Night Hush

by Leslie Jones

  Jace stared at her for a long moment. “You’re right. I’m sorry. That was . . . sexist of me, wasn’t it?”

  Heather smiled. “Very. But I forgive you. You can’t help yourself; it’s that Y chromosome.”

  Laughing a little, Jace shook his head. “I’d better get going. Let you rest.”

  Disappointed, Heather’s shoulders drooped as she focused on the television, mounted high on the wall. CNN played in the background, sound muted. “Sure you don’t want to stay for lunch? The cart comes by in a few minutes. I think we get green goo today.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  Heather forced herself to meet his gaze. “Well. Thanks for the visit.”

  His gaze traveled from her hair down to her mouth and seemed to get caught there. She moistened her lips. Jace swallowed. The voices in her head cautioning her not to let him get close became a purr in her head, urging her to meet him halfway, consequences be damned. He leaned over her again, his head tilted and his eyes closed, and when he captured her mouth, he didn’t hesitate. Parting her lips with his tongue, he explored the inside of her mouth. The rough velvet slide electrified her. His mouth tasted of cinnamon and heat. She wanted to stay like this forever, wrapped in his scent of warm-­honey fire. His hand slid down her throat, fingers pressed to the thudding pulse there.

  And still he kissed her.

  She slid her hand up his arm and around his shoulder, pulling him closer. As he gathered her into his arms, his hand tangled in the tubing, accidentally pulling on the IV needle taped to her arm. He cursed under his breath, freed himself, and straightened, looking down at her with a confused frown.

  Silence descended in the room.

  Heather broke the awkward silence. “Well . . . thank you for the flowers.”

  Thank you for the kiss. Do it again, please.

  “I should go. You need your rest.” But Jace didn’t move.

  Heather nodded. Before she could say anything, a sinewy figure filled the doorway, and her room shrank again.

  Jeremy, the lean, muscular man who’d entered, chatted as he came in. “Hey, hey, LT. I figured you’d be about ready to, like, chew your arm off by now . . . oh, hi.” He barely stopped as Jace stepped in front of Heather, craning his neck to look around Jace’s impressive stature. He gave her what she thought of as his adorable-­puppy look, devoted and worshipping. But he also noticed her guilty flush and bright eyes, because his brows pulled down. “I brought you some books,” he said, sounding less genial. “I wasn’t sure what you dig, so I grabbed some of mine, and, like, looted a ­couple from Stevie. Who are you?”

  The once-­over he gave Jace was not altogether friendly. Heather grimaced. That’s all she needed. Jeremy was young, still growing into his green beret, and had a crush on her, to boot. Jace gave him a fixed stare, simmering with subdued raw male energy. Jeremy tried and failed to stare him down.

  Neither had the right to stake a claim in her room.

  She cleared her throat. “Jace, this is Private First Class Jeremy Wahl. Jeremy, this is Jace Reed. He led the team who rescued me.”

  Jeremy bobbed his head several times, smiling, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “You totally have our thanks.”

  Jace did not crack a smile. “It’s Captain Reed, actually. Good to meet you, Private.”

  Jeremy just kept talking as though he had not heard. “We weren’t there when the lieutenant needed us. Let me just tell you how pissed we were. Everyone in our unit, they’re ours, you know? We protect our own.”

  The threat, challenge, whatever it was, again zinged in Jace’s direction. Heather sighed. Jeremy wasn’t the youngest of the Special Forces soldiers of 10th Group, but he’d barely hit twenty, if that. And no matter how she’d tried to discourage him, he imagined himself in love with her. He had a baby face and California surfer-­dude bonhomie, but like all Special Forces, he was a highly trained, highly skilled warrior.

  And Jace would mop the floor with him.

  Jace, bless him, did not laugh at the youngster or patronize him. He simply nodded. “I’d feel the same if I were in your shoes, Wahl. I’m glad I could bring her back safely.” He stepped back, allowing Jeremy access to Heather’s bed. She glanced at him with amusement, but he was scrutinizing Jeremy. He’d been about to leave, but had apparently decided Jeremy needed monitoring. Not an entirely bad idea. Maybe Jace’s hanging around would discourage Jeremy’s crush.

  Jeremy pulled the visitor’s chair close to the bed and handed Heather the paper bag in his hand. “So your replacement is due to arrive in country in, like, two weeks. Top says you’ll probably still be on quarters. We’re all supposed to keep you away from the TOC.” Still on bed rest, God help her, restricted to her quarters.

  The Tactical Operations Center was the central hub of activity for the Special Forces assigned to al-­Zadr Air Base. At least, she’d thought so. Evidently, Jace’s unit operated autonomously. And anonymously. She no longer had the slightest doubt that he belonged to Delta Force. “Tell Top I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Master Sergeant Tom Hines, the senior—­or top—­sergeant in Jeremy’s company, tended to hover protectively over her. Sometimes she found it amusing; other times, annoying. And always unacceptable.

  She opened the paper bag and pulled out the books. The latest Dan Brown, two political thrillers, a book featuring vampires, and the history of the Bataan Death March. The last one made her wince.

  “This should be light reading. Was this yours, or Stevie’s?”

  Jeremy grinned, unabashed. “Mine. It’s only that my great-­uncle survived it, and he’s coming to visit in a ­couple of months, after I rotate back Stateside. My father sent it to me.”

  She set the books aside. “Thank you. I’m stuck here for another day, so this is good.” She looked at Jace, standing by the window, one hand clasping the opposite wrist at his waist in classic bodyguard pose, looking calm and steady and like he never intended to move.

  Heather groaned inwardly. While she couldn’t deny her attraction to him, she had worked long and hard to be accepted as an equal in this man’s army. Even sitting in a hospital bed, she wasn’t about to risk losing that, and Jace’s sudden territorial attitude brought home the realities his kisses had banished. She didn’t need a bodyguard, and having one would undermine the foundation she’d laid. Her men respected her. The women looked up to her. She wasn’t about to trade that in for a man, no matter how much his kisses made her want it.

  Jeremy chatted on about the various happenings within the company, and Heather smiled and nodded in the right places, while her mind worked on the problem of what to do about Jace. She snuck a glance at him. Feeling her eyes on him, he straightened and came to stand by her bed, suddenly radiating authority . . . and danger.

  “Okay, Junior. Visiting hours are over.”

  Predictably, Jeremy rose, bristling . . . and once again, they stood toe to toe.

  “I don’t answer to you. I’ll go if the lieutenant wants me to.”

  “She wants you to.”

  Jeremy got bigger, getting right in Jace’s face. Jace was more experienced, harder, more dangerous. Couldn’t the younger man see that Jace would tear him in two? Or didn’t he care?

  Of course he didn’t. Why did men have to be so stupid?

  “I have every right . . .”

  “Shove off, Junior.”

  Heather clapped her hands together sharply, as though to disobedient children. “Both of you. Stop it. Stop it now.”

  The crack of authority in her voice broke the tension long enough for both of them to look at her. Good.

  She pointed toward the door. “I think it’s time for you both to go,” she said. Wishing it could be another way didn’t change the fact that it couldn’t.

  Poor Jeremy looked like a kicked puppy. She forced a smile. “Jeremy, thank you for the books. It was a lovely thought, and I w
ill enjoy them. I need to rest, now, though, okay? Please?”

  Jeremy nodded, his reluctance clear. “All right. Whatever you say, LT. I gotta get to training, anyway. I’ll see you later.” With one more hostile look at Jace, he left.

  Jace moved to the chair Jeremy had vacated. “Finally.”

  Heather tossed the bag of books onto it before he could sit. She was suddenly angry with him, and equally angry with herself for letting it get this far. “And you can get out, too.”

  Jace had the grace to look contrite . . . or maybe the look was contrived, designed to get on her good side. Well, right now, she didn’t have one.

  “What the hell was all that about? Posturing and puffing like a ­couple of morons. Like I’m going to fall into the winner’s bed, just like that?”

  His eyes lit. “I’m good with that. As long as it’s mine.”

  Heather was good with that, too. A sudden vision of them tangled together in his sheets . . . No, wait. She wasn’t good with it. The answer was no. The answer had to be no. She fought his magnetic pull, fought her own attraction.

  “You and Jeremy, the whole whip-­it-­out-­and-­measure-­it thing. I can’t allow that.” She tried for brisk, professional, but her voice came out croaky and glum. “Seeing you two reminded me why I don’t do relationships with military men. It never ends well. No matter the temptation, I can’t act on it. I won’t.”

  “That’s not even on the table until you’ve healed,” Jace said.

  Heather grabbed a double handful of blanket and tried to strangle it. “Jace. I am and always will be grateful for the rescue. I will always owe you my life. But.” She let her head slump back onto the pillow, feeling a headache coming on.

  Jace crossed his arms over his chest, the smile wiped from his face. “I don’t want your gratitude. Not like you’re implying.”

  “I’m not implying anything. I’m telling you flat out. You wouldn’t be beating your chest like a caveman if you’d rescued a man. You’d accept his thanks and move on. That’s what I need you to do for me.”

  Jace took in a lot of air and exhaled slowly. “You’re not a man.”

  She chose her words with care. “As a woman in a male-­dominated field, I have to work twice as hard to be considered half as good. And a significant percentage of the young, cocky men I work with take one look at me and don’t take me seriously as a professional. As a potential girlfriend, sure. But that’s not what I want. I’m not a part of this man’s army to date. I’m good at what I do, and I intend to be the next female three-­star general.”

  “So?”

  “So-­oo . . .” She drew out the word. “I don’t date soldiers.”

  Jace looked displeased.

  “Never?”

  She shook her head.

  “You must not have much of a social life. How long have you been stationed here?”

  “Twenty-­two months.”

  Jace looked puzzled. “So, what? You’re a hermit? That’s no good. ­People need ­people.”

  Heather lifted her chin. “I have my work. And it’s not like I never go out. I just don’t date military.”

  Jace leaned against the wall, crossing his ankles together. He studied the toe of his boot with apparent fascination. “No exceptions?” A dull red crept over his cheeks.

  Heather made an exasperated sound. “This was a classic example of why I don’t. You were ready to tear Jeremy apart just for being here. But guess what? I’m not property that needs to be guarded. I don’t need your protection, or your jealousy, or your posturing.”

  Jace didn’t move. He didn’t blink. Finally, he nodded.

  “You’re right. I acted like a jerk. I just . . .”

  He stared at the door, and she heard the words he didn’t say. He’d been jealous. Of Jeremy. It would have been laughable if any of this was funny.

  “Yes.” She pointed at his chest. “I’m just a soldier you brought home. Same as any other. No more, no less.”

  Jace lapsed into that peculiar stillness again. Heather could practically see the gears working in his head.

  “What?”

  One side of his mouth tipped up. He straightened, and came back to her bedside. Leaning down, he used his thumb and forefinger to tilt her chin up. He dropped a hard kiss onto her mouth. “You can bet your ass I didn’t kiss Mace when I saved his bacon.”

  And he was gone.

  Chapter Eighteen

  September 3. 6:10 P.M.

  Ma’ar ye zhad, Azakistan

  AA’IDAH HEARD THE voices as soon as Shukri opened the front door and preceded her inside. Shukri went immediately into the parlor. Aa’idah sighed, anxious to unwind her hijab, but that would have to wait until their guests departed. She had no desire even to see who pontificated so animatedly to her father, much less join them. All she wanted was a hot cup of tea and maybe to read a book for a while in front of the fireplace.

  The day had been long and stressful. Her father had directed her to transfer sums from multiple sources into a company account she believed must belong to the sheik. She did not like it one bit. Her heart ached for the young, impressionable men—­boys, really—­recruited from tiny villages all over Azakistan, particularly from the southwest mountains of Badikh Rawasi Province, butting up against Afghanistan and so poor a few tenge a week seemed a fortune. Terror mongers filled their heads with nonsense, winding them up with their bastardization of the peaceful precepts of the Qur’an until they strapped bombs to their bodies and sent their souls to Allah before their time.

  Her mother came into the hallway, motioning her to hurry into the kitchen. Aa’idah complied, nose wrinkling. Her mother tended toward the dramatic, with crises around every corner. True to form, she wrung her hands.

  “We are running so low on tea,” she said. “I hardly have enough.”

  Aa’idah made a soothing gesture. “But you do?” She looked over at the central island, at a tray laden with porcelain teacups and bread. “How many are here?” She noted the pastries on the counter with a sinking feeling. “They are staying for supper?”

  “Yes. There are two, plus your father and Shukri, now he’s home. Take this in to them.” Her mother poured the tea into the fancy teapot and set it onto the tray. “Go. Do not make your father wait.”

  As Aa’idah entered the formal parlor, conversation ceased. Her heart sank. The odious man, Zaahir al-­Farouk, reclined near her father, while the other man, slender and rather pale, sat opposite. Astonishingly, al-­Farouk rose to take the tray from her. His fingers brushed along hers as he smiled warmly into her eyes. It would be rude to react otherwise, so Aa’idah returned the smile, moving to clear magazines from the side table so al-­Farouk could set the tray down.

  “My thanks, honored sir,” she said, lowering her eyes modestly. It was expected of her. She hated it, and all the other little so-­called proper behaviors which marked her as lesser.

  He nodded and returned to his seat, but Aa’idah sensed him watching her as she poured the tea. A fine trembling seized her. He noticed, for he cupped her hand in his much larger ones as he accepted the teacup. He sipped and gave an approving nod. “It is excellent.”

  “My mother will be pleased.”

  Zaahir al-­Farouk settled back in his chair and focused back on her father. “You are truly blessed to have such a beautiful daughter, Mahmoud.”

  As Aa’idah left the room, she heard him ask, “She is unmarried, correct?” Her palms moistened, and her heart pounded. Please, no. Please, let her father reject him. Surely Allah would not be so cruel to her.

  Dared she listen to their conversation?

  Telling her mother she wanted to change out of her work clothes, she stepped into the hallway and tiptoed closer to the parlor door. Their voices rang clear. As she listened, her face lost all color.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sept
ember 5. 6:03 A.M.

  Bachelor Officer Quarters, al-­Zadr Air Force Base, Azakistan

  THE HAIRS ON the back of her neck prickled a half second before her doorbell rang. She closed her book and carried it to the door, already knowing who would be waiting on the other side.

  “I’m here to liberate you.”

  A smile tugged at her lips even before she twisted her head to watch Jace enter her tiny apartment. “Say again?”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d be awake this early.” Jace crossed to the single window and nudged open her plain white window blinds. “Parking lot. Excellent.”

  “I specifically requested it when I first arrived.”

  Trying to control her silly grin proved impossible, so Heather tossed the book onto the couch and plopped down next to it. His gaze followed the movement.

  “Dan Brown. Good choice.”

  “It seemed a little less intense than the Bataan Death March.”

  Jace fidgeted with the blinds, pressing the plastic until it bowed, then letting it snap back into place. “Yeah. So. How are you feeling?”

  “Almost back to normal. They discharged me five days ago. Sixteen days in the hospital was fifteen days too long, but they were being extra cautious because of all the media attention. I’m restricted to quarters, though. No work, no running. Just sleeping and watching soap operas”

  “I’m not surprised. You feel up for a ride?”

  Heather sat forward, resting her hands on her thighs near her knees. “Really? Hell, yeah. You’re really here to spring me?”

  Jace scratched his chin. His gaze moved over her face and body, apparently trying to assess her condition through her nightgown and robe. “Only if you’re up to it.”

  She pushed herself upright again, trying to hide her winces. “I’m up for it. Let’s go. Where are we going?”