she suspected. Yet he had spent the past day and a half in her room, helpless as a baby, having to rely totally on her for care. Dev didn’t imagine Cal leaned on anyone for anything. Especially a stranger who had witnessed him suffering a deep, personal tragedy. She licked her lips, tasting the salt of perspiration on them as she leaned over.

She nudged off her shoes, giving him a shy glance. Cal looked devastatingly handsome, though weary. His face was free of the dark, bristly growth of beard, his gray eyes were probing and the planes of his face were relatively free of tension. He smiled a little, making Dev relax slightly. She prayed that the tenuous middle ground she felt they both wanted would grow between them.

“Got time for a cup of coffee?”

Dev’s heart lurched at the husky quality in his voice, and her spirits rosé. Cal wasn’t angry with her. For all his ego, he wasn’t going to take his embarrassment out on her. She rewarded him with a genuine smile. “Let me take a shower first.”

“Sure.”

Cal watched her walk to the bathroom, impressed, even mesmerized, by her graceful carriage. He sipped the coffee, relishing the taste. He had seen the unsureness in Dev’s eyes as she had come into the room. Suddenly, all the embarrassment and anger he might have aimed at her dissolved. Dev didn’t deserve that from him, no matter how ashamed he felt. Oddly, Cal found himself wanting to reach out, to continue to bask in her company. Whether he liked it or not, Dev had shared one of the most brutal moments in his life with him. And Cal had never shared any of his deep emotional responses with anyone. Except Chief. But not to the degree he had with Dev. Ruminating on that, he contented himself with watching the traffic increase in Victoria Harbor as the sun rosé and the morning stirred to life.

Dev emerged from the bathroom in a pair of white polyester knickers, white socks and a pink T-shirt that lovingly emphasized her breasts and flat stomach. Her hair was piled in a loose knot on top of her head, tendrils curled temptingly around her temples as a result of her shower. Dev smiled and flopped down opposite him, legs crossed beneath the table.

“I think I’m going to live now,” she said, pouring herself some coffee.

“I’m thinking about it, too,” Cal offered wryly, watching her slender hands slide around the china cup.

“You look a hundred percent better.” Her blue eyes sparkled as Dev drew the cup to her lips. “You look handsome again.”

He smiled. “I don’t feel very handsome.” He met and held her gaze. “I’ve been remembering some of what happened, Dev.” His voice dropped to a husky whisper. “The past day and a half have been a living hell for me and not much more than that for you.”

Dev placed the cup on the table. “I know you’re feeling awfully vulnerable and emotionally raw right now, Cal.”

“I feel brittle. I think if someone yelled at me right now, I’d shatter. I’ve never felt like this before,” he muttered.

“Only when you lose someone who’s very close to you does that happen.”

Cal took a deep breath, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “You know what I find phenomenal?”

“No. What?”

“Us. You and me. I’m a stranger who crashed into your life, made an ass out of myself, embarrassed the hell out of you in front of my friends and yet you stuck it out with me.” He opened his eyes, his turbulent gaze settling on her. “You had every right to kick me out of your room Monday night. Why didn’t you?”

Dev swallowed against a forming lump. “Because you were hurting.”

Cal stared at her. “The women I know would gladly have booted me out and told me to catch a cab and go back to the carrier to get sick.”

“You’d had too much to drink, Cal. I didn’t think you could have even made it downstairs to get a taxi. What I hadn’t counted on was your tragedy.” Dev lowered her lashes. “Now I understand why you wanted to get drunk and why you didn’t want to be at the party on Monday.” She clasped her fingers in her lap. “You were hurting. And—and when you started crying—”

Cal stared disbelievingly at her. “I what?”

“Cried. What’s wrong with that? I was crying right along with you after I pieced together what had happened.”

He stared at her.

“I couldn’t stand by and not help you.” Dev raised her head, drowning in his gray eyes. “You needed help. I couldn’t kick you out.” And then a small smile touched her lips. “Besides, you weren’t a total bastard. You came and apologized to me for your behavior earlier, and you also brought me the heel.”

A vague memory stirred in Cal’s shocked mind. Yes, he remembered being held, rocked to and fro like a child in the arms of its mother, sobbing. And Dev’s softened weeping as she held him tightly to her. Cal swallowed hard. “I’ve never cried.”

Dev frowned, searching his face that was lined with denial. “I see. Is that a maxim of the marine corps or fighter pilots in particular? You’re real men? Real men don’t cry? Don’t show any emotion?” Dev’s voice lowered. “Well, in my book, any man who exhibits that kind of behavior is emotionally constipated. I see nothing wrong with showing and displaying how you feel. As a matter of fact, it’s kind of nice to be able to share someone else’s feelings. Women do it all the time. A man has a heart and can feel just as we do. Why shouldn’t he cry when he’s in pain?”

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