Target of One's Own

by M. L. Buchman

“No pictures at all, ja?” The reporter asked unhappily.

  “Nein,” Luke confirmed—finally they’d hit German, which was one of his languages. And somehow that was a mistake.

  Liesl eyed him speculatively before a slow smile crossed her face. “Does Christian know?”

  “Know what?” Luke offered his best scare-the-crap-out-of-recruits look. Somehow she’d figured out that he was military and that belief—no matter how accurate—couldn’t be allowed to persist.

  Liesl’s smile didn’t falter for a moment. It worked on his men without fail. What was it with these women that it didn’t even leave a graze on them?

  “Nope! He hasn’t a clue,” Zoe offered cheerfully, totally spoiling his play—not that it had worked any better on her. “Another thing we’d like to keep that way.”

  “We?” Liesl’s eyes widened for only an instant before that smile returned two-fold. “The Soldier of Style. You really do serve!” Liesl had a merry laugh. Whereas Zoe’s… Huh! He hadn’t heard her laugh much. Wasn’t sure if he ever had.

  Luke just hoped the reporter knew how to keep her damned mouth shut. A reporter? Good luck with that.

  15

  Somehow Zoe had survived the two days leading up to The Dakar.

  Now she lay face down, alone on her hotel room bed, and didn’t know if she could make it to the starting line.

  Sitting at home on her social media feed had kept everything at arm’s-length. She put on a show and the fans gave her their love. She never held real-life fan events of any sort. Her need to keep the two worlds of her life completely separate in real life and internally was absolute. Now the blurring of those lines was letting the darkness she kept locked in her past slide to the fore at unexpected moments. Fighting to keep that back was even more exhausting than the constant pressure of the pre-race social obligations.

  Between Christian’s post from Senegal and now Liesl Franks’ stories, her life was rapidly spinning out of control. Liesl knew she had a hot story and had worked out a three-way deal that made Zoe’s head hurt worse than her early training days as an RPA pilot.

  First, Luke would be left in the background as much as possible—though she’d almost tossed him to the wolves that first day for how he’d been checking out that Texas blonde’s cleavage. With him hiding in plain view to search for Hathyaron, it threw herself and Christian together into the foreground. Thankfully Christian was kept distracted by the other Legends, but she had to be constantly at his side to meet and greet.

  Not a single one of whom was Pakistani or Afghani this year. There wasn’t even a listing of any vehicle from a country between the Arabian Peninsula and Australia except for a lone motorcyclist from India. If she didn’t know the nationality of who they were looking for, how was she ever supposed to find them?

  Second, there was no exclusivity allowed when giving interviews at The Dakar—publicity was part of the deal. Section 47P of the regulations—the penalties section—stated there was a five hundred euro fine for not stopping in an interview zone. Even worse for being otherwise uncivil—the fine plus possible disqualification. Liesl had tacitly understood that she might never be told the real reason the military had inserted a team into the race. Instead, she’d negotiated that she’d have an exclusive on The Soldier of Style’s inside story.

  Anyone else got only the public story: she’d met Legend Christian Vehrs through her fan group and they discovered their mutual love of rally racing. And it stopped there—though most services had blithely ignored that last bit of information. Christian had certainly worked to give them, and himself, the impression they were also a couple.

  Liesl got as much of the inside story as The Soldier of Style was willing to tell.

  The third part of Liesl’s deal—that Zoe absolutely hadn’t counted on—was that Liesl set out to make her famous. She’d upsold the story to Reuters news service, who had flown in a videographer, and they were both now following her every move. Another thing that thrilled Christian.

  Luke occasionally deigned to scoff at her. Or maybe he was trying to make fun of the lunatic situation, but she didn’t feel much like laughing. For the most part she hadn’t seen him in the last forty-eight hours even though they were sharing a bed.

  That definitely wasn’t thrilling her so much. The first knock on the door both mornings had been Liesl, even before room service could be begged for coffee. And by the time she’d chased out Liesl, Christian, and whatever other Legends happened to be hanging out in the suite drinking beer or wine (always French) each night, she was too tired to do more than collapse beside Luke.

  That was becoming a major problem. At least she’d assumed that was the problem. Yesterday morning Luke had already been gone when she woke up, and she hadn’t heard him come in. For a relationship that was only four days old, not seeing him for the entire fourth day wasn’t good.

  And now she was waking alone again.

  It was a bad sign that left her even less interested in getting out of bed. Having had his fun with her, he was done and moving on.

  The Dakar Rally was a spectacle and the city of Mar del Plata was doing its damnedest to make it one of grand proportion. The elegant Teatro Auditorium had run highlights of prior Dakar rallies on its large screen—accompanied by lots of teasing of racers with spectacular crashes, flips, rollovers, or simply getting lost. The Casino Central had thrown a huge bash. And the lobby of the side-by-side Hotel NH Gran Hotel and the Hotel NH Gran Provincial had hosted massive parties.

  The lobbies had also been thick with hundreds of vendors from Toyo Tires to Oakley sunglasses, each one doing their best to attract the attention of every driver or crew member. It was a good time for hot Argentine women—hired to dazzle the ninety-nine percent of racers with a dick for a brain as they hawked their rep’s wares.

  The Dakar was far bigger than just the race or even the vendors—it was an excuse for an epic celebration, South American style. Outdoors had included band concerts, dance troupes, and open-air bars along the seawall and the prime beach of the city. Plenty of “good time” girls working those venues.

  Had Luke shifted his attention to one of them?

  Or that sexy, built blonde?

  Or one of the women on motorcycles? He mentioned motorcycles in almost every other sentence. Of course he spoke so little, that still wasn’t very often.

  Wherever Luke had gone, Zoe sure hadn’t seen him in their bed.

  Once again she’d been absolutely right about her attractions as a woman. She’d been born for an era of five-seven Tom Cruise and five-four Michael J. Fox as heroes. The problem was she’d grown up into a world built for the likes of six-foot Chris Pine and six-two Ryan Reynolds.

  And six-four Luke Altman.

  Nobody ever stuck—not that she cared.

  Except this time she did, not that it helped her at all. Maybe Luke was off with Liesl? If so, that definitely wasn’t part of any deal Zoe had meant to make, even if Liesl was much more his type. A tall, willowy blonde with a nice, if not dramatic, figure. Zoe had seen them side by side enough to know they made a lovely couple, instead of a goofy one that had people tilting their heads strangely when they deigned to notice her beside him.

  If it was over, then—

  “Still in bed?”

  She managed to flop her head the other way on the pillow and open one eye. That, at least, was worth the effort. She felt too tired to take advantage of it, but a naked and still-damp-from-the-shower Luke Altman was formidable motivation to change the direction of her thoughts. If she hadn’t been worn out, she might have noticed the shower running and taken some hope there. Was it enough to get her moving? Would it matter if she did? He was already gone, wasn’t he?

  He smiled at her.

  So what if he was done with her. Maybe they could have one last tussle between the sheets anyway. She’d certainly never had a lover of Luke’s skill before and wouldn’t mind a final encore before he completely drifted out of her life.

  Maybe
it was worth waking up today.

  If she did, would he—

  There was a sharp rap on the door.

  “Go away, Liesl. I’m about to be busy.” Hopefully.

  “Race day. We must now be moving.” Christian called through the door.

  Crap!

  “Yes, Zoe. Ein sehr important day.” Liesl, too.

  Double crap!

  Luke shrugged.

  Giving in to the evil plan of the twisty, sadistic Fates (so not my sisters in spirit), she clambered out of bed. On her way to the bathroom, she kissed Luke quickly because he was so very pretty standing naked in the middle of their bedroom. She did her best not to groan at what she was losing because even a brief kiss with Luke was a complete toe-curler.

  She came away with her t-shirt only a little wet. Her attempts to sleep in one of Luke’s hadn’t worked. It never stayed on both shoulders, the sleeves reached her elbows, and it fit her like an old lady’s house dress practically down to her knees. Real attractive. All it did was remind her of all the reasons Luke shouldn’t want her. And since she wasn’t getting any sex at the moment, it was a place in her brain she really didn’t want to go.

  Grabbing the towel out of his hands, she headed for a quick shower. Passing the front door, she popped the handle and called out, “So come in already.”

  Then she ducked into the bathroom door, leaving a naked Luke on the other side to scramble for cover as Christian and the camera crew walked in.

  Rather than standing naked in a hotel suite, Luke felt as if he was melting beneath the midsummer sun in a full-body fire-resistant Nomex racing suit. For lack of better cover, he reached for a throw pillow from the small couch, but was far too slow to really hide anything. Besides, the pillow he’d grabbed was about the size of a dinner plate.

  Zoe certainly generated heat in him.

  Curled up in their bed with the covers pulled up to her nose so that she was little more than a floof of blonde hair on a pillow, she was about the cutest damn thing he’d ever seen. In one of her tight t-shirts and very brief panties, she was a total turn-on. He should be pissed about her leaving him standing naked as everyone barged into the room; instead he wanted to laugh aloud at the joke.

  She teased everyone a little bit, but he now understood that she’d always particularly targeted him. Standing outside Hathyaron’s garage building and forcing him to ask for what he wanted when she damn well knew what he meant. The way they’d raced together. Every time she…

  Now that he thought of it, he could see it was a pattern that held right back to the start of the Honduras mission. She had teased Nikita and Drake on that mission…somewhat. But she’d never given him a moment of peace.

  He stood there naked in the middle of their hotel room, except for the tiny pillow that didn’t hide squat.

  Then a mental lightbulb went off, one that froze him in place.

  Did she understand how much she liked him?

  Did he?

  It wasn’t just having her in his bed. Since when had he been content to just lie down beside a sleeping woman without waking her to screw her brains out? Never. But he had done just that last night beside Zoe—moving especially carefully so as not to wake her. He’d drifted off happily just listening to her quiet breathing as she snuggled up against him in her sleep. Not that her contact had let him fall asleep very quickly.

  It had left him plenty of time to think about her unexpected skills. He particularly appreciated the way her mind worked: seeing a solution and jumping right in with both feet because she knew it was right and to hell with the consequences. Differently built, she’d have made a good SEAL.

  “Hi, boss,” Nikita and Drake had followed Christian, Liesl, and her cameraman into the room. She smiled when she looked at him, such a rare thing that it momentarily dazzled him. He was impressed they’d made it down here so fast since he’d called them only last night.

  “Nice outfit, Mr. Emperor,” Drake smirked.

  He offered them a nod of greeting. Problem was, his clothes were on the far side of the room and the one pillow wasn’t going to get him there across the crowded room.

  “Who are you?” Christian stepped up and got in Nikita’s and Drake’s faces.

  Luke used the distraction to ease along the wall to his pack. He rummaged through it and began dressing.

  Nikita moved up beside him while Drake was busy not answering Christian. “You treating her well?”

  He started to answer, but there was something in her tone that made him finish pulling on his t-shirt to look her in the face. In this moment, she wasn’t Nikita Hayward. Instead she was a SEAL so lethal that he’d promoted her to his Number Two on the team.

  “Because if you hurt Zoe, I’ll goddamn kill you, sir. And yes, it will be completely personal.” Then she offered one of her most pleasant smiles—one that didn’t reach her eyes at all this time—before moving back to her husband’s side. She was supremely competent, one of the reasons he’d called for her to come join them. She’d also married a former Night Stalkers crew chief, which meant he was an amazing mechanic—the other reason he’d called the pair.

  But dangerous, to him? That was new.

  Luke finished dressing, including the racing suit and boots—Zoe had ordered them in electric yellow, of course. He rejoined the group but kept his own counsel.

  Christian was still ranting (probably didn’t like finding Luke naked in Zoe’s bedroom either). Luke promised himself to never sleep apart from her for the duration of the mission, just for the Christian Vehrs-irritation aspect of it. He supposed that knowing Luke was here with Zoe and seeing proof were two different things. Or maybe it was that he knew he’d only get to drive Stage One. Perhaps he could feel control slipping out of his fingers. Luke felt empathy for Christian, but it didn’t mean he was going like the man anytime soon.

  Nikita and Drake were doing a fine job of being SEAL silent.

  Liesl smiled like she knew too damn much.

  Then Zoe came out of the bathroom.

  It was the first time he’d seen her in her racing suit. Because he’d seen her drive, he knew it wasn’t just his imagination that made it fit her so well. In her own way, she was as powerful as—

  “Nikita!” Zoe screamed, raced across the room, and slammed into the woman’s embrace, fitting neatly under Nikita’s chin. They held onto each other like long-lost sisters. “Oh. My. Gawd! Luke didn’t tell me he’d been able to reach you.”

  He’d never seen Nikita quite like that. Not even when she’d been falling for Drake had she looked so…soft. There was some bond between the two women that he’d never noticed and, seeing it, didn’t understand—but it looked plenty real. It was the way he was learning that Zoe approached everything: with her entire heart.

  Nikita understood that. That would explain why she’d become so protective.

  And that Zoe was sharing a piece of that with him was a gift he was only starting to understand.

  She shot Luke a grin that held only a little bit of surprise. She’d been calling the shots enough on this mission and he’d felt it was time to call some of his own—he’d started by mobilizing Nikita and Drake to come join them.

  Luke opened his mouth to explain, but never had a chance as Zoe turned to Christian and plunged right in.

  “Christian!” with that impossible level of excitement of hers. Except it wasn’t impossible from Zoe DeMille, merely irresistible. Joy seemed to pour out of her every single moment of every day.

  Something else he hadn’t had a lot of experience with.

  “I know, because of the short notice, that you were having trouble getting another good mechanic. Nikita and Drake aren’t racing mechanics, but they’re absolutely amazing and can help Ahmed, your lead man, with anything we need.”

  Luke should have known that Zoe would understand the plan without being told.

  For the two days between the scrutineering check-in and the race itself, Zoe and Christian had been off in the social whirl of dri
vers and race organizers. He’d stuck for a little while, then realized that he was a third wheel in more ways than one.

  Sure, once he dragged himself away from the stewardesses, Christian had spent much of the long flight from Africa drilling him and Zoe on how to read the Dakar Road Book. The Road Book was the turn-by-turn guide to the race and the only navigation tool allowed in the car.

  “One mistake can send you many kilometers off course before you realize it. You will have no choice except to retrace to your last known good point and try again. All the GPS will do is turn on when you get within several hundred meters of a check-in point to guide you in the last bit of the way. Everywhere else, you are on your own with only the Road Book and a compass.”

  Christian had truly feared that Luke couldn’t navigate well enough, but that was only because he didn’t know who he was dealing with. The Road Book was far better information than he usually had while swimming or hiking to a mission target. There were only a hundred symbols in the entire map coding system—most of which were pretty damn obvious. One exclamation point meant caution, two meant danger, three meant “Holy crap! Slow down and be careful.”

  Much of rally racing was about orienteering and land navigation, bread and butter to a Team 6 SEAL—or someone from Maine. From one peninsula along the Maine coast to the next might be a hundred meters across the water, but it could be a thirty-kilometer drive to get back to where they connected by land. And the logging roads he used to run on his motorcycle weren’t exactly signposted.

  But he stuck out in this crowd because he didn’t have a lot of rally stories to share—as in none. And hanging with Christian, it was expected that he did. The guy was a Dakar Legend after all.

  The only attention he was getting was pissing off Zoe. Between the various “cute girl” squads and Tammy Hall’s occasional strafing runs, he was getting a lot of the kind of attention he always got and he could see Zoe taking it hard.

  So instead, he’d gone on the prowl and stumbled on the Malles Motos class, or MM guys—everyone was ignoring the new “The Original by Motul” label except when the sponsor was around. In French, Malles Motos meant “Trunks Motorcycles.” These guys raced with no support trucks and teams, no camper vans, not even a mechanic. The MM competitors showed up with a motorcycle, a box of spare parts, and a tent. The race only allowed thirty competitors in the class. The trunk box was the size of a SEAL team field pack and was transported from bivouac to bivouac by a semi-truck along with all of the other MMs’ gear.