Page 15 of Indirect Attack
My hand worked quickly, feverishly, sketching the face I knew from memory until Jasmine smiled up at me from the page. It wasn’t how I’d last seen her, her face white as a sheet and eyes enormous as she stared down at me from the window of her apartment, looking as though she’d been caught. Nor was itthe way I’d left her the first time, her eyes brimming with barely contained misery, tears tracking down her face.
Instead, I wanted to remember my friend the way she had looked back before everything had become too complicated, too messy, when all we had to do to see each other was walk across a field. I wanted to see the bright glimmer in her eye, the cheery fullness of her smile, the soft curve of her face, so I could bring to the forefront the good times we’d shared together.
I stared at the finished drawing for a long time before ripping it out of the book and pushing myself to my feet. Then I pulled my T-shirt over my head and headed outside.
Several guys had cleaned out an old oil barrel, sawed it in half, and used what was left as a makeshift barbecue and fire pit. They’d lit it tonight, and the fire crackled cheerfully, despite my mood. With the food gone, they’d all wandered away.
Glad for the solitude, I watched the flames licking the dark of the night for a long time, my thoughts everywhere and nowhere, skittering like wind-driven clouds across the sky.
What was I going to do? Could I see Jasmine again? Could I see her with her boyfriend, Greg? Could I still do my job working in such proximity to the two?
Somehow, I decided that yes, I could. It was my job, one I’d willingly signed up for. Unlike nineteen-year-old me, or even twenty-three-year-old me, I could push my feelings aside and do what I’d been sent here to do. And maybe this would be what I needed to finally get Jasmine out of my mind and bones.
At the thought, I crumpled the drawing into a tight ball and tossed it into the fire.
Or almost threw it in. My hand stilled over the flames, but I couldn’t will my fingers to open. Instead, I unwrapped the photo, smoothed it out as much as possible, and folded it before sticking it into my pocket and returning to my barracks.
I TOOK THE PHOTO OUTof my pocket the next morning, striding into the extravagant lobby of the hotel listed as Jasmine’s temporary residence. The front desk clerk looked up as I entered and smiled a friendly smile.
“Can I help you?” she asked, her English accented but clear.
“Do you have a pen I can borrow?” I asked, a question for her question.
The clerk’s eyebrows dipped at the odd reply, but she handed over the pen to me. I unfolded the drawing and began to write on the back. The words had played in my head all night, driving me to a distraction nearly as bad as when the compulsion to draw whatever was circling in my head came over me. The note was for Jasmine, something simple and friendly, making sure I left out anything that could be construed as loving or cloying. When I finished, I handed the pen and the drawing to the confused clerk.
“Could you deliver this to Jasmine Davis, please? I’m not sure which room is hers.”
The woman looked slightly suspicious, her gaze flicking to the drawing and back to me, but she took both proffered items. “I’ll let her know there is something for her at the desk the next time she comes by,” was the promise.
“Thanks.” I flashed her a smile worthy of my flirtiest brother, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible as an armed Marine. I got a flicker of a smile in return and a slight warming of her expression.
With a nod of goodbye, I turned from the front desk to leave. With my attention on the front doors, I nearly missed the elevator opening, but something pulled at me from the corner of my eye. My head turned before I knew what I was doing, and then I couldn’t quite believe what I saw.
Jasmine was in the elevator, confidence swirling around her like a cape. Her head was held high, her gaze sweeping the lobbylike she belonged there. And she did, in her linen dress and sandals, her dark hair pulled back into a classic knot at the nape of her neck.
As in her picture, Jasmine had matured over the time we’d been apart. What had been soft curves in late adolescence had become sharper, more defined, following the starkly elegant lines of her collarbone and cheeks and almond eyes. But her eyes were still brilliantly green, that smile still hovering over her lips, and I nearly tripped over my boots as my body swiveled to follow my head.
The movement must have drawn Jasmine’s attention because those big, beautiful eyes moved to me. For a moment, she seemed to look through me. Then her eyes widened, and she stopped still, lips parted in surprise.
We stared at each other for a long moment, neither moving, stilled by surprise and the shock of being in the same space after so many years apart. But inside, I was anything but still, electricity sparking through every inch of my body, my heart pounding so hard I was afraid it would burst out of my chest.
Jasmine was here, in front of me, and she wasn’t a dream.
Chapter 8
Jasmine
MY BREATH STOPPED ATthe same moment as my feet. My mind couldn’t quite comprehend what—who—I was seeing.
It was Ben.
After imagining him on the street last night, I had conjured him in my dreams, to the point I’d woken both hot and cold, reaching for someone who wasn’t there.
But maybe I hadn’t imagined him on the street the evening before because this wasn’t a dream, and he was standing in the lobby of my hotel. At least, I thought this wasn’t a dream. I dug my nails into the palm of my hand for the pain, just to be sure.
Even knowing this wasn’t a dream, I still couldn’t move. How was this possible? Halfway across the world from where we’d grown up, Ben was suddenly standing across the lobby from me three years after seeing him for the last time. Steps from me. So close I could see the blue of his eyes.
A cheerful ding and the elevator door began to close. Panic jolted me out of my stunned state, and I smashed the button to keep the door open. I was terrified that the doors would close, and by the time I could get them open again, Ben would be gone, and I’d never find him again.
