It didn't. Nothing would as long as Ammar stayed alive.
She whipped the scarf from her head, folded it into her bag with the others she always kept with her. Her splashes of color in a dark world.
All of two steps took her to her cot. She unrolled the sleeping bag, wafting free a scent she was quickly coming to identify as musty military. If only Monica had not been deployed here. She'd scoured the rosters Ammar had pilfered from his embassy mole and nowhere had she seen Monica's name. At least she would have stood a chance appealing to Sydney, not that she'd heard from her in a year.
Monica wouldn't have landed herself in this mess. But then if Monica's glances at the scary-faced, hairy Major were anything to judge by, Monica wasn't getting everything she wanted these days, either.
Yasmine flopped back onto the bed—nothing like her luxurious room growing up, but a fair sight better than her recent accommodations. Persistence sometimes beat brains. Monica might be smarter, but Yasmine knew she had grown stronger, more determined.
Reaching the States would help. Ammar feared entering the U.S. since his capture during his last trip there. His escape had not been easy.
If only it had been fatal.
Ruminating accomplished nothing, however. She was stuck with the here and now—and getting out of Rubistan before anyone discovered her distant relation to a known terrorist.
They were right to distrust her. She was not overly certain she could withstand the pressure Ammar might exert on her to obtain his will. She had almost forgotten what it felt like not to be afraid— until that brief moment when she'd stared into sky-blue eyes and fear faded.
Only the eyes, the man, remained.
Rising to sit on the edge, she pulled the pins from her twisted bun, one at a time placing them in her lap until her hair slithered halfway down her back. Air brushed through the strands, over her head in a sensuous glide heightened by the fact that no one had touched her with even familial affection in so long.
Except when the Colonel had touched her. And the sensation rivaled the glorious freedom of fresh air against her uncovered scalp.
A day ago she would have been content with the closet. Now she did not want to stay here. She did not want to be shuffled off to security personnel with eyes she could not trust. She wanted Colonel Cullen's protection.
And he wanted her. Her knowledge of male-female relationships had been limited, but she knew enough so that one brush against him told her he desired her.
Yet he confused her, too. Most men would have exploited the attraction. He seemed repelled by it because of the silly age factor, unlucky for her when she had been given to believe all American males coveted a—what was it called?—trophy wife. Not that she was looking to be a wife. She had her own plans for a career and life in the States, not as lofty as her doctor-soldier sister. But solid plans.
Once she got the hell out of Rubistan.
What should have been a help—the Colonel's attraction—would actually be a hindrance. Having been reminded what it felt like to be free of fear, she couldn't let him slip away just yet. Simple enough to circumvent his concerns, because she did not intend to be shuffled aside. Ditching a few military security personnel would be simple enough after a year of evading Ammar's spies.
If Ammar came hunting for her, she fully intended to have Colonel Cullen at her side. And to achieve that, she needed to plaster herself to his side.
Monica froze. What the hell was she thinking, plastering her mouth to Jack's?
But, oh my, it felt so good. So right. Even just a simple thank-you kiss thickened her blood to syrup in her veins. Their attraction had never been in question and this quick lip-lock proved it. A lip-lock getting longer by the moment.
He gripped her shoulders. Yes. More. Have him take control, then she wouldn't need to think or choose.
Jack moved her away, their lips holding until the last...second. No, her body cried at the loss.
His fingers dug into her skin. "Monica, you're giving me whiplash here. What the hell was that for?"
Maple syrup. Definitely maple, still pulsing need through her veins and into her brain until rational thought slowed and emotions overflowed. " Froot Loops."
"What?"
"Because you gave me a beautiful Froot Loop story even though I gave you half-truths about my family. I should have told you about Yasmine, but I didn't. And I'm truly sorry. I know you're still mad at me, and you have reason. Still, you came in here to check up on me."
His hands slid down her arms in a caress soon to end. Indecision drifted through his eyes, rare for Jack, as if he wanted to say something more. His fingers hooked on hers held.
Whatever he'd been thinking about saying blew away from his expression. "Ah, hell."
He jerked her forward. Not that she put up any resistance. Their mouths met, open and hungry and so very familiar with just the right slant, taste and stroke to bring instant arousal. Her hands took their time exploring every inch of muscled shoulders until she looped her arms around his neck and held on before her knees became as weak as her will around this man.
She knew this was wrong and that she would regret it later, but with her emotions in chaos, the reliability of passion with Jack brought comfort. Her face stung with the bittersweet abrasion of his sandpaper beard against her tender skin.