Defender (13 page)

“Ah, helpful.” When she smiled, her Slavic eyes narrowed nearly closed. Sexy. Sultry. “Can a woman be this . . . uh . . . chivalrous?”

“The word traditionally applies to the way a man acts to a woman.”

She nodded, smile fading, eyes fully open and wary again. “Interesting word.”

Sometimes he hated the freaky-weird ability he had of reading others’ emotions. Right now he really hated it, because he knew without question chivalry was an alien concept to Anya Surac.

“I would like to call you a cab.” Gage would be fine for ten minutes, and if he wasn’t, Nunez would hear the duress word in his earpiece and come running.

“I do not have the money.”

“You always walk home, even if you work the last shift?”

She nodded.

Anger kicked him in the gut, too hard, too fast, especially for a man who never lost it. “The bar closes at two o’clock in the fucking morning.”

A smile tapered her eyes. “I believe your language is not chivalrous.”

His language also was too Mike Nunez and not nearly Miguel Carvalho, a dangerous slip he wouldn’t let happen again. “My apologies.”

“Accepted.” Her grin stayed this time.

He liked it . . . too much. He needed cool and level.

“Please let me make it up to you by walking you safely home.” His ear set let him know Gage was wrapping things up for the night anyway.

Kutros was hitting on a hooker.

Nothing more held Nunez in the Oasis tonight, and something—someone—very compelling called him to leave. He waited on an answer that became more important than it should. She was a link to his case. A link to Chuck Tanaka.

She hitched her purse over her shoulder. “In the spirit of giving your chivalry a try, I accept.”

TWELVE

Jimmy tried like hell to keep his steps even on the way to his base quarters, but there was no denying the truth. Antialcohol meds be damned, he had a buzz worthy of any frat rush.

He braced a hand on the corridor wall, the evening at the Oasis rolling through his mind as fast as the floor undulated beneath his feet. When he left, Nunez had still been at the bar waiting around for some waitress. Not a bad gig, getting to flirt with pretty women.

If it weren’t for the fact any of those women might be out to slit your throat. Now, that was a sobering thought.

The tile floor steadied under him, and he picked up speed rounding a corner, the hall empty and silent other than the low drone of the television in the commons room. He welcomed the chance to help find their friend, and he wasn’t exactly a novice at this sort of thing. He’d done plenty of “spooking around” in the military test world. Secret meetings with heads of state for briefings on new test projects. Traveling to other countries for additional meetings with generals overseas.

Patience paid off, and all things told, this op would move fast. Of course, Nunez had laid the groundwork over time, investigating other missing soldiers, until finally the break came with Chuck and his tracking device.

They were so close now, if the tracking info could be believed. Nunez assured him they had people on the ground searching Adana for human intel. Any day they could be launching a rescue.

He glanced inside and found Chloe, sitting alone, barely dressed.

She pulled a baby wipe from a container and swiped it along one arm, then over another. His pulse throbbed in his ears.

Okay, to be fair, she wore more clothes than the rock star chick usually draped over strategic body parts. But for Chloe, the shape-hugging white tank top and cut-off khaki shorts made for Daisy Duke-fantasy material that turned him inside out at a time when his defenses were seriously compromised.

Was it her dry wit or her sarcastic putdowns that drew him to her? Had to be her refreshing honesty that never failed to knock him flat. All that starch wrapped up in a pretty package. A pretty package with some serious issues he wasn’t sure he could handle. A wise man would retreat and regroup. Mars, god of war, however, insisted retreat was for sissies.

His drunken feet carried him the rest of the way into the room. “Anything good showing on the Armed Forces Network?”

Chloe twisted at the waist to face him. She held up her hands. “Stay back. I’m in dire need of a date with a shower and my lavender soap. I smell like a compost heap doused in baby powder.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

Her eyes glinted, and not in a good way. She was still pissed over the way he’d pulled back in the cab after she told him about her kidney transplant. He’d been a jackass. He just wasn’t sure he could do any better now.

He did know that against all better judgment, he wanted to be here with her now. He didn’t want to think about Chuck and what could be happening to him. He didn’t want to think about his own time as a POW.

Jimmy dropped onto the leather recliner by the sofa. Distance was good. Undoubtedly he smelled like a smoky bar and a vat of beer. He’d made use of the bathroom sink to wipe down as best he could. Not as clean as he would like when stepping into the room with Chloe, but a definite improvement over his sweaty self earlier. He couldn’t go too far in self-sanitizing and send up a red flag here that he had access to the outside world.

Chloe rubbed a wipe along the back of her neck, nodding toward the coffee table. “You can commandeer the remote if your masculinity so dictates.” She stood. “I’m going to bed.”

“Stay,” he said without looking at her. Who knew what his eyes might give away about the alcohol—or his past?

“I’m not a dog.”

“
Please
, have a seat.” He forced the words up his raw throat and risked a glance in her direction.

Confusion flickered across her face before she slowly eased back onto the sofa.

“Thanks.” He snagged the control and rubbed his thumb over the buttons without changing channels. Damn straight there was something calming about a remote in his hand. “Having trouble sleeping?”

“Pretty much.” She eyed him warily. “I feel rank. My sheets are musty. Inside is cooler but stuffy due to no cleaning. Outside, I just sweat more, which makes inside worse.”

“I’m sorry your trip here has been less than stellar. Security should lighten up soon.”

“I’ve been doing my own sightseeing on TV and with all these posters.” She reached for the
Touring Turkey
book on the coffee table. “My guide doesn’t have much personality, but the details are accurate.”

He looked around the room, empty except for scattered furniture, a foosball table, and a magazine rack full of outdated periodicals and a few local newspapers. “Where are all your friends?”

“Everyone ran for cover when two of the dancers had a fight. Steven thinks Melanie’s messing around on him, which is ironic, considering rumor has it
he’s
cheating on
her
.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “But the highlight of the evening?”

“Your group gave an impromptu performance?”

“No, just Livia. She shaved her legs in the sink using a water bottle.” A wicked grin lit her eyes. “Your colonel about had a seizure.”

“Now, that would have made for some awesome vacation photos.”

She pitched the book onto the cushion beside her and pointed to a framed poster of a castle on a small Mediterranean islet west of Adana. “I had planned to see that during my time in Turkey.”

He didn’t even need to bother reading the caption along the bottom. He’d visited the Maiden’s Castle twice as a kid with his grandmother, a relentless tour guide when it came to showing off her homeland.

Chloe scooped up her small pile of wipes and tossed them into the metal can by the sofa. “Do you know the story of the Maiden’s Castle?”

He tipped his head back on the oversized recliner and made himself far too comfortable taking a Chloe inventory. He knew he was a little drunk, or he wouldn’t ogle her, but he’d used up his ability to put on a show at the bar.

His grandmother had shared the story long before they visited the place together, but he needed to hear Chloe’s voice. “Tell me.”

“The castle dates back to the twelfth century during the Byzantine era.” She reached to the guidebook again and fanned pages with her thumb. “Legend holds that an Armenian king prayed for a daughter. Finally his prayer was answered, but a sorcerer cursed her. Her father was told she would die from a snakebite, so dear old dad built an impregnable castle to keep her safe.”

“Looks to me like a person could swim out there.” In fact, he knew so, since he’d done it.

“True. However, she died because a snake hid inside a basket of food.”

She crossed her legs, tucking her bare feet under her knees and making all too visible the bandage on her leg, reminding him of how close she’d been to danger, of another insidious threat she would live with for the rest of her life as a transplant patient.

He pulled his focus back on her words rather than just the sound of her melodically husky voice.

“I researched the area before coming here, since there would be so little time for sightseeing.”

“Maiden’s Castle is a rather obscure choice.”

“For me, it’s not always about seeing the biggest or most popular landmark.” She looked down, even though the floor sported nothing more interesting than industrial carpet in need of cleaning. “I believe the experience should speak to the tourist on a personal level.”

“My grandmother loved that castle, too.”

Her head popped up. “Your grandmother?”

“She was born here.”

Chloe bristled. “Why did you let me babble on about the place if you already knew about it? I feel like an idiot.”

“I just wanted to hear you talk.”

Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened and closed a couple of times before she settled on “Oh.”

“My grandmother told me once that she identified with the princess. She wanted to spread her wings beyond her home country. She fulfilled that dream by marrying a U.S. serviceman.” He stretched his legs in front of him, getting a little too comfortable with her but at least she was giving him a respite from worrying about Chuck. “Do you feel some kind of connection with the princess, too? Was your father overprotective?”

“He certainly coddled me, especially after my mother died in a car accident. But truth be told, I felt like my illness kept me locked away from the world.” She studied her clipped fingernails.

His woozy brain cleared. Fast. This wasn’t about tourist spots any longer.

Chloe looked up, face defiant, challenging. “My kidney came from a brain-dead army soldier.”

He pushed back thoughts of his sister and bone marrow transplants. Memories of how he’d failed her could freeze him up inside faster than dry ice. “What happened?”

“She survived an improvised explosive device at a checkpoint, even made it back to the States. But the damage was too extensive. That’s all I’ll ever know. The enormity of her sacrifice still boggles my mind. Such a gift she’s given me, and I can’t even thank her family.”

“So you’re here to say thank you. Good on ya.” He nodded, once, with a military precision.

A bit of bravado leaked from her, and she blinked fast. “Thanks. It means a lot to me.”

He felt lower than dirt after all, since he wanted nothing more than to run like hell from this conversation. “Why did you need a transplant?”

“I developed juvenile diabetes, type one. Over time, diabetes can damage the small blood vessels in the body, including the vessels in the kidneys. About thirty percent of people with type one will eventually have some degree of kidney disease.”

“And you were in the percentage.”

She might find comfort in the stats and numbers, but he couldn’t distance himself to look at her that analytically. He should have put his sorry buzzed butt in bed instead of thinking he could have a conversation with her about something so personal.

“I received my first transplant at sixteen.”

“First?”
Shit.

“Yes, I’ve had the surgery twice. My father donated one of his, and I did pretty well for eight years, and then the kidney started failing. We’re still not sure why. After two years on dialysis, yes. I received the kidney from the brain dead soldier.”

Her eyes watered for the first time since she’d begun her story. Hell, for the
only
time he could recall in a week that would have sent many ducking and running.

“There’s no reason I can’t continue to be here as long as I control my craving for baklava and take my meds. That was actually why I needed to see the ship’s doctor.”

“Not . . . allergies,” he said, feeling like an idiot for not having taken her more seriously or seeing through her ruse.

“Right. I’m on the standard drugs: tacrolimus, mycophenolate and prednisone. As well as insulin for my diabetes.” She wiggled her fingers toward him. “So, poof. Consider yourself cured of your protector disease.”

“I just hope you’re careful. You’ve already . . .” He stopped.

Her hands fell to her lap. “Already been through the rejection process once?”

He nodded, frustration, anger, and a god-awful helplessness roiling through him.

Chloe glided up onto her knees and leaned over the arm of the sofa. Before he could blink, she pressed a kiss to his lips, lingered, then sank back before he could do something dumb.

Like roll her flat under him on the sofa, cover her, shield her—take her.

“What was that for?”

“A thank-you.”

“What the hell for?”

“For listening.” She smiled, more of those tears hovering. “Not sprinting for the door.”

Ah crap.
That was exactly what he wanted to do.

Nunez studied the night shadows for hidden threats along the narrow cobblestone road where Anya lived.

She strode beside him, her heels click, click, clicking in time with the droplets of water plopping from an overworked ancient air conditioner jutting out of a window overhead. The scent of grilled kabobs and strong Turkish coffee filled the air even hours after the street vendors had closed down for the day. It pissed him off to think of Anya making this long walk alone every night.

Stopping in front of an orange stucco walk-up, she pulled her bulky key chain from her purse. A pink monkey in a tutu hung from the ring, along with a telescope rod, the kind that unfurled into a foot-long baton for ass whopping. “Thank you for the escort.”

“You should have one every night.”

“You should not worry about me.” She patted her purse, keys jingling in her grip. “I have protection.”

“Your gun?”

She leaned toward him and smiled. “I do not really have a gun.”

“Ah, so you’re packing mace in that bag?” He cocked a brow. “I’m scared.”

“I carry my knife.” Across from him, she leaned a hip against the iron railing as two men passed, conversing and laughing in another language. “A switchblade, I believe it is called in English.”

His mind jetted back to the first time he’d seen her standing down the rowdy army contingent with a surprising strength emanating from her willowy body. “How does a woman become proficient with a switchblade?”

“My aunt taught me how to protect myself from non-chivalrous men.”

“Unchivalrous,” he corrected automatically, his brain still hitched on a single word that could mean nothing . . . or everything.
aunt
. “Do you live with her?”

“She lives elsewhere, running her own businesses.”

“Businesses?” he prodded carefully, watching the play of streetlamps highlight the small tic over one exotic eye, nuances that spoke louder than her words.

“Taverns and nightclubs, like my parents used to run.”

He lounged back against the iron railing along her steps, which afforded him a better view of the deep color of her lips, lips free of the artifice of makeup. Was she as guileless through and through? “Why not work for your aunt?”