A damned pissed innocent woman. "Have I overstepped, Colonel Cullen? Silly me, but I thought since you had your tongue in my mouth a few moments ago, it would be all right for me to know your name."
God, she made his head hurt. And turned him on all at the same time.
She folded her hands in her lap, a prim contrast to her lips still full from kisses stirring a whole new host of fantasies.
"Having your name does not equate with some grand commitment. I realize that while you are attracted to me, Colonel, you are not interested in anything more. Territory well covered and understood. And of course you also believe we have nothing in common because of our differing ages and cultures, and you are too honorable to offer a fling."
The buzzing in his ears quieted. Was she propositioning him? If so, her blush at a simple word like "fling" made "flinging" with her even more out of the question. Although flinging her on her back was a mighty damned enticing prospect.
With his hand clenching around her scarf still in his fist, he focused on her blush instead of her words.
"But even if nothing more happens, we did kiss." Her all-out smile tipped her mouth and his world. "Quite wonderfully at that. And after we have left here, I would like to know your name when I think of this moment."
Her words trickled through with images of her reliving what they'd done because it moved her, as well. The woman might be innocent, but she was a seductress with simplicity. Like the understated allure of her scarves hiding her hair. Damn but she got to him.
"Drew. My name is Drew."
He waited for her to say it, prepped himself for the inevitable impact of hearing his name softened by her lightly accented voice.
Instead she watched him, chewed her bottom lip. "Would it upset you or break some sort of rule that would send you running if I say your given name aloud?"
"You make me sound mighty damned wimpy."
Yasmine slipped her fingers through the waterfall drape of her scarf trailing from his hand, twined it around her wrist, linking them without touching. She tugged. "Wimpy? I think not."
She was playing him. He could feel it with every stroke to his masculine ego, and still she made him smile.
"When have you ever sought permission or followed my orders, Sheba?" he asked, as close as he could come to telling her that hell, yes, he wanted her to say his name. The higher he climbed in the ranks the less often he heard his given name and right now he wanted to hear it on her lips more than he wanted a regular bed and a real U.S. of A. meal.
"Thank you for following me instead of sending the spiky-haired intelligence officer who only answers in grunts." She looped the scarf tighter around her wrist until their hands met, held. "You are a sensitive man, Drew Cullen."
Oh, yeah, good thing he'd prepped because his name sure as shit sounded good coming out of her mouth. Then her words smoked into his mind. "Sensitive?"
Her smile turned downright wicked. "In a completely non-wimpy sort of way."
He laughed, which broadened her smile, which made him smile again, too. Which sobered him. "I'll think about you, too, after I leave this place. You make quite an impression on a man, Yasmine." He allowed himself to say her name and even let it hang in the air between them for an extra second. "If things were different..."
"If-onlys are a waste of time once a choice has been made, and you have obviously already made yours." Her eyes pinned him as she lobbed the verbal grenade.
One he couldn't afford to touch.
At his silence, she untwined their fingers he hadn't even realized were still linked. "You may leave my room now, Colonel."
Not Drew. Colonel. And already he regretted that he wouldn't hear her say his name again. "I'll have someone stationed outside your quarters shortly."
He turned his back and left, closing the door behind him. She'd told him clearly enough that she wanted him, too, and didn't want marriage. Good God, most men would jump at the no-strings opportunity. What the hell was wrong with him?
Must be sleep deprivation screwing with his brain or he wouldn't even consider turning the knob on her door for round two. He needed to get the hell out. Check on his men. Then land on his cot for some shut-eye before he did something irrevocable.
Drew stepped away from the door, his hands fisting at his sides. Closing around something in an odd deja vu moment from when he'd first found her note in his hand.
This time, his fingers closed around rose silk he'd somehow forgotten to give back.
Taking in Monica's tight-lipped smile as she fielded another "tiara" joke from the crew dogs, Jack could tell she'd hit her limit. Sure she was holding her own with the fliers. She'd saved face after the hissing match with her sister, even if Monica would spend the rest of her career with the call sign "Tiara'' now that Hippocrates had been overturned. But he could see the strain on her face after months of stress from Sydney's capture, a drunken wedding. An impending divorce.
The Yasmine confrontation had been the spat that broke the camel's back. Which cinched it for him regarding whether or not to tell her about the stoning ordeal. The last thing she needed was anything else to worry about. Odds indicated it wasn't Sydney, anyway, and he didn't intend to worry Monica until they had firmer intel on the incident. He flipped the wireless e-mailer clipped to his web belt again to check for an update on Sydney and...
Nothing. Shit.