"Considering you and my daughter are about the same damned age, that's not much of an offer."
Same age as his daughter? She studied him again, took in his sandy brown hair, the handsome angles of his face perfect enough for some Hollywood poster except for sun-strengthened lines that made him all the more attractive in her eyes. "That is not possible."
He snorted. "Trumped-up flattery may have worked on one of those privates back in the mess hall, but you picked wrong in coming on to me if you expect that kind of eye-batting crap to win me over. I respect one thing. Honesty. Now let's go."
Honesty? Uh-oh. But since he would not find out her real name, no need to worry.
The grip of his hand on her elbow certainly didn't indicate any failing age. Besides, in her culture, women often married men far older. Age equated with wisdom, wealth, power. Safety.
Marriage?
That was the last thing on her mind. Never again did she want to be under anyone's control. Without question, marriage signified a loss of rights in any culture.
And she only had seconds left to persuade him to keep embassy officials uninvolved. "Do you not realize what will happen to me if it gets out that I attempted to defect? Word will leak, make no mistake, if you carry this to others. It always does. There are no secrets from the warlords here. There must be something I can do to earn your assistance. I have money."
Money spoke all languages. Every one of those hungry Rubistans shouting at the gate was a threat to her security here. Any of them would sell her out for a jug of water and a few slices of bread.
"Sheba—'' a rusty laugh scratched free and tickled her senses "—if you saw my paycheck, you'd know I'm not in this line of work for the money. None of us are."
Full fear bloomed. She'd been so certain of her plan. Her mind scrambled for a recovery, options, prepared answers to shield her connection to Ammar at all costs. "Please. If we keep this between the two of us, then if I am returned to my hell, at least I will be allowed to live."
His hand gentled on her elbow and his beautiful blue eyes filled with compassion. Relief rippled through her like the oasis near her childhood home. She had not been wrong. Others might be misled by the rugged exterior that housed this man's soul, but she saw his understanding of her pain, her fears, even if he did not fully know their root.
His shoulders braced, spread the uniform tight across a chest so broad surely no one could topple him. "There may be a host of reasons why we put on this uniform, but I can tell you it doesn't stand for lies or dishonor. You will be safe. You will be protected. And if it is truly your wish, you will receive asylum."
If it was truly her wish?
The oasis within her dried right up to reveal the cracked reality of her precarious position. She had been so preoccupied with the honesty in his eyes, she'd forgotten that wisdom could be a double-edged sword.
She searched for a suitable response, all the while wondering why she had not taken the easier route in opting for one of those naive young soldiers. Fast-approaching footsteps provided the perfect diversion, one she grasped with greedy hands, turning toward the noise.
Fate swiped her like a lion's paw.
From around the corner her sister appeared, nearing, a man in a flight suit at her side, the scowling male without a hint of softness in his eyes she had quickly sidestepped back in the dining hall. Fate was a fickle creature to bring Monica here now.
But then, fate had not been kind to her lately.
Monica, the oh-so-perfect one who would never have to resort to eyelash-batting or goat-roasting to maintain her safety, strode toward her with unflappable confidence. Unable to stop herself, Yasmine stepped back, hating the minute show of weakness. Yet she stepped again, flush against her blue-eyed soldier's rock-solid chest.
And she had thought his hands felt good.
Part of her wanted to leap forward before the heat of him scorched her further. Another part couldn't resist the temptation to burrow closer against his solid strength...
Oh, my.
And against his unmistakably steely arousal.
Jack sprawled in the unrelenting steel of the office chair and watched the interrogation under way. While Yasmine Halibiz, alias Bahijah Faris, might be the focus of the interview, he had a few questions himself for Monica later. But they would have to wait until his anger quieted to a dull roar.
He tried to wrap his brain around the facts. The diminutive Middle Eastern babe being interrogated by the counterintelligence contingent was Monica's sister. Half sister, anyway. The resemblance was there when he looked closer, same nose, same stubborn chin, the whole package a smaller, softer version of Monica's strong features.
And she hadn't bothered to tell him. Anger exploded in pockets of secondary blasts within him. He didn't get deep-down angry often. He was now. At himself as well as Monica because he couldn't escape the knowledge that he hadn't told her about Tina, either.
Monica was right. They really were screwed up in the relationship department.
It wasn't like they'd been so busy ha**ng s*x 24/7 that they never talked. Apparently they just hadn't discussed anything important. Now he was getting critical background information about his "wife" from a cold interrogation by the OSI.
The sparse office with a dirty window bounced echoes of voices and rustling papers, too many people packed in the contained space. Yasmine Halibiz sat on one side of the table, her sister beside her but not in any comforting-family-member sort of way. The two women never looked at each other, hadn't even touched beyond the stiff-as-hell hello in the hall. Nothing like effusive reunions in the Korba clan that left a person with aching ribs from all the hugs.