a second he thought he might have scared her off with just that, but then she drew out one of the dining chairs and took a seat. A cool cucumber once again. "Why don't you tell me about it?"
A sudden urge to bolt cramped his gut, but he rode out the impulse. This was one of two memories of that year he didn't have to stave off with rock 'n' roll blasting through a pair of earbuds or the monotone chatter of news from his big-screen TV. While an auto's backfire could have him crouching to protect himself from small-arms fire, or the cry of a seagull take him straight to the nights when the monkeys shrieked from the craggy mountains surrounding the base in Afghanistan, thoughts of Erica raised a wall between him and the rest of the world.
"We each had a different sponsoring magazine, both owned by the same publishing company," he said, moving back so he could lean against the nearby wall. "The newsweekly was paying my way. Erica was the first embedded war journalist on assignment for what's generally considered a women's fashion publication."
Jane glanced at the collection of tear sheets. "Brave lady."
"Dogged." He didn't want to examine too closely right now what, exactly, she'd been so determined to accomplish, so he pushed the question away. "It's a man's world out there. Every ten or fourteen days, we rotated to a slightly larger base for a chance at a hot meal and water to wash with, but the rest of the time it was MREs and our own sweat. The guys pissed into PVC pipes stuck in the ground."
Griffin eyed Jane, trying to picture her among the soldiers in his platoon. Erica had been bold and bawdy, coping with the almost-adolescent sexual bravado of the young men by telling jokes so dirty they could almost make him cringe. Jane, on the other hand... She'd probably faint dead away.
As if reading his mind, the blonde straightened in her chair, her eyebrows drawn together and down. "Don't stop on my account. Three summers in a row my dad hauled my brothers and me out to the Arizona desert while he conducted fieldwork studying an elusive reptile. One of my first jobs in this business? I assisted a man ghostwriting the autobiography of a notorious metal band's lead singer. To get 'color,' I rode with them on their reunion tour bus for a month. I might look sheltered, but I assure you that's not the case."
Her annoyance bemused him. "What elusive reptile was that?"
She didn't blink. "The Black-and-Green Spotted Hootswaggle."
"You made that up."
Her little movement might well have been a flounce. "So? I've forgotten its real name. My father always says I have no head for science."
Yet she'd survived those arid summers and then four weeks with the kind of band infamous for debauchery. "Did you, uh, date any of those band members?"
"Well, I did make sure I had all my shots up to date before the tour - you know, rabies, distemper, smallpox and the like - but no, tempted as I was by scrawny men wearing leather pants and hair extensions."
She made him smile. Not only was she funny with her dry way of delivery, but for some reason it pleased him to know some ancient lecher with a groupie list a mile long hadn't touched the baby skin, kissed the tender mouth.
That mouth that was part silent star, part very bad girl.
"But we've gotten off the subject," Jane continued.
Damn it, she made him do that too, Griffin realized. He was supposed to be sending her on her way, not smiling at her.
The governess gestured at the tear sheets again. "We were talking about Erica."
In his mind's eye he saw the women who had populated their remote outpost. It wasn't the single real one he pictured, however. Instead he saw their other female companions - the naked centerfolds taped to the plywood walls, their humongous breasts and big white smiles fly-speckled, their expressions creepily come-hither as their paper selves watched over the boys ever ready to risk their lives. One young man had a morning ritual of kissing the paper nipples for luck.
"Erica..." Jane prompted again.
He ran his hand over the back of his neck. "A patrol was going out to search the valley for weapon hoards and ratlines - foot trails that are enemy supply routes. The night before I'd been on the same kind of mission myself."