Anything, Anywhere, Anytime (24 page)

"Not a chance. Just trying to satisfy my burning curiosity." He rocked his hips against her, something else entirely burning hot. "Yodeling? Because if fifteen minutes ago was anything to judge by, you yodel mighty damned good."

Smack .

"Please say you worked world peace in there somewhere."

Her cat eyes narrowed. "That was number two on my platform, right behind having all fliers neutered."

"Ouch! That one hurt worse than a spanking."

"Serves you right." She settled against him again, steaming water streaking over their wellwashed bodies.

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yeah, Mon, I want to know everything about you." Uh-oh. Seriousness slid in like a bogey from his six o'clock.

She hooked a finger in his dog tags, tugged him down, closer, until they stood nearly nose to nose. "I gave a demonstration on how to organize cabinets."

"Really?"

"No, you idiot." She released his dog tags to clank against his chest.

He traced the path of her dog tag chain down the side of one breast, up the side of the other. "But I'm an entertaining idiot."

"That you are." She kissed the base of his neck, sipped away a taste of the water with a flick of her tongue.

"I needed money for med school. I've always wanted to be a doctor. Always. The military part came later and I'll thank God for the rest of my life for the fact that I ended up in an ROTC recruiting office all because I tripped on the hem of my dress during the evening gown competition. First runner-up only gets enough scholarship money for books along with a one year's supply of beef jerky."

No self-pity for this lady, she always met life head-on, made her own way. A veritable mountain of will.

The damned persistent bogey slid in with a memory of the strain stamping her face back at the luggage hangar. He kissed the side of her brow. "Sorry Yasmine spilled it all out there."

"It's done. And there certainly are worse call signs than Tiara."

"Amen to that. Just ask poor ole Booger."

Her light laugh caressed his neck. His arms looped around her waist, hers around his. If only things could stay this warm and simple, he'd be a happy man.

"I'm sorry about your wife."

Well, hell. So much for wishes. He wasn't going to get away with light and easy any longer, not that Monica had ever let him take the easy way out. His hopes for an uncomplicated relationship like with Tina were as gone as she was.

"Me, too." His chin fell to rest on Monica's damp head and he let the water beat some sense into him. "And for what it's worth now, I'm sorry for not telling you sooner. I could make excuses, but when I line them up now, they all sound lame-ass and I owe you better than that."

"Where do we go from here?''

At the moment he was so damned glad to have her back in his arms again, he didn't want to worry about the rest. Of course, that hadn't worked with Monica in the past. "I still don't understand why the hell we have to make permanent decisions now, but I get that you need a clear plan."

"Progress." She smiled against his chest.

He crooked a finger under her chin to tip her face up to him. "But I'm not going to let you lead me around by the nose for four years like you did with that wimpy-ass Hunter while you make up your mind if you like the plan or not."

Shit. Where had that come from? Probably the same damned place as the jealousy chewing his hide.

"By the nose?" She stilled against him. "Are you trying to make me remember why I want to sign those papers or does being a bastard just come naturally to you sometimes?"

"Naturally. No doubt. And that's something else we'll have to deal with, isn't it?"

He'd had a belly full of deep-water talk for one night. Turning, he shut off the shower.

He swiped aside the plastic curtain, reached to snag two towels, passed one to Monica. Sawing the towel across his back, he forced himself not to look at her, not until he figured out where the hell his jealousy had come from.

"You know that's unfair." Her voice drifted over his shoulder.

"What?" he shot back while retrieving his clothes.

"About Hunter. Every time I postponed the wedding plans I had a TDY. You know we can't always get out of those."

Great. So she really did have a thing for the guy? He yanked on his boxers. "Whatever you want to tell yourself. How many times was it you canceled wedding plans with him? Four or five?"

Her footsteps stalled. "What was her name?"

He should have remembered she didn't fight fair.

"Tina," he answered, yanking his T-shirt over his head. "She was twenty years old, liked sci-fi movies and mushrooms on her pizza, and had just declared her major in electrical engineering before she gave birth to a stillborn son who she never even got to look at."

Monica wrapped the towel around herself, her wet hair clinging to her neck in clumps. "And you loved her.

Your son, too."

Apparently, jealousy ran a two-way street, and yet the thought didn't make him feel one damned bit better.

"Yes."

This time her arms didn't go around him, no talk of who was hurting, just the two of them standing near-naked with barer souls.

"How is it that by getting closer, I feel like we're further apart?"

Couldn't they even enjoy one damned night of afterglow? "I guess that means you're not going to invite me to sleep over for another round of Mistress Monica."

"There's the Jack I know, using laughs to avoid any tough talk." She unearthed an overlong jersey from her bag and jerked it over her head, towel falling to her feet.

Of course she picked it up and made tracks to hang the damned thing on the rack. God forbid she should just let it lie there growing musty while she talked to him.

"Well, Mon, the way I see it, things don't always have to be so goddamned complicated."

She didn't answer him. But she didn't snap back, either, a positive sign he needed to capitalize on before things exploded.

"Time out," he said. "Let's stop before either one of us says too much. Okay, before I say too much and you haul ass the other way. How about I throw some of those blankets on the floor and we sleep the day away until it's time for my night shift in the command center."

Still she stood at the towel rack with her back to him, and he was feeling every bit as predictable as her.

Instead of calming her, he had them both off center and heading for a crash if he didn't maneuver a recovery soon.

"Damn it, Monica, you have a way of getting to me. I sure as hell didn't mean to lose control just now."

She glanced over her shoulder, a strand of wet hair swinging, clinging to her cheek. "I make you lose control?"

"Hell, yeah."

She stepped into the doorway. "Sleep?"

"Seems smart." Better than talking.

"Together."

He shrugged. "Not so smart."

Her stance softened. Striding past him, she reached over to her cot and snagged the quilted sleeping bag. "I guess I'm not feeling all that smart today, either."

Again she'd surprised him. One side benefit to the complicated relationship deal.

Together, they silently spread the sleeping bag on the floor and stretched out together, Jack using Monica's pillow and Monica using Jack's chest for hers. Her damp hair soaked his T-shirt, not that he cared.

"I sang."

He pulled a wet strand off her cheek. "Sang?"

"For the talent competition. I sang a really, really bad rendition of that Lee Greenwood song, 'God Bless the U.S.A.'"

"Ah, those soldier bones of yours begging to be set free."

"That, and probably a subconscious slap at my mother for leaving."

He hooked an arm around her waist and pulled her flush against his side. Saying nothing seemed wiser than shoving his size thirteen boot in his mouth.

Her arm slid around to hug him back. "I haven't had much experience with making a relationship work."

Saying nothing definitely seemed wiser since the truth hammered in his head loud and clear that he didn't have any more experience than her with the long term. Tina had died so young. And his bachelor days were no testament to commitment, either.

The smart woman in his arms nailed it dead-on. Somehow by getting closer they kept ending up further apart.

Jack settled onto the hard floor to sleep with his wife for the first time since the night they'd said "I do" to an Elvis impersonator nearly four months ago.

Drew pushed through the flap on the sprawling tent, a two-pack stretch of canvas holding tables with computers and the comm radio. A far sight different from the music-filled hangar of the night before.

His men were out in the desert readying for live-fire exercises, a practice run of taking the compound's airfield including everything but the jump.

While he orchestrated from the cushy-assed tented command center. In the rear with the gear, listening to radio calls being manned by the RTO— Radio Telephone Operator.

Hell, he'd worked his ass off to get to this point in his career. Damned silly to want to be out there in the field instead of sitting in here with an oversize sand-tray model of the battlefield.

Of course he
would
be in the field when they took the compound. His command center then would be nothing more than the radio and a smaller mobile comm set up in the middle of the battle.

Still, part of him itched for the time when he humped through the field for days on end, when a hot meal meant an MRE warmed on the engine block of a Humvee. Just thinking about it gelled that sense of unity, family, in him again. He embraced the feeling of pride at being a part of a hardcore, elite unit. Conditions sucked, and anyone who couldn't handle it wasn't man enough.

Drew settled in a chair behind his intelligence computer. Their practice maneuvers involved a fairly straightforward battle tactic. Once the hostages were secured by the SEALs, the support platoon would fire into the objective to get the enemies' heads up. The heavier armed attack platoon would launch a sneak approach from the other side. A flare would alert the support platoon at the correct time for a lift and shift

—lift fire up and shift away so as not to shoot into the attack platoon.

They should have been launching the real deal tomorrow night, if not for the weather forecast of sandstorms. Now they would have to wait an extra day. At least they had confirmation that the three hostages were alive. Sydney Hyatt was alive.

Yasmine's half sister.

Damn, but he still couldn't believe he'd kissed Yasmine. Really couldn't wrap his head around the fact he wanted to do it again and was starting not to care how things looked.

Well, hell. Didn't he want a return to his old days when it was all about the hoo-uh? The tough choices.

Easy was for the weak.

Maybe he would check up on her after they returned to the States. See how things played out on neutral ground. Take it slow since she was more innocent than he ever recalled being.

Dating? He popped a LifeSaver into his mouth.

No way could he envision himself with flowers and candy in hand on her doorstep. But he could see himself taking her to his favorite restaurant, sitting on the deck, wind in her hair and smile on her face enticing him to shake some sand off his boots.

None of which would happen if he didn't get his mind on his job here. He shut down emotional crap and focused on the operation at hand.

Time passed in the tunnel-vision focus on his mission, the familiar sounds of radio calls and orders mixing with the pop of gunfire in the distance.

Support troops full-out. Flare. Lift and shift.

"Cease fire!" the radio crackled. "Cease fire! Cease fire!"

The tunnel vision broadened. Adrenaline and dread splashed like light exploding into his vision. Both training and instincts already predicted the next words that would bark over the radio.

"Friendly fire."

Quiet echoed through the waves, that cavern of silence during the realization of a no-going-back moment.

Drew shot to his feet and took over the radio controls. "Alpha, stat-rep to my locale ASAP."

"Will-co." Will comply.

He waited for the status report while platoon sergeants ran out to take accountability of their men. Then for the information to trickle back up the chain—company to battalion, to brigade and finally to the regiment.

"One down. Medic on the way."

Drew's thumb slid off the button. "Shit." One breath later, he ordered, "Expect me in five."

Hauling ass out of the tent and into the pitch dark toward the closest Humvee, he shouted the order to enter the field. With each slamming yard during the mile toward the glow of too many headlights and flashlights, he told himself the injury would be no more than a bullet to the leg. As if he could command it so.

The Humvee jerked to a halt. The minute his feet hit the ground, he heard it. A moan. Gurgle. The unmistakable sound of blood in the lungs.

Not a simple shot to the leg.

He knew he spoke and others answered, was certain he said the right things because training always overrode in a crisis. The very reason they trained so hard. Just as intellectually he knew how the hell this happened. Training accidents occurred because training hard also kept them from losing more in battle.

And none of that meant shit to him as he stared down at the body of one of his men on a litter having his blood-soaked uniform cut away from a sucking chest wound. His men were closer to him than his own goddamned family.

The medic finished stabilizing the private for transfer to the Battle Aid Station, two clicks behind them. A physician's assistant there would either treat him...or make the decision for more intense treatment.

Drew stared down at the bloody mess of the concert T-shirt from a boy who had barely lived half as many years as he had. As they loaded the private into the Cracker Box Army ambulance, the scent hit him. The smell of blood and war that a man never forgot. The smell of mortality.

The smell of freedom. It was so close Yasmine could almost sense it even in her dank, stuffy closet. Soon she would be out of Rubistan and away from Ammar.