The Gauntlet. Lindsay McKennaЧитать онлайн книгу.
decidedly feminine side in the process.
“Enigma,” he muttered, retrieving a cup of steaming coffee and sitting back down. He glanced at his watch. It was 0530. In half an hour, the instructor on duty for the day would officially open TPS. Running his fingers down the thickness of her file, Cam decided he’d better read in a hurry to cram as much information as possible about Molly into his memory before that happened. He wanted no one, especially Molly, to know what he’d done. It wasn’t against regs, but it was unusual.
She’s an unusual case, he told himself and sipped the coffee gratefully. Very unusual. And interesting. God, but she fascinated him! At the same time, Cam worried for Molly. It was obvious she wasn’t cut out for the dog-eat-dog atmosphere of the military. Here she was at TPS, one of the toughest, most demanding military schools in the world. How the hell was she going to survive in this environment?
Chapter Four
“Well, how did your first flight test go?” Scott wanted to know.
Molly gripped the phone hard, pacing back and forth in front of her couch in the large living room. She’d just gotten home at 1700 when the phone rang. “It went,” she said, refusing to lie. If Scott wanted details, he was going to have to ask the questions to drag it out of her.
“What kind of a grade did you get?”
Wincing, Molly sat down and shakily began to unlace her black flight boots. “I got a seventy-five percent.”
“Is that good?”
“It wasn’t failing.”
“What’d the other flight engineers get?”
“The grades went all the way from seventy-five to ninety-five, Scott.”
“Jeez, were you at the bottom of the barrel, Molly?”
Pushing the boots to one side, Molly unzipped the lower legs of her suit and tugged the thick white cotton socks from her feet. “Yes, I was last on the list.” She tried to laugh. “Look at it this way, Scott—I’ve got nowhere to go but up.”
“Well, did they give you the hardest of the flight tests? Is that why you almost flunked?”
Molly felt a cry deep within her. “Look, Scott, I’m really tired. You’re calling me a day early. I need to get supper and then I’m going to hit the books. I’ve got a lot of studying to do.”
“Oh…yeah. Well, I was just real excited, Molly. You said the test was Friday, and I couldn’t wait until Saturday to find out how you did.”
“Do me a favor?”
“What?”
“Don’t tell Dad about my grade just yet, okay? He’ll be calling tomorrow, and I’ll tell him then.”
“Sure, Molly.”
“Gotta run, Scott. I love you, and I’ll see you later. Bye.” Molly hung up the phone as if it were burning her hand. She stared blackly down at it, almost wanting to unplug it from the wall. The thought was tempting, especially under the circumstances. Right now, all Molly wanted was someplace where there wasn’t a phone or anyone who wanted a piece of her.
She walked to her bedroom and shed her flight suit to get a quick, hot shower. Lee Bard had told her about the rolling beach at the air station that few people ever utilized—mostly because it was part of the naval facility and off-limits to tourists and locals.
Dressing in a pair of comfortable white cotton slacks and a pale pink tank top, Molly picked up her lavender windbreaker as she headed out the door of her apartment. The sun was still bright in the sky for the Friday evening. Under her left arm were a couple of textbooks and a notepad. Maybe the beach would be an ideal place to relax, read a little and just “chill out,” as Scott would say.
Getting directions at the gate from the Marine Corps guard on duty, Molly drove her station wagon to what appeared to be one of many parking areas for the point. As she got out, the salt air filled her lungs, and she inhaled it deeply. Some of the tension she’d carried since flying with Chuck Martin at midday sloughed off.
The beach was a golden color—picture perfect, in her estimation. For as far as she could see in either direction, the beach was empty, dotted with plenty of sand dunes shaped and created by the winds that sprang up off Chesapeake Bay. It was June, and the storms for the year had passed into history.
Molly allowed the tranquillity of the beach and the glassy-smooth cobalt water to soak into her. She muddled through the grasping sand in her tennis shoes. With a slight laugh, she stopped and took them off, then carried them in her left hand. It felt good to dig her toes into the grainy texture of the sand as she wove in and around the many dunes.
Nearly a mile from the parking lot, Molly found her spot. It was a cul-de-sac nestled between two fairly large hills laden with salt grass. In front of her, as she spread out her well-used purple beach blanket, was an unobstructed view of the bay. Although the sun’s rays were sliding across the eastern expanse of the bay, she could barely make out white sails of yachts dipping up and down on the surface. More tension flowed from her as she shrugged out of her backpack which contained a sack dinner and her textbooks.
Her legs crossed, her elbows resting on her knees as she munched on a tuna sandwich, Molly thought about Cam Sinclair. Funny, all week, at every turn, she’d seemed to run into him. And always he was a gentleman, nodding deferentially in her direction, opening doors for her or whatever, but never offering a smile or any indication of emotion in the depths of his haunting pale blue eyes or his continually pursed mouth.
Did Cam ever smile? Molly wondered, munching on the sandwich. What would his face look like if he did? She closed her eyes, trying to imagine just that. And then, when a keening sea gull flew low, she reopened them. With a laugh, Molly tossed a bit of her sandwich up in the air. The gull dived, catching the choice morsel with grace and quickly gobbling it down.
In no time, Molly had a plethora of gulls circling above her between the two dunes. She gave her potato chips to the beggars, and time spun to a halt. The slight breeze, the salt air, the warmth of the sun’s rays, plus the dozens of gulls who cautiously edged toward her towel or flew around her head, made it a magical time for Molly.
Finally out of food, she shrugged her shoulders at the birds. All she had left was an apple, and Molly used her small pocketknife to cut off bits of it to toss to the gulls who stayed around her blanket, begging. Test-pilot school was forgotten. Chuck Martin no longer existed. Her laughter was full and lilting, absorbed by the inconstant breeze and pleading cries of the seabirds.
The flock of gulls suddenly took wing as a unit. Molly saw the black shape of a dog hurtle up and across a nearby dune. Before she could move, she saw a sleek black Labrador bounding toward her, its pink tongue lolling out of its mouth.
Startled but pleased, Molly stood.
“Hi there, fella.” As the dog came up to her, she saw the Lab was female. Extending her hand, Molly smiled as the dog fearlessly approached, wagging her thick tail furiously. She was wet, with water glistening on her ebony coat.
“Excuse me. I mean girl. Hi. How are you? And who do you belong to?” Molly leaned down. The dog wore a leather collar with a rabies tag, as well as another tag. Looking closer, Molly smiled.
“So, you’re Miracle. I wonder what you did to earn a name like that?” She petted the dog’s sleek, damp head, taken by the animal’s affectionate nature.
Molly had crouched down, her arm around the dog’s neck as she patted her, when she saw the outline of a man appear on the crest of the same dune. The sunlight was behind him, and she narrowed her eyes to try to make out who it might be. Obviously, the dog’s owner.
“Miracle! Heel!”
Molly straightened, her heart racing. No, it couldn’t be! The voice was excruciatingly familiar. Yes, the man dressed in jeans and a polo shirt certainly might be Cam Sinclair.