She'd never considered that his diving could be a way to achieve ultimate solitude—which made his taking time to comfort her all the more special.
Special. A shiver of longing prickled. Dangerous when she was so vulnerable.
Silence settled, steamy, heavy. Needy. Darcy searched for something to fill the space between them so she wouldn't fall victim to the temptation to explore the muscles cutting his chest.
She pointed to the spotlit plane. "My dad flew that in when the other B-52 monument blew off the blocks during a hurricane." She kept her eyes fixed ahead. "I assume you know who my father is?"
Max blinked but didn't turn to her. "Hank Renshaw? General rumored to be next in line for Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff? Yeah, I've heard of him."
"Who hasn't, right?" She forced a laugh. Her father's prestige and power had brought about the kidnapping. Not that she blamed him. Her old man blamed himself enough for fifty people. "When Dad pulled his stint here as the Squadron Commander, crewdogs painted over all the signs that carried his name and title. They replaced it with 'Uncle Hank: Best Damned Bomber Pilot in the United States Air Force.'"
Darcy stared out at the plane. She'd been certain her indomitable father would wing in to the rescue. He had. But it had taken so damned long. "Sometimes I wish I'd felt the calling to be an artist. Or a lawyer. Or a teacher. Something different from my old man." A job where the memories wouldn't dog her.
"But the genes run too strong."
She nodded, surprised he understood. "Exactly. I have to fly. It's like breathing for me. Except my father owns all the air." Her fighter pilot sister had figured out how to make it work and her bomber brother just didn't care.
Why the hell wasn't there a patch of the sky she could claim for her own? Not one she'd located yet, anyway. "I wish I could find my niche in his world."
Sharing her frustrations felt good. Max was so easy to talk to, a good listener. No games. No facades. Just open honesty. "I feel as if I have ten times more to prove to these guys because of the Air Force pedigree. I need to make sure everyone knows I earned my wings with hard work instead of soaking up the benefits of nepotism."
She smacked her throbbing leg in frustration. "Damn it, I should be flying combat in Cantou instead of working the Flipper Flight." Darcy stopped short. "Uh, no offense."
A half smile tipped a dimple into Max's cheek. "None taken."
"Of course, now I can't even fly in earthquake relief supplies for three days. My missions will have to be taken on by someone else. Way to make a big impression as the new co around the squadron."
Max turned solemn eyes her way. "The crew's respect for you seems rock solid."
His sure tone bolstered her. Typical for the guy-minimal words, maximum punch.
"I hope so. Trust in the air is everything, and I need to know they trust me to hold up my end flying. That I'm a wingman to be counted on."
Pausing mid-ramble, Darcy glanced over at Max. This man had a way of making her babble on about herself and things she didn't really want to talk about anyway. She could almost see Alicia shooting her a mocking yawn symbol. "What about you? Brothers? Sisters? Red-brick, middle-class America upbringing?"
He sat silently for so long she thought he might not answer. Had she bored him to sleep after all? And if she climbed right over to him, would that stir him?
Or was he awake and she'd pushed this silent man too far?
Max shifted in his chair, eyes still half-open. "Only child. My old man was active duty—a Navy Captain. My mother and I followed him around the world."
Darcy thought of her own mother, a woman she didn't even remember except from pictures, since she'd died of an aneurysm twenty years ago. Would her mother have been able to put the kidnapping into a sharper focus? Darcy shrugged off the notion. She was doing fine on her own, damn it. "So you get your love for the water from your father."
A furrow creased his brow. "I guess so. Although he would probably choke on his commission to hear we have anything in common. I haven't been the ideal son."
With a few clipped sentences Max relayed much— a veritable sharefest for such a closemouthed man. A heady rush of success filled her. "Ah, come on. I'm sure he loves pineapples."
Max snorted.
She wanted to see his smile and bring back the rare chattiness she'd only just begun to enjoy with him. "I'll bet your clothes made for some interesting times around your house."
His eyes slid from the horizon. A surprise spark of laughter lit the edges of a smile. "And I've become conservative in my old age."
Their laughs twined. She wanted to twine a lot more with this guy.
The common bond in their upbringing only made him tougher to resist. Chitchat wasn't helping. She needed distance fast before she crawled across the deck and into his arms again.
Darcy knew just the question guaranteed to chill the heat humming through her. "So, Max, what's a marine biologist with a penchant for wild dive shorts doing packing a Glock 29 on my airplane?"