Course of Action: Crossfire (17 page)

No! Not just
any
woman. Truth was he'd never met a woman like Riley Fairchild. So vibrant, so courageous, so incredibly talented. Her voice lifted him on silver wings. Her body made him burn. She was in his blood, in his head. And she wanted him with a hunger that matched his own.

No surprise they didn't make it to the end of the dance. The last of her seven veils was still draped around her slender body when he caught the swaying tassels, yanked her into his lap and bent her over his arm.

* * *

Later that evening, Oman's ruling sultan sent a limo to transport Riley and Pete to his private residence. Tall, lean, white-bearded and distinguished, he was the fourteenth in a line that stretched back to the 1700s. He'd received his primary education in India, attended Britain's Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst, joined the British Army and was posted to the lst Battalion Cameronians.

He took over the sultanate after a palace coup deposed his father in 1970. A progressive ruler, he'd introduced a modified parliamentary system that recognized tribal rights and gave women the vote without lessening any of his own power. And he'd managed the diplomatic miracle of maintaining good relations with his Arab neighbors throughout his long reign while remaining an ally of Britain, the United States and other Western nations.

Given his military background and position as commander of the Omani military, it was no surprise that the sultan and Pete conversed easily. Or that he strongly endorsed Prince Malik's hope that Sergeant Winborne would remain as senior adviser to the Omani Special Forces. Pete returned a polite but noncommittal answer, saying that he had to discuss it with his commander.

When the conversation turned to opera, however, neither Riley nor her host was the least noncommittal. A passionate devotee of classical music, the sultan was extremely proud of his hundred-piece, all-Omani Orchestra and the marble wonder of his Royal Opera House. That Abdul Haddad's rabid dogs should have desecrated his temple to the arts and put a great artist like Riley through such an ordeal struck him to the heart.

But it wasn't until his guests were once again in the limo that Riley decided to accept the sultan's generous offer to remain his guest for as long as she wished.

“I hate to cancel the last concert of my tour, but I need another few days to recover. Or weeks. Or...”

She let that sentence hang and gave Pete a sideways glance. She knew he still chafed at the way outsiders had stepped in to rearrange his career and his life. But he was military. He'd follow orders as long as they were legal or right or in the best interests of the service.

Which meant he would stay in Oman.

And she could stay with him for another few days or weeks or...

“I know your fans will be disappointed.” Smiling, he reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. “I, however, would pay major bucks for another private performance like the one you gave earlier. You might just make an opera buff out of me yet.”

“I'll give it my best shot,” she promised solemnly.

* * *

The next morning Pete connected with his commander back in Florida via the Thumrait Tactical Operations Center's secure link. Not known for his laid-back personality, Colonel Marsh let loose with both barrels.

“Dammit, Winborne, what the hell are you doing jockeying around in the desert, playing hero to an Omani prince and some opera singer?”

That wasn't all Pete was doing with the opera singer, but he figured the colonel didn't need that bit of extraneous information.

“I've got General Hawkins at the Pentagon on my ass,” Marsh snapped, “and he's got the State Department and the White House crawling up his. You want to tell me how the friggin' foxtrot you got into this situation?”

Pete complied, keeping it short and concise. The explanation did little to soothe the colonel's ruffled feathers.

“We need you back at Hurlburt, dammit. I've got a half dozen good men I can send to Oman as an ‘adviser,' but only one I'd intended to make superintendent of the 23rd.”

Pete swallowed a groan. The 23rd Special Tactics Squadron's history stretched back to WWII. Air commandos wearing its blue and yellow patch had lost blood, sweat and sleep in every major campaign from the D-Day Invasion to Desert Storm to Operation Enduring Freedom. Becoming the 23rd's superintendent meant a promotion and working with the best of the best.

“Listen up, Winborne. I'm getting a lot of pressure on this and I know it would be the best thing that could happen for joint US-Omani ops. But I'll fight it if you tell me you don't want it. No, don't answer yet. Take a few of those hundred or so days leave you've got stacked up to think about it. Hell, take a week. Two. You've earned it.”

Okay! All right! The prince, the sultan and now his CO were all insisting Pete take some time to cogitate. Damned if he wouldn't do just that.

“Roger that, sir. I'll get back to you.”

The connection severed, Pete hunted for Riley. He found her on the terrace, fingering her cell phone and looking as grim as he felt.

“I talked to my manager, Jason Hepplewhite. And to my agent. They'll take care of canceling the last concert and making sure the tickets are refunded. I felt so bad about it, though, that I told Jason to make up the lost revenue to UNICEF from my personal account.”

“Whoa! That must have been a nice chunk of change.”

She shrugged off what had to have been a dent of a hundred thousand or more in her bank account.

“Jason said the calls and Tweets and emails are pouring in from fans and well-wishers. He's got my PR team fielding them, but wanted a personal statement. I hope you don't mind that I included you and Prince Malik in the release.”

“Not a problem.”

The international media had picked up the story and already gone into their usual frenzy. One enterprising reporter had even obtained a copy of Pete's official Air Force photo. He suspected he was going to get a real ration from the other Sidewinders about seeing his ugly mug splashed across papers and TV screens around the world.

“How about you?” Riley asked. “Did you get through to your commander?”

“Yeah, I did. He said accepting the advisory position is my call. But, like the prince and the sultan, he wants me to think about it.”

“So are you?” She cocked her head and studied him through the screen of her lashes. “Thinking about it?”

He pulled in a breath, took the plunge. “What I'm thinking is that we should blow this place. Get away from the phones and the servants and all the royal trappings.”

“And go where?”

“We could drive down the coast and find some small, quiet hotel on the beach. Not think about
anything
for a while except what and where we're going to eat in the evenings.”

She jumped at it. Literally. Sprang right out of her chair into his arms.

“I'm in!”

Pete shed the weight of his decision like an eighty-pound backpack. For a week... Hell, for
two
weeks, he would just wallow in the pleasure of sharing a beach towel and a bed with this amazing woman.

 

Chapter 8

P
ete handled all the logistics. He rented the car, drove down the coast and—most importantly—chose a small, unassuming oceanfront hotel where the elderly owner, who emerged from behind a curtain in answer to the counter bell, didn't recognize either of them.

That was no small accomplishment with Omani TV and newspapers still headlining their ordeal in the desert. What saved them, they agreed later, was that the stoop-shouldered owner squinted at them through rheumy, clouded eyes and thick glasses.

The fact that his establishment was less than half full was another factor in their favor. When Riley and Pete went down for dinner that first evening on the terrace overlooking the Arabian Sea, the only other occupants were a harassed-looking couple with three squirming, petulant kids and two British women who conversed in low murmurs.

They soon established a routine. Pete ran six miles every morning while Riley slept in. After a late breakfast, they swam, windsurfed, whale-watched, or just plain lazed in the sun. One afternoon they spent exploring the rocky outcrops and sparkling waterfalls of nearby Wadi As Suwayh. The ruins of a mighty coastal fortress consumed another full afternoon. Dinners they ate at the hotel or one of the many outdoor cafés strung along the waterfront.

And the nights...

Dear Lord, the nights!

Every hour Riley shared with Pete deepened the respect and admiration and greedy hunger he roused in her. And every hour she spent in his arms had her spinning fantasies of something more than a few stolen days or weeks. She hugged those fantasies to herself, however, until Pete himself brought up the issue of the future.

She was stretched out beside him on the beach, eyes closed and body limp from the hot sun and their vigorous workout the night before. Careful to respect local traditions, she wore a modestly cut one-piece under an airy, ankle-length cover-up. She was toying with the idea of slipping off the cover-up and going back in the water to cool off when Pete sat up and blocked the sun.

She opened one eye and squinted at him through her sunglasses. He'd bought a baseball cap embroidered with some team logo at the local souk and now wore it with the brim to the back. A T-shirt with the same logo lay beside him on the hotel's blue-striped towel. He sat with his arms crossed on his knees, looking out to sea. The snake coiled around his biceps seemed to pin its beady eyes on Riley as she pushed up on her elbows.

“What are you thinking?”

He glanced down at her. “Just trying to figure out what happens next.”

“Whether you stay in Oman, you mean?”

“That, and how you and I will connect again if I do.”

She scrambled upright, her heart suddenly racing. “Do you
want
to connect again?”

“Oh, yeah.” Smiling, he raised a hand to brush some sand off her cheek. “How about you?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “Anytime, anyplace.”

His smile slipped and a startled look crossed his face. “That's the old air-commando motto,” he told her. “Anytime, Anyplace.”

“Really?” Her fantasies started spinning again. “Maybe we could adopt it as
our
personal code.”

“Maybe we could. The logistics might be tough to work out, though. Your career. Mine. Chances are we'd be in different quadrants of the globe half the time.”

“You don't think it would be worth the effort?”

“I'm just saying it wouldn't be easy.”

“I've been thinking about that, too.” Drawing up her knees, she hooked her arms around them. “I've spent a good part of the past two years on tour. Recording sessions and rehearsals took up most of my life before that. And if I wasn't laying down tracks or performing, I was studying roles or at the dance studio or doing PR or making nice at dinners and cocktail parties thrown by generous donors. I don't think I've chilled, just chilled, in...well... Pretty much never.”

Her mother hadn't believed in letting time slip through the cracks. All through Riley's childhood, school vacations meant longer practice sessions, trips to New York and San Francisco and Chicago to see live performances, junkets abroad to soak up culture and expose the budding ingenue to European audiences and maestros. Her schedule during the school year was twice as intense. If music hadn't been such a passion with Riley she might have rebelled long before she finally did.

“I could get addicted to this,” she said, indicating the sunlight dancing on the waves. “Learn to live life in the slow lane, or at least slower than the one I've occupied up to now.”

“What are you saying?” Pete's brow furrowed. “You want to quit singing?”

“No! God, no! Just cut back on commitments. Ease up my travel schedule.”

She picked up a handful of sand, let it sift through her fingers. Raising her eyes, she voiced the thought she'd been kicking around for days now.

“I was thinking I could make Muscat my home base for a year or so. When we had dinner with the sultan, he hinted that he wants to start a guest artist-in-residence program. I'm fairly certain I could get the job.”

“Fairly certain? Hell, he'd sign you up in a heartbeat.”

“Of course,” she added with a nonchalant shrug, “I'd only consider the position if a certain individual I know checked in as senior adviser to the Omani Special Forces.”

The possibility didn't exactly make him leap for joy. Still frowning, he curled a knuckle under her chin and tipped her face to his. “What would becoming an artist-in-residence for a year or two do to your career?”

“Level it off a little,” she answered truthfully. “Just as I suspect this advisory position would level yours. On the upside, though, we'd be in the same quadrant of the globe.”

“So we would.”

His gazed roamed her face. She could see herself in his pupils. See, too, the hesitation in them.

“Before you commit to anything,” he said slowly, “you should know that I'm damn close to being in love with you.”

She wasn't quite sure how to take that. “Let me know when you're positive.”

“The thing is, I thought I was in love before.” He stopped, shook his head, started again. “You know I'm divorced, right?”

This wasn't going at all the way Riley had fantasized. “Aly pointed out your ex at the wedding.”

As if anyone could have missed her. The woman had crawled all over Pete.

“What I'm trying to say...”

“And not doing a particularly good job of it,” she interjected drily.

“...is that Nancy Sue and I really thought we could make a go of it. When it was just the two of us, though, away from our friends and the parties and the bright lights of the football stadium, it didn't take long to realize what we had was just a near fatal dose of lust.”

“Thank you for sharing that very touching memory.” Irritated now by his distinct lack of enthusiasm, Riley put some frost in the response. “And that's what you think we have? A bad case of lust?”

“No, of course not. I hope to God I've grown up some since high school. I know the real thing when it's almost within my grasp.”

“But I don't?”

He hesitated, then measured out each word. “We just came through a scary situation, Slim. A whole lot scarier for you than me. I've dodged bullets before. I know how that puts emotions on high and hot.”

“I see. So now I'm not just too immature to know my own feelings, I'm too stupid to distinguish between reality and an adrenaline high.”

“Christ, Riley, you know that's not what I meant.”

He blew out a breath and adopted a calm, patient tone that tightened her jaw.

“I'm merely suggesting you might want to take a little more time, be sure of what you feel, before you make a major career move.”

“Oh, I will. I most definitely will.” She didn't even
try
to pretend she wasn't angry. And hurt. And thoroughly humiliated. Scrambling to her feet, she snatched up the straw tote she'd found at the souk. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go wash off all this sand and sunscreen.”

When he made a grab for his shirt and their towels, she whirled.

“I suggest you stay right here and bake until I've had time to get over being compared to your ex-wife.”

Pete started to protest that he hadn't been comparing them. There
was
no comparison, except maybe for this sudden flare of temper. A last thread of common sense clamped his mouth shut.

Hands on hips, he watched her plow up the beach and march across the road to the hotel. When she disappeared, he dropped down on the sand again. Sweet Jesus! Could he have screwed that up any worse? All he'd intended to do was warn her. Let her know he was close to the edge. So close, she needed to take a quick step back if she didn't want to get dragged over with him.

Then she'd thrown out that bit about putting her career on hold and remaining in Oman. Before Pete could let her do that, he had to make sure she understood what she'd be getting into. Long-term relationships were tough enough to sustain without throwing Special Ops into the mix. Once you did, it stacked the odds even more. Constant training, short-notice deployments, secret missions, life-and-death situations—the combination was highly stressful and not exactly conducive to a stable home environment. Three of the six Sidewinders saw their marriages bust up because of it. Pete and Travis Cooper and Josh Patterson had all commiserated with each other at various times.

Although...that hadn't kept Travis or Josh from giving it another shot. Or the other three from taking the plunge. Oh, hell. Why was he even thinking wedding bells? After the way he'd just bungled things, he'd be lucky if Riley let him back in their hotel room, never mind her life. He'd give her an hour, Pete decided grimly, then try to recover the ground he'd cut right out from under his own feet.

* * *

He waited almost two. In the process he went from kicking himself repeatedly for mishandling the situation to devising and discarding a half-dozen strategies for regaining lost ground to finally realizing that his only way out was to grovel.

Determined to do just that, he tugged on the T-shirt sporting the red-and-green emblem of the Oman national football team and shoved his feet into the leather flip-flops he'd picked up at the souk. They slapped his heels during the short trek up the beach.

Just before he reached the street, a vehicle pulled up at the hotel's front entrance. The sight of the stretch limo hit like a right cross to the jaw. Had he pissed Riley off so much she'd called for transportation back to Muscat?

He picked up speed, intending to run an intercept, when the limo driver opened the passenger door and a woman emerged. Even with oversize sunglasses and a floppy brimmed hat shielding most of her face, Pete recognized her.

“Ms. Fairchild!”

The call swung her around.

“Hold on a moment,” he said as he dodged a bus and crossed the street. “I'd like to speak to you.”

Tipping her sunglasses, she looked him up and down. A moue of distaste thinned her lips when her glance caught on the tat just visible below the short sleeve of his T-shirt. As he approached, she made sure to keep the limo door between them.

“Do I know you?”

“I'm Master Sergeant Pete Winborne. We met a few months back at Aly and Josh's wedding.”

“I'm sorry, I don't remem— Oh!” The name suddenly clicked. “You're the one! The soldier who saved my daughter!”

He didn't bother to point out the fine distinction between soldiers and airmen. “I can't take all the credit. Your daughter did as much to save herself as I did. Prince Malik and I wouldn't have made it out alive without her.”

Surprise and disbelief crossed the woman's sculpted features.

“She's got grit, Ms. Fairchild. All the way through.”

“Apparently.”

“Why don't we go inside? Have a cool drink and I'll share some of the details that didn't make it into the news stories.”

Nodding, she told the limo driver to wait and let Pete escort her into the hotel's cool, dim interior. He seated her at a table in the arched alcove that doubled as a lounge and procured two iced pomegranate juices from the accommodating hotel owner. He suspected Riley's mother could have used something stronger. He could've, too, but the hotel didn't serve alcohol.

When he returned with the tall, dew-streaked glasses, she removed her sunglasses and hooked them in a side pocket of her purse. The few wispy strands showing beneath her broad-brimmed hat had a more silvery hue than Riley's honey gold, but her eyes were the same cinnamon brown as her daughter's. They flicked over Pete as he removed his ball cap, dropped to his gaudy T-shirt and focused with barely disguised disdain on his tattoo before returning to his face.

Although Pete had conversed only briefly with this woman at the wedding, her animosity toward her “selfish bitch” of a daughter had come through loud and clear. The little that Riley had subsequently revealed about her relationship with her mother underscored the fact they weren't close. Which begged the question...

“Does Riley know you're in Oman, Ms. Fairchild?”

“No.”

When he lifted a brow, she offered a stilted explanation. “I was on a private yacht in the Caribbean. Her people didn't notify me of the kidnapping until the day after it happened. By the time we put into port and I'd made arrangements to fly to Muscat, the media was already broadcasting news of her rescue.” The pale ovals of her nails tapped against the glass. “I texted my daughter and told her I would come. Several times. She didn't reply.”

“Riley mentioned that her PR team was fielding an avalanche of Tweets and texts and emails,” Pete said diplomatically.

“Please, Sergeant...?”

“Winborne.”

“Sergeant Winborne. Don't patronize me. Since you're staying here, with my daughter, I assume you know that she and I aren't on the best of terms.”