Unexpected Oasis (8 page)

"Tea," Trey repeats once we're alone.

"Tea." I take a sip. "Mmm. Chai. It's good."

"Always is."

"So what was that all about?" I ask after taking another sip of the spiced tea.

"The chair herding?"

"Yeah. Not that I'm complaining," I add quickly, patting the arms appreciatively. "They are comfortable…"

"You don't want to know."

I frown.

"Oh, it isn't bad," he adds with a chuckle. "They think you are beautiful and…" He pauses, shaking his head. "Never mind."

Beautiful?

"No wait, you can't do that. And what?"

He starts to responds and then stops. He tips the mug to his lips and very purposefully takes a drink. "Naw."

"That isn't fair," I protest.

"I know," he says and disappears behind the curve of the chair's back.

"Hmph."

I settle back into my chair and let my head fall back into the cradling canvas. Above, a million stars are splattered against a cool, black sky. The mountains surrounding us are bathed in pale light, and the moon sparkles in its rippling lake reflection. My modest irritation is immediately forgotten. "It is so nice to be out from behind those adobe walls at Merritec," I murmur.

"Yes it is." Without turning to me, he holds out his mug in a toast and I meet it with mine. Simultaneously, we both take a drink. The fire crackles merrily and the soft conversation of Kaihan and his men, with its unfamiliar inflection, is like foreign music to my ears.

"When I first got there, to Merritec Village, I nearly lost it," Trey says after a minute. I turn to look at him. His expression, glowing warm in the firelight, is thoughtful. "The monotony, the feeling of captivity… It was hard to adjust. For a while I thought I was going to crawl out of my skin if I had to look at the same scenery another day. And technically, I can leave any time. Grab some heat, hit the streets. I don't know how you civilians handle it."

It's nice to hear I'm not the only one.

Kaihan picks up a goblet shaped drum—I think it's called a doumbek—and begins to beat out a series of crisp notes and rolling riffs.

"How long have you been there?" I wonder.

"At Merritec? Two years. I've been in the region for five."

"Wow, you must really like it. I thought most people only stayed for six months, maybe a year."

"It's okay. It's all I can seem to do, though. When I got out of the military I tried civilian life. I really did. I was a fireman for a while, joined the police force…"

"You didn't like it?"

He shrugs. "For the pay, the work isn't exciting enough. Too many restrictions."

"The compound seems pretty tame."

He gives me a mischievous, half-cocked grin. "You'd be surprised." And then as if realizing he probably shouldn't let me, the civilian he is paid to protect, know our quiet, safe little compound isn't as safe as I think, adds, "I mean, it's tame ninety percent of the time."

I'm sure that's a lie for my benefit. "Well, good. I know it's probably boring for you, but boring is safer."

"Yeah…" His voice trails off and I glance over at him. He's staring toward the mountain range and I can only imagine what adventures he's remembering.

"What did you do in the military?"

"Mostly Recon. Some Special Ops stuff. Three tours."

"So you definitely liked that."

He turns to me and grins. "Oh yeah."

"What made you quit then?"

He taps the side of his head. "I collected some shrapnel from an I.E.D. They decided pushing papers back on base was where I needed to be."

"I'm sorry."

He shrugs again. His shoulders are massive and heavy and I can only imagine how spectacular they are under the thin fabric of his shirt.

"The war was winding down anyway. It was a good a time as any to attempt to live in the real world. Get married. Do the whole family thing."

"But it didn't work out?"

"Not remotely."

"I can relate."

"I thought you might."

I wonder if I'm that transparent or if he's just a good judge of character. I like to think it's the latter.

Trey pulls a flask from his shirt pocket. He's discreet about it, but he isn't hiding it either. He unscrews the top and offers it to me.

I hesitate.

He laughs. "It isn't Pakistani. Trust me. Scotch. Single malt. Glenmorangie to be specific."

"Okay. As long as it isn't jet fuel, or
piss
, as D described it…" I take the flask and a small sip. "Oh. That's good." I start to hand it back and he holds out a hand to stop me.

"You can take a healthier drink than that."

I do. I didn't expect to miss "real" alcohol, but its warmth slides smoothly, deliciously, down my throat. I return the flask. He takes a long drink and then slips it back into his shirt pocket. Letting his forearms rest heavily on the arms of the camp chair, his body visibly relaxes and I hear him sigh.

"So, what's your story?" he asks after a bit.

"What do you mean?"

"Why are you here?"

I feel my entire body stiffen at the question.

"Everyone has a story," he continues. "I'm here because I can't cut it in normal life. A beautiful woman like yourself doesn't come here without reason."

There's that word again. Beautiful.

He glances over at me and once he takes in my expression, hands over the flask. "Relax Andrea. We don't have to talk about it."

Nodding tersely, I force the muscles in my face to relax enough to take a drink. I can still barely swallow.

He gives my hand a squeeze as I hand back the flask. "We don't have to talk about it," he repeats.

"Okay. Thanks."

His smile is reassuring and stunning.

While Kaihan plays the doumbek, we continue to pass the flask back and forth until it's empty. After a while, the men begin to dance—planned steps that remind me of a Greek line dance. When the drumming and dancing stops, we watch the flames dance until I'm as exhausted as the fuel.

On my third yawn, Trey stands up. "If I don't get to bed," he says. "I'm going to fall asleep in this chair."

I haven't seen him yawn once, but I play along. I take his outstretched arm and let him pull me to my feet. "Well, I wouldn't want that. You might end up with a scorpion as a bedmate. I can escort you home."

He grins. "I'd appreciate that."

We head back toward the rows of converted containers. My steps aren't quite as stable as they should be and I have to carefully maneuver my feet to keep from tripping. It gives me something to focus on, which is good since I'm way too aware of Trey's closeness.

I can only imagine what it would be like to be under all that glorious weight and muscle.

And push the thought away. It's too soon.

Right?

Too quickly we're standing at the door to my room. My heart jumps to attention. Like a dog that has escaped the confines of its fenced yard, it's running frantically down the street while its angry owner chases behind.

What if he tries to kiss me again? There's no way I'll be able to resist.

"Thanks for the whiskey and the company," I say, hand gripping the doorknob tightly.

"Any time." He pauses, but doesn't move. I can feel his eyes on me but I suddenly can't look at him. I drop my gaze to the ground and keep it there.

Oh God. What do I do?

"Keep your door locked. And if you need anything, I'm in the adjacent room. You still have the Walkie-Talkie?"

"Yeah."

"Keep it on."

I nod and turn toward the door. If I linger much longer I'm going to do something stupid.

The knob turns in my hand.

"Good night, Andrea," he says as I push open the door.

There's something to his voice that makes me turn. Moonlight paints his face, his expression wistful. God, those eyes…taking me in, devouring me. Oh. Jesus.

I swallow. "Good night," my voice squeaks from a constricted throat.

Door halfway open, one foot inside, I'm frozen in place. I want to touch him so badly and I know it's all over my face. I can see it in the way he's looking at me. If I invite him in, he'll accept, I know it. And I want to, my entire body burns with the mere thought.

I swallow again. Loudly this time.

He takes a step forward. "Andrea—"

That's it. I panic. "Good night!" Not only does my voice squeak again, the high pitch and rapid flow of words seem to echo across the camp. I shove my way into the room and slam the door behind me, falling against the metal and breathing so heavily it's like I just closed the door on a serial killer.

What the hell is wrong with me?

My head feels like it weighs a hundred pounds as it flops forward on my neck. Someone kill me now. Please. Just put me out of my misery.

It takes all of four steps to reach the bathroom. I pause at the back wall, the one separating me from Trey's room. Pressing my hand to it, I resist the urge to also press my ear to the sheetrock. I wonder what he's doing. Is he just as confused as I am?

Unless he's been blindfolded, spun in circles, and shoved from a moving van, probably not.

Ah, well, maybe with sleep will come clarity.

I snort out loud at my own joke.  

And then promptly yawn. Well, sleep will bring rest if nothing else. And as Scarlett O'Hara so profoundly declared, tomorrow
is
another day.

If only it came with a new brain.   

CHAPTER SEVEN

I
nstead of clarity, or a new brain, or a fresh outlook on life, butterflies have set up house in my gut. When I wake up, they've established a colony, fluttering, whispering, "You're going to spend all day with Treyyyyy." They are unwelcome guests and I do my best to evict them with reason.

First of all, I am Trey's charge. Really, I am his job. It isn't like he beat up the competition just for the opportunity to hang out with me. It's what he's paid to do.

Second, I have no business fantasizing about him. I'm not even sure I'd know what to do with him. Jesus, he's like sex-on-a-stick and obviously I am not.

Third, I'm emotional garbage. Not just an empty-wine-bottle-thrown-away-after-a-date-with-a-sad-movie-and-some-Kleenex empty garbage, but a handle-of-vodka-tossed-among-a-dozen-empty-pizza-boxes-and
-a-cake-pan-after-a-week-long-bender emotional garbage. More like emotional refuse.

No one needs to deal with that.
I
don't want to deal with it. So even if sex-on-a-stick Trey has an inkling of attraction to me, I can't do that to him.

Still, I rush through my crammed morning shower, speedily prepare my face and hair, and face the day with butterfly driven anticipation.

I get to spend the day with Treyyyyy.

He's waiting for me outside. Leaning against the building, sunglasses pulled tight over his eyes, hands shoved casually in the pockets of his khaki cargos, light blue fishing shirt hanging gloriously on the beautiful curves of his muscles… I try to play it cool as I step from my room and he moves to greet me.

"Hey," I say as I tuck loose bits of still damp hair (I didn't have the patience to dry it fully) under my headscarf—the headscarf he bought me.

I have to suppress my giddy smile.

"Sleep okay?"

"Not bad. You?"

"Meh," he says dismissively. "It's like sleeping on a camp cot, but could be worse."

We make our way to the cafeteria. The food reminds me of a free continental breakfast at a cheap hotel: oatmeal, some packaged pastry products, coffee and powdered creamer. I grab a croissant and coffee and head for the office. Trey follows with a much larger assortment.

He sits at the nearest empty desk and busies himself on the computer. There are a total of five desks in the cramped room, but we're the only occupants. I hope for the project's sake, they fill the vacancies soon. At the moment though, I'm happy to enjoy Trey's company…alone. Doesn't matter if we talk or not.

Which we don't. For the next several hours, we work in silence. Although early on, he requests to "put on some tunes".

I fully expect heavy metal or gangster rap. Instead, Sinatra pours from the computer speakers. Remembering the one-eyed, scarred up dog keeping guard at the compound, I laugh.

"I miss that ugly son-of-a-bitch," Trey admits.

"He is ugly." I flash my teeth at his scowl. "And a very nice doggie."

"That's better."

Two hours pass before we speak again. While I've been answering emails, going over the construction schedule, familiarizing myself with project updates, he's been clicking away intently at his desk. Finally, I ask, "What are you working on?"

"Just checking the level of heat in the area."

By "heat" I figure he means hostile threat. "How is it?"

"Tame."

"They have that on the Internet?"

"They have everything on the Internet."

"I'm not sure if that makes me feel better or worse."

"I guess it depends on whether or not you have something to hide." He grins. "In this case you should feel better." Glancing back at the computer screen, he frowns. "Although…"

The image of some terrorist stronghold just over the mountain pops into my head. "Although what?"

"The weather looks a little iffy." He shrugs it off. "Potential for some storms today. We should be okay."

I'm not sure I like the use of
should
in his sentence. But there's no point dwelling on it. The weather is the last thing I can control. 

The morning passes quickly and before I know it, it's time for lunch. More curried beef. It might even be left over from dinner.

I find Trey extremely easy to be around. For someone who initially filled me with so much trepidation, I'm surprised by how quickly I feel comfortable in his presence. For a man that can have such a commanding
air
when he wants to, he also has an easy, casual vibe to him.

By late afternoon, I finally feel like I have a small grasp of what I need to do on this project. Small being the key word. I also realize I've nearly missed one of the primary tasks.

I stand up and Trey looks at me expectantly. "I guess I have some inspections I need to do," I explain.

He immediately pushes to his feet. "I could stand to get out of this box."

I laugh. "Obviously. Just let me get the right forms." As I gather up the papers I need, my headscarf, hard-hat, and the project plans—just in case—he picks up the gun sitting idly on the desk and tucks it into the waistband of his pants.

Dark clouds huddle together over the mountains to the east even though the sun is still shining brightly overhead. Every so often, thunder grumbles in the distance and the wind kicks up—a welcome kiss of relief to the stifling heat. Obviously the storms Trey mentioned earlier.

Up ahead, I see the dinosaur-like motion of a backhoe arm, craning and reaching on jerking hydraulics for mouthfuls of red dirt. I've learned from my project review, the crews are digging foundations for guard towers. Soon Site J will be surrounded by the same, three-foot walls guarding Merritec Village. I doubt they're putting in the pool, though.

With a wave, Kaihan starts toward us. I make a mental note of all the hardhats. I can't quite see everyone's feet, but at least Kaihan is wearing steel toe boots. The leather is so worn at the toe I can actually see the metal beneath.

He's not quite twenty-five feet from us when, without warning, the temperature drops twenty degrees and wind careens across the construction site, kicking up dust into a swirling cloud of red. I immediately shield my eyes, but the sand is everywhere. Within seconds it's a thick wall around me. The sky darkens to the point it looks like dusk. It's hard to say if it's from the storm clouds, or the thick blanket of dust pelting us like tiny shards of shrapnel.

I can't see a thing—partially because it's dark, but mostly because if I try to open my eyes, they immediately get inundated with grit. I feel a strong hand on my arm.

"C'mon!" Trey shouts into my ear. "Let's get the hell out of here!" He tugs on my arm and I follow blindly. "Andrea, cover your face!" he shouts.

I
yank the loose fabric of my scarf over my nose and hold it there. Trey is pulling me fast enough I'm forced to run. It's hard to hold the scarf, keep my feet moving, my head turned away from the wind, and
not
face-plant the rocks.

There's something terrifying about running with my eyes closed. I have no idea where my feet are. And although the hard ground continues to meet the bottom of my boots over and over again, I feel like any minute I could dive right off a cliff. Trey's firm grip is the only thing that keeps me putting one foot in front of the other.

By the time we reach the safety of the canister, I feel like I'm suffocating. Coughing so hard I can barely breathe, my eyes feel like someone has poured glass into them. Essentially someone has—Mother Nature.

I rip off the worthless scarf covering my lower face, tossing it and the equally worthless sunglasses on the desk, and head straight for the bathroom. I need water. Desperately. I don't care if the stuff that dribbles out of the pipes is safe to drink or not. Right now, the desert in my throat is more important than the threat of dysentery.

Only a puff of air escapes when I turn the knob.

"Of fucking course," I groan, slamming the faucet shut.

"What's wrong?" Trey's deep rumble filters in from the other room.

"There's no water. I think I swallowed an entire beach out there. Every inch of me is covered in the most invasive sand on the planet, and I can't get a damn drink of water!"

"Here." He stands at the bathroom door, a leather drinking flask extended in his outstretched hand.

I feel like a heel as I take the container. "Thanks." There's barely any water left and I'm careful not to drain it even though I want to.

"Go ahead." He tips his chin toward the flask.

I hope my eyes express my gratitude when I swallow the last glorious drops of water.

"I think I hate this place," I say as I hand the bladder back. I squeeze past him and feel a wave of disgust as I look over the narrow, barren room. "Everything about it. I hate the sand, and the heat, and the terrain, and the work, and the rock hard beds…" I know I'm behaving like a petulant child but I don't care. The dust storm strangled any good feelings I was having about this godforsaken country. "I don't know why the hell I came here. Why I thought it'd solve anything."

"I can think of one good thing here."

"What?" I snap, spinning on him.

"This." He takes my arm and pulls me into a close embrace, his lips covering mine in the softest, warmest kiss I have ever experienced. I taste the salt on his lips as his strong, wet tongue gently probes my mouth. Through the thin fabric of his shirt, I can feel the hard ridges of his pecs as his thick arms wrap tightly around my body and pull me close.

Heat pours down my spine, obliterating any lingering doubt, burning every ounce of hesitation into a cloud of ash. This feels too right, too perfect, too…holy fuck amazing. I melt into his embrace, my muscles rendered useless. One arm slides around his neck, keeping his mouth to mine as the other probes the curves of his muscular body.

I have this carnal desire to rip off his shirt, feel the smoothness of his flesh against my hand, touch every millimeter of him. It isn't like I hadn't felt this way earlier, but with his tongue so deliciously in my mouth and his body pressed firmly against mine, it's a desire overwhelming my brain. I'm dying of thirst and he's the last drop of water.

He seems to feel the same. The kiss that started soft and sweet quickly intensifies while the hand that originally held the small of my back drifts down to my ass. Cupping it, he pulls my groin into his. Oh, God. He's hard as a rock and…huge.

I whimper. I don't mean to, but the noise can't be contained. Nor can the rock of my hips into his erection.

He grunts, wrapping the fingers of his free hand into my hair and using it as a fulcrum, tips my head back. His lips cover my neck, his teeth raking the skin as he presses his lips to the flesh. His erection thrusts firmly into me as his fingers locked in my hair give a quick tug. "Fuck," he groans into my ear.

It's nearly enough to make me come.

God, it's all happening so fast, but his touch feels so good. I just want to close my eyes and disappear into it. I do close my eyes; I can't help it. But that's the problem, isn't  it? Isn't that…
this
what I've been fighting? Among all the pathetic excuses I've invented not to be with him, this is one that actually has merit. I can't use him as some sort of sexual distraction to escape my woes? Can I?

I realize I've quit moving. His grip on me slackens and he pulls back a few inches to look at me. "What's wrong?"

I force my gaze to lift to his. My mouth opens and then closes. I shake my head.

"Andrea, talk to me."

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do." His fingers lightly trace the side of my face.

"It's just, I…I'm such an emotional idiot right now. It isn't fair to you."

"How do you figure?"

"Well, I…" My lungs fill and expand loudly. "I just got out of this effed up relationship and my head's a complete mess." My lungs fill again and escape in a sigh. "I worry I'm just using you."

"So?"

I stare at him. "You don't mind being used?"

His lips curl into a sly grin. His thick arms pull me back in. "Now, why would any man mind being used by a beautiful woman like you?"

I swallow against the heat rising from my belly. God, can I do this?

My body says, hell yes!

"Yeah?"

"Oh yeah." He bends in for another kiss.

I surrender to the exquisite taste of him. The tension flees my muscles and I slump in his arms.

"Just tell me what you need."

My lips curl into a smile and I crane my neck to look at him. "A shower," I say in my sexiest voice.

His laugh is deep and gruff. "Don't think that's going to happen."

I make a face. "I'm pretty sure I have a layer of sand covering every inch of my body. I feel disgusting."

"I thought you tasted gritty." He grins at my expression, which I assume is aghast. "Well, you're hardly disgusting."

"Still…"

"Still…" he repeats with a wink, "i
t might not be as good as a shower, but I do have the next best thing."