Anything, Anywhere, Anytime (Wingmen Warriors 6)

Then his shoulders fell. With a sigh that sounded more like a snarl of self-disgust, he turned back. "What's wrong?"

"Don't put yourself out on my account," she couldn't resist muttering.

"Mon, I'm in a shitty mood. Doesn't happen often, but that's how it is tonight. So if you have something else to say, spill it now before I turn into a really surly son of a bitch."

Kind of felt like he was halfway there already.

Her arms fell back to her sides. "Why do I feel like such a grown-up tattletale?''

He leaned so close she thought for a moment he might kiss her. Instead his face blanked of emotion. "It's all about the Froot Loops, babe. And how the past has a helluva way of coming right back to cut us off at the knees when we least expect it."

Jack strode three paces past her to open the door to her quarters and waited for her to step inside. Standing in her gaping doorway, she watched Jack pivot, disappear into his room.

Babe. Pushing her away. Leaving her alone. But wasn't that what she'd asked for over the past months? For Jack to leave her be and quit pushing her to give more because she wasn't ready. She wasn't sure. She didn't trust her judgment around a man who scrambled her brains until she couldn't think. And without her reason, what was she?

Alone.

Her mama's voice whispered in the vented air wafting down the empty hall. Watch out what you wish for, sugar. You might just get it.

Life seemed to be granting her wishes in double doses these days.

Yasmine tipped her face to absorb the warmth of the midday sun, strolling across the cracked cement, ever aware of not one but both of her latest escorts. Crusty and his OSI friend walked a discreet but undeniable distance behind her.

She had wanted safety. Too bad neither of them was the escort she preferred. She was not sure whether to blame the Colonel because of their chat in the hangar the day before. Or if the escorts came due to Monica and their late-night run-in. Either way, she couldn't breathe even with a wide expanse of uninterrupted desert stretching in front of her.

Refusing to allow anyone to destroy her brief respite from the steaming kitchen, she resolved to soak up every remaining moment of what could be her final days in her homeland. Not that she actually had to work anymore according to the intelligence persons. But she was afraid of stirring talk among any of the other hired locals in case one might be spying for Ammar.

She shuddered in spite of the heat. No question, leaving this place was the right thing to do, but still an odd homesickness already tore at her soul. There was much to love about Rubistan, rich in ancient heritage and stark beauty.

Unlike the sweltering kitchen. Ugh! A detestable place.

Adjusting the drape of her favorite rose scarf, Yasmine stole a covert peek at the OSI officer with Crusty. Intelligence officers in her country certainly never looked like this man. Other intelligence personnel visiting her country either wore suits or, in more informal settings like this, wore khakis with a nondescript shirt. This man paired his pants with a shirt in outrageous colors, lime-green today, as if he did not mind drawing attention to himself. With his sun-bleached, spiked hair he looked more like a beach boy than an operative.

Excellent disguise. She could take lessons from him.

Her feet carried her farther, toward the buzz of voices. Toward one voice in particular she tried to tell herself she did not recognize right up until the moment the man came into sight.

Colonel Cullen's closeness back in the hangar had left her off balance. Surely if she watched him from a distance that would not be so obvious. And truth be told, she did not know if she was ready for another such conversation with him.

She had expected to trust him. She had not expected to like the sound of his voice. The rasp of his wit. The touch of his hands.

Did he sense her presence as she did his? She certainly could not tell from his attitude. He didn't even glance her way while he talked to his fellow officers.

Irritation itched more than her air-dried dress. Surely the clothing washed in harsh detergent and dried over a chair in her room had to be the reason her skin suddenly chafed, oversensitive to each brush of fabric.

She stopped. Two pairs of feet behind her stopped, as well.

How ridiculous to pretend they were not there. Why not speak to them? Yes, they could sit here in the sun and talk. Nothing wrong with that, even if it happened to be close to where a certain rugged colonel met with his men.

"Gentlemen?" she called over her shoulder.

She could almost hear their confusion. She stifled a laugh. "Come walk with me and save yourselves the trouble of trying to keep up."

"No trouble, ma'am," Crusty answered, ambling forward, the ever-present wrinkles in his flight suit rippling as he walked. "No trouble at all."

Because she had not tried to make trouble. She may not have been able to lose them, but most definitely could have made them work.

However, her survival instincts recognized these men were not to be toyed with. As much as she told herself they would not resort to painful measures to subdue her, she was not willing to take the risk she might be wrong.