Defender

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Defender Page 10

by Mann, Catherine


  “Then ask for someone else to serve you when you come to the club.”

  Thick, but sexy. “I can’t seem to place it. Where did you say you’re from?”

  “I did not say.”

  Stopping under a small archway, she reached into her simple—but top-quality—leather bag. He tensed, ready to take her down at the least sign she intended to plug a hole in his heart. With a flicker of a smile, she pulled free . . . her keys.

  “Good night.” She twisted a key in the lock and disappeared inside the narrow building sandwiched between an unending string of others like it. Time-worn paint on stucco. Battered brick.

  Places that held shadows and secrets.

  Anya bolted all four of the locks behind her before breathing in the relative safety of her home. She clicked on the lights as she strode deeper into her apartment, not that it took her long to reach the kitchen, but the space was all hers.

  The press of so many bodies while she worked threatened her oxygen supply. Being a Surac seemed to come with a hefty dose of claustrophobia.

  Apparently masochism, too, since she chose to make her living in a bar like prior generations. Men admired her legs, enough so to leave larger tips. She pulled out her roll of bills and tossed them aside before placing her leather purse on the table, her knife clanking against wood.

  Once upon a youth long lost, she had dreamed of leaving weapons behind and growing flowers. How fanciful was that? She’d imagined surrounding herself with floral perfume to erase the stench of her amoral family.

  And the solitude. That appealed most, whether found in a contained hothouse or in vast fields of farmed posies. Instead, she made do with a window box of leggy butter-cups.

  She had no trade experience except bartending, and after so much time passed, she was left with no choice but to follow in the family tradition. She liked to think she’d maintained the spirit of an isolationist, no relationships, connections, or feelings.

  Life was simpler that way. No joy, no pain.

  Pleasure? That consisted of survival and sleep. Until this one man upset the balance.

  He didn’t stare at her legs. He looked into her eyes and stirred something deep in her belly. Desire. Which also meant danger.

  She’d learned early from Aunt Marta that sex killed.

  NINE

  What a killer trip to the mall.

  Hopefully not literally.

  Chloe eyed their bodyguard as she slid into a musty seat in the military bus slated to take them to nearby Adana. A guard stood by the driver, an AK-47 gripped in both hands. How could Livia lounge so nonchalantly a seat behind, just filing her nails?

  Was it really worth the risk for sightseeing and a shopping trip just to buy a few tapestry drink coasters? But then how much could happen in the seven miles—or twelve kilometers as they said around here—until they reached Adana, the fifth most populous city in Turkey?

  She needed to get a grip on more than the seat in front of her and quit falling back into her old fearful scripts. She’d come to this region aware of the risks, determined to enjoy life even if that meant mentally shutting out the automatic weapons that were a staple around here.

  Besides, she had her nifty new self-defense skills at her disposal, thanks to Jimmy Gage. Of course, even thinking about him sent her senses strumming with memories of tangling together on the mat.

  The bus bucked forward. Just as fast, the vehicle jerked to a halt. Chloe’s knees whacked the seat ahead of her. The guard snapped to attention. The door swung open and the guard backed away.

  Jimmy bounded up the steps as if materializing from her thoughts. “Got room for one more?”

  The uniformed driver nodded. “There are still a few places near the back, sir.”

  What was he doing here? Hadn’t he said it was too dangerous? Was he leaping to her defense again?

  For a guy who kept pushing her away, he sure seemed to follow her a lot.

  Jimmy loped down the aisle toward her, his eyes fixed on her yet shuttered. She fidgeted in the cracked vinyl seat. She wasn’t totally naïve. She had experience with guys, not a lot, since chronic illness had often left her with little except her music. Still, she’d been out with enough men that she shouldn’t be this unsettled by a guy she barely knew.

  But, “Roll Over Beethoven,” Jimmy looked hot. Low-slung jeans fit his lazy stride to a T. He sat beside her without even asking.

  She scooched toward the window, trying to escape the heat of warm denim against her washed-thin khakis. “You’re really taking a dangerous risk leaving the base for some frivolous sightseeing.”

  “You’re a regular comedian. The USO should sign you on to do stand-up.” He unhooked his sunglasses from his shirt and slid them on.

  “I would have brought you a little ivory camel if you’d just asked.”

  “I was afraid you’d bring a tusk instead and implant it in one of my vulnerable strike points.”

  “Definite possibility.” The back-and-forth snipping was actually starting to become perversely energizing. “Seriously, what are you doing here? Was your flight last night canceled?”

  “Nope.” He crossed his arms over his chest, scowl set.

  Chloe jabbed a thumb toward the front of the bus. “I already have a very competent bodyguard.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I also have nifty new kung fu moves at my disposal. I’ll be able to handle Romulans and purse snatchers with ease.” She cut the air with her hands while Livia listened in none-too-subtly from the seat behind.

  He peered at her over the top of his sunglasses. Chloe steeled her face, not in any way ready to let him see how much he confused her. No doubt ego boy had enough notches on his bedpost without adding her to the count.

  “Well, Captain, just so we’re clear, you’re coming for yourself, of your own volition. I’m not taking any crap from you if you get your wallet jacked.”

  “Understood.” Jimmy unclipped his BlackBerry from his waistband and began scrolling through mail as if she didn’t exist, as if his leg wasn’t still pressed up against hers, blasting muscled heat straight through her khakis.

  Quiet settled but for the engine’s grumble and the raspy swoosh, swoosh of Livia’s nail file. The bus lumbered past the rows of flags at the NATO base. She’d read in her Touring Turkey book about the legend behind the Turkish flag, that in battle, the shapes were seen reflected in a pool of warriors’ blood. Once outside the front gate, Chloe hitched her elbow on the window to soak up the mountainous countryside, rather than risk looking at Jimmy and have him snap at her about something else.

  Or keep ignoring her.

  The rolling landscape was dotted with flat-roofed houses. She’d also read in her tourism book that locals slept there to escape spring and summer heat.

  Jimmy stayed silent, tapping a message on his BlackBerry, his somber mood darn near palpable. Something about his face struck her as different: not irritated as usual but something else.

  She fidgeted in her seat. “Is everything okay? Are you okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “Did something happen last night during your flight?”

  “I’m alive, so everything must have gone just fine.”

  “Not the benchmark for success I like to put on my workday.”

  A dry smile tugged at his mouth as he kept typing on his tiny keypad. “We aren’t singing ‘Happy Birthday, Mr. President’ for standing ovations.”

  Okay, he’d just stepped over the line in dissing her profession. Regardless of what he’d done for her, she didn’t have to put up with rudeness. “There are plenty of other empty seats if you want peace and quiet before your souvenir junket. I hear they have bins of the glass blue ‘eyes’ for jewelry to ward off bad moods.”

  He tucked aside the BlackBerry and settled his undivided attention on her. “I didn’t come along for souvenirs. I’m here for you.”

  Livia shifted in her seat, the vinyl upholstery squeaking. “Wow, flyboy, you’re a charmer when you w
ant to be.”

  Chloe looked between the two of them. A sliver of jealousy flashed through her. Silly on her part, certainly. Still, Chloe couldn’t help comparing her own khakis and well-washed T-shirt from a Renaissance festival to the diva pop star’s hip-hugging hot pink capris and silk butterfly tunic edged in gold beads.

  How could a girl not come up feeling a little lacking?

  Livia tapped the back of their seat with her nail file. “So, Captain Gage, what do they call you? All of you gentlemen have such interesting play names for each others.”

  “Play names?” That brought him upright in his seat. “We take our call signs—or go bys—seriously.”

  “Call signs.” She filed her nails again, a cluster of silver rings flashing in the sunlight as her hand worked. “Tell me more.”

  “We come by our call signs in a number of ways.” He removed his sports sunglasses and hooked them back on the neck of his polo shirt. “Most get the nickname after completing specialty trainings. We have a party with a keg and ceremony. In other cases, somebody stumbles on one by doing something especially, uh, memorable, and the label sticks.”

  “How did you decide on your name?” Chloe asked.

  “We don’t decide on our own.” He hitched an ankle on one knee, his foot jostling in time to a tune only he could hear. “It’s given to us. The call sign may be a simple play on someone’s name, like Lieutenant Ryder would be Easy.”

  The camo-wearing driver stretched up in his seat, peering back at them in the large mirror over his windshield. “Or there’s the ever-famous Colonel Pat ‘My’ Johnson.”

  Livia frowned in confusion, while Chloe shook her head. “Very mature, gentlemen.”

  The driver chuckled as he settled back behind the wheel, taking the sharp turn on the dusty road toward increasingly large clusters of houses near a small mosque. “Carry on, Captain.”

  Jimmy included the growing crowd in his story as his arm slid along the back of Chloe’s seat. “Names also come from personalities, like how our flight engineer is a ladies’ man, thus his call sign, Smooth.”

  The touch of his fingers along the rim of her T-shirt sleeve felt mighty darn smooth to her. Chloe inched closer to the dirty window. “I heard your friends call you Hotwire. Seems pretty accurate a personality tag to me with your temper and all.”

  Livia pursed her lips in a flirty little moue. “You appear very level to me, Captain Hotwire.”

  “My call sign can be taken two ways. I have a mechanical engineering degree or more likely, because I have a tendency to land in the nearest fight.”

  Well, that explained a lot, maybe even explained the sparks she’d thought she felt between them on the exercise mat. He was merely a volatile guy, and she happened to be the person in the room.

  She should be relieved. She was relieved, damn it.

  Jimmy stepped off the bus onto a steaming cobblestone street in historic Adana. Spices filled market baskets, scenting the air with memories of his grandmother’s kitchen. But he was here today for something other than reminiscing about past family vacations to Turkey. He’d come to watch out for Chloe and take his mind off of Chuck’s recent locale change that he couldn’t seem to do a damned thing about.

  He’d been here often enough in the past on work and family trips to be familiar with the mingling remnants of the Byzantine and Ottoman Empires. He didn’t need to do the tourist gig with a map and Turkish spoons—or camels. Little did many of the sightseers know that some of these street vendors mixed local wares with goods from the air base.

  Even though he wanted to avoid downtown for a number of safety reasons, he had to admit that seeing the area through Chloe’s wide eyes brought back some of the newness he’d felt during his first visit at eight. They’d all come to meet his grandmother’s relatives, before the family finances were overstretched by his sister Jenny’s cancer treatments, back during a time when he could look at women without worrying about how fragile they could be.

  He pushed back that thought before it sent his mood farther down the crapper. Focus on the moment: watching, protecting.

  So many cultural eras and politics and religions came together in one place. Bebekli Kilise—the Catholic Church of Babies—sprawled at the city’s center while spires of mosques spiked toward the sky. All those beautiful sites provided too many places to hide.

  Chloe shot ahead to a food stall packed with candies and cakey sweets before he could stop her.

  “Damn it, Speed Racer, slow down.”

  She didn’t seem to have heard. He gripped Livia’s arm and sprinted to catch up with Chloe before she got mugged—or worse.

  Chloe fished in her purse and pulled out the local tender. She pointed to a pyramid of baklava and held up three fingers, then added a bag of individually wrapped Turkish delights.

  His mouth watered, reminding him of practical concerns. He hadn’t eaten anything except that shitty boxed meal during his flight. Many thought of baklava as a Greek dessert, but it belonged to Turkey as well.

  “Teşekkür ederim,” Chloe thanked the vendor and surprised the hell out of Jimmy.

  Not many bothered to wade through their Turkish phrase book. The language wasn’t more difficult to pick up than Spanish or French.

  Chloe passed a baklava to Jimmy with a prim smile. “Thank you for the escort.” Before he could respond, she’d turned to Livia. “And for you.”

  “Do you know how many stomach crunches and miles on the exercise bike that will cost me?”

  “I declare this Calories Be Damned Day.” Chloe bit into her baklava.

  Her groan shot straight to his groin.

  Livia nibbled a corner as if to make Chloe happy, then wrapped the napkin around the rest and tucked it into her large pink leather bag. “I am going to hang with the hunky guard for the day and pretend he is my boy toy. You kids feel free to run off on your own.”

  Kids? He had at least five years on her.

  Livia sashayed past a wobbly bicyclist and three honking cars. Once she reached the guard, Jimmy returned his attention to Chloe.

  Beside her, children played in a circle, bouncing an overlarge ball with their feet and heads. Chloe had focused her attention on a street band.

  Musicians with ouds, some reed instruments, and a tambourine evoked the past with folk music while adults and children danced along with unmistakable artistry and a timeless appeal. Slowly, people from the crowd joined the dancers on the strewn wool carpets. The free-flowing movements appeared easy enough, with no set parameters other than hold hands overhead, snap fingers, sway shoulders, and twirl.

  Chloe swayed beside him, edging closer and closer. Her feet and hands moved in time, mimicking, picking up the gist of the freestyle movement. She laughed. Just a simple sound, but it jolted straight through him.

  She clasped his hand and backed toward the dancers. He shook his head.

  Chloe held tighter. “Scared of looking silly?”

  She’d thrown down the gauntlet.

  “Fear is for the weak.” He nudged her deeper into the dancers, his feet synching up with hers.

  Soon her hair was down and twirling around her while hands thump, thump, thumped on drums. He could swear the air smelled different, smoky from more than incense. Chloe took on a time warp quality. She could have been any woman, any time, all the way back to the Ottoman Empire. He continued to move with the music instinctively, but his attention stayed totally on Chloe. Her blond curls whipped past her face long enough for her gaze to hook on his briefly.

  The music slowed, but the moment still vibrated through him as the crowd jostled by. Pulling himself back to the present was a helluva lot tougher than it should have been.

  He took her hand in his again and backed her out of the crowd, jostling against another person. Damn it, he should have been more aware of his surroundings.

  Jimmy glanced over his shoulder. “Excuse me.”

  He looked straight at the face of Agent Mike Nunez.

  “Excusa.�
�� The agent nodded and strode forward in clothes that appeared to cost more than a month of captain’s pay.

  O-kay. He knew better than to ask. Their jobs operated on a need-to-know basis.

  He shot a quick glance at Chloe as she waved her thanks to the musicians. She didn’t seem to have noticed Agent Nunez while the dancers melded back into the pedestrians.

  Jimmy gripped her arm. “Come on, Gypsy Rose. We’re going to find some real food.”

  “Why, thank you for that polite luncheon invitation, sir. I would be delighted to join you.”

  Ignoring her dig, he drew her to his side. Because she felt damn good, sure. But also because the crush of activity made him nervous.

  All bustled around with seemingly benign activity, but threats came in deceptive packages these days. He took in the haggling at a fish stand, the sizzle of meat as a vendor sliced away at a haunch. Kids laughed at a puppet show at his nine o’clock, while a group of mothers looked on, some in veils, others in traditional western garb.

  He gauged the pace and direction of Nunez and chose the opposite. He jabbed a finger toward a street-side café with an open grill so he could be sure his food was made fresh.

  She smiled up at him. “Thanks again for asking. Yes, I would love to eat there.”

  Sighing, he stopped. “Where would you like to go?”

  “You pick.”

  Here he was, trying to find an outside café with the best vantage point for keeping an eye out for possible trouble, and she was busting his chops. Jimmy gripped her elbow and steered her through the increasing throng to a wrought-iron table near a bookseller’s stand.

  He held out her chair with exaggerated manners.

  She took her seat with a flourish. “I’m delighted to be dining with such a scintillating conversationalist.”

  “I’m a bodyguard today. Not some hired gigolo from an escort service.”

  “I’ll do most of the talking, then. At least we can’t argue that way.” She propped her elbow on the table, and her chin fell to rest on her fist.

  He liked her fingers with their short, unpolished nails. Sure, he realized she must keep them trimmed to play the piano, but still, those industrious hands enticed him a lot more than Livia Cicero’s for-show-only hot pink manicure.

 

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