“The Orang Asli don’t eat grub worms, silly.” She nodded and motioned for Señor SP to lead the way. “Their diet consists of fish, rice, and fruit.”
“And you know this because?” he asked.
She grinned over her shoulder at him. Weaponized. There was no other way to describe that smile of hers. It gave his heart a workout harder than any PT—physical training—he’d ever had to do in Ranger School. “Because of those art—”
“Articles you read,” he finished for her again. “Of course.”
She nodded and turned away, and all he could think was Ay Dios mio, I sure do like her.
Then again, like seemed like such a vapid term for the warm, fuzzy, relentless feelings she provoked in him.
Could it be love? The question seemed to come from nowhere. But, miracle of miracles, and contrary to what he would have expected, it didn’t fill him with dread.
Huh. Will you look at that? Was it possible he was falling in love with her? Or…maybe he already had fallen in love with her? All those years ago? The good Lord knew he’d never held a torch for any woman as long as he’d held one for her.
Watching the determined swing of her arms and the dogged way she followed Señor SP, he let the idea percolate like the healing tinctures he’d practiced making back in med school…and enjoyed the resulting warmth that spread inside his chest.
Chapter Twelve
“Jaya is her son,” Vanessa’s voice, pinging from satellite to satellite, took a split second to reach them. Dan glanced over at Penni, not surprised to see all the color still drained from her face. She’d been pale as the frosted doughnuts his fellow teammate and friend, Ace, liked to buy from the bakery down the block from BKI headquarters in Chicago. The dude was addicted to pastries. And, back in the dark days—that’s how Dan termed the twelve months he’d lived as hammered shit—Ace had tried to get him hooked on the sweet culinary treats as opposed to the whiskey he’d swilled by the gallon jug.
It hadn’t worked, of course. Sugar was no substitute for high-octane grain alcohol when it came to staying obliterated for twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. But Dan gave the guy massive points for trying.
“Penni.” He drew her attention away from the maid. Her brown eyes were wide and glassy, revealing how exhausted she was. And the bloodshot red tinting the whites was evidence of the tears she refused to shed. She was one tough cookie. He’d give her that. Because if all his friends had suddenly and brutally been taken out, he’d probably be blubbering like a goddamned baby, not sitting there all ramrod straight and quietly stoic. “We really can handle the rest of this interview if you’d rather not hear—”
“No.” She shook her head. “I-I’m okay.” The ends of her dark ponytail slipped over her shoulder, and for a moment he was reminded of how lovely she had looked with her sleek, chocolate-colored hair fanned out across his pillow. How sultry and soft her mouth had been as she watched him slip on the condom Ozzie shoved in his pocket before leaving the dance floor with Julia on his arm—the condom he had not had the chance to use, since the incendiary devices exploded a split second later. Still, Ozzie’s last words whispered through his head. Yo, man. This is just in case you start thinking with your downstairs brain instead of your upstairs brain. And for all the shit he dished Ozzie, and all the shit Ozzie dished him right back, it killed him to think of the guy losing his leg. The job was everything to Ozzie, and if he couldn’t do it…
Dan squashed the thought before he could finish it.
“I’m serious, Dan,” she insisted when he’d been quietly staring at her for too long. “I’m fine. Really.”
And, yeah, he suspected she was trying to convince herself more than she was trying to convince him. “If you’re sure?”
She nodded again, the movement a little odd and jerky. And when she lifted a finger, running it quickly down the bridge of her nose—something he’d noticed she did when she was feeling particularly vulnerable—he decided not to press her. “Okay.” He dipped his chin and turned back to the phone lying faceup on the table. “Go on, Vanessa. What’s wrong with Jaya and what the hell does he hafta do with her planting the bombs?”
For nearly twenty minutes, Vanessa—taking her cues from Rock on which questions to ask and in what order—had conversed in Malay via the open line with the wailing maid. And little by little, the woman had settled down. Now she was slumped in her chair, her head bowed, her tears silently falling onto the white apron tied around her waist. Dan experienced a twinge of sympathy and also a twinge of foreboding. He could tell by Vanessa’s tone that whatever she’d discovered, it wasn’t anything he’d want to write home about.