Perfect Rage (Unyielding 3)

He thought I was beautiful? Sexy? I’d never been called sexy in my life. I had wide hips and a narrow waist, smallish breasts and kind of plain features. Nothing that stood out which was a good thing, in my opinion. I liked being the one behind the lens rather than in front of it.

But it was nice that someone actually said I was sexy, especially a hot guy who could, and probably did, get any girl he wanted with his looks.

“But you’re not mad now,” I said. Actually, he’d been pretty relaxed since we came to eat. What had changed?

“Nope. Life is too short to hang onto shit.” He shoveled in the last bit of meatloaf then stood and put his leg over the bench while picking up his plate. “You want more?”

I snorted because he’d already had a huge amount of food on his plate and he was going for seconds. “You can fit in more?”

He grinned. “Hot meals are a rarity here. You shovel as much as you can in until forced to undo the top button of your pants.”

I smiled because that was what it was like on Navidad, Christmas day.

He winked.

I watched him stroll away, stopping to chat with a few buddies. He had an easygoing casual way about him, quick to laugh and his smile genuine. But I’d seen the other side, too, the dangerous edge to him.

“How’s the head?” Jaz asked.

I’d forgotten about my forehead, but it was only a minor sting. “Fine. How does it look?”

He leaned closer and squinted. “Not bad. A faint pink spot. Nothing that will deter a certain someone’s interest in you.”

“That’s good,” I replied, not really listening to the second half of that sentence because I was watching O’Neill. If he were trying for a Special Forces unit, then he was obviously determined and fearless. I’d seen movies about the training those guys endured and it was grueling. They were the best of the best and if you couldn’t be the best, then you didn’t make it.

He’d make it. I barely knew him, but what I did know was that he was competitive, confident, and resolute. And from watching him talk to the guys, he had a lot of friends, which meant he was probably a team player.

As if he knew my gaze was on him, he looked up from whomever he was talking with and our eyes locked. My belly dropped and heat flared not just in my cheeks but everywhere. It was like he was caressing my body with the tips of his fingers, scattering goose bumps, making my breath hitch.

Then his grin faded and his brows lowered. He said something to the guy he’d been talking to without taking his eyes off me. I realized I was chewing on my lip again and released it.

Shit, I liked him. I really liked this guy and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

“Oh, man,” Jaz muttered. “They’re a disaster waiting to happen.”

Gunner chuckled. “Yep. A ticking time bomb.” I only partially listened because O’Neill’s gaze had flicked to my mouth then along the curve of my neck then back up again. “Explosion imminent.”

“You said it.” Jaz gently kicked me under the table. “We leave tomorrow.”

And I’d more than likely never see O’Neill again.

Gunner said something, but I went back to eating my meatloaf and tried to erase the image of O’Neill’s beautiful intense eyes on me.

But I was a photographer. Images didn’t erase, they embedded, and Corporal O’Neill’s had become permanent.**0600 Hours**Okay, freaked out was too subtle a word to describe how I felt sitting in the back of the Humvee. The possibility of being blown up at any second played havoc with my mind.

Was this what they felt every time they left base? They certainly didn’t look scared. Actually, they appeared pretty relaxed considering, but still alert.

Jaz sat beside me, Gunner across in full gear and a Corporal Trent beside him. O’Neill drove and Corporal Drummond was in the passenger seat. There were two more vehicles behind us. I’d discovered the truck was loaded with 600 pounds of blankets, toys, clothing, and school supplies for the orphanage.

Mr. Completely Calm Jaz had his legs stretched out, ankles crossed as he chatted with the few men in the squad about being in Honduras after the devastating Hurricane Mitch in 1998.

I’d heard the story already on the plane and was thinking about last night. When O’Neill returned to the table with another plate of meatloaf, he’d insisted on playing twenty questions, said he did it with every new recruit in his unit and since I was hitching a ride with him in the morning, that constituted being in his unit.

It was a ridiculous reason, but I agreed to it as long as he reciprocated. He readily agreed which made me a little uneasy because what guy wanted to answer silly questions about himself.