“Aw, you’re not just any sort of female,” he grinned at me. Then he leaned in closer. “In fact, I’d say you’re mighty easy on the eyes.”
“Thank you very much,” I laughed. “Let me know when you’ve taken off your rose-tinted desert glasses.”
“Why, MJ! Are you fishin’ for compliments, girl?”
I rolled my eyes.
“If I was, it would be a very short fishing trip.”
He laughed happily.
“I don’t suppose there’s any time in that busy city-girl schedule to escort this lil ole country boy for lunch tomorrow?”
“Good grief, Jack! You’re laying it on pretty thick! Have you turned into Garth Brooks over a plate of chicken wings?”
“Is that a yes?” he asked, his eyes crinkling again as he smiled hopefully.
Oh yeah, that was definitely a yes. Even as my heart whispered warnings, I knew there was no way I’d turn down another meal with Jackson Connor and the chance to spend more time with him.
“I thought you were going up to see your friend in Scranton.”
“He’ll still be there.”
“Fine, I’ll sacrifice another few hours to keeping you safe in the big, bad city,” I pretended to sigh.
“Why, thank you, ma’am!”
He nodded and stood up, holding out his hand to me as I slid awkwardly from the booth’s bench-seat.
“I have to work for a few hours tomorrow morning,” I warned him. “I’m interviewing someone in Australia and it’s the only time that works for them. That’s oh-nine-hundred hours to you, and then I want to write it up while it’s fresh in my mind—it’ll take a couple of hours. Sorry I’ll be so late on a Saturday morning.”
“No worries,” he said, shrugging easily. “It’ll give me a chance to do some tourist stuff first. What would you recommend? All I’ve got on my list right now is: collect free lunch—which I’ve done—” and he winked at me, “and the World Trade Center Memorial.”
We shared a moment as we looked at each other.
I was 15 when it happened. We were in the middle of Algebra. One of the teachers interrupted our lesson to share the news. It didn’t seem real, didn’t seem possible. The school went on lockdown once the first tower was hit. And even though we were ninety miles away, I swear we could see clouds of dark smoke hanging in the sky over the city.
It was the reason I’d become a journalist—to always ask the question why, to report, to search, to seek to understand.
Jackson had also told me that 9/11 was why he’d joined the Marines. I’d heard a lot of men and women say that about the military.
I nodded, offering a solemn smile.
“Well, the 9/11 Memorial takes a few hours to go through and they recommend reservations, but for tomorrow morning, you might want to take a trip out to the Ellis Island Museum. The Holocaust Museum—that’s really interesting, as well. And who doesn’t want to see the Statue of Liberty? Then there’s always loads to see in Central Park if you just want to hang out. I don’t see you as a Barneys or Saks kind of guy.”
“You call yourself a reporter and you go and make assumptions like that?” he laughed. “Would you be surprised if I told you that Bergdorf Goodman is on my to-do list?”
“Hmm, and that wouldn’t have anything to do with a sister who’s studying textile design, would it?”
He’d already told me during dinner that his younger sister was in school at Ole Miss.
He held up his hands in surrender.
“It might,” he admitted. “Sheesh, you remember everything a guy tells you?”
I tapped the side of my head and winked at him.
“Locked and loaded.”
He laughed out loud.
“Noted, Ms. Journalist. I guess I’d better watch my mouth doesn’t run away with itself.”
Oh God, I’d love his mouth to do that and a lot more.
I shook the thought away.
“I’ll see you at 11 o’clock, Jack.”
“You surely will, MJ,” he smiled.
We were just about to leave the pub when the news came on. Jackson turned to watch, his mouth flattening as the newscaster described a scene of carnage. In Afghanistan.
“Last week, the relief organization Médecins Sans Frontières, known here as Doctors Without Borders, reported that 16 people, including nine of its volunteer staff, were killed in an overnight bombing raid in the embattled city of Kunduz in northern Afghanistan.
“Three children were among the fatalities and today General John Campbell, head of the US-led forces has apologized, admitting that, ‘The strike may have resulted in collateral damage to a nearby medical facility as we launched an airstrike against individuals threatening the coalition force’.”
Jackson swore under his breath, anger and frustration on his face.
There’s nothing pretty about war. We both knew that mistakes happened, and it was grim and chaotic. One of the ugliest phrases was ‘collateral damage’, because it was a sanitized way of saying that someone had died for no reason. People died because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time: civilian, military, old and young. Journalists weren’t immune to the danger either—as I knew all too well.
Jackson had already turned to leave when a guy standing next to me shook his head at the TV and said loudly, “Fucking meathead military. They should get some guys with brains over there, not mindless grunts who are so trigger-happy they don’t know what the fuck they’re doing. Waste of taxpayers’ dollars.”
Jackson froze. I tried to get him to keep moving even though I felt like punching the man who’d spoken, but it was as useful as trying to move a mountain.
Jack’s eyes hardened as he turned to stare at the guy.
“What did you say?”
The man swung around, surprised. He took in Jackson’s stance and furious eyes, and stepped back, more guarded now.
“You heard,” he said, his voice wary. “They killed doctors, for God’s sake.”
“Jack, let’s go,” I said quietly, tugging on his arm again.
I saw the rage rush through him, and I saw his struggle to keep it under control.
“Time to go,” I urged again.
He took a deep breath, turning to look at me, hearing me, listening to me.
“Come on,” I said, taking his hand in mine.
He followed slowly, as if his shoes were filled with lead.
Outside, he put his hands on his hips, staring upwards, trying to catch a glimpse of the night sky among all the towering buildings. He breathed deeply, taking calming breaths before he spoke again.
“That guy . . . these people have no fucking clue what it’s like out there. Do they really think we don’t care? That those guys who ordered the strike . . . the ones who flew the goddam planes . . . that they won’t be haunted by that for the rest of their lives? Doctors and children . . .”
I nodded, watching him carefully.
“I know. I get it. That’s why I do what I do—I report on the places no one wants to care about. And sometimes I get my ass in a sling and have to be rescued by the cavalry. Did I say thank you for that, by the way?”
His expression softened and he smiled ruefully.
“God, MJ, I’m sorry about that back there,” and he jerked his thumb at the pub behind us. “It’s hard to hear shit like that sometimes, when guys are still out there and friends of mine . . .” He paused. “It’s not the greatest end to a date, is it?”
I blinked several times. He thought this was a date?
His casual words sent a rocket through all my plans to stay detached, to refuse to have my head turned by an attractive man whose ass looked great in camo.
If Jackson Connor, the man who’d saved my life, who’d sought me out in New York—even though he hated cities—if a man like that wanted to call this a date, how the hell could I protect myself against the assault on my good sense?
I tried to gather my scattered wits.
“Oh, I don’t know,
” I said as casually as I could manage. “A bit of action, a potentially life-threatening situation—that’s par for the course for us, don’t you think? All of our encounters have a little drama.”
“You’re calling this an encounter?”
“A date implies that there’ll be kissing involved.”
“Kissing?”
“It’s in the small print.”
“I guess I must have missed that memo.”
“Your loss.”
“I’m a fast learner.”
His eyes darkened as we stared across the empty space at each other, trying to read what this would mean.
He leaned toward me, his lips soft and tentative at first. But when I didn’t back away, when my hands slipped around his neck and my body pressed against his hard chest, Jackson’s kiss became more urgent, more desperate.
My fingers tangled in the thin chain around his neck and I realized that he was wearing his dog tags under his t-shirt.
My mind skittered back, remembering vividly the way his bare chest had glowed under the dim lighting of a dusty tent in a war-torn country.
What the hell was I doing?
If I fell for Jackson Connor, it would be as stupid and foolish as hitching my heart to a sailing ship.
What the hell was I doing?
A New Road
I PULLED BACK from Jackson, breathless and dizzy, only vaguely aware that we were still standing on a crowded Manhattan street.
My thoughts were fuzzy and indistinct, and those damn warning bells sounded far away. Instead, there was only one truly clear thought running through my brain: Now that was a kiss.
I brushed my hair out of my eyes as Jackson watched me closely, his own breathing faster now.
“Do you want to take this forward, MJ?” he asked, his eyes trained on mine, those strong muscled arms still circling my waist.
I wanted to smile. I shouldn’t have expected anything other than a direct approach from Jackson. He didn’t play games and he said what he wanted. It was refreshing. Except I knew that what he was offering was sex, not a relationship. During our four hours of talking, he’d made it clear that he wasn’t a man who did relationships. From the sound of it, the tally of anything he’d call serious stood at one.
I took a step back and he released me slowly, as if reluctant to let me go. I reminded myself again that I didn’t do one-night stands because I got involved too easily. My stupid brain couldn’t help equating sex with love, even though I knew better.
But when was the last time the touch of a man had made my body sing and surge, as if electrical charges were zapping through the air, heating my blood, making the hairs on my arms tingle? Only once since high school, and that had been a short-lived, adrenaline-filled fuck-buddy relationship with another journalist when I was covering a humanitarian crisis in Ethiopia.
All these confusing, contradicting thoughts rushed through my brain in a split second. Although I could analyze and second-guess forever, my gut was telling me to take a chance. Because men like Jackson didn’t come along every day.
How many times had I turned down a second date with a New Yorker because he spent more on manicures, haircuts, threading and waxing than I did? How many times had I wanted to meet a man who was raw and masculine without being arrogant?
Jack and I might not have had the smoothest start and it seemed certain that the road ahead would be bumpy, but . . .
“Yes,” I said, with more assurance than I felt. “Let’s see where this goes.”
His face relaxed into a lazy, sexy grin.
“Can I come back to your place?”
Oh boy, he didn’t waste time.
I knew the drill. I’d heard it often enough when I’d been embedded with military teams on an assignment: the old adage that you never felt more alive than when you were close to death. Men like that lived their lives now. Waiting until tomorrow wasn’t an option when there might not be a tomorrow.
Even so, I shook my head. No. Coming back to my place wasn’t going to work for me; that was too personal, sharing my space. And besides, I preferred to finish a date . . . or whatever this had become . . . when I was ready, on my terms.
“Let’s go to your hotel.”
I saw a flicker of disappointment, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he offered me his arm. Just an old fashioned Southern gentleman . . . having a very modern hookup.
We strolled through the streets, the crowds of commuters relaxing into people out to enjoy the warm evening of late summer.
There was no sense of urgency in his footsteps, but I still felt the tug of anticipation low in my belly, and I couldn’t help sneaking glances at his profile. His straight nose and strong chin, those full lips and sharp cheekbones, the strength of his arms and body displayed to perfection in his simple, unpretentious clothes: unbranded jeans and a plain t-shirt.
He caught me looking, and winked, his fingers stroking over my hand as he pulled me closer so he could throw a possessive arm around my shoulders.
And I giggled.
Holy shit! I never giggled. A woman of 31 shouldn’t giggle! I was mortified. In four hours, the man had reduced me to a giddy high-schooler.
I braced my shoulders and took a deep breath, stopping to read the menu in a new restaurant that had recently opened.
“You like Nepalese?”
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll eat pretty much anything. I think I’ve had to, at one time or another. Even MREs, although I’m not sure you could class those as food.”
He laughed.
“Ain’t that the truth! Man, some of that food, you can’t even tell what it is. And whoever has a bottle of hot sauce is mighty popular.”
Jackson was so easy to talk to. He didn’t try to impress me with tales of valor. Instead, he shared ordinary stories about being deployed: the bad meals, sandflies, porta-potties. The heat and dust, the boredom. Boredom that we both knew could turn to gut-clenching fear in a matter of seconds.
But he kept things light, making me laugh again and again.
Until we reached his hotel. Then his tone turned serious.
“You can still change your mind, MJ,” he said, staring down into my eyes.
“I know. But I don’t want to.”
He smiled with relief, squeezing my fingers lightly.
“I was kinda hoping you’d say that.”
Ignoring the revolving door at the front of the hotel, instead he opted to use a smaller door, standing to one side as I walked in, his hand at the small of my back when he followed.
Then he wove our fingers together as we headed for the elevator.
The doors slid closed behind us and he grinned down at me.
“An empty elevator with a beautiful woman, it makes me want to do bad things.”
“Such as?”
“A gentleman would never tell.”
“Never?”
He pressed a quick kiss to my neck, his tongue flicking out briefly.
“No, but I sure want to show you as soon as we get to my room. Dammit, can this elevator move any slower?”
“I think it’s going backwards.”
But then there was a soft ding and we were on the seventh floor.
I took a deep breath as we stepped out, our footsteps silent on the thick carpet. Jackson squeezed my hand again, a small frown on his face.
“You doin’ okay over there?”
“I’m fine. I haven’t changed my mind. It’s just . . . I don’t usually . . .” and I gestured toward his door as he pulled out his keycard.
The door swung open and Jackson gave me a level look.
“I haven’t had sex in over a year, MJ. And I was only deployed for nine of those 12 months.”
I was taken aback, in a good way. It wasn’t that I’d pegged him for a player—he was too straightforward for that—I’d just assumed that hookups were not unusual for him.
“You know what I thought when I saw you in the sandbox?” he asked.
I tilted my head to one s
ide as I answered.
“Something like: what the hell is that stupid woman doing getting herself caught up in a riot?”
He gave a small smile.
“Even when I was worried about getting you out in one piece, I thought you were hot. But when you tore a strip off of me in the cafeteria and showed me how much it meant to you—reporting, the Afghan civilians, that girl you interviewed—you were passionate and committed. It’s easy to get jaded out there after all the shit you see. But you still had ideals.” He gave me a sideways look. “Even if I didn’t agree with them.”
I couldn’t help a surprised laugh bubbling out of me.
“And then you came to our tent and heard me mouthing off about you . . . I’m sorry for calling you a bitch.”
“You’ve already apologized for that, Jack. I’m not going to hold it against you.”
“I know. That’s what I mean. I could have been on punishment duty for a month for saying that about you in front of my CO, but you pretended that you hadn’t heard. It was really cool of you.”
I shook my head.
“Well, I’m happy to take the credit for that, but I wanted to thank you. You and your men saved my life. It was the least I could do.”
He smiled.
“And you bought me dinner.”
“We’re still not quite even for you saving my life, but it’s a start. And anyway, as well as calling me a bitch, you said I was smoking hot,” I reminded him.
His smile faded.
“Damn straight. You blow my mind, MJ.”
He reached out to cup my face with both hands, bringing his lips down softly on mine, angling my head to suit the slant of his mouth while he kicked the door closed behind him.
My hands looped themselves around his waist and he moved into my space like it was his to own. But it gave me access to the smooth silk of his broad back, and my eager hands moved upward under his t-shirt, feeling his muscles twitch and his skin pebble with excitement. It made me feel powerful and in control, which was a complete illusion because the man could snap me like a twig.
Instead, his hands were strong but gentle, one sliding to my neck while the other pulled me firmly against him.
I sighed with pleasure as I felt his erection pressed against me for the first time.
Battle Scars Page 3
