Target Engaged (15 page)

She was surprised that the heat rising from her anger didn't simply bake the T-shirt dry. Of all the goddamn jerks. Okay, she could understand the others, kind of. In their world, women either belonged in khaki or were something found in stateside bars.

But, damn it! She'd thought Kyle was better than that.

Since when did stunned puppy-dog eyes have any part in her world?

He said she was gorgeous.

He was full of shit!

Though there was no denying the heat between them. She liked that he wanted her…when they weren't in the middle of a mission!

Man but he was making her nuts.

So, she avoided the resorts and worked her way back into the areas inland from the beach. They still catered to the tourists, but they did it without the ostentation and Gucci labels.

Despite Aruba having been a Dutch colony for centuries, a Latin feel pervaded the air. There was a mix of small shops, restaurants, and cheaper hotels without their own beach front. There were also dozens, maybe hundreds of stalls, carts, and even blankets rolled out on the sidewalks. It was too carefully quaint, testifying to just how much of their economy was based on tourism, but that didn't concern her at the moment. There was still a sleepy feel, as it was only shortly past sunrise, but most of the locals were already in place to garner every dollar they could.

She was hailed in Dutch, English (which she pretended not to know), German (which she really didn't), then Spanish. She hoped to God she could find something in the stall that wouldn't plaster the word “Aruba!” or worse, “I
heart
Aruba!” across her chest.

Carla bought a floppy straw sunhat, big sunglasses, sandals, and the most covering sundress that the woman had, which wasn't saying much. It was a wraparound in a bright floral pattern whose yellows were far too reminiscent of the despised bikini. It plunged down between her breasts and stopped short of mid-thigh, but it was better than the T-shirt and bikini that had earned her so much attention, including a small band of ardent followers, in just the two blocks she'd stalked from the beach.

She'd left it to the boys to clear out any of her sudden fans. If it was left up to her, she'd probably end up in jail on a murder-one charge. Actually, no
probably
about it.

At least her guys had gotten their shit back together by the time she was done shopping. Two had hit a couple stalls and come back with shorts and touristy T-shirts—Duane had actually fallen for the “I
heart
Aruba!” trap, which did look pretty good stretched across his muscles—while two others stood guard on the stall she'd entered. The old Arawak proprietor with her wrinkle-buried eyes and matronly bosom had clucked her tongue knowingly when Carla had eyed the rear exit of the stall as a potential means of escape.

A grimace, a couple dozen euros from her waterproof money belt, and she rejoined the guys. They dumped their swim gear at the back of a still-closed rental stall. The guy would simply assume that someone had accidentally returned their gear to the wrong place, and he'd quietly add it to his inventory when none of the other vendors squawked.

* * *

Kyle had been first shift to guard the stall where Carla had shopped. Had tried not to imagine what was happening while the
matrona
was holding up a nearly sheer swatch of cloth as a temporary dressing room.

When the other guys came back, he'd gone and bought clothes for himself. Creating even that small amount of distance from Carla was a relief.

He couldn't afford to get stupid about her or it would damage the team. It would fall apart if he was worrying about her rather than his own role in this. Well, that certainly sounded like his problem, not hers. And Dad had taught him how to deal with such things. He would pound the problem aside, find his center, and stay focused on Carla's capabilities as a soldier, which were awesome. He'd still place her as number one on his list of who he'd want guarding his back.

But then he returned to the booth just as she wended her way out of the shadowy rear—past piles of T-shirts and racks of dresses and handbags—to once more stand in the sunlight.

Offset by the bright floral flirtiness of the dress, her darker skin simply glowed. Her hair had already dried in the arid heat into a thick tangle that he couldn't wait to run his hands through. The dress covered more than the bikini and wet T-shirt, but what it hid, it implied and the impact was equally powerful.

Lucky beyond what he deserved? No question!

Fear he was going to screw it up…

Well, there was a new thought. Until two nights ago, it had simply been the best relationship of his life. But everything had ramped up and now he couldn't imagine not being with Carla.

He offered her his arm. She glared at him, then on a huff of exasperation, slipped her hand around his elbow.

The five of them had entered one end of the market wearing swimsuits and not much more. They exited the other wearing tourist outfits and small backpacks. Carla also carried a colorful straw bag that he'd bought for her.

They each now held a variety of clothes, sunscreen, toiletries, a couple of guidebooks, and several ridiculous geegaws that clearly labeled them as tourists traveling light. Personally, he'd been unable to resist a small, fuzzy moose toy with “Aruba” stitched into one of his broad antlers. Would it be breaking security if he gave it to Mom for Christmas? Probably, but it was still too damn cute.

They'd laughed together over Indonesian curry chicken and fries from the curiously named Mrs. Kelly's food truck, but that didn't make it any less delicious. Indonesia and Aruba had both been Dutch colonies for well over three centuries.

At one moment, Kyle and Carla were wandering alone, the other three guys off this way or that.

“I'm sorry it upset you earlier. I want you to know that you look absolutely fabulous in that dress.” She now owned slacks, shorts, and several tops, but she hadn't changed into them, for which he was eternally grateful.

Carla looked over at him, her eyes hidden by sunglasses and the wide straw brim of her hat.

“Um, thanks. I'm sorry if I overreacted, but I've never worn girl clothes before.”

“Never?” He tried to imagine that. Women in bars, especially the ones who hung out in the Green Beret bars seeking the target-eager environment, always wore girl clothes—though often so scanty that the word “clothes” might be an exaggeration.

“Come on, Kyle. Do I look like a senior prom kind of girl?”

He inspected her as she stopped to look at a vendor of local jewelry. He could tell that she wasn't really browsing, that it's just what she thought a girl was supposed to do, to maintain her cover. A glance revealed that Carla had no piercings. Couldn't even buy his girl earrings. Then he spotted a fine chain of silver from which dangled a small sailboat of carved amber wrapped in silver filigree. It was actually quite pretty work.

He waited until Carla grew bored with the inspection of earrings and necklaces, less than sixty seconds, and wandered off to see what Chad was up to. He was probably purchasing a pink Swiss Army knife labeled with the inevitable “Aruba!” because the man simply couldn't breath right without having some sort of weapon.

Kyle quickly purchased the tiny sailboat necklace. The vendor's smile said he'd just been ripped off, but Kyle didn't care to take the time for a bartering session.

He slipped up behind Carla. Lowering the sailboat down in front of her just long enough to hear her brief gasp before he secured it around her neck. The boat sailed just between the first rise of her breasts.

She turned to study him and he took both of her hands.

“No, you don't look like a prom girl. You look like someone who was the prom queen and has now grown into a stunning woman. And—” He cut her off on the verge of interrupting.

She scowled.

“—no, it does not make you one iota less the soldier I want fighting beside me.” Then he did something he'd never done before. He kissed her in broad daylight in front of others.

With a soft “damn you” against his lips, she melted against him. The woman who flowed against him was as unexpected as the soldier in form-clinging leathers. This time she didn't grab and devour. She didn't take control and demand. Instead, she simply slid her hands around his neck and held on.

He felt a desire to protect rather than plunder. If he were rich, he would set her up in the penthouse of one of these towering resorts looming above the market. He would lavish her with—

Kyle was going mad.

He curled his arms around her. A sigh, he swallowed. He…

…opened an eye and spotted Duane, standing there with arms folded across his “I
heart
Aruba!” chest and a grin on his face. He opened the other and saw Chad and Richie in similar stances.

“There's a cliché here just waiting to happen,” Duane observed.

“Something about getting rooms, or were you thinking of the girl cooties one?” Chad asked him.

“The name is Bond. James Bond,” Richie offered up.

That broke them up and everyone laughed.

Everyone except Carla, who had pulled in her arms but remained nestled against Kyle's chest.

Nothing to lose?

He had the whole world to lose and it was curled up in his arms.

* * *

Carla wished for heat to rise to her cheeks. She wanted to feel embarrassed, put upon, something that she could fight back against.

Instead, she stood in the circle of Kyle's arms among the bustle of the now lively market and felt desirable and beautiful. No one had ever bought her jewelry. A tiny sailboat of hope that someday she could sail free.

Jewelry and a dress. And a kiss that hadn't fired her up, but rather melted her down.

She was such a write-off. They should decommission her and sink her at sea like a wreck for people to dive down and wonder at.

For a moment longer she let herself remain curled against Kyle's chest and breathe in his smell of new shirt and salt air, let herself be…

She was not ready to finish that sentence. “Loved?” What had her brain been thinking? That was so not going to happen. Well, at least she knew which part of her had died first. The only ones she'd ever wanted love from were dead and buried in Arlington.

Pushing back from Kyle's chest, not so fast that he'd be offended or think her ungrateful, she moved from the circle of his arms.

He let her go, but kept hold of her hand to tuck back around his elbow.

She needed that at the moment. Needed to stay grounded. A quick glance at the guys showed that they weren't offended or jealous or even looking at her as if she'd somehow changed from the soldier who'd spent six months training close beside them. Rather, they smiled as if somehow it had been their doing that she and Kyle were together. It made the…a mushy word tried to sneak in but she suppressed it…bond she felt for them that much stronger.

She offered her first true smile since coming ashore and found it returned, and it was one of the best feelings she'd ever had. Right up there with the kiss she'd just received.

“So—” She hated that she had to clear her throat before she could continue. She stroked the bit of jewelry lying so consciously on her chest. “I heard there was a real sailboat around here somewhere.”

Agent Fred Smith had arranged a sailboat charter for them at the Oranjestad waterfront, a short taxi ride from where they'd come ashore. The capital city of thirty thousand was a teeming metropolis compared to the resort communities along Palm and Eagle Beaches, but they passed through it too quickly for her to form much of an impression.

They picked up the fifty-six-foot sloop from a worried-looking rental agent.

Kyle and Richie both spoke sailboat to him until he relaxed.

Carla had never sailed. She'd been on transport ships and could pilot a small rubber Zodiac through a storm in the dark of night with a dozen of the world's deadliest warriors aboard just fine. Sailboats were a new experience.

So she did her best to stand there, be a pretty airhead, and not grind her teeth overmuch while the rental agent went through the boat with the guys.

Aruba claimed two other small islands well to the east as a part of its territory, and the guys spun a story about wanting to show their sister the other islands.

The agent wasn't buying it.

As soon as he was gone and they had started preparing to depart, she stepped lightly aboard and settled in the cockpit to watch them.

“You know…” She lounged back in her short sundress, stretching out her legs to rest on the bench across the cockpit. She was starting to appreciate the advantages to girl clothes, like torturing guys. “You boys need a better cover story if you don't want everyone assuming we're going to sea to have an orgy.”

Duane and Chad grinned at her wickedly. They'd caught on right away that their story wasn't working and had done what they could to really twist the agent's mind.

Kyle's head shot up from whatever line he was working on and then cursed when he finally connected the truth of that.

Richie blinked at her. “Why would they think that?”

“If we're all friendly and cozy as brothers and sister, Richie, Mama led a very wide-ranging sex life, a fact the agent clearly noted.”

He looked around at their varied complexions—New York Jew, darkly tanned Georgia, and Scandinavian white. She and Kyle were the closest to possibly being related, but not really. She expressed a lot of her grandmother's Cherokee genes, and Kyle was just gorgeous Anglo-Saxon mutt.

The look on Kyle's face verged on horror at impugning her virtue, as if they weren't screwing each other at every opportunity. He mouthed a “sorry.”

She wanted to make him suffer, but couldn't keep it in and laughed.

“Like I care what an Aruban rental agent thinks.”

* * *

Kyle had settled in at the helm. He'd taken first shift. Carla leaned back against him so that he had one hand on the tiller and the other around her waist. He'd almost broached the boat side to the waves, earning a surprised scowl from Richie, who'd been cleaning up lines on the forward deck.

“You sure you know how to sail?”

He knew how to sail, and he knew what to do with their mission. They were on course and on schedule.

What he just didn't know how to deal with was this particular woman in his arms. It wasn't that his blood went to his crotch every time they drew close together… Okay, it wasn't only that. It was that his world became impossibly full, and other small concerns, like sailing, became secondary at best.

He also had a very nice view from above as her sailboat necklace slipped side to side between her breasts each time the sloop rode up over a wave and back down the other side.

“How long do we have?” Her voice was little more than a pleased murmur.

Kyle glanced up at the sails, which were now full and drawing well. If the wind held from this quarter, they could almost sail a single tack all the way to Maracaibo, Venezuela.

“A hundred and fifty sea miles. Twenty, maybe twenty-four hours. We'll show up looking just like tourists tomorrow morning, exactly as planned.”

“I could get used to this.” Her voice was warm and soft.

So could he. Drag her off to his cave and never let her get away. Never in his life had he enjoyed a woman so much. Not even close.

But there was still a shield, a layer, something there that he didn't quite trust. And he'd learned to listen to his instincts, a skill honed by his Delta instructors.

Time. For once they had time and perhaps this was the opportunity to figure out how to drive forward his questions of what drove Carla, without…appearing to be doing precisely that.

He almost cursed as Chad and Duane produced a lunch from down below using the foodstuffs they'd bought at the market. He sighed. Later, but soon.

Carla may have sat up, but she still wore that sundress, so it wasn't a total loss.

“You guys are really such dweebs,” Carla informed them.

“The few. The proud,” Duane mumbled around a mouthful of a
bitterbal
, hissing at the spicy-hot mustard he'd dipped the deep-fried meatball into.

Kyle had known what she was doing from the moment she purchased the slacks and blouse back at the market but hadn't changed into them. But he'd been more than happy to play along.

“For the last two hours”—she took a large bite of
arepa
roll stuffed with cheese, ham, and slivered papaya—“you've been treating me completely differently. I left the dress on to tease you. Instead—”

“Instead we're treating you like the total babe that you are.” Chad's grin was almost a laugh.

“I wondered how long you'd put up with it before the true Carla surfaced,” Duane added, then shifted to a thick Southern accent. “Would y'all like youse bottle of pineapple juice freshened up, missus?”

“Eat my shorts, Jenkins!”

“Gladly!”

Kyle found himself joining in the round of laughter. In this moment the years rolled back. No longer were they Delta commandos who had just pulled off one deadly raid and most likely were headed into another. They weren't ex-Army, ex-SEAL, ex-Special Forces. They were just a group of friends hanging out and enjoying each other's company on a beautiful sailing day in the southern Caribbean.

That he was about to lead his team into harm's way, that part he was used to.

Not so used to doing the same with the woman he loved. Hell, he'd have trouble holding her back if he were dumb enough to try. He'd only end up pissing her off and wasting one of his best assets.

Something drove Carla Anderson and drove her hard. And he was slowly beginning to get it through his thick skull that it wasn't all about her dead brother—her brother who had flown helicopters and died at Colonel Gibson's side, another topic they'd never discussed.

The rest of them were laughing over Richie's attempt to eat a stack of banana chips as if they were caviar-and-toasts at a British high tea. The loud crunching completely ruined the effect.

Kyle didn't know what the hell to do with it.

Mom and Dad were a happy couple in Redmond, Washington. He taught martial arts, she worked her corporate gig, and most weekends still found them fishing together.

Richie had grown up a couple hours north of New York. Well-to-do family, IBM engineer and housewife.

Duane was a lot like him, Dad was ex-Marine and an executive at Coca-Cola in Atlanta. Mom was a lawyer.

Chad might look Iowa, but he was Detroit, downtown, the bad side. He'd earned every inch of his way out of there.

Carla was…Army. Her brother was dead and her mom and dad… He didn't even know if they were dead, alive, or missing. They must have been one hell of a couple to produce a girl like the one sitting next to him.

Then he remembered, no girl clothes. Ever. No one had given her jewelry before. Ever.

He rubbed the back of his neck and shut his eyes for a moment on another bright laugh from the group, Carla's voice ringing like a clear bell above the others.

There was a purity to her joy that he couldn't doubt. It filled her from the inside. Overlay the veneer of a woman who attacked everything as if it was the ultimate and final challenge. Even making love.

He heard the sail slap—hard. He opened his eyes as the boat slowed and the heel leveled out. Only a quick slam of the tiller kept him from an unplanned tack.

“You awake, man?”

Kyle had slept after making love to Carla. But that was now a day and a half ago. He rubbed his face again, but it didn't help. Figuring all of the mission angles had sliced right through any attempt to catch even a few hours' shut-eye last night.

This time he wasn't fast enough and they tacked hard and without warning. The boom slammed across to the other side of the boat, nearly clipping Chad in the head. The jib was now backed against the mast. His attempt to recover was too little too late and only made matters worse.

“I got it.” Richie moved in across from him and laid a hand on the tiller. “Go get some shut-eye.”

Kyle nodded and headed below.

“Whoops! There goes any chance of that happening.” Chad's voice sounded behind him as he descended the short ladder into the main cabin.

“You wouldn't hear me complaining,” Duane responded. “Go get him, girl.”

Kyle glanced back up toward the cockpit. Carla was about to climb down the ladder. Her short dress looked even shorter from down here. It looked as if… “What the hell?”

She arrived on the plank flooring beside him. “The lady didn't sell underwear, only dresses and things. Why, are you complaining?”

Because she'd been sitting there with them and… He shook his head. He had no idea and he didn't know why he bothered. Not a chance of winning an argument with the woman. He aimed for the forward stateroom.

The boat was laid out with a generous galley to one side and a comfortable pilot's berth to the other.

Carla's fingers pressed lightly on his back, moving him along. The companionway continued forward between two wide settees to either side that could each seat four people on bench seats across a table. One of the bulkheads sported an impressive array of electronics, GPS, radio, wind and speed, radar, depth…all the cool toys.

A bunk bed nestled in a tiny room opposite a comfortable head and shower. The forward stateroom boasted sun-yellow walls, shining mahogany trim, and a double bed with generous pillows.

He crashed down into them.

Moments later he felt Carla's weight depress the mattress beside him, and strong hands began digging into his shoulder muscles.

“Carla, I don't know if I can—”

“Shut up, Reeves. Do I look that stupid?”

“No. Most beautiful woman on earth, maybe. Stupid, no.”

“You're biased.” She dug a knuckle hard into a locked-up trapezius muscle.

“Totally,” he groaned as it let go. “Doesn't make it any less true.” And it didn't. She was a knockout beauty, a knockout soldier, and a knockout lover. Three knockouts definitely counted for something. In boxing you only needed one to win. That meant Carla was…

He lost his ability to speak or even think coherently as she dug into successive shoulder muscles and forced them to let go. For a long time he let himself float and groan as she worked his neck, shoulder, and back until he was in a near-liquid puddle of happy soldier.

For everything he
didn't
know about Carla, there were many things he
did
know. First and foremost that there would never be another woman for him. She was it. He was lock, stock, and barrel in love.

“Love”—it was like a whisper through his soul as sleep took him under—“you.”

* * *

Carla froze with her fingers on Kyle's latissimus dorsi near the base of his shoulder blades.

No fucking way!

“‘Love you'! Are you full of shit, Reeves? You did not just say that to me!”

In answer, Kyle released a soft snore.

She raised a hand to pound it down on his back. To roust him but good and make him explain that.

Take it back!

Say you were dreaming of doing the two blonds on the beach, both at once.
He wasn't. He hadn't even had the decency to ogle them, just kept watching her in her damned wet T-shirt and fluorescent bikini.

Then she caught sight of her hand silhouetted against the midday light streaming through the skylight hatch above the bunk.

It wasn't flat to smack down. It was a fist and it was clenched bone-shatteringly hard as if she could trap his two words there until they were crushed to sand, and then bludgeon them back into the man.

“Breathe! Goddamn it! Just breathe!” Her orders to herself were barely managed gasps that cost her more air than they recovered.

She couldn't unclench her fist. Already it ached. It was going to sting like mad when she managed to open it. She did manage to bring it down into her open lap and clench it with her other hand.

Love you?

“That was nowhere in the bargain, Reeves.”

He slept on.

Maybe she'd misunderstood him.

In her dreams.
He'd spoken it and she'd heard it.

Maybe it was in his dreams. Yeah, and maybe he was…thinking of the great food here. Maybe he'd been poisoned by… They'd eaten the same food and drunk the same drinks for the last six months.

Six months? She'd only had a couple lovers who lasted that long. Okay. One. And he'd run off with a singer and it had been about time. She'd never wanted a lover for that long in the first place. Her heart had died long ago, just her body and her brain didn't know it yet so she was getting good use out of them.

How was she supposed to give something to a man like Kyle after her father had disowned his family and Mom's heart had long since stopped beating? Kyle deserved more than she'd ever—

“You okay, Carla?” Chad stood right in front of her.

Somehow she'd escaped Kyle and wandered halfway down the companionway. A cautious glance behind her showed that she'd closed the stateroom door on Kyle's sleeping form.