rubs off,” she replied, tight-lipped.
As they walked into the elegant French restaurant located in a popular section of Georgetown, Matt leaned over. His voice was low, vibrating through her. “I owe you an apology. It’s been one hell of a rough day, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. Am I forgiven?”
One look into his eyes and Layne’s retort melted. She avoided his searching look. “Let’s just call it a draw, shall we?”
Matt laughed softly, guiding her into the darkened foyer of the establishment. “Now you see us as sparring partners in a boxing match.”
“Aren’t we?” she needled him.
He gave her an amused look, saying nothing.
Layne was not surprised when Matt shifted into fluid French with the maître d’, and she reluctantly admitted his accent was excellent. As they approached a quiet, intimate table, Layne noticed that Matt was the only uniformed guest. The noontime trade at La Fleur mostly consisted of Hill people.
“You’re getting quite a few daggered looks, you know,” she said when he’d completed the wine order.
Matt’s gaze settled hungrily on Layne. He liked her husky, warm voice. It reminded him of melting honey. “Does it bother you?”
She shook her head, folding her hands and resting her chin on them. “No. They probably think you belong back over at the Pentagon and not on this side of the Potomac.”
He smiled, placing the menu aside and resting his forearms on the table. “There wasn’t a restaurant like La Fleur over there. You deserve the best, Mrs. Hamilton. And if my uniform causes any of the patrons a bit of discomfort, I can live with that if you can.”
“Men in uniform don’t bother me, Major. It’s agents in plain-clothes that I distrust,” Layne reminded him sharply.
“Then I’m glad I’m in uniform.”
Layne had the grace to blush. And then she recognized the sincerity in his softly spoken words. She felt as if he’d reached out and caressed her, the vibrant warmth of his voice again soothing her emotions. Last night she had lain awake a long time remembering his comforting words in her ear as she’d sobbed against his chest. And she remembered with vivid clarity the strength of his arms around her body, rocking her, caring for her simply because she was hurting and alone. Layne felt confusion rise within her as she met and held his gaze.
“Please,” she begged softly, leaning forward, “why are you going to all this trouble? I know you want something from me.”
Matt cocked his head, studying Layne with raw intensity. She was warm and outgoing by nature. And he had known her late husband, Brad Carson, off and on for years. Brad had been as cold as they came. Matt couldn’t imagine Layne in Carson’s arms. She was a woman of vulnerability, her sensuality as natural as moonlight. And Carson had never shown any response to others’ feelings or emotions. How had they come together? Matt wondered.
Rousing himself, he forced a slight smile. “For you, I’m an open book.”
Layne gave him a careful look that implied skepticism. “Oh, sure you are!”
He opened his hands in a gesture of peace. “Try me.”
The waiter came, interrupting them, and Matt ordered their lunch. Once the waiter had left, he picked up his wineglass. “Shall we toast, Mrs. Hamilton?”
She picked up her glass filled with the chilled Chablis he’d ordered. “To what?”
“To the future.”
Layne looked at him over the raised crystal. “What future?” she asked carefully.
Matt grinned, clinking his glass against hers. “On our assignment. Salut.”
She nearly dropped the wineglass, and her lips parted in stunned surprise as she set it down. “What are you talking about?”
“Do you know how beautiful you become when you’re angry?”
“Stop it! Answer my question.”
“I told you, I’m an open book to you.”
“If you think you’re going to con me into doing anything with you or—or—”
He reached over and gripped her hand gently between his fingers. “Rule number one—we don’t mention any names.”
She jerked her hand away, muttering an oath under her breath that raised his eyebrows. “I ought to leave. You’re such an arrogant, self-assured—”
“Where did all this temper come from? I thought you had very little backbone when it came to fighting for yourself?” he teased, trying not to smile.
Matt watched her eyes darken to the color of ripened wheat. “That’s none of your business, Major Talbot! Now, either you stop this little game or I’m getting up and leaving.”
Settling his features into a more serious expression, he said solemnly, “Okay, start asking your questions.”
“You’re taught to lie.”
“I won’t lie to you.”
“There isn’t an operative alive who doesn’t lie. That uniform could be nothing more than a cover!”
“I’m a major in the Air Force. And I am a pilot.”
Her lovely eyes narrowed. “Be careful, Talbot. My father was in the Air Force. And he was one of the finest test pilots they ever had.”
“I know that.”
“Of course you would. You have my whole life history on microfilm somewhere in the vaults.”
“I’ve read your file.”
An Air Force pilot, indeed! Layne thought angrily. How many times had Brad assumed other careers, other covers to suit the purpose of his job? “What do you fly?”
He gave a lazy shrug of his broad shoulders. “Anything they’ll let me get my hands on.”
“Any idiot knows you’re either a fighter or a bomber pilot, Major! Don’t hedge on that with me. I’m afraid you don’t know your cover very well. I’m not impressed.”
“I’m a test pilot. Is that acceptable?”
Layne sat back, surprise followed by sadness welling up in her. Memories of her father came rushing back. She remembered his taciturn face as he’d climbed into the cockpit of the aircraft that would kill him on that hot October day. She forced herself to look at Matt Talbot again. Yes, he had that same look she had seen on other test pilots—the “look of the eagles.” These men had an arrogant pride melded with the unshakable confidence that they could fly anything with wings attached to it.
“Where are you stationed?”
Matt sipped his wine. “Nellis Air Force Base.”
Layne’s mind ranged over the myriad bases her father had been assigned to during the twenty years he had been in the Air Force. “Nellis isn’t a testing base. Edwards is where they test all the new aircraft.” She watched him, waiting for an answer, but his face remained impassive. He said nothing.
“Well?” she prodded.
“I’m assigned to Tactical Air Command, Layne,” he said, using her name for the first time since that evening. “Other than that, there are some things I can’t tell you, so I’ll remain silent rather than fabricate a story.”
Her lips compressed as she glared at him. “Nellis is home of the Red Flag. It’s where our fighter pilots sharpen their skills against specially trained U.S. pilots who fly like Soviets.”
He gave her a nod of his head. “Yes. They’re called Aggressor pilots and spend at least five hundred hours learning Soviet fighter techniques to use in training flights against American