"You have her, then?" The low voice, slightly raspy from age, chilled him
even through the phone.
"Yes, sir. We'll begin testing her this morning."
"Excellent. And your initial analysis, Captain?"
A long pause, and a shift of brown eyes. "Promising, sir."
"For your sake, I hope you're right. It's a simple enough task, Lyle-- I'm growing tired of waiting on you."
A faint click signaled that the older man was done with him, and Rourke grimly lowered the receiver. He should have killed him long ago.
-----
It wasn't that he had any kind of feelings for her. No, Rourke firmly reiterated to himself, she was just a pile of poker chips, an inanimate thing which could either make or break him. He had certainly found nothing charming about her naive attempts at brushing him off in the train, or in the way her lips had pursed as she'd studied the chess board. As he'd told himself a thousand times this morning, giving her away would be almost insultingly easy. But as he stood on a narrow metal balcony in a large training room, watching her feet fly over and over a jump rope that moved too quickly to be seen, he knew that it was a lie.
"She's doing remarkably well, don't you think?" commented the Private beside him, gesturing to a clipboard with the girl's scores recorded in pencil.
"We'll see how she finishes up," Rourke answered quietly, his eyes never leaving her. A faint line of sweat had formed along her breast bone, and it made the skin above her tank top gleam. "But, yes .. I'd say she's doing quite well, so far."
"Well, you know how those Army brats are," the mustached man quipped lightly, jotting down a number as the blonde switched jumping styles.
"Hmm," he answered, noncommitally. Rourke found it vaguely amusing that children of soldiers should be given such an insulting label these days. Things had certainly changed... The girl on the floor began to blur.
----------
"Lyle! Lyle, baby?"
She wore a dress made out of thin blue calico, and her already greying hair was done up in a knot at the nape of her neck. Her cheeks were wet, but he hadn't understood quite why, at the time.
"Aren't you gonna tell your Daddy good-bye, baby?"
He'd rubbed the sleep from his eyes and padded his way to the doorway, one chubby little fist dragging his blanket behind him.
"C'mere, Little Man." Powerful arms had lifted him up, and soft brown eyes had smiled from beneath bushy eyebrows. "I'm gonna go take care of a coupla Yanks, now, an' make this country free again... I'm fixin' to bring you back a real live Yankee's boot buckle when I come home for Christmas, too-- an' you see if I don't!" He'd been pressed up into the itchy grey wool of his father's uniform, and held for what had seemed an eternity, then gently given a gruff little kiss on the forehead and a smile. "You take care of your Mama, now, you hear me?"
"Okay, now.. scoot back to bed, baby; get some rest." His mother's eyes had been wet, then, too, but why? Daddy would be home by Christmas... God, he'd been so young, so young...
----------
"Private, get me Trunkel."
"Trunkel, sir? Yes, sir." The Private looked down at the girl. "Sinclair, take five."
On the lower level of the training room, Helga lowered her rope and took a deep breath, the air stale but sweet as it filled her lungs. Her muscles ached beneath her skin, and she could feel a thin layer of sweat across her torso. Though she would have never admitted it, it felt wonderful to simply be still for a moment. She stretched her back, relishing the relief that the posture brought until her instincts kicked in. The hair on the back of her neck shifted, and she realized that she was still being watched.
Narrowed blue eyes shot upwards, and, indeed, Captain Lyle Rourke's gaze appeared quite fixed on her, though strangely distant. Helga's upper lip curled back slightly, and she jogged off into the back hallway. Had she been asked why, she might have retorted that her muscles would have cramped had she remained still for too long, or that the water fountain in the dingy back hallway was far superior to the one in the training room itself, but the fact was that she simply couldn't abide by him staring at her like that. He stood on his balcony, scrutinizing her with a patriarchal air of condescention that she couldn't help but find unnerving. He'd scarcely said a word to her after they'd arrived the night before, stating simply that she was to report at 0-700 for testing. She assumed it was for placement of some type, but exactly what kind, or how well she was supposed to do, were complete mysteries to her. She'd arrived early to warm up, when the gym was still cold and dark with the twilight before dawn, and she had since been pushing her body to the limit under the watchful eyes of not only the same Private who'd greeted them at the station, but also of the man whose lingering scent had kept her awake nearly all night. The longer she thought of him, the deeper she felt a strange need to prove herself to him. He'd shown her up countless times on the train, in that subtle way of his, and Helga knew that she was far too proud to simply let it go. She ached to prove herself to him, even if it was only in such a petty thing as jumping rope. But with him watching her like that... She knew that he would almost assuredly catch even the slightest mistep, and the constant pressure was becoming exhausting. How would she ever prove herself if she found it unable to even do simple tasks under his gaze? She splashed her face with water at the small fountain in the hallway, and rinsed the taste of fear from her mouth. The water was only mildly cold, but it somehow helped bolster her spirits. She could do this, she could convince him that she was a worthy student-- if only he would stop staring!
Though she had used only a small portion of her allotted five minutes, Helga wasted no time in jogging back to the training room. If she was to make a fool of herself, she could at least be on time for it... Surely he'd appreciate punctuality. "See what a good little girl I am?" she muttered under her breath as she entered, determined that her exhaustion not register on her face when he saw her.
"Quite good, I hope," came a low response from behind her. "And as for little..."
She turned around abruptly. He stood against the wall, directly inside the doorway, and Helga realized with humiliation that she must have uttered her sarcastic little number almost right beside him. She'd have to sharpen her instincts if she ever hoped to--
"Trunkel?" Rourke asked, dismissing her almost immediately as he turned his gaze to the door at the front of the room. The Private from earlier had just stepped in, and was now accompanied by a young man with a slightly crooked nose and a shaven head. "Sinclair, this is Max Trunkel. He's my best student in intro level training. Trunkel, this is Major Sinclair's daughter, from Aberdeen." A faint smirk appeared at the corners of the Captain's lips. "But I believe you two have met before, haven't you?"
The nineteen year old Trunkel's eyes narrowed at the sight of the sweaty girl, who still looked every bit as cocky as she had back in Maryland. "You're the bitch that took my paycheck," he snarled, advancing on her.
"And you're the sore loser who couldn't defend himself," she retorted lowly, instinctively assuming a solid stance. How had Rourke known about this?
"I've learned a thing or two since then." Trunkel's eyes flashed fire, but he glanced towards Rourke for further orders. It wouldn't do to just lunge for the girl, as tempting as that might be. After all, he could always take care of her later.
Helga's gaze also shifted towards the Captain, whose lips were now twisted into a very amused smile. What did he mean, bringing this boy to her like this? Of all the people he could have chosen to greet her on this hellish day, why did it have to be Trunkel?
She'd defeated him in a chess game at Aberdeen, back when she'd been short on cash, and, though they'd each placed a decent wager on the game, he'd refused to pay her when she'd won. Apparently, the fool hadn't been able to believe that he'd lost a game of logic to a girl. She hadn't fought him for the money, really; it had been a matter of principal. After all, if the other GI's on the base saw that she hadn't enforced the payment of this wager, they'd feel free to walk all over her whenever they saw fit, and Helga simply couldn't allow that. It hadn't been anything personal; just a matter of business. Of course, thinking back, she could still feel the cartiledge in his nose snapping, the slickness of his blood on her gloves, and the weight of his money in her pocket... But how had Rourke known? And what was his purpose behind bringing him here?
"Trunkel, it's come to my attention that you have some unfinished business with Miss Sinclair here," Rourke murmured, his eyes locked on the boy's.
"Yes sir," came the even reply.
"Why don't you go on ahead now and finish that up, son." It wasn't a question.
Max Trunkel's eyes darted from Rourke to Helga and back again. "Sir?"
"Go ahead," Rourke said, his voice perfectly relaxed. "I don't want any prolonged conflict on this base, Trunkel, and I want to see this one cleared up right now. It's all right-- go ahead."
For a moment, Max and Helga's eyes locked, and a silent messege was exchanged. Surely the older man couldn't be serious about this... A quick glance back to Rourke assured them both that he was, indeed, and, uncomfortable in the knowledge that this was an encouraged, if not downright enforced, fight, they squared off.
----------
She hadn't meant to hurt him, really. But something about performing under Rourke's gaze, inhaling the scent of Trunkel's sweat as he'd swung at her, and the way that that damned Private smirked in the background... It had combined to trigger something in her that was almost lethal. Her fighting had been sloppy, yes--she knew that-- but it had also been very, very effective.
Brushing her sweaty bangs back from her forehead, Helga peered down at Max Trunkel, whose left eye was already beginning to darken and swell. He was undoubtedly unconscious, and a vague wave of guilt washed over the girl who now watched him. Rourke had ordered him to fight her; he hadn't deserved this. The boy was only nineteen, after all, and it was unfair to expect him to be able to beat her after only a few months of training.
"He had it coming," Rourke reassured her, his voice low and very, very close to her.
Helga's heartbeat quickened slightly as she wondered why she hadn't noticed him approaching her, and dark blue eyes glanced up at him. "Sir?"
"Jenkins, have Trunkel attended to," Rourke ordered, looking up at the Private near the door.
The younger man's eyes seemed too large for his face as he forcibly ripped his gaze from Helga and the damage she'd done. "Yes sir," he choked out, and darted quickly out of the room.
"I heard your friend Trunkel chatting with some of my other students," Rourke explained, when it was obvious that the Private was out of earshot. "Something about you giving him hell at Aberdeen..." The blush that rose to Helga's cheeks was proof enough of her guilt. "If you're going to be training here, Miss Sinclair," he added, with an almost playful smile, "I can't have my boys plotting to take you out."
"Take.. me out, sir?" His smile had made his meaning vague, and Helga wondered how much of the other implications had been intentional. Knowing Rourke...
"That said," he continued, "I believe we can safely skip you past the basic training section of my courses." He gestured towards a clipboard in his massive left hand, and his smile broadened. "Your scores, and your performance with Trunkel here" --and he kicked the unconscious boy with the toe of his boot-- "are more than enough to convince me to skip you. That is, if you have no objections...?"
"Skip me.. to what, sir?"
"To personal training with me, Sinclair... as we discussed."
So there were no other steps to go through first. Helga hadn't imagined that she would get to work one-on-one with him so quickly; he'd seemed so utterly unimpressed by her all morning. She had been trained for most of her life, but never in an American or official military style, and she had assumed that Rourke would give her at least a quick introduction to the style he expected her to use. "I-- You ... really think I'm ready for that?" she stammered, looking into eyes that seemed suddenly very, very gentle.
"Of course I do," Rourke said, with a friendly smile. He was visibly far more relaxed than he had been the evening before. "But, hey.. Tell you what. You think about it, and let me know what you decide sometime this evening. You want some plain old-fashioned training, fine, you got it. I'd like to get to work with you as soon as you think you're ready, though, so let's cut the nonsense if we can. Swing by my office with your decision any time this evening, Sinclair, and we'll start you up tomorrow in whatever direction you want to go. Fair enough?"
Before she could respond, Private Jenkins came hustling back in with a pair of medics. "--no, no.. not serious," he was saying, "just a black eye and the like." Helga quickly stepped away from Trunkel's outstretched form, a glare from a medic sparking a guilty blush. She looked down at Trunkel, aware once again of his presence, and, after a brief pause, turned back to Rourke.
She looked just in time to see the shoulders of his olive green jacket disappear out the door. The clipboard he'd been carrying was nowhere in sight.
----------
Leaning back in his chair, Rourke shifted his feet on his desk, and inhaled deeply from his cigar. She was perfect, absolutely perfect. With the cigar between his teeth, he flipped through the pages on his clipboard yet again, smiling as he read. When he'd heard Trunkel talking with the other transfers about the "spitfire at Aberdeen," he'd been hopeful, yes... But nothing could have prepared him for the perfection that was Helga. He'd been taken by her beauty when he'd met her after the lecture, by her intelligence and charms on the train ride, and now by her physical strength and agility. If he polished her up a bit, Rourke was certain that the old man would have no objections. He was eager to get his share of the deal, and Rourke was more than ready to get out from under his thumb. The girl seemed anxious for adventure, too, so really, it would work out well for all of them. With a grin, he took another drag from the cigar, which had been a treat to himself for having found such a wonderful girl. She was more than worth the hassle of scheduling a lecture and visiting Aberdeen; she was his ticket to salvation, the little fool, and he loved her for it. Now, if he could just manage to keep his hands off of her until he turned her over...
----------
The building was small, with perhaps only one or two rooms, and the metal exterior had been painted a very drab grey. It was in no way remarkable, and yet Helga's heart pounded as she approached it. "Lyle T. Rourke" had been stenciled on the door in white paint that gleamed as only very new paint can, and the girl couldn't help but smile as she read it. It was a good, solid name, and she wondered half-heartedly what the "T." stood for. Hesitantly, she raised a fist, and then knocked heartily enough to disguise her fear.
The door opened a moment later, and the Captain stood there in just a beige undershirt and Army green trousers, a half-burned cigar in his left hand. The sweet smell of it mingled with his cologne-- or was it aftershave?-- to create a mixture that was rugged and absolutely intoxicating, and for a moment she was lost in the lines of his exposed biceps, his broad, strong chest, and, God, that scent...
"Miss Sinclair," he greeted her, his smile still as amicable as it had been that morning. "Good to see you." He opened the door further, stepping aside to offer her a clear path. "Come in."
She stepped inside, surprised by the warmth of the office in relation to the building's hostile exterior. It was Spartan, and impeccably clean, but a few small personal touches gave it a welcoming feel. A small, ragtag collection of worn books, many of them Hawthorne and Scott, filled a wooden shelf on one wall, a painting of a stretch of scrub-filled, red Texas earth keeping watch above it, and a small, obviously well-loved old photograph of a man in Confederate uniform sat among a pile of papers on the desk.
"That's my father," Rourke explained, catching her looking at it as he closed the door. "He was killed at Spotsylvania, back in '64. My aunt kept watch of that photograph for me while I was touring." His gaze lingered sadly on the gruff man in the photo.
It seemed strange to Helga to think of Rourke having had parents, though she wasn't entirely sure why. It made him suddenly almost too human, as if men of his caliber should somehow be immune to human weaknesses such as families. "I'm sorry for your loss," she murmured, lowering her eyes.
"Don't be," he said easily, as he moved behind the desk, exhaling a bit of cigar smoke. "Can I get you anything, Sinclair? Scotch, maybe?" His eyes sparkled playfully.
"No, thank you," she said, looking back up at him with a small smile.
"I hope you'll forgive my state of undress, ma'am," he apologized, gesturing towards his undershirt. "I'd almost given up on your coming by, and decided to make myself a little more comfortable."
"It's fine," she assured him, her smile broadening. "I'm sorry if I've kept you waiting." There was something about this man that she just couldn't help but like... Perhaps it was the way that "ma'am" had sounded like a respectful compliment when he'd said it, his Texas accent giving him an air of Southern grace that she found quite charming. Or perhaps she was just flattered that, after his almost purposeful avoidance of her last night, he should be so open with her now.
"Have a seat," he offered, gesturing to a comfortable-looking leather chair across from his own as he seated himself behind his desk, taking another drag off his cigar.
"Now," he continued, when she appeared to be settled, "What do you think of Fort Dix, having been here almost a day now?"
"It's.. quite nice," she lied, cautiously, "though I haven't seen too much of it yet."
"And your room is to your liking?"
"Very much so," she agreed, nodding. "I hadn't expected anything nearly so comfortable."
"Well, I wouldn't have brought you all the way down here just to leave you in the barracks with the boys, Miss Sinclair," he smiled. If he was lucky, it would be some time yet before the girl figured out how vastly superior her room was to what she should have been given. "To get down to business, though... I trust you have an answer for me?"
She nodded, thinking that it was strange of him to have not settled the matter that morning. "I'd be honored to skip the basic training, sir, if you believe me to be qualified."
"Excellent," he said, his smile broadening even more. "I'm sorry I had to ask you to come out here this evening; it may well seem.. superfluous.. to you."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. How had he known? Perhaps she was more readable than she had thought.
"But there's reason to my madness, Sinclair. If we're going to be training individually, I wanted the opportunity to talk with you a little first... preferably without a parcel of medics staring us down."
She relaxed slightly, even as his words triggered a warning light. At least he had a reason.
Rourke extinguished the remains of his cigar in a small glass ashtray, and leaned across the desk slightly to look at his new pupil, leaning heavily on his elbows. "So I'm training you in firearms and unarmed combat, am I?"
"Yes sir," she murmured, uncomfortable at his proximity to her.
"Well, the first step in unarmed combat, Sinclair, is to become comfortable with a person being close to you."
She frowned at that, which only egged him on further.
"If you're going to be able to fight someone, you need to be at ease no matter how close you are to him. I can tell I make you uncomfortable," he mused, giving her a half-smile. "You were uncomfortable on the train, which is understandable, but you still seem nervous now... Why is that?"
"I.. I'm just not used to being right next to someone, sir," she managed, involuntarily pulling away a bit more. His eyes were locked onto hers, and suddenly her hand was pressed beneath his.
"Don't pull away from me," he ordered firmly, never breaking eye contact. The pull of his gaze woud have kept her in place, even had the weight of his hand failed. "The second step," he explained quietly, "is to never let it show when you *are* uncomfortable. An opponent will latch onto any weakness that you show and exploit it, Helga."
He could feel her pulse quicken in her wrist at the mention of her first name. He knew that it was wrong to allow himself this bit of fun, but he'd be damned if he was strong enough to do without it. The girl was making an obvious effort to not shy away from him, and as he stared her down, Rourke noted yet again that her eyes were a stunning blue. They reminded him vaguely of the way the sky had looked on a crisp fall day on the prairie, when he'd ridden a great grey horse with his Colt .45 at his hip, or of the Bay back at Aberdeen where he'd found her. Her German blood was strong in her, from her clear, light skin to the golden hair that she wore plaited at her neck, and Rourke suddenly understood men's attraction to exotic women.
He kept her locked there for no less than two minutes, until she had managed to force away all visible signs of her discomfort. Had he had any doubts about her abilities before, they were gone now. She was obviously a quick learner with a solid grip on her emotions, which was just the final bit of icing on the cake.
"Very good," he praised, releasing her hand but not her eyes. He'd had more to say to her, but it was clear now that this wasn't the time. "Meet me in the main training room tomorrow at 1800-hours. Agreed?"
"Yes sir," she murmured, unable to look away.
"Well, then, I'll see you tomorrow," Rourke said calmly, standing and thus freeing her from his eyes. "Lovely to see you, Miss Sinclair... Come by if you need anything."
"Thank you," she answered, rising quickly to her feet. She was blushing furiously now, and was desperate to regain some semblance of composure. She had been so collected when she'd first met this man, and it seemed as if that was rapidly fading. "I'll.. see you tomorrow, sir."
"Indeed," he smiled, moving to open the door for her. "Good night."
"Good night," she repeated, keeping her gaze averted as she left the building. He watched her from the window until she'd vanished from sight.
----------
"She's the one, sir."
"You're sure, this time?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, then, get to work, son! Time is money, you know."
"I know that... Training begins tomorrow, Mr. Whitmore. I won't let you down."
"Yes, sir. We'll begin testing her this morning."
"Excellent. And your initial analysis, Captain?"
A long pause, and a shift of brown eyes. "Promising, sir."
"For your sake, I hope you're right. It's a simple enough task, Lyle-- I'm growing tired of waiting on you."
A faint click signaled that the older man was done with him, and Rourke grimly lowered the receiver. He should have killed him long ago.
-----
It wasn't that he had any kind of feelings for her. No, Rourke firmly reiterated to himself, she was just a pile of poker chips, an inanimate thing which could either make or break him. He had certainly found nothing charming about her naive attempts at brushing him off in the train, or in the way her lips had pursed as she'd studied the chess board. As he'd told himself a thousand times this morning, giving her away would be almost insultingly easy. But as he stood on a narrow metal balcony in a large training room, watching her feet fly over and over a jump rope that moved too quickly to be seen, he knew that it was a lie.
"She's doing remarkably well, don't you think?" commented the Private beside him, gesturing to a clipboard with the girl's scores recorded in pencil.
"We'll see how she finishes up," Rourke answered quietly, his eyes never leaving her. A faint line of sweat had formed along her breast bone, and it made the skin above her tank top gleam. "But, yes .. I'd say she's doing quite well, so far."
"Well, you know how those Army brats are," the mustached man quipped lightly, jotting down a number as the blonde switched jumping styles.
"Hmm," he answered, noncommitally. Rourke found it vaguely amusing that children of soldiers should be given such an insulting label these days. Things had certainly changed... The girl on the floor began to blur.
----------
"Lyle! Lyle, baby?"
She wore a dress made out of thin blue calico, and her already greying hair was done up in a knot at the nape of her neck. Her cheeks were wet, but he hadn't understood quite why, at the time.
"Aren't you gonna tell your Daddy good-bye, baby?"
He'd rubbed the sleep from his eyes and padded his way to the doorway, one chubby little fist dragging his blanket behind him.
"C'mere, Little Man." Powerful arms had lifted him up, and soft brown eyes had smiled from beneath bushy eyebrows. "I'm gonna go take care of a coupla Yanks, now, an' make this country free again... I'm fixin' to bring you back a real live Yankee's boot buckle when I come home for Christmas, too-- an' you see if I don't!" He'd been pressed up into the itchy grey wool of his father's uniform, and held for what had seemed an eternity, then gently given a gruff little kiss on the forehead and a smile. "You take care of your Mama, now, you hear me?"
"Okay, now.. scoot back to bed, baby; get some rest." His mother's eyes had been wet, then, too, but why? Daddy would be home by Christmas... God, he'd been so young, so young...
----------
"Private, get me Trunkel."
"Trunkel, sir? Yes, sir." The Private looked down at the girl. "Sinclair, take five."
On the lower level of the training room, Helga lowered her rope and took a deep breath, the air stale but sweet as it filled her lungs. Her muscles ached beneath her skin, and she could feel a thin layer of sweat across her torso. Though she would have never admitted it, it felt wonderful to simply be still for a moment. She stretched her back, relishing the relief that the posture brought until her instincts kicked in. The hair on the back of her neck shifted, and she realized that she was still being watched.
Narrowed blue eyes shot upwards, and, indeed, Captain Lyle Rourke's gaze appeared quite fixed on her, though strangely distant. Helga's upper lip curled back slightly, and she jogged off into the back hallway. Had she been asked why, she might have retorted that her muscles would have cramped had she remained still for too long, or that the water fountain in the dingy back hallway was far superior to the one in the training room itself, but the fact was that she simply couldn't abide by him staring at her like that. He stood on his balcony, scrutinizing her with a patriarchal air of condescention that she couldn't help but find unnerving. He'd scarcely said a word to her after they'd arrived the night before, stating simply that she was to report at 0-700 for testing. She assumed it was for placement of some type, but exactly what kind, or how well she was supposed to do, were complete mysteries to her. She'd arrived early to warm up, when the gym was still cold and dark with the twilight before dawn, and she had since been pushing her body to the limit under the watchful eyes of not only the same Private who'd greeted them at the station, but also of the man whose lingering scent had kept her awake nearly all night. The longer she thought of him, the deeper she felt a strange need to prove herself to him. He'd shown her up countless times on the train, in that subtle way of his, and Helga knew that she was far too proud to simply let it go. She ached to prove herself to him, even if it was only in such a petty thing as jumping rope. But with him watching her like that... She knew that he would almost assuredly catch even the slightest mistep, and the constant pressure was becoming exhausting. How would she ever prove herself if she found it unable to even do simple tasks under his gaze? She splashed her face with water at the small fountain in the hallway, and rinsed the taste of fear from her mouth. The water was only mildly cold, but it somehow helped bolster her spirits. She could do this, she could convince him that she was a worthy student-- if only he would stop staring!
Though she had used only a small portion of her allotted five minutes, Helga wasted no time in jogging back to the training room. If she was to make a fool of herself, she could at least be on time for it... Surely he'd appreciate punctuality. "See what a good little girl I am?" she muttered under her breath as she entered, determined that her exhaustion not register on her face when he saw her.
"Quite good, I hope," came a low response from behind her. "And as for little..."
She turned around abruptly. He stood against the wall, directly inside the doorway, and Helga realized with humiliation that she must have uttered her sarcastic little number almost right beside him. She'd have to sharpen her instincts if she ever hoped to--
"Trunkel?" Rourke asked, dismissing her almost immediately as he turned his gaze to the door at the front of the room. The Private from earlier had just stepped in, and was now accompanied by a young man with a slightly crooked nose and a shaven head. "Sinclair, this is Max Trunkel. He's my best student in intro level training. Trunkel, this is Major Sinclair's daughter, from Aberdeen." A faint smirk appeared at the corners of the Captain's lips. "But I believe you two have met before, haven't you?"
The nineteen year old Trunkel's eyes narrowed at the sight of the sweaty girl, who still looked every bit as cocky as she had back in Maryland. "You're the bitch that took my paycheck," he snarled, advancing on her.
"And you're the sore loser who couldn't defend himself," she retorted lowly, instinctively assuming a solid stance. How had Rourke known about this?
"I've learned a thing or two since then." Trunkel's eyes flashed fire, but he glanced towards Rourke for further orders. It wouldn't do to just lunge for the girl, as tempting as that might be. After all, he could always take care of her later.
Helga's gaze also shifted towards the Captain, whose lips were now twisted into a very amused smile. What did he mean, bringing this boy to her like this? Of all the people he could have chosen to greet her on this hellish day, why did it have to be Trunkel?
She'd defeated him in a chess game at Aberdeen, back when she'd been short on cash, and, though they'd each placed a decent wager on the game, he'd refused to pay her when she'd won. Apparently, the fool hadn't been able to believe that he'd lost a game of logic to a girl. She hadn't fought him for the money, really; it had been a matter of principal. After all, if the other GI's on the base saw that she hadn't enforced the payment of this wager, they'd feel free to walk all over her whenever they saw fit, and Helga simply couldn't allow that. It hadn't been anything personal; just a matter of business. Of course, thinking back, she could still feel the cartiledge in his nose snapping, the slickness of his blood on her gloves, and the weight of his money in her pocket... But how had Rourke known? And what was his purpose behind bringing him here?
"Trunkel, it's come to my attention that you have some unfinished business with Miss Sinclair here," Rourke murmured, his eyes locked on the boy's.
"Yes sir," came the even reply.
"Why don't you go on ahead now and finish that up, son." It wasn't a question.
Max Trunkel's eyes darted from Rourke to Helga and back again. "Sir?"
"Go ahead," Rourke said, his voice perfectly relaxed. "I don't want any prolonged conflict on this base, Trunkel, and I want to see this one cleared up right now. It's all right-- go ahead."
For a moment, Max and Helga's eyes locked, and a silent messege was exchanged. Surely the older man couldn't be serious about this... A quick glance back to Rourke assured them both that he was, indeed, and, uncomfortable in the knowledge that this was an encouraged, if not downright enforced, fight, they squared off.
----------
She hadn't meant to hurt him, really. But something about performing under Rourke's gaze, inhaling the scent of Trunkel's sweat as he'd swung at her, and the way that that damned Private smirked in the background... It had combined to trigger something in her that was almost lethal. Her fighting had been sloppy, yes--she knew that-- but it had also been very, very effective.
Brushing her sweaty bangs back from her forehead, Helga peered down at Max Trunkel, whose left eye was already beginning to darken and swell. He was undoubtedly unconscious, and a vague wave of guilt washed over the girl who now watched him. Rourke had ordered him to fight her; he hadn't deserved this. The boy was only nineteen, after all, and it was unfair to expect him to be able to beat her after only a few months of training.
"He had it coming," Rourke reassured her, his voice low and very, very close to her.
Helga's heartbeat quickened slightly as she wondered why she hadn't noticed him approaching her, and dark blue eyes glanced up at him. "Sir?"
"Jenkins, have Trunkel attended to," Rourke ordered, looking up at the Private near the door.
The younger man's eyes seemed too large for his face as he forcibly ripped his gaze from Helga and the damage she'd done. "Yes sir," he choked out, and darted quickly out of the room.
"I heard your friend Trunkel chatting with some of my other students," Rourke explained, when it was obvious that the Private was out of earshot. "Something about you giving him hell at Aberdeen..." The blush that rose to Helga's cheeks was proof enough of her guilt. "If you're going to be training here, Miss Sinclair," he added, with an almost playful smile, "I can't have my boys plotting to take you out."
"Take.. me out, sir?" His smile had made his meaning vague, and Helga wondered how much of the other implications had been intentional. Knowing Rourke...
"That said," he continued, "I believe we can safely skip you past the basic training section of my courses." He gestured towards a clipboard in his massive left hand, and his smile broadened. "Your scores, and your performance with Trunkel here" --and he kicked the unconscious boy with the toe of his boot-- "are more than enough to convince me to skip you. That is, if you have no objections...?"
"Skip me.. to what, sir?"
"To personal training with me, Sinclair... as we discussed."
So there were no other steps to go through first. Helga hadn't imagined that she would get to work one-on-one with him so quickly; he'd seemed so utterly unimpressed by her all morning. She had been trained for most of her life, but never in an American or official military style, and she had assumed that Rourke would give her at least a quick introduction to the style he expected her to use. "I-- You ... really think I'm ready for that?" she stammered, looking into eyes that seemed suddenly very, very gentle.
"Of course I do," Rourke said, with a friendly smile. He was visibly far more relaxed than he had been the evening before. "But, hey.. Tell you what. You think about it, and let me know what you decide sometime this evening. You want some plain old-fashioned training, fine, you got it. I'd like to get to work with you as soon as you think you're ready, though, so let's cut the nonsense if we can. Swing by my office with your decision any time this evening, Sinclair, and we'll start you up tomorrow in whatever direction you want to go. Fair enough?"
Before she could respond, Private Jenkins came hustling back in with a pair of medics. "--no, no.. not serious," he was saying, "just a black eye and the like." Helga quickly stepped away from Trunkel's outstretched form, a glare from a medic sparking a guilty blush. She looked down at Trunkel, aware once again of his presence, and, after a brief pause, turned back to Rourke.
She looked just in time to see the shoulders of his olive green jacket disappear out the door. The clipboard he'd been carrying was nowhere in sight.
----------
Leaning back in his chair, Rourke shifted his feet on his desk, and inhaled deeply from his cigar. She was perfect, absolutely perfect. With the cigar between his teeth, he flipped through the pages on his clipboard yet again, smiling as he read. When he'd heard Trunkel talking with the other transfers about the "spitfire at Aberdeen," he'd been hopeful, yes... But nothing could have prepared him for the perfection that was Helga. He'd been taken by her beauty when he'd met her after the lecture, by her intelligence and charms on the train ride, and now by her physical strength and agility. If he polished her up a bit, Rourke was certain that the old man would have no objections. He was eager to get his share of the deal, and Rourke was more than ready to get out from under his thumb. The girl seemed anxious for adventure, too, so really, it would work out well for all of them. With a grin, he took another drag from the cigar, which had been a treat to himself for having found such a wonderful girl. She was more than worth the hassle of scheduling a lecture and visiting Aberdeen; she was his ticket to salvation, the little fool, and he loved her for it. Now, if he could just manage to keep his hands off of her until he turned her over...
----------
The building was small, with perhaps only one or two rooms, and the metal exterior had been painted a very drab grey. It was in no way remarkable, and yet Helga's heart pounded as she approached it. "Lyle T. Rourke" had been stenciled on the door in white paint that gleamed as only very new paint can, and the girl couldn't help but smile as she read it. It was a good, solid name, and she wondered half-heartedly what the "T." stood for. Hesitantly, she raised a fist, and then knocked heartily enough to disguise her fear.
The door opened a moment later, and the Captain stood there in just a beige undershirt and Army green trousers, a half-burned cigar in his left hand. The sweet smell of it mingled with his cologne-- or was it aftershave?-- to create a mixture that was rugged and absolutely intoxicating, and for a moment she was lost in the lines of his exposed biceps, his broad, strong chest, and, God, that scent...
"Miss Sinclair," he greeted her, his smile still as amicable as it had been that morning. "Good to see you." He opened the door further, stepping aside to offer her a clear path. "Come in."
She stepped inside, surprised by the warmth of the office in relation to the building's hostile exterior. It was Spartan, and impeccably clean, but a few small personal touches gave it a welcoming feel. A small, ragtag collection of worn books, many of them Hawthorne and Scott, filled a wooden shelf on one wall, a painting of a stretch of scrub-filled, red Texas earth keeping watch above it, and a small, obviously well-loved old photograph of a man in Confederate uniform sat among a pile of papers on the desk.
"That's my father," Rourke explained, catching her looking at it as he closed the door. "He was killed at Spotsylvania, back in '64. My aunt kept watch of that photograph for me while I was touring." His gaze lingered sadly on the gruff man in the photo.
It seemed strange to Helga to think of Rourke having had parents, though she wasn't entirely sure why. It made him suddenly almost too human, as if men of his caliber should somehow be immune to human weaknesses such as families. "I'm sorry for your loss," she murmured, lowering her eyes.
"Don't be," he said easily, as he moved behind the desk, exhaling a bit of cigar smoke. "Can I get you anything, Sinclair? Scotch, maybe?" His eyes sparkled playfully.
"No, thank you," she said, looking back up at him with a small smile.
"I hope you'll forgive my state of undress, ma'am," he apologized, gesturing towards his undershirt. "I'd almost given up on your coming by, and decided to make myself a little more comfortable."
"It's fine," she assured him, her smile broadening. "I'm sorry if I've kept you waiting." There was something about this man that she just couldn't help but like... Perhaps it was the way that "ma'am" had sounded like a respectful compliment when he'd said it, his Texas accent giving him an air of Southern grace that she found quite charming. Or perhaps she was just flattered that, after his almost purposeful avoidance of her last night, he should be so open with her now.
"Have a seat," he offered, gesturing to a comfortable-looking leather chair across from his own as he seated himself behind his desk, taking another drag off his cigar.
"Now," he continued, when she appeared to be settled, "What do you think of Fort Dix, having been here almost a day now?"
"It's.. quite nice," she lied, cautiously, "though I haven't seen too much of it yet."
"And your room is to your liking?"
"Very much so," she agreed, nodding. "I hadn't expected anything nearly so comfortable."
"Well, I wouldn't have brought you all the way down here just to leave you in the barracks with the boys, Miss Sinclair," he smiled. If he was lucky, it would be some time yet before the girl figured out how vastly superior her room was to what she should have been given. "To get down to business, though... I trust you have an answer for me?"
She nodded, thinking that it was strange of him to have not settled the matter that morning. "I'd be honored to skip the basic training, sir, if you believe me to be qualified."
"Excellent," he said, his smile broadening even more. "I'm sorry I had to ask you to come out here this evening; it may well seem.. superfluous.. to you."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. How had he known? Perhaps she was more readable than she had thought.
"But there's reason to my madness, Sinclair. If we're going to be training individually, I wanted the opportunity to talk with you a little first... preferably without a parcel of medics staring us down."
She relaxed slightly, even as his words triggered a warning light. At least he had a reason.
Rourke extinguished the remains of his cigar in a small glass ashtray, and leaned across the desk slightly to look at his new pupil, leaning heavily on his elbows. "So I'm training you in firearms and unarmed combat, am I?"
"Yes sir," she murmured, uncomfortable at his proximity to her.
"Well, the first step in unarmed combat, Sinclair, is to become comfortable with a person being close to you."
She frowned at that, which only egged him on further.
"If you're going to be able to fight someone, you need to be at ease no matter how close you are to him. I can tell I make you uncomfortable," he mused, giving her a half-smile. "You were uncomfortable on the train, which is understandable, but you still seem nervous now... Why is that?"
"I.. I'm just not used to being right next to someone, sir," she managed, involuntarily pulling away a bit more. His eyes were locked onto hers, and suddenly her hand was pressed beneath his.
"Don't pull away from me," he ordered firmly, never breaking eye contact. The pull of his gaze woud have kept her in place, even had the weight of his hand failed. "The second step," he explained quietly, "is to never let it show when you *are* uncomfortable. An opponent will latch onto any weakness that you show and exploit it, Helga."
He could feel her pulse quicken in her wrist at the mention of her first name. He knew that it was wrong to allow himself this bit of fun, but he'd be damned if he was strong enough to do without it. The girl was making an obvious effort to not shy away from him, and as he stared her down, Rourke noted yet again that her eyes were a stunning blue. They reminded him vaguely of the way the sky had looked on a crisp fall day on the prairie, when he'd ridden a great grey horse with his Colt .45 at his hip, or of the Bay back at Aberdeen where he'd found her. Her German blood was strong in her, from her clear, light skin to the golden hair that she wore plaited at her neck, and Rourke suddenly understood men's attraction to exotic women.
He kept her locked there for no less than two minutes, until she had managed to force away all visible signs of her discomfort. Had he had any doubts about her abilities before, they were gone now. She was obviously a quick learner with a solid grip on her emotions, which was just the final bit of icing on the cake.
"Very good," he praised, releasing her hand but not her eyes. He'd had more to say to her, but it was clear now that this wasn't the time. "Meet me in the main training room tomorrow at 1800-hours. Agreed?"
"Yes sir," she murmured, unable to look away.
"Well, then, I'll see you tomorrow," Rourke said calmly, standing and thus freeing her from his eyes. "Lovely to see you, Miss Sinclair... Come by if you need anything."
"Thank you," she answered, rising quickly to her feet. She was blushing furiously now, and was desperate to regain some semblance of composure. She had been so collected when she'd first met this man, and it seemed as if that was rapidly fading. "I'll.. see you tomorrow, sir."
"Indeed," he smiled, moving to open the door for her. "Good night."
"Good night," she repeated, keeping her gaze averted as she left the building. He watched her from the window until she'd vanished from sight.
----------
"She's the one, sir."
"You're sure, this time?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, then, get to work, son! Time is money, you know."
"I know that... Training begins tomorrow, Mr. Whitmore. I won't let you down."