Frightening.

"Please," she whispered. "If someone witnesses this..."

His hands brushed her belly just below her br**sts once before he stepped away, his search complete, no weapon discovered since she did not have one. Why would she? How useless to expect her negligible strength could outmaneuver any of these armed men. Especially one this large. She would outthink him instead.

Once she stopped seeing spots in front of her eyes.

Her uncle expected her to ferret information, to discover if this was truly a deployment to assist with the distribution of humanitarian aid, something that happened often in her country. Or was it another American mission to destroy secret training camps in their endless war on terrorism. Since Ammar might well have other spies in place here, she would have to tread this double game warily if she wanted out of the country in one piece.

The soldier with sea-blue eyes and mountainous shoulders dusted his hands along the mottled tan print of his uniform pants as if he sought to clean away the feel of her. "Who are you?"

"I am Bahijah Faris, not that it matters. You have my note. Did I not express myself correctly?" She knew full well she had. Thanks to her American mother, Yasmine spoke English almost as fluently as Arabic. "I seek asylum in the United States. And you are?"

"The wrong man for you to play your flirting games with, little girl. So let's hope you're being straight up now." His fingers banded her arm again.

She shivered, but refused to be daunted by his threats. She'd heard worse.

He charged forward, propelling her down the abandoned corridor stacked with crates. Apparently the sensitive soul she found in his eyes was housed by a brusque exterior. Of course, many men were afraid to show anything that might be perceived as weakness. "Little girl? I think you misunderstand. I am twenty-three years old, well of age by your country's standards, unmarried, without ties to this place, so there is no reason for me to be denied my wish."

"I'll keep that in mind, Methuselah," he barked, boots thumping cadence down the split-tile floor.

"Where are we going?" She doubled her pace to match his long-legged strides without tripping.

"To headquarters for you to speak with our military counterintelligence personnel about your request."

Military security? Her blood chilled with every step deeper into the building toward the inner offices. She stopped. "Please wait." She panted, from racing feet and heart. "I do not want to speak with them. I want to talk to you."

"Too bad. That's not how things work here."

"But I chose you. I trust you. I have no reason to trust them." Her attempt to leave the country after her parents' deaths in the flu epidemic had been foiled by a mole in the American embassy to Rubistan, another spy loyal to Ammar.

"Well, your choosing ended once you placed that note in my hand. We have procedures." He stared down at her, disbelief slipping past the hard mask. "Did you expect me to tuck you in a suitcase for a trip over the border?''

She sniffed back indignation. He didn't need to make her sound foolish. But now was not the time to roll out her diploma. "Actually, yes, I expected something very much like that. It has been done before, so there is no need to mock me."

"Well, put away your Samsonite luggage, lady, because it's not going to be done today."

How dare he treat her like a truculent child? If grief aged a person, then she had many years on anyone here.

"Wait," she demanded, desperation shaving the edge off her original intent to appear ditzy and humble.

"What now?" His words rode an exasperated sigh.

Apparently this man did not respect youth, so she pulled herself taller to make use of every bit of her five feet, two inches of height while attempting to add years and command to her voice. "We need to speak first before you dump me into the hands of your security persons."

His brows slammed down. "Listen up, I've had just about enough of this Queen of Sheba shit. I don't take orders from you. You made an irrevocable step back there when you put that note in my hand. Do you want to go with dignity? Or do I call security forces to 'escort' you? Your choice."

Time to switch tactics again. Temper never worked with men, anyway. She lowered her gaze, peered up through her lashes. "I'll do anything."

His eyes narrowed, exasperation hardening to a cold mask, no sign of warmth in those ice-blue eyes. Oh, my. She was out of her depth, but that didn't mean she would stop swimming.

She slowed her words to give her brain time to restart, and clarified, "I will cook for you."

He winced.

Her stew.

Wrong suggestion and time was short. Desperation grew. "I'll clean for you, watch your children."

"Considering you and my daughter are about the same damned age, that's not much of an offer."

Same age as his daughter? She studied him again, took in his sandy brown hair, the handsome angles of his face perfect enough for some Hollywood poster except for sun-strengthened lines that made him all the more attractive in her eyes. "That is not possible."

He snorted. "Trumped-up flattery may have worked on one of those privates back in the mess hall, but you picked wrong in coming on to me if you expect that kind of eye-batting crap to win me over. I respect one thing. Honesty. Now let's go."

Honesty? Uh-oh. But since he would not find out her real name, no need to worry.

The grip of his hand on her elbow certainly didn't indicate any failing age. Besides, in her culture, women often married men far older. Age equated with wisdom, wealth, power. Safety.

Marriage?

That was the last thing on her mind. Never again did she want to be under anyone's control. Without question, marriage signified a loss of rights in any culture.

And she only had seconds left to persuade him to keep embassy officials uninvolved. "Do you not realize what will happen to me if it gets out that I attempted to defect? Word will leak, make no mistake, if you carry this to others. It always does. There are no secrets from the warlords here. There must be something I can do to earn your assistance. I have money."

Money spoke all languages. Every one of those hungry Rubistans shouting at the gate was a threat to her security here. Any of them would sell her out for a jug of water and a few slices of bread.

"Sheba—'' a rusty laugh scratched free and tickled her senses "—if you saw my paycheck, you'd know I'm not in this line of work for the money. None of us are."

Full fear bloomed. She'd been so certain of her plan. Her mind scrambled for a recovery, options, prepared answers to shield her connection to Ammar at all costs. "Please. If we keep this between the two of us, then if I am returned to my hell, at least I will be allowed to live."

His hand gentled on her elbow and his beautiful blue eyes filled with compassion. Relief rippled through her like the oasis near her childhood home. She had not been wrong. Others might be misled by the rugged exterior that housed this man's soul, but she saw his understanding of her pain, her fears, even if he did not fully know their root.

His shoulders braced, spread the uniform tight across a chest so broad surely no one could topple him. "There may be a host of reasons why we put on this uniform, but I can tell you it doesn't stand for lies or dishonor. You will be safe. You will be protected. And if it is truly your wish, you will receive asylum."

If it was truly her wish?

The oasis within her dried right up to reveal the cracked reality of her precarious position. She had been so preoccupied with the honesty in his eyes, she'd forgotten that wisdom could be a double-edged sword.

She searched for a suitable response, all the while wondering why she had not taken the easier route in opting for one of those naive young soldiers. Fast-approaching footsteps provided the perfect diversion, one she grasped with greedy hands, turning toward the noise.

Fate swiped her like a lion's paw.

From around the corner her sister appeared, nearing, a man in a flight suit at her side, the scowling male without a hint of softness in his eyes she had quickly sidestepped back in the dining hall. Fate was a fickle creature to bring Monica here now.

But then, fate had not been kind to her lately.

Monica, the oh-so-perfect one who would never have to resort to eyelash-batting or goat-roasting to maintain her safety, strode toward her with unflappable confidence. Unable to stop herself, Yasmine stepped back, hating the minute show of weakness. Yet she stepped again, flush against her blue-eyed soldier's rock-solid chest.

And she had thought his hands felt good.

Part of her wanted to leap forward before the heat of him scorched her further. Another part couldn't resist the temptation to burrow closer against his solid strength...

Oh, my.

And against his unmistakably steely arousal.

Jack sprawled in the unrelenting steel of the office chair and watched the interrogation under way. While Yasmine Halibiz, alias Bahijah Faris, might be the focus of the interview, he had a few questions himself for Monica later. But they would have to wait until his anger quieted to a dull roar.

He tried to wrap his brain around the facts. The diminutive Middle Eastern babe being interrogated by the counterintelligence contingent was Monica's sister. Half sister, anyway. The resemblance was there when he looked closer, same nose, same stubborn chin, the whole package a smaller, softer version of Monica's strong features.

And she hadn't bothered to tell him. Anger exploded in pockets of secondary blasts within him. He didn't get deep-down angry often. He was now. At himself as well as Monica because he couldn't escape the knowledge that he hadn't told her about Tina, either.

Monica was right. They really were screwed up in the relationship department.

It wasn't like they'd been so busy ha**ng s*x 24/7 that they never talked. Apparently they just hadn't discussed anything important. Now he was getting critical background information about his "wife" from a cold interrogation by the OSI.

The sparse office with a dirty window bounced echoes of voices and rustling papers, too many people packed in the contained space. Yasmine Halibiz sat on one side of the table, her sister beside her but not in any comforting-family-member sort of way. The two women never looked at each other, hadn't even touched beyond the stiff-as-hell hello in the hall. Nothing like effusive reunions in the Korba clan that left a person with aching ribs from all the hugs.

Colonel Cullen didn't appear much happier, glaring, silent, leaning against the wall with arms folded over his chest, hand clutching his LMR—Land Mobile Radio. His top lip curled as if someone had overturned the latrine.

They all listened while two men conducted the interview. Special Argent Maxwell Keagan, a civilian employee in the Air Force Office of Special Investigation, peppered her with questions. Captain Daniel "Crusty" Baker, head of the advance element setup team, passed paperwork to Keagan one sheat at a time in a subtle message to the woman to keep her story clean.

No one would guess from Crusty's apparent calm and carelessly rumpled flight suit that he had as much at stake here as the rest of them since his father—the Ambassador to Rubistan—had recently been assassinated. And to think months ago Jack had gone to Crusty for those connections to help Sydney find her way here.

A powder keg of guilt rested beneath his anger.

"Why use the fake name?" Keagan asked with deceptive disinterest. His unconventional air could be mistaken for slackness—casual khakis, a purple polo, spiked hair.

Would Yasmine Halibiz look deeper and find the honed agent with a CIA background prior to signing on with the Air Force's OSI?

"If I had applied here with my real name—" her eyes didn't shift away, but she blinked fast, too fast "—members of my family would have objected to my leaving. So I used Bahijah Faris's name, with her permission. Her family needs the money I offered. They are a large family and her sister has a baby on the way."

The questions droned on while Jack studied the two men quizzing Yasmine. He'd always been able to tackle anything he set his mind to until Monica. What secret were guys like Baker and Keagan holding back from the rest of the bachelor population?

Baker was cross-eyed ecstatic with his wife, while Keagan was downright sappy since he got an engagement ring on copilot Darcy Renshaw's finger. For that matter, how did Keagan make the career thing work with his fiancee in their mutual Air Force workplace?

He'd definitely have to buy the guy a beer and pump him for information.

Keagan slid another form from the folder. "If you wanted to defect, why didn't you do so on any of the trips you made to the States with your mother?"

That "mother" word sent Monica's spine straighter than an at attention airman. As pissed as he was, he couldn't turn away from her when she was vulnerable—a rare event.

Behind her and away from prying eyes, Jack gripped the back of her chair, stroked a slow reassurance with one knuckle between her shoulder blades. She bristled under his touch, shot him a warning glare, but nothing more. If she spoke, the others would know. She had to accept his comfort.

"Because I did not want to leave my mother here alone," Yasmine continued. "Because I was a child then. Because life became... difficult for me after she died. Any number of reasons, none of which matter now. I am requesting asylum, and as the daughter of a former citizen of the United States, it is my understanding this request should be fairly simple to accommodate."

Max Keagan thumbed through a folder without looking up. "Why not just call one of your sisters?"

"I haven't been free to move since my mother and father died."

Monica's pain radiated from her until his finger burned. He didn't know what the hell was up with this Middle-Eastern mini-Monica in front of him, but if she hurt his wife, she'd be serving up that goat stew in prison.

Monica's brain echoed with Yasmine's words in this endless interview. Former citizen. Their mother. No longer alive.

Even a year after her mother's death, the loss stabbed. As long as her mother lived, there was hope of...what? Reconciliation? Some kind of inner peace over something she couldn't find her way through to forgiving?

She tried to remind herself this poised young woman wasn't the same spoiled brat who traveled to the States once a year during their mother's annual two-week treks to see her other daughters. Somehow those trips hurt worse than if they'd never seen her again. During the first year after their mother's defection, she'd woven tortured tales of how their mother couldn't return home. Wasn't allowed. A bedtime story that conversely frightened and sustained them...