"You were wearing that second frown when you looked at Lucy. The overprotective-dad kind of frown when he's worried about sending his kid out." Her brown eyes hinted at a concern far more dangerous than the "interested frown."
The woman was perceptive. And nosy. And he was letting too much show.
Max pivoted toward the tank under the guise of securing a tie-down chain. "It's a tricky transition for dolphins."
"I'll bet you're going to miss them."
"Miss them?" A Navy brat, he'd said hundreds of goodbyes. Pack up and move on. He'd learned early to shrug off the past, to blend into a new setting quickly but never grow attached. Hell, he'd been training for transitory undercover work since the playpen. "It's time for them to go."
The words sounded harsh even to his own jaded ears, but better for her to meet the real Max straight up. He was feeding her enough half-truths about himself. He didn't need to pretend in this arena.
"How will you set them free? What's the process? I did some cruising on the Web when I received this assignment. Most sites said it's tough to reacclimate a dolphin that's been in captivity more than three years."
He grasped the safer topic with both hands. "That's true, but Lucy and Ethel weren't tank dolphins so we're hoping the transition will be smoother. There are fewer risks of them transmitting infection back into the wild that would harm other cetaceans. Lucy and Ethel have spent their captive years in sea pens— netted-off lagoons and bays."
Open ocean operations.
And they always came back.
He wanted this chance for their release, but his concerns about their adaptation strayed to a different path.
He knew they could hunt and protect themselves. But how would they unlearn years of patterned behavior? Not to mention complete loyalty to him. "It's still an iffy situation, but we're gonna give it a shot."
"Hmm."
"Hmm, what?"
"You're still frowning. Why are you doing this if it bothers you?"
"It's not my choice to make." More truth since the dolphins belonged to the government. His hand slid from the tank to his side.
She shoved away from the bulkhead. With one finger she traced his damp handprint on the fiberglass panel. Slowly. Dipping along each curve. "So you did your research in sea pens. Something about communication?"
He nodded. Watched her finger outline the image of his. Clenched his fist. Swallowed hard. "Uh-huh."
"Lucky for you the Air Force could step in on this one. But then I'll bet you probably have a lot of interaction with the folks at the Pt. Loma naval marine research facility since they're close to the university."
His gaze snapped from her hand to her face. Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!
How had they gone from discussing old television shows and overprotective fathers to Pt. Loma, the government home of his dolphin training operation?
The woman had all but seduced him from his job without laying a hand on him. Hell, two more seconds and who knew what she might have him spilling. He had to get her off the subject. Now. No time for finesse.
He opted for the first diversion that came to mind.
Max arranged his expression into that checking-out frown, not at all a difficult proposition. "Wanna go out for a drink tomorrow night?''
Sure.
Darcy winced at her inane reply to Max's invitation earlier.
Even eight hours later as she stood on the flight line at Andersen AFB, Guam, she still wanted to exchange her answer for something...snappier. So much for her grand plan of being like her sister, Alicia. But talking with Max had been interesting, then distracting, and before long she was coming on to him for real, being herself.
Boot propped on the load ramp, she watched Max direct the unloading of Lucy and Ethel. The fiberglass crates moved on rollers toward two flatbed trucks.
Palms rustled in the breeze, the ocean visible just beyond the trees. The morning sun crept over the horizon in a shimmering orange ball, warming an already muggy day. Seduced by the sultry tropical breezes, she could almost forget Guam was the scene of so many bad memories.
Darcy plucked at her grimy flight suit, Max looking too darned fresh. The slicker gone, he'd cuffed his chambray sleeves to work with the loadmasters. He steadied the crate during the crane transfer, muscles straining against his well-worn jeans until her toes curled in her boots.