Anything, Anywhere, Anytime (Wingmen Warriors #6)

Anything, Anywhere, Anytime (Wingmen Warriors #6) Page 12

Like now.

She waited across the tarmac under a palm tree beside the empty hangar where he'd received his inoculations. Her military escort shuffled impatiently a few yards away, eyeing her, eyeing the planes. But she kept her distance from the flight line as ordered.

She wore her customary black dress, today with a yellow scarf. The tail over her shoulder fluttered like a kite in the wind.

Damned if he hadn't been anticipating finding out what ridiculous scarf she would choose from the minute he announced a chow break. And double damned if her haughty little ways and dry sense of humor weren't starting to wear him down like sand in his boots on a hundred-mile trek when there was nothing he could do.

Apparently he needed to listen to his own lecture about conflict of interest since this woman was also a sister to one of those hostages.

He marched past her.

"Colonel Cullen?"

"Good morning, ma'am." He nodded and kept right on marching.

"Colonel Cullen." She fell into step behind him, her sandals whispering faster along the asphalt while her words carried on the dry wind. "If I could just have a moment of your time. There is something we really need to discuss."

"You'll have to check with my sergeant about my schedule."

"I have noticed you are reluctant to speak with me," she said louder as the space increased between his long strides and her shorter ones. "Could it be because you are attracted to me?''

Drew stopped. Pulled an about-face. Choked on a cough and wondered if the sun was baking his brain. "Good God, woman, would you keep it down?"

Ignoring her wasn't working. But no way did he intend to have this conversation out in the open when God only knew what she might say next. He searched, found, allocated an empty hangar for a more secluded locale to stop this train wreck in the making. He gave her guard a high sign, relinquishing him from duty for a few moments.

Drew gripped Yasmine's arm and jerked her into the dim sanctuary of the abandoned hangar. "Why in the hell would you think I'm—" he longed for a LifeSaver "—attracted to you?"

She stared at him. Just stared through an extended silence broken only by a bird flapping around the webbing of metal beams overhead. In her eyes he could read the memory of him flattening her to the floor during the shooting. Before that, of her backing into him and smack-dab on the erection he'd been fighting to will away.

Damn it all, even the memory of her tight little bottom nestled against him had him throbbing back into a world of want. He'd never been more grateful for his DCUs that kept him well covered. "I thought women over here were sheltered."

"We are. That doesn't mean we are ignorant. And of course I had an American mother who wanted to be certain her daughter made—what do you call them?—informed decisions."

She hesitated, tipping her head to the side. How the hell anyone could look regal in a yellow scarf with goddamned daisies on it boggled his mind. "Well, there's no decision to be made here. You need to stop following me."

"I understand that this physical reaction of yours makes you uncomfortable around me. Of course women are lucky that when they experience such a physical reaction it is not as obvious."

Physical reaction? She couldn't be flat-out referring to his...

Shit. She was. He did not intend to stand here and discuss hard-ons with this woman. "I have work to do."

Like beating his head against a wall until he passed out and woke up to find this conversation never happened. He executed a sharp military pivot and started back toward the light.

"It is okay, you know." Her voice dogged him. "There is no need to worry I expect anything long-term from you. I understand that men can not control when it happens for them."

What the hell did she know about men with no self-control? The light faded until he saw red. Thoughts blasted into his head, harsh images brought on by too many years of seeing the worst so-called humans could inflict on the helpless.

Hand on his military-issue side arm holstered on his hip, he charged back to her. His other hand thumped the side of the metal hangar beside her as if already erecting a wall between her and any threat. "Has someone hurt you?"

"Hurt me?"

Anger blew away his frustration, gelling into a cold-core call to protect. "Assaulted you? Sexually."

Her eyes widened with her gasp. "No! No."

Tension unwound inside him. His arm fell back to his side.

"But thank you for your concern for my well-being."

Her smile kinked that tension right back to an overwound spring.

"I'd be concerned about anyone. It's all a part of my job description to protect." He barked the words gruffer than he intended, but for the best.

She winced. "I realize that."

He'd hurt her feelings, and he ignored remorse. Now maybe she would back off. He could have some peace of mind and overlook the fact that he'd started searching for her every time he stepped away from his room.

Or a meeting.

Or another bowl of goat slop.

She relaxed against a metal beam. "I think you must have been very young when you had your daughter. How old is she again?"

"Twenty-one."

She smiled. "So I am older."

"By only two years. Now this conversation is over." Why didn't he tell her he was a grandfather?

"Men in my country have many wives."

The W-word.

A curse in his vocabulary he'd given up long before becoming a grandfather and a conversation he knew damned well to avoid. "So I hear around the water cooler."

"My mother was my father's fourth wife. Some say being the first wife is the most honored and important position. My mother always said being the last was best because it meant my father wanted no one else after having her."

He refrained from making a comment about monogamous marriages since that would lead him deeper into a discussion he wanted finished. "Well, rest assured, I can control myself, and having had one wife, I now have absolutely no intentions of taking another."

Yasmine studied him silently. Wind tugged at her silly scarf, revealing a hint of silken black hair. And just that fast, the attraction blindsided him again.

She tightened her scarf against the tearing gusts. "You loved her that much?"

Hell, no. But he knew an out when he saw one, so he kept his yap zipped and let her think what she wanted. Damned persistent woman would, anyway.

"How tragic for you." A frown ribbed her brow. Then she smiled. Man, did the woman ever know how to smile, creasing dimples in her smooth skin. "But also fortuitous for our situation. There are no worries now since I never want to marry, either. Once I am in the United States, I will be my own woman. No relatives to claim me and what is mine as their own."

Her mouth snapped shut abruptly. What was she talking about? He needed to listen but he couldn't stop looking at her smile lighting her brown eyes. It had been a long time since he'd seen anyone smile without reservation.

Her energy was contagious.

"Which brings me to why we are having this conversation."

"Well, thank you, Lord, at least the woman has a reason for tormenting the hell out of me."

"I torment you?" Her dimples deepened with an old-as-time Eve feminine confidence.

Contagious like a rash. "I don't have time to play tour guide for you."

There. That sounded logical.

Yasmine-Eve just kept smiling her sage womanly smile. "These feelings you have for me are not a problem since I am not after a green card. I don't need a tour guide, either, only your protection until I leave here."

Great. He had the hots for her and she didn't give a damn about more than the M-16 over his shoulder. "This is supposed to reassure me how, Sheba?"

Eve evaporated into something more like a miffed kid with a rejected gift. "I thought you might be concerned that I would take advantage of your...reaction to my closeness."

Back to that reaction issue again. Damn. And just when he thought his fly buttons might get a reprieve from being strained to the limit around this woman.

Girl, he reminded himself. She was just a girl. Nineteen damned years younger than him and a refugee under his command. Must be some midlife crisis when he no-shit thought he wasn't upset about the grandparent thing. Other than regretting he'd never felt like a parent first.

Some men combated middle age with a sports car. Others, with women. Damn but he hated being so cliche as to lust after a nymphet, and would have sworn he wasn't the type.

He wasn't a monk, but he chose his lovers selectively. Mature women his age, women focused on their careers and in search of companionship with mutual physical release tossed into the mix.

Yasmine's hands fluttered up to her scarf again, resecuring the drape over her shoulder with butterfly grace. Still he could see the tip of her widow's peak, just a hint. More than enough since he was long past the adolescent days of ogling overt displays.

Age taught a man to appreciate the understated nuances of pleasure. The sensuality in the glide of a woman's hands as she touched silk. The beauty in the subtle suggestion of her hair begging to be revealed.

Good God, he was in a shitload of trouble here.

No, it wasn't a simple midlife crisis. More like temporary insanity and he intended to recapture his grip on reality. Starting now.

He leaned down, nose to nose, and stared straight into her eyes while ignoring the silken hint of hair inches above. "Little girl, do you not realize I am a colonel in the United States Army? I have served combat in more conflicts than you have years. I have stared down the barrel of enemy rifles and pulled my own to shoot before being shot. I am the man in charge of your fate and yet you keep right on with this campaign of yours that you have to know is guaranteed to... Piss. Me. Off."

Yasmine stared back, unflinching as he unleashed tones that made even hardened warriors wet their pants. Damn, but he could use her cool under fire in his regiment.

She blinked slowly, a glimpse of Eve returning with wisdom beyond the young woman's years. "So why have you never called for one of those military police persons to take me back to my quarters?"

Huh?

He stood with his boots planted and his brain on stun. He wondered for a second if his M-16 had slid from his shoulder and shot him in the foot. Because sure as hell, pop, he was busted. And busted meant dead in his world.

This woman was dangerous for more reasons than he ever could have guessed.

She backed away toward the gaping hangar opening, taking all the air with her. "No need to call for them now. I will leave."

With a sweep of her arms, she twirled toward the tarmac with more of that subtle grace he didn't want to appreciate but now couldn't deny. She stepped out of the dim enclosure. Sunlight glinted on retreating daisies, declaring him almost in the homestretch.

Then Yasmine paused, glanced over her shoulder, a glimpse of vulnerability teasing through her poise. "Although I have to confess I am pleased you can not quite subdue your reaction to me. It would be a very sad thing for me to think only one of us was suffering from this attraction."

Waiting for Jack before his flight, Monica felt as transparent as a teenager loitering by the quarterback's locker.

Or worse yet, like her mother. Ruled by hormones and lacking in common sense when it came to men.

The life-support area bustled with activity from Rodeo and Tag picking up equipment before flight. A small back office that opened onto the flight line, the room was now jam-packed full of helmets and gear for the fliers.

Guilt stung Monica yet again. She should be focused on Sydney. Yet what was wrong with needing to see Jack before he took off to drop the SEALs? She just wanted an update without others listening in. For all his insistence that he intended to stay close to her, time alone together had sure been scarce since she'd thrown herself at him a day and a half ago.

Monica fingered the survival vests hanging from hooks alongside shelves of helmets. Rodeo smiled, nodded, but didn't initiate conversation as he and seasoned loadmaster Tag preflighted their helmets and NVGs. Thank God. She wasn't up to crew dog ribbing tonight.

Of course their silent acceptance of her presence said a lot for her and Jack's inability to keep things low-key. Yes, she wanted him, but there had to be more to a relationship than attraction. She knew that. Apparently, Jack knew it now, too, since he seemed to be keeping his distance. She should be relieved. Instead, frustration kicked through her.

The door swung open seconds before Jack entered from the corridor. The room seemed to fill with broad shoulders stretching a tan flight suit to the limit beneath the body armor they'd all begun wearing since the shooting.

Her hormones went on full alert as they always did around this man. At least her armored vest provided better coverage to her reaction than those pageant Band-Aids used to mask her reaction to the cold. Except now her reaction had more to do with something hot. Very hot. Her br**sts definitely weighed heavy and needy and in need of closer contact with Jack right this moment.

His eyes found her. Held. He angled his dark head toward Rodeo and Tag without looking away. "Go on ahead without me, guys. I'll catch up in a minute."

The copilot and loadmaster pushed through the second door outside to the waiting truck, leaving her alone with Jack and an airman deep in paperwork at the desk.

Jack moved toward her with a loose-hipped strut, the black M-9 pistol in his web belt bringing gunslinger images to a Texas girl's mind. The weapon also engendered insidious reminders of danger when even noncombatant medical personnel like herself needed to be armed—at Jack's insistence.

He stopped in front of her, crowding her space just by being him. "You should be in bed."

She wasn't so far gone with her feelings that she couldn't scavenge a face-saving excuse for waiting for him. A valid one at that. "I wanted to make sure everything's okay. I heard you moved up the flight."

"Because of bad weather. Heavy winds expected later tonight. Only a couple hours change." He checked out his helmet and survival vest from the airman behind the desk.

"I thought there might be signs of moving the hostages."

"Nope," he answered without even sparing her a glance. He shrugged into the webbed survival vest. He unhooked his pistol belt and transferred his M-9 to the side holster in the vest, before shifting his attention to preflighting his helmet. His hands skimmed the oxygen hose, searching for breaks or cracks, then checked for frays along the communications cord wrapped neatly around the hose.

"Jack''" she prompted, unsure whether to be worried or pissed.