Major Attraction
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Roz Denny Fox
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CHAPTER ONE
LARGE, FAT WATER BALLOONS suddenly rained from the men’s residence, striking two men walking below. Major A. C. Bannister covered his head to ward off what he realized were exploding condoms and sprinted toward his campus office at the U.S. Army Reserve Officers Training Corps. He saw that the friend with whom he’d been chatting, U.S. Air Force Lieutenant Colonel Frank Loudermilk, had cut toward the building housing the culprits. As if they’d wait around. Ha! ROTC had done a good job teaching them the principle of attacking first and clearing out fast.
Once out of range, the major slowed to a jog. These pranks, army against air force and vice versa, were getting tedious. More so when, like today, the little charmers hit on the brass. Last week it had been cayenne pepper in the minestrone soup, courtesy of the army kids. Frank had been hell-bent on retribution ever since.
By the time the major reached his office, the water had seeped through to his skin. He stopped just inside and stripped off his wet shirt.
Joel Sutton, the craggy master sergeant who served as the major’s clerk, leapt to his feet and gasped, “What happened, sir?”
“Loudermilk’s new batch of fly-babies happened.”
Sutton shook his head. “God, the LC will march everyone’s butt off for this. Water balloons are so...so juvenile.”
Major Bannister yanked his T-shirt off over his head. “They used condoms,” he said dryly, “although I doubt half this batch of cadets knows what they’re really for. Some of these kids should still be home playing with GI Joes.” A sigh softened his grumble. “There’s always a consequence. You’d think they’d learn.”
“Don’t you remember how it was at that age, sir?”
The major paused, one hand inside a closet where he kept extra uniforms. Did he remember? No. He’d grown up on the back streets of San Antonio, where only the tough survived. Horseplay had never figured in his youth. It had taken him a while to thank the bighearted cop who’d wangled him a hitch with Uncle Sam, instead of three to five in Huntsville prison.
“It wasn’t easy climbing up through regular-army ranks, Sutton. And I damn sure didn’t win this gold oak leaf throwing water balloons at the enemy.”
“I know that, sir.” The sergeant’s tone instantly changed to respect. “A Bronze Star and a Distinguished Service Cross during Desert Storm.” His gnarled hands shuffled a pile of papers. “Me, I broke both legs in parachute training and never made it to ‘Nam. What’s it like, earning citations in combat?”
The major scowled into a small mirror he was using to try to tame his wet, unruly hair. “I only did my job. No man likes the taste of fear. Be glad you didn’t get to ‘Nam.”
Before Sutton could reply, the door opened and Colonel Wylie O’Dell, commandant in charge of the army’s ROTC program at South Oakes University, strode to the major’s desk and slapped down a manila folder.
Both men in the room snapped to attention.
“At ease.” The colonel pointed a stubby finger at the folder. “Ace, m’boy, we’ve got ourselves a snafu.”
The major felt a ripple of tension. Not because of the colonel’s familiar use of his nickname—no one used his birth name. It was because he’d learned that when Colonel O’Dell, who was mere months from retirement, tossed out his favorite World War II acronym, Ace—as second in command—was about to get dumped on royally. “Snafu” meant “situation normal, all fouled up.” Though military men usually substituted the other f-word. Either way, O’Dell’s snafus were never normal.
“What’s the problem, Colonel?”
“Someone in the Pentagon decided we...er, you need an assistant.” O’Dell lifted his hat and wiped sweat from his brow.
“An assistant?” Ace finished tying his tie and slid the knot up so fast it almost choked him.
“Yep. According to this fax, our new captain’s due here today. I faxed back—asked who’s allocating funds for a staff person we really don’t need. Typical of those guys on the hill to dump on the ones who do the work. If my schedule wasn’t so full, Major, I’d handle this placement myself. You know I would.”
Ace knew no such thing. The headaches always fell to him. And this must be a doozy for the old man to come out in ninety-five-degree heat. “As we are fully staffed,” Ace began, seeing the need to tread lightly, “where would you suggest I put another professional instructor, Colonel?”
“Somewhere safe. Those orders came from high up. Very high, if you get my drift.” So saying, the colonel departed, leaving behind a room rife with tension and the pungent lime scent of his after-shave.
Bannister stared at the file. An assistant. Did someone up the ladder think he wasn’t doing his job? He gave a careless shrug for the sergeant’s benefit.
Sutton had begun to mutter. “What’s his schedule full of, I’d like to know. Tiddledywinks? Golf?”
Ace let the remark pass. Perching on the edge of his desk, he cautiously opened the innocuous-looking file.
The sergeant tried to peer over his shoulder.
“Son of a bitch!” Ace exploded.
Sutton jumped back. “Sir?”
The major reread a sentence that said Captain Meredith Marshall St. James had graduated with honors from West Point. The next line indicated the captain had ridden out the Gulf War at a safe post near Baltimore, Maryland.
Not everyone had served in the Gulf, Ace knew. But most able-bodied officers had. He traced a finger down to the block marked Age. Twenty-seven. That certainly sounded able-bodied to him.
“What is it, sir?” the sergeant prodded.
“A damned ring polisher, Sutton. And listen to this moniker.” Ace singsonged the name. “Meredith Marshall St. James.”
“A mouthful, all right,” the sergeant agreed. “Why us? Does it say?”
Ace groaned. “Jeez! This dude’s got two degrees. One in social work. What in hell am I supposed to do with some fancy-pants do-gooder when we already have our hands full turning mama’s boys into men?”
Sutton merely grunted as his boss punched the air with his forefinger. “Don’t those guys upstairs know how tough it is putting backbone into cream-puff college kids?” Ace snorted. “Did I ever tell you about Spicer Van Brocklin III?”
The old sergeant shook his head.
“He was a spit-polished West Point lieutenant I met in ranger training. Creases just so. Absolutely would not get his hands dirty. What’ll you bet our new captain starches his underwear?”
“Who cares about his underwear? Where’ll we put his desk?”
“Not here. Uh-huh. No way am I sharing an office with some preppy pain in the ass. I don’t care if his orders came down from God.”
The sergeant wrinkled his brow. “With a name like Meredith, sir, it could be a woman.”
“A woman?” That notion threw Ace a curve. “The only Meredith I’ve ever met is a man.” Ace flipped the page. “It figures. Damned fax paper—can’t read that square.” Glancing up, he said, “I’ve never been stationed with a woman out of the Point. Have you, Sutton?”
“One, sir.” The sergeant flopped down in his chair, shaking his head.
The major tugged at his right ear. “Bad, huh?”
“Well, you know, sir. Men didn’t want women at the academy. Some still do rotten things to wash the women out. Only the toughest get through.”
Ace formed a mental picture of a woman who might “get through.” “Great,” was his only comment.
The sergeant returned to the issue of where to put the new person. “Man or woman, they’ll need a desk, sir. ROTC had to fight for this space. The college will never approve another office.”
Ace was still considering the possibility of a woman. “We know how Ron Holmes hates men out of the Point. Might not be the hassle squeezing a female in next door with him and Captain Caldwell.”
“Even if there was room over there, sir, which there isn’t, do you really see Cap’n Holmes making room for an Amazon queen?”
Swearing roundly, Ace threw the folder back on his desk, snatched up his hat and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” Sutton bolted upright. “Colonel said the captain’s due in today.”
“I’m feeling bum, Sarge. I need medicine. The kind they dole out at the O-club,” he said, referring to the officers’ club at nearby Fort Freeman.
“Before 17 hours, sir?” Sutton sounded genuinely shocked that Ace would consider such a thing before five in the afternoon. “Normally when O’Dell drops a bomb like this, sir, you run the track a lap or two. That’s what you did when Buddy Watson flunked out and O’Dell sicced Buddy’s mama on you.”
“Yes, well, a social worker out of West Point warrants a marathon. And frankly it’s too damned hot to run.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant mumbled. “What should I do when Captain St. James shows up?”
“Call and get him—or her,” Ace hastily corrected, “set up temporarily in the BOQ.” Returning to the Rolodex, he pulled a card and tossed it on his clerk’s desk. “Wouldn’t hurt my feelings if the bachelor office quarters you call happened to be in Alaska,” Ace said pointedly.
“We know the captain’s single?” Sutton’s hand hovered over the phone.
Ace went to his desk and opened the folder. The square behind Captain St. James’s name was marked with a bold black S. “That we do, Sutton. Single and a blue blood. Tell me this is just a bad dream.”
“I can see where it’d be hard for somebody who came out of the trenches to be assisted by a West Pointer. Guess I don’t blame you for going to the pub, sir.”
The major’s growl resembled that of a wounded animal as he slammed out the door. Backing out of the parking area, he suddenly felt the loneliness that often accompanied command. Another good reason for going to the O-club. What he needed was some camaraderie, a few laughs and a few drinks. Although, com-pared to some who hung out at the club, Ace wasn’t a big drinker. Nearby Fort Freeman had no official ties to the ROTC program, but access to the officers’ club was considered a perk for army and air force instruc-tors assigned to teach military science. The companion-ship of other military folk might assuage the loneliness of his rank and his position at the college. On impulse, Ace decided to stop and invite a woman he knew to join him.
He had met Ruby Tindall, an attractive divorced redhead, on a previous post. Last year, after she got smart and dumped her drunken philandering husband—a lieutenant Ace knew only by reputation—they’d begun dating. On occasion Ace had heard Ruby talk about the same emptiness in her life he often felt. Although what she talked about most often was her kids. She spent a lot of time discussing whether or not to take them back to the small town in Oregon where she’d grown up.
Ace tried never to offer advice in areas he knew nothing about. He certainly didn’t see himself as inducement for her to stick around here. He and Ruby were friends. They’d never shared a bed, mostly because he’d returned from the Gulf with a changed view of permanence. Life was about more than physical gratification.
So tonight, as on their usual Friday dates, Ace wanted nothing more than a smooth glass of bourbon, and the company of a friend. Maybe that would help him forget the colonel’s latest snafu. Namely, Captain West Point.
* * *
ACROSS TOWN, Captain Meredith St. James had just completed a long, tiring flight. What should have been a four-hour jaunt from Baltimore had taken eight on military standby. The last leg was spent on a noisy chopper that had made a stop at the civilian airport ten or so miles from South Oakes University.
Cabs weren’t exactly plentiful, and that caused yet another delay. When at last all her bags were loaded into one, the captain had one window free to look out at the unfamiliar countryside. Culture shock for someone who’d spent the better part of twenty-seven years in and around the historic city of Baltimore.
The sun beat down mercilessly on the cab, and dust rose from beneath the wheels to hang on an invisible wind. As far as the human eye could see, flat reddish earth blended with low-growing scrub. What trees there were had small ruffs of green atop squat dark trunks.
And it was hot. Captain St. James was positive hell could not be any hotter than this plot of ground in west Texas—even though, technically, it was spring. In Baltimore, cherry blossoms were popping out and other flowers had begun to color the landscape. If she had to be transferred from her comfortable assignment in Baltimore, almost anyplace in the universe seemed preferable to Texas.
It only added to the day’s frustration when, after walking two blocks in the unholy heat to locate the army ROTC office on campus, Captain St. James was informed that, yes, Major Bannister knew the captain was due in today, but he’d gone to the O-club anyhow.
“Colonel O’Dell faxed that I should report to the major on my arrival.” The captain’s voice rose in disbelief. “I’ve released my cab. Do you have someone free to take me to him?”
“That might not be such a good idea,” the sergeant muttered.
“What?” Captain St. James arched a pale eyebrow.
“I said, that might not be such a good idea, sir,“ the sergeant repeated more loudly.
“Let me be the judge of that,” she snapped. “Now, if you’ll get that driver—”
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” Sutton grabbed the phone.
On the short drive from the campus to the fort, Captain St. James garnered a passable description of Major Bannister from the youthful driver. But even without it, the major wouldn’t have been hard to spot. The only gold oak leaf in the club blazed from a jacket thrown carelessly over a chair.
Captain St. James studied the dark-haired man in the corner with some misgiving. His military record might be impeccable, but his deportment was not. His tie hung loose and his sleeves were rolled halfway to the elbows in flagrant disregard of the army’s dress code.
Having spent a lifetime in the company of officers, the captain knew every syllable of the code. Three generations on both sides of the family had graduated from West Point, where dignity and decorum were tantamount to godliness.
Suppressing scorn, Captain St. James marched across the dimly lit, thickly carpeted room and saluted smartly. “Major Bannister, sir! Captain St. James reporting as directed.” Both form and salute were near perfect. Chin in, back arched, heels touching.
Ace peered up. Ruby was cloven to his side, and even then he was having trouble hearing her over the music. Given the lack of light, it took him a moment to locate the person who’d interrupted—although the cultured-sounding inflection of her voice left Ace in no doubt that he was looking at Captain Snafu.
He felt his jaw go slack. Perhaps, for the first time since he’d become an officer, Ace Bannister failed to return a salute.
Before him, hat in hand, stood a wisp of a female whose great golden eyes reminded Ace of aged cognac—mellow on the surface, covering a sharp bite below. Magnificent eyes that clearly showed disapproval. Of him.
That in itself made Ace sit straighter. Not that he was one to brag, but it was a rare woman who dismissed him on looks alone.
Yet she had—this lady captain, whose pale blond hair was cut nearly as short as his, except for a few longer strands that blew about her face like dandelion fluff, thanks to the lazily churning fan overhead.
This was Captain St. James? Captain West Point St. James?
Ace felt his teeth come together like a rubber band suddenly snapped. Dazed, he closed his eyes and shook his head. Only then did he collect himself enough to manage a passable salute. Even so, he neglected to say, “At ease,” and the captain remained as she was, chin up, back ramrod-stiff, nose tilted just a bit as if she smelled something bad.
“Major Bannister.”
Ace noted that her smoky voice masked her irritation well.
“Anxious as I am to discuss incorporating my curriculum into your ROTC program, it’s plain to see that you are...otherwise occupied. Perhaps it would be best if we met in your office tomorrow. Will 0800 hours suit you... sir?”
An unspoken rebuke lurked just below the surface of her words, asking if he would be...what? Sober?
Ace didn’t like her attitude. It was barely short of insubordinate. And he hadn’t drunk so much that he couldn’t figure out that somewhere along the way, Little Miss Uppity Britches had picked up a powerful mentor. Very powerful, judging by her manner.
Hell, he didn’t fault her for having a mentor. He’d had a few himself. All tough, brilliant officers. Good soldiers, who saw something in him that made them think he was worth sticking their necks out for. But a social worker? Give me a break.
“Miss St. James,” he said tightly, scarcely able to force her name through his lips.
She drew herself up taller, twin spots of color on her cheeks the only sign she had heard his insult. Heard it and didn’t like it.
“It’s Captain St. James.” She enunciated each syllable. “At your service...Major.”
Ace flushed. He had never insulted an officer, or a woman. Not in his entire military career. Until now.
Deciding the wisest move would be to leave before he said something unforgivable, he bent and whispered his intention in Ruby’s ear. She giggled.
Ace didn’t think his request was funny. Now, unwinding himself from Ruby in front of those condemning golden eyes was embarrassing. Come to think of it, though, he didn’t give a damn what the snooty captain thought about him. Or his companion.
Captain St. James heard the major’s date snicker. Presumably he’d said something snide about her—the jerk. Through narrowed eyes, she watched the pair slide out of the booth as though they were joined at the hip. Something deep inside her wanted to dump the amber contents of the glasses over their heads. But of course she wouldn’t. A St. James never acted out of petulance, and certainly not in public.
What she did was press her fingers tighter to her sides and command her elbows not to waver. If Major Bannister thought he could break her by leaving her to stand at attention, he was mistaken. She had lived through more rigid discipline at home—meted out in military fashion by a man who, although he controlled every aspect of his life, had not been able to command the birth of a son.
And she’d survived worse at the Point. Meredith Marshall St. James had learned early to separate her ego from the whims of male officers. She could stand like this until hell froze into little ice cubes if the major so desired.
It wasn’t easy to watch him uncurl a six-foot frame from the dark booth. Meredith tried not to blink as he towered over her. It was downright humiliating when he dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the table, looped a well-muscled arm around his lady friend’s neck and, just before they walked off, said oh-so-casually, “Have a drink, Captain—on me.”
And he left without placing her at ease. When she realized her mouth was gaping, Meredith shut it and allowed only a sliver of her gaze to follow Major A. C. Bannister’s progress. He sauntered out in a way that defied description, even for someone as articulate as herself.
Who does he think he is? she fumed silently. He might be good-looking, but she’d certainly seen good-looking men before.
He might have the body of an athlete, but if he made alcohol a habit he certainly wouldn’t keep it long.
His eyes.
What derogatory thing could she say about silver-gray eyes, fringed with lashes so long most women would kill for them?
Meredith dragged her thoughts off that path.
Rude. He was rude, inconsiderate and tactless. Nothing attractive about that. And it was obvious he thought he was God’s gift to women.
Well, if she’d been unclear as to why her father had pulled strings to have her sent here—after he went out of his way to belittle her field of expertise—it no longer mattered.
South Oakes ROTC was the perfect place to begin honing the rough edges of fledgling officer candidates. Not only that, Major Bannister, top professional instructor in charge of the poor impressionable kids, had more rough edges than steel wool.
Frankly Meredith didn’t think her tour here would be long enough to even find them all. But now that she had a focus, now that she knew what needed doing, she could hardly wait for morning.
