Anything, Anywhere, Anytime (7 page)

—to smooth the way during his wait-and-see mode of solving their problems. Not enough of a reassurance for her, especially when Jack had blinders about her narrowing his field of vision more effectively than NVGs.

She restacked the foil squares of alcohol swabs, prepping for the next patient.

Did she love him? Well, if she ascribed to the Jack Korba theory that love was a good cheeseburger and an Elvis tune, then sure. She loved him. But the part of her that was so damned scared of being like her mama thought there should be more to love than that.

Except who the hell was she to judge when she didn't even know what love was? Certainly not her mother's dreams that hurt innocent children. Or her father's obsession with a lost woman that drained his spirit and broke other women along the way. She'd even spent four years dating, then engaged to a man she'd thought she loved, only to lose him in the end when they broke up.

She didn't want to be hurt again, and God, she didn't want to hurt Jack any more than she already had. She was right to walk away.

So why could she swear she heard Santuci's headphones pulsing with "Heartbreak Hotel"?

Damn.

Damnation!" Colonel Drew Cullen gulped down half a bottle of lukewarm water to wash away the crappy beef stew. Twenty years of Army mess halls and seventeen years of bachelorhood since his divorce should have made any food palatable. Apparently not. "What the hell did they put in this? Goat guts?"

Across the table, Jack Korba paused midbite. "Goat? Probably." He spooned the stringy meat to his mouth, winced, shrugged. "Could be horse, though. Seems like that's what we ate during Afghanistan."

"Probably the same damned batch from then." Drew jammed a LifeSaver in his mouth, sucked, subduing the curse he really wanted to spit out faster than the vile stew. He was getting too old for this shit.

The orange LifeSaver melted. Drew smiled. Victory.

Another day won in his personal cussing-cutback campaign. He was a grandfather now, after all, goddamn it. He may have done a piss-poor job being much of a role model for his daughter, but he'd do better by his granddaughter.

Starting with less crass language.

Of course twenty rough-talking years in the Army trenches couldn't be undone in a day. Hell, no. He figured he'd take it a step at a time. Address one letter of the alphabet a month.

April: eliminate "F" words.

Since he'd been reading up on all those child psychology books he never made time for twenty-one years ago, he knew modified behavior deserved a reward—like a LifeSaver for every time he swallowed back any curse starting with "F."

Drew stared into the bowl of mushy potatoes bobbing in grease. He sucked harder on the taste of orange while the clatter of dishes and conversation swelled from soldiers, aircrew and a lone table of SEALs filling the dining area. Not surprising the food blew monkey chunks in a place with dust and drab the decor of choice.

Spartan, but serviceable. Like his life and place back at Ft. Benning.

A month ago the stew wouldn't have bothered him. But a month ago he hadn't been a grandfather suddenly realizing he'd never been much of a father, too married to the military. Was he going soft?

Scanning the packed tables, he watched the hungry troops, more his kids than his own blood. Kids who kept an M-16 close by even at lunch.

His troops shoveled the stew so fast he prayed they wouldn't be doubled over with stomach cramps later.

At least they were all drinking plenty of water, which may have had something to do with the young local woman passing out refills and snagging their lonely eyes with her hip swishing.

Trouble.

He assessed her as a potential problem. Attractive kid, probably about his daughter's age. A tomato-red scarf with bursts of white flowers in the print covered most of her dark hair in a surprise splash of color, but left her pretty little face free to smile at all the men sniffing after her. Not much to her, but more than enough to wreak serious mayhem among his men.

Damn. Just what he needed, his captains and lieutenants restraining troops from a girl angling for a green card. As if this place didn't have enough uproar brewing. Hell, the locals were already clamoring at the gates for food rations and medical aid— part of the deal with the Rubistans in exchange for free rein to use this shithole airport.

With crappy stew.

Age might be softening his language, but nothing else. If she stirred trouble, out she went. He could still eat the goat slop and do his job. Hell, he'd already logged through a discussion on the drop zone pictures before even finishing a bowl of...that.

Drew glanced over at Korba, a top-notch operational planner, even if he was a little rough around the edges. "While you were in a cushy mess hall during Afghanistan, flyboy, I was in a canvas tent eating MREs." He took refuge in the comfortable camaraderie of good-natured rivalry between the services.

Shoveling another spoonful of the questionable substance into his mouth, he yearned for one of those tiny Tabasco sauce bottles packed with the Meals Ready to Eat. "Although gotta admit, an MRE tastes better than this."

Korba swiped coarse bread around the bowl to scoop up the last bite. "Wouldn't doubt it, sir."

"Of course once we cracked open those MREs, the wind started blowing and filled the damn things with sand." He gulped the last swig of water, scouted for a refill, found the woman trying to capture the attention of a young Private First Class. "After how much time we've spent over here, I feel like I've got an extra five pounds of grit embedded in this old body."

"Old?" Korba tipped back his chair. "No doubt you'll be running circles around most of us during the rest of your ten years in the service."

Drew stayed silent. Hauled another bite up to his mouth.

Korba's chair legs thudded to a landing. "You're getting out at twenty?"

"Who the hell knows? It's possible." At forty-two, he'd still have time to start another career. Doing...

what?

His attention snagged on the woman sidling closer to the young private. Her dress swished like a small dark cloud drifting with each sway of her hips. The young PFC—Santuci, maybe?—pulled his earphones off his head, white bandage on his hand glaring in the bald overhead light. A single look at the flirty bat of eyelashes and Santuci smiled.

Where the hell was the boy's lieutenant? Homesick soldiers made too easy a target. Hell, they didn't even have to be across the ocean to be lonely. He'd been an ROTC student, taken in by a woman hunting for a way out of her hometown. Any officer would do for her. He'd just bitten first.

He and Glenna had lasted all of three years and one kid before she moved on to a civilian guy with a smoother veneer and higher pay grade. "Some days I think it would be nice to wake up without sand in my shorts, to spend some time playing with my granddaughter. Other days I figure I'll die with a rifle in my hands because I'm a bachelor soldier at heart. Know what I mean?"

"Afraid I do."

Korba twisted open another bottle of the water, reached into his front pocket and pulled out a thin pack of NutraSweet Kool-Aid. The powder spread a cherry-red stain and scent. Two quick shakes of the bottle and he gulped half while Drew kept a steady lock on the young love in action across the crowded dining hall.

The private pointed as if giving directions. The petite woman stared back at him without talking, studying him, before nodding. Her head tucked, she moved on.

Relief and a chuckle kicked through him. He'd turned into a cynical old bastard.

Leaning across the table, Drew tapped Korba's bottle of Kool-Aid, "Wish I'd thought of that during Desert Storm while we were stuck out there eating sand for six months."

"Here ya go, sir." Jack whipped out a purple packet and skidded it across the table.

"You could make a mint selling that over here if you bring more."

"Hope I won't need it again."

Quiet settled between them, heavy with the unspoken knowledge of the inevitability of another battle on another day in another place. A soldier's mission. Meanwhile, focus on
this
victory. Tomorrow would come gunning soon enough.

Korba scraped back his chair. "Well, sir, I need to hook up with Doc Hyatt on a few points and it looks like she's through with the vaccines now."

Drew flipped his wrist to check his watch. "It's about time to sleep, anyway. See you tomorrow at the mobile command center?"

"Roger that, sir," Korba shot over his shoulder already rounding the corner of the table.

Drew wadded up his napkin, pitched it on top of his half-eaten stew. Thumbing up the edge of the grape Kool-Aid, he smacked it against his hand idly and hunted for the girl pushing the water cart. Damn, but a man could dehydrate before she made it over.

Scanning four tables down, he found her. Talking again. This time with the copilot Derek Washington—

Rodeo. The copilot's wide smile flashed across his coffee-toned skin. Her hands fluttered through the air with the same gestures as if asking for directions like before with Santuci.

Exactly the same gestures.

Like a concocted excuse to talk.

His brain shifted to military mode, never too far of a shuffle. The Air Force's Office of Special Investigations—OSI—would have checked her out. But shit happened. Stuff got past. Losing some of his men to suicide bombers in Iraq had left indelible suspicion.

He assessed her more closely, this time as a possible terrorist threat. Black dress, Western clothes, but not stylish. Length almost to her ankles. Could be hiding a knife or gun strapped to her thigh. The dress nipped at her waist, snug enough for him to ascertain no explosives were strapped to her chest No, he could clearly discern the outline of her small, high breasts.

Breasts?

F—uh, hell. LifeSaver. Lemon.

Self-disgust roiled through him like another bite of that godawful stew. He was old enough to be her father.

Some fine damned example he was setting for his troops.

Libido reined, he eased back in his chair, flicked the edge of the Kool-Aid packet. Tap. Tap. Tap. Waited.

Watched. Seemed like she was settling in for the kill with the copilot Rodeo. The man could handle himself, but it still made for sticky politics to mix with locals.

Both backed away from each other. Tough day for the home team.

Almost amused, Drew watched her walk, stroll, assess, definitely on the make. No one else seemed to notice. She was actually fairly good at the game. Admiration spiked for someone who might have made a challenging adversary with a few years' seasoning. He'd just been around longer, seen more than anyone else in the room. Been taken in once himself by Glenna. His smile faded.

The woman paused, in front of Korba this time. For about half a second before giving him a wide berth.

Smart girl. In spite of his grins and jokes, Korba was an edgy bastard she'd be wise not to tangle with.

She was out of her depth here. Amusing, but sad, too, how far she would go.

Not heart-tugging enough for him to sacrifice one of his men for her.

The sixteen SEALs rose as one into a human barricade blocking the woman from sight. The SEAL wall, packing M-4s along with their meal trays, moved to reveal empty air where the woman had been before.

Damn.

Of course he would just check in with the ADVON team later, notify Captain Baker to keep an eye on her.

Tucking the grape Kool-Aid pack in his pocket, Drew stood, kicked back his chair, more than ready to dump this meal and find his bed.

The hair bristled on the back of his neck in a battlefield instinct he knew better than to ignore. He'd been targeted. He scoped. Found nothing.

Tray in hand, he pivoted. "Damnation!"

He stopped short of slamming into the water cart. And the woman. How the hell had she crept up on him?

That she could catch him unaware scared the shit out of him more than an M-16 jammed in his face.

Women moved softly here. A fact worth remembering.

"Sorry, ma'am." He barked the apology, already making his way past.

"There is no need for you to apologize."

Shoulder to shoulder, he paused, the melodic echo of her accented words catching him as unaware as her silent tread. Dark eyes stared back up at him. Eyes as black as the night sky seen from a bedroll on a moonless evening.

Moonless evening? Hell. Apparently some damned poet had taken up residence in his head while he'd gone soft reading all that baby psychology mumbo jumbo.

Returning his tray to the table, Drew waited for her to play out her bogus request for directions. And waited while she stared back, searching. Desolation muddied her eyes beneath the bright splash of color from her sun-scorched scarf. Fast. Then gone. But no mistaking it. This woman was desperate.

And determined.

No room for sympathy. Sympathy in the battlefield got a man gut shot.

Three soundless footsteps brought her around in front of him as she stared deeper into his eyes. Closer.

Close enough for him to catch her scent— soap, incense and a sultry, smoky smell that did things to his insides he had no damn business feeling for a woman this young. He was not some horny teenager for God's sake.

Let this desperate lady find another mark. And when she did, he'd have no choice but to boot her out so they could all rest easier.

He debated whether to get her name now when speaking might encourage her outrageous behavior. Or to find her name himself through the intel contact.

And then she moved. "Pardon me, sir."

She tucked to the side again to pass him after all.

Irritation nipped his ego. Hell's bells, he'd been pitched into the reject heap with Santuci, Korba and Washington. He shook off the notion. Damned ridiculous when he was too old for someone like her, anyway. With any luck, the woman was just looking for the latrines and was too scared or embarrassed to ask.

Air whispered, smoky, soapy, spicy, as she passed. Her cool hand brushed his, twisted that gut awareness into a painful knot worse than taking a bullet. Shit. Shoulder to shoulder again, she hesitated long enough to slide her hand in his.