As much as he ached to have Monica, some days he wasn't sure he wanted to be with a woman he had to fight every step of the way. Love had been so damned easy with Tina. Simply there. Uncomplicated.

Still, here he was, unable to walk away.

The part of him that had been gut punched over the image of Monica with a bullet in her belly wanted to shake her up, make her just as out of control as he felt. A damned selfish wish when he'd just spent the past ten minutes calming her down.

He needed to get the hell out of her room before he lost precious ground by thinking with his Johnson instead of his brain. Keep strategy in place and remember this woman did not respond well to being chased. He wanted more than just sex from her this time—or nothing at all.

He dropped the sack of cotton balls. "Enough talking for one day. You need sleep and so do I. I'm outta here."

Jack started for the door. Monica's hand shot out, gripped his arm, stopping him. He pivoted, his brain only giving him a one-second warning that Monica intended to kiss him.

Yasmine clicked the door closed to her "closet room." No footsteps retreated. Her military escort stayed outside, as ordered. A guard should make her feel more secure. Being in the compound should make her feel safer.

It didn't. Nothing would as long as Ammar stayed alive.

She whipped the scarf from her head, folded it into her bag with the others she always kept with her. Her splashes of color in a dark world.

All of two steps took her to her cot. She unrolled the sleeping bag, wafting free a scent she was quickly coming to identify as musty military. If only Monica had not been deployed here. She'd scoured the rosters Ammar had pilfered from his embassy mole and nowhere had she seen Monica's name. At least she would have stood a chance appealing to Sydney, not that she'd heard from her in a year.

Monica wouldn't have landed herself in this mess. But then if Monica's glances at the scary-faced, hairy Major were anything to judge by, Monica wasn't getting everything she wanted these days, either.

Yasmine flopped back onto the bed—nothing like her luxurious room growing up, but a fair sight better than her recent accommodations. Persistence sometimes beat brains. Monica might be smarter, but Yasmine knew she had grown stronger, more determined.

Reaching the States would help. Ammar feared entering the U.S. since his capture during his last trip there. His escape had not been easy.

If only it had been fatal.

Ruminating accomplished nothing, however. She was stuck with the here and now—and getting out of Rubistan before anyone discovered her distant relation to a known terrorist.

They were right to distrust her. She was not overly certain she could withstand the pressure Ammar might exert on her to obtain his will. She had almost forgotten what it felt like not to be afraid— until that brief moment when she'd stared into sky-blue eyes and fear faded.

Only the eyes, the man, remained.

Rising to sit on the edge, she pulled the pins from her twisted bun, one at a time placing them in her lap until her hair slithered halfway down her back. Air brushed through the strands, over her head in a sensuous glide heightened by the fact that no one had touched her with even familial affection in so long.

Except when the Colonel had touched her. And the sensation rivaled the glorious freedom of fresh air against her uncovered scalp.

A day ago she would have been content with the closet. Now she did not want to stay here. She did not want to be shuffled off to security personnel with eyes she could not trust. She wanted Colonel Cullen's protection.

And he wanted her. Her knowledge of male-female relationships had been limited, but she knew enough so that one brush against him told her he desired her.

Yet he confused her, too. Most men would have exploited the attraction. He seemed repelled by it because of the silly age factor, unlucky for her when she had been given to believe all American males coveted a—what was it called?—trophy wife. Not that she was looking to be a wife. She had her own plans for a career and life in the States, not as lofty as her doctor-soldier sister. But solid plans.

Once she got the hell out of Rubistan.

What should have been a help—the Colonel's attraction—would actually be a hindrance. Having been reminded what it felt like to be free of fear, she couldn't let him slip away just yet. Simple enough to circumvent his concerns, because she did not intend to be shuffled aside. Ditching a few military security personnel would be simple enough after a year of evading Ammar's spies.

If Ammar came hunting for her, she fully intended to have Colonel Cullen at her side. And to achieve that, she needed to plaster herself to his side.

Monica froze. What the hell was she thinking, plastering her mouth to Jack's?

But, oh my, it felt so good. So right. Even just a simple thank-you kiss thickened her blood to syrup in her veins. Their attraction had never been in question and this quick lip-lock proved it. A lip-lock getting longer by the moment.

He gripped her shoulders. Yes. More. Have him take control, then she wouldn't need to think or choose.

Jack moved her away, their lips holding until the last...second. No, her body cried at the loss.

His fingers dug into her skin. "Monica, you're giving me whiplash here. What the hell was that for?"

Maple syrup. Definitely maple, still pulsing need through her veins and into her brain until rational thought slowed and emotions overflowed. " Froot Loops."

"What?"

"Because you gave me a beautiful Froot Loop story even though I gave you half-truths about my family. I should have told you about Yasmine, but I didn't. And I'm truly sorry. I know you're still mad at me, and you have reason. Still, you came in here to check up on me."

His hands slid down her arms in a caress soon to end. Indecision drifted through his eyes, rare for Jack, as if he wanted to say something more. His fingers hooked on hers held.

Whatever he'd been thinking about saying blew away from his expression. "Ah, hell."

He jerked her forward. Not that she put up any resistance. Their mouths met, open and hungry and so very familiar with just the right slant, taste and stroke to bring instant arousal. Her hands took their time exploring every inch of muscled shoulders until she looped her arms around his neck and held on before her knees became as weak as her will around this man.

She knew this was wrong and that she would regret it later, but with her emotions in chaos, the reliability of passion with Jack brought comfort. Her face stung with the bittersweet abrasion of his sandpaper beard against her tender skin.

Temporary forgetfulness rode the surge of nerve-tingling pleasure from her br**sts against unyielding chest, his erection hard against her stomach. Nerves and heat throbbed, gathered lower until Monica backed toward her cot, one step, two with Jack's saunter rolling his h*ps against her in a sensuous promise. She let her knees fold, not too difficult at all. Jack's arms held her upright.

Her eyes fluttered open as she eased her mouth from his. "I thought you said you wanted me if I wanted you. Well, you can be sure I want you very much right now."

His hands slid up her arms to her locked grip behind his neck. In spite of her whimper of denial, he untwined her hold on him. "I'll probably kick myself later. But as tempting as it is to take you up on your offer, I wasn't talking about wanting this from you."

Something so deep and sad shifted in his chocolate-brown eyes that she ached to cup his bristly jaw in comfort. Started to do just that when he lifted her hands in his.

He kissed her closed fingers before releasing her. "Don't forget to lock up after me."

The door clicked closed behind him, and without the support of his shoulders beneath her hands, her knees finally gave way. She sagged to the edge of her cot, rattled to her roots by how much she still wanted him, and not just on a sexual level, but for foot rubs and Froot Loops.

And he'd walked out on her.

She'd been ready and more than willing to give him everything, and still he'd left. Her conscience niggled with the reminder she wasn't giving him everything. Just her body, and that hadn't worked for them in the months past.

God, she was too tired and confused to sort through it all. She fell back, head on her pillow and stared through the cleared circle on her windowpane. Her sister waited out there. She needed to focus on that, couldn't deal with anything more. So she watched the sun climb on the same horizon her sister watched, and tried to pretend the connection held something more than a surreal television-screen quality.

Inside the C-17 mobile command post, Blake Gardner stared at the screen filled with black-and-white satellite feed from a recent flight of the Predator unmanned spy drone shooting images of the terrorist camp. He watched for Sydney to appear. Had seen the same footage countless times and still his heart drummed in his chest.

The inactivity of this waiting game was killing him. He'd chosen the Navy, specifically the SEALs, for his branch of service because he'd never been able to sit idle for ten seconds since childhood. A trait that worked well for him when growing up on his uncle's farm.

But it bit right now. While his work as a SEAL often put him into play early in any joint military action, there was no way around the teeth-grinding wait this time.

He folded a fresh piece of gum into his mouth right on top of the old one and chewed out his frustration with spearmint rather than the nicotine buzz he used to get from dipping. After thirty-six hours' more planning at this godforsaken air base, they would finally launch into the next phase, bringing him that much closer to where Sydney waited for rescue. Waited for him?

A low hum of activity circled around him even though he stayed silent. Flatbed pallets down the center track of the cargo hold carried all the high-tech computer systems of any bunker command center.

Colonel Cullen clipped through last-minute questions for Korba's crew, calling for counterintelligence affirmations from OSI Agent Max Keagan and ADVON leader Captain Baker. They'd worked most of the night, would finish up soon, then sleep through the rest of the day for their night flight.

Sydney had to know he wouldn't leave her in there. If he'd needed to infiltrate alone, he would have done it for her. But he understood enough about his job and his fellow team buddies to know. This was better. Even if the extra wait was killing him, slowly, each day a whittling knife-swipe against his soul.

Not much longer. The HAHO—high altitude, high opening—drop with oxygen masks would allow them to maneuver their glide for nearly an hour over the gulf waters into the area around the coastal training camp. Then two more days to recon for additional intelligence before the rescue and Ranger drop.

The image focused on the portion of the compound where the NGO hostages were allowed out once a day. Studying their schedule was critical. He stopped breathing, knowing what the screen would show... now.

Three figures were escorted into the small fenced-in patch of sand. One man. Two women.

Cutting-edge technology from the Predator fed in a digital image as clear as any television screen. Yet even if it had been the less-detailed satellite images, he would have known in his gut which one was Sydney. The same gut that had carried him through ops in the bowels of Baghdad—missions she and he had bitterly disagreed on.

Guilt turned him into a pummeled workout bag. He should have fought harder at talking her out of coming here. Except he couldn't talk her out of her job, her calling, any more than she could talk him out of his. They both had the same goal. Peace. And two diametrically opposed ideologies on how to get there.

He'd given up on a second chance at building the family with Sydney that neither of them had ever had growing up. But he sure as hell wasn't giving up on her.

Blake leaned closer on his forearms, wanting like hell to crawl through the screen to get her. Even knowing it was old footage he'd memorized didn't stop him from looking again, like staring at her framed photo that once perched on his dresser beside the picture of his uncle who'd taken him in as a teen after his parents died.

Again he studied her hunched posture. Arms wrapped around her waist? The now-familiar twist closed his throat, just as powerful as the first time he'd seen the satellite feed. She wasn't a woman easily bowed. What pain was she hiding?

The image faded to static.

A discreet cough pulled him back to the cavernous belly of the plane. Too many eyes pinned him with a sympathy he didn't want. Couldn't handle.

Colonel Cullen rose from his seat. "One last point before we break for chow." His controlled, quiet tones rumbled with authority on a roll. "It hasn't escaped my notice that this mission is rife with conflict of interest. Now, I let this slide because you all happen to be the best available for the mission."

The Colonel's steely gaze swept Korba, Baker. Him. Of course the Colonel couldn't argue that this Afghanistan-seasoned SEAL platoon from Virginia was anything but the number-one choice.

"But if I find any of you allowing your personal agendas to risk the life of even one of my men, I will smack you down so hard and so fast, your children will be born dizzy." The steady stare of a commander held the air captive for five seconds. "Is that understood?"

Blake nodded without checking to see if the others did, as well. He couldn't risk anyone finding

something in his eyes. He had a few contingency plans of his own, but since his life would be the only one at risk, Colonel Cullen had nothing to worry about.

Chapter 7

Drew was worried.

Clanking down the side hatch steps of the C-17 mobile command unit, he blinked back the glare of the sun and gnawing frustration. There were too many agendas running on this airfield for his comfort level. And still, even without those outside elements, he would have chosen exactly this joint team for the mission.

If only they could keep personal issues clear of the battlefield.

He would have to trust what twenty years of service hammered into him. Training assumed control of a soldier in combat. It had to.

M-16 on his shoulder weighing with welcome familiarity, Drew cleared the last step onto the heated tarmac, the gritty breeze barely broken by the smattering of palm trees. Only April and the place was already roasting like the inside of an oven. The stretch of cracked cement sizzled with activity. A few feet away, a loadmaster supervised the tie-down of food and medical supplies into a C-17 scheduled to land in a rural community. A contingent of Rangers would meet up with the IFB aid workers to disperse the rations—his men wearing different patches on their uniforms to keep their other mission covert.

Would Yasmine Halibiz notice the overabundance of troops?

God knows the woman seemed to be all over everywhere. Everywhere being right under his feet. His nose. Right in front of his eyes with that tempting smile of hers every time he turned around.