She dances on the edge of life...and death

Not all are meant to walk in the light. Marine Corps Sergeant Khat Shinwari lives among the shadows of the rocky Afghani hills, a Shadow Warrior by name and by nature. She works alone, undercover and undetected—until a small team of US Navy SEALs are set upon by the Taliban…and Khat is forced to disobey orders to save their lives.

To go rogue.

Now, hidden deep in the hills with injured SEAL Michael Tarik in her care, Khat learns that he’s more than just a sailor. In him, she sees something of herself and of what she could be. Now duty faces off against the raw, overwhelming attraction she has for Mike. And she must decide between the safety of the shadows…and risking everything by stepping into the light.

Praise for Lindsay McKenna

“A treasure of a book…highly recommended reading that everyone will enjoy and learn from.”

—Chief Michael Jaco, US Navy SEAL, retired, on Breaking Point

“McKenna’s latest is an intriguing tale…a unique twist on the romance novel, and one that’s sure to please.”

—RT Book Reviews on Dangerous Prey

“McKenna’s military experience shines through in this moving tale…. McKenna (High Country Rebel) skillfully takes readers on an emotional journey into modern warfare and two people’s hearts.”

—Publishers Weekly on Down Range

“Gunfire, emotions, suspense, tension and sexuality abound in this fast-paced, absorbing novel.”

—Affaire de Coeur on Wild Woman

“Another masterpiece.”

—Affaire de Coeur on Enemy Mine

“Emotionally charged…riveting and deeply touching.”

—RT Book Reviews on Firstborn

“Ms. McKenna brings readers along for a fabulous odyssey in which complex characters experience the danger, passion and beauty of the mystical jungle.”

—RT Book Reviews on Man of Passion

“Readers will find this addition to the Shadow Warriors series full of intensity and action-packed romance. There is great chemistry between the characters and tremendous realism, making Breaking Point a great read.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Lindsay McKenna will have you flying with the daring and deadly women pilots who risk their lives….Buckle in for the ride of your life.”

—Writers Unlimited on Heart of Stone

Taking Fire

Lindsay McKenna

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To Abe Koniarsky, one of my many male readers.

He’s a hero to me, having served during WWII.

Thank you for your service, Abe.

You’re a wonderful role model for all of us!

Dear Reader,

Taking Fire is a military term which means the position you are protecting is taking enemy fire. In other words, you are being attacked. Sergeant Khatereh Shinwari, US Marine Corps sniper, was born in the USA. Her father was from Afghanistan. Her mother is an American. Growing up, her father infused her with his strong moral code of always being loyal to one’s village, one’s tribe, taking care of the young and the old. That was her duty. Khat took her duties to heart.

For five years, Khat is a fierce protector of her tribe and the villages where her relatives live. She is deep black ops, a part of the Shadow Warriors, and she thwarts the Hill tribe from murdering her people with her brave acts of courage. Riding her black mare in the dead of night or during dangerous daylight hours, she becomes the greatest thorn to the Hill tribe and the Taliban.

She lives alone in the caves of the Hindu Kush, until one evening, while setting up a sniper op on thirty Taliban below her, she spots a four-man SEAL team coming up the slope. They are unaware that the enemy is setting up an ambush to kill them. Khat intercedes, gives the SEALs a warning, taking down her enemy with her Win-Mag sniper rifle. When one SEAL is blown into a wadi by an RPG, the other three are able to retreat and escape.

Khat thinks the SEAL is dead and quickly rides down into the wadi to find his body. Her whole life changes when she finds Petty Officer Michael Tarik wounded but alive. As she rescues him, takes him to her hideout, she’s powerfully drawn to the man with the gold-brown eyes.

Whether Khat admits it or not, they are destined and bound to one another. Both their hearts are under fire. Will Khat decide to stay in Afghanistan to continue to protect her family, her tribe? Or will she heed the call of the tender love that Mike offers her instead, and go back to America with him?

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Table of Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Dear Reader

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE SEAL TEAM BELOW, where Marine Corps Sergeant Khatereh Shinwari hid in her sniper hide, was in danger. The June sun was almost setting in the Hindu Kush mountains of Afghanistan. Khat made a slow, sweeping turn to the right with her .300 Win Mag rifle along the rocky scree slope. She spotted fifteen Taliban waiting behind boulders to jump the four-man SEAL team climbing up the nine-thousand-foot slope.

Lips thinning, Khat watched the inevitable. She knew the team was looking for Sattar Khogani, the Hill tribe chieftain who was wreaking hell on earth to the Shinwari tribe. Her tribe. Her blood.

Pulling the satellite phone toward her, she punched in some numbers, waiting for her SEAL handler, Commander Jim Hutton, from J-bad, Jalalabad, to answer.

“Dover Actual.”

“Archangel Actual.” Khat spoke quietly, apprising Hutton of the escalating situation. She shot the GPS, giving the coordinates of where the SEALs were located and where the Taliban waited to ambush them. She asked if Apache helos were available.

No.

An A-10 Warthog slumming in the area?

No.

A C-130 ghost ship?

No.

A damned B-52 on racetrack?

No. All flight assets were tied up with a major engagement to the east, near J-bad.

“What the hell can you give me, Dover?”

Khat was only a Marine Corps staff sergeant, and her handler, a navy commander, but she didn’t give a damn at this point. Four good men were going to die on that scree slope really soon.

“No joy,” Hutton ground back.

“You’re going to lose four SEALs,” she snapped back in a whisper, watching through her Nightforce scope. “Do you want another Operation Redwings?”

She knew that would sting him. Four brave SEALs had walked into a Taliban trap of two hundred. They were completely outmatched and without any type of support because their radio failed, and they couldn’t call for backup help.

It had been one of the major reasons she’d gotten into her black ops activity and become involved. Khat didn’t want any more fine men murdered because a drone wasn’t available, or a satellite, or a friggin’ Apache combat helicopter.

More men had died that night when a hastily assembled QRF, Quick Reaction Force, was finally strung together out of J-bad. The MH-47 Chinook had taken an RPG, rocket-propelled grenade, into it, and it had crashed, killing all sixteen on board. More lives were wasted. She had cried for days after it happened, unable to imagine the tragedy inflicted upon the families involved. None of their husbands, brothers or fathers were coming home.

It can’t happen again. She wouldn’t allow it. Khat knew without a sat phone, radio calls into this area were DOA, dead on arrival. The radio call would never be heard. She wasn’t sure the leader of the patrol had one on him.

“There are no assets available.”

“You said this team is out of Camp Bravo?”

“Affirmative. I’m initiating a QRF from Bagram. But it will take an hour for them to arrive on scene.”

“What about a QRF from Camp Bravo?” Khat wanted to scream at this guy to get off his ass and get involved. Sometimes she wondered why they’d given her Hutton. He was a very conservative black ops handler. She wished she still had Commander Timothy Skelling, but he’d just rotated Stateside. Hutton reminded her of a slug; as if he didn’t know what to do quickly, when pressed.

“I’m calling them, too. They can be on scene, providing they aren’t already engaged elsewhere, in thirty minutes.”

“Roger,” she said, her voice hardening. “Get a call patched through to that platoon and warn them.” Like fucking yesterday. She felt her rage rising. It always did in situations like this. She didn’t want to lose Americans.

“I’ve sent a call over to Chief Mac McCutcheon of Delta Platoon.”

“I’m waiting five minutes,” Khat growled. “If I don’t see that team stop and hunker down for an incoming call from Bravo, I’m engaging. The least I can do is warn off the SEALs, and they’ll take appropriate action.”

Shifting her scope, she saw more of Khogani’s men sneaking up on the other side of the ridge. There had to be twenty of the enemy in all. Smaller boys with the Taliban group held the reins of the horses far below the slope. Sweat ran down her temples, the heat at this time of day unbearable.

“Archangel, you are not authorized to engage. Repeat. Do not engage. Your duty is to observe only. Over.”

She cursed Hutton in her mind. “Roger, Dover Actual. Out.” She hated Hutton’s heavy, snarling voice. All they did was spar with one another. To hell with him.

Khat wasn’t about to take on thirty or so Taliban with one sniper rifle. But she could fire some shots before the muzzle fire from her rifle was seen by the Taliban. They would be fourteen-hundred-yard shots, and she set up to take out at least two or three of the hidden tangos. A .300 Win Mag didn’t have a muzzle suppressor. Khat knew she could become instant toast when the sharp-eyed enemy spotted her location.

In the back of her mind as she checked elevation and windage, she knew Hutton would get a QRF up and pronto, if one was available. A quick reaction force would be needed because she knew Khogani’s men would attack these four SEALs. Camp Bravo, a forward operating base, sat about thirty miles from the Af-Pak border, near where she was presently operating.

She knew SEALs carried the fight to the enemy, but sometimes it was wiser to back off and wait another day. Frustration thrummed through Khat.

Settling the rifle butt deeply into her right shoulder, her cheek pressed hard against the fiberglass stock, she placed one of the Taliban in the crosshairs. They were in a rocky stronghold waiting to spring the trap on the unsuspecting SEALs. Khat wished she could contact the team directly. She didn’t have their radio code because it changed daily. And that’s what she’d have to have in order to call that lead SEAL and warn him of the impending ambush.

The SEAL patrol members were all carrying heavily packed rucks and wearing Kevlar vests and helmets, which meant they were going to engage in a direct-action mission. Usually, she saw some patrols with SEALs wearing black baseball caps, or field hats, their radio mics near their mouths and carrying light kits, making swift progress toward some objective in the night.

Not this patrol. These guys were armed to the teeth. The lead SEAL’s H-gear, a harness that held fifteen pockets worn around the man’s chest and waist, held a maximum load of mags, magazines, of M-4 rifle ammo where he could easily reach it. These guys knew they were going into a firefight. But in broad daylight? Who authorized that kind of crazy mission? SEALs worked in the dark of night to avoid being seen by the enemy. It was rare they would be out on a daylight mission. What a FUBAR. Whoever put this op together was crazy.

Taking a deep breath, prone on her belly, she was glad she had on a Kevlar vest so she wouldn’t have small stones biting deeply into the front of her chest. She had a 24X magnification on her Nightforce scope and could clearly see in the late-afternoon sunlight the man she’d chosen to kill. Glancing at her watch, she had two minutes before those five minutes were up. Hutton had better damn well have gotten his SEAL ass in gear.

The sun’s slant was changing. Khat patiently watched her target. Every once in a while, she’d twist her head, glancing toward the SEALs slowly making their way up the steep slope. They blended in, but the Taliban had sharp eyes like her.

Two minutes.

Nothing from Hutton.

Nostrils flaring, Khat settled the scope on the nearest man holding an RPG casually over his shoulder. There were seven tangos in total who had RPGs. That was more than enough to kill these four SEALs. And they were a hundred feet of being in range of them. Slowing her breathing, she sighted, her finger brushing the two-pound trigger. Exhaling, she allowed her lungs to empty naturally. There was a one-second beat between inhale and exhale. The snipers referred to it as the still-point. And that is when she took the shot.

The booming sound of the .300 blasted through the silence. The jerk of the rifle rippled through her entire body. Khat instantly shot again. And a third time. She released the spent mag and slapped in another with the butt of her palm. All the Taliban targets went down. Jerking her rifle around, scope on the SEALs, she saw them instantly flatten out against the rocks. They were looking in her direction! Damn it!

She didn’t have to wait long. RPGs launched, even if out of range, toward the SEALs. Khat swung the scope toward the Taliban. A number of them were angrily pointing her way. Yeah, they had her location. But she was fourteen hundred yards out of range, and those SEALs were four hundred yards from the enemy. Were they going to send tangos after her or not? Her heart started a slow beat as she scoped the enemy. There was confusion among their ranks. They were yelling at each other.

And then her blood iced. There was Sattar Khogani, the young punk of twenty-four years who’d just taken over his father’s leadership as chief of the Hill Tribe. His father, Mustafa, had recently been killed by a SEAL sniper. She’d celebrated. Sattar was in the center of his commanders, too short to take a shot at.

There were a lot of arms and hands waving, and she could see his lieutenants yelling and pointing at the SEALs and some pointing in her direction. Who to go after? She was counting on that confusion among the enemy.

Smiling grimly, Khat settled down again, muzzle and sights on the Taliban. She heard the throaty answer of the SEALs M-4 rifles as they engaged, firing off careful shots at the Taliban hidden behind the walled, rocky fort.

Not waiting, she began to fire into the crowd of Taliban officers, picking them off. Her shoulder felt bruised after firing nine rounds, the buck of the Win Mag terrific. Below her, her hearing keyed on the SEALs, they continued to return fire, spread out in a diamond formation on the scree to protect their flanks.

The Taliban suddenly surged out of the fort, waving their AK-47s, firing wildly at the SEALs. The RPGs were launched.

Khat swung her rifle, sighting on the closest man, taking him out before he could lob an RPG into the SEAL team. Damn! There were too many for her to stop! Cursing softly, she heard the RPGs explode. The pressure waves reached her, but she was spared, hunkered down a hair beneath the ridgeline.

Khat couldn’t look to see how the SEALs were doing. She was taking out the enemy systematically, one at a time. There were more than thirty of the enemy and it seemed more and more arrived, and they started realizing they were caught in a deadly crossfire.

Khat pulled out two more mags of three bullets each. She released the spent mag and slapped in the full mag, settling in, swiftly looking through her sites. She saw one man shoulder the RPG. She shot before he did. Sweat was rolling down her face, burning into her eyes, making her blink, her vision blurring momentarily. With a hiss, she remained focused, continuing to pick them off.

The Taliban grudgingly retreated.

Khat waited, taking a deep breath, watching them through the scope. Lifting her head, she checked down the slope at the SEALs. They were quickly retreating in diamond formation. Smart guys. Get the hell outta Dodge because you are way outnumbered, guys...

Wiping her face with the back of her cammie sleeve, she quickly focused on the stone fort. More hand waving and shouting among the Taliban officers. The group had just lost half its men. More fists waved angrily in the air.

Sattar was still surrounded, and she couldn’t draw a bead on him. Damn. She’d really like to take out the little bastard. Partial payment for what his sick monster father had done to so many innocent young boys and girls over his one-year reign as chief. He’d turned into a sex slave trader, and had so many young Afghan children kidnapped and sold across the border in Pakistan. She hated Mustafa, and she was sure his son was going to pick up where his sick sexual-predator father left off.

* * *

MIKE TARIK ORDERED his men to retreat. He’d made calls to Camp Bravo, finding out the QRF was out on another run in the opposite direction from where they were located. There were no flight assets available. Worse, no drone or satellite was available over their area to understand the field of battle.

They were essentially blind in the fog of war, and engaging a much larger force than was anticipated. And they were caught out in the open on the scree with no place to hide.

Breathing hard, he kept watch over the other three men that he had responsibility for. Their comms man, Ernie, couldn’t raise shit in this dead zone. The sat phone he had in his ruck had taken a bullet earlier. They were in a bad situation. The only thing they could do with the sun setting was retreat and then melt into the landscape of darkness and wait for pickup sometime later. They had to get off this scree ASAP.

Tarik heard a scream. Then more screams. He was playing rear guard to his men, higher on the slope than they were. Lifting his M-4, he saw at least fifteen Taliban charging them. Fuck!

He moved backward, slipped and fell among the rocks. Rolling, he managed to hang on to his rifle that was clipped to a harness across his shoulder and chest. He stopped his slide at the edge of the ridge, a hundred-foot drop into a wadi, or ravine, below.

Sighting, he began to slow fire, choosing his targets, remaining crouched. Again, he heard the booming sound of a Win Mag far above him. Who the hell was that? He wasn’t aware of any SEAL sniper assets in the area. Who, then? Whoever was firing was helping his team out a helluva lot. The sniper was giving them a chance to retreat.

Tarik heard the dreaded hollow thunk of an RPG being fired. He jerked a look up and saw the damn thing sailing lazily through the air—right at him. Cursing, he dived to the ground, the rocks biting and bruising him. He automatically put his hands behind his head, buried his face in the rocks, opened his mouth and waited. If he didn’t open his mouth, the blast pressure waves would make Jell-O out of his lungs, the air in his chest not equalizing with the air surrounding him.

The blast went off. The last thing he remembered was flying through the air.

* * *

KHAT JERKED IN a breath, watching the RPG explode, the SEAL tumbling out of the rock and dusty clouds, flung over the side of the ridge, disappearing into the wadi. Her heart banged in her throat, underscoring the terror she felt. She whipped her attention back to the Taliban soldiers running down the slope toward the other three SEALs.

Khat continued to fire, taking them from the back, their bodies flying forward five or six feet before crumpling into a heap. Was part of the group going after that SEAL that had been blown off the ridge? Not if she could help it, dropping the enemy who began to retreat beneath her withering fire.

Finally, Khat quit firing, the escaping SEALs and the Taliban out of her range. Leaping to her feet, she grabbed the rifle and trotted about a tenth of a mile down a narrow goat path. There, she’d have a better view of the slope down into the wadi. Halting, Khat hefted the rifle to her shoulder, and she looked through the scope, moving it from the top of the wadi, working downward.

Breathing slowly, she hoped to locate the SEAL. Doubting the man survived, it was her duty to find him, retrieve his body and then make a call to J-bad. Hutton probably couldn’t even cut loose a damned Medevac, he was such stickler for regulations.

Wait.

She steadied the scope, holding the rifle still in her arms. There! The body of the SEAL was just at the edge of the wadi. She saw his M-4 nearby. The light was getting bad. He still had his arms and legs. Was he breathing? She didn’t know. Looking up, Khat heard smatterings of fire rising from far below her between the SEALS and the Taliban. There was nothing else she could do to help the SEAL team. She’d done everything possible. But maybe she could rescue this SEAL in the wadi. No way did Khat want his body to fall into Taliban hands.

Turning, she slid down the hill where her black Arabian mare, Mina, was standing quietly below. Khat had tied her reins to a branch of a tree where she was hidden. The mare wore a Western saddle, something Khat had insisted on when she started working alone out here. She wasn’t about to ride one of those torturous Afghan wooden saddles. The Arabian mare’s fine small ears pricked up, her huge brown eyes watching her progress down the rocky hill.

“Good girl, Mina,” Khat whispered, leaping off the slope. She quickly slipped the Win Mag into the nylon sheath beneath her left stirrup. Picking up her ruck from beneath the tree, Khat shrugged the sixty-pound pack across her shoulders. She pulled her black baseball cap out of her lower cammie pocket and settled it on her head. Mounting, she urged the small horse into a trot, heading for a goat path that would lead them to the wadi.

By the time Khat located the SEAL, it was dusk. She had put on her NVGs, night vision goggles, and moved cautiously into the wadi, not wanting to make any noise. She knew Sattar Khogani had more men in the area. Taking no chances with the Hill tribe on patrol like a bunch of angry bees running around on the mountain, she wanted to remain the shadow she was. Her mare carefully picked her way through the trees, winding in and around them, her small hooves delicate and avoiding coming down on branches. If a branch snapped, it could alert the Taliban they were in the wadi.

Khat spotted the body of the SEAL. Half of him was still on the scree, the other half hanging down into the wadi. She dismounted, dropping the reins. Mina was trained to remain where she was.

Slipping out of the ruck, she set it quietly on the ground near the mare. Her heart picked up in beat. Was he dead? Injured? Or playing dead? If he was faking it and she came upon him, he could rip her throat out with a KA-BAR knife. SEALs were taught that they were never helpless. If a rifle or pistol wouldn’t do it, a knife sure as hell would.

Approaching cautiously, soundlessly, she had her NVGs on, the grainy green showing there was blood leaking out from beneath his Kevlar helmet and down his bearded cheek. With green filters on, Khat couldn’t see what color his flesh was. His mouth was open. He seemed unconscious. His one arm was hanging down into the wadi. She carefully reached out, placing two fingers on the inside of his thick wrist.

He didn’t move.

She felt his pulse. It was weak and thready.

He really was unconscious. Moving quickly, Khat pulled him into the wadi so no one could see him from the slope. Rolling him over, tipping his head back so he could breathe, she held her ear to his nose. His breath was shallow, but it was there.

Grimly, she realized she’d have to get that heavy ruck off him in order to get him on the horse. Kneeling, she pulled him toward her until his tall, lean body rested mostly against her knees. Pulling the straps apart, making no sound, the ruck slid off his back.

Next, his Kevlar helmet. It had a pair of NVGs on the rail. Fingers moving quickly beneath his chin, she released the strap. His blood was on her hands now. Gently as she could, Khat lifted the helmet away from his head. Grimacing, she saw his temple was nothing more than a huge clot of blood. Grade three concussion, for sure. But how bad? Her mind was already running over medical possibilities. He was out cold. She removed the heavy H-gear harness from around his chest, another thirty pounds of weight.

Khat left him on his back, trotted down the slope and picked up Mina’s reins. Leading the mare up beside the SEAL, she knew there was no way she could lift a hundred and eighty pounds of his dead weight and place him across the saddle.

“Down,” she told the mare, making a signal for the Arabian to lie down.

The mare bent her front knees and then lay down, all four legs beneath her.

“Good girl,” Khat whispered, patting her mare’s sweaty neck.

Now for the hard part. She hooked her hands beneath the SEAL’s armpits and hauled him forward. Grunting, she clenched her teeth, digging in the heels of her boots, inching him forward. Damn, he was heavy! Breathing hard, she got the SEAL close enough.

“Lie down,” she told the horse, giving her another hand signal.

Mina stretched out on her side, laying her head down near Khat’s feet.

Now it was easier hauling the SEAL over the saddle. Khat worried about her mare. She was on an incline, and she would be pulling herself into an upright position. Could she do it with someone this heavy?

“Sit up,” she whispered, signaling the mare. Khat watched the horse heave herself back into a sitting position, her legs beneath her body once more. Relieved, Khat moved quietly around the mare, coming to her head, picking up the reins in one hand and keeping her other hand on the unconscious SEAL’s body. She hoped he didn’t slip off when Mina lurched to her feet.

“Up!” she whispered.

Mina grunted, flinging out her front feet first. She shifted her weight to her rear, the muscles bunching, then shoved her hooves into the dirt and rock in one smooth motion to gain purchase. Khat felt more relief, holding the man in place so he didn’t accidentally slip off. The SEAL lay on his belly across the saddle. It wasn’t great that his injured head was hanging down, but she didn’t have the strength to haul him upright and hold him in the saddle. She hooked his ruck and harness over the horn of the saddle. Nothing could be left behind to indicate an American had been in this wadi.

Leaping up behind the saddle, Khat turned the horse around, and they started back up the goat path in the dark. Only the night winds, cold and howling from the north, were heard. Keeping her hearing keyed, Khat gripped the SEAL’s cammies to keep him from sliding off.

As they rose out of the wadi via the goat path, Khat saw the stars hanging so close she felt like she could reach out and touch them. Halting at the juncture of another goat path, she waited and listened. She hadn’t survived four years in the Hindu Kush by taking chances. Her hearing was extraordinary. No human voices. Chances were, the Taliban retreated back to that rock fort and were making tea and eating. Probably arguing like hell among one another for their major losses this evening. She grinned.

Once more on familiar territory, five miles down the slope, Khat guided her horse into a group of thick bushes and trees. The horse pushed through the vegetation, coming to a halt at the entrance to a large cave. Khat dismounted, walking in front of the mare, her hand on her .45 pistol. This was one of her safe caves, but she never, ever took for granted that the Taliban wouldn’t find it someday. Worse, make camp in it. The mare’s small feet moved through the fine silt dirt on the cave floor.

Turning to the right, Khat walked half a mile, went into another cave and through it. Her NVGs no longer worked when a cave was completely black. She halted, pulled them off her eyes, switched them off and reached into her cammie pocket. Flicking on a laser flashlight, the whole area lit up.

They were safe now, and she breathed a small sigh of relief. Making a few more turns, at least half a mile deep within the mountain, Khat finally came to the pool cave. She heard the musical sounds of the twenty-foot waterfall. Water. Even Mina picked up her pace. She was thirsty. So was Khat.

Once inside the last tunnel, she could see the small pool of water and the waterfall above it. Khat dropped Mina’s reins. Grabbing a kerosene lamp, she picked up a box of matches and lit it. The warm yellow glow highlighted a twenty-foot radius. Moving to the other side of the tunnel, she pulled out a sleeping bag and laid it out on the floor. Grabbing two other blankets, she quickly rolled them up. One for the SEAL’s neck and the other for beneath his knees. She grabbed her paramedic ruck, opening it up and placing it next to the sleeping bag. Pulling out a pair of latex gloves, she also retrieved a bottle of sterilized water.

Moving quickly to the SEAL, he was close enough that if she angled him just right, he might fall directly onto the sleeping bag.

Hooking him beneath the armpits, Khat pulled. He slid off a lot faster than she was prepared for, and she just about had him fall on her. Using her arms, Khat turned him over as his legs slid off the saddle. Breathing hard, she positioned him on the bedroll. By the time she got him on it, Khat was huffing.

For the first time, she got a good look at the SEAL. He had a square face, strong chin and a nose that looked like it had been broken at least once. She liked his mouth. Even unconscious, it was well shaped, the lower lip a little fuller than the upper one. His brows were straight across his well-spaced eyes.

Taking a battle dressing, she wet it and began to blot away the congealed blood at his temple. He had taken a terrific concussion wave from that RPG exploding so close to him.

For fifteen minutes, she cleaned the wound. There was swelling, but not massive, which was good. A cut at least two inches long was the culprit—a scalp wound, and they were notorious for heavy bleeding. In no time, Khat had the cut stitched up and closed. Rubbing antibiotic ointment on the dressing, she gently pressed it against the wound and wrapped gauze firmly around his head to keep it in place as well as clean.

Quickly, she started from his neck down to his feet, feeling, squeezing, gently moving his other joints to see if anything was broken. When she moved her hands to his lower forearm, even in unconsciousness, he jerked. Brows dipping, Khat used scissors to cut open his sleeve. Grimacing, she saw a bone pushing up. It had not come through his sun-darkened skin, but it was a bad break.

Turning to her medical bag, she pulled out a bottle of morphine and a syringe. The only thing to do was give him just enough morphine to dull the bone setting she would have to perform. With head injuries, morphine had to be used very carefully.

Cutting the sleeve to his shoulder, she pulled it open and administered the shot. Watching his face, she saw his features begin to relax as the morphine eased the pain in his arm.

Khat took a deep breath, one hand above the bone, near his elbow, the other below the break. This was going to hurt him like hell. She made two quick motions. He groaned, his brow wrinkling, the corners of his mouth pulling inward with pain.

“Sorry,” she whispered, seeing the bone was set. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. His face was darkly tanned and he had longish black hair. He almost looked Middle Eastern to her.

Shaking her head, Khat was exhausted, sure that her mind was playing tricks on her. Quickly splinting his lower arm, she wrapped it and then made a sling to hold it against his chest. She tied the ends of the cotton sling around his strong, thick neck.

Khat found no other injuries during her thorough examination, except a lot of bruises, swelling and scratches. She pulled off the latex gloves and threw them near the wall. First things first. She had to give him a shot of antibiotics. After giving it to him, she quickly cleaned up and put the medical ruck away.

Getting off her knees, she walked over to Mina who stood patiently watching, her ears flicking back and forth. Taking the sat phone, Khat had to make a call to J-bad and alert Hutton she had one of the SEALs in her care. She hoped she was in time so that no wife and parents of this man would get a call from a casualty officer, telling them that he was missing in action. Pushing a strand of red hair off her brow, she punched in the numbers.

Hutton came on the other end, and Khat told him what had happened. The best news was the other three SEALs were picked up down at the bottom of the slope an hour later by a Night Stalker helicopter. And Hutton was surprised to hear about her patient. Everyone thought he was missing in action.

“That’s Petty Officer First Class Michael Tarik,” he told her. “He was leading the team.”

“I rescued him out of a wadi. He’s unconscious. I’m hoping he’ll wake up pretty soon.” She chewed on her lower lip, watching him beneath the glow of the lantern. Even now, he looked hard. A warrior.

“Report in tomorrow morning. I hope he makes it. There’s no way we can drop a Medevac in there to pick him up. We just got a drone up, and that mountain you live on is crawling with Taliban. We’ve counted about a hundred so far, so keep a low profile.”

Khat snorted. “Don’t worry, I will. I’ll contact you tomorrow. Out.”

Walking back to her mare, she tucked the sat phone away in the huge leather saddle bag. “Come on, girl, your turn. I’ll bet you’re starving.” Khat led the mare to the other side of the tunnel, about ten feet away from where Tarik lay. She stripped the mare of her saddle, the SEALs gear, brought her a bucket of water, curried her and then retrieved a flake of alfalfa hay from a nearby room. She shut the gate because Mina would wander in there and eat herself into colic. Khat didn’t need one more emergency on her hands right now.

It was her turn. She grabbed her small towel, a washcloth and Afghan lye soap from a hole in the cave wall. She smelled of raw-fear sweat, and she could feel the grit of dirt chafing her flesh. Grabbing the kerosene lamp, some unscented shampoo, a comb and brush, she walked the fifty feet into the waterfall cave. She had fashioned a bench out of rocks with a piece of wooden plank across the top of it a long time ago. Laying her towel over it, she quickly stripped herself of boots and clothes. The water was going to be seventy-five degrees because that was the cave’s temperature.

Stepping into the sandy bottom of the small pool, the coolness felt wonderful against her hot, sweaty body. Closing her eyes for a moment, she pulled the rubber band out of her hair and allowed it to swing free. Soon she would be clean. This was one of the few perks of living in the Hindu Kush that she looked forward to. The light spread out, eventually graying at the edges as she moved into the clear green, waist-deep water beneath the waterfall.

Every once in a while, Khat would look in the direction of the SEAL to see if he was conscious yet or not. She hoped he would awaken. With head wounds, one never knew.

Tipping her head toward the falling water, she groaned with pleasure as the wetness soaked into her long, thick hair. In moments, it would be soaped up, the grit and dirt cleaned from her strands and scalp. This luxury didn’t happen often. Tonight was a special gift to her.

CHAPTER TWO

MIKE TARIK AWOKE SLOWLY, pain throbbing through his head, making him frown. His ears were ringing badly, and he fought to become conscious. What had happened? His mind felt unhinged as he struggled to fight the darkness. There was pain in his head and pain in his left arm. His mind focused on that, and he felt incredibly exhausted, unable to move.

It took him a good ten minutes before he could force open his eyes. A ceiling of what looked like a cave was above him, grayish and deeply shadowed. Licking his lips, dying of thirst, he tried moving his hands and feet to see how badly wounded he was.

The memory of an RPG sailing through the air finally grounded him into reality. Yeah, the ridge. His men? Panic settled in him for a moment. Where was his team? And where the hell was he?

Mike heard water running. The ringing in his ears would lower for a bit and then return to near normal volume. Knowing he’d been close enough to the explosion to pop both his eardrums, he wouldn’t be surprised if they were blown. He felt pain in his ears when he focused his concentration there. Vision blurring, he blinked several times. Wherever he was lying, there was something soft beneath him. He slowly moved his right hand, his dirty, sweaty fingers encountering something soft. Fabric.

Vision blurring again, he shut his eyes, concentrating and trying to figure out where the hell he was. He’d been on a scree slope, nothing but rocks. The RPG had been fired by a Taliban.

Opening his eyes, his vision cleared. His head throbbed with unremitting agony. It hurt even to blink his eyes. Moving his right hand, Mike encountered his left arm in a sling. A sling? He was in a cave. This wasn’t making sense to him. The sound of rushing water, like a small waterfall, caught his attention again. As much as it caused hellacious pain, he slowly moved his head to the left, toward the sound.

Tarik simply wasn’t prepared for what he saw. He had to be having some kind of hallucination. Or the wound he’d sustained to his head was playing tricks on him. His eyes narrowed. There, maybe fifty feet away, was a tall, naked woman beneath a waterfall. She was washing herself with a cloth, her face tipped up, water splashing around her head and shoulders.

He closed his eyes. No, this was his messed-up head. One didn’t find a naked, beautiful young woman under a waterfall in the Hindu Kush. No way...

His hearing returned briefly, and he heard the water again. Opening his eyes, he was sure the hallucination would be gone.

But it wasn’t. Mike watched, mesmerized as she walked slowly out of the pool, picked up the towel and began to dry her dark, very long hair. What the fuck is going on here? Closing his eyes, frustrated, Mike touched his head, his fingers running into a bandage around it. Exploring further, he felt a heavy dressing where the pain was originating from along his temple. He wasn’t in a Medevac. He wasn’t at Bravo’s dispensary, nor was he at Bagram hospital’s emergency room. He’d been to all those places at one time or another. The trickling sound, the music of water falling, surrounded him. This was all his imagination. His brain was scrambled.

Opening his eyes, he saw her. Again. He watched as she sat on a bench and combed her long, damp hair. Mike could see her very clearly. Her profile looked Afghan, a broad brow, strong nose, full mouth and a stubborn-looking chin. She was probably in her late twenties, maybe.

Every motion she made was graceful. Her skin had a golden sheen to it. The rest of her body was lean, glistening with water as she sat there and allowed the air to dry her. Her breasts were small, her hips flared. It was her long, long legs that caught his attention. Beautiful thighs, curved and firm.

Groaning, Tarik shut his eyes. He had to be hallucinating! That was all there was to it. The pain in his left arm nagged at him when he tried to move it. Not good. Lying there, breathing raggedly, mouth dry, he tried to get a hold on where the hell he was lying.

Opening his eyes, he watched her, finally convinced that she wasn’t an apparition. Or a ghost from his imagination. She was combing her hair, getting out the snarls in the long strands. When she was finished, she took the brush, taming the drying strands. Once, she turned her head away, and he saw her hair was a deep, rich red color. It glinted for just a second in the lamplight.

This was real. Friggin’ real. Mike felt as if he’d stepped into a Tim Burton movie, Alice in Wonderland. There was a sense of calm, of peacefulness where he lay. And then, his ringing ears caught another sound.

Munch, munch, munch.

Mike turned his head very slowly to the right. There, five feet away, was a black horse with a halter, eating alfalfa hay on the cave floor. He could smell the alfalfa, a sweet scent filling his nostrils. One he was very familiar with. But how did alfalfa hay get into the Hindu Kush? The more he saw, the less made sense to him. Alfalfa did not grow in this country.

He slowly turned his head back toward the woman. She had moved her long hair that was nearly halfway down her long back and brought it over her naked right shoulder. His eyes narrowed. What was he seeing on her back as she stood up? He scowled. Her back was heavily scarred. Dark, puckered ridges indicated she’d been whipped with something that had metal on the ends of the tips. He felt himself getting angry. Afghan women were punished with whips like this when they didn’t “behave” properly toward their husband.

The woman shrugged on a muscle shirt of dark olive green. She sat down and pulled on a pair of camouflage cammie trousers. They weren’t SEAL cammies. His memory was barely functioning. Maybe marine? He watched her pull on a set of olive-green wool socks and then a pair of combat boots. She quickly laced them up with her elegant fingers. When she was done, she stood up, used her hands to spread that cloak of red hair about her shoulders, fluffing it in a fully feminine gesture. He saw glinting waves of crimson, burgundy and gold shine beneath the kerosene lamplight.

He was torn. He could pretend he was still unconscious, or he could reveal to her he was awake. As she picked up her toiletry articles in her left hand, Mike decided to let her know he was conscious. Curiosity was burning him alive. He’d seen no weapons around. Just her and the horse, contentedly consuming hay.

As she drew near, Mike watched her gaze lock on his. She slowed her pace toward him, wariness coming to her face. She was deeply tanned, face oval and eyes that made him drag in a deep breath. She carried the kerosene lamp in her hand, and the light flashed up for a moment, revealing the most incredible green color to her large intelligent eyes.

* * *

KHAT FELT HER heart wrench in her chest as she drew close to the SEAL. He was awake, looking at her with confusion. His face was dirty, sweaty, but those gold-brown eyes of his were clear and pinned on her.

What Khat didn’t want was for him to try something stupid, like leap up and grab her or try to find one of her weapons and point it at her. She halted a good ten feet away from the SEAL. “I’m Khat,” she said in a low voice. “You’re safe. I’m your friend.”

He stared up at her like she was a ghost. Khat was used to that reaction. How many women were riding around a fifty-square-mile area of the Hindu Kush? No one else she knew of.

He had large eyes, and she could see they were a light brown color. He was intensely assessing her, and she could feel it.

The SEAL was confused, and Khat didn’t blame him. What she didn’t want was for him to go into defense or attack mode. Because he would. He was completely out of his element. She’d removed his pistol and his knife from him earlier.

“You’re in a cave,” she explained, keeping it simple. “I saw an RPG explode very close to you. Later, when I found you in the wadi, you were unconscious.”

She gestured toward his head. “You’ve got a pretty bad concussion, and you have a broken left arm. You need to stay calm and relax.”

“Are you thirsty, Michael Tarik?” she asked when he didn’t say anything. She put her toiletry items back into the cave wall hole. The damp towel hung on a peg she’d pounded into the walls years earlier. Khat turned and picked up one of the plastic quart bottles from a box filled with them.

* * *

TARIK BLINKED. HER RED HAIR was drying like a cloak around her proud shoulders. Cat? Her name was Cat? Or was it a lie? She looked somewhat bemused by his confusion, that wide, beautiful mouth of hers turned up on one corner. His gaze moved to the water bottle in her slender hand. Immediately recognizing it as SEAL issue, he growled, “Who the hell are you, really? And where am I?”

The tension rose in him. She stood casually, her green eyes holding his. There was no fear in them. No sense that he was a prisoner, either. His hands were not bound. And then, Mike focused on the leather thong hanging around her neck. His gaze fell to the pendant at the end of it, and he rasped, “That’s a hog’s tooth.” And then he lifted his chin, glaring at her. “Are you a Marine Corps sniper?” It made sense to him. She wore marine cammies. He remembered someone had fired a .300 Win Mag from the ridgeline, alerting them to the Taliban ambush. But a woman marine sniper? He’d never heard of such a thing. Mike tried to figure out just who she was. A hog’s tooth was given to every marine who successfully completed one of the toughest and most vaunted sniper school courses in the world.

Khat shrugged. “I’m many things, Michael Tarik. What you need to know is that I’m on your side, and that I saved your sorry ass earlier this afternoon.” She leaned down, offering him the bottle of water. “You need to stay hydrated. You were in a really bad firefight earlier.”

He took the bottle, their fingertips meeting. She had a placid expression, her voice husky and smoky. Damn, he was dying of thirst. He set the bottle down and tried to push himself up into a sitting position. Grunting, he struggled, angry he was so damned weak.

* * *

KHAT SAW THE FRUSTRATION on his face with his helplessness. SEALs hated feeling that way. Beads of sweat popped out on his bleached-out flesh. “Stop. I’ll help you sit as long as you don’t try CQD on me.”

Freezing, Tarik looked up at her, breathing hard. He was a damn rag doll, and he hated feeling weak. She was watching him, her hands relaxed at her sides. How did she know about CQD, close quarters defense? SEALs were taught how to hold or kill a person very quickly with a sharp, quick movement.

Wiping his face with his right hand, he muttered defiantly, “How do you know my name?” The bottled water looked so damned good to him, but he couldn’t even twist the lid off it to drink from it.

Khat came within six feet of him, crouching down on her haunches, her elbows resting on her thighs, hands hanging relaxed loose between them. “I called someone to find out who you were. I wanted to let them know I’d rescued you, gave them your medical condition and serial number on your dog tags.” Her thin brows moved downward. “I didn’t want your wife or parents to be called and be told you were missing in action.”

Her husky voice riffled across him, tamping down his anger. The look in her eyes was sad. For him? Mike’s nostrils flared, the pain in his head increasing. “You must have contacted someone in the SEAL HQ, then,” he growled. He saw neither confirmation nor rejection of his statement. She just crouched there, that incredibly beautiful red hair around her shoulders, framing her Middle Eastern face.

“What’s important,” Khat told him seriously, “is that the right people know I have you, and the Taliban doesn’t. Your team is safe. They were picked up about three hours ago by a Night Stalker. They were flown back to Camp Bravo. None were wounded, except for you.”

His eyes rounded. “And you know this how?”

“That’s something I can’t tell you.”

* * *

“YOU’RE AN OPERATOR.”

The frustration in the SEAL’s voice was real. Khat understood why. He was in a crazy situation, something completely out of his league of reality. She remained patient, wanting to get him up and over his bristling defenses and earn his trust so she could give him the water.

“I told you. I’m many things.” She gestured toward the bottle. “You need to drink a lot of water. I’ll come over and help get you into a sitting position, but I don’t want you locking my head and neck and snapping it.” She allowed a hint of a smile. “I’m going to die, but I don’t want to die that way.”

All his anger dissolved as Mike heard the gutting sadness in her voice. Worse, he saw it in her gleaming green eyes. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he muttered.

“Your word?”

His mouth quirked. “Yeah, my word. I need the water.”

Khat nodded and said softly, “I know you do.” She stood and knelt at his right side, sliding her arm beneath his sweaty neck. He grunted as she brought him up into a sitting position. His mouth went flat from pain.

“I’ll give you some morphine as soon as I can get you settled against the wall. Can you scoot back for me?”

It took him more minutes than he cared to think about, but Mike finally had the wall at his back. She was so close. He could smell her, the lye soap she’d used, the clean scent of a woman. When she leaned down to pick up the bottle, the veil of red hair covered her profile. She screwed off the lid of the bottle and looked up at him.

His eyes were feral looking, not quite trusting her, but there was something else that Khat couldn’t decipher. Tarik was ruggedly handsome, and she felt herself being pulled into his lion-gold eyes. She placed the bottle in his right hand. “Here.”

Mike watched her as he drank down the quart of water. Nothing had ever tasted as good as water out in this mountainous desert region.

He watched as she stood, moving like a graceful gazelle. She walked over to the other tunnel where there was a huge stack of water bottles in cardboard cases. They were American. Was she an operator? CIA? He was sure she was Middle Eastern. Her green eyes held a slight tilt to them, giving her face an exotic look.

Khat brought two more bottles, opened them and placed them beside him. She retrieved her medical ruck and knelt at his left side. She watched as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “How much pain are you in?” she asked, opening her case.

“Enough that I can’t get up,” he growled unhappily. Mike watched her pull on a pair of latex gloves, pick up a syringe and place the needle on the end of it. “What are you doing?”

“Giving you some pain relief,” she murmured, picking up the bottle of morphine. “You’ll heal faster if you’re not in pain.”

Mike watched Khat pull a very small dose into the syringe. “Are you sure that isn’t a truth drug of some sort?”

She smiled. Taking an alcohol swab, she pulled the flap of his sleeve aside on his upper arm. “Positive.”

Fascinated, he watched her give him the shot of morphine. Or at least, he hoped it was. Every move she made was graceful, and he found himself absolutely mesmerized with Khat. As she put the needle into a sharps container, he asked, “You’re black ops?”

“Don’t try to figure me out, Michael Tarik.” She pulled off the gloves and threw them where the other pair was. Closing the ruck, she looked deep into his eyes. He was wary, and she couldn’t blame him. “I need to examine you.” She pulled a small flashlight from her pocket, slid her hand beneath his chin. His flesh tingled. “I’m going to shine the light in your eyes. I need to see if your pupils are equal and responsive or not. Just look straight ahead at me?”

She was so damned close to him. Her touch was firm but gentle. Her breasts beneath that muscle shirt were inches away from his chest as she slowly moved the light from one eye to the other, and then back again. She smelled of fresh air, sunshine and her own unique woman’s scent. He dragged it into his lungs, feeling his entire body respond.

Khat eased away from him. She placed the light in the bag and then pulled out her stethoscope. “I’m going to listen to your lungs and heart now.”

She opened his blouse, exposing his chest covered with a tan T-shirt. When she placed the stethoscope against his heart, his muscles tightened beneath it. Strands of her hair tickled his nose and cheek. Her hand lay lightly upon his left shoulder.

When Khat straightened, she picked up a small notebook and wrote down the information. He rasped, “Are you a physician?”

“No. I’m a paramedic.” She placed the stethoscope into the bag. “Last but not least, your pulse.” And she stood up and walked around to his right side.

Khat knelt and placed his hand against the curve of her thigh, two tapered fingers coming to rest upon the inside of his wrist. Mike felt the coolness of her fingertips. She looked at the Rolex on her right wrist, following the second hand’s movement. Her touch was electric. He was so damned hot and sweaty, her fingers soothing. He stared at the scars he saw across her shoulders just barely exposed beneath her shirt. They were deep. Ridged. What the hell had happened to her? It angered him on another level that she was beautiful, young and yet someone had either beaten or tortured her. The ridges were white, indicating there were probably four or five years old. Damn, he had a helluva lot of questions for her.

“Good,” Khat murmured, pleased. Removing her fingers, she picked up his hand and placed it against his belly. “You’re stabilizing.”

Mike watched her. She put the medical ruck away. And then she walked down the tunnel, past the horse to where he saw a Western saddle sitting balanced on a gate of some kind. She pulled out a sat phone from the nearest saddlebag. Only operators got them. He had one himself and it had a bullet hole in it. His ruck was nowhere in sight.

Khat walked out into the other cave, and she made a call. She reported Michael Tarik’s medical condition to her handler, Hutton. She knew it would be passed on to Bagram. There, someone would decide when he should be picked up.

Right now Khat said he couldn’t ride ten miles down the mountain on a horse to reach a Medevac. He couldn’t even sit up on his own.

Mike heard the entire conversation. She wasn’t hiding it from him. He watched her return and put the sat phone away.

“Are you hungry?”

“No. Just thirsty.”

Nodding, Khat knelt beside him and handed him the opened second bottle of water. It wasn’t uncommon on a long SEAL patrol for a man to go through two gallons of water. When she placed the bottle into his hand, she felt small, electric sensations move through her fingers. He was watching her. But it wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling. She sat down, bringing up one of her knees, her hands wrapped just below it. Khat watched him chug down the water. He was sweating freely, dirty and still pale beneath his tan.

“I’d offer you the waterfall,” she said, gesturing toward it, “but you can’t even stand yet. Would you like me to get a washcloth and some water in a basin? I’m sure you’d feel better if you got a little bit cleaned up.”

Mike set the emptied bottle aside and stared at her. “I’m feeling pretty damned wary of you.”

Khat nodded. “I understand,” she said quietly. “I realize it’s a strange situation.”

“Who were you talking to on that sat phone just now?”

“Someone who will send your vitals to an ER doctor at Bagram hospital. That physician will decide when you should be airlifted out of here.”

“Move me?” His wariness shot up. She looked so damned calm about it all. Okay, he got she had to be an operator. Khat was a marine sniper. And she had a sat phone, and whomever she’d talked to was high up on the black ops food chain.

Khat lifted her hands and pulled her dried hair off her shoulders, the mass tumbling down her back. “Yes. As soon as you’re ambulatory, I’ll take you to a place, providing it’s not got Taliban around, and they’ll fly in a Medevac for you.” She smiled a little. “And then you’ll be home, in familiar surroundings once more.”

Mike couldn’t stop staring at Khat. Her arms were lean and tightly muscled. She was feminine, but in damn good shape. There was nothing weak about this woman.

“Would you like to get cleaned up a little?” she asked. She smiled a little and stood up.

From another of the many holes in the cave wall, she pulled out a large aluminum bowl and walked to the pool, dipping it down into the water. Bringing it back, she stopped and took the washcloth she’d been using earlier, plus a dry, clean towel.

Kneeling beside him, she took his right hand and placed it in the water, gently washing all the dirt, sweat and blood off. He had large square hands, long fingers and she saw many small white scars across them as she washed each one individually.

“Tell me about yourself?” she asked, glancing at him. “Is your team out of Coronado?”

Mike felt his entire body go hot with longing. He hadn’t expected her to wash his filthy hands. Her movements were gentle, careful. “I don’t really want to say anything to you. For the same reasons you’re not sharing anything with me. For all I know, you could be Taliban.”

Her lips curved ruefully as she soaped the cloth and slid it up to his hairy wrist and lower arm. He felt his muscles leap and tense beneath her ministrations. “I understand,” she answered. “In our business, it is a need to know only.”

Mike wanted to talk to her. His mind plunged through ways to get information out of Khat. He looked at the water in the bowl. It was filthy. That’s how the rest of him felt. He wished like hell he could stand and go over and bathe under that waterfall.

“Your horse?”

Khat nodded. “Yes. She’s my best friend. She’s saved my life so many times...” Holding his clean hand, she brought the towel over and dried him off.

“That’s no Afghan mountain pony,” he said, hoping this line of conversation wasn’t going to end in a box canyon.

“She’s purebred Arabian.”

“My father has an Arabian horse ranch,” he said. Mike saw her chin lift, her eyes widen.

“Really?” Khat searched his shadowed golden eyes. The morphine was helping him to relax. When a partial smile pulled at his chiseled mouth, a white-hot heat moved down through her. Shocked by her body’s response, Khat swallowed. “Can you tell me more?”

Hearing the sudden excitement in her husky voice, those green eyes so large, reminding him of green tourmaline, he said, “My father was born in Saudi Arabia. He became a renowned cardiac surgeon, met my mother, who is American, and came to the States. After I was born in San Diego, he decided to have a small, select herd of Egyptian Arabians at their ranch in Alpine. He was able to acquire a stallion from the House of Saud.”

She released his hand. “That is wonderful. We share a love of Arabian horses. I need some clean water.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty dirty,” he agreed drily. Watching her rise, those thick red strands of hair tumbling across her shoulders, Mike felt hungry for her on a purely sexual level. Rubbing his jaw, he watched her walk into the other cave. There was a gentle sway to her hips, and those long damn legs of hers went on forever.

Then he stopped himself. He had no business reacting to Khat like this. She’d saved his life. She deserved better than his male reactions, and he was unhappy with himself.

When Khat returned with a clean bowl of water, she handed him the cloth so he could clean his face. There was a lot of dried blood along his temple, across his high cheekbone and matted in his black beard. She rested her hands on her thighs. “Do you still have Arabian horses?”

“My parents do,” he said. God, the cool cloth felt so damn good against his gritty, filthy skin. He closed his eyes, wiping his brow, eyes and cheeks.

“Then, they are Egyptian Arabians?”

He squeezed the cloth into the water, quickly watching it become dirty. Lifting it out, it felt good to wipe his nose and lips. When he rubbed the left side of his face, it was swollen and tender. “Yes. They keep one stallion and six broodmares. It’s a hobby of my father’s. He likes the fire of the Egyptian Arabians.”

Excitement bubbled through Khat. “Mina, my mare, is also of Egyptian lineage.”

Mike smiled a little, rubbing his right temple and his beard. “I thought she might be. How old is she?”

“Nine.”

“Has she been with you long?” He squeezed the cloth into the bowl. There was so much dirt in the water, he must have looked like Godzilla to her when she found him.

“Five years.” Khat pointed to the left side of his face. “There’s a lot of dried blood and dirt on your left temple.”

“Hurts too damn much to touch it,” he muttered.

Khat went and got a third bowl of water. She knelt down near his left side. “May I try? The blood will draw flies tomorrow morning. They’ll eat you alive.”

That wasn’t a pleasant thought. Mike nodded, holding her gaze. “You have a gentle touch.” He tipped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. God help him, but he wanted her to touch him. He didn’t care where or how, he just wanted those long, cool fingers on his flesh.

Khat lowered her lashes as he gave her an intent, burning stare. It was a look a man gave a woman. A man who wanted his woman in his bed. She felt heat sweeping up her neck and into her face. His eyes were closed, and she inhaled a ragged breath, moving closer, her knee grazing his hip. Placing her right hand against the other side of his face, the soft prickle of beard making her fingers tingle, she used a very wet cloth and gently placed it against the area of dried blood. In time, the dried blood would soften.

Her heart was waffling in her chest, and Khat felt unexpected emotions leaping through her. His face was hard, weathered and tough looking. He beckoned to her, man to woman.

Trying to still her reactions, she carefully worked the blood loose, cleaned off his temple and the left side of his hard jaw. He reminded her of a snow leopard at rest but still possessing that coiled tension and power within him.

Khat closed her eyes. Fear skittered through her. She knew the power of men only too well. But for whatever miraculous reason, she was not afraid of Michael Tarik. She saw his nostrils flare, as if drinking in her scent. His mouth... Her gaze fell to that strong, chiseled mouth of his. Something unbidden, bright and clean exploded through her lower body. It took her by surprise. For whatever crazy reason, Khat felt desired by this SEAL.

Shaking her head, she released his face and quickly washed the bloody washcloth in the bowl.

“You have the touch of an angel,” Mike murmured, barely opening his eyes. He saw the ruddiness in Khat’s cheeks, her lashes lowered, refusing to meet his eyes. Her lips were pursed, too. As if...as if she hadn’t wanted to touch him?

“You’re Middle Eastern, aren’t you?” he asked, keeping his voice purposely low and nonthreatening. He saw Khat’s head snap up, her eyes widen for a moment, and then Mike saw terror in them. Why?

Khat rose, carrying the bowl to the pool, refusing to answer his question.

Mike rubbed his damp beard. Yeah, she was. Only question was: Which country? Was she a CIA operative? They were actively and aggressively courting Middle Eastern people into their ranks.

Something told Mike her reactions were typical for a woman from the Middle East. They were brought up chastely, surrounded by family, protected from men, virgin until they were given away in marriage. Even her English had a lilt to it. He had Saudi blood, and it was easy to pick up another Middle Eastern accent. And when he’d told her he liked her touch, she’d blushed. Was she not used to being around men? But then Mike scowled, remembering the scars on her back and shoulders. Okay, something else was falling into place. What if she was a CIA operative? Got caught by the Taliban? Tortured? Probably raped. That would explain her sudden shyness around him. She might see all men as a natural threat to her.

Mike watched Khat return. She walked as silently as a SEAL. No one heard them coming, either. The look on her face was closed, and he saw chagrin in her eyes, maybe. He didn’t know Khat well enough to be sure. God knew he was starving to death to get to know her. He owed her something for saving him, didn’t he?

CHAPTER THREE

WHILE KHAT MADE tea for them, something she loved doing every night before she slept, she felt the SEAL’s eyes on her. She had a small copper kettle on a grate and used an old-fashioned magnesium tab to create the intense heat to make the water boil. There was the chemical equivalent in her MREs, but she preferred this way.

After setting it up, she moved out of her crouch, turned and went to find a rubber band. Her hair was thick and long. And it often got in the way, which was why she tamed it into a ponytail or a single, long braid down her back.

Out of the corner of her eye, as she did so, Khat saw a vulnerable expression fleetingly cross Mike’s face. A wistful sort of look, and then it was gone, replaced by his game face once more. It made her feel things she’d never felt before. Bewildered by all these new emotions, Khat brought two chipped mugs from another hole and placed them on a nearby tray.

“Do you like sugar with your tea?” she asked, barely turning in his direction.

“SEALs can use all the sugar energy they can get,” he answered wryly, half smiling. Mike liked the way shorter, softer strands had stolen out of her ponytail, caressing the sides of her face, emphasizing those breath-stealing green eyes.

“Ah,” she said, nodding.

“How do you take your tea?” He watched her work on the drinks, her fine, long fingers mesmerizing him. Mike wondered if she’d ever taken dance lessons because that is what she reminded him of—a ballerina.

“Plain.”

And then Khat joked, “Like me.”

Scowling, he said nothing. “Why did you warn my team there was a Taliban ambush set for us?”

Pushing a tendril of hair away from her face, Khat looked up. His eyes were hooded, his face contemplative. He was trying to figure her out. “Because it’s my job.”

“Do you always shadow SEAL patrols?”

Shrugging, Khat said, “Luck of the draw.” She loved teatime, having grown up with it. Taking some of her favorite cookies, shortbread, that her mother had sent to her, she pulled some out of a tin box from another hole in the wall.

Mike shouldn’t enjoy watching her so much, but he did. “How tall are you?”

“Too tall for a woman,” she answered. Bringing over a tray, she set it next to him.

“Six foot?”

“Close.”

“How the hell were you able to get me out of wherever you found me?”

Khat gave him a serious look. “Very carefully. I rode my mare into the wadi and retrieved you.” She watched the steam starting to rise out of the spout. Placing a tea bag in each cup, she removed the teakettle and poured the boiling-hot water into the awaiting cups. As she did, she told him how she got him from the wadi to the cave.

Mike shook his head in disbelief, turning and giving the black mare, who had eaten and was now resting, an appreciative look. Her head was drooped and one rear leg cocked, resting on the other three, eyes closed. “Unbelievable.” And he gazed at Khat as she walked toward him with the two cups in her hands.

Kneeling, she set them on the rusty tray, gave him three cookies and three for herself. She nudged the open jar of sugar with a spoon in it toward his good hand. Settling down, crossing her legs, she faced Mike. He did everything with focus. Adding a teaspoon of white sugar to his cup, he stirred it and set the spoon on the tin tray.

Khat held the cup with both hands, inhaling the scent of the tea. It always made her smile. It reminded her of happier times when she was young and at home with her family, until she joined the Marine Corps. Her father strongly disapproved of her choice. Her mother remained loyal to her, however, and sent her these tasty shortbread cookies every few months. She worried constantly about her.

“Is this something you do every night?” Mike asked, picking up the cup. He saw her eyes half close, a look of satisfaction on her face as she sniffed her steaming tea.

“When I can.”

“Does that mean you usually operate at night?”

“Like the SEALs?”

“The night’s our friend.”

“Sometimes, during the day, sometimes at night.” Khat sipped the tea, the taste giving her pleasure. She regarded him through her lashes, watching him think and plot and try to get something out of her that he could use. But to what end? Khat didn’t feel threatened by Mike, surprisingly. Was it his driving curiosity? Most likely.

“If I were a man in black ops, you wouldn’t be asking me so many questions, would you?”

He raised his brows and grinned. “Probably not. No women I know of in black ops out here in Dodge City.” He saw her lips curve just a little, her eyes gleam with amusement and secrets known only to herself.

“There are many ways to fit in and not be seen.”

“Do you like doing this?” Mike gestured to the horse.

Shrugging, Khat murmured, “It is my destiny.”

Mike felt that damned sadness around her again. A sort of surrendering over to the inevitable within her. She avoided looking at him, as well, paying attention to eating a cookie with her delicate fingers instead. Okay, he’d try another approach. “What touches your heart, Khat?”

His voice was deep with sincerity, and it riffled pleasantly through her. Lifting her chin, she met his thoughtful-looking gaze. Lion-gold eyes. A fierce warrior. But her instincts told her this man also possessed strong morals and values as all SEALs did.

She licked her lower lip and bent her head. “To walk out into the desert as a storm hits. To smell the perfume of the dry earth rise up and embrace me. To—” she lifted her chin, meeting his gaze “—have a baby born and slip into my hands and hear her first lusty cry.” Khat sipped her tea and added, “To see my people free and unafraid, to be able to walk out of their homes and not get their leg blown off, or to lose their children to those who would abuse and kidnap them.”

His heart squeezed with pain over the last whispered words. Her brows had drawn down, her gaze moving away, looking into the darkness, eyes filled with anguish. Mike heard it in her voice, too. “Those are heart-worthy passions,” he agreed, powerfully moved by her words.

“Why are you a SEAL?”

His mouth twisted. “That’s a long story. My father wanted me to follow in his footsteps, which most first sons do when their father is from the Middle East. I was a wild child, loved riding the Arabian horses, loved anything athletic, track, hurdles, gymnastics. You know, boy sorts of things?”

“Mmm,” Khat said, sipping her tea, enjoying sharing something important with him that had nothing to do with black ops. “Did you not want to become a surgeon?”

He laughed a little, holding up his right hand. “With these hands? Look at them. They’re good for fixing cars, fixing weapons, but I sure as hell wouldn’t trust these hams with a scalpel, would you?”

Khat laughed softly, feeling her heart blossom at his engaging smile. She liked his humbleness. His eyes... She sighed inwardly. His eyes gleamed with gold in their depths beneath the low light within the cave. “You have a point,” she agreed. “But you have hands of a man of the land who would work the soil, shape things and coax plants to grow.”

He didn’t want to be affected by how she saw him, but Mike was. “Farmer hands?”

“Maybe. I love looking at people’s hands. They tell me so much about them.”

He looked at his. “What do my hands tell you?” He saw redness come to her cheeks. “No, really. I’m not teasing you. I’m interested in how you see the world, Khat.” And God help him, he was. Her face was so damned readable, it shook him. There was no coyness. Just shyness. And gentleness that she tried to hide from him, but she couldn’t. Mike was having a hell of a time seeing her out there as a sniper and then drinking tea with her now. Two very different people.

“Your hands—” she shrugged “—are hands meant for molding and shaping things. Such as a loving father who would mold his children by supporting them, showing them the way, but not pushing them. You have hands that are sensitive to texture, to how something feels beneath your fingertips. I could see you being very gentle with a baby or supporting an elder who had trouble walking. You have helping hands.” Khat was so taken by his hands that she wondered what his fingers would feel like across her body. It was a vivid curiosity. And at the same time, Khat knew that would never be. No man would ever want her.

Mesmerized by her low voice, the almost lyrical quality of it, Mike was shaken by her insight into him. He set the cup down and stared at his right hand. “Then I’m in the wrong business,” he said, grinning. SEALs took the fight to the enemy.

“Not necessarily,” Khat said, picking up the second cookie from the tray. “I know many SEALs who do charity work with the villages they are near. Some bring in clothes, others shoes, food or medical support. They care about the people of the village. To those SEALs, they are not just a number. They are human beings with a heart. With a soul.”

Mike considered her quiet, passionate response. This woman lived in her heart. Something terrible had happened to her, though; that was why she was here. “Many of our guys do help out villagers,” he agreed somberly. “It isn’t always about killing the bad guys. It’s really about nation building, giving those who have practically nothing, something.”

“I like the way you see your world,” she said softly. “Your eyes tell me you see much more than you reveal to others.” And he was a passionate person just like herself, Khat realized. But he hid that element of himself, too, but not from her.

“Now you’re making me nervous,” Mike joked. Looking into her green eyes was, he swore, like looking into a well so deep that he couldn’t see the bottom. Khat had complexity and levels to herself. Maybe layers like an onion. Peel one layer off by asking the right question, and you saw another side or facet to her. She was an enigma and a mystery.

“My mother called me a seer,” Khat admitted fondly, remembering her happy childhood. “She said I had the power to see through people with my eyes.”

“I think your mother was right,” Mike said. He saw a faraway look in Khat’s eyes, her lips softly parted, not really there for the moment. “What would you say about your hands?” he asked, gesturing toward them.

She looked at one. “Oh.” And then she shrugged and made a sound. “My mother said I had beautiful hands. I played the piano when I was a child.” She looked at her left hand, moving her fingers. “She wanted me to play piano, but I wanted to dance.”

“As in ballet?” Mike guessed.

“Yes, I dearly loved ballet. But my parents could not afford it, only piano lessons. I love music, but I loved dancing and movement even more.”

“So, do you have dancer’s hands?” he wondered, seeing the animation in her eyes, hearing it in her husky voice. He saw her eyes grow dim, her expression grow closed. Nothing like stepping on a land mine with her. Mike felt bad because they were beginning to build a trusting connection with one another. He didn’t want to lose it.

“I have hands that—” her mouth quirked, brows drawing down “—that heal and kill.”

The silence fell heavy in the cave. Mike felt a sharp, jagged energy around her, as if some unknown thing was a constant abrasion to her heart, perhaps. He was very attuned to the subtleties of energy. Maybe it was reading a person’s body or their voice. Mike really didn’t know. “I think your hands are beautiful, Khat. When I first saw you, I thought you might be a ballerina.” He gave her a gentle look, hoping she wouldn’t take his compliment the wrong way.

Sitting up, she shrugged. “I dance every day. I dance on the edge of a sword. On one side is life, the other, death.” She finished her tea and abruptly stood. “One day, I will fall on death’s side. It is inevitable.”

Near midnight, she gave Mike pain pills to take so he could rest comfortably.

“I will be gone when you awake tomorrow,” she told him. “And I won’t return until dark. I’ll leave you everything you need.”

“My gear?” he demanded. If he was going to be alone in this cave, he wanted his own weapons in hand. He watched her expression become serious as she cleaned up the area and walked to the cave with the gate across it. She brought out his rifle and pistol, placing them near him. If Mike had any doubts about whose side she was on, it was gone now. Next came his heavy rucksack.

Khat moved to her medical ruck and opened it. “I’m leaving you enough pain pills for while I’m gone tomorrow. Take them every four hours. And if you can, get over to the waterfall and get cleaned up.”

“Can you leave me your sat phone? I have one but it’s got a bullet hole through it,” he said, watching her walk back and forth, collecting items.

“No. I’ll need it.” Khat saw him frown. “When I’m done with my day, on the way back here, I’ll check in and see if your people are willing to come in and pick you up. Much depends on you getting to your feet and being able to walk without falling sideways.” She gestured to his head wound. “You took a hard hit when you landed. And I can’t move you until you can walk and stay on your feet.”

“You’ve got a point,” Mike admitted. He saw her pull a sleeping bag from the cave that had bales of alfalfa stored in it. She gave her horse another bucket of water and then picked up her M-4 rifle and headed into the other cave. Khat silently melted into the darkness, but he could pick up faint sounds of where she was moving.

When she walked back, minutes later, she said, “I’m leaving you the kerosene lamp. I’ll be sleeping in another cave, keeping guard. I have motion-sensor detectors at the opening. If you hear shots, take cover and hide. I don’t think the Taliban will find us because we’re so far back in this mountain, but you don’t count on anything.”

“Got it,” Mike said. He pulled the kerosene lamp toward him. “Do you have a flashlight?”

She held a small one up in her hand. “Sleep well,” she whispered, and turned and disappeared into the black gloom.

Mike waited a few minutes. He placed his rifle nearby, his pistol within easy reach. Dousing the flame in the old lantern, he set it aside and lay down on his back. He worried about Khat. He wanted to protect her, not have her protecting him. Frustration overwhelmed him as he closed his eyes. Tomorrow he was going to be on his feet and become ambulatory—or else.

* * *

MIKE HEARD A horse approaching his area in the darkness. He stood near the cave opening to the waterfall area, M-4 in hand. The glow from the kerosene lamp revealed Khat leading her mare out of the gloom.

To his surprise, there was another horse behind her, but it was packed with supplies beneath a tarp. Khat looked tired.

When she spotted him, she lifted her hand in greeting. Khat was dressed differently than yesterday. She was in Afghan male clothes, dark brown trousers, boots, a black shirt with a brown vest over it. There was a white-and-blue-checked shemagh around her neck, the ends of it hanging down between the front of her breasts. He saw no weapons on her. What had she been doing? And why the change of costume?

“We’re clear,” she told Mike. For a SEAL, clear meant no enemy was present. And he needed to know that.

Khat felt her heart surge as she caught sight of him. He stood alert, the M-4 in his right hand. She saw he’d taken the sling off his broken arm. His eyes were narrowed, and his mouth was in a hard line, as if expecting trouble. Fortunately, there was none tonight. The Taliban had moved off the mountain and were north of her location.

She brought the two horses to a stop and dropped Mina’s reins. Lifting the stirrup, she put it over the horn of the saddle and quickly loosened the cinch and hauled the gear off her tired mare. “How was your day?” she asked as she passed him and walked down to the cave that held the hay.

“Better,” Mike said. “Can I help you at all?”

She disappeared inside the cave and came out a moment later, pulling off the shemagh. “No, thank you. How is your arm doing?”

“It hurts like hell when I let it hang too long,” he admitted.

Nodding, Khat saw his chagrin. “Took it off to wash up?” He looked clean. His hair was mussed, but the dirt and sweat were off his body. She was sure Mike had taken off the sling to get out of his blouse. He’d done a poor job of closing it up, however, but considering he had one hand, he’d managed to get his clothes back on.

“Yes. No choice.” Mike walked over to the second horse, a black Arabian that looked identical to the one she had ridden. “What’s under the tarp?”

Khat led Mina to her place, where she fed her and took the bridle off, tying the halter lead rope to a large iron ring in the wall. “Medical supplies,” she said.

“I didn’t know you had two horses.”

“I need two,” she said, patting Mina’s rump as she walked up to the other mare. Leading the horse closer to the tunnel, she added, “If Mina goes down with a sprain or something, I have to have a backup.” She managed a slight smile in his direction. “I’m like the SEALs—one is none, two is one.”

Nodding, Mike put the rifle down against the wall where his sleeping bag was located. “She’s nice looking, too. Are they sisters?”

“Yes. Her name is Zorah.” Khat quickly unstrapped the canvas over the load the horse carried. In moments, she had the tarp pulled off and folded it up. “This one is eight years old. Same sire and dam as Mina.”

Mike saw two huge leather panniers, one on each side of the small horse. Inside, he recognized American bottles of drugs and other medical supplies. “Can I help you carry these things somewhere?”

“Yes,” she said, grateful. He looked like he was bored out of his skull. SEALs didn’t sit down well doing nothing for twelve hours. His skin looked better; his eyes were clear. “Did the pain pills work okay?” she asked, removing a carton.

Mike was able to reach in with one hand and find another box and draw it out. “Yeah, fine.”

“Follow me,” she said, moving past the cave with the gate.

In minutes, they had the horse unpacked, the harness taken off, and Khat tied Zorah to a second iron ring a few feet away from where Mina stood. Giving them each a flake of alfalfa hay, she said, “Okay, you’re next, Mike. Take a seat on your sleeping bag.”

Mike sat down, back resting against the cave wall. She was a marvel of efficiency, as if she had done this all her life. Khat brought her medical ruck to her side as she knelt by him. “Why are you dressed in male Afghan clothes?”

She met his gaze. “Now, I think you know the answer to that one,” she said, and she quickly cut away the dried bandages around the splints. They’d gotten wet when he’d bathed and had become wrinkled and loose. Quickly, she removed the dressing, took the splints away and gently held his forearm between her fingers. Mike’s arm was black-and-blue and swollen. She moved her fingers lightly across it. His fingers looked like sausages because he didn’t wear the sling. “No heat,” she murmured, pleased. “Rest it against your chest.” She turned and gathered the supplies she’d need and dug out a new sling.

Mike looked forward to her gentle touch. He did as she asked, watching her. The lamplight emphasized her green eyes. He saw shadows beneath them. “Tough day?” he wondered. Her lips thinned for a moment and then relaxed.

“It’s always a mix,” she murmured, re-splinting his arm. Leaning up, she fashioned the dark green cotton sling so it supported his broken arm once more.

The nape of his neck tingled wildly when her fingertips brushed his flesh as she tied a knot in the sling. “Thanks,” he murmured, “it feels a hell of a lot better in this position.” He inhaled her scent, a mix of sunshine, fresh air and her. It made him very aware he was hopelessly attracted to Khat.

Khat eased away, wildly aware of Mike’s nearness, his maleness. For whatever unknown reason, he never felt threatening to her. Instead, she felt protection radiating from him, surrounding her. She saw the liquid darkness in his eyes as he followed her movements. His look held desire, and she once more felt flummoxed by the feelings Mike automatically ignited deep within her body.

Almost breathless, Khat said, “I’ll bet it does feel better. Your fingers are swollen because your arm hung down for most of the day. It’s hard for the circulation to get back up into the area of the break because the tissue is swollen around it.” She took his fingers, squeezing them gently, assessing the situation. Khat would never admit she liked touching this man as she gently massaged each finger, pushing some of the fluid out of them and into his arm. “The swelling will probably go down in a few hours,” she murmured.

Picking up her stethoscope, she listened to his heart and lungs. With her small pen flashlight, she moved it across his eyes, watching his pupil response. Moving to his other side, she took his pulse and wrote all her observations down in her small notebook.

“Am I going to live?” Mike asked drily, absorbing her profile, the light glinting through the thick strands of her hair that she had captured in a ponytail.

“Definitely,” she murmured, looking up at Mike. He was so masculine but dangerous to her in a new and unexpected way. Her throat tightened. “I figured you’d rebound today. You’re in great shape, and your body is responding quickly.”

“When can I be picked up by Medevac?” Part of him wanted to get back to the FOB; the larger part of him didn’t. Mike found her lifestyle fascinating. And he knew Khat put herself on the line. Taliban were all over these mountains like fleas on a dog. She had to be careful where she rode so she wasn’t seen or discovered.

Khat stood and put everything back into her medical pack and closed it up. “Shortly. I took a chance you’d be improved today.” She hauled the ruck to the wall and then pushed some tendrils of hair off her cheek. “One is scheduled in at 0100 this morning.” She glanced at her Rolex. “It’s 2200 now. I’ve got time to change, eat and get the horses ready. It’s going to take us an hour to ride down a steep goat trail to reach the valley below.” She saw his face light up, and she smiled a little. “Then you can be with your own kind once again. I imagine everyone on your team is looking forward to seeing you back in the fold.”

Mike sat there watching the shadows across her face. “I’m going to miss you.” That wasn’t a lie. He saw her cheeks grow pink as she walked to her kitchen hole and brought out the grate and a magnesium tab.

“You’ll be happier back at Camp Bravo, Mike. This kind of life isn’t for a SEAL.” She brought out the teakettle and set it on the grate. Khat would miss him, too, but she bit back the comment.

Rubbing his beard, Mike growled, “I’ll worry about you.”

She made a sound in her throat. “I’ve been out here for five years, and very few people know I’m here. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” She was touched by his gruff reply and sincere concern. She rocked back on her heels, watching the magnesium tab begin to heat the water.

Scowling, Mike said, “Don’t you get lonely out here?” She was young, beautiful and he couldn’t imagine this kind of isolation for a woman her age.

“No.”

“If you took a packhorse with you this morning, you must have gone somewhere to render medical aid. To a village, maybe?”

Khat grinned at him. “I’m going to miss all your observations and trying to put them together to figure out who I am.” She saw his eyes narrow upon her and once more, her heart started a slow pound. Her gaze fell to his hand resting on his knee. Beautiful hands for a man. If only... And Khat gently tucked those thoughts away. She was damaged goods. Her parents had been shocked by what had happened to her. Her angry, upset father had said no man would ever consider her wifely material.

Khat brought the two mugs down and placed the Darjeeling tea bag into each.

“Have you saved other men like you saved me?”

“Yes. But not often.”

“Was I the heaviest?” He grinned.

Khat laughed softly. “Yes, you were.”

“Were they SEALs?”

“One was. The other was a Marine Force Recon sniper.”

“And you got them out of here like you’re going to get me out? By horseback?”

“Yes.” Khat poured the boiling water into the cups. Placing them on the tray, she stood and brought down her box of shortbread cookies. “Different locations, but the same scenario. They were wounded, too.”

“Did they make it?”

Khat placed the cookies on the tray and then closed the box, taking it back to the hole in the wall. “Yes.”

Mike watched her bring the tray over. She set it on his right side and knelt down on the other side of it. Picking up the spoon, she placed the sugar into his cup and stirred it for him.

“I don’t want to lose touch with you, Khat.” Mike held her startled gaze as he picked up the mug.

“That can’t be.”

“Why not?” He watched her expression over the rim of his mug. For a moment, Mike swore she wanted to keep their connection, but then decided against it.

“I have all the help I need.” Her heart was doing funny things in her chest. He had seen her naked beneath the waterfall. That realization alone had shocked her. But Mike had treated her with nothing but respect. He didn’t try to grope her or speak in sexual innuendos to her.

There was a reflective look in his gold-brown eyes now as he considered her answer. She watched his lips curve around the mug’s rim, and she felt a sudden, white-hot heat stab through her lower body. Surprised, she hid her reaction. No man had ever affected her like he did. All they were doing was drinking a cup of tea together!

“Well,” Mike said gruffly, “out here, you can never have enough. Bravo is roughly twenty-five miles from here.”

Giving him a sad look, Khat whispered, “I know your heart is in the right place, Mike, but we don’t operate the same way.”

He grimaced. Yeah, he got that. The black ops food chain had a lot of levels. And she was somewhere unreachable, far above him. “Still,” he said patiently, “I’d feel better if you’d take my platoon’s sat phone number. If things happen, we might be the QRF you need.”

“You’re not going to take no for an answer, are you?” Her lips twitched with amusement. He was endearing with his stubborn protectiveness, and it made Khat feel good. No one else ever cared that she was out here, operating on her own, an American surrounded by enemy Taliban every day.

“You’re alone out here,” he said in a low tone. “I’ve got five rotations under my belt in this area, and I know it crawls with Taliban. You might someday find yourself in a situation. And if your handler, or whoever he is, can’t cut loose the air or ground assets you need, you might find us an alternative. That’s all.”

“There’s no harm in taking your platoon’s number.” So much of her wanted to remain in contact with Mike. The past five years had been some of the loneliest times in her life. Khat knew he was drawn to her; he’d made no bones about that from the beginning. A man didn’t ask the questions he did if he wasn’t interested in a woman. She knew he’d remember everything she’d said, trying to put the pieces together on her operator status. Khat hoped she hadn’t given him a direct line into her black ops mission. She could see that strong willed look in his darkening eyes that he was damn well going to turn over everything he knew about her in order to find out who she really was, what she did and who she worked for.

Khat seriously doubted, though, that Mike would ever uncover her status.

“Good,” Mike said, relieved. Khat was contemplative, her eyes half-closed, those green tourmaline eyes shadowed beneath her thick red lashes. She was torn between saying nothing and divulging more to him. He could feel it. And dammit, he was going to research her when he got back to Bravo, no question.

He had some contacts in the black ops community. His good friend, Gabe Griffin, who had just left the SEALs to marry Bay Thorn, had been in this area. Maybe he knew something about Khat. Mike was sure as hell going to find out from his best friend. If he tried to go up the black ops food chain, they’d stonewall him. No, he’d have to search among the SEALs at Bagram and J-bad, nose around to find out if they’d seen her or knew anything about her. And he wasn’t the type that let something go until he got the answers he was seeking.

“When we leave, I’m going to let you ride Zorah, my packhorse. I have only one saddle, and I want you to have it. I don’t think your balance is all that good yet, and I don’t need you to fall off.”

“Good planning,” he said drily. “Last time I threw a leg over a horse was just before I left to join the SEALs.”

“I’ll ride bareback.” Khat gestured to her legs. “I’ve got thighs of steel from being in the saddle so much.”

The words, you have the most beautiful legs I’ve ever seen, almost tore out of Mike’s mouth. She’d take it the wrong way, of course, and he wanted to leave their relationship, as thin as it was, intact between them.

“That’s fine,” he murmured. He sipped the tea, branding Khat’s clean profile, the shadows and light across her face, into his mind and heart. “What’s next for you after you get rid of me?” He said it half in jest, but he wanted to try and get something out of her that would give him a lead. Any lead.

“Every day is different.” Khat smiled a little sadly, feeling his protectiveness embrace her. “I’m like the wind. You never know which way I’ll flow on a certain day.”

“Were you always like this, Khat?”

Her smile dissolved. She held the mug in both hands, sipping from it. “No.”

“What were you like as a little girl?” Desperation clawed at his chest. The hunger to know her was eating him alive, and no woman had ever intrigued him like Khat did.

Sighing, Khat placed the cup down beside her and clasped her hands around her one leg that was drawn up against her body. “Happy.”

“Do you have brothers or sisters?”

Shaking her head, she said, “I was an only child, but a very welcomed child into my parents’ lives.”

“I know you have Middle East blood in you,” he said, watching her expression closely. “I’ve wondered all day whether one of your parents came from another country and moved to the States like my parents did.”

“Yes,” she said, holding his sharpened look. “We share a common background in some respects.”

“The way you speak English,” he pressed, “it sounds like you’re Afghani.”

Khat gave him a wry look. Mike was part Saudi. He would be able to hear the dialect differences, the pronunciation of certain words, and most likely be able to know if a person was from one Middle Eastern country or another. “I think you missed your calling. You should have been a linguist.”

He snorted. “No chance in hell. Not my game. I like doing what I do as a SEAL shooter.”

“Mmm,” Khat said.

“Your profile reminds me of the women in this region of Afghanistan. Each province has different bloodlines, different gene pools. This region saw a Mongolian influence.” Which would account for the slight tilt of her eyes, but Mike didn’t add that important point.

He was getting too close for comfort, and Khat avoided his direct, digging gaze. “I think you had too much time on your hands today, Mike.” She forced a smile she didn’t feel. He was like a bloodhound on a scent. Khat agreed with him that the genetics of each tribe were unique. And there were marked differences in hair color, eye color and skin color, as a result.

“I’ve seen a lot of red-haired women in our area. Green and blue eyes. Fair skin,” he continued. “And you fit that model.”

“I could be Irish,” she teased, now uncomfortable beneath his intense scrutiny.

“No way. At least,” he amended lightly, “in this province we’re in.”

“I’m not giving you any information, Mike.”

“And,” he went on, ignoring her statement, “the women and men in this area are much taller than the other tribes in other provinces. You’re about an inch shorter than I am, and I’m five foot eleven inches tall.”

Khat said nothing. He was on a mission of discovery, and she could see it in the tenacious look in his gold eyes. “I need to get something to eat before we leave.” She unwound from her position on the floor, feeling his unrelenting inspection.

Following her with his gaze, Mike felt tension rising in Khat due to his interrogation of her. He sensed he’d gotten close to the truth about her but he wasn’t going to gloat about it. The more he questioned her, the more he saw fear deep in the recesses of Khat’s eyes. And that delicious, full mouth of hers had thinned, as if a defensive reaction. Why? His gut told him it had to do with the scars across her long, beautiful back and shoulders.

She brought back some dried beef jerky and handed him some. “I’m sure the first thing you will do once you land at Camp Bravo is call your wife. And then your parents. They will breathe a sigh of relief and be glad to hear from you.”

“I don’t have a wife,” he said, watching her sit down near his feet, long legs crossed. He saw surprise in her widening eyes.

“Surely, a special woman, then?” Khat couldn’t conceive of this ruggedly good-looking man, who obviously was intelligent, not being in a relationship. That simply wasn’t possible.

“I don’t have anyone.” So what did he see in Khat’s eyes? Surprise? Shock? Desire? Happiness? Mike decided to turn the tables on her as he chewed the salty beef. “What about you, Khat? Do you have a husband?”

Heat swept up from her neck and into her face. “No.”

“Someone here in Afghanistan that you love?” He could think of a hundred men who would stand in line to get her. She suddenly became nervous, licking her lower lip. Shy with him, unable to hold his gaze.

“No one,” she answered softly. “My line of work is too dangerous.” That wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth. No man would consider her whole. Her back and shoulders were nothing but scars, ridges and were ugly. Men did not want a scarred woman with a shameful past. Her father, who had been born in this province, once he had seen her scars for the first time, had cried. He had told her mother that no man would ever consider her for marriage. He cried for the grandchildren he would never hold in his arms. He was shamed by her scars.

Khat had felt even more wounded by her father’s patriarchal Afghan attitude, but she was at a place in her life that his words had cut even deeper than the lashes she had received during interrogation by the Taliban. And when she had survived and healed physically, she’d come back here four years ago. Her father said she was a dead woman walking. He was right.

Mike felt Khat leave, her thoughts elsewhere, her eyes growing clouded. Sensing pain or suffering around her, he said, “You’re right, in our business, we can have a short life. It’s hell on anyone who loves us. That’s why I’m not in a serious relationship. I wouldn’t want someone worried about me all the time over here.”

Pensive, Khat forced herself to eat because she knew her body needed the nutrition and energy. “My parents are very unhappy about what I do. They don’t understand it. Or me.”

“That’s too bad. You’re doing important but dangerous undercover work.” The hurt in her face moved Mike. He wanted to open his arm and ask her to come and lean against him. Khat needed to be held. It was so clear in her darkening eyes. Her mouth was pursed, as if holding back unknown pain and memories.

If one of her parents was Afghan, it was probably her father. He would have made the decision to move the family to the States, not the woman. And Afghan males were patriarchal as hell, superprotective of their daughters, wanting only two things from them: being a virgin upon their wedding day and giving them grandchildren to carry on their family lineage. He imagined if his thinking was accurate, Khat was seen as a misfit as a woman to her father. And it would have put a lot of pressure on her to live up to her father’s expectations of her, versus what she wanted to do with her life as an individual. Which was to become a Marine Corps sniper.

Khat wanted to move away from her painful past. “Your name? Michael? That is one of the archangels of heaven. Did your parents name you that because they knew you’d be a warrior someday?”

“My father named me after my grandfather. He fought in tribal wars that helped bring the House of Saud to power a long time ago. He was a warrior.” Mike gave her a wry look. “I think my father was hoping I’d become like him. Instead of picking up a scalpel, I picked up the sword.”

“Just as in the Koran, Michael the archangel is the one who battles, protects and defends.”

“I do my share of battling,” Mike agreed. “And I am protective of those I love.” His voice became gritty. “And I’m a sucker for women and children who need protection.”

Her skin riffled with the darkness of his voice. “Don’t look at me. I can protect myself.” Khat would never let on that she’d never felt as safe or shielded as the past two days with Mike’s presence in her life.

“It’s my nature,” he said seriously, seeing the haunted look come to her eyes. Something told him Khat rarely received any protection from anyone. She’d learned a long time ago to take care of herself and never expected help from another quarter. What the hell had happened to her to make her think like that? He shouldn’t feel so damned elated to discover she wasn’t married or wasn’t in a relationship presently.

“Your last name, is spelled T-A-R-I-K?”

Now why would she want to know that? “In the old country it was spelled T-A-R-I-Q, but when my father came to the States, he changed it to make it easier for his patients to pronounce and spell.”

“It’s my understanding the name means one who uses a hammer?” She lifted her chin and stared at him.

“Guilty on all counts,” Mike said, giving her a slow smile. “There’s various meanings to it. One is it means a bright, shining star that leads the way.”

“You are a leader. There is no question.”

“I try to be,” Mike said. “Another, the name of the Morning Star, Venus.”

“I think you’ve taken two of the three definitions to heart,” Khat said lightly.

“What? I’m not a star?” He chuckled. “I did love astronomy when I was a kid. My dad even bought me a small telescope so I could look at the stars.”

“But that lost out to becoming a warrior? Your first name, Michael, combined with your last name pushes you toward being a man of action. Someone who can use the sword.”

“You’re right.” He lost his smile. “If I had one wish before I left you, it is to know your full first name. I know Khat is your nickname.”

Feeling her heart move beneath his humble request, Khat saw the sincerity in his narrowing eyes. “I can’t. I’m sorry. Besides, my name does not have the glory and power that yours does.” She managed a small smile, appreciating him for who he was: a very brave SEAL. The joke was, her Pashtun name, Khatereh, simply meant, “memory.” And so it had been. There were branding memories in her mind about her scarred flesh and fractured soul she could never forget. And she was never the same after her capture. So much for memory.

She rose. “It’s time to go.”

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