Thankfully there was no sign of Frances, which suited Vi just fine. She was too tired to deal with bad attitudes this morning.
“Did you hear the news?” Marcie asked as Vi collapsed into the chair across from her. “We’re finally going to get a chance to perform in front of the troops! And we get to fly there, too. We’re supposed to pack up right after breakfast.”
Vi’s stomach instantly lost interest in the pastry. “Fly? Like in an airplane?”
“Of course, silly. How else does one fly? Lieutenant Guilford pulled a few strings so we wouldn’t have to ride in trucks the whole way. Wasn’t that swell of him? And it means we can get to our first stop that much quicker.”
“Marvelous.” Vi set the coffee cup down before her trembling hand spilled the contents. “Where is our first stop, anyway?”
“It’s all hush-hush for security reasons, but Lieutenant Guilford did say we were traveling north, so it should be cooler!”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Then Vi thought of Sergeant Dangerous, with his battle-roughened exterior. “I wonder if we’re bypassing Rome and heading even farther north.”
“Wherever we go, I hope it isn’t to the front lines.” Gertie’s narrow shoulders were strung tight. “I don’t want to die.”
“You’re not going to die,” Marcie said, sounding exasperated.
“Al Jolson nearly did,” Gertie pointed out.
“From malaria,” Marcie said, “which he caught in the South Seas, not Europe.”
“What about Jane Froman? She was on a USO tour in Europe when she almost lost her leg last year.”
“Can we talk about something else?” Vi asked, feeling even more ill as she recalled exactly how the famous performer was injured . . . in a plane crash.
Marcie ignored her. “Bad luck can strike anywhere. Besides, you knew what you were signing up for before we left the States. The Foxhole Circuit by its very name suggests we’re going close to the front.”
“It didn’t sound so scary at the time,” Gertie said defensively. “I’d never seen a bombed-out city before. And no one told me everyone overseas would be armed.”
“It’s all right, Gertie.” Vi rubbed her temples, struggling with her own bout of nerves. Cars she was okay with. Boats, too. Even pack mules. But airplanes? “I have to admit war zones look a lot different in color than they did in the black-and-white newsreels. Nor do they smell like popcorn and movie theaters.”
Marcie rolled her eyes at that. Then her gaze flicked to somewhere behind Vi. Abruptly she straightened on the couch. “He’s here again,” she hissed.
Vi frowned and turned to look. “Who?”
It took a second, but then she recognized the soldier in the doorway as a cleaner, more respectable version of Sergeant Dangerous. Gone was the road dust and scruffy beard, leaving his angular, attractive jaw—with its paler skin—on full display. And wasn’t it just her luck that he would choose this morning to make his reappearance, a morning when she looked like hell.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Perhaps if she could find some flaw in his manly perfection, so as to balance the playing field? She narrowed her gaze. His cheekbones were a bit too high, and his full, lushly curved lips a tad on the feminine side . . . or would be on someone else. Everything else about him was too hard edged and steely to be anything but male. And his deceptively lazy ease of movement that she’d noticed that first day was completely masculine.
And those eyes . . . such a piercing, unworldly blue. She could gaze into them for days.
Sue clapped her hands, startling Vi out of her inspection.
“Attention, everyone. Some of you have already heard, but we’re moving out this morning. Sergeant Danger”—Vi choked on her coffee at his name—“here is our army liaison for the first leg of our journey. As he’s in charge of our safety, if he tells you to do something, please do it posthaste and without argument. And yes, Matthew, I’m looking at you.”
“Good luck to the sergeant with that,” Marcie said in a whisper. “Matt doesn’t listen to anyone except Mr. Stuart.”
Vi cocked an eyebrow at the handsome actor who played Ann’s love interest in the show. He lounged on the far side of the room, his shoulder against the wall, a small smile on his lips, looking anything but ashamed. “Well, if he wants to stay alive, he’ll need to change his tune.”
“Also,” Sue continued, “I’ve just been advised that I mispronounced our new liaison’s name. It’s Sergeant Dang-er, like hanger.” She gave