Anything, Anywhere, Anytime (34 page)

"—who was spoiled by her mother growing up because her mother somehow seemed to think that she could make it up to her other two children for leaving if she paid all the more attention to this daughter. And this daughter spent all her life being as bratty as possible to test her mother's love because she was certain that if her mother could leave her children once, she might do it again."

"Yasmine—"

"I am spoiled." She let her pride slide a bit and a lifetime of defenses along with it. "And insecure." An even tougher thing to admit. "I do not...trust...easily. But I am also very determined and decisive. And while I may lie to protect myself, I would never, never, knowingly harm another person for my own benefit."

"Enough, okay?" The flashlight cast dark shadows up the tight set of his square jaw. "I told you already that I believe you really want out of the country."

Yasmine hitched up onto her knees to face him. "I also want you. And I wanted you enough to risk my freedom. That a selfish person would do so should tell you something." She fisted her hands on her thighs to keep from touching him. "I have fallen in love with you."

"Stop." He cut the air with his hand. "You're twenty-three years old. It may have been a helluva long time since I saw twenty-three, but I remember it well. People think they're in love all the time and it's fickle bullshit."

"Your first wife taught you this?"

"I taught myself."

"During your first marriage."

The storm wailed the only answer.

Drew stretched his long legs out in front of him, hooked one booted foot over his other ankle. "I'm a grandfather."

Where had that conversational leap come from? And what did he hope to gain? "How wonderful.

Congratulations. A little boy or little girl?"

His head turned along the cement wall toward her. "You don't get it, do you? I'm a goddamned grandfather and you're twenty-three years old. There's just too much time between us."

This worn-out argument again that did not mean a damned thing to her? She stifled the urge to stomp her foot over him being an idiot. Instead she bit back what she really wanted to say to this man who'd just thrown her love in her face. "A baby boy or girl?"

"Shit, Yasmine, are you listening to me?"

"Yes, I am listening." And trying to figure out what was really going on in his thick head before she lost the chance forever. "A grandson or granddaughter?
There. Does that let you know I heard? You are a grandparent
.
Now answer my question, please."

"A granddaughter," he barked right back.

"Named?"

"Damnation—"

"Not a pretty name."

He sighed heavy, belabored, before conceding, "Isabella."

"Oh, that is lovely." And he was talking. Even more lovely. "Isabella's mother? What is her name?''

"My daughter's name is Emily."

She pushed further to what she really wanted to know and did not want to know all at once. "And her mother's name?"

His eyes narrowed. She blinked back innocently to wait him out, an art well worth cultivating around this stubborn man.

"My ex-wife's name is Glenna."

Progress. Yasmine stretched her legs out beside his. "I will likely think of her as 'the bitch.'"

He choked on a cough. "Pardon me?"

"If she has made you this bitter about love, then she must be a bitch."

"Maybe I was a bastard."

"Were you?"

He was so close the heat from his solid body warmed her aching arms, tempted her aching heart.

"I was married to the Army. She said she felt like a second-rate mistress." He pinned her with gray-blue eyes that carried desire and no trust. "I'm still married to the Army."

"Of course you are. That is one of the things I most admire about you, your honor."

The gray of desire in his eyes edged out some of the blue. "For what it's worth, if I was in my twenties again this might be different."

"What if I was forty-two?"

That threw him for a second. "What the hell has that got to do with anything?"

"You seem to think you are ancient. Would you find me less attractive at forty-two?"

"You'll be hot as hell at forty-two and we both know it. Moot point. When you're forty-two, I'll be...sixty-one. Ah, shit, Yasmine. You're not helping your case here."

"Will you find me less attractive when I am sixty-one?"

"This is ridiculous."

"Well, then, can we have an affair?"

"Hell, no!" He shot five inches to the left. Away. The flashlight toppled.

"Why not?" She resisted the urge to crawl toward him. "I, of course, think you will be an oh-so-sexy, sixty-one-year-old in my forty-two-year-old eyes. But since you disagree, I will take what I can today. How is the age difference a problem for a short-term affair if you are not considering us being together when you are sixty-one?"

No answer. The flashlight rolled on its side and as much as she wanted to see Drew's face—his eyes—to gauge his reaction, she did not dare pause.

"Because you are
considering what it would be like for us to be together then. And I am so very glad since it would be a sad thing if all of these feelings I am having were one-sided."

She allowed herself to move closer, to touch him, her hands on the solid deck of his shoulders. He flinched but did not pull away or tell her to go. She explored the roughened texture of his skin along his neck, the rasp of late-day beard against her fingertips. Skimming up, she traced his tight jaw, the scowling line of his brows. "Just so there is no misunderstanding. I fell in love with your eyes. With the man I see inside those eyes. That will never change. Never age."

She leaned, pressed her lips to his. Prayed. Please, please, that he would kiss her back, or touch her. Just a simple fall of his wonderful hands to her waist.

Nothing happened. And she could not even take comfort in the fact that he did not pull away since he had a wall at his back.

She sagged onto her heels. "You can relax. I do have on underwear and I am not going to drop my dress.

In fact, that is the last time I will throw myself at you. If you ever want to kiss me or hear me speak your given name again, Drew Cullen, you will have to come to me."

Dignity intact, her heart in shreds, she backed to the corner, curled her throbbing arms around her knees and began her vigil to feign sleep through the sandstorm. The wind howled. Drew manned his radio. And she fought sleep for fear she would miss him coming to her. Or dream of his strong arms around her and mistake it for reality.

The wind howled on. The radio continued to crackle.

He never came.

"All right, flyboy, you can pull up your pants now," Monica instructed.

Sitting on a litter in his boxers with his flight suit around his ankles, Jack struggled not to wince at the sting.

More to his pride than his thigh, since the numbing shots were still in effect.

He stood. Shit. Not totally numb. His leg hurt like a son of a bitch. He hitched his flight suit back up, zipped.

Gusting winds from the sandstorm battered and rocked the C-17. Engines had been shut down, covers sealed over to keep the sand out. Which left them without major power for lights. Only small, battery-powered lights and chemsticks offered a hazy dim glow that hinted at a privacy negated by the other medical personnel and crew members milling around them.

But at least they knew Sydney was all right, secured safe with Gardner. Although hearing Yasmine had somehow landed in the camp, too, still boggled his mind. He'd been so focused on keeping one of Monica's sister's safe, he hadn't considered the possibility something could happen to the other one. A tactical error on his part.

Damn. What a night.

"You know, Jack—" Monica pitched away bloody gauzes "—it would have been helpful if you'd given me your correct medical status regarding your thigh instead of going for the laugh line about being shot in the ass."

Jack yanked his gaze off the bloody bits of shrapnel glistening in a silver pan. "Just trying to lighten the mood, bring everything down a notch."

"Not funny."

"What are you going to do to me? Feed me crappy goat stew and shoot me in the ass?"

"Hmm, did I remember to give you your tetanus shot?"

"Yes!"

"I'm not so sure. Maybe you need another."

She cleaned up with steady hands. He would have thought her calm except for her tight lips. Pale face.

Contrition tweaked. "Sorry. Guy thing, you know, joke instead of whimpering like a baby."

Worry pulled her chalky skin taut across her high cheekbones. "You need to lay down."

"I'm fine." Definitely a male thing. No way was he going to be a wuss in front of everyone.

"Of course you're fine. But I also know that very shortly you'll be working your not-shot ass off. You should take advantage of this time when there's nothing to do and give your body a break."

Irritation nicked harder than the shrapnel. His body was revved for battle, not napping.

"You'll be more efficient later if you do."

Score one for the doc. "You're good at maneuvering flyer egos."

"Practice." Crossing her arms over her chest, she smiled her victory.

A flight suit never looked so good as it did drawn taut over Monica's full breasts. God, she was hot, leggy with curves and a sensuous mouth. Oh, yeah.

His revved body found another target for all that adrenaline. "How about this? I'll head up to the crew rest compartment and stretch out...if you'll come talk to me."

Yes. Yes. Say yes, damn it, before the top of his head exploded.

"And you're getting good at maneuvering the flight surgeon."

"I'm only interested in convincing you."

He led the way up the narrow stairwell, wincing at each tug to his leg working its way through whatever numbing shot Monica had given him before digging out the bits of metal and stitching him up. And he couldn't afford to take mind-mussing pain pills.

Clearing the last step to the cockpit, he found Crusty sprawled in the aircraft commander's left seat eating a handful of chocolate-chip cookies by the hazy neon glow of a chemstick.

"Take a hike." Jack jerked a thumb toward the stairwell.

Crusty looked from Jack to Monica, back to Jack. "Seat's comfy here and there's nobody around to snitch my food. What's in it for me if I leave?"

Not getting pounded for yank ing my chain?
"I could pull the senior officer gig and order you out, but since I'm a nice guy and a little off my game after being shot in the ass—''

"All right! All right." Crusty rolled to his feet. "No need to play the sympathy card."

"Thanks. And, hey, Crusty, if you keep anyone else from coming up, there's a bag of licorice down in my flight bag that's all yours. I need to talk to Monica."
Talk
being the euphemistic understatement of the century. Oh, yeah.

"Licorice? Consider me a Berlin Wall between you and the rest of the folks down there." Crusty disappeared into the stairwell.

Jack pivoted toward the bunk area. Fire flamed through his thigh. He chewed back a curse before Monica whipped out her doctor credentials and grounded him. All he needed was a few minutes off his feet and something to distract him.

And he knew just the perfect distraction.

Sweeping an arm for Monica to precede him into the small sleeping compartment behind the cockpit, he waited until she sat in one of the two seats across from the bunkbeds built into the bulkhead. He jerked the privacy curtain closed.

Total darkness blanketed the tight quarters. Slowly his eyes adjusted and he made his way to the bottom bunk. For good measure and added isolation, he secured the curtain across the viewing window, as well, before he stretched out on his right side. Flush against the wall. Not much room, but then, he wanted her close. "You know what would make me rest better?"

"Not a chance, Korba." Her chastisement sparked through the inky darkness. "No way are you and I going to get busy. Your doctor says no because of your leg. And your wife says no because of all those people downstairs. I thought you wanted to talk."

"You overestimate me if you think I can do it after flying combat, crash-landing with shrapnel in me, followed by getting stitched. My leg hurts. I'm tired. I want to hold my wife."

He could almost hear her melt. For a tough lady she always did like those sappy-soft words when spoken at just the right moment. He'd have to dig deep for a few more.

Rustling sounded seconds before her aloe scent washed over him, his senses heightened by the absence of sight. Would it be the same for her?

All her senses, touch most of all.

She dropped to the edge of the bunk. "There isn't enough room."

"Sure there is. Lay on your side." He reached, found her back and guided her down.

He heard her surrender, sigh as she sagged against him. She was right. There wasn't really enough room. If either of them so much as sneezed, their tangled bodies would flip off and onto the floor. But he couldn't bring himself to let her go now that he had her in his arms.

The whole damned night clobbered over him. How near death had come to truly biting him on the ass. How close he'd come to leaving this woman a widow. To never holding her again.

Wind howled outside, not too far off from the howling adrenaline rush in his veins. He understood all about combat aftermath and the body's instinctive reaction. Understanding didn't stop the feelings. Through the ache in his thigh, arousal stirred to life after all.

And no way would Monica be able to miss it as close as they were flattened together.

"Jack," she warned.

"Shh." He shushed into her hair. "I'm not going to risk having those clowns downstairs find either of us with a flight suit around the ankles. I respect you too much for that."

Truth. Which earned him more of that Monica-melting. If only he had more words, but with testosterone and adrenaline searing paths through his brain, rational thought got tough.

Monica's face shifted against him. Her lips skimmed his ear. "Kissing's okay, though. Right? Your doctor says that wouldn't hurt you. And as your wife, I know everyone downstairs already saw us kiss earlier before takeoff."