“Unfortunately, no. The admiral in charge won’t be able to get clearance for that.” Because according to the way the real mission was supposed to go down, it didn’t matter how many terrorists there were; a Reaper strike would take out a hundred men or twenty…so what excuse could Kelleman give for needing more manpower?
“Well,” she went on, “I don’t see how we have any other choice but to press ahead, no matter what terms JEM throws at us. Passing the GPS tracker to a hostage is still integral to saving them.”
“I agree.” He ran a hand over his mouth. “When it’s time to contact the strike team for the rescue, I’ll warn them about this new development.”
“Sounds good.”
“So… Again we wait.”
“Again we wait.” She went silent for a moment, drinking her coffee, then, “Remind me not to go on any ten-mile runs in the near future. My legs are killing me.”
He hiked his brows, then chuckled. “I’ll put the kibosh on it if you get any bright ideas.”
“Thanks,” she said. “By the way, I made quite a sight this morning, sneaking to the latrine in clothes that were still damp and wrinkled beyond redemption.”
“Yeah?” His lips twitched. Damn, he would’ve loved to have seen her. She’d probably made a totally cute ragamuffin. “Sorry. I wasn’t exactly thinking about laying out your clothes nicely yesterday, just getting you warm.”
Her voice dipped down. “You certainly succeeded in that.” Another sip. “You must’ve woken up this morning feeling like a pod creature, Kyle. You had a naked woman in your bed last night and you only slept with her. Wow.”
He smirked. “Didn’t think I had it in me, did you?”
“Actually, I knew. I wasn’t sure you did.”
He felt his cocky expression drop away as his cheeks heated. Max already believes in me.
“Did you get my note?” she asked.
“I did.” He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”
“So how do you manage that fresh breath thing?” She mock-flared her eyes. “I mean, seriously, it’s remarkable.”
A laugh warmed his chest and jostled out of him. “I have no idea.” And if this Max was the real flirt, he much preferred her to the woman he’d met at the Jebel Ali Club. Because this Max was being playful and genuine with a man she clearly really liked.
Ha, that’s me.
“So, I was wondering…” she began.
He eased his eyebrows up, sensing a sudden nervousness in her.
She studied her coffee and swirled it. “If…”
Yeeeees??
“…if you’d like to have dinner with me tonight?” she finished.
“Share a table with you in the mess tent?” Hehehe.
“Hmmm, no.”
He slanted a smile at her. “Are you asking me on a date, Max?”
The brighter blue of her eyes twinkled at him.
Paddles! His heart just stopped.
“Yes,” she answered. “I’ve arranged with the cooks to borrow a corner of the kitchen to make some fried chicken. I figure no self-respecting Southern boy could refuse a good home-cooked meal.”
He laughed again, full-throated this time. Wasn’t it cute how she thought she had to convince him? “How good is the fried chicken we’re talking about?”
“Extremely.”
“Count me in, then.”
“My tent, six o’clock. Kitty will be in the post-op ward tending to patients till nine.”
“I’ll be there.” His pulse was practically dancing.
“Okay.” Max paused to give his bare feet an amused once-over.
Heat stole across his loins, and—whoawhoawhoa! Completely bizarre reaction.
“See you at eighteen hundred.” She left.
He stood still for a second, just staring at the back of his door, then—hot damn! Setting down his coffee mug, he rushed over and grabbed his boots. He was going to have to get these bad boys cleaned up, and, crap, he wished he had other clothes to wear besides desert rat garb. Maybe his flight suit? No. That would be weird. And a gift of some sort… He needed something nice to bring to Max.
Stepping outside his tent door, he upended his boots and clacked them together to knock all the muck out. He whatever’d the sand this time, though.
He was back to grinning like a moron.
Chapter Seventeen
Kitty shivered as Steve’s lips found her throat, his sweet, warm breath against her flesh like a gentle caress. He gripped her upper arms, keeping his chest from crushing the swell of her breasts, but as his kisses skimmed a path to the ticklish shell of her ear, her nipples puckered up tight, crossing the small space between them.
Could he feel her through her scrubs?
Steve’s breath puffed out in a manner that might’ve been a gasp or the beginnings of a moan.
She’d wager that was a yes answer. “Steve,” she whispered.
He lifted his head and gazed down at her with a look she’d seen plenty of times on men—the look of a fella wanting a poke.
“What are we doing?” she asked, still whispering. She wouldn’t be surprised if even he couldn’t answer, their kiss had happened so unexpectedly.
Eight days had passed since Steve was shot…time for his arm to have healed enough for him to return to the tent he shared with Lieutenant Hammond. But he hadn’t. He’d stayed in the post-op ward, living in a pair of scrubs, and she didn’t see any reason for him doing that other than to stay close to her. Which was real sweet, and, admittedly, she’d taken full advantage. She spent time with Steve every chance she got, talking with him, playing cards, watching him fix stuff, and talking some more. He was the easiest man to just sit and jaw with she’d ever known.
Yesterday Steve had finished repairing the autoclave, and so today she’d taken him to the supply tent to see if any other mechanical thingamajigs might be tucked away in need of mending. As she’d opened a floor-to-ceiling metal locker, Steve had moved up behind her, turned her around, and just planted his lips on hers, close-mouthed and awestruck. Awkward, too, which he must’ve cottoned on to because he almost immediately moved on to kiss her neck. Which had felt mighty fine, and she sort of wished she hadn’t stopped him, but…
“This thing you’re trying to start between us has nowhere to go,” she said.
“Don’t keep saying that,” he returned tightly.
“Well, it hasn’t changed none.”
He dropped his hands. “First off, I’m not in a position of power over you, so your officer versus enlisted argument doesn’t apply.”
She drew in a breath and exhaled it noisily between her lips. The man was really reaching with that one. “Last I checked, Steve, I still have to salute you.”
A muscle jumped in his lean cheek. “I don’t write your evaluations, and I don’t hold any sway over your advancement in rate. So I have an idea, Kitty. Why don’t we not tell anyone about us? Believe me, we wouldn’t be the first officer and enlisted ever to get together.”
She sighed. True enough, but… “If we got caught, things would go worse for you than me.” They’d both be sent to Captain’s Mast,27 but people in positions of leadership tended to get punished harder for misconduct. “If you go to Mast, it could ruin your career.”
“You let me worry about that.”
She dragged a hand down her face. He was so doggone determined and heartfelt. It had a way of whittling down a girl. “All right, Steve, honestly, I could probably get past the officer-enlisted bother—I don’t mind being sneaky. Thing is, I just don’t trust my opinion about men anymore. I’m sorry, I know that’s unfair to you. You probably really are as sweet as you seem. But…” So had Sam Faulk, Brady Collins, Ron Divins, Clete Randall, and countless others seemed in the beginning. And they’d all ended up using her. Then there was Shane Madden, the most painful of all her relationships. She’d been so sure the Navy SEAL had been heaven-sent, only to have him turn out cold as hell…although she supposed that wasn’t the right comparison,
was it? “I’ve thought the same thing about every other fella I’ve dated, and they all ended up hurting me.”
“Not Larson Holmes.”
She felt her forehead tighten as she pulled her eyebrows together. “What?”
“You knew the weasel was a bad choice for you, and so you got yourself out of that, didn’t you?”
She opened her mouth, closed it. Blinked. “But…that’s different. I didn’t actually date Larson.”
“It’s not different,” Steve countered firmly. “It’s an example of you using sound judgment. But I’m not surprised to hear you argue the point. You’re one of those people who accepts all evidence that proves she’s a useless person, and rejects any evidence that might say otherwise. Why are you determined to be so hard on yourself, Kitty?”
“I…” Her lips trembled, and for a moment she couldn’t speak. She’s a dimwitted child. Always has been. Looking down, Kitty bit into her bottom lip. “I just don’t know,” she whispered, “how many more mistakes I have left in me.”
“I wouldn’t be a mistake,” Steve insisted, sounding so darned earnest. “I’d make you a great boyfriend. But you’re not giving me a chance to prove it.”
Boyfriend? She looked up. He didn’t merely want a quickie affair, but a…relationship?
“I wouldn’t ever leave you to your own devices, like those other jerks you dated.” Steve flung a hand out. “I’m loyal, Kitty, down to my frigging boots.”
She could do no more than stare at him, speechless again. Where were you five years ago…ten?
“I haven’t even left the post-op ward because of you.”
She swallowed, her throat muscles doing a shaky job of it. An urge niggled at the back of her mind to believe him. But there was another voice, too, telling her that this was her, once again, just wanting a fella to love her too badly.
“Look…” Steve glanced down, rubbing a thumb along his eyebrow. “I’ve never been a boyfriend before, so I don’t know what to do or say to make you believe me.” He looked up. “I just know I’ll be a good one.”
“I’m sure you will, Steve,” she said. Probably the best of all boyfriends for some deserving girl. Was it her…or…wasn’t it? Gads, she was as confused as a cow on astroturf. “But…” Her tongue hung up over the but. “Wait.” Never? “You’ve never been with a girl at all, like in, uh…?”
Steve blushed so deeply, his freckles nearly disappeared.
Kitty groaned. Butter my butt and call me a biscuit. Lieutenant Steve Whitmore was a virgin.
* * *
Five minutes to six o’clock…
Max was ready.
She’d borrowed a small card table and two folding chairs from supply and erected them in the middle of her tent—taking up most of the space between her cot and Kitty’s—then laid a white bed sheet over the top as a tablecloth. That had appeared more clinical than romantic, though, so she’d unfolded one of her blue hijabs over the top of the sheet. Two place settings from the kitchen and a votive candle from Kitty rounded out the décor. Three napkin-covered bowls of food were spread out over the top of Max’s shelves, only waiting for Kyle to—
A knock sounded at the door.
Max smiled. He’s early. She opened the door, inviting him in, and—my. He looked spiffy. He’d bothered to trim his beard and hair, neatly combing the latter, and he smelled freshly showered. A giddy feeling wiggled through her belly. He was taking this date seriously. “Hello,” she said.
“Hi,” he greeted back pleasantly. “Here, I brought you these.” Deadpan, he handed her a bouquet of “flowers.” “Thanks for having me.”
A laugh launched itself out of her as she accepted the bouquet. He’d made flowers out of cotton balls glued to the ends of tongue depressors. “This is the coolest thing ever!”
Tiny lines speared out from the corners of his eyes. “Since there isn’t a flower for a hundred square miles, I had to get inventive.”
Some of the flowers were the white of the cotton, but others were orange. “Where did you get the orange dye?”
“It’s iodine.”
“Oh, God, I love it!” Still chuckling, she stuck the bouquet in a coffee mug and put it in the center of the table.
“And a more practical gift.” He handed her a square of French-made lavender soap. “I got it off Doctor Barr.”
“My goodness, look at you, bearing so many gifts!” She accepted the soap and lifted it to her nose, inhaling a satisfying whiff. “This is wonderful. Thank you.” Secretly, she preferred his handmade bouquet. It’d obviously taken a great deal of effort to make, and he’d done it for her.
Their eyes caught and they gazed at each other deeply, just like this morning when she entered Kyle’s tent with a mug of coffee for him. And now, like then, her heart did a capricious twirl. Kyle’s tender care of her last night was further proof of him wanting something more with her. That he’d only slept with her—not slept with her—in her mind meant his desire for a relationship wasn’t merely lazing around in his subconscious anymore. It was on the surface and game for further exploration.
She smiled. She was game for the same. What a turnaround. If someone had told her a week ago that she’d make such a complete one-eighty about Kyle Hammond, she would’ve had the person committed.
“Damn, it smells great in here.” His focus switched to latch onto the bowls on her top shelf. “Let’s eat.” He sat down in the chair closest to Kitty’s cot and promptly put his napkin in his lap.
She chuckled. Maybe it was silly of her to feel so tickled over his eagerness for her cooking, but she did. “Alrighty.” She set the biggest bowl on the table next to the bouquet. “For the main event”—she whisked the napkin off the top, releasing more great smells—“golden fried chicken.”
Kyle’s eyes lit up. “Ho-leee shit.”
“And in second place”—another bowl, another napkin ceremoniously removed—“homemade biscuits.”
He whistled. “Wow. Just look at those.”
She smiled so widely, it almost felt like she was preening. “I made a dozen, but the cooks took half as payment for my kitchen time.”
“Fuckers,” Kyle growled, but good-naturedly.
“What can I say? My biscuits are sensational.” All right, so she was preening a little. Difficult not to, though, when Kyle was so clearly pleased with her food.
“My mouth is already watering,” he said. “And I mean literally.”
Thump. Now why would the idea of his mouth watering make her heart do that? She sat down as she placed the last bowl on the table. “Finally, fruit salad. Del Monte Fruit Cocktail from a can, so less spectacular than the rest, but there wasn’t any fresh fruit.”
“It’s all great, Max.” He smiled at her, and it was probably the most genuinely affectionate smile he’d ever given her.
“Well…” She lowered her eyes to place her napkin in her lap. Looking at his expression was threatening to turn her into a babbling idiot. His smile was an even better gift than his cotton ball bouquet, which was saying something. “Dig in.” She watched in delighted amusement as he took a breast, a drumstick, a wing, and three biscuits. “My, Kyle, you’d think the aid station mess has been starving you for this last week.” She plucked a drumstick off the top of the chicken pile.
Kyle took a large bite of the breast and—“Oh, sweet Jesus.” His eyes rolled back into his head. “This is mind-blowing.”
She took a bite of her drumstick to hide the biggest smile ever to cross her face.
They ate and chatted—no interviews, no power brokering, just two people easily sharing tidbits about their lives. She told him about past assignments, the heads of state she’d met, the secrets and lies she’d been privy to. He told her about past deployments, the perfect cruises and the perfectly awful ones, his greatest flights and battles.
With him busy eating and talking, she was able to indulge in openly staring at him. Again and again, her focus meandered to the front of his T-shirt. She kept remembering—
obsessing over?—the vision of his bare upper body yesterday, the magnificent bulk of muscles extending across his broad shoulders, the wide, hard slabs of his pectorals sprinkled with light-colored hair, his dog tags nestled in the crevice between. He didn’t have six-pack abs, but was thick around the middle. Not fat. Rather like a man who was built big-boned and solid…and who liked to eat.
She was under no delusions that him baring his chest to her automatically meant he was also baring his heart, despite the point A to point B line she’d drawn between those two. But she had to believe it meant something. The refuge of warmth he’d created for her last night in his bed with his heavy body had been too perfect. And…distracting. Yes, yes, there was no other word for it. Although she’d slept better with Kyle than she had for ages—and for a woman who adored sleep, that was a brass ring of sorts—something else had been jarred loose inside her. Low down… Deep within…
Attraction… Sexual wanting… God, yes. And it was more than the magnetism she’d been drawn to in Kyle on the Bunker Hill. She was equally fascinated by the little things about him—the creases along his knuckles, the neat construction of his earlobes, the strong muscles in his jaw working as he ate, a small glisten of golden butter along the edge of his bottom lip she could totally picture herself licking off…
She ripped meat off her drumstick bone and chewed it ferociously, struggling with an insane urge to leap across the table and tear his clothes off. Focus on what he’s saying, Max. Oh…he was telling the story about how he’d earned the scars on his leg and the underside of his chin. Several Colombian drug dealers had tried to kill him ten months ago. That was sobering.
“How terrible,” she commented. “And scary.”
He snorted as he finished off the last of his chicken. “It wasn’t optimal.”
Hearing him repeat her words from yesterday, she asked, “Which was more frightening? The knife-fight in Colombia or the hood over your head and those terrorists threatening to kill you from yesterday?”
Wings of Gold Series Page 39
