Unexpected Oasis (5 page)

"Of course."

I stare at him. I mean to just glance his direction but I end up staring. "Why are you so beautiful?" The words come out of my mouth instead of staying my brain where they belong.

He flashes his teeth. "I blame my mother."

"She did a damn good job." I look him over. "I mean, really, it almost hurts to look at you." My brain is no longer regulating the words coming from my mouth.

"I know. Sometimes I cry while I'm shaving." Sarcasm gives his deep voice a husky edge. 

A giggle bursts through my lips. "You're funny."

"And you're drunk."

"I know," I groan. "I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about. But a little sleep certainly wouldn't hurt you right now." He releases me and I have to grab the doorjamb to keep from falling.

"Are you going to be okay?" he wonders, the concern back in his voice.

"Yeah, the bed's like…" I gesture toward the bed with a flopping wrist. "…right there." I can't believe it, but I'm pretty sure I'm even drunker than I was when I left the rec room. Pakistani liquor is apparently the Gobstopper of alcohol. It goes and goes and goes and goes.

To prove that I really am fine, I step away from the door. Marbles? Is the floor suddenly made of marbles?

"All right." Once again Trey's hands are on my shoulders and he's guiding me toward the bed.

"No, really. I can…" The bed is mere feet from me and I make a lunge for it. It's more of a stumble, stumble, fall, but I do land on the mattress. It's softer than the grass, but not by much.

The moment I close my eyes the room spirals around me in a churning vortex, and then, only darkness.

CHAPTER FOUR

I
wake up feeling like I've been chewing cotton batting all night. Or maybe my pillow. There is a damp spot on it…

Sitting up sends shooting pains through my temples. Aspirin. I desperately need aspirin. And water. And coffee. And more water.

After pushing the comforter aside, my legs ooze over the side of the bed. Except for my boots, I'm still fully dressed. It takes me a minute to remember where I am and then another minute not to cry about it. I scan the room with blurred vision and find the boots sitting neatly against the wall next to the dresser. No way I put them there. I barely made it to the bed.

And there's no way I tucked myself in either. Someone else did. Shuffling to the bathroom, I try to piece together the events from the night before. There was the bootlegger, a couple games of pool, I threw up, Trey cussed out the guys for getting wasted and leaving the camp vulnerable…

Oh shit. I got the order wrong. I threw up
after
Trey went off on his crew. And then he helped me back to my room.

Pausing at the door to the bathroom, I let my head fall against the jamb with a thunk. I may as well have shoved a pencil between my ears as much as it stings. I ignore it.

How on earth did I let myself get into
that
situation?

With a groan, I heave myself from the jamb and into the bathroom. I look like shit's uglier step-sister.

A cold water face washing, a mouth scrubbing accompanied with an entire bottle of water, use of the facilities, and I almost feel human.

I duck into the cafeteria, grab a croissant and some coffee, and then duck back out. My paranoia is misplaced; the dining hall is pretty much a ghost town.

The coffee barely touches my headache and the croissant does little to soothe my unhappy stomach. I spend the rest of the morning flip-flopping between chiding myself for my irresponsibility and feeling sorry for my predicament.

A shower and lunch make me feel even more human and by mid-afternoon the confinement of my sterile room is beginning to drive me blasé. Grabbing a hat and sunglasses, I decide it's high time I explore the compound.

I avoid all the locations I think I might meet someone unexpectedly: the volleyball and basketball courts, the pool, and obviously…the rec room.

My door faces the grass "quad", so I immediately round the housing building and head for the fenceline behind me. Made of mud and grass, the three-foot fence is a massive tan wall before me. During the initial security debriefing, I think I remember Trey saying something about earth absorbing bullets and shrapnel and can be easily repaired. I try not to think about how many times it's needed repair. Beyond the dirt wall, a ten-foot, razor wire topped chain link fence looms. It truly feels like a prison.

It's hot out but not suffocating. The lack of moisture makes the hundred degree temperature tolerable. I can literally feel the water being sucked from my skin as I walk the fenceline toward the back of the compound, but it's preferable to the smothering humidity I left behind in Kansas.

Still, by the time I reach the back fence I'm sweating like crazy. I hope I'm sweating out the last of the Pakistani poison.

The barn is back here—a tiny concrete building with a wide breezeway and chicken wire pens housing a donkey, a couple goats, and at least a dozen chickens. I make my way for it, hoping to find shade and maybe scrounge up something to feed the horses. Or the donkey. He looks pretty cute too.

It feels at least twenty degrees cooler in the barn. Both horses poke their heads from their stalls. One nickers and the other echoes him. Their large dark eyes watch me expectantly, like they know my treat intentions.

I scan the dirt floor for food scraps. Scatterings of hay litter the floor. I gather up a handful and feed it to the closest horse, his soft lips eagerly snatching up every morsel. The other horse pins his ears and tosses his head up and down in protest.

Grabbing another handful of hay, I feed the second horse. "See," I say, scratching its face. "No need to get impatient. I didn't forget you."

I scratch behind its eyesocket and it rubs vigorously against my fingernails, sending tiny hairs sailing into the air.

"Found an itchy spot, eh?"

It doesn't take long before I'm covered in horse hair, the light gray strands a bold contrast against my dark tanktop. "Okay, okay." I pat the horse's cheek. "You've had enough."

I turn to leave and stop abruptly. A gruesome looking black and white dog blocks my path. Missing both ears and an eye, scars cover his body, some small like scratches, others huge and gory looking, injuries that obviously should have had stitches but judging by their ragged lines, probably didn't. Huge and muscled, he looks like the type of dog bred to fight lions.

Broad chested, front legs wide, he stares me down. He hasn't growled, but his tail isn't wagging either.

Oh God. What do I do? I've never been scared of dogs, but I've also never had a giant, evil looking beast give me the skunk eye either.

I stare at him and he stares back. I take a step backward and he takes one forward. I step toward the stalls, thinking I may be able to jump onto the chicken wire. The dog mirrors me. It's like we're doing a perfectly syncronized dance and if I weren't so terrified I'd probably find it endearing. Maybe even amusing.

Since I'm probably about to get my throat ripped out, I'm not amused.

I'm about to make a leap for the stall door when a deep male voice makes the dog turn. "Frank!" A whistle follows. "Frank!" Trey steps into the barn. He's backlit by the bright afternoon sun, so I can't make out his face, but I'd know his silhouette anywhere.

Frank
is overjoyed to see him. Wagging his nub of a tail back and forth with a vengeance, he runs over to Trey who scratches his head. I swear the dog turns just to glare at me over his muscled shoulder.

"Oh, hey," Trey says when he sees me.

I'm still too terrified to respond. He studies me a minute and must catch sight of my expression because he says, "Don't be scared. Frank won't hurt you. He likes expats." He pats the dog's head.

I swallow. "He doesn't exactly seem happy to see me," I squeak out.

"He's just not used to females."

That doesn't make me feel much better. But with Trey nearby, I'm able to relax a little. Surely the dog wouldn't attack me with his master right here. Surely?

"His name is Frank?" I ask after forcing my throat to work. "Not Killer, or Cujo, or something more appropriate?"

Trey steps farther into the barn, lifting his sunglasses. His face starts to come into focus. He's wearing half a grin. "Yeah, like Sinatra."

I stare at
Killer
. "Because the pattern on his fur makes him look like he's wearing a tux…" I murmur, finally seeing a dog instead of a mythical hell beast.

"And he carries a mean tune. Can put back the martinis too."

I remember that Trey tucked me in last night and feel my cheeks flush. "So, last night…"

"Don't worry about it," he says quickly. "I learned my lesson the hard way to avoid the Pakistani stuff. It's unpredictable. Some nights you can drink an entire bottle and…nothing. Other nights, four shots and you wake up naked on your floor with no pants."

I think I'm thankful that didn't happen.

"At any rate," I say, interrupting my own sordid thoughts. "I'm sorry for being a burden."

"Seriously, don't worry about it. I'm sorry my men put you in that position. They know better."

I shrug it off. "Don't blame them. I'm a big girl."

"Please let me know if D or the others get out of hand…"

"No, no. They were fine. Like obnoxious brothers."

His eyebrows bob at the comment. He must share my sentiment.

I'm starting to relax more. Frank is glued to Trey's side. He still watches me carefully, but doesn't seem on the verge of attack. "Why do you all call him Double D, anyway?"

"Oh, um, his wife apparently has, well, a pair of…um…" He starts to gesture a set of large breasts and then promptly drops his hands.

"Double Ds?" I finish for him.

"Yeah," he says with a sheepish smile. "It was all he could talk about for months after they got married. The nickname quickly followed."

I laugh, surprised by how at ease I feel. "And I thought he was hitting on me!"

Trey's expression is serious when he looks at me, but it's a forced serious. "Oh he was. Or is. Most of my guys don't let a little thing like marriage get in the way of their
social
life. Every member of my security team is married, and that has never kept them from indulging in, um…extra-curricular entertainment."

My stomach sinks to my shoes, and not because D, Two Bit, Rick, or Junior are married. And still visit prostitutes or keep mistresses—as Trey so delicately suggested.

"Except me," Trey adds with a half-cocked grin. "I tried. It didn't work."

My stomach jumps back into place. "That happens," I say quietly.

He studies me for a moment and my temperature raises another ten degrees under the scrutiny. For the first time since I met him, I can finally see his eyes clearly: dark brown with flecks of gold and green. Set off by thick black lashes, the color is positively gorgeous.

"You aren't like the women we usually see here," he suddenly says. His voice is low, thick.

I choke down another swallow. God, that voice… "What do you mean?"

"You're pretty." The matter-of-fact way he says it makes the words even more shocking.

My expression must give away my surprise because he quickly adds, "I mean, you just don't look like…" His throat clears. "See, engineers tend to have a certain look, especially women." He pauses, grimacing. "Shit. My mouth isn't big enough to fit my entire foot in it."

I push aside my shock and offer him a sympathetic smile. For a man who has been nothing but in complete control every time I've seen him, he's adorably flustered. "No, it's okay. I understand. And thank you—for the pretty comment."

His expression softens a little but remains serious. "Anytime."

I shift from one foot to another suddenly feeling awkward about the attention. I don't feel very pretty. I haven't felt pretty in months. And the attention I'm receiving from men who have only been exposed to frumpy, engineer types, or women in burkas, doesn't make me feel any prettier. It might as well be two a.m. and I'm the only girl left in the bar. They aren't wearing beer goggles, though, more like
sand
goggles.

No matter how uncomfortable his praise makes me, I'm not ready to end the conversation. Not yet. He's just so…nice to be around.

"So, what's Frank's story?"

Trey seems almost as relieved by the change in conversation as I am. He stoops to scratch the dog's head. "Frank was rescued when this compound was first built. He wandered into camp, half starving, and covered with open wounds. The Brits took him and nursed him back to health. He's been here since." He scratches the dog's head again. The stump wiggles so hard, Frank's butt shimmies with it. "Judging from his scars, we're pretty sure he was a fighting dog. But he's been a great camp dog. Loves expats and hates locals. Makes it hard for the cleaning staff sometimes, but the security he offers more than makes up for it."

"Well, remind him I'm an expat will you?"

"Gladly. Here, I'll make the introduction now." Kneeling, he clasps Frank's collar and then gestures for me to join them. I do. Hesitantly.

I ease my hand tentatively forward. Frank glances at Trey in question, whose nod is combined with a reassuring pat, and then Frank just as tentatively sniffs my outstretched hand. I swear the dog seems surprised. But he looks once more at Trey and then licks my hand. I must smell Western enough. I'm guessing it's the Victoria Secret Vanilla Lace lotion I'm wearing.

Assured I'm not going to lose any fingers, I run them lightly over Frank's head. His short black fur is deceptively soft, sleek even, the scars on his skull rough road bumps. I try to ignore them and not think about the horrible conditions he must've been subjected to before being rescued.

Frank's tail nub begins to wiggle and Trey smiles. The expression lights up his ruggedly handsome face, making him GQ model handsome. "See, I knew you'd be friends."

Suddenly feeling self-conscious about my lack of mascara, I focus my attention solely on Frank, increasing my petting energy just as the dog's nub wiggle becomes almost spastic. "Did I find an itchy spot?" I ask as one hind leg begins to thump the ground. "Between you and the horse…"

I can feel Trey watching us and try to ignore it. My body refuses to though, my heart rate increasing and my entire body warming even more, especially my cheeks. Once again, I can't believe how immaturely I'm responding. It's quite possible the most ridiculous thing that's happened since I got here. More ridiculous than an American bootlegger delivering Pakistani liquor all over the Afghan countryside. More ridiculous than the security team's silly nicknames.