Pussycat Death Squad (11 page)

* * *

“This is your initiation into Southern cuisine. What do you think?”

Lelia eyed the platter of ribs placed before her. Letting Patrick order for her had definitely been a mistake, but being unfamiliar with the offerings it had seemed a good idea at the time. She was surprised that halal meat was available in the area, even though they had it on the base. He'd ordered beef ribs as well, though she suspected that he usually ate pork. She was touched that he'd remembered her dietary restrictions and had gone to the trouble of finding a restaurant that adhered to them. She couldn't believe that the ribs, macaroni and cheese, beans, and coleslaw were meant to be a midday meal for one. It was more food than she would normally eat in a week. A casual glance around the rather Spartan restaurant confirmed that most of the customers had similar amounts of food before them. She'd been surprised to find so many customers this late in the day, but Patrick had assured her that they'd probably been waiting since lunchtime. Apparently, this restaurant was one of the most popular in town. Lelia watched as Patrick tucked into his food; then she followed his lead and cut one of the bones from the rest of the slab and took a bite.

Patrick looked on as Lelia took her first bite of the tender, succulent meat. Her eyes closed as a shudder went through her body. When her lips parted on a moan of delight, it was all he could do to restrain himself from leaping over the table and replacing the ribs with his tongue. Or better yet, his cock.

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

He came out of his reverie with a start. If she had any idea…
Why not tell her?

“I was imagining what it would be like to lick that sauce off your lips and replace those ribs with my tongue.” He thought it prudent to leave off his most prurient thoughts. “And if you shudder like that again, I'm not going to be responsible for my actions.”

Lelia gave him a long look, knowing that he expected her to run away screaming like a frightened virgin. Obviously he didn't know her that well. She was not a coward. Without breaking eye contact, she bit into another rib, tearing the meat from the bone with a deliberately sensual motion. Still watching him, she slowly swallowed, then licked the tangy sauce from her lips. Still maintaining eye contact, she responded with a throaty “oorah.” Then waited for his reaction. She knew she'd given the Marine Corps battle cry the right inflection when she saw a flush rise under his deeply tanned skin, his pupils enlarging with his arousal.

“Let's go,” he said, rising from his side of the booth in the crowded restaurant.

Lelia shook her head, placing her forearm on the table in a defensive posture, her butter knife raised as though prepared for an enemy invasion. “I don't think so, Gunnery Sergeant. You have no chance at all of getting me away from these ribs.”

Patrick dropped back into his seat with a snort that let her know, even without the accompanying glare, just how annoyed he was. “Tease.”

Lelia paused with a rib halfway to her mouth, then shook her head. “Another charming colloquialism. I'm sure I don't know the meaning of it.”

Patrick gave another disgruntled snort. “You speak English better than me, idioms and all. I'm pretty sure you know exactly what it means. Or would you prefer a more graphic term?”

“No, that's quite all right. I'm sure I can muddle through. You know, they say a nice cold shower is good for what ails you.” He gave her another glare.

“I really hate to waste good food,” Lelia said in a contrite tone.

“You really love getting my goat.”

She raised a brow. “Is that like goring your ox?” She frowned in mock confusion. “I've always wondered why anyone would want to gore a perfectly good ox.”

“More or less,” he snapped back, clearly still annoyed.

“Pulling your chain?”

“That too.”

“Rattling your cage,” Lelia continued, enjoying the opportunity to flex her English-speaking skills.

“Enough of this
tour d'idiom
. Admit that you're trying to annoy me.”

Lelia shrugged. “That is an added benefit.”

He paused for a moment, then threw back his head with a bellow of laughter. Lelia couldn't help but smile back. His humor was infectious.

“Glad to see you enjoy Southern cooking so much that you're willing to forgo other pleasures,” Patrick said.

“
Forgo?
How about
postpone
?” She smiled as a sharp breath whistled between his teeth, but he said nothing more. She returned to her meal, sucking more of the slightly vinegary sauce off the bone. “I love fire-grilled meat. We have similar dishes in Laritrea, but the sauce is totally different. We use a persillade, garlic and parsley in an olive oil base. We also like brochettes, you know, skewered meats. It's delicious too,” she continued enthusiastically, enjoying the differences and similarities in the foods.

She scooped up a forkful of the macaroni and cheese. “On the other hand, I've never had anything like this. It's delicious.” She closed her eyes again as she took another creamy bite. When she opened them, Patrick was staring at her once more, a fact that she pointed out to him.

“Sorry, can't help it. Watching you eat is the sexiest thing I've ever seen.”

“Yeah, right.” She snorted the Americanism with perfect inflection. “Somehow I don't believe that. I thought it was a requirement that you have a woman in every port”—she waggled her brows suggestively—“and I'm sure you've been in a lot of ports.”

Patrick shook his head. “Lelia, I'm only thirty-two years old. That's pretty young to make gunnery sergeant. Not unheard of, but pretty young. I've been deployed a lot and worked my ass off. I haven't had time for a lot of extracurricular activities.”

She wished he hadn't reminded her of how many times he'd gone to war against her people. As though he'd read her mind, he continued.

“I'm a marine, Lelia. I go where I'm sent, and yes, I've killed people. I've killed Arab people. You're a soldier, and you've killed Arabs too.”

Lelia took a deep breath. “Yes, but I was protecting Colonel al-Fariq.”

“And I protect my men. That's what warriors do. We follow orders. I've never wanted to go to war, but I have to go where my commander in chief sends me. Just like you.”

Lelia shook her head, knowing he was right. Despite her best efforts, she didn't really see him as the enemy. There was no real point in trying to force herself to feel something she didn't. She distracted herself by taking another bite of her macaroni and cheese.
Dear God, what did they put in this stuff?
She looked up to find Patrick grinning at her, that irrepressible dimple in his left cheek making him look like a mischievous imp. She raised her brows in inquiry, her mouth too full of cheesy goodness to ask a question.

“You really enjoy your food, don't you?”

“Doesn't everybody? Otherwise, what would be the point?”

“A lot of people, especially women, spend all their time on diets. They treat food like it's the enemy.”

“As hard as I work out, I don't have to worry about gaining weight. In Laritrea, our food is very Mediterranean, but we have a lot of East African influences, so our cuisine is more or less a polyglot of lots of flavors. Interestingly enough, though, we don't have a lot of cheese.”

“I've been to Laritrea a couple of times. I love the food, and you're right, it's very Mediterranean, except the cheese part.”

They ate in silence for a while. Lelia continued to enjoy her meal, but she knew that she'd been sending mixed messages to Patrick all day. He wasn't the type to let her get away with that. Some type of confrontation was inevitable. She briefly sent up a prayer of thanks that there was so much food, and that Patrick clearly intended to eat all his. She'd shared several meals with him over the past few weeks. Though he wasn't a particularly large man, he probably burned a lot of fuel with all his activity. Thinking about the one activity she'd really like to join him in brought nothing but more frustration.

Talking with her friends hadn't really helped. Astaria couldn't understand why she was so conflicted. Of course, Astaria had always been a bit of a romantic and had never intended to stay in the Guard for more than a few years. She suspected that one of her other friends, Karida, who was probably one of her most devout soldiers, would strongly object, but she'd been left in Laritrea with the younger soldiers. Lelia closed her eyes briefly. Much as she hated to admit it, that reporter was right. It had been much easier to remain isolated in the Amazonian Guard when their exposure was limited. It hurt her pride to acknowledge that she'd fallen into the very same trap she'd feared would spring on one of her much greener recruits. Now she had to choose between Patrick and the only life she'd ever known. She looked up with a start; apparently Patrick had been trying to get her attention.

“I'm glad I got a hotel room. I wasn't sure if you'd want to go back to the base tonight. It's getting kind of late.”

Lelia glanced at her watch. “It's not that late. I don't necessarily want to return to base, but I don't know if I want all my soldiers to think I'm, well, you know…”

“You mean, we're not going to, well, you know…?” He gave her a wry glance.

“I'm pretty sure we are, but…”

“So you want to keep me a secret?” His chill tone made it clear that this was unacceptable. She'd never considered it anyway.

“No, Colonel al-Fariq will eventually have to be told.”

“What?”

“I told you the conditions of being in the Amazonian Guard.”

“What will he do, give you some type of test?”

“Of course not.” Lelia frowned. “At least I don't think so. I probably won't go into great detail.” She conceded, “After all, it is forbidden, but considering that it takes four witnesses of the act to condemn someone, I don't think I'm in any real jeopardy. Of course, I don't know of anyone who has ever done this.” She shrugged. “But I'm not foolish enough to make a full confession, either.”

“'As far as you know,' being the operative phrase here. I find it hard to believe that he's had this unit for all these years and no one's ever fallen in love.”

Lelia gave him a blank stare. “Falling in love? Is that what we're doing?”

Patrick tore open a pack of the lemon-scented hand wipes that were provided with the meal; he took his time cleaning his hands before responding, “What did you think we were doing?”