by Teresa Hill
"Yes."
"Thank you. Really. I know I wouldn't be here without you and everybody who helped get me out of there."
"You're welcome. I'm very glad it all worked out." He took a sip of his coffee and gave her a cautious smile.
"My father said that day he and Sam first realized they both knew someone in Buhkai, he was joking about paying you to kidnap me and bring me home."
"I wish I had, before things got so crazy."
"And I wish I'd have gone with you."
"You think you'd have had a choice, if I'd decided to get you out of there?" he asked, clearly amused at that idea.
"You'd have done it?"
He shrugged easily. "Wouldn't have been the first time."
She stared at him, looking so comfortable and confident now, talking about kidnapping people. "You kidnap people?"
"Let's say apprehend and detain."
"Okay." She supposed he did, that she'd have been no problem for him, given the kind of people he normally apprehended and detained. "So, just like that, just because my father asked, you went charging into a hostage situation to save me?"
He gave her a why-wouldn't-I look.
Of course, why wouldn't he?
"You're an American. A woman. A civilian, in trouble in a place like that. I said I'd do what I could."
Which had turned out to be a lot, she suspected.
"How's your father?" Will asked.
"Fine, thank you."
Her father hadn't so much as told her Will was in town, which had seriously annoyed her once she'd found out. She'd demanded to know why, and her father had claimed he didn't understand why she'd want to know.
So she could thank Will, maybe?
And then she wondered why Will hadn't come to see her when he got into town. Or, maybe, he had.
"Did my father tell you to stay away from me?" she blurted out.
Will stayed silent. She could almost see him discarding one thought, reaching for another.
"Everyone seems to think I'm too fragile to handle a conversation like this," she said.
"Thanking me?"
She nodded. No harm in the little bitty half-truth, she reasoned.
"Well, your father thanked me himself, very nicely, on behalf of both of you, by phone and in person, none of which was necessary. I was just doing my job."
There was so much in those few sentences she wanted to ask about. Her father had thanked him? Twice? One of those times in person? Where? She wanted to know. But the last part was the most astonishing.
"Just doing your job?"
He nodded, as if he truly meant it.
"You pulled me out of a hostage situation, out of complete chaos, practically a war zone."
"Sometimes, that's the job. One of the best parts of the job."
And again, it seemed like no sense of false modesty was involved. He was being absolutely sincere and didn't understand the extraordinary nature of what he'd done.
"You think that's one of the best parts of your job?" she asked, trying to understand.
"Sure. Don't get me wrong. There's a lot I love about the job and find deeply satisfying. But Americans in trouble? Especially innocent ones? Being able to get them to safety? That's the kind of mission you can't top, in terms of feeling like what you do really matters. It's why the government invests so much time and resources in training us. It's the kind of mission you hope you get someday. I mean it when I say, I'm very, very happy it all worked out. I'm just sorry I didn't get there sooner."
Which made her fairly certain he knew about the rape.
The kindness, the sincerity, was her undoing, and she felt tears well up in her eyes. He'd likely seen her as vulnerable and scared as she'd ever been. Being rescued by someone in a situation like that struck her then as a very intimate thing to share.
Her tears spilled over and started to fall.
"Shit," he whispered very, very softly, a panicked look spreading across his face.
She managed to laugh, at least a little. "I thought you were one of those guys who isn't afraid of anything. But I guess tears will do it to any man."
He grabbed a box of tissues from somewhere behind him and brought it to the breakfast bar, setting it down between them. "I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry."
"Don't worry. It happens. I cry a lot now. For no reason at all sometimes—"
"I think you have a reason," he said, leaning against the breakfast bar, looking like he wanted to do more to make her feel better, but was scared to get any closer or to touch her.
It was such a guy thing, panicking over a few tears, and made him seem remarkably ordinary, too, at least in this. What an interesting man.
"I'm sorry," she said, taking another tissue and swiping at her tears.
"Your father didn't want you to see me because he said there were some gaps in your memory, and he was afraid seeing me might bring back even more of what happened. He didn't want to make it any harder for you, and neither do I. That's why..."
He'd stayed away?
Not because he didn't want to see her, but because he felt like he was protecting her by staying away? Which made it a kindness, not indifference.
She wanted him to want to see her, she realized, as foolish and unimportant as that sounded in the scheme of things.
"I am happy to see you, despite the tears," she said.
"Me, too. Happy to see you," he finally admitted. "I didn't want to make things harder for you, but you're here, safe, conscious, coherent—"
"That might be a stretch."
He grinned. "No bruises, no cuts, no bleeding. Not afraid."
So, he had seen it all, she supposed, and now she knew. As tough and strong as he could be, there was kindness and even tenderness inside him, too.
And right now, he looked like every tear she cried hurt him in some way. "I could still be there, if not for you, if I was even still alive—"
"Please, don't thank me again. I never know what to say when people do that."
"Really?"
He nodded, seeming completely sincere and as uncomfortable as he'd looked in the face of her tears.
She smiled for real, wiped up what she hoped would be the last of her tears. "Well, I'm very grateful for the job you do and that you were willing to put yourself into such a dangerous situation for me. I know it was a huge risk that you took, no matter what you say."
* * *
Buhkai, Africa
January 16th
"You're going to what?" Mace yelled through the phone.
"Let's say, I need help planning a training mission," Will said as he rushed to gather weapons and supplies, thankful for everything he'd brought to this country with him.
"Oh, bullshit!"
"Training mission," Will repeated. He didn't want to get Mace into trouble, too, if this thing went bad. "Let's say rebels have taken some school kids and their teachers hostage in the capitol. And I need a plan of attack, you know, in case the guys I'm training ever end up in a situation like that."
Will heard Mace pounding on his keyboard, and then his friend said, "What do you know? Looks like that sort of thing's going on right now."
"How about that? Take down this number." Will rattled it off. "Ask for former ambassador James Warren. He's got information you'll need about the situation, and he's going to give you a number for someone he knows in Ballah, a minister with the new government who has more information. So you can plan this training op for me. Within the next hour, be ready to brief me, okay? I have to drive to Ballah, and the road sucks."
"Wait. Did the guys you're training ask you to help them with this?"
"No."
"Is this your family thing? Is someone you know in trouble in Buhkai? Because you know we'd do anything we could for you. All you have to do is ask."
"No. This is strictly friend-of-a-friend stuff, and I don't want to drag anybody else into it."
"What are you going to do, Will?"
"I don't know. I just need
to know what my options are when I get there."
"Okay, but you're not there alone, right? You do have someone to help you?"
"Mace, I have to go. If I'm going to get there in one piece in an hour, I have to concentrate on driving. Be ready with a plan when I call back."
"Don't you go in there alone. Don't you go trying to be a hero and get yourself killed—"
"I'm just going to the capitol. I don't know what I'm going to do when I get there," Will insisted, thinking too much about a young American woman in the hands of the Buhkai rebels.
"Remember those two retired SEALs who charged into the U.S. consulate in Africa that was under attack? They got themselves killed."
"They helped save thirty-one Americans first."
"Fuck!"
"Get me a plan, okay? We'll talk about what I'm going to do when I get there."
Chapter 4
Baxter, Ohio
Seven weeks later
Will could just imagine the visit he was going to get from Amanda's father after this, especially if she went home crying.
Not that he was sorry she'd found him. Even though seeing him was obviously difficult, he didn't have it in him to truly be sorry.
Because, hell, yes, he'd wanted to see her. Desperately, beyond all reason for a normally highly logical man who knew damned well if he did see her, it would likely end just like this. Bringing up nothing but bad memories for her.
He'd known it wasn't smart to be in Ohio right now, no matter what kind of trouble they were having at the shelter.
He'd known it even when he'd gone to her house right after he got back into town, and her father had hustled Will into his private office before anyone else had seen him. The ambassador had thanked Will again, then asked him politely to leave without seeing Amanda. Will had understood completely.
But he'd still wanted to see her, and now, here she was, right here in the kitchen, looking so pretty in that perfect girl-next-door way that had always gotten to him.
He didn't like fussy, silly, fake, made-up women.
He liked his women real.
Not that she was in any way his.
And she never would be.
An ambassador's daughter? A Swiss-boarding-school-educated trust-fund baby? Yes, the woman had a damned trust fund. Mace had found that while digging around for background on her on the Internet, and just had to tell Will.
Her mother's family was loaded, and when her mother died, Amanda had inherited her own trust fund.
It was as far away as anything could be from what Will had known or ever would know. They had been thrown together by nothing but circumstance and the odd coincidence that, when her father had retired from the diplomatic corps, he had decided to teach in Ohio and write his memoir. And when he'd wanted an old mansion restored, he'd hired Sam, because if you were in southwestern Ohio and wanted an historic restoration done right, you called Sam.
That was it.
The whole unlikely story.
And now, here she was, this beautiful, brave woman who'd admitted to hunting him down, looking uneasy but more than a little proud of herself.
She looked so soft and pretty. He'd known she would. He'd seen photos of her before she was taken hostage, as part of the briefing Mace had thrown together before Will charged into the school to save her. So he'd recognize the woman he was looking for in that mess, that was all.
She was even prettier now, despite her tears. Her hair was blonde again and cut simply at almost chin-length. It made her neck and shoulders look delicate and pretty. Her eyes were a shimmering blue-green with big, tear-spiked lashes. She had full lips and the prettiest, faintest freckles spread across her nose and cheeks.
She looked very young, very innocent and sweet, the perfect California girl.
For Will, growing up in landlocked Ohio, the idea of the ocean and the beach had always held a certain allure, and with the beach came natural, perfect California-girl beauties, with all their tanned skin and pretty blonde hair. He'd found that out for himself, especially in his early years in Coronado, California, the west coast home of the SEALs.
When he'd first seen Amanda Warren in Buhkai, she'd been bruised and bloody, with a black eye, a dirt-smeared face and a scab on her lips. Her hair had been longer and darker, and she'd been scared half to death, when she was conscious. And in moments, in scattered, fractured seconds, when he was desperately trying to get her out of that school and then out of the country, he'd glance at her and think she'd be a knock-out back in her real life.
Except he was never supposed to see her that way.
That girl was supposed to be nothing but a fantasy.
And now, here she was standing right in front of him.
Damn, he was in trouble.
He'd do anything for her.
Not that he planned to let her know that.
"Like I said," he told her finally, "we were both lucky that day, pure and simple." And it was true. Sometimes, things just worked out. Skill, training, hard work and a little bit of luck could accomplish most anything.
When he could stop thinking about how scared she'd been and exactly how she'd been hurt, he could be grateful and happy that they got out of Buhkai safely. She could be, too, he hoped, once she could put this behind her and get on with her life.
Which most definitely would not include Will.
"I thought we were, but what about you? I haven't even asked yet," she said. "What did you do to your eye? My father said no one was hurt rescuing me."
"No one was," he said.
"But your eye—"
"This is from my second trip to Buhkai."
"Your second trip?"
She sounded like she had no memory of him trying to explain to her why he couldn't stay with her in the military hospital in Djibouti until her father arrived. She'd cried and begged. He'd nearly cried himself.
But a man could ignore orders for only so long, especially when lives were at stake, so finally, he'd gone.
He'd hoped she'd remember why he had to leave her like that, but she'd been so upset and had a head injury. The nurse who'd been so kind to Amanda had promised to stay with her until her father arrived and to try to explain why Will had to go.
"The nurse didn't tell you?"
Then he remembered the way Amanda had stared at him when she'd shown up on the porch. She'd acted like she was seeing him for the first time. Which hadn't been that odd, on second thought, because in a way he'd felt like he was seeing her for the first time, too.
He'd been as dusty and dirty as it was possible to be in Buhkai, his hair long and shaggy, with a five-day beard at least. And he knew how disconcerting it could be at times to see someone downrange, taking fire, and then run into them back in the real world, looking and acting so different.
But maybe that wasn't it.
Maybe this was something else.
He cocked his head and stared at her again. "You don't remember what happened, do you?"
Which would mean she didn't remember him.
Why did that feel so bad?
She was better off not remembering. He was happy for her that she didn't.
He just hated it for completely selfish reasons.
For himself.
He wanted her to remember him.
* * *
Amanda knew he'd caught her now. No little fibs would get her out of this, and she didn't want to lie to him anyway. She just wanted him to talk to her.
"Not much," she finally admitted. "Flashes here and there. I'm not even sure how much of it's real."
She could feel him drawing away, and she was sorry the first thing she'd done was mislead him.
And then she thought a little more about what he'd said.
"You got out of Buhkai and then went back in again?" What kind of man did that?
"Yeah, I did." He took his time, still staring at her like he could see right through her and wondered how much of her own story she could handle.
"Please don't do that,"
she said.
"Do what?"
"Stand there trying to decide what to tell me and what to keep from me. Please?"
"I have to be careful, Amanda. A lot of what I do is classified."
"Of course. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I just... Everybody seems to think they know what's best for me, what I can handle hearing, like it's not something I can decide for myself."
"I get that. Sorry."
"If you went back into Buhkai after getting me out, you must have helped evacuate the embassy. That much has been all over the news, that U.S. Special Forces helped evacuate the embassy."
"Yes, I did."
She thought about the chaotic scenes she'd watched on TV, how scared she'd been just seeing and hearing about it from so far away. He'd been in the middle of it to get her out of there, and then, knowing how crazy it was in that country, he'd gone back to get more Americans out.
That was a kind of courage she couldn't imagine having. She was in awe of him.
"I think you must be the bravest man I've ever met." She couldn't keep that inside.
"No, I'm not," he insisted easily.
How could he not see that? He was a hero. She stared at him until he turned his face away from her, so that she couldn't see his good eye, just the one covered by the black patch. Looking around the edges of it, she didn't see any kind of scar or other injury.
"So, what did you do to your eye?"
"Detached retina, some odd thing that messes up your vision for a while. I don't even know how I did it. It didn't even hurt."
"Then how do you know you didn't do it rescuing me?"
"Because I could see just fine when I headed back into the country for the second time."
"Oh." That made sense. And she was so glad he hadn't been hurt saving her. "But you're going to be all right?"
"I'm sure I will be. In time."
"Which is... what you're doing here?" she guessed, because it didn't look like he was going to volunteer a lot of information. "Waiting for your eye to heal?"
He nodded.
"At a battered women's shelter?"
"I know. Really not my thing. But the director lives on-site, in a small apartment above the garage, and she can't climb stairs right now. Her room was empty, and she's still a little rattled by the break-in and being attacked. I was on medical leave for the eye. Sam helped renovate this place for the shelter, is on the board of directors. He asked me to fill in, thought everybody here would feel safer with someone like me here. Plus I promised to do what I could to improve the security system. So here I am, a temporary paper-pusher/glorified bodyguard/security consultant."
