Morgan chuckled. “Son, you think with your stomach. Your mother is making macaroni and cheese. But there will be leftovers, don’t worry.”
“Hey—” Pete held up his hands “—guilty as charged. I just like home cooking when I can get it.”
“Annie’s a wonderful cook, too,” Laura noted.
“Oh, I know she is. But…” Pete slanted a glance at his mother, whose blue eyes danced with happiness “…there’s no cookin’ like Mom’s. I know that for a fact.”
“Well, thank you, dear. We’ve called Cathy and she’s not going to be able to make it home to see you. She’s undercover with her husband in an Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms unit down in South America right now.”
“I got an e-mail from her a week ago,” Pete said. “She’s really happy, and I’m glad for her and Mac.”
Morgan scraped his chair back from the table. “Right now, our family is stable and growing.” He gazed down at Pete. “When are you going to get interested in finding the right woman, Son?”
Feeling heat flow up into his face, Pete cleared his throat. He glanced over and saw his mother’s hopeful look. Laura delighted in being a grandmother. She had planned Jason and Cathy’s weddings. More than once in e-mails over the past two years, she’d hinted that she’d love to plan a wedding for him. “Well, I just guess it isn’t the right time,” he told them. “Besides, Dad, you told me that a later marriage was a smart one. Getting married really young wasn’t the brightest lightbulb thing to do.”
Morgan rubbed his jaw. “That’s true, I did say that.”
“You were older than me when you married Mom,” Pete pointed out.
Laura nodded. “Yes, and it has been a marriage made in heaven.”
“And Cathy and Mac were older when they got married, too.”
“Okay,” Morgan conceded, “truce, Son. Your mother and I know the benefits of a solid marriage. We just want you to find that special someone out there and be as happy as we are.”
“And as happy as Jason and Cathy,” Laura said in a pleased tone. “You’re so special, Pete. You’re drop-dead handsome. When you played football, you had girls hanging off your arms.”
“My job keeps me too busy for a social life now,” Pete said, trying not to sound defensive. Getting up, he gathered the empty dessert bowls and spoons. “Being on a construction site 24-7 doesn’t give me any time to go out and woo women like I might want to.”
“You had Brandy Wilson as a steady in Germany,” his mom said wistfully. “I wish that had worked out. I really liked her, Pete.”
Wincing inwardly, he took dirty dishes to the sink. “Now, Mom. Brandy just wasn’t the right woman, that’s all.” No woman was, as far as Pete was concerned. He wasn’t lucky in love.
Laura sighed as she got up. “Maybe you’ll meet a special woman over in Afghanistan. Your father said it would be a big project.”
“Mom,” Pete said, turning and leaning against the counter, “construction sites are male dominated by nature. The only women around are usually secretarial assistants, if that. Where I’m going, I’ll probably end up with some guy as my office assistant. In an Islamic culture it is frowned upon for a woman to work outside the home. So I’m expecting mostly men on the site. This plant is going to be built out in the middle of nowhere. There are villages nearby, but women are married and have families.” He shook his head. “So don’t go there, okay? I’ll meet Ms. Right when it’s time.” And Pete knew it wouldn’t be on this project, but didn’t want to dash his parents’ expectations.
Morgan clapped his hand on Pete’s shoulder. “Don’t mind your mother, Son. She just wants to see you happy.”
Pete bit back the stab of pain he felt when he thought of his past relationships. None of them had worked out. He tried to analyze why he couldn’t find a woman who was compatible. He wanted someone smart and curious, who was just as adventure oriented as he was. Like his fraternal twin, Kelly whom he idolized. But no woman had the courage, brilliance and chutzpah his twin had. And Pete had given up on ever finding that kind of gutsy freedom-loving woman. Maybe he was being too picky, he decided as he helped his mother rinse the dishes. Well, where he was going there would be little chance of meeting any women. And truth be known, with the enormity of this project and what it meant careerwise, he didn’t want to focus on anything but his work. Finding a girlfriend in Afghanistan would be impossible, and he wasn’t looking, anyway. Women had always meant trouble with a capital T. And he’d been too hurt in the past to want to try again. He seemed to draw women who lied. And that was something he couldn’t stand was a lie. Maybe Kelly was too good of a role model that he’d grown up with. She had an in-your-face, rather blunt personality. Pete had lived with that, went out into life expecting all women were like Kelly. Had he been in for a rude awakening! Pete had found women coy. Their communication with him, confusing at best. No, he had absolutely no expectation of ever finding a plain-spoken woman, that was for sure!
CHAPTER TWO
AFTER EMERGING FROM a battered, dented green taxi, Pete tried to shake off the fatigue from his fogged brain as he headed for the U.S. government office in Kabul. Except for the mouthwatering odors of curry, coriander, turmeric and onion filling the crisp morning air, the town seemed like the Dodge City of the Middle East. Desert-camouflaged Hummers moved slowly up and down the boulevards, manned by U.S. Army soldiers with M16s or machine guns. The capital of Afghanistan was bristling with firearms, with danger and spies. Perched at an altitude of six thousand feet, it gave new meaning to “Mile High City, the nickname of Denver, Colorado. Kabul teetered on lawlessness due to terrorists striking out of the shadows and killing Americans at any opportunity.
As Pete hurried down the cracked sidewalk, he passed several men dressed in astrakhan hats or turbans, loose-fitting, long-sleeved shirts, vests and baggy trousers. Hearing snatches of many languages, he felt as if he were at the United Nations without a translator. In his Kandahar assignment, Pete got used to this situation. He kept his focus on the white stucco building before him, the U.S. government headquarters, surrounded by Marine Corps sentries. Once he arrived, Pete produced his ID and was allowed through the security perimeter.
Inside, he went through a metal detector and another series of blockades designed to tell friend from foe. How he itched to get rid of his flak jacket. But he was on official business and needed to be wearing his Marine Corps desert-camouflage utilities.
The sentry nodded to him as Pete picked up his 9 mm Beretta pistol and tucked it back in the holster strapped to his right thigh. No one went anywhere in Afghanistan without carrying a protective firearm.
“Can you point the way to Mr. Elliot’s office?” Pete asked the short, thickset sergeant in charge.
“Yes, sir. Take this elevator up to the fourth floor. Mr. Elliot has his office there.”
“Thanks, Sergeant.” Pete gave him a brisk nod. His desert boots thudded on the polished white linoleum floor leading to the elevators. He caught a whiff of strong, rich coffee in the air and wished he had some. Maybe Kerwin Elliot, a U.S. liaison officer overseeing in-country projects, might offer him a cup. Pete tried to forget his eighteen hours in the air and his failed attempts to grab some badly needed sleep in the cargo hold of a C-9 Starlifter. The aircraft had been crammed with equipment for the war effort.
Entering the elevator, Pete glanced down at his watch. It was 0830. Good. He was half an hour early for his meeting with all the major players in building this power plant. Excited despite his exhaustion, he gripped his black leather briefcase and exited the slow-moving elevator when the door opened.
At the end of the hall was a middle-aged woman dressed in a springlike lavender suit. As he approached, she looked up and smiled.
“Major Trayhern here to see Mr. Elliot,” he told her as he halted in front of her.
“Ah, yes, Major. Welcome to Kabul. I’m Betty Johnson, his assistant.” She held out her hand.
In her midforties, Betty was a good-looking wo
man, Pete decided. Shaking her hand gently, he said, “I’m sure I’ll see a lot of you in the next two years working on this power plant project.” He smiled.
She laughed lightly and rose. “Oh, I’m sure you will, Major Trayhern.”
“Call me Pete. I don’t like standing on protocol.”
“Okay, Pete,” she said, smiling back, “just call me Betty. And yes, you’ll be interfacing with Mr. Elliot and his group probably on a daily basis by telephone, fax or e-mail. Would you like some coffee?” She gestured toward the station behind her desk. “Black? Cream? Sugar? What’s your pleasure?”
Grateful, Pete looked around. “Yes, ma’am, I’d love some hot, black coffee.”
“Betty, remember. You don’t have to ‘yes ma’am’and ‘no ma’am’ me.”
“Got it.” Pete nodded and glanced at the large wooden doors to Kerwin Elliot’s office. They each had a rearing Arabian horse carved on them. Unsure what type of wood it was, he stared admiringly at the artwork. “Is anyone else here yet?”
“Oh, yes. They’re all waiting for you. But don’t look so devastated. They’ve been in-country, and you just got here after a long flight. I’ve kept them plied with pastries from our bakery next door, and I think they’re doing just fine.”
So he was the last to show up for the 0900 meeting. Great, Pete thought. He didn’t want to be the final one in the door, but there was no way to change this situation. Technically, he wasn’t late, but as the superintendent on this project, he needed to make a good impression on his team…and his supervisor. What kind of opinion would Kerwin form about him?
The receptionist handed him a paper cup of steaming black coffee. “You’re an angel, Betty.” He lifted the cup in a mock toast to her.
Betty grinned and stepped around her desk. With brisk efficiency she opened the doors. “Go right in, Pete, and meet your boss. You’ll see Mr. Elliot and the Roland Construction management team straight ahead.”
Girding himself emotionally, Pete smiled at the kind assistant and entered, his boots silent on the colorful Oriental rug that stretched all the way to the large maple desk where silver-haired Kerwin Elliot sat. Surrounding the desk in a semicircle were four other people.
Pete’s attention focused right away on a red-haired woman in the waiting group. Kelly had red hair, too. Pete loved that hair color, a sign of an independent woman. Frowning, he wondered who she was. According to his data sheet on Roland Construction, C. Roland was the site project engineer. His gaze roamed to the woman’s right. A big, beefy man with buzzed brown-and-gray hair sat next to her. Must be C. Roland, Pete thought. Maybe the red-haired babe was his assistant? Not bad looking, either, but Pete reigned in his appreciation of her.
“Ah, you’ve arrived,” Elliot stated, rising and nodding toward Pete. “Welcome, Major Trayhern. We’re glad you could make it.”
Pete noted the man was dressed conservatively in a dark suit and tie. Elliot Kerwin appeared to be a smooth businessman of the first order. According to Pete’s stats on him, the man was also a CIA operative and knew the Northern Territory better than anyone. He was a key player in local and regional politics. Pete knew he was going to have to rely heavily on him now and in the future.
“Thank you, sir.” Pete put his coffee and briefcase down on the last empty chair, at the end of the semicircle. He leaned over and handed Elliot his personnel file.
“Thank you, Major. Welcome to Kabul.” Elliot extended a manicured hand.
Pete felt its softness as he shook it. Nothing like his own palm, which was callused by constant outdoor work. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
“Excellent. Well, you look pretty rugged. Long flight?”
“Yes, sir, it was.”
“Get any sleep on board?”
“Not much. Those Starlifters weren’t built for passenger comfort.”
Pete heard the other men chuckle indulgently and Elliot’s long, narrow face broke into a sympathetic smile.
“I understand more than I care to, Major. Now, let me introduce you to the contractor who won the bid to get this power plant built.”
Pete turned, his gaze automatically moving to the woman sitting in the middle of the group. She looked like a red rose in a colorless desert of men. Obviously, an assistant and probably would leave for the States shortly. Pete assumed the assistant would not be going to the job site. This was a male-dominant country and women were not encouraged to be outside the home. Hardened men with weather-beaten faces stared back at him, they regularly challenged the elements.
“If you’ll give me a moment, Mr. Elliot, let me get out my roster on Roland Construction.” Pete went to his briefcase and pulled out a document listing key individuals in the building of the power plant.
“Of course,” Elliot said, sitting down and folding his hands in front of him.
Pete gripped the sheet in his left hand, pen in his right. “I’m ready now.” He smiled slightly at the civilians. Again his gaze strayed to the woman, who sat relaxed, legs crossed, in the midst of the males. Who was she? And why bring a woman here? It would cause nothing but trouble, Pete knew, judging from his experience in Kandahar during the early phase of the war against the Taliban.
As an assistant company commander for a Marine security team that kept the airport safe from terrorists, his women Marines had caused a stir among the more conservative Islamic clerics. Pete recalled that uncomfortable time because, as commander, he had to protect all his soldiers, regardless of gender. And certain Afghan leaders disapproved of women soldiers. It had been a constant battle that had no winners, as far as Pete was concerned.
“Well,” Elliot said, his voice deep and somewhat jovial, “the person running this show for Roland Construction is C. Roland, the site project engineer. You’re getting one of the plums straight from the family tree.”
Pete gazed in shock as the woman spontaneously and gracefully stood up…to her six feet in height. Gulping, he stared into her large, inquisitive green eyes. Her hair, cropped in a pixie cut, was a rich red color, the lights above displaying copper, gold and burgundy highlights. And she was no sticklike model, but as shapely as a woman painted by Titian in the Renaissance era. Her shoulders were drawn back with obvious pride and the look on her oval face was one of unspoken humor. Gold flecks sparkled in those eyes that coolly assessed him.
“But you’re a woman.” His comment came out sounding silly as hell, and Pete realized his gaffe when he saw the men on either side of her scowl in unison. They were Roland employees, so why wouldn’t they?
“All one hundred and sixty pounds of me, Major Trayhern. I’m Calandra Roland. Frank Roland is my dad.”
Though he tried to hide his surprise, Pete gawked anyway. Maybe it was the jet lag. Or maybe he was just brutally tired, having had no sleep since leaving Montana. Whatever his excuse, he just stood there staring, his pen poised over his clipboard. She was around his age—late twenties or early thirties. Calandra Roland wore no makeup, and she didn’t have to. The fine, feathery bangs that brushed her broad brow softened the eaglelike look in her eyes. This woman was a powerhouse; Pete could feel it. To say self-confidence emanated from her was an understatement. He had met military women like her before, but never a civilian. Despite his clumsy manners, she extended her hand. Pete fumbled with his pen and then thrust out his hand to enclose hers. He wasn’t prepared for the fact that it was strong, and as callused as his.
“Nice to meet you.” He managed to choke out the words. Pete heard the four construction men chuckle indulgently.
“Is it? By your reaction, Major, you’d think I was an alien just coming off a flying saucer.” Calandra measured the Marine officer from head to toe. She liked what she saw. Maybe a little too much. He had short black hair that emphasized his square face, predatory looking gray eyes and an aquiline nose. His slightly curled mouth had more of a grimace than a smile, but Cali found it appealing. Pete Trayhern was terribly good-looking, and out of habit, she glanced at his left hand. No wedding ring. We
ll, the dude must be divorced, then, because he was too handsome not to have a gaggle of women begging for his attention.
Her hand tingled as he released it. She saw uncertainty and confusion lingering in Trayhern’s eyes. At least he couldn’t hide his feelings from her. That was good. Cali didn’t know what to expect from this man she’d be working with for two years. Intuitively, she felt his initial reaction to her was forgivable. After all, there weren’t that many women in the construction industry, especially at the reins of a major multimillion-dollar project. Trayhern didn’t know how hard she’d worked to get here, or the personal obstacles she’d had to overcome. The past belonged in the past. And with that thought, Cali allowed her mouth to curve wryly.
“Well, Major? Do I pass your inspection?”
Again, her team of foremen chortled, and Trayhern’s face turned a dull red. Feeling a bit sorry for him, she craned her neck and tapped the clipboard he held. “I’m C. Roland. My men call me Cali, and you can, too, once you find your voice.” She didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot. On her last project, she’d fallen for a mechanical engineer—only to find out later Russ Turner was married and had been lying to her for his own manipulative reasons. Cali realized that on-site romances were never a good idea, but to have the man lie and then expose her to public humiliation had nearly undone a perfect career up to that point. Not to mention hurt her deeply. No, on this project she had to prove to her father that she could carry off an assignment and not bring shame to the family-owned company. Cali had too much at stake to be diverted by this obvious attraction.
Pete was surprised by Cali’s dry wit. She wasn’t taking his shock as a negative. When she touched his clipboard, he quickly scrambled. “Uh, yes, right, C. Roland. Thank you. Nice to meet you.” Well, that was an understatement. Pete liked what he saw far too much. Abruptly, he remembered how women were always trouble for him. He had to be professional, keep his distance. Cali was impressive, though. A woman with command and maturity. Glancing behind her, he noticed a few of her colleagues had smirks on their faces. Construction humor wasn’t lost on him; it was sometimes bawdy, but always blunt and honest.
Beyond The Limit Page 2
