Dutch studied the woman sitting on the other side of the private plane that would take them from Bagram Airfield back to the States. She’d changed so much since the first day he met her. She was harder, as though someone had rubbed at her skin until it turned into the thick layer she’d need to protect herself both from the bad guys of the world and from men like himself.
She’d said little since he’d raced in, grabbed her after shooting the man who’d had a gun to her head, and carried her to the waiting transport vehicle.
At first he thought she was in shock, but the only symptoms she exhibited were anxiety and restlessness. She didn’t appear either cool and clammy, or to be breathing abnormally. There was no sign of confusion, just out-and-out anger.
“Malin, it’s time for us to—”
“Go to hell, Dutch,” she spat, refusing to turn her head.
“You could be a little more
appreciative, given I saved your ass. You know Orlov was going to kill you.”
She folded her arms and looked out the plane’s window so he could only see the back of her head.
“You understand that, right? Your options were to leave your body here on earth while your soul climbed the stairway to heaven, or be here with me. I’d say you went with the better of the two.”
“I didn’t make the decision, Dutch. You made it for me.”
“When would dying be a better option, sweetheart?”
He saw her flinch.
“You can’t hate me that much.”
Malin shook her head and turned to look at him. “I was in the middle of a mission. One that I’ve been working for months.” Her eyes bored into his. “You blew it up.”
“Either way, the mission would’ve ended. The only two possible outcomes after that were you dead or alive.”
“Orlov wouldn’t have killed me,” she said, turning away from him again.
“How can you be so certain? Word we got from the agency was that your in was to act as a trainer for the Islamic State’s female recruits. Tell me, Starling, how did Orlov figure into that?”
“Don’t call me Starling, and I just know he wouldn’t have killed me,” she responded, side-stepping everything else he’d said.
Dutch knew she’d detested the code name since it was given to her by someone above Dutch’s head at the CIA. He had never been told who it was.
“All I’m saying is it doesn’t add up.”
She didn’t act like she was listening, so he got up, walked over, and sat in the seat next to her.
“I’m sorry about your op, but I’m not sorry you’re safe.” He leaned close enough that their arms touched.
She didn’t pull away, and there was plenty of room that she could have.
“Malin, baby, look at me.”
She shook her head again. “I can’t do this again, Dutch. Even if you have no respect for me as an agent, please muster up enough for me as a woman to leave me the hell alone.”
There was no reason for him to ask what she meant by respecting her as a woman. He’d done exactly the opposite when he walked away from her all those months ago. More than just walking away—he’d chosen another woman over her.
That same woman would soon be married to his best friend, and there were no two people who belonged together more than they did.
—:—
Why did he have to sit next to her? Didn’t he remember how her body responded to him? How could he have possibly forgotten?
They didn’t even need to touch. If Dutch merely looked at her, she’d melt into a pool of whomever the man wanted her to be in that moment—agent, friend, lover—whatever he wanted, whatever he needed, whomever he needed, Malin was powerless to do anything but give it to him.