Anything, Anywhere, Anytime (10 page)

"Sheba—'' a rusty laugh scratched free and tickled her senses "—if you saw my paycheck, you'd know I'm not in this line of work for the money. None of us are."

Full fear bloomed. She'd been so certain of her plan. Her mind scrambled for a recovery, options, prepared answers to shield her connection to Ammar at all costs. "Please. If we keep this between the two of us, then if I am returned to my hell, at least I will be allowed to live."

His hand gentled on her elbow and his beautiful blue eyes filled with compassion. Relief rippled through her like the oasis near her childhood home. She had not been wrong. Others might be misled by the rugged exterior that housed this man's soul, but she saw his understanding of her pain, her fears, even if he did not fully know their root.

His shoulders braced, spread the uniform tight across a chest so broad surely no one could topple him.

"There may be a host of reasons why we put on this uniform, but I can tell you it doesn't stand for lies or dishonor. You will be safe. You will be protected. And if it is truly your wish, you will receive asylum."

If
it was truly her wish?

The oasis within her dried right up to reveal the cracked reality of her precarious position. She had been so preoccupied with the honesty in his eyes, she'd forgotten that wisdom could be a double-edged sword.

She searched for a suitable response, all the while wondering why she had not taken the easier route in opting for one of those naive young soldiers. Fast-approaching footsteps provided the perfect diversion, one she grasped with greedy hands, turning toward the noise.

Fate swiped her like a lion's paw.

From around the corner her sister appeared, nearing, a man in a flight suit at her side, the scowling male without a hint of softness in his eyes she had quickly sidestepped back in the dining hall. Fate was a fickle creature to bring Monica here now.

But then, fate had not been kind to her lately.

Monica, the oh-so-perfect one who would never have to resort to eyelash-batting or goat-roasting to maintain her safety, strode toward her with unflappable confidence. Unable to stop herself, Yasmine stepped back, hating the minute show of weakness. Yet she stepped again, flush against her blue-eyed soldier's rock-solid chest.

And she had thought his
hands
felt good.

Part of her wanted to leap forward before the heat of him scorched her further. Another part couldn't resist the temptation to burrow closer against his solid strength...

Oh, my.

And against his unmistakably steely arousal.

Jack sprawled in the unrelenting steel of the office chair and watched the interrogation under way. While Yasmine Halibiz, alias Bahijah Faris, might be the focus of the interview, he had a few questions himself for Monica later. But they would have to wait until his anger quieted to a dull roar.

He tried to wrap his brain around the facts. The diminutive Middle Eastern babe being interrogated by the counterintelligence contingent was Monica's sister. Half sister, anyway. The resemblance was there when he looked closer, same nose, same stubborn chin, the whole package a smaller, softer version of Monica's strong features.

And she hadn't bothered to tell him. Anger exploded in pockets of secondary blasts within him. He didn't get deep-down angry often. He was now. At himself as well as Monica because he couldn't escape the knowledge that he hadn't told her about Tina, either.

Monica was right. They really were screwed up in the relationship department.

It wasn't like they'd been so busy having sex 24/7 that they never talked. Apparently they just hadn't discussed anything important. Now he was getting critical background information about his "wife" from a cold interrogation by the OSI.

The sparse office with a dirty window bounced echoes of voices and rustling papers, too many people packed in the contained space. Yasmine Halibiz sat on one side of the table, her sister beside her but not in any comforting-family-member sort of way. The two women never looked at each other, hadn't even touched beyond the stiff-as-hell hello in the hall. Nothing like effusive reunions in the Korba clan that left a person with aching ribs from all the hugs.

Colonel Cullen didn't appear much happier, glaring, silent, leaning against the wall with arms folded over his chest, hand clutching his LMR—Land Mobile Radio. His top lip curled as if someone had overturned the latrine.

They all listened while two men conducted the interview. Special Argent Maxwell Keagan, a civilian employee in the Air Force Office of Special Investigation, peppered her with questions. Captain Daniel

"Crusty" Baker, head of the advance element setup team, passed paperwork to Keagan one sheat at a time in a subtle message to the woman to keep her story clean.

No one would guess from Crusty's apparent calm and carelessly rumpled flight suit that he had as much at stake here as the rest of them since his father—the Ambassador to Rubistan—had recently been assassinated. And to think months ago Jack had gone to Crusty for those connections to help Sydney find her way here.

A powder keg of guilt rested beneath his anger.

"Why use the fake name?" Keagan asked with deceptive disinterest. His unconventional air could be mistaken for slackness—casual khakis, a purple polo, spiked hair.

Would Yasmine Halibiz look deeper and find the honed agent with a CIA background prior to signing on with the Air Force's OSI?

"If I had applied here with my real name—" her eyes didn't shift away, but she blinked fast, too fast "—

members of my family would have objected to my leaving. So I used Bahijah Faris's name, with her permission. Her family needs the money I offered. They are a large family and her sister has a baby on the way."

The questions droned on while Jack studied the two men quizzing Yasmine. He'd always been able to tackle anything he set his mind to until Monica. What secret were guys like Baker and Keagan holding back from the rest of the bachelor population?

Baker was cross-eyed ecstatic with his wife, while Keagan was downright sappy since he got an engagement ring on copilot Darcy Renshaw's finger. For that matter, how did Keagan make the career thing work with his fiancee in their mutual Air Force workplace?

He'd definitely have to buy the guy a beer and pump him for information.

Keagan slid another form from the folder. "If you wanted to defect, why didn't you do so on any of the trips you made to the States with your mother?"

That "mother" word sent Monica's spine straighter than an at attention airman. As pissed as he was, he couldn't turn away from her when she was vulnerable—a rare event.

Behind her and away from prying eyes, Jack gripped the back of her chair, stroked a slow reassurance with one knuckle between her shoulder blades. She bristled under his touch, shot him a warning glare, but nothing more. If she spoke, the others would know. She had to accept his comfort.

"Because I did not want to leave my mother here alone," Yasmine continued. "Because I was a child then.

Because life became... difficult for me after she died. Any number of reasons, none of which matter now. I am requesting asylum, and as the daughter of a former citizen of the United States, it is my understanding this request should be fairly simple to accommodate."

Max Keagan thumbed through a folder without looking up. "Why not just call one of your sisters?"

"I haven't been free to move since my mother and father died."

Monica's pain radiated from her until his finger burned. He didn't know what the hell was up with this Middle-Eastern mini-Monica in front of him, but if she hurt his wife, she'd be serving up that goat stew in prison.

Monica's brain echoed with Yasmine's words in this endless interview. Former citizen. Their mother. No longer alive.

Even a year after her mother's death, the loss stabbed. As long as her mother lived, there was hope of...what? Reconciliation? Some kind of inner peace over something she couldn't find her way through to forgiving?

She tried to remind herself this poised young woman wasn't the same spoiled brat who traveled to the States once a year during their mother's annual two-week treks to see her other daughters. Somehow those trips hurt worse than if they'd never seen her again. During the first year after their mother's defection, she'd woven tortured tales of how their mother couldn't return home. Wasn't allowed. A bedtime story that conversely frightened and sustained them...

Until their mother came to visit. And left again.

The next year, bringing a new baby girl with her. Again leaving of her own free will.

As a confused teenager, it had been easy to hate the spoiled brat their mother chose to keep with her. As an adult, Monica found her feelings for Yasmine more complex. But even with the tempering of years, they'd never been what anyone would deem as "close."

Yasmine pinned her with an accusatory glare. "Even if I had been allowed to call, I have no reason to trust that Monica would be willing to help me."

Monica let herself soak up Jack's soothing touch for two exhales before forging ahead. "Well, ouch, Yas, that stings worse than when you tried to rip out one of my earrings."

"I was four at the time. As I recall, Sydney had hold of the other earring."

Monica gasped. How could Yasmine be so cruel as to mention Sydney offhandedly?

Or did she not know about the kidnapping? Information didn't flow freely here.

Keagan snapped the file closed. "All a moot point now, anyway. We can't release her back into the community in case her request is valid."

And couldn't risk her sharing anything she may have seen or heard.

Yasmine's haughty jaw dropped open. "Everything is all right? I will be leaving for the United States?"

Keagan turned to the commanding officer. "Colonel?"

Placing his LMR on the corner of the desk, stone-faced Colonel Cullen blinked slowly, assessing. "There are State Department channels we need to process through. Beyond that, we don't have a disposable number of pilots on hand to ferry people back and forth. She'll have to wait until we've completed our mission here, and she'll be under house arrest until we go."

Yasmine's brown eyes flashed with fear, fast then gone. "Which means what exactly?''

"You're free to walk around the compound, but you may not leave."

"And I will be watched?"

Silence spoke louder than any affirmation.

"Thank you." Her chin dipped in a regal-princess nod at odds with her dowdy dress and faded red scarf.

"Where will I sleep?''

Colonel Cullen's eyes snapped up, then away. "You can bunk with your sister."

"No!" Monica and Yasmine answered simultaneously.

Monica flushed. Silence returned, broken only by the voices building outside the foggy window beside the Colonel.

Jack palmed Monica's back. "Personally, I prefer my flight surgeon not be dead on her feet when she treats me, which is why Doc Hyatt got private quarters in the first place, unlike the rest of the crew dogs bunking double. A roommate would be disruptive enough even without the guard. Don't we have another room, even a closet available?"

Thank you, Jack .

Keagan dropped the file on the desk. "We can't put her in the luggage return hangar with all the Colonel's soldiers."

Crusty leafed through papers on a clipboard. "There's a storage closet we were using for extra bedrolls.

We could stack those in the hall instead and set up a cot for her."

Relief sighed from Yasmine so loudly Monica wanted to laugh. Needed to laugh. Except life just wasn't that damned funny lately.

Yasmine rose, slowly, with an imperialistic poise that would have no doubt propelled her beyond a first-runner-up slot at the Miss Texas competition. "I should return to the kitchen."

A truck backfired outside. Once again?

Oh, God, a shot. Not a truck.

"Down! Shooter," someone shouted, inside or outside.

Pop.
The window shattered, sending glass and military personnel flying. Another bullet whistled past.

No time to think. Training assumed control. Monica launched toward her sister. Saw the Colonel tackle her first.

Monica hit the ground. Hard. Jack? Where was Jack?

His arm hooked around her waist. "Quit worrying about your sister. She's fine."

He jerked Monica as he rolled. Toward the wall. Under the table and out of the line of fire.

Her heart thudded against his. Another shot took out the jagged edge of pane. Glass spewed inside. Shards tinkled along with shouts and gunfire.

Then nothing. Just barked orders but no more shots.

Still pinning Yasmine, Colonel Cullen reached for his radio on the desk corner. Already the LMR squawked reassurance—only a hungry local trying to steal a box of rations.

Monica sagged against Jack. Adrenaline gushed from her pores in the aftermath. The irony of it struck her like a stray bullet.

They were nowhere near the terrorist compound. It was just a regular sunny day in Rubistan...interspersed with the occasional gunfire. And to think her mother left Red Branch, Texas, for
this.

Jack eased his weight off her, his arm sliding until his hand rested just below her breasts in the tangle, his leg moving in what turned into a firm, hot nudge between her legs that left her hotter. He stopped. His eyes widened with realization. Accidental positioning, sure. But no less potent.

She couldn't move, couldn't find air or space or anything but his face filling her vision. And the hell of it was, she found the hold of his stare just as captivating as the warm corded thigh between her legs.

Ten minutes ago she would have sworn she couldn't remember the sound of her mother's voice. But right now, Mama whispered through her head sure as a surprise honeysuckle spring breeze in the middle of the desert.

Sugar, this is exactly why I left Red Branch, Texas.

Two hours and one disarmed local rioter later, Jack flattened a hand against the closed door outside Monica's quarters. He should go to bed. He would go to bed.