Blue Forever (Men in Uniform)

by Bruhns, Nina

  Christ.

  “You do realize,” she said quietly, “there are at least three military checkpoints between here and Sanya?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah.” They could be dealt with.

  She didn’t look particularly happy, but she didn’t tell him to take a hike, either. She indicated his rucksack. “Anything in there I should know about?”

  “No.”

  Which was true. Just a dented camera and useless telephoto lens. And a few other assorted odds and ends she shouldn’t know about. For her own good. In case he was caught.

  She nodded, and he had the distinct feeling he wasn’t fooling her for a nanosecond.

  Of course, the only really incriminating thing—the photos he’d been sent to take—were not in his possession yet. The Chinese would have nothing to hold him on but suspicion.

  The real danger would come later.

  Provided he made the rendezvous tomorrow.

  “So. Can I get a ride?” He plastered on his most winsome smile.

  She pushed out a breath, and shot him a sardonic look. “What the hay,” she said at length. “I’ve always wanted to see the inside of a Chinese prison.”

  2

  The astonished expression on the man’s face almost made Deputy Director DeAnne Lovejoy of the U.S. State Department smile. He looked so charmingly taken aback she nearly forgot that the last U.S. Marine she’d smiled at had merely stared icily back at her and told her she was a damn useless female.

  But that was ancient history.

  “I—I’m sure that’s not—” he almost stammered.

  She waved him off. “Kidding.” Apparently Major Llowell had never encountered a State Department official with a sense of humor. Granted, there weren’t a lot of them. And she wasn’t completely joking. Espionage was a serious offense. Especially in China.

  But what was she supposed to say? “No, forget it, you can’t have a ride?” Hardly. As a foreign service officer, her job was to protect American citizens abroad. At any cost. Yes, even of her freedom.

  Besides, her boss, the deputy assistant secretary, would kill her if she let anything happen to this particular citizen. The hotlines from Guangzhou to Foggy Bottom and the Pentagon had been burning up since dawn with speculation as to the alleged spy’s health and whereabouts. And here he’d walked right into her hands, healthy as a lion and asking for help. She could already smell the promotion.

  “DeAnne! Look at these fabulous—Oh!” Chrissie Tanner faltered at the sight of the tall, broad man standing so close to her.

  Oops. DeAnne took a step away from him. “Chrissie, this is Mr. Llow . . . enstein. He’s here, um . . .”

  “On business,” the major supplied smoothly, extending his large hand. Which was attached to a muscular arm. Which in turn led to that impressive body. “My rental car conked out and Mrs. . . . uh . . .”

  That very impressive body. From a purely objective feminine perspective.

  He raised an expectant brow at her.

  What?

  She lurched out of her lustful thoughts. “Oh. Lovejoy. Miss Lovejoy.” Okay, maybe not completely out. “DeAnne,” she said, determinedly businesslike.

  He inclined his head politely. “DeAnne offered me a ride down the mountain.”

  “Oh?” Chrissie appeared flummoxed for a moment.

  Lord, that imposing body was a problem. It was far too noticeable. And not in a good way.

  Okay, maybe also in a good way.

  Chrissie tipped her head way back to look up at him. She brightened. “So you’re here for the weaving, Mr. Lowenstein?”

  Uh-oh. DeAnne interrupted before the major could say anything. “I’m pretty sure my cell phone won’t work up here,” she said breezily, “but I thought I saw one of those call-for-assistance buttons in the SUV. Maybe they can get hold of the rental company.”

  “Do those things actually work in China?” he asked skeptically.

  “I guess we’ll find out,” she said. “Will you be all right on your own for a few minutes?” she asked Chrissie.

  “Oh. Sure,” Chrissie said, and good-naturedly indicated the market stall’s owner returning with a tray of refreshments. “I’ll just drink tea, nod, and smile a lot.”

  DeAnne chuckled. “Sounds like a plan.” She gestured toward the SUV. “Shall we, sir?”

  As they started walking, she noticed he was limping a little. She decided she’d rather not know what had caused it.

  “Please,” he said when they were out of earshot. “Call me Kip. You really have a cell phone?”

  “Yes, but it really isn’t going to work. No bars this far from civilization.”

  “And the assistance button?”

  “Sorry, there’s no button.” At his raised brow, she said, “You stick out like Gulliver in Lilliput. We need to get you tucked out of sight.”

  Thankfully, he didn’t argue.

  They passed a vendor selling rolls of fried rice, lamb, and vegetables wrapped in pak choi leaves. It smelled delicious, and she could see him eyeing the food. She checked her watch. Nearly noon. On impulse, she stopped and ordered a half-dozen rolls from the vendor, then glanced at that large, delectable body again, and changed the order to a dozen, with a cup of coconut milk to wash them down. She paid and grabbed the food.

  “When was the last time you ate?” she asked as they hurried on toward the SUV. The television “Most Wanted” broadcasts detailing his “horrible treachery” had started cycling yesterday afternoon. He must have been in hiding since then.

  “This morning,” he said, as he accepted the newspaper cone of fried rolls from her. “There are fruit trees everywhere. But these smell great.” He put a hand on her arm. “Slow down. Here. We’ll share.”

  She winced. His leg. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—” But the words died in her throat as he plucked a roll from the paper, pursed his lips, and blew on it. Oh, man. Those lips were—The guy was—

  Omigod. Feeding her.

  She felt herself flush hotly as he put the cooled-off roll to her parted lips and waited for her to take a bite.

  This was crazy. Major Llowell was a fugitive. A spy. And was no doubt being hunted by every cop, security agent, and PLA—People’s Liberation Army—soldier on Hainan Island. His life was in danger. Heck, her life was in danger just being with him.

  And the man was flirting with her?

  Ho-boy.

  She took a bite.

  He smiled a slow, sexy smile, and her heart did a high dive off the cliff of serious attraction.

  And landed on the painful shoals of reality.

  No, no, no.

  She was not attracted to him. He may have a disarming smile, but she knew too well the thoughtless betrayal that could lie behind that captivating façade. No way was she making the same mistake as her mother. Not even opening that door.

  “Major Llowell,” she managed after chewing and swallowing. And refusing to look at his sensually curved mouth. “You don’t seem to be taking me—your situation very seriously.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who stopped for lunch.”

  She glared at him. “And this is the thanks I get.”

  He waggled his brows. “I’d be happy to thank you properly.” He popped another veggie roll in his mouth.

  She didn’t know whether to grit her teeth or smack him. She definitely didn’t want to think about any other possibilities. Not happening. “The only thanks I need,” she said primly, “is you staying completely out of sight until we can figure—”

  He let out a curse.

  She frowned. “There’s really no need for—Oof!”

  All at once she found herself jerked to a halt against a set of hard masculine ribs. “Shit,” he muttered.

  “Honestly, Major Ll—” she began. But that’s when she saw what had prompted his curs
es.

  A trio of green army Jeeps overflowing with PLA soldiers was barreling up the mountain track toward the village—heading straight for them. “Oh, lord,” she squeaked, her voice going up two octaves as her pulse took off.

  Major Llowell grabbed her by the arms and pushed her toward the vehicle. “Scream,” he ordered. “Like I’m kidnapping you.” He opened the driver’s side door, shoved her in, and vaulted in after her.

  After a befuddled hesitation, she screamed. Not terribly convincingly. More like baffled.

  What on earth was he—

  He hustled her over to the passenger side. “Buckle up.”

  Good grief. He really was kidnapping her! She screamed again, more convincingly this time.

  “Wait!” She looked around wildly. “What about the driver?” He was nowhere to be seen. “We’ll get in trouble if we take the car without him.”

  The major flashed her an incredulous look. “You’re kidding again, right?”

  Not really. But too late now. The SUV’s engine roared to life.

  By this time the three Jeeps had reached the outskirts of the village. The soldiers were shouting and waving their machine guns. They must have spotted the major.

  The SUV ground into gear and lurched forward. The driver’s door slammed shut with a bang like a rifle shot. She nearly jumped out of her skin.

  “What about Chrissie?” she croaked, grappling for her seat belt.

  “Forget Chrissie,” Major Llowell gritted out, throwing the vehicle into a rooster tail and heading in the opposite direction. He jerked his chin at the advancing Jeeps. “You’ve got more important things to worry about.”

  Her seat belt snapped home.

  Just as the soldiers started shooting wildly.

  At them.

  3

  “Get down!”

  DeAnne felt Major Llowell’s powerful hand shove her shoulders and head down to her knees, out of the line of fire.

  “Stay there,” he commanded.

  She wasn’t about to argue. Machine gun fire sprayed the air. All around them bullets whizzed by, plinking into the thankfully solid metal of the SUV. She laced her hands over her head in a protective gesture. A useless one, she knew.

  “They can’t shoot at me!” she cried indignantly. “I’m an American citizen!”

  The SUV took a sharp turn, whacking her into the door.

  “In other words, a foreigner. Who’s giving aid and comfort to a spy,” he returned between clamped teeth, whipping the wheel back around with white-knuckled hands.

  A bullet slammed into the door inches from her ear. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying desperately not to panic. What was needed here was calm and logic. “What are we going to do?”

  “Drive like hell,” he shouted above the grinding of the gears as they banked up a steep, rocky slope. “And hope we can outrun them.”

  “Three jeeps? And a dozen armed soldiers?”

  “I’ve been in worse jams.” His voice was as strained as the engine. The SUV shot over a rise and jolted a hard landing with an explosive crash.

  Her eyes flew open. But it was just the steel on steel of the chassis, not a grenade. “I haven’t,” she croaked past her heart thundering in her throat. Working for the State Department could be dangerous sometimes, but she had managed to elude life-threatening situations. Until now.

  The rat-a-tat-tat of machine gun fire continued to split the air behind them, but the plonk of bullets had mercifully ceased. Had he really outrun them?

  She turned her head and glanced up at Major Llowell through the crook of her elbow. Her fingers still had a death grip on her scalp. She was trembling from the roots of her hair clear to her toes. But the major didn’t look terrified. He didn’t even look scared. Just grimly focused.

  The cords of his neck stood out as he gripped the steering wheel, his eyes darting this way and that, sweeping the terrain for possible escape routes and checking the rearview mirror for danger. The sleeves of his peasant jacket had ridden up, and she could see the ropes of muscle in his forearms ripple as he shifted gears and wrestled the SUV onto a path up the mountainside barely wide enough for an ox team.

  Irrationally, she felt the knots in her stomach unclench . . . just a tiny bit.

  She knew from bitter experience that the one thing—okay yeah, the only thing—a U.S. Marine was really good at was being a Marine. Her whole life she’d resented that fact, but at the moment she admitted to being grudgingly grateful. If anyone could get them out of this alive, it was a Marine.

  The irony did not escape her.

  She suddenly wondered what, exactly, a U.S. Marine was doing on an island in China, accused of being a spy. Espionage was generally CIA’s turf.

  “Are you on a covert mission?” she blurted out, figuring it had to be something like that. The major had spec ops written all over him.

  “Just a tourist shooting pictures,” he answered blithely, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  Not that she believed his answer for a moment. This man was no tourist.

  He hit the brakes, gunned the SUV into neutral, and threw it into four-wheel drive. In the lull, she listened intently. The gunfire had stopped. She risked lifting her head to take a quick peek behind them.

  “Have we lost them?” she asked hopefully.

  “Hell, no. They’re just saving ammo.” He cut her a frown. “I told you to stay down.”

  He let out the clutch with a wince of pain on his face, and the SUV jumped forward, jerking back and forth over the rocky path as it climbed the steep mountain at a bone-rattling speed.

  “I’ll duck back down when they start shooting again,” she promised, gripping the armrest.

  “Speaking of which, I don’t suppose you have a pistol in that purse?” he asked, indicating the shoulder bag lying next to his rucksack on the floor.

  “What? No.”

  “I’ve got an M9 on me,” he informed her.

  That put a whole new spin on shooting pictures . . .

  She grimaced. “I don’t like guns.”

  He made a deprecating noise. “But you can handle one, right? They make you learn to shoot as part of your Foreign Service training.”

  She stared over at him. “How do you know I’m Foreign Service?” She hadn’t told him. She was sure of it. Not that it was any big secret, but . . .

  He raked his gaze over her clothes, brows hiked in amusement. “Really?”

  Her lips compressed and she was about to retort when a tire hit a rut and he swiveled his attention back to the road.

  His hands tightened on the wheel. “We need to start shooting back. But I’m a little busy here. You’ll have to do it.”

  She shook her head, still miffed by his unspoken slight. “I told you, I don’t like guns.” Guns belonged to her father’s world. His world. A world of dress blues and camouflage. A world she wanted no part of.

  Llowell’s dubious eyes pierced her. “Are you serious right now?”

  She lifted her chin. “I’m a diplomat. Words are my weapon of choice.”

  “Tell that to the guys with the machine guns,” he muttered.

  She jetted out a breath. The man was—

  Logic. Calm. The man was right. Under these circumstances, acting on her distaste was irrational. “Fine,” she conceded, and reached for his rucksack.

  “That’s not where it is.”

  She grabbed onto the dashboard as they hit another rut. “Then where?”

  “My shoulder holster. Under my shirt.”

  For a second she just stared. Then his eyes met hers and she could swear he grinned. She looked down at his peasant jacket. It was just baggy enough that the bulge of the holster didn’t show. “Surely, you can reach it—”

  The SUV jolted over a jumble of rocks. His muscles labored to han
g on to the steering wheel. “What’s the matter? You afraid to touch me?” The corner of his mouth twitched up.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She reached out toward him, but her hand faltered inches from his torso. “So, am I just supposed to, um . . . ?”

  “Put your hand up my shirt? Yeah. That’s the idea.”

  She felt her cheeks go hot. Okay. Not a problem.

  She went determinedly for the hem of the boxy handwoven garment. She grasped it delicately with two fingers and pulled it away from his body. With her other hand she reached up under the fabric, gingerly groping the empty space for the holster. And found nothing but air and skin. Ho-boy. She delved higher. The vehicle rocked violently and she gasped. Her splayed fingers landed solidly on his bare torso.

  The expanse of masculine chest was rock hard and hot to the touch, dusted with a smattering of coarse, curly hair. Sweet mercy.

  She jerked her hand away. The SUV rocked violently back and forth, throwing her off balance. Both her hands collided with warm skin. She sucked in a breath. But didn’t take them away. This hesitancy was ridiculous. It was just a man-chest. No big deal.

  Moving with the motion of the car, she slid her hands up his torso searching for the holster. Her fingers found a flat male nipple and skittered over it. It pebbled beneath her touch.

  His chest expanded with a spasm and he cleared his throat. “The, uh, gun is on the other side.”

  The far side. Naturally. Her cheeks grew even hotter. “Oh.”

  She hesitated, licked her lips, then shifted her seat belt so she could lean in and run her hand across the broad geography of his chest. Perversely, the SUV chose just that moment to jerk back and forth over a patch of cobbles, and her hand zigzagged across his pecs like a puppet on strings.

  She gasped in embarrassment and tried to pull away, but with an oof, she found herself flung flat against his chest, his shirt up and her arms bracketed around him.

  Mortified, she lifted her gaze to his face. His jaw was tight, his nostrils flared, his blue eyes dark as indigo. Her fingers grasped leather. Finally.