Taking Fire. Lindsay McKennaЧитать онлайн книгу.
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