Operation: Forbidden. Lindsay McKenna
loads of weaponry on trailers. An excitement hummed through the area. Emma inhaled it and absorbed the vibrating tension. She loved that feeling, which was probably why she was an Apache combat helicopter pilot.
Some anxiety lingered about the new assignment. If Shaheen was a marked man, on the enemy’s top-ten-wanted list, it was more than likely the Taliban would make good on their threat to murder him.
Then there was her own distrust of rich men who thought they could act reprehensibly without recourse. Like Brody Parker. Brody had been a rich American in Lima, Peru, and she’d met him when flying in for the original Black Jaguar Squadron. A year after falling helplessly in love with him, Emma found out he was married, with children. Stung to her soul by the lies that men could tell, she’d made a point of avoiding the opposite sex since coming to Camp Bravo. It was a clean start. She didn’t need another rich, lying bastard to deal with.
Shaheen landed the Apache on a three-point landing about a hundred feet away from where Emma stood. It was a perfect landing—gentle and not bouncy. Her eyes narrowed as she saw the ground crewman place the ladder against the bird and climb up after the rotors stopped turning. He hefted the canopy upward on the front cockpit after it was unlocked by the pilot. Emma was confused; she saw no pilot in the back seat. No one flew the Apache with just one pilot unless it was an emergency.
When Khalid Shaheen climbed out of the cockpit, he handed the crewman his helmet, and Emma smiled to herself. As the Afghan emerged, she was taken by his lean, taut form. He had to be six feet tall, which was about the top height for an Apache pilot. Most were between five foot seven inches and five foot ten inches tall. The cockpit was cramped, and anyone over six feet couldn’t comfortably get into it. She tried to ignore his animallike grace as he climbed out of the cockpit and stood on the dark green and tan metal skirt. The crewman stepped off the ladder and waited nearby.
Emma took in Shaheen’s olive skin, military-short black hair and straight, dark brows above narrowed blue eyes. When he smiled and joked with the crewman on the tarmac, her heart suddenly thumped hard in her chest. Shaheen was eye candy, no doubt. And dangerous … His face was narrow, his nose aquiline, cheekbones high and he had a strong chin. When he smiled at a crewman’s joke, his teeth were white and even. Emma felt herself melting inwardly. Of all the reactions to have! Shaheen was like a fierce lion moving with a feral grace that took her breath away. There were no lions in Afghanistan, Emma reminded herself.
And yet, she couldn’t take her gaze off the charismatic officer. He removed his Kevlar vest and placed it on the skirt of the Apache. There was a .45 pistol strapped to his waist. Emma decided that if she didn’t know he was Afghan, she would never have guessed it. From this distance, he looked like a typical U.S. Army combat pilot.
The crewmen and Khalid joked back and forth, and the three of them stood laughing. Warmth pooled in her chest and Emma unconsciously touched her jacket where her heart lay. There was such gracefulness to this tall, lanky warrior. Emma suddenly felt as if she were standing on quicksand. Her reaction wasn’t logical. The pilot walking languidly, like a lordly lion toward her, was married. He had to be. He had to have a wife and children. Afghans married very early. So why was she feeling shaky and unsure of herself? Emma had never had such a powerful emotional reaction to a man. Not ever, and it scared her.
As Emma stepped forward, her mouth went dry. She forced herself to walk confidently out on the revetment and meet the foreign pilot. And when his gaze locked onto hers, she groaned. Shaheen drew closer, and Emma could appreciate the curious color of his eyes. They reminded her of the greenish-blue depths of the ocean around a Caribbean island. Not only that, his eyes were large, well-spaced, with thick lashes that enhanced the black pupils. She felt as if she could lose herself within them. Emma jerked her gaze away. What was going on? Her heart pounded as though she was on an adrenaline rush. But she wasn’t in danger. No, this was excitement at some unconscious level within her that she had never experienced. And that made Emma wary.
Shaheen unzipped his olive-green flight suit as he approached. Black hairs peeked out from beneath his dark-green T-shirt. He reached inside his flight suit.
And what he drew out made Emma’s jaw drop. Shaheen slowed and stopped about three feet in front of her. In his hand was a huge red rose, its petals flattened from being crushed inside his flight suit, but a rose, nevertheless.
Pressing his hand against his heart, Shaheen bowed slightly and murmured the ancient greeting that all people in the Muslim world shared. “As-salaam alaikum.” Peace to you from my heart to your heart. “Captain Emma Cantrell?” he asked, smiling as he lifted his head.
Paralyzed, Emma stared up at him. Shaheen held the drooping rose toward her. He’d obviously picked it just before the flight and carried it inside his suit to her. Emma could smell the spicy fragrance of the bedraggled flower. “I—yes,” she managed in a croak. Without thinking, she took his gift and responded, “As-salaam alaikum.” She clutched the rose in her right hand, noting that the thorns had been cut off so it would not prick her fingers.
Scrambling inwardly, Emma tried not to be impressed by this thoughtfulness. When she raised her head, she noticed Khalid’s masculine smile and twinkling eyes. “I’m Captain Emma Cantrell,” she said in a crisp tone. “Welcome to Camp Bravo.” God, she sounded like a teenager on her first date, her voice high and squeaky. Worse, he had the same kind of swaggering, super confidence that Brody had had. They could be twins. Her heart sank. Not this again.
“Thank you, Emma. Please,” he murmured in a low, husky tone, “call me Khalid once we get out of the military environment.”
She stood looking helplessly at the rose in her hand. “Why … I never expected this, Captain Shaheen.”
Officers simply didn’t give other officers flowers. Clearly, he was flirting with her.
Khalid’s hands relaxed on his hips, a typical aviator stance. “I went out to my rose garden this morning. I live in Kabul. It is the first rose of the season. I took my knife and cut it off knowing that I wanted you to have something beautiful from me to you.”
Emma swallowed hard. Aviators never wore jewelry of any kind. Not even a wedding ring. But this guy had to be married. He was just too charming. The confusion must have shown on her face.
“Rumi, the great Sufi mystic poet, said much about the beauty of a rose.” He then quoted her a passage that he’d memorized.
Emma was sure now he was flirting with her. Completely stunned by Khalid’s warmth, his utter masculinity and those gleaming blue eyes, Emma choked. “But … you’re married!” Well, that wasn’t exactly polite, was it? No, but the words flew out of her mouth. Emma took a step away from him. Khalid’s face was overcome with surprise, his straight, black brows rising. And then he laughed. His laughter was hearty, unfettered and rolled out of his powerful chest.
“I’m afraid I’m not married,” Khalid said and he held up his hands, smiling over her mistake.
Emma didn’t know what to do. She knew how she felt toward him—as if he were a conquering Afghan warlord who had just swept her off her feet, stolen her young, innocent heart and claimed her. His smile was so engaging her heart appreciated it by beating erratically. Brody Parker had wooed and wowed her the same way. Oh, God, it was the same situation all over again!
Emma gripped the red rose until her fingers hurt. Should she give it back to him? Throw it away? This wasn’t military protocol between two officers. Emma furtively looked around her. Who had seen him do this? Had they seen her accept the gift? Things like this just weren’t done in the U.S. Army. Could she be more distressed?
“I can’t take this, Captain Shaheen.” She handed him the rose.
Holding up his hands, Khalid said, “Forgive me, Captain Cantrell. My father is Sufi and I was raised with Rumi. I see all of my life through this thirteenth-century poet and mystic’s eyes. I am forever quoting him, for Rumi guides my heart and my life. I hope you do not take offense to my gift. Among the Sufis we believe that love is the only vehicle to touch the face of God and become one with the source. My gift to you was merely an acknowledgment,