“I’d offer you the waterfall,” she said, gesturing toward it, “but you can’t even stand yet. Would you like me to get a washcloth and some water in a basin? I’m sure you’d feel better if you got a little bit cleaned up.”
Mike set the emptied bottle aside and stared at her. “I’m feeling pretty damned wary of you.”
Khat nodded. “I understand,” she said quietly. “I realize it’s a strange situation.”
“Who were you talking to on that sat phone just now?”
“Someone who will send your vitals to an ER doctor at Bagram hospital. That physician will decide when you should be airlifted out of here.”
“Move me?” His wariness shot up. She looked so damned calm about it all. Okay, he got she had to be an operator. Khat was a marine sniper. And she had a sat phone, and whomever she’d talked to was high up on the black ops food chain.
Khat lifted her hands and pulled her dried hair off her shoulders, the mass tumbling down her back. “Yes. As soon as you’re ambulatory, I’ll take you to a place, providing it’s not got Taliban around, and they’ll fly in a Medevac for you.” She smiled a little. “And then you’ll be home, in familiar surroundings once more.”
Mike couldn’t stop staring at Khat. Her arms were lean and tightly muscled. She was feminine, but in damn good shape. There was nothing weak about this woman.
“Would you like to get cleaned up a little?” she asked. She smiled a little and stood up.
From another of the many holes in the cave wall, she pulled out a large aluminum bowl and walked to the pool, dipping it down into the water. Bringing it back, she stopped and took the washcloth she’d been using earlier, plus a dry, clean towel.
Kneeling beside him, she took his right hand and placed it in the water, gently washing all the dirt, sweat and blood off. He had large square hands, long fingers and she saw many small white scars across them as she washed each one individually.
“Tell me about yourself?” she asked, glancing at him. “Is your team out of Coronado?”
Mike felt his entire body go hot with longing. He hadn’t expected her to wash his filthy hands. Her movements were gentle, careful. “I don’t really want to say anything to you. For the same reasons you’re not sharing anything with me. For all I know, you could be Taliban.”
Her lips curved ruefully as she soaped the cloth and slid it up to his hairy wrist and lower arm. He felt his muscles leap and tense beneath her ministrations. “I understand,” she answered. “In our business, it is a need to know only.”
Mike wanted to talk to her. His mind plunged through ways to get information out of Khat. He looked at the water in the bowl. It was filthy. That’s how the rest of him felt. He wished like hell he could stand and go over and bathe under that waterfall.
“Your horse?”
Khat nodded. “Yes. She’s my best friend. She’s saved my life so many times…” Holding his clean hand, she brought the towel over and dried him off.
“That’s no Afghan mountain pony,” he said, hoping this line of conversation wasn’t going to end in a box canyon.
“She’s purebred Arabian.”
“My father has an Arabian horse ranch,” he said. Mike saw her chin lift, her eyes widen.
“Really?” Khat searched his shadowed golden eyes. The morphine was helping him to relax. When a partial smile pulled at his chiseled mouth, a white-hot heat moved down through her. Shocked by her body’s response, Khat swallowed. “Can you tell me more?”
Hearing the sudden excitement in her husky voice, those green eyes so large, reminding him of green tourmaline, he said, “My father was born in Saudi Arabia. He became a renowned cardiac surgeon, met my mother, who is American, and came to the States. After I was born in San Diego, he decided to have a small, select herd of Egyptian Arabians at their ranch in Alpine. He was able to acquire a stallion from the House of Saud.”
She released his hand. “That is wonderful. We share a love of Arabian horses. I need some clean water.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty dirty,” he agreed drily. Watching her rise, those thick red strands of hair tumbling across her shoulders, Mike felt hungry for her on a purely sexual level. Rubbing his jaw, he watched her walk into the other cave. There was a gentle sway to her hips, and those long damn legs of hers went on forever.
Then he stopped himself. He had no business reacting to Khat like this. She’d saved his life. She deserved better than his male reactions, and he was unhappy with himself.
When Khat returned with a clean bowl of water, she handed him the cloth so he could clean his face. There was a lot of dried blood along his temple, across his high cheekbone and matted in his black beard. She rested her hands on her thighs. “Do you still have Arabian horses?”
“My parents do,” he said. God, the cool cloth felt so damn good against his gritty, filthy skin. He closed his eyes, wiping his brow, eyes and cheeks.
“Then, they are Egyptian Arabians?”
He squeezed the cloth into the water, quickly watching it become dirty. Lifting it out, it felt good to wipe his nose and lips. When he rubbed the left side of his face, it was swollen and tender. “Yes. They keep one stallion and six broodmares. It’s a hobby of my father’s. He likes the fire of the Egyptian Arabians.”
Excitement bubbled through Khat. “Mina, my mare, is also of Egyptian lineage.”
Mike smiled a little, rubbing his right temple and his beard. “I thought she might be. How old is she?”
“Nine.”
“Has she been with you long?” He squeezed the cloth into the bowl. There was so much dirt in the water, he must have looked like Godzilla to her when she found him.
“Five years.” Khat pointed to the left side of his face. “There’s a lot of dried blood and dirt on your left temple.”
“Hurts too damn much to touch it,” he muttered.
Khat went and got a third bowl of water. She knelt down near his left side. “May I try? The blood will draw flies tomorrow morning. They’ll eat you alive.”
That wasn’t a pleasant thought. Mike nodded, holding her gaze. “You have a gentle touch.” He tipped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. God help him, but he wanted her to touch him. He didn’t care where or how, he just wanted those long, cool fingers on his flesh.
Khat lowered her lashes as he gave her an intent, burning stare. It was a look a man gave a woman. A man who wanted his woman in his bed. She felt heat sweeping up her neck and into her face. His eyes were closed, and she inhaled a ragged breath, moving closer, her knee grazing his hip. Placing her right hand against the other side of his face, the soft prickle of beard making her fingers tingle, she used a very wet cloth and gently placed it against the area of dried blood. In time, the dried blood would soften.
Her heart was waffling in her chest, and Khat felt unexpected emotions leaping through her. His face was hard, weathered and tough looking. He beckoned to her, man to woman.
Trying to still her reactions, she carefully worked the blood loose, cleaned off his temple and the left side of his hard jaw. He reminded her of a snow leopard at rest but still possessing that coiled tension and power within him.
Khat closed her eyes. Fear skittered through her. She knew the power of men only too well. But for whatever miraculous reason, she was not afraid of Michael Tarik. She saw his nostrils flare, as if drinking in her scent. His mouth… Her gaze fell to that strong, chiseled mouth of his. Something unbidden, bright and clean exploded through her lower body. It took her by surprise. For whatever crazy reason, Khat felt desired by this SEAL.
Shaking her head, she released his face and quickly washed the bloody washcloth in the bowl.
“You have the touch of an angel,” Mike murmured, barely opening his eyes. He saw the ruddiness in Khat’s cheeks, her lashes lowered, refusing to meet his eyes. Her lips were pursed, too. As if…as if she hadn’t wanted to touch him?
“You’re Middle Eastern, aren’t you?” he asked, keeping his voice purposely lo
w and nonthreatening. He saw Khat’s head snap up, her eyes widen for a moment, and then Mike saw terror in them. Why?
Khat rose, carrying the bowl to the pool, refusing to answer his question.
Mike rubbed his damp beard. Yeah, she was. Only question was: Which country? Was she a CIA operative? They were actively and aggressively courting Middle Eastern people into their ranks.
Something told Mike her reactions were typical for a woman from the Middle East. They were brought up chastely, surrounded by family, protected from men, virgin until they were given away in marriage. Even her English had a lilt to it. He had Saudi blood, and it was easy to pick up another Middle Eastern accent. And when he’d told her he liked her touch, she’d blushed. Was she not used to being around men? But then Mike scowled, remembering the scars on her back and shoulders. Okay, something else was falling into place. What if she was a CIA operative? Got caught by the Taliban? Tortured? Probably raped. That would explain her sudden shyness around him. She might see all men as a natural threat to her.
Mike watched Khat return. She walked as silently as a SEAL. No one heard them coming, either. The look on her face was closed, and he saw chagrin in her eyes, maybe. He didn’t know Khat well enough to be sure. God knew he was starving to death to get to know her. He owed her something for saving him, didn’t he?
CHAPTER THREE
WHILE KHAT MADE tea for them, something she loved doing every night before she slept, she felt the SEAL’s eyes on her. She had a small copper kettle on a grate and used an old-fashioned magnesium tab to create the intense heat to make the water boil. There was the chemical equivalent in her MREs, but she preferred this way.
After setting it up, she moved out of her crouch, turned and went to find a rubber band. Her hair was thick and long. And it often got in the way, which was why she tamed it into a ponytail or a single, long braid down her back.
Out of the corner of her eye, as she did so, Khat saw a vulnerable expression fleetingly cross Mike’s face. A wistful sort of look, and then it was gone, replaced by his game face once more. It made her feel things she’d never felt before. Bewildered by all these new emotions, Khat brought two chipped mugs from another hole and placed them on a nearby tray.
“Do you like sugar with your tea?” she asked, barely turning in his direction.
“SEALs can use all the sugar energy they can get,” he answered wryly, half smiling. Mike liked the way shorter, softer strands had stolen out of her ponytail, caressing the sides of her face, emphasizing those breath-stealing green eyes.
“Ah,” she said, nodding.
“How do you take your tea?” He watched her work on the drinks, her fine, long fingers mesmerizing him. Mike wondered if she’d ever taken dance lessons because that is what she reminded him of—a ballerina.
“Plain.”
And then Khat joked, “Like me.”
Scowling, he said nothing. “Why did you warn my team there was a Taliban ambush set for us?”
Pushing a tendril of hair away from her face, Khat looked up. His eyes were hooded, his face contemplative. He was trying to figure her out. “Because it’s my job.”
“Do you always shadow SEAL patrols?”
Shrugging, Khat said, “Luck of the draw.” She loved teatime, having grown up with it. Taking some of her favorite cookies, shortbread, that her mother had sent to her, she pulled some out of a tin box from another hole in the wall.
Mike shouldn’t enjoy watching her so much, but he did. “How tall are you?”
“Too tall for a woman,” she answered. Bringing over a tray, she set it next to him.
“Six foot?”
“Close.”
“How the hell were you able to get me out of wherever you found me?”
Khat gave him a serious look. “Very carefully. I rode my mare into the wadi and retrieved you.” She watched the steam starting to rise out of the spout. Placing a tea bag in each cup, she removed the teakettle and poured the boiling-hot water into the awaiting cups. As she did, she told him how she got him from the wadi to the cave.
Mike shook his head in disbelief, turning and giving the black mare, who had eaten and was now resting, an appreciative look. Her head was drooped and one rear leg cocked, resting on the other three, eyes closed. “Unbelievable.” And he gazed at Khat as she walked toward him with the two cups in her hands.
Kneeling, she set them on the rusty tray, gave him three cookies and three for herself. She nudged the open jar of sugar with a spoon in it toward his good hand. Settling down, crossing her legs, she faced Mike. He did everything with focus. Adding a teaspoon of white sugar to his cup, he stirred it and set the spoon on the tin tray.
Khat held the cup with both hands, inhaling the scent of the tea. It always made her smile. It reminded her of happier times when she was young and at home with her family, until she joined the Marine Corps. Her father strongly disapproved of her choice. Her mother remained loyal to her, however, and sent her these tasty shortbread cookies every few months. She worried constantly about her.
“Is this something you do every night?” Mike asked, picking up the cup. He saw her eyes half close, a look of satisfaction on her face as she sniffed her steaming tea.
“When I can.”
“Does that mean you usually operate at night?”
“Like the SEALs?”
“The night’s our friend.”
“Sometimes, during the day, sometimes at night.” Khat sipped the tea, the taste giving her pleasure. She regarded him through her lashes, watching him think and plot and try to get something out of her that he could use. But to what end? Khat didn’t feel threatened by Mike, surprisingly. Was it his driving curiosity? Most likely.
“If I were a man in black ops, you wouldn’t be asking me so many questions, would you?”
He raised his brows and grinned. “Probably not. No women I know of in black ops out here in Dodge City.” He saw her lips curve just a little, her eyes gleam with amusement and secrets known only to herself.
“There are many ways to fit in and not be seen.”
“Do you like doing this?” Mike gestured to the horse.
Shrugging, Khat murmured, “It is my destiny.”
Mike felt that damned sadness around her again. A sort of surrendering over to the inevitable within her. She avoided looking at him, as well, paying attention to eating a cookie with her delicate fingers instead. Okay, he’d try another approach. “What touches your heart, Khat?”
His voice was deep with sincerity, and it riffled pleasantly through her. Lifting her chin, she met his thoughtful-looking gaze. Lion-gold eyes. A fierce warrior. But her instincts told her this man also possessed strong morals and values as all SEALs did.
She licked her lower lip and bent her head. “To walk out into the desert as a storm hits. To smell the perfume of the dry earth rise up and embrace me. To—” she lifted her chin, meeting his gaze “—have a baby born and slip into my hands and hear her first lusty cry.” Khat sipped her tea and added, “To see my people free and unafraid, to be able to walk out of their homes and not get their leg blown off, or to lose their children to those who would abuse and kidnap them.”
His heart squeezed with pain over the last whispered words. Her brows had drawn down, her gaze moving away, looking into the darkness, eyes filled with anguish. Mike heard it in her voice, too. “Those are heart-worthy passions,” he agreed, powerfully moved by her words.
“Why are you a SEAL?”
His mouth twisted. “That’s a long story. My father wanted me to follow in his footsteps, which most first sons do when their father is from the Middle East. I was a wild child, loved riding the Arabian horses, loved anything athletic, track, hurdles, gymnastics. You know, boy sorts of things?”
“Mmm,” Khat said, sipping her tea, enjoying sharing something important with him that had nothing to do with black ops. “Did you not want to become a surgeon?”
He laughed a little, holding up his right hand. “With thes
e hands? Look at them. They’re good for fixing cars, fixing weapons, but I sure as hell wouldn’t trust these hams with a scalpel, would you?”
Khat laughed softly, feeling her heart blossom at his engaging smile. She liked his humbleness. His eyes… She sighed inwardly. His eyes gleamed with gold in their depths beneath the low light within the cave. “You have a point,” she agreed. “But you have hands of a man of the land who would work the soil, shape things and coax plants to grow.”
He didn’t want to be affected by how she saw him, but Mike was. “Farmer hands?”
“Maybe. I love looking at people’s hands. They tell me so much about them.”
He looked at his. “What do my hands tell you?” He saw redness come to her cheeks. “No, really. I’m not teasing you. I’m interested in how you see the world, Khat.” And God help him, he was. Her face was so damned readable, it shook him. There was no coyness. Just shyness. And gentleness that she tried to hide from him, but she couldn’t. Mike was having a hell of a time seeing her out there as a sniper and then drinking tea with her now. Two very different people.
“Your hands—” she shrugged “—are hands meant for molding and shaping things. Such as a loving father who would mold his children by supporting them, showing them the way, but not pushing them. You have hands that are sensitive to texture, to how something feels beneath your fingertips. I could see you being very gentle with a baby or supporting an elder who had trouble walking. You have helping hands.” Khat was so taken by his hands that she wondered what his fingers would feel like across her body. It was a vivid curiosity. And at the same time, Khat knew that would never be. No man would ever want her.
Mesmerized by her low voice, the almost lyrical quality of it, Mike was shaken by her insight into him. He set the cup down and stared at his right hand. “Then I’m in the wrong business,” he said, grinning. SEALs took the fight to the enemy.
“Not necessarily,” Khat said, picking up the second cookie from the tray. “I know many SEALs who do charity work with the villages they are near. Some bring in clothes, others shoes, food or medical support. They care about the people of the village. To those SEALs, they are not just a number. They are human beings with a heart. With a soul.”
Taking Fire Page 4
