“Well,” Khalid said, setting his emptied plate to one side, “if you want, my home is always available to you. I know you loved the bath.”
Groaning, Emma held up her hand. “Don’t remind me! I’m a bathtub baby. I hate showers.”
“Then,” Khalid said, his voice low and smoky, “perhaps once a week you will consider coming to take advantage of the bath in my home?”
Emma managed a polite smile. “I don’t think so, Captain Shaheen. It wouldn’t look proper to the military. Thank you, though, for the offer.” Emma couldn’t afford to make him angry at her. Yet, she was walking the edge of the sword with this very available male pilot who was interested in her.
“Pity,” he remarked. “Well, then I will fly the CH-47 back to Bagram alone. I will miss you, Captain Cantrell.”
“Oh,” Emma said lightly, standing and picking up her helmet bag, “I think you’ll have plenty to keep you busy, Captain Shaheen.”
Back at her tent, Emma threw her helmet bag on her cot. She turned to sit down in the camp chair at her desk. Upset with herself, she decided that she was too easily swayed by Khalid, for whatever reason.
Tomorrow morning, he’d fly in at dawn with another load of boxes for the village of Zor Barawul. They would continue this pace daily or every other ay, depending upon the distance involved.
“Hey, Emma!”
Emma turned toward the open flaps of her tent. Nike Alexander poked her head in. “Nike, come on in! How are you?”
The BJS woman pilot slipped in, threw her helmet bag next to Emma’s on the cot and sat down in the extra chair. “Okay. Just got off a hot fire fight around Zor Barawul. We kicked ass. How are you? I haven’t had time to catch up with you lately. What’s happening?”
“Just delivered our first boxes of books to Do Bandi. I had lunch at the chow hall and was coming back here to drop off my helmet and then go to the BJS HQ to fill out my report.” Emma watched as Nike pushed the black curls off her sweaty brow. She saw the armpits of her flight suit were wet with perspiration. Flying an Apache in a fire fight made the adrenaline rocket upward. She saw pink spots on Nike’s olive-skinned cheeks. Her friend was still caught up in the adrenaline charge from the fire fight.
“Was that your boss I just passed out there?” Nike hooked a thumb toward the tent opening. “That eye candy that’s long and lean? Black hair? Blue eyes?”
Groaning, Emma nodded. “Yes, that’s Captain Khalid Shaheen.”
Nike gave her a wicked look. “Hey, if I hadn’t met the man of my dreams recently, I’d definitely give that dude a second look. He’s absolutely handsome.”
Sighing, Emma gave her friend a dirty look. “Don’t make this any worse than it is, Nike. Think about me. I have to work with the guy for the next six months and remain immune to him.”
Laughing, Nike slapped her knee. “Oh, Emma! You’re single. You’re not involved with anyone. Why wouldn’t you think about getting hooked up with him?”
Emma explained all the details to Nike about Brody Parker. As she did, she watched her friend become more serious. At the end of her explanation, she watched the excitement die in Nike’s eyes. “So you see, I need a good recommendation from Captain Shaheen for my personnel jacket. I have to dig myself out of the black eye I gave us,” she said, desperate. Opening her hands, Emma added, “And I don’t dare let him know I like him, Nike. I fight it constantly. But I’m afraid he’s just another player in disguise.”
“I see,” Nike muttered, sitting up, hands on her knees. “I’m hoping in my own way to overcome our mistake, too. But at least I don’t have to worry about falling in love with my boss. That’s an extra added strain on you.”
“I’m not falling in love with him,” Emma said more sharply than she’d intended. “I like the guy, yes. But love? No.”
“Hmm,” Nike murmured, a grin pulling at her lips, “sure don’t look like it from my end. Every time you talked about him, your voice went soft and your eyes got that faraway, dreamy look.”
Emma stood up, scowling at her best friend. “Nike, you’re wrong.”
Nike stood, laughed and picked up her helmet bag. “Okay, then prove it.”
Chapter 6
“When does Shaheen arrive at Zor Barawul?” Asad Malik demanded. He sat crouched in front of a small fire, warming his hands. The cave where he and his men hid sat across from the Afghan village, which was perched on top of a hill.
Merzad, a trusted warrior, stood attentively by the Taliban leader. “My lord, our spy in the village told our man that next week Captain Shaheen, his sister Kinah and an American woman pilot are to fly educational books and desks into this village.”
Scowling, Malik took a tin cup filled with steaming chai from the cook, Omald. He looked across the fire as the boy fed the fifteen men under his command. Omald was only thirteen, an orphan Malik had taken under his wing. He had been ten when Malik had found him in a burned-out border village. He had brainwashed the child and turned him into his personal servant. Omald’s job was to make him chai, feed him, take care of his horse and serve his soldiers whatever scant food they could steal.
“Do you think that they will arrive with an Apache escort?” Merzad asked, taking a proffered cup of chai from Omald.
Shrugging, Malik enjoyed the warmth of the fire. The cave was dry and cold. Outside, April rain fell. There was a gray pall over the entire area and Zor Barawul was hidden in the mists and cold mountain air. “I hope not. We never know,” he muttered, stroking his black-and-gray beard. At fifty, the harshness of his life as a leader in the Taliban, was catching up with Malik. His joints ached in the winter snows and it worsened during the spring rains. Now, he looked forward to the summer heat when his arthritis stopped bothering him as much.
Merzad crouched down next to him, his narrow face set in a deep scowl. The black beard on his face was fuzzy and unkempt. All the men smelled. They went days, even weeks, without a place to clean themselves up or comb their beards and hair. He looked over at his beloved leader, a giant of a man with broad shoulders, a deep chest and powerful, sun-darkened hands covered with scars. Merzad felt a brotherly love for his fellow Pakistani. They’d grown up in the same village, survived terrible odds and gone on to carry the jihad into Afghanistan. Like Malik, Merzad felt strongly that the Taliban needed to be back in control of the country before the U.N. came in with troops to “free” the people from them.
Continuing to stroke the beard that fell nearly to his chest, Malik murmured to his best friend, “I hope to fulfill my promise to Shaheen and his sister. I killed Shaheen’s fiancée two years ago. I’ve waited patiently, praying daily to Allah to give me another chance to kill him and his infidel sister. We were blessed when we hit the base camp to spot Shaheen there. Our spies have kept good track of him since then.”
“They are both infidels,” Merzad muttered. “They might be born to a Muslim father, but he’s a Sufi.” The word Sufi came out like a growling curse from the lean forty-five-yearold soldier.
Snorting, Malik sipped the delicious cinnamon-sprinkled chai. “Sufis are our enemies,” he acknowledged. “I have no use for mystics of any kind.” He smiled, remembering his rapes of Najela. She had fought him, and, to this day, he bore four fingernail marks on his right cheek where she’d clawed at him. No matter, he’d had his way with her. His loins warmed to the memory of taking the feisty black-haired beauty. She’d fought every time and Malik had enjoyed the encounters. Finally, he’d grown bored with her bravery and had slit her throat as she slept. They’d thrown her body into a village where he knew his archenemy, Khalid Shaheen, would find her. Again, his lips twitched with those fond memories. He anticipated capturing Kinah. She was fiery and gave no quarter. Malik, in his own way, admired the Sufi woman, but his hatred was even more intense toward her than it had been toward Najela.
“According to our source,” Merzad said, pleased, “you will have them all coming to Zor Barawul.”
“Yes,” he muttered, “but the leader of tha
t village is pro-American. His village, over the last year, has been protected by A-teams, given medical and dental care from the Americans.” Shaking his head, he said, “We must be careful here, Merzad. We can’t just openly walk into their village and threaten them as we used to. We tried that just this week and got nowhere. I’ve lost half of my men to the Apaches. We must rethink and try a different strategy.”
Agreeing, Merzad sipped his chai, deep in thought. “It used to be easy to come across the border and threaten the leaders of these villages. Now, this past year, they have received all kinds of aid from the U.N., the U.S. Army and charity organizations from around the world. They no longer fear us.” His mouth dipped downward as did his thin black brows.
“They will fear us again,” Malik muttered, finishing off his chai and handing the cup back to his servant. He slowly rose on painful knees and rearranged the two bandoliers of ammunition across his chest. Looking around the large, dry cave, he saw that his men had bedded down and were sleeping, their rifles next to them. They’d just suffered a terrible defeat at the hands of the American Apache helicopters. The best thing to do, Malik knew, was to let them heal and lick their wounds, give them hot food and chai to rebuild their confidence. He silently cursed the combat helicopters. They were the bane of his existence. His mind spun with possible plans.
Zor Barawul was considered an American stronghold now. Malik could recall when he had owned that village. The old, crippled leaders cowered before him as he rode through like a conquering hero, his men following him. No longer. Allah would show him a way to infiltrate the village. His whole focus was on capturing or killing Khalid and Kinah Shaheen. Then his revenge would be complete.
After ordering another cup of chai, he watched the young lad quickly pour it from the tea kettle across the grate of the fire. Malik took it and scowled. The Shaheens were infidels. They weren’t even full-blooded Afghans. The blood of the Irish ran through their veins. Malik hadn’t liked it when the Shaheens began to come regularly to the villages along the border. First, it was the elder Shaheen who had thrown his money at the villagers. Malik cursed the Sufi. All of them were stupid dreamers who thought love could solve the world’s problems. How wrong they were! All of the money the elder Shaheen had given the villages had created schools. Malik had been livid with rage when he’d found out that girls were being taught, and he’d come in and destroyed every one of those schools.
Of all things! Malik was enraged to find out that five years later, the stupid girls were going to be educated once more by the Shaheen son and daughter. What an utter waste of time! A donkey was far more valuable than an accursed woman! Women had little value except as brood mares to bear a man’s children and further the male family line. Stupid women! Women must know their place. I will show them, once and for all. Once I capture Kinah Shaheen I will use her and kill her. Once she’s dead, I will dump her body in Zor Barawul and let the women there see what will happen to them if they so much as pick up a book.
Emma moaned. She turned over in her cot, the layers of blankets keeping her warm. Khalid was with her in her dream. He was touching her cheek lingeringly. She could feel the roughness of his fingers as they curved and followed her cheekbone. The look in his blue eyes, hooded with intent, reminded Emma of a summer thunderstorm. Skin tingling wildly in the wake of his slow caress, Emma sighed and leaned forward. She was naked and so was he. They knelt in front of one another on a sunny, grassy slope. She didn’t know where they were, only that it was warm, beautiful and the fragrance of roses surrounded them.
“You are my beloved rose with freckles,” Khalid murmured, watching her cheeks turn pink as he whispered the words. “The sun may rise and set, but the rays of love emanate from your heart to mine.”
As her breasts brushed his dark, hairy chest, they tightened and a deep throb began in her lower body. Oh, how Emma wanted his hand to trail downward, hold and caress her taut breasts. A softened sigh slipped from between her lips. Khalid smiled into her eyes.
“You are the rose who grows in my heart, beloved.”
Her mind was starting to come unhinged as his fingers trailed across her eyebrow, down her temple and back to her cheek. “Rumi…was that Rumi?” she managed in a whisper.
His smile increased. “Rumi talks of the rose. Do his words not touch your heart, also?”
Nodding, Emma moved her hands up across his shoulders. She felt the warmth of the sun upon them. Khalid was so strong and steady, as if he knew who he was and where he was going in his life. Emma wished she felt that way. Confidence radiated from him like the sun itself. As she absorbed a sense of protection and love from him, Emma’s lids shuttered closed. His fingers outlined her lips and she wanted to kiss him.
“No yet, beloved. Allow my hands to remember every inch of your beautiful being. My heart needs to map you, remember you and breathe you into itself….”
Heat throbbed through her womanly core. Fingers digging into the hard flesh of his shoulders, Emma whimpered his name, begging him to kiss her. She was not disappointed. As Khalid’s strong mouth brushed her lips, she trembled. She felt him smiling against her. She smiled in return. With her eyes closed, Emma simply wanted to feel the texture of his mouth, the heat of his ragged breath whispering across her cheek, the male fragrance that was only him.
She opened her lips and pressed into his smiling mouth. They slid and melted together as if in a slow-motion dance of fusion. Emma realized in some far corner of her barely functioning mind that Khalid was courting her slowly, enjoying her with a thoroughness she’d never experienced before. There was no hurry. No rush. Just…timelessness and being rocked and cradled with his mouth sliding upon hers. There was such strength and yet incredible tenderness as he asked her to open her mouth more so that he could take her fully into himself.
Had she ever been kissed like this? No. Every sip of his lips upon hers sent wild tingles down to her breasts and fueled the need to take him completely within her. Khalid’s slow exploration of her lips now moved to her cheeks. His mouth scorched a path of neediness with each caress upon her skin. He traced the outline of her brows with his lips. Soft, rose-petal touches grazed her closed eyelids. Strands of hair caught beneath his seeking mouth as he lingered on each of her delicate ears. Emma surrendered to the slow, delicious seduction by Khalid.
“You are honey, my sweet, sweet woman,” he whispered into her right ear. Moving his fingers upward from her jaw, Khalid framed her face and pulled back just enough to drown in her dark-green eyes that were sultry with need—of him. “The sweetness of your heart bathes my wounded heart. Honey heals. The sugar of life nurtures new bees into being born and birthing. You are no different….” He trailed a series of kisses from her brow down to her parted lips. There, he halted and barely grazed them with his own. “And like the bees, the honey of your heart allows me to be reborn anew….”
“Emma! Wake up!”
Emma jerked into a sitting position, completely disoriented.
“Over here!” Nike called, her head sticking through the opening in the tent. “Wake up!”
“Oh,” Emma gasped. “What time is it?” Khalid’s words and fiery, evocative touches were real. Her body throbbed and ached. Embarrassed that Nike had had to awaken her, she looked at her watch.
“Oh, God,” Emma groaned, “I’m late!!”
“No kidding,” Nike said. “What’s the matter? You having a sexy dream about Khalid?”
Emma leaped out of bed and fumbled for her flight boots beneath the cot. Shocked at Nike’s intuitiveness, Emma muttered, “Oh, forget it, Nike! I was up late last night writing reports, that’s all.”
Nike grinned. “Oh, sure. Well, hey, Khalid’s on the tarmac waiting for you.”
“Okay, okay.” Pulling out her boots, Emma twisted around. “Can you tell him I’ll be there in ten minutes?”
Laughing, Nike said, “Yeah, no problem. Was it a good dream?”
Emma glared at her. Nike chortled and disappeared. How could her
girlfriend know about that wonderful dream? Stymied, Emma tore her mind from that to getting dressed, getting to the toilet and grabbing her flight bag. She was late! She’d never slept through the alarm on the bedstand! Ever. Grabbing the clock, Emma realized with a sinking feeling that the alarm was on, but she hadn’t heard it.
With a moan of trepidation, Emma hurried to make up for lost time.
Emma was breathless as she arrived at Ops. As usual, it was a beehive of nonstop activity, planes and helos landing and taking off in an invisible dance known only to air-control-tower personnel. She saw Khalid leaning against the fender of the Apache, reading a book. He was relaxed, his head bent down, his helmet bag sitting next to him on the skirt of the helo. The April day was cloudy and chilly. It had rained all night. Puddles lay everywhere on the asphalt landing strip. Ragged, scudding clouds hid the mountains that surrounded the base camp.
Sucking in a breath, Emma walked quickly toward Khalid, her flight boots splashing through several puddles. She saw him lift his head. Instantly, her heart rate doubled. Why did he have to be so handsome? Just looking at the man, who was all warrior and yet so incredibly sensitive, made her feel even more breathless than the run from the tent to Ops had. Emma girded herself for his censure.
“Good morning,” Khalid greeted, giving her a warm and appreciative look. “Nike said you overslept.”
“I did.” Emma pushed several strands of hair off her face. “I’m sorry. I set my alarm but I slept right through it. That’s never happened before.”
Khalid saw how upset Emma was, her cheeks stained with heat. It only made her freckles more obvious and gave her a decidedly girlish look, at variance with the competent combat pilot she was. “Relax,” he urged quietly. “We are in no rush. The weather is bad and we are going to have to wait for the clouds to rise more before we can fly nap-of-the-earth.” CH-47s did not have all-terrain radar to see where they were going, and flying a hundred feet off the ground required a good set of eyes and no fog or low-hanging clouds obscuring the terrain.
Operation: Forbidden Page 7
