* * *
Lelia adjusted her ear protection. The muffs always irritated her ears, but standing in close proximity to the firing range made them necessary. She usually enjoyed weapons training. But it was difficult to concentrate with Gunnery Sergeant McBride standing next to her, and though she'd prefer to blame it on jet lag—she'd never been a good traveler—they'd had the weekend to recover from the seven-hour flight from Laritrea. No, she had to acknowledge that she found Gunnery Sergeant McBride a bit unnerving. She couldn't deny the attraction she felt for him, and thanked Allah for the training that hid her reaction and preserved her dignity. It helped that she'd only caught him staring at her that one time since training had begun. He had actually looked annoyed, although she wasn't sure if it was because he'd been caught or because he'd been staring at all. She suspected he had been staring at her more frequently. She could always feel his eyes on her, but she hadn't caught him in the act. She had gotten a few looks from some of her soldiers who had known her longest, but no one seemed to suspect that she'd come close to swooning during their encounter earlier that day.
She jumped involuntarily when someone tapped on her headset. Turning to look into the gunnery sergeant's bright hazel eyes, she raised an inquiring brow while pushing one earpiece back from her ear.
Patrick nodded toward the range, where the soldiers were taking a break from firing. “Your soldiers are very good. You must practice regularly.”
“Of course, Gunnery Sergeant. What were you expecting? How else can one maintain good marksmanship?”
Patrick shrugged. “Don't you think you might be taken more seriously if your BDUs weren't designed by Prada? I mean, why on earth do you wear heels, and how do you fight in them?”
“Roberto Cavalli,” Lelia snapped.
“What?”
“Roberto Cavalli. Our uniforms are designed by Roberto Cavalli.”
“Why?”
Lelia gave him a puzzled look. “Because they look good, of course,” she replied as though speaking to someone who was a bit slow.
“No. I mean why do you have designer BDUs?”
“Because we want to look good,” she said, still carefully enunciating each syllable.
Patrick raised his eyes heavenward. “Marines aren't concerned about looking good. We are warriors.”
Lelia pursed her lips. “More's the pity for them then. I don't know why you can't look good and be a warrior. Besides, I've seen the US Marines' dress uniform. Pretty flashy, if you're not concerned about looking good.”
Patrick had the good grace to blush. “Good point, but we don't usually fight in our blues. Our MCCUUs are designed for combat.” In the way of American military personnel, he drawled the acronym for the Marine Corps combat utility uniform so the word sounded like
mack-uwes
, and with his deeply Southern accent, it had at least four syllables.
“So are ours. And believe me, we have no problem fighting in heels. In fact, when properly utilized, they make fairly good weapons. But then, you'll discover that this week.”
“Yes, but on you they're so…” He made an all-encompassing gesture toward her.
Lelia removed the ear protection from her head. “So what, Gunnery Sergeant?”
Patrick slipped his headset back into place as the soldiers resumed firing. “Never mind, Sergeant Assad.”
Lelia did likewise. Had she imagined it, or had he muttered
distracting
under his breath in response to her question? She couldn't possibly be as distracting to him as he was to her.
* * *
Patrick stood in the doorway of the gym watching Lelia as she bench-pressed what seemed to be at least a couple hundred pounds. He'd known before he even left his quarters that he had no business coming here, but he couldn't seem to stay away. The firm muscles under her richly toned skin rippled with effort as she did rep after excruciating rep. He was mesmerized by the movement of her breasts, which moved enticingly each time she inhaled and lowered the bar. Realizing that he was almost shaking with need, he moved toward the door but stopped at her single-word request.
“Stay.”
He paused, exhaled, then turned back to her, waiting for her to say something more. But she didn't halt the smooth flow of her lifts. What the hell kind of game was she playing? Her signals were so damned mixed, they were giving him a headache. But he was pretty certain she'd been telling him to keep away since the moment they'd met. So why had she asked him to stay now? If she was just fucking with his head, he'd have no problem simply turning and walking out the door. He had no time or patience for head games, but he suspected that she was legitimately confused and conflicted. Not surprising, considering her upbringing—which he'd taken the time to investigate further. He shrugged, then moved behind her on the weight bench and helped her lift it on the last rep.
“It's dangerous to train without a spotter, especially when you're working with”—he glanced down at the barbell—“almost double your own body weight. I know you know better.”
Lelia sat up on the bench. “You're right, but I spend so much time teaching during regular training hours that I have to get my own workout in after-hours.”
He noted that she moved the towel, which had been draped casually around her neck, to a position where it covered her sleekly muscled thighs, visible in the gray knit gym shorts she wore. He wondered if she felt uncomfortable being so casually clothed, or if she'd developed a chill. He'd noticed before that even people from hot countries like Laritrea seemed to have trouble adjusting to the arctic settings of most American air conditioners in the camp's part of the country.
He waited a moment, but when she didn't seem all that anxious to leave, he dropped down to the floor next to her weight bench. They sat in silence for a long moment.
“So, Gunnery Sergeant, what are you doing out at this hour? I would have thought an American marine would be out drinking and despoiling virgins all night.”
Patrick looked up at her with raised brows. “What would give you such an idea? I don't make a habit of drinking all that often, and”—he paused for a moment—“did you really say 'despoiling virgins'? Where in the world do you live, a Jane Austen novel?” He watched as she shifted on the bench, though he didn't know if it was from embarrassment or discomfort from her sweaty attire and the vinyl bench. He suspected the former, as she was probably accustomed to being sweaty, given how hard she trained.
“What do you know about Jane Austen?” Lelia asked.
“I've got three sisters, not to mention I've been on an occasional date. Women have been known to coerce me into going to chick flicks.”
“What a horrid term.”
“There you go again, talking like a Victorian governess. Is Laritrea really that far behind the times?”
Lelia rolled her eyes, sneering at him. “There you go again, acting like a typical obnoxious American. Laritrea is a very modern country. My upbringing was a bit unorthodox, as I was orphaned at an early age and raised by a couple that was quite old-fashioned.”
“I'm sorry. You're right. It was obnoxious for me to make assumptions about your whole country based on the way you speak. Especially since I spent a lot of time talking to your soldiers today, and none of them used the types of phrases you do.”
“It's quite all right, Gunnery Sergeant. It seems that every time I encounter an American, this is the result.”
“Then allow me to apologize on behalf of my whole country. I can assure you that we're not all idiots.” He raised her hand from the weight bench and pressed a brief kiss to the back of it. “And please, we're going to be together an awful lot in the coming weeks. Please call me Patrick, or Trick, my nickname.”
“Trick?”
“People have an annoying habit of calling me Pat. When they'd do it, I'd add the second syllable. In other words, letting them know that I preferred to be called by my whole name. Instead, they just started calling me Trick.” He shrugged. “Still beats the hell out of Pat.”
Lelia smiled at his expression of comical distaste, pulling her hand back quickly when she realized he was still holding it. “No, I don't think that's a good idea.”
“Somehow being around you makes me want to do things that aren't a good idea, like being here tonight.”
“Yes, what are you doing here? I assumed you lived off-base like Staff Sergeant Stark?” Lelia stood up and walked over to a table where more towels were stacked. She picked one up and began wiping her sweaty limbs.
Patrick stood up as well and watched her for a moment, helplessly admiring the way the damp gym clothes clung to every curve. The frisson of jealousy that he felt at her mention of Stark caught him by surprise. “How do you know where Stark lives?” He could've kicked himself before the words left his mouth.
Lelia shrugged, giving him a puzzled look, and he realized that his tone was too sharp and had probably revealed the emotion behind it. “What? Are his whereabouts top secret? If they are, then someone should tell him to stop discussing it with everybody. He's invited the entire Amazonian Guard back to his place at one time or another. You know what a flirt he is.”
Patrick decided it would be wiser to simply respond to her initial comment. Asking her if Stark ever flirted with her would be like dropping a live grenade down his pants. “I let my apartment go the last time I was deployed. So I'm staying in the barracks for the next few weeks while I'm aboard Camp Lejeune.”
Lelia took a long drink of water from the bottle that sat beside the towels. She turned back toward him with a brow cocked at a querying angle. “Aboard Camp Lejeune? Perhaps I missed something, but don't you think this base is a bit large to be a ship? I could be wrong, but I doubt it would float.”
Patrick smiled. “It's a navy thing, and since we're part of the navy, it's a Marine Corps thing as well. Marines are always on board a ship, whether it's land, a building, a helicopter, or an actual ship.” He moved to where she was, and stood looking down at her. The water had left a tempting bead trembling on her lower lip, and he found himself unable to resist the lure.
As though sensing his intentions, Lelia moved her head back. “So where were you deployed, Patrick?” she asked, apparently forgetting her reluctance to use his first name.
He responded, his mind still distracted by the full curve of her lower lip. “Iraq.” He could have immediately kicked himself in the ass as he saw her face batten down with the speed of a cutter in a nor'easter.
“I've got to get back to the barracks,” Lelia said as she scurried out the door.
Patrick stood beside the table, struggling with the impulse to knock the neatly folded, pristine white towels to the floor. He should've known mentioning Iraq would set her off. He avoided politics whenever possible, but he knew that for many Arabs, American involvement in that region was interpreted as an attack on them all.