The Top Gun's Return

wear, not that that was an unheard-of thing for a woman, but it hadn't ever been a particular problem for her before. She wore wash-and-wear pants and smocks for work, jeans and sweatshirts or shorts and T-shirts or tank tops at home, depending on the season of the year, and when something more sedate was required, dressy slacks and a blazer, with a sweater or shell, again dictated by the season and the weather. She owned a couple of dresses, basic and eternal in style, which were pretty much reserved for weddings and funerals. What was to decide?

Today, though, she'd stood before the mirror in her room for what seemed like hours, helpless and on the verge of panic. Nothing looked right to her. The blazer she'd worn on the plane seemed too formal, too stiff. The sweater she'd finally chosen was lavender, which used to be Tris's favorite color. Was it still? Would he remember? Was she trying too hard? Had she put on a few pounds? God, she thought, I look old.

And her hair. She hadn't had time to shampoo and blow it dry. Should she wear it loose on her shoulders anyway, the way she knew Tris preferred, even though it was definitely looking limp and travel weary? And the gray mixed in with the blond at her temples-oh God, he'd have to be blind not to see that, no matter how she wore it.

She couldn't decide where to wait for him. Her room-their room-with its hotel-type arrangement of bed, sitting area and desk-table workspace with a separate bathroom, was at least assured of privacy. And the guest house staff had gone out of their way to make it homey, with fresh flowers and a huge basket of fruit on the table. The sweetest thing-there was even a Teddy bear wearing a yellow ribbon around its neck propped on the bed pillows. But, oh, that bed-Lord, it seemed to Jessie it took up most of the space in the room-it dominated…it distracted. She didn't want Tris to think-she didn't want to think-her stomach knotted and quivered and she pressed her fist against it to quiet the butterflies. I won't think about it now.

In the end, she'd decided on the guest house's common room, just off the lobby reception area and next door to the dining room. It was a gracious, hospitable place, with a gas log fireplace and comfortable furniture arranged for intimate conversation or reading the paper, or settling down with a good book. It was fairly private, being empty at the moment-the house had only a few other occupants besides her, since most of the casualties from the Persian Gulf were being shipped stateside as quickly as possible-but there was no guarantee it would stay that way. So far the news media hadn't caught up with her, but she knew it was only a matter of time before they did. She also knew the guest house staff, as well as Lieutenant Commander Rees, would do everything they could to shield her until she felt ready to face the onslaught. As she would have to, sooner or later. She'd just as well prepare herself.

Prepare myself? Who am I kidding?

Right on cue, she heard the click of the front door opening, the polite trill of a buzzer announcing someone's presence in the lobby. I'm not ready, she thought in panic. I'm not ready.

She could hear the receptionist asking if she could be of assistance. The murmur of a masculine response. And-oh God, it was Tristan's voice. For the first time in more than eight years, she was hearing her husband's voice.

Her heart leaped like a fractious Thoroughbred in the starting gates, yet inside her head she felt… quiet. Her mind kept touching on unimportant subjects-what she was wearing, what she looked like, her hair again, the photo album, Sammi June, arrangements for dinner, the fire on the hearth, even the furniture in the room-like a nervous housewife waiting for guests to arrive. But when she tried to think of Tristan there was only blankness, like an empty page.

Gradually she realized she was trembling, and that her chest was so tight it seemed impossible she could take a breath. She knew her hands were icy and her stomach a roiling mass of butterflies. But why, she wondered, when my mind feels so calm? Whose body is this? How can it be mine when I have so little control over it?

She couldn't hear his voice now. She strained to catch the sounds of his footsteps but heard only the surflike thunder of her own blood in her ears.

Then he was there, framed in the doorway. Undeniably Tristan, unbearably thin and a little stooped, though she could see he was trying not to be. He was wearing a borrowed jumpsuit. Beyond that she was certain of nothing; her vision blurred and wavered until she saw him through a shimmering fog.

Oh-she wanted to go to him, but that body of hers again refused to obey the orders her brain gave it. No matter how hard she willed them to, her legs wouldn't move. Her feet remained firmly rooted to the floor. She wanted to say something-his name, at least-but when she drew a quivering breath in preparation for speech, nothing came out of her mouth.

'Jess…' It was no more than a breath. A whisper. A sigh.

He was coming toward her, limping. She saw that he had a cane, though he didn't appear to be using it, and when he was within arm's reach of her he let go of it, seeming unaware or uncaring that it toppled to the floor.

Her shoulders rose in a helpless shrug-an apology for not meeting him halfway. And the breath she'd taken-oh, hours ago, it seemed-remained trapped in her chest, prisoner of the certain knowledge that when she released it a sob would go, too.

His hands were on her shoulders, his fingers rubbing in the softness of her sweater as if he'd never felt its like before. Blurred as her vision was, his face seemed angular and unfamiliar to her, his normally bright, intelligent eyes sunken deep in shadowed sockets. She fought against panic, searching that haggard face for some sign of the Tristan she knew-that arrogant tilt to his mouth, those sun creases at the corners of his eyes? If she could see him clearly-but she dared not blink.

'My God,' he whispered, 'you look just the same.'

His fingers walked across her shoulder blades, drawing her hesitantly closer, as though he feared at any second she might vanish in a puff of smoke. He said nothing more as he folded her into his arms but drew a great breath through his nose, as if filling himself up with the scent, the essence of her. As if he'd never be able to get enough of it.

He held her carefully, almost reverently, at first, then closer…harder, and buried his face in her hair. The breath she'd been holding burst from her in a sob. She no longer had to worry about her trembling; it wasn't possible to tell where hers left off and his began.

She had no way of knowing how long they stood there like that, locked in a silent, almost desperate embrace. It occurred to her that it was like a refuge, that silence…the closeness, a safe place neither of them wanted to leave.

But they must leave it, of course, and confront what had happened to them and what lay ahead. And it came to Jessie in those moments that for the first time in their lives together, she would have to be the one to take the lead.

From the first, maybe because she'd been so young when they'd met, Tristan had been the boss in their relationship, the leader, the strong one. Even when he was away on deployments, he'd made all the important decisions, and more than a few of the small ones, too. But that had changed eight years ago, and there was no going back to the way things had been. This is who I am now, Tris. I'm not the same Jessie you left behind.

Fear shivered through her, and she stirred in his arms. They loosened instantly, though he kept her within their circle, his hands still transmitting minute tremors through the fabric of her sweater and deep into her body. That almost imperceptible shaking nearly undid her. She placed her palms on the front of his jumpsuit and tried to laugh. Then gave that up and sniffed loudly, brushing at her eyes. 'Told myself I wouldn't do this.'

Tristan had told himself the same thing. He'd been raised on the notion that real men don't cry, although eight years in an Iraqi prison had cured him of that notion. He'd heard tougher, stronger men than himself cry like babies, and he wasn't ashamed of the times he'd done so himself. But he wasn't about to let himself cry in front of her. He'd learned a lot about self-control in that prison, too, and if it took every ounce he had, he wasn't going to let Jess see him shed a tear.

He had his reasons for feeling that way, most of which he would have a hard time explaining in words. Some of it was plain old masculine pride, probably, normal guy stuff about wanting to stand tall in front of his woman, particularly when he was feeling anything but. Some of it was protective; he didn't want Jess to ever have to try to sleep with the images that filled his nightmares. And maybe the biggest part was a