"Twenty bucks says you can't get that good-lookin' woman
to come over to our table and have a beer with us,"
Staff Sargeant Neal Robles challenged.
Captain Gavin Jackson, leader of a ten-man Special Forces
team, squinted in the semidarkness of the officers'
club—a tent on the most dangerous border in the world:
between Afghanistan and Pakistan. It was the last day of
their two weeks of rest between month-long assignments in
the field. Tomorrow, they'd be back out in the badlands
border area hunting Taliban. Gavin sat with his nine men.
The pitcher of frothy cold beer in front of them went quickly.
The woman in question had just entered the spacious tent,
catching the attention of every man in the room. She was
about five foot eight, with short, curly black hair framing
an oval face and high cheekbones. She was olive-skinned with
light gold eyes. Then there was her killer mouth that Gavin
wanted to capture and kiss. The frumpy green one-piece
flight uniform that told him she was a pilot couldn't hide
her assets. Curvy in all the right places. Gavin felt his
body harden with desire.
He didn't know why. His relationship with another woman army
pilot had crashed and burned a year ago. Gavin had sworn off
women for now and women army pilots forever. Squirming in
his seat, the wooden chair creaking, he shrugged as Neal
Robles grinned like a wolf over the dare.
"Why her?" Gavin grunted, lifting the cold mug of
beer to his lips.
Robles's dark brown eyes gleamed as he whispered, "She's
hot, Cap'n."
"She's the
only female in here," Gavin
drawled. Indeed, the huge dark green canvas tent was packed
with men— A teams coming in for a well-deserved rest,
logistics, pilots or mechanics to support their missions.
Women pilots were few, but they did exist. Automatically,
Gavin rubbed his chest in memory of Laurie Braverman, the
U.S. Army CH-47 Chinook driver that he'd fallen in love
with. They'd broken up because of their mutual inability to
compromise. A war of egos had eventually destroyed their
relationship.
"She might be the only one," Robles asserted,
"but you gotta admit, Cap'n, she's something."
Robles looked at the other enlisted men around the table,
all of whom bobbed in unison to agree with his observation.
Tugging on his recently trimmed beard, Gavin gave them an
amused look. His team knew about his hard luck with Laurie,
especially since he'd been a growly old bear for a month
after their spectacular parting. "You know," he
said, "it's damned hard enough to survive the border
villages. Now, you want to collectively throw me at
another driver?"
Driver was a common slang expression for any pilot
whether they flew fixed-wing aircraft or helicopters.
Laughter rippled through his team. Gavin was fiercely
protective of his men. They'd been together over here nearly
a year, and they were tighter than a set of fleas on a mangy
Afghan dog. He wanted to bring all of them back off this
tour alive so they could go home to their families. He had
visited the base barber this morning, got a wonderful hot
shower, a trim, clean clothes and joined his men at the
canteen tent. Although they were in the U.S. Army, their
clothes were decidedly Afghani. With their beards, wearing
their wool
pakols, or caps, they melted into the
mountainous area less a target as a result of their
wardrobe. They all wore the traditional turban. The loose,
comfortable-fitting top with long sleeves had pajamalike
trousers of the same color, and the traditional wool vests
were worn over it.
"Naw, she doesn't look like she's a man-eater like the
last one you tangled with," Robles said. The table broke
out in collective laughter once again. More beer was poured.
A bartender came over and delivered another pitcher of cold
beer, the froth foaming up and over of the top.
Gavin couldn't disagree and his gaze wandered to the woman
leaning up against the makeshift bar and ordering a cup of
coffee, not beer. She was probably on duty, Gavin assumed.
He watched her hands. They were long, narrow and
beautiful-looking. No wedding ring. But then, what did that
mean? Nothing, because military combatants were forbidden to
wear jewelry of any kind. So, she could be married.
Frowning, Gavin felt his assistant CO, Dave Hansen, give his
right shoulder a nudge.
"Go on, Gavin," he said in his slow Texas drawl,
"she looks pretty docile. Invite her over. We'd all like
the company of a good-lookin' woman to remind us of what's
waiting for us at home. We're harmless. Just tell her we're
voyeurs."
Gavin scowled at his team. "Since when are you willing
to throw me to the lions? Don't I treat you right out
there?"
Guffaws broke out and Gavin couldn't help grinning. They all
desperately needed a little fun. The border country was
violent and lethal. They'd spent thirty days in the
mountains hunting out pockets of Taliban in caves. Not that
the local villages along the border ever cooperated. Most of
them were terrorized by the Taliban. And the tribal people
had been forgotten by the government in Kabul decades ago.
Out there, Gavin knew, no fiercely independent Afghan could
be trusted once your back was turned on them. They'd just as
soon put a bullet between your shoulder blades as look at
you because of what the Taliban had done to them. Gavin's
team had had several firefights with the Taliban on their
last mission. If not for the Apache helo drivers coming in
with heavy fire support, they wouldn't be here enjoying this
beer with one another.
Gavin sat up and sighed. He knew his men needed a reprieve
from their deadly work. They all had PTSD symptoms. Why not
waltz up to this gal and ask her to join them?
"Okay," he growled at them, "I'll go throw
myself on her mercy for the likes of all of you and see what
she says."
The men clapped and cheered as Gavin stood up. He smoothed
down his vest and adjusted the thick leather belt around his
waist that carried a dagger and a pistol. Out in the field,
he'd have body armor on, but not now. He adjusted the dark
brown wool
pakol on his head. To anyone seeing
these men riding up on their tough mountain-bred ponies,
they looked like a group of Afghan men. Of course, here in
the canteen tent, they were out of place, but everyone on
base knew Special Forces A teams dressed like Afghans.
Giving his group a wink, Gavin said, "Okay, men, keep it
down while I work some magic." They all nodded solemnly,
lifted their glasses of beer and beamed excitedly like
little children waiting for Christmas to arrive. Gavin shook
his head and walked across the creaking plywood floor toward
the bar. He noticed that although men were hanging around
the bar, all of them gave the woman pilot some room to
breathe. Not that they weren't looking at her. But none made
a move on her. Why? They were support and logistics men and
worked in the camp, so they might know something about this
woman pilot he didn't.
Coming to the bar, Gavin stood about two feet away from her.
The scalding look she gave him with those lion-gold eyes
surprised him. He was clean, for once. He didn't smell of
sweat and fear. His black hair and beard were neatly trimmed
and combed. Maybe she didn't like A teams or Afghans, Gavin
decided. The way her full mouth thinned, her hands tense
around the white ceramic mug of coffee, told him everything.
She really didn't want this intrusion into her space.
"I'm Captain Gavin Jackson," he said, pushing aside
his fear of rejection. He looked at the upper arm of her
green flight suit. "We've never seen a patch with a
black cat on it. I was wondering what squadron you're
with." That was a safe icebreaker, Gavin thought.
Nike Alexander, at twenty-six, did not want any male
attention. Just a year ago, she'd lost Antonio, an officer
in the Peruvian Army who had died in a vicious firefight
with cocaine dealers. She glared icily at the man, who was
decidedly handsome despite his rugged appearance. "I'm
with the Black Jaguar Squadron 60," she snapped.
"I've been out here on the front nearly a year. I've
never seen this patch. Is this a new squadron?" Gavin
opted for something simpler than trying to get this
good-looking woman to come over to their table for a beer.
He was frantically searching for ways to defuse her tension.
Shrugging, Nike lifted the coffee to her lips, took a sip
and then said, "We're basically Apache pilots in an
all-woman flight program. We got here three weeks ago."
"Oh." Gavin didn't know what to think about that.
"All women?"
Nike's mouth twitched. "We're black ops." His thick,
straight brows raised with surprise. While it was true there
were women pilots in combat, no women-only squadrons
existed. "We're top secret to the rest of the world.
Here at camp, they know what we do," she added to ward
off questions she saw in his large blue eyes.
Under other circumstances, Nike would be interested in this
warrior. Clearly, he was an A-team leader. She knew these
brave and hardy Special Forces teams were on the front
lines, finding Taliban and stopping their incursion into
Afghanistan's space. His hands were large, square and
roughened by work and the forces of the weather.
"Ah, black ops," Gavin murmured. He saw the wariness
in her gold eyes. "You're new?"
"I arrived a week ago."
"Welcome aboard," he said, holding out his hand
toward her. This time, he was sincere. Anyone who flew the
border risked their lives every time they lifted off from
this secret base.
Looking at his proffered hand and then up at him, Nike
couldn't help herself and slid her hand into his. He grinned
like a little boy given a Christmas gift. Despite the neatly
trimmed beard that gave his square face a dangerous look, he
seemed happy to meet her. Well, they were both in the army
and that meant something. Her flesh tingled as his fingers
wrapped gently around hers. She admired his deeply sunburned
face, laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. A wild,
unexpected surge of excitement coursed through Nike. What
was
that all about? Why was her heart pounding? She
broke the contact and pulled her hand away.
Oh, he was eye candy, there was no doubt. The boyish,
crooked grin made him even more devastatingly handsome, Nike
decided.
"What's your name?" Gavin asked. He forced his hands
off the bar, unexpectedly touching her olive-tone skin. The
brief contact sent crazy tingles up and down his arm. The
close proximity to this woman intoxicated him in quite
another way. Gavin fully realized he was more than a little
tipsy from the beer he and his team had been guzzling. But
he was still alert, still fixated on this new person of
interest.
"I'm Captain Nike Alexander," she informed him in a
clipped and wary tone. She'd just arrived with her squadron
from the USA and wanted to focus only on the mission before
them. As an all-woman squadron they had a lot to
prove—again. They'd done it in Peru, now it would be
here. She didn't want to tangle with some sex-hungry A-team
leader who hadn't seen a woman in God knew how long. Still,
a secret part of her wondered what Gavin would look like
without that beard. Not that he wasn't handsome with it;
maybe she was just more interested than she cared to admit.
"Nike," he murmured, rolling the name around on his
tongue. "That's different." He squinted and gave her
a mea-sur ing look. "Are you…American?" Her
husky voice had a trace of an accent. When she frowned, he
knew he'd asked the wrong question.
"I was born in Athens, Greece, Captain. I was invited
from my country to train and work for the U.S. Army."
She turned and showed the American flag on the left shoulder
of her uniform.
"Greek." That made sense, although he'd said it as
if he were stunned by the information. Seeing the
frustration in her large, clear gold eyes, Gavin asked,
"Wasn't Nike a goddess in Greek myths?"
"She still is," Nike said in a flat tone. "I was
named after her."
"I see." Gavin stood there, his brows dipping.
"So, you're part of a black ops, you're a female pilot
and you're from Greece." Brightening, he shared a look
with her, his smile crooked. "That makes you a pretty
rare specimen out here in our back country."
"You're making me feel like a bug under a microscope,
Captain. Why don't you mosey back to your team. I'm not
interested in anything but my mission here."
Her tone was low and dismissive.
Gavin kept his smile friendly and tried to appear neutral
and not the leering, sexually hungry male he really was. It
was now or never. "Speaking of that, Captain Alexander,
we were wondering if you might not come and join us? My boys
and I are going back for thirty more days in the bush
tomorrow morning. We'd enjoy your company."
Easing into a standing position, Nike glanced over at the
table. Nine other bearded men in Afghan dress looked
hopefully in her direction. English-speaking women who were
not Moslem were a rarity in this country. Of course they'd
want her company. "Captain, I'm not the USO.
And I'm not for sale at any price. If you want female
entertainment I suggest you find it somewhere else."
Ouch. Gavin scowled. "Just a beer, Captain. Or,
we'll buy you another cup of coffee. That's all. Nothing
else." He held up both his hands. "Honest."
"I appreciate the offer," Nike said. She pulled out
a few coins from her pocket and put them on the bar next to
the drained cup of coffee. "But I must respectfully
decline, Captain." She turned and marched out of the tent.
"That went well," Gavin said, his grin wide and
silly-looking as she exited. He walked over to his men, who
looked defeated.
"You crashed and burned," Robles groaned.
Jackson poured himself another glass of beer. "She's got
other fish to fry." He said it as lightly as he could.
The men nodded and nursed their beers.
At twenty-eight, Gavin understood that a little fun and
laughter was good medicine for his men. Silently, he thanked
Nike Alexander for her decision. What would it have been
like to have her come over and sit with them? It would have
lifted their collective spirits. They were starving for some
feminine attention. Oh, she probably realized this, but
didn't get that his invitation was truly harmless. Gavin had
seen a lot of sensitivity in her face and read it in her
eyes. However, she was protective, if not a little defensive
about sharing that side. He couldn't blame her.
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