Page 18 of Damned
Chapter Nine
Bree didn’t dare look at Kruze, not even in his direction. She could feel his gaze boring into the side of her head, though, and her heart begged for just one more glance at the capable black operator beside her. But she couldn’t give in. Wouldn’t. Not even for one last peek. The second this noisy helicopter touched down, she planned to get away from him, as fast as possible. Which shouldn’t be hard, given how quickly he’d dumped her in Paris.
He was the one who’d set those rules in motion that long-ago morning. This wasn’t revenge for what he’d done, not in the literal sense. She didn’t wish him harm or evil. She just needed her very private life back. He could afford to take risks; she couldn’t. He was a past mistake, not her future. Was wanting him to stay out of her life wrong? Maybe. But she wasn’t the infatuated fool she’d been then. Her entire world had changed with that one night of too much trust and reckless abandon.
A tear blurred the landscape. Another slipped down her cheek. Bree sniffed, striving to be tough. God, she’d be glad to leave this country and this man behind. But as quickly as the thought ran through her mind, guilt lifted its all-knowing face and stared back at her from the helo’s tiny side windows. What she was doing to Kruze now, was worse than what he’d done to her those years ago—three and nine months, to be exact. He had used condoms. They had been careful.
But none of that mattered. A mother did what had to be done. No exceptions. Robin, her sweet little baby bird, would cry when she saw her. Bree and her parents would cry, too. As always, they’d welcome her home, and at last, Bree would be warm and fed and clean again.
But… but what about Kruze?
Her traitorous head turned, and she found him watching her, his gorgeous black hair tossed around him, his beard split at his chin by the blustery wind pouring through the open doors. What she could see of his face was as dirty as hers. Did he deserve to know? Yes. Would she ever tell him? No. She would definitely tell Robin someday, when she was old enough to understand. But Bree planned to never tell Kruze Sinclair.
Yet the need to stroke him, to draw him into her arms, comfort him, and tell him the truth, was a hard impulse to deny. Surely he knew their time together would end with them going separate ways. They’d made no promises, and there would be no tender goodbyes. She’d make sure of that. These crazy, mixed-up feelings were just the fading effects of adrenaline and surviving and…
You. Still. Love. Him.
Yes, and I hate him, too. He. Left. Me! No goodbye. No note. No nothing. Why should I care about his feelings, just because he dropped back into my life?
Err, because hesavedyour life? Because heisRobin’s father? Her daddy?
Guilt could be such a bitch. Bree turned to the window without saying anything. She’d soon have to give his jacket back, and that’d be their final contact. Once she stepped off this chopper, she’d be the same calm professional she’d been before. Once again, she’d be Brianna Banks, single mother, loving daughter, and upcoming celebrity journalist. She wasn’t sure she’d go back to work for Harvey Lantz in NYC, though. That very much depended on finding out who had sent Kruze to rescue her. Damn. Every thought ended with him.
Aggravated for even considering telling him the truth, Bree stiffened her arms and stuck her hands deeper into his jacket pockets. She ran straight into his wallet again. She’d forgotten about it. Most military operators carried cash, not plastic. Maybe there was a way he could pay her back.
Carefully, so as not to draw attention to her movements, Bree pressed what was left of her fingernails along the pocket’s inside seam, searching for a way to the wallet. When that failed, she feigned an itch, reached deep inside the jacket’s collar and made a show of scratching that itch. In the process, she located an inner pocket sealed tight with Velcro. Deftly, she forced the pocket open, latched onto Kruze’s wallet with two fingers, slithered it out of its snug hiding place, then into the outside pocket between her and the inner wall of the helo. Getting away with this once the chopper landed was another problem, but she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.
For now, Bree leaned back into her seat, closed her eyes, and planned a cookie party with balloons when she was finally home. Robin would love that, and by then, Kruze would be just a memory.
The ride to Incirlik ended quickly. The moment the choppers touched down, the waiting team of Air Force medics boarded the Black Hawk. The first one in knelt at her side. Dark-skinned with the standard military haircut, he immediately began assessing her condition. He unzipped the leather jacket enough to press a stethoscope over her heart, then signaled her to remove her headset while firing questions at her. Was she allergic to anything? How long had she had heart arrhythmia? Did she require special medications for her heart problem?
Bree lifted the headset off and clutched it on her lap to hear him better. “I have a heart problem?” That explained the irregular heartbeats. “How serious is arrhythmia?”
“Ma’am, I need to get you out of your jacket.”
“Okay.” Now she’d see how good of a pick-pocket she was. While the medic explained how an arrhythmia could easily be treated with various medications, another medic bumped fists with Kruze and motioned him out of the helo. He jerked his headset off and jumped onto the tarmac. Bree watched them standing beside the open door, laughing and talking like men did. It was easy to slip out of his jacket and slide his wallet into the folds of her skirt.
But while that airman on the tarmac was clean-shaven, slender in the ways of younger men, and handsome in his BDUs, Kruze was the one she couldn’t take her eyes off. He stood a good six inches over his friend, and in every way that mattered, he was so much bigger. Between his wide shoulders and girth, that beard, his dark emerald eyes, and the way he listened attentively, he made the airman look like a star-struck little boy. And maybe he was—like Bree—taken in by the charisma of this professional black operator, with his arms crossed over his magnificent chest and that wide-open smile on his handsome face.
Kruze was breathtaking, standing there with his feet spread, his forehead and cheeks lit by the morning sun, and the warm breeze off the tarmac ruffling his hair. She saw it then, the red slash on his left biceps. He’d been shot? Oh, my Lord, he must’ve been wounded when he’d rescued her, while all those guys were shooting at the sniper.
Yet he’d never said a word. And there she was, stealing his wallet and taking her most precious secret home, not giving him a chance to know his daughter. Heat rose like a wave up her neck and face. Who was the bitch now?
Guilt gave the merry-go-round she was on a mighty heave-ho. Her confidence faltered. Was she right to protect Robin from this man? Should she tell Kruze he’d fathered a child or not? If she did, he’d have a tough decision to make: Deny his child or give up the career he seemed made for and settle into domesticity. Could she do that to him? Make him choose between his child and his God-given talents? Could she even persuade a man like him to leave his adventurous life behind? It’d be like caging a jungle cat with white picket fences and PTA meetings.
Never mind the very real fact that Kruze killed people for a living. Should a man like him even be around children? No. A resounding N.O. Gunslingers were not family men. Decision made.
Bree forced her attention back to the very kind medic still at her knees. He’d brought a gurney with him. Soon, she would be whisked off to sickbay, or whatever they called the clinic here, and who cared where Kruze went? Not Bree. She truly did not.
Yet when the medic gestured for her to exit the helo, she couldn’t help herself. She looked for Kruze, hoping for one last word, one final glance, one more—something.
But he was already gone.
