"Rhetorical questions at this time of night, Donny? I think it's me talking, not the whisky. We'll know better in the sober light of morning, won't we?"
"If that's an invitation," Don began, "I'm afraid—"
Her eyes blazed at him. "I think you're the rudest man I ever met. And the most boorish." She tossed off the rest of her drink, then began to cry.
"Now, Jen—" He went to her and patted her shoulder awkwardly.
"Oh, Don." She put her head against his chest and wept. His arms automatically went around her, comfortingly.
Then he realized that Jen's muffled sobs were going direct to the Pentagon through his transceiver. That piece of electronics equipment taped to his skin, he told himself, was the least of the reasons why he could not have accepted Jen's invitation—if it had been an invitation.
He lifted her chin from his chest to spare the man in the Pentagon any further sobs, which must have been reaching him in crescendo. Jen's face was tear-stained. She looked into his eyes for a second, then fastened her mouth firmly on his.
There was nothing a gentleman could do, Don thought, except return the kiss. Rude, was he?
Jen broke away first. "What's that?" she said.
Don opened his eyes and his glance went automatically to the door. It would not have surprised him to see King Hector coming through it in his royal night clothes. But Jen was staring out the window. He turned.