"Which brings me to why we are having this conversation."
"Well, thank you, Lord, at least the woman has a reason for tormenting the hell out of me."
"I torment you?" Her dimples deepened with an old-as-time Eve feminine confidence.
Contagious like a rash. "I don't have time to play tour guide for you."
There. That sounded logical.
Yasmine-Eve just kept smiling her sage womanly smile. "These feelings you have for me are not a problem since I am not after a green card. I don't need a tour guide, either, only your protection until I leave here."
Great. He had the hots for her and she didn't give a damn about more than the M-16 over his shoulder. "This is supposed to reassure me how, Sheba?"
Eve evaporated into something more like a miffed kid with a rejected gift. "I thought you might be concerned that I would take advantage of your...reaction to my closeness."
Back to that reaction issue again. Damn. And just when he thought his fly buttons might get a reprieve from being strained to the limit around this woman.
Girl, he reminded himself. She was just a girl. Nineteen damned years younger than him and a refugee under his command. Must be some midlife crisis when he no-shit thought he wasn't upset about the grandparent thing. Other than regretting he'd never felt like a parent first.
Some men combated middle age with a sports car. Others, with women. Damn but he hated being so cliche as to lust after a nymphet, and would have sworn he wasn't the type.
He wasn't a monk, but he chose his lovers selectively. Mature women his age, women focused on their careers and in search of companionship with mutual physical release tossed into the mix.
Yasmine's hands fluttered up to her scarf again, resecuring the drape over her shoulder with butterfly grace. Still he could see the tip of her widow's peak, just a hint. More than enough since he was long past the adolescent days of ogling overt displays.
Age taught a man to appreciate the understated nuances of pleasure. The sensuality in the glide of a woman's hands as she touched silk. The beauty in the subtle suggestion of her hair begging to be revealed.
Good God, he was in a shitload of trouble here.
No, it wasn't a simple midlife crisis. More like temporary insanity and he intended to recapture his grip on reality. Starting now.
He leaned down, nose to nose, and stared straight into her eyes while ignoring the silken hint of hair inches above. "Little girl, do you not realize I am a colonel in the United States Army? I have served combat in more conflicts than you have years. I have stared down the barrel of enemy rifles and pulled my own to shoot before being shot. I am the man in charge of your fate and yet you keep right on with this campaign of yours that you have to know is guaranteed to... Piss. Me. Off."
Yasmine stared back, unflinching as he unleashed tones that made even hardened warriors wet their pants. Damn, but he could use her cool under fire in his regiment.
She blinked slowly, a glimpse of Eve returning with wisdom beyond the young woman's years. "So why have you never called for one of those military police persons to take me back to my quarters?"
Huh?
He stood with his boots planted and his brain on stun. He wondered for a second if his M-16 had slid from his shoulder and shot him in the foot. Because sure as hell, pop, he was busted. And busted meant dead in his world.
This woman was dangerous for more reasons than he ever could have guessed.
She backed away toward the gaping hangar opening, taking all the air with her. "No need to call for them now. I will leave."
With a sweep of her arms, she twirled toward the tarmac with more of that subtle grace he didn't want to appreciate but now couldn't deny. She stepped out of the dim enclosure. Sunlight glinted on retreating daisies, declaring him almost in the homestretch.
Then Yasmine paused, glanced over her shoulder, a glimpse of vulnerability teasing through her poise. "Although I have to confess I am pleased you can not quite subdue your reaction to me. It would be a very sad thing for me to think only one of us was suffering from this attraction."
Waiting for Jack before his flight, Monica felt as transparent as a teenager loitering by the quarterback's locker.
Or worse yet, like her mother. Ruled by hormones and lacking in common sense when it came to men.
The life-support area bustled with activity from Rodeo and Tag picking up equipment before flight. A small back office that opened onto the flight line, the room was now jam-packed full of helmets and gear for the fliers.
Guilt stung Monica yet again. She should be focused on Sydney. Yet what was wrong with needing to see Jack before he took off to drop the SEALs? She just wanted an update without others listening in. For all his insistence that he intended to stay close to her, time alone together had sure been scarce since she'd thrown herself at him a day and a half ago.
Monica fingered the survival vests hanging from hooks alongside shelves of helmets. Rodeo smiled, nodded, but didn't initiate conversation as he and seasoned loadmaster Tag preflighted their helmets and NVGs. Thank God. She wasn't up to crew dog ribbing tonight.