ROMANCE: BIKER ROMANCE: Valentine Biker (MC Alpha Male Pregnancy Romance) (New Adult Valentine Romance Short Stories) (120 page)

Harper had grown to love the regimented routine of his life as a SEAL. He couldn’t imagine doing anything else, though his body was starting to make him think the time was drawing near.

Even now, he faced to prospect of his aging body as he pushed himself through his workout. It was harder than it used to be – and atop that, he had two of his team, Recoil and Scimitar, in his ear, giving him a blow by blow of their latest expedition to clear roads for a US convoy.

“You should have seen the fire we were under, Commander.” As the newest member of the team, Zane “Scimitar” Marx, found everything ridiculously exciting. Harper let him ramble, knowing that eventually the glamour would wear off and he would settle down.  For now, however, he had to suffer through the younger man’s “war” stories. “It was insane, sir!  At least ten guys on top of us, and one of them has a fucking rocket launcher aimed right at us.”

Harper repressed a groan as he heaved his body up and over the bar in his thirtieth pull up.  He heard Recoil chime in. “There weren’t ten.  More like seven. But they definitely had a fucking rocket launcher.”

“Probably hoping to shut both your mouths with it,” Harper said with a smile.  Forty… forty one…

Harper dropped to the floor as his shoulders and forearms burned from the pull-ups.  He put a shaky finger to the Bluetooth phone in his ear and said, “OK, boys, enough.  Glad you’re safe.  Get your asses back here.”

He grabbed a towel to wipe rivulets of sweat from his bare chest she headed for the showers.  He stopped in his tracks when he heard a female voice call from behind.

“Commander John Harper?”

“Yes…” he turned and felt his heart skip a beat.  Thankfully, it wasn’t from the workout.

CHAPTER THREE

Crystal Banks swallowed hard at the sight that greeted her. When she’d been directed to the base gymnasium in search of Commander John Harper, she’d expected to find an aging war horse doing easy laps in the pool or shooting short hoops with insubordinates.

The Marines who told her where to find Harper seemed amused that she was there to ask him of all people to escort her on a photo opp mission for some magazine.  Harper had a reputation as a hard ass who did not grant personal favors, not even to knockouts who looked like her.  She’d be better off paying a local guide.

Crystal thanked them for the advice and continued her search for him.  She was determined to have Harper escort her into Bagdad’s most dangerous neighborhoods.  She had heard that he could get in and out of places others could not. She wanted to get her shots of refugees and wounded, and she wanted the very best to take her into hostile territory.

Now, Crystal knew she’d made the right decision.  If anyone could take her where she wanted to go, it was the man standing before her now.  He looked like he had been chiseled from stone, but the look on his face told her he would not be easily persuaded.

Harper wore only a pair of loose fitting cargo pants that rode low on slim hips, and his military boots. He was deliciously bare from the waist up, and the sight of so much finely crafted, mouth-watering definition took her breath away.

There were scars, yes, but one could only expect scars in his line of work. The man was a SEAL after all. In Crystal’s opinion, the long-healed marks were badges of courage.

She had watched him do over forty pull-ups while talking on the phone in his ear.  She had watched the muscles in his shoulders and back bulge with each lift and release.  She found her thoughts drifting to darker places as she waited for him to finish, imagining his toned, tanned arms wrapped around her as she begged him to kiss her until she couldn’t remember her own name.

Harper started toward her.  She felt the air between them compacting.  She could tell without asking that he came from Native American stock.  He had a full mouth and strong nose, with eyes the deep color of flint.  His short hair was dark with a touch of grey at the temples.

All in all, the man was devastatingly attractive – which was particularly bad for her because she’d spent the last three years of her life abroad working, where there were few sexual prospects.

For a moment, he just stared at her, and despite herself, Crystal felt her cheeks heating. She knew how she must look.  She cleared her throat and said his name again.

CHAPTER FOUR

“Commander Harper?”

Harper turned quickly when he heard the female voice quietly call his name.  His mouth fell open when he turned to find a civilian standing there; a young African American woman clad in dessert khakis, Army surplus combat boots, and sleeveless, black t-shirt that showed off her toned arms.  She was tall, maybe five eleven, and had the darkest eyes he’d ever seen.  He always looked into the eyes of the person he was facing, friend or foe.  He believed the eyes truly were the window into a person’s soul.

“I’m Harper,” he said, wrapping the towel around his neck and grabbing the ends with his hands.  “Can I help you, ma’am?”

Crystal mustered a small smile and stepped forward, extending her hand for him to shake. “I’m Crystal Banks, I’m a photographer for World Regional.”

Harper wasn’t nearly as impressed as she thought he would be.  His expression remained blank as he asked, “World what?”

She shook her head as if he’d asked a silly question.  As she told him about her company he watched her with the interest of a dog watching paint dry.  World Regional, or WR as it had come to be known, was an online magazine that built its reputation by publishing explicit images of violent acts against people of the world; particularly images of victims of war in the Middle East. By the time she started there, WR had over one hundred fifty reporters and photographers in places as far flung as Malaysia and Siberia.

Crystal had loved photography all her life, and it was amazing to know that the photos she took made a difference. She was bringing the truth to people, and giving them options to help. Far better than working as a wedding photographer in her backwater hometown, that was for sure.

She said, “I’ve been told you’re the man to see about going into the desert where the refugees are camping.”

He took her hand in his, her grip firm, and Crystal’s knees went weak at the heat that flared. However, the commander was not smiling. On the contrary, his lips turned downward into a frown at her introduction.

“Camping isn’t really the right word for what those people are going though,” he said sternly.  When he released her hand, she exhaled a long breath, her fingers tingling.  “That’s like saying the American Indians were just camping on the reservations.”

Her lips moved, but no words came out.  She had obviously struck some nerve that lay deep inside him.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say they were just camping…”

“I’m not a civilian escort, Ms. Banks.  I suggest you go back into the city and hire a guide.  Better still, get on a plane and take your pictures in a less dangerous place.  You’ll get your ass shot off out there.” 

“Isn’t it up to me where I get my ass shot off, Commander,” she shot back at him.  “And it’s Miss Banks.”

He eyed her, his expression softening a bit.  He liked this woman’s spirit.  He asked, “Why do you want to go into hostile territory in one of the most inhospitable climates in the world?”

Crystal refused to be cowed. She straightened her spine and drew herself up to her full height – still a good half-foot shorter than the man before her. 

She said, “I’m doing a piece on Iraqi refugees and I need pictures to share with the world. It would only be for an afternoon.  I’ve been told that if anyone can keep my ass intact, it’s you.”  She realized how that sounded and started to backtrack, then just let it go.

Harper fought back a smile. Reaching up, he ran a hand through his dark hair and frowned at her.  “Why don’t you hire a guide, like I said?  Why me?”

“I’ve been told you can get me into places a guide couldn’t,” Crystal said, taking a step closer to him.   She didn’t bother to mention that she didn’t have the thousand US dollars the guides in the city wanted. 

“I don’t know,” he said, his resistance level was going down, but his curiosity was going up.  He tugged the towel from around his neck and wiped his face with it.

Crystal inhaled.  She could smell his sweat.  It was damn near intoxicating.  She cleared her throat and tried to focus.  “Look, if I only have one chance, I want to go with someone who can show me the best places to shoot.”

With a sigh, the SEAL shook his head.  “I’m sorry, Miss Banks.  You’ll have to find someone else to escort you.”

She bit her lip and thought about the best way to convince him to do what she wanted.  She thought about moving in closer and seducing him to spend the day with her.  It had worked many times before, but something about the way the man called Apache was looking at her, she knew it would be wasted effort.

She looked into his eyes.  His face was weatherworn, but handsome in an exotic way.  He was probably in his early forties, she figured. That was a good fifteen years older than her, but she had always had a thing for older men. Boys bored her. She was serious about her life and the people in it, and his decisive tone only made her more determined to get him to be her guide.

“Give me one good reason why you won’t do this,” she said, refusing to take no for an answer. Not when she’d come so far. She’d been in the Middle East for six months already, with relatively little to show for it. If she was going to stay here, she needed to start getting shots WR could use. If she didn’t, they’d yank her and send her somewhere boring like London or Paris.

“I don’t have to give you a reason,” he said, blowing out his cheeks as if he were getting tired of the conversation.

She said, “It’s for a good cause.  The world needs to know what’s happening here!”

“People die every day over good causes, Miss Banks,” he said, shaking his head.  “You don’t need to be one of them.”

She bristled at his words as he stepped over to a gym bag on the floor.  He pulled out a two liter bottle of water and took a few long swallows, and despite her irritation, Crystal found herself watching the way his Adam’s apple bobbed hungrily.

“Besides, there may not be anything out there to photograph,” he said, wiping his mouth on this forearm.

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged.  “The desert is brutal this time of year.  Most of the refugees have moved north.  Even the most suicidal terrorists that hide out there have gone seeking air conditioning.”

“That’s absurd,” she said, rolling her eyes, not knowing if it really was true or just a ploy to get rid of her.

He took another swig and gave her a shrug.  “Wait a few weeks. Things will cool down and improve your chances of getting a picture of anything other than sand and camel shit.” 

He didn’t understand. In a few weeks, they could put her on a plane back to civilization or park her behind a desk or most likely, fire her for not being able to get a shot. The thought was enough to make her squirm.

How many years had she held down a desk job, hating every moment of it? Her parents had assured her that the life of an accountant was very satisfying, and so she had followed their advice, crushing her dreams of being a photo journalist.

The torture could only go on for so long before she had enough. Crystal listened to her parents her entire life. They were a well-to-do middle class family, and they always pushed her to excel.  By excel, of course, they meant that she should find a well-paying job and work her way into an early grave.

Crystal knew that life wasn’t for her. Of course, her parents weren’t happy when she quit her job to start a wedding photography business, either. They were even more upset when she left the United States to pursue her dream of being a freelance magazine photographer, but there was little they could do about it now. She was far from their reach, and, by some miracle, making enough money to support herself.

Crystal was living her dream.

At least, she would be if she could convince Commander Harper to take her into the desert.

“I don’t have a few weeks,” she blurted, reaching out to touch his arm before he could move away. “If I don’t send in something soon they will send me somewhere else. Or fire me!”

“And that’s bad?” Harper asked, shaking his head.  “This place is a shit hole.  Wouldn’t you rather be somewhere else?”

“Would you?” she shot back.

“I don’t have the luxury of choice, Miss Banks,” he said.

“Neither do I.”  She could have stamped her foot in frustration. “I have to be here. I want to do a story on Iraqi refugees and make sure to tell their tale the way it needs to be told. How am I supposed to do that if they yank me out before I even get started?”

There was a long beat in which the commander just stared at her. Outside of the gymnasium, the base went through its daily paces. Marines and soldiers did their exercises and officers shouted orders. People came in and out through the front gates almost constantly, and the distant sound of gunfire filtered over from the shooting range.

Harper dropped the water bottle back into the gym back and walked toward her. He didn’t stop until there were scant inches between them, and she could feel the heat of his body. He smelled of sweat, aftershave, and something earthier – something intoxicating and mysterious that made her ache to explore him.

His tone was easier now; the muscles in his jaws less taut.  He said, “You would risk dehydration, sunstroke, and getting shot, just to go into the desert for a single afternoon with only the slight chance of finding anything worth taking a picture of?”

Crystal didn’t even hesitate to answer.  “Yes.”

The word came out breathless, on the edge of a moan.

Harper gave her a long, hard look. It was enough to make most other women wither, but Crystal had been living in a patriarchal society for the past six months. She was used to attempts to intimidate her.  She stood her ground.

He held out his hands and said, “OK.”

Her eyes widened at the word that slipped from the commander’s lips. For a moment, she wasn’t sure that she’d heard him right. “OK?”

“OK,” he repeated.  “Meet me tomorrow morning at oh-seven-hundred at the front gates.”  His eyes gave her a quick once over that made her flush. “And don’t be late.”

He left her standing there with her mouth hanging open and her mind reeling.  As he walked away she noticed the large tattoo of an Indian chief that covered his entire back.  

At the top of the tattoo, spanning the width of his shoulders, was the word “PRIDE”.