LITMIR.BIZ

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to one Hector Lukoski. The son of a known terrorist with Syrian ties, Lukoski was trying to make a name for himself apart from his father. Well trained in defensive measures, he had an underground hideout. The team had confirmed that there was only one way in or out, and had it covered. But short of blowing his lair up around him, they were forced to lay siege and wait. No action would be taken until new orders were issued, at least twelve hours from now.

      He tapped a few keys to signal that the message was received.

      Alexia wasn’t going to like the news.

      Nor, he remembered, was he supposed to tell her.

      The message was in code, so she wouldn’t have to know. Wouldn’t have to worry. His brain raced, pulling together a plan. He’d make her some hot chocolate, dim the lights and talk her into going to sleep.

      It wasn’t a very elaborate plan, but sometimes simple was best.

      “What’s going on?” she asked.

      “Just a weather report,” he said, tapping the screen. “It looks like it’s going to snow.”

      “Ha-ha.” Giving him a narrow look, she got stiffly to her feet and, after taking a second to bend in half and touch her toes, she crossed to the bank of radios and monitors and peered at the message.

      “A weather report? Seriously?”

      “SOP is to check in every two hours. A weather report is a simple message to use. If it was somehow intercepted, it says nothing. And it’s always good to know the weather.”

      He couldn’t tell if she was buying it or not. That was the trouble with Alexia. Half the time, she was an open book, easy to read and ready to share. The other half made him feel like an untrained schoolboy trying to talk to his first girl. Clueless and inept.

      “Well, at least the navy has a handle on the weather,” she finally said.

      His shoulders relaxed and he let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He didn’t want her worrying. Which would be fine if it was because her worrying would make the mission more difficult. But he knew that wasn’t why. It was because he hated the idea of her suffering in any way.

      Cade was right. He had a problem.

      “Ready for some hot chocolate?” he asked, doing what he always did when faced with a problem. Taking it down one step at a time.

      “Sure.” She glanced at the now-blank screen again, then followed him over to take her seat at the table. “Can I help? It seems like you’re always cooking for me.”

      That’s because with the exception of the field rations they’d just had, he’d ended up eating a bit of every meal off her naked body.

      Don’t go there, he warned himself. His imagination didn’t listen, though. As he heated the water to mix with powdered milk, his brain threw out a dozen or so images of the way Alexia had looked covered in plum jelly. Or in cream sauce. Or in soapy bubbles that slid, slow and thick, down her bare breast. The tip beaded in pouting delight, just waiting for his tongue.

      “Shit,” he muttered, shaking the splash of hot water off his hand. Focus, dammit. He removed the pot of boiling water from the burner, dumped the white powder in and stirred.

      “You’re making a mess,” Alexia said, tilted almost sideways in her chair so she could see what he was doing. “Are you sure I can’t help?”

      Blake looked down at the table. The burner was sizzling with specks of watery milk. Powder pooled around the pot like mounds of snow. He’d stirred so hard that the back of his hand looked as if he had white freckles.

      “Here,” he said, pushing the pot, spoon and chocolate powder toward her. “Have at it.”

      Needing to move, wishing for action—any action that didn’t involve Alexia’s naked body—he strode over to the monitors to check the display, then to the tent flap, pulling down the pseudocurtain and looking out.

      It was still white.

      Go figure.

      “Did you want some?”

      Some of her? Oh, yeah.

      “No. Thanks,” he added, trying to soften the bark. He glanced back to see she’d poured half the mixture into a tin cup. She held up the pot, looking at him questioningly.

      He really needed to get a grip. This was just an adrenaline-induced loss of control, combined with seeing someone he’d been obsessing over. No big deal.

      Time for phase two of his plan. Get her the hell to sleep.

      He crossed the tent, reaching for the pot. Their fingers brushed. He wanted more. He was desperate to touch her again. Even if it was only her fingertips or her hair. He still had dreams about that hair. She’d brushed it back into some twisting rope, the red glowing in the soft lamplight. He remembered the feel of her hair in his hands, trailing down his body. The silky feel, the sweet scent.

      In an instant, he went from soldier to man.

      Horny, turned on and ready to rock, man.

      “How is it?” he asked, his voice a little hoarse.

      “Surprisingly good.” She sipped again, then arched one brow. “Are you sure you won’t have some?”

      “I’m still full from dinner,” he said. And desperate for more space than the small tent allowed. “But you must be exhausted. Why don’t you finish your drink, then try to get some rest.”

      “I was hoping we could chat.” Her smile was sweetly mischievous, making Blake want to howl and beat on something. She was supposed to be overwrought. Not cute, dammit. He’d never had to fight off all these sexual and emotional needs while he was on duty before. And couldn’t say he was liking the new experience much.

      “Chat? About what?” he asked.

      “I thought we’d talk about why you were assigned this mission. If hand-holding isn’t your usual thing, then what is?”

      “I’m the radioman. Communications, languages, they’re my usual things.”

      “That’s kind of funny,” she said in a tone that didn’t sound as if she was enjoying the humor. She stared into her cup for a second, then met his eyes. “We’re both communications specialists.”

      She stopped there, as if she were standing against the door between now and then and wasn’t sure she wanted to open it.

      “And you think we didn’t communicate,” he said, figuring they had to step through the door sooner or later.

      “You think we did?” she asked.

      Her tone wasn’t challenging. It was simply curious. He wondered if she’d burned through her supply of negative emotions. He’d seen it before. It was like watching someone hit rock bottom, so they operated in an emotional vacuum. It wouldn’t last. But as chickenshit as it was, he sure hoped they were picked up before she tapped into a new supply.

      He hesitated before responding, though. There was a good chance she still had plenty of mad tucked away in there. And despite his wanting distance between them, this was a damn small tent to be sharing with a pissed-off woman. Still, he could only answer honestly.

      “I thought we communicated just fine. We were focused on one thing, and we got our wants and needs across to each other pretty damn well.”

      Something flared in her dark eyes. Interest. Heat. A dangerous curiosity. Blake braced himself. But as quick as it’d flamed, she banked it. With short, deliberate moves, she set the cup on the table and got to her feet.

      “It just hit me how exhausted I am. I’m going to go ahead and sleep.”

      He didn’t let the relief pour in until she’d climbed onto the cot, still fully clothed, and covered herself with the thermal blanket. To help her along, he dimmed all the lights.

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