Let this desperate lady find another mark. And when she did, he'd have no choice but to boot her out so they could all rest easier.
He debated whether to get her name now when speaking might encourage her outrageous behavior. Or to find her name himself through the intel contact.
And then she moved. "Pardon me, sir."
She tucked to the side again to pass him after all.
Irritation nipped his ego. Hell's bells, he'd been pitched into the reject heap with Santuci, Korba and Washington. He shook off the notion. Damned ridiculous when he was too old for someone like her, anyway. With any luck, the woman was just looking for the latrines and was too scared or embarrassed to ask.
Air whispered, smoky, soapy, spicy, as she passed. Her cool hand brushed his, twisted that gut awareness into a painful knot worse than taking a bullet. Shit. Shoulder to shoulder again, she hesitated long enough to slide her hand in his.
She squeezed.
Then she was gone. So fast that even with battle-honed reflexes he didn't have time to react. Damned if he wasn't standing stunned stupid like some teenage boy after his first peek at a dirty magazine.
The woman may have left, but the brand of her cool touch stayed. He tamped down an unwelcome heat pumping through him with a very mature ferocity bearing no resemblance to horny teenage hormones. He clenched his fingers to strangle away the feel of her hand there. Closed his fist around...
A piece of paper?
The slip crumpled, crackled in his grip. He'd received—and ignored—room numbers scrawled on napkins before, but this wasn't some dive bar in Bangkok. His fingers unfurled. The paper mushroomed open like an exploding bomb. Fragmented lines became bold handwriting, words without a room number in sight.
Help me. I seek asylum in the United States.
Jack figured ambushing Monica would work best.
Lounging against the mess hall wall, he waited for her to nab her meal tray and pick her seat. A wall of windows baked the room with unrelenting rays that trickled a fresh layer of sweat over his body. His shower would have to wait.
She would just have to put up with his presence like they agreed in their deal. And maybe he wanted to look at her. Talk to her. He'd missed her these past months.
His own damn fault.
He could almost hear his father chuckling, followed by a thump on the back for his son who'd landed in trouble. Nothing like your priestly brother, are you, my boy?
His father didn't mean it as an insult or a compliment. There were just clearly defined roles in his family. Tony was the good kid. Jack was the wild one. And each, in his own way, was supposed to look out for their two sisters. Tony, with morality checks. Jack, by kicking ass.
Monica peeled off from the chow line and strode toward an empty end of a table, far from people and conversation.
Too bad, Mon. Pushing away from the corner, Jack dusted the flaking plaster off his arm and plowed through the clutch of personnel dumping trays and grabbing extra water bottles on their way out.
He dropped into the chair beside Monica. "Everything go okay with the vaccines?"
Smooth, Romeo. Damn, but he could use a little of Tony's sensitive oratory skills at the moment.
She startled. "Jesus, Jack. You sure do know how to sneak up on a person."
Not half as stealthy as that little number who'd almost hit on him a couple of minutes ago. But one Korba scowl worthy of his old man woken up from a nap had sent the local flirt-bunny scuttling in the other direction. Just what he needed, Monica wigging out over some imagined encounter. "Still wanna spank me?"
That earned him a smile. Ooh-rah.
"Too exhausted." She moved her spoon from her bowl to her mouth in automated rhythm.
Silence settled, uncomfortable when once they could have sat beside each other for hours without talking. Four months ago he would have followed her to her room, tugged her boots off and rubbed her feet. She always thought he was doing her some big damned favor. Little did she know how much those pretty feet of hers turned him on. The rest of her was so tough, but her feet were soft. Slim. Delicate bones and arches masked by combat boots.
The contrast yanked him inside out even now.
Maybe it also had something to do with the fact that he'd finally, found the one thing she needed from him. Call him a knuckle-dragger, but if he wasn't kicking ass for a woman, he wasn't sure of his role.
"Monica?" a masculine voice rumbled above the din of diners and clanking dishes.