The Top Gun's Return

Chapter 6

It had been so many years. His body had forgotten the sensations of desire…of lust. He was like a wild thing set free, dazed at first, into frozen stillness…then all at once leaping blindly toward his freedom. The warm tumescence of her lips shocked him; his breath stilled as he lightly skimmed them as if in awe of a miracle.

He felt her breathing catch, and the smallest pulling back…a tiny hesitation. He felt his fingers sink into the sun-warmed pool of her hair, and the pressure of her mouth on his increase. Her lips softened…and opened, like a gift.

He felt thought and reason leave him and go soaring beyond his reach, and it was like watching an eagle rise toward the sun. All he knew was brightness and warmth…then blinding light and burning heat. Shuddering, like a man consumed by fever, he wasn't even aware of where and how his hands touched her. Like a starving man, he filled his mouth and arms and his very soul with her, and despaired because it couldn't possibly be enough.

He didn't know what brought him back. Her soft moan, perhaps, flowing like a whispered promise from her mouth into his. He became aware of small things-the crisp cool feel of her raincoat in his hands…the winey taste of her mouth and the smell of crushed grass. He realized that she was no longer lying on top of him, that he'd rolled her over, half under him, and that one of his legs was wedged between hers, tightly pressed against her soft feminine places. She moaned again, and he withdrew from her slowly, clawing his way toward reason like a drowning man swimming toward the light.

Lying back in the grass, he covered his eyes with his forearm and whispered, "God…Jess. I'm sorry. I didn't mean…I don't know what-"

"You better not be apologizing," she said, choked and breathless. Her fist poked him in the chest. "It was about damn time you kissed me."

He lifted his arm just far enough so he could see her. She'd raised herself on one elbow in order to look down at him, and though her words were brave, even defiant, even with the light sky behind her it was impossible to miss the evidence of his mishandling…the fear and uncertainty in her eyes…the glistening, crushed look of her mouth.

He lifted his hand and touched her lower lip with his thumb, stroking the glaze his own mouth had left there across the soft, swollen pillow. His jaws cramped and his mouth watered, and newly awakened desire coiled in his belly like a captive beast raging against fragile tethers. He took a deep breath and sat up, drawing in his feet and resting his arms on his knees as he pivoted away from her. Words fought their way through the chaos in his mind.

"That's not…the way," he said, his voice constricted and hoarse. "That's sure as hell not the way I wanted to kiss you. God help me, Jess, I-" he waved a helpless hand, intensely conscious of her, crouched there in wounded silence behind him "-I tried to warn you. I don't have the judgment…the control…the strength-I don't know what to call it. I just know I don't know myself…the way I am. I can't…trust myself. Neither should you."

"You'd never hurt me." Her voice sounded shocked…appalled. He could feel her shaking. "You'd never do that. Never."

He swiveled back to her, and after a long moment's silence, lifted a hand and laid it gently along her jaw. His thumb again stroked back and forth, just once and ever so lightly-a feather's touch-across her lips. "I just did," he said softly, and saw a tear quiver on the edge of her eyelid. Her throat moved convulsively against his hand. Cold with exhaustion, he went on gently. "I won't ever do that to you again, I can promise you that."

"But what-" she licked her lips and tried again "-what if I want you to?"

He gazed at her for a long silent moment before he took his hand away, shaking his head. "You don't know," he mumbled indistinctly as he turned.

Rebuffed, outraged and vulnerable, Jessie thought, I don't know? And you think you do? She wanted to shout at him, Look, Mr. Rip Van Winkle, you've been dead for eight years, and you're calling all the shots? What is this?

What was that? He'd never kissed her like that before-never. Not even in the first dizzy days of courtship when his slightest touch could turn her into a mindless bundle of simmering heat and thumping desire. It had scared her, sure it had. First, because it had made her feel things she'd never felt before. But-to be honest-mostly because she'd known instantly that the man kissing her wasn't the man she'd known, the husband she'd loved, the lover she remembered. It had been the most powerful, mind-blowing kiss she'd ever received in her life…from a stranger. What the hell was she supposed to do with that? How was she supposed to feel?

"We'd better be getting back," Tris said. He was standing over her, one hand extended to help her up.

Angry, confused and bewildered, she gave him her hand and let him pull her to her feet, then stared, hot-eyed, at his back as he bent down to retrieve the camera. He dropped it into his pocket and reached for his cane, and her heart turned over when she saw his face. How gaunt and drawn he looked…there were hollows in his cheeks and deep shadows around his eyes.

Remorse and misery flooded her; she sniffed desperately and pivoted away from him before he could see her face. She felt his eyes on her but he didn't say anything, and they walked side by side down the trail to the car in shimmering, electric silence.

When they reached the car, Jessie asked Tristan in a choked voice if he wanted another sandwich. He shook his head and instead held out his hand.

"Give me the keys."

"What?" Her head was still fuzzy-with suppressed tears, not wine-and it was a moment before she understood. Then her mouth dropped open and she stared at him. "The car keys? No. No way. Tris, you're not driving."

"Yes, I am." His tone was stern, his jaw implacable; very much the old Tristan.

"But-you don't have a license. And you haven't-"

"Driving isn't something you forget," he said grimly. "I'm in better shape to drive than you are. You've had too much to drink. Come on-hand 'em over."

She gave an outraged gasp. "Too much to-I have not. What, a couple glasses of wine? Besides, I already drove-"

"Half a bottle. And you never could handle wine, remember?" His voice had gentled; his eyes caught and held hers with an unrelenting gaze that somehow both demanded and implored.

She drew a shuddering breath and said tightly, "What about your license? And your knee?"

"My knee's fine-it's my left one, anyway. The license won't be a problem unless somebody stops us, and I've no intention of that happening. Come on, Jess." He grinned crookedly. "I'm gonna have to drive again sometime. Might as well be now."

It's that grin, she told herself as she reluctantly handed him the keys to the Ford. I never could resist him smilin' at me; old behavior patterns are just damn hard to break. Anyway, I probably have had too much to drink. It's better this way.

But she didn't feel the slightest bit buzzed, pleasantly or otherwise, as she settled into the passenger seat and buckled her seat belt. She felt battered and emotionally frail.

Her misgivings began to fade, though, as they made their way slowly back along the river. Since they were backtracking and very little was required from her in the way of directions, she was free to watch Tristan-though surreptitiously under the pretense of sight-seeing so as not to annoy him-as he familiarized himself with the car and the process of driving. All signs of tiredness had magically disappeared; he sat straight and alert in the driver's seat, and his hands lingered over the controls with an almost caressing touch. He handled the steering wheel with the gentle assurance of an experienced mother bathing a new baby, while his eyes held a joyful light she hadn't seen in them since his release. How must it feel, she wondered as tears sprang to her own eyes, to be in control of your personal self again, after so many years?

They stopped to eat in one of the larger river towns, in a restaurant that no doubt catered to tourists during the summer and autumn harvest season. They ate on an enclosed deck overlooking the river where they were the only diners at that hour, far too late for lunch, yet early for dinner. Jessie ordered Wiener schnitzel, which was the only thing on the menu she was sure she recognized. Tristan chose something that turned out to be pork chops-huge, thick and smothered in sauerkraut and browned potatoes. He ate every bite, and part of Jessie's dinner besides, while he told her what he knew of his father's boyhood in the vineyards and on the river.

He looks so normal, she thought. Right then he seemed almost himself, even flirting with the plump middle-aged waitress until she blushed like a rose. And was it wishful thinking, or had he even gained a little weight? Were the hollows in his cheeks a little less deep? Were his eyes a little less haunted? Dared she hope it might be so easy?

Like an alarm going off somewhere in a distant room, she heard the faraway voice of Lieutenant Commander Rees. I'm not gonna lie to you…he's got a rough road ahead of him and so do you. It's not gonna be easy. The last of the afternoon's winey glow faded away, and though she tried hard to suppress it, a shiver ran through her.

Traffic was light on the autobahn, and although Jessie's heart did a little skip when Tristan moved into the fast lane first thing, she told herself it was only what she'd have expected him to do, especially after the cracks he'd made about her speed-or lack of it. She tried not to look at the speedometer, but she couldn't help it. And her heart began to beat faster as the needle crept relentlessly around the dial.

"Tris…" she breathed when it reached 130…then 140.

"Relax," he drawled, "no speed limit here, remember?"

"I know, but-" Her body tensed involuntarily as the speedometer needle edged up to 150. "Tris-" This time it came out sharp and scared as another car loomed ahead, growing larger at an alarming rate. She held her breath while he calmly tipped the blinker and moved into the next lane, and went around the other car as if it were standing still. "Tristan," she ground out on the exhalation, "Dammit, slow down."

His only answer was a confident chuckle, and she threw him a furious glare. And then the anger left her like the air from a popped balloon, and she knew all at once that what she really was, was afraid. And that it wasn't the car's speed that was scaring her…not anymore. It was something she saw in Tris's face, in the profile that had been so familiar to her but was now subtly changed by a nose that had been broken at least once. The profile that used to make her heart skip a beat and her pulse quicken, as she rode beside him in the sweet, sultry darkness of a Georgia summer night, country music thumping on the stereo… The profile that was still strong and arrogant, even aristocratic in spite of the nose, teeth bared in a smile, a comma bracketing his mouth and an irresistible fan of wrinkles at the corner of his eye. But now there was something dark about the smile, and the eyes held a glitter of excitement…and danger.

The speedometer needle wobbled unsteadily-she couldn't see the number through the mist of her fear. But she could feel the vibrating of the car's engine in her bones. "Tris-" she cried out, trembling. She didn't know what was happening to him. To her shame, she had begun to cry.

When she thought she wouldn't be able to stand the terrible tension another second, she saw speed limit warning signs flash past through the shimmering haze of her tears. Tristan muttered something under his breath and the car's engine vibrations eased. The speedometer needle swiveled slowly back to 120. And as it fell, Jessie's fury returned.

Helpless to stop it, unable to express it, she ranted silently to herself: What was that? What did he just do? What am I supposed to do with that?

Because at the same time she felt so angry, she also felt guilty for it. How could she be angry at somebody who was back from the dead, for God's sake? This was a man who'd spent the past eight years in an Iraqi prison, Lord only knew what they'd done to him there, and she was supposed to be patient with him, wasn't she? Give him time, they'd told her.

But, a tiny voice whispered in the back of her mind, what if Tris isn't going to give himself time?

I don't think I can do this. It played over and over inside her head as she sat in furious, trembling silence and Tristan drove the rest of the way back to the guest house sedately within posted speed limits. I don't think I can do this.

It was a lone voice at first, but gradually she came to realize that what was going on in her head wasn't a monologue or a mantra any longer, but rather an argument. And what the dissenting voice-was it Momma's? Tristan's? Her own? Who knows?-anyway, what it was saying was, Sure you can. Suck it up, girl. If he could survive eight years in prison, you sure as hell can handle his return.

Okay, but we have to talk about this, she argued back desperately. I have to get him to talk to me about what happened to him. I just have to. And soon. This can't wait much longer. Tonight. We'll talk tonight.

But when they turned into the guest house parking lot, she realized that any confrontation with Tristan was going to have to wait a little while longer. The previously almost empty lot was suddenly full of vehicles, many of them vans and panel trucks bearing satellite dishes and multiple antennae on their rooftops. The world news media had caught up with them.

"Oh no," she murmured.

"Looks like the honeymoon's over." Tristan's smile barely stretched the hollows in his cheeks as he maneuvered the car into a vacant spot on the edge of the lot, well outside the huddled circle of media vehicles and equipment. "They were bound to find us sooner or later. The military's done a helluva job to hold 'em off this long." He turned off the motor and looked over at Jessie. "Ready to face the music?"

The skin under his eyes looked bruised. Seeing that, she felt something swell inside her and a shivering sensation crawl under the skin along her back, neck and chest. She knew what it was, she'd felt it before: maternal outrage. If she'd been a momma wolf her hackles would have been rising. Or, in her case, maybe a more apt comparison would be one of Granny Calhoun's hens fluffing up her feathers so as to look twice her actual size, ready to defend her nest against all comers.

"Tris, you're exhausted," she said as he opened his door, "maybe we can sneak in the back way."

He shook his head, already easing his bad knee over the sill. "I'm not gonna go skulking around like a coward."

Outside the car he paused to steady himself with a hand on the door frame, then leaned over to pick up his cane from the back seat. When he straightened again his skin looked gray, but Jessie saw him, with a visible effort, pull himself up to a military stance, and a muscle tighten in his jaw. "Gonna have to face them sometime. Might as well do it and get it over with."

Duty calls, she thought, rekindling an old resentment. And at the same time a familiar sense of pride. Taking his arm as they crossed the parking lot, she could feel tremors of exhaustion and weakness racking his body, and yet she knew he'd die before he'd ever admit it. And looking at his rock-hard features, nobody would ever guess he was holding himself together by sheer strength of will. But that's how he did it, she thought. That's how he's been surviving. Sheer willpower.

Not even willpower, though, could keep him from faltering when the mass of reporters spotted them and descended like a human tidal wave. She felt his body flinch as if from a physical blow. Glancing up at him, she saw that his face had turned a sickly bluish white-a familiar phenomenon from her experience as a nurse and one she knew was usually a prelude to somebody hitting the floor.

And with that thought, there it was again, that swelling, feather-fluffing, hackles-raising momma-bear fury, and without even thinking about it, she had taken an iron grip on Tristan's arm, and with her free arm thrown out like an icebreaker, was ploughing him through the river of pushing, shoving reporters, thrusting microphones and whirring, clicking cameras.

Having achieved the guest house steps, she turned to face the crowd, and as she did she was shoving Tristan behind her, shielding him from them with her own body. Somehow, he'd gathered the strength to lift his hand to ask for quiet. The din subsided, but before Tristan could begin to speak, Jessie heard her own voice-firm, forceful and calm-the one she used to reassure frightened parents in the NICU.

"I know how anxious y'all are to hear from my husband. I just want to ask you to please be patient and respect our privacy a little while longer. Lieutenant Bauer has had a long day. I know he'll be a lot better able to answer your questions after he's had some rest. Now, if you would…please…" Her voice faltered, and she felt Tris's hands on her shoulders-lending her his strength, she wondered, or drawing from hers?

She heard his deep, quiet voice, and a thrill rushed through her. "I just want to thank you all, and let you know I'll try to answer your questions in due time. I believe the base's public affairs officer is planning a press conference before I leave for the states, if you-"

"Lieutenant Bauer, just one question," someone shouted. "How does it feel to be back from the dead?"

Again she felt his hands tighten on her shoulders. "It feels…great." She knew from his voice that he had to be grinning, and that it could only be one of those great big honest-to-God old-fashioned Tristan grins she loved so much. Her eyes filled with tears.

A reporter shouted, "Mrs. Bauer, would you mind if we asked you a few questions?"

She hadn't expected that. Not sure what she should do, she tilted her head back and glanced up at Tristan. He gave her a nod and his skewed half smile, but the tiredness in his eyes seemed bottomless. She put her hand over his where it rested on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "Why don't you go on?" she murmured for his ears only. "I don't mind stayin' a minute."

He hesitated, then murmured back, "If you're sure…"

"I'll be fine. Go on-go." She turned back to the crowd of reporters with a determined smile. A moment later she felt him leave her, and there was a tingling coldness on her shoulders where his hands had been.

"Mrs. Bauer-when did you find out your husband was alive?"

"Mrs. Bauer, Mrs. Bauer-what's it been like to have your husband come back from the dead?"

"How is he feeling, Mrs. Bauer?"

"When do you plan to-"

"First of all," Jessie began in a loud voice, holding up her hands, "y'all have to understand, this has been happenin' awfully fast. I don't think it's really hit me yet." There was a ripple of sympathetic laughter. Somewhere behind her she heard the guest house door open and close. She paused, and the crowd grew hushed, listening as she went quietly on. "All I know is, my husband is alive, he's here with me, and very soon now he's gonna be back home where he belongs. It might have taken a while longer than I'd have liked for it to, but the good Lord has answered an awful lot of prayers."

In the genteel stillness of the guest house lobby, Tristan paused to listen to the rise and fall of Jessie's voice…the occasional rustle of reporters' laughter. Jess's voice. It was hers, yes…the one he remembered but different, somehow. Quietly confident, matter-of-fact. It came to him suddenly, what it reminded him of: the voices he heard every day at the hospital, voices of strength and comfort and encouragement. The cheerful, no-nonsense, reassuring voices of the nurses.

Instead of heading for the elevator, he turned as if drawn by a magnet to one of the multipaned windows that overlooked the front walk. From there, hidden from view by the curtains, he watched his wife face the crowd of reporters alone. And maybe it was seeing her from a distance like that, and hearing her voice that was so much the same and yet so different, but something in his perception suddenly shifted-like one of those optical illusions where one moment you're looking at a face right side up, and the next second it's upside down. She has changed. She's not the same Jessie I left behind.

He hadn't really thought she would be…had he? He'd prepared himself, or thought he had, for her to have gotten older…even to have found someone else. Then he'd found her looking just the way he'd pictured her in his mind, still slim, sunshine blond and beautiful, still a little bit awkward and eager to please him. Just the way he remembered her. Now he knew he'd been kidding himself. Of course she'd changed-in eight years, how could she not? But she hadn't gotten older; what she'd done was matured. And she hadn't found someone else. She'd found herself.

Watching the tall, self-assured woman-a stranger to him-out there on the guest house steps, he felt a stabbing sense of loss. His chest filled with the pressure of grief-for the young, accommodating girl he'd left behind and remembered so well…grief, too, for the impossible dream he'd clung to like a life preserver and that had kept him alive for so long.

Then, as he watched the beautiful, confident woman on the steps, her hair haloed by the television crews' spotlights, he felt something new come and take root in the empty place those losses had left inside him, and slowly begin to grow. Respect. Admiration. And the pressure in his chest was no longer grief. It was pride.

When Jessie slipped quietly into her room sometime later, she was hoping Tris might have gone to sleep. Instead she found him sitting in a straight-backed chair beside the table. A tissue spread on the tabletop near his elbow held a neat pile of orange and banana peels. The TV was tuned to a soccer game.

"Everybody gone?" he asked as he turned off the television set, stifling a yawn.

She dropped her pocketbook beside the dresser and nodded. "I think so. For now, anyway. I imagine they'll be back in the mornin'." Still flushed and, if she wanted to be entirely truthful, just a wee bit exhilarated, she took a deep breath and lifted her fingers to rake them through her hair. "Whoo-hope I don't have to do that again. That was somethin' else."

"I think you'd better get used to it," Tristan said dryly. "I wouldn't worry about it, though-you handled it beautifully." There was something in the way he looked at her…something soft and golden in his eyes…that made her pulse quicken.

She went toward him, wishing she could just walk right up to him and put her arms around him, and that he would put his arms around her and pull her into the vee of his legs and nestle his face against her breasts. Once, long ago, it would have been a natural, easy thing.

"You don't look very comfortable," she said, reaching out a hand to touch his hair, lightly nudging it off his forehead with a finger while her throat ached with longing. "Don't you want to lie down? Put your feet up, rest your knee awhile?"

"Naw…if I do that I'm afraid I'll fall asleep. I need to call Al…have him come get me. Just wanted to make sure the crowd was gone." His voice sounded gravelly. His eyes searched her face as if she were someone he'd just met and he was trying to commit her face to memory.

Her mouth went dry and her tongue thickened. The words slurred as she said, "Tris, you're so tired. Why don't you stay here tonight?"

"You know I can't do that."

"No, I do not know that." Primed with new confidence and resolve, she grabbed the second chair, turned it around and sat in it, facing him with her knees almost but not quite touching his. "I know you tell me you can't, because of some fear you have in your mind that you might do something that's gonna shock me or hurt me or…I don't know, drive me screamin' from the room. Which, if you want to know the truth, I think is just plain ridiculous."

"Jess-"

"No. You listen to me. In the first place, in case you've forgotten, I am a nurse, and while I might work in a NICU now, I've done rotations in psych wards. I've handled episodes of PTSD before. Believe me, there's nothin' you could do that's gonna shock me. But Tris-" she reached for his hands and enfolded them, stiff and resisting, in hers "-what's more important is, I'm your wife. You understand me? I am your wife. That is for better or worse and sickness and health, in case you don't remember the vows we said to one another. You don't get to protect me from this. This has happened to both of us, dammit. You are not allowed to shut me out."

Something dripped from her nose. She dashed it furiously away, then stared down at the moisture on the back of her hand. She couldn't imagine how it had come to be there. She hadn't known she was crying.

"Jessie…" Now it was his hand lifted to her face, his fingers wiping away tears.

She caught his hand and held it pressed against her cheek. Eyes closed, she said in a fierce, choking voice, "Look, all I'm asking you to do is sleep here, in this bed. I'm not planning on ravishing your bones, if that's what's worryin' you."

"Bones would be the operative word." His voice was bumpy with amusement.

She opened her eyes and glared at him through tears. "Really? I'd hoped it was ravish."

Hunger flared in his eyes and was quickly extinguished, as if someone had slammed a lid over a fire.

If she only knew, he thought, how close to the truth that might be. Since this afternoon he no longer had any doubts that his normal masculine urges, dormant for so long, were alive and stirring again. It was his ability to control those urges he wasn't sure he could trust, and until he was sure, he didn't intend to put himself-or her-to the test.

"If I stay," he said, closing his eyes, "you have to promise me…"

"Yes-what? Anything." Her hands clutched his eagerly, and his lips twitched into a patient smile.

"You have to promise you won't touch me if I, uh, seem to be-if I'm, you know…having a nightmare. Don't try to wake me up, okay? Whatever you do." He was thinking of the nurse he'd given a fat lip to just the night before, striking out blindly at an imagined attacker. He lifted her hands to his lips and looked at her gravely over them. "If I start yelling or thrashing around, I want you to go in the bathroom and lock the door. You hear me? I know you're my wife and I know you're a nurse, and you're just naturally gonna want to help me, but I'm telling you you can't. Okay? I have to know you'll get out of my way and stay there. Promise me." His voice, harsh to begin with, became a croak when he repeated it, gripping her hands too hard. "Promise me."

Her eyes swam as she whispered brokenly, "I promise."

He let go of her hands and leaned back in the chair, exhaling like a steam valve letting go. He felt inexpressibly weary. And he hoped he wasn't going to regret giving in to the temptation…to the lure of incredible luxury of a night in a private room, in a soft bed next to his wife's warm body. The hospital staff had gone to great lengths to make his room there comfortable and homey, but it was still a hospital. He hated hospitals-always had.

"Do you want anything to eat?" Her voice sounded shaky. She had risen and was looking anxiously at him, hugging herself.

He shook his head and nodded at the pile of peelings. "I had a little something while I was waiting for you. I think I might just lie down for a while."

Getting to his feet took the last remnants of his strength. The room whirled and tilted as he started toward the bed, and he felt Jessie's strong arm come around his waist and her shoulder fit itself under his arm. "Thanks," he muttered as the bed came up to meet him, a great pillowy softness that threatened to swallow him completely.

"Don't you want to undress? Get inside…" Her voice was fading into the distance.

"No. 'S okay…better this way…" He sighed and let the softness have him.

Jessie had more trouble than she'd thought she would falling asleep. It had been a long time since she'd shared a bed with anyone, and as big as this one was, with Tristan in it, it still seemed crowded. He had always been a cuddler. She remembered that, in the first years of their marriage, she'd had a hard time adjusting to the heat, confinement and distraction of his body entwined with hers. Eventually, though, she had gotten used to it, so much so that their bed during his absences had seemed unbearably empty. Then, during his last absence, she'd gotten used to that, too. Now, though he lay on top of the covers and she underneath them, the heat from his body felt suffocating to her. His quiet breathing seemed loud in her ears.

Eventually she fell into a restless, sweaty doze, painted with erotic dreams. In her dream, hands were touching her…a stranger's hands, rawboned and hard. They were stroking and caressing her body all over, and in her dream she moaned softly. She writhed and opened herself to the hands, inviting every imaginable intimacy. Heat suffused her skin and thumped inside her chest. She moaned again, lifting into the caressing hands, and felt a cool familiar tickle of hair on her belly. Her breasts ached and her nipples hardened in response to the sucking pressure that engulfed them. She whimpered when that same pressure found the throbbing place between her thighs. The heat became intolerable…the throbbing threatened to tear her body apart. She cried out…again…and again. And woke up.

But the crying went on. She sat up, shivering violently. The light she'd left burning in the bathroom threw stripes of light and shadow across the bed, but she didn't need that to tell her the terrible moans she could still hear were coming from Tristan's side of the bed.