The Equalisers: A Soldier's Oath. Debra Webb
in his presence.
He had stood up for the woman, a complete stranger, in the motel room next to hers. It had been so long since she’d seen an act of chivalry so impressive and selfless that maybe she was overreacting. Then again, she hadn’t had sex in more than a year. As embarrassing as that fact was, she wasn’t actually ashamed of it. She’d slept with one man in college, another after settling into her job following graduation, both had been relationships versus casual sex. Her next partner after that had been her husband.
She’d never had casual sex in her life.
Part of that was a direct result of her strict upbringing. There were times when that not-particularly-pleasant upbringing had come in handy. For instance, when she’d taken up residence in Kuwait, dressing and behaving conservatively had come naturally to her. She’d been almost thankful for her parents’s ironfisted child-rearing methods. But then those same methods had ingrained in her a willingness to trust the man she’d married when she shouldn’t have. She’d blindly gone into that relationship and followed all his edicts without once questioning anything until it was way too late.
Not that she blamed her parents for her mess. She didn’t. This was a tragedy of her own making. Still, they were not totally free of guilt here. She’d learned the hard way that lying in one’s self-made hard bed was not the only option. Even now she could hear her father’s voice echoing that sentiment, You made your bed, you’ll have to lie in it.
The muscles in her face tightened, making her jaw clench at the old hurt. No. You didn’t have to simply lie in it. There were things a woman could do, should do, when her husband mistreated her, physically or mentally.
If she’d only realized sooner what kind of man Khaled was, she might have escaped with her son before he’d suspected her disillusionment or her plans.
That wasn’t really true. If she’d suspected something wasn’t right she would have gone to him and asked, assuming he had been falsely accused, just as she did when she’d discovered the discrepancy in his finances. There was no getting around the fact that she had simply been naive. And in love.
Big mistake.
Her attention shifted back to the driver, the man she respected so much despite knowing him for a period of time more accurately measured in hours than in days. Was she making the same kind of mistake all over again?
She’d watched the way he handled that illegal business with the guns. Did she really have any reason to trust him? Sure, he seemed to sympathize with her, seemed compassionate toward people in general, but did that make him a good guy deep down where it counted?
Stop it.
They were here. He was doing his job so far. She had to stop overanalyzing every single thing. She could not afford to be distracted. Her actions could very well distract him. Allowing that to happen would jeopardize what they were here to do.
Time to get her act together and focus.
Time to behave like a mature woman who had learned her lesson about trusting the wrong man. The compromise was simple. She should appreciate Spencer Anders for his seeming compassion and empathy as well as his obvious skill at doing what had to be done in this situation and environment. All the while, she most definitely should understand that his ability to get the job done did not make him a good person.
Somehow she had to learn to separate her feelings. Respect didn’t necessarily have to equate to trust or… anything else. Like the feelings of attraction she had experienced lying next to him that morning.
She was a woman, she had needs. Those needs could not be permitted to get tangled up with the heat of the moment. Recognizing the problem was the key to moving forward productively.
She definitely recognized the problem. If she were really lucky, he didn’t. Knowing that he knew she was even remotely attracted to him would just be too humiliating.
“Our next stop is the building on the left at the coming intersection. We’re a little early.” He checked his wristwatch. “Ten minutes. We’ll park and wait in the car.”
“Is the person you’re meeting at this location an actual real-estate agent?” Anders had told her that the last guy worked on the fringes of the business as a cover for his real job—selling weapons in a country that had banned the personal ownership of weapons years ago. She had known men like that existed in Kuwait when she’d lived here—as did those who sold alcohol illegally. There was a whole underground of illegal activities here just as there was any place else.
This was, however, the first time she’d had direct dealings with the folks who carried out those prohibited trades.
“This one’s for real. I picked his agency from the listing in the local paper and called to make the appointment this morning.” He parked the SUV in a narrow alley between what appeared to be two office buildings. When he’d shut off the engine he turned to her. “There’s one more after this for cover purposes, and then we’ll drift into tourist mode.”
There was such intensity in his eyes, such determination. How could she not believe he would make this happen? She’d watched men like him in the movies, read about them in books. A hero. Every instinct told her this man was exactly that.
She had to believe.
“Oh, yeah, you mentioned that earlier.”
For the first time since arriving at the airport and having that customs officer scare ten years off her life, she felt confident again.
Jim Colby had promised her.
The man he’d chosen for her case would make it happen. She believed that with all her heart.
Believing was something she was really good at most of the time. Her childhood had included a deeply entrenched certainty that without faith all was lost. She’d never once failed to have enough faith. Even when objectivity would have served her better, she’d stuck by the idea that faith would get her through whatever life tossed in her path.
Maybe that was how she’d survived when she’d feared her ex-husband might simply kill her to silence her. It would have been relatively easy in this society. Women certainly weren’t the ones front and center in the mainstream. Without any other family ties here, if she’d gone missing hardly anyone would have noticed, much less asked about her.
Anders opened her door, dragging her from the disturbing speculation. She hadn’t even realized he’d gotten out.
She climbed out of the SUV and followed him to the front entrance, admiring the architecture and scattered palm trees along the street as she went. There wasn’t a lot of landscaping to brag about in Kuwait, but the immaculate care taken of the city was noteworthy, as was a good deal of the architecture. An art gallery across the street nudged at her curiosity. There was a time when she wouldn’t have missed a gallery of any kind, even one that catered to the really bizarre alternative art she didn’t particularly care for. She loved studying the work others did with their hands.
Did that make her a hands girl?
She glanced down at the right hand of the man next to her. She’d noticed his before. Nice hands. Big, but not rough-looking. Well-formed with long, blunt-tipped fingers. Not the artist type, but the capable kind made for touching a woman in ways she could only imagine.
Jerking her gaze front and center, she railed at herself for being so foolish. She’d gone off on a very inappropriate tangent there. Probably just her mind attempting to find ways to decompress. Distraction wasn’t a problem, as long as she didn’t obsess about any part of him she would be fine.
Right?
Right.
Okay, now she was answering herself. Not good.
Anders signed in at the reception desk in the lobby. She waited near the cluster of chairs and potted palm trees. The ceiling soared high, allowing for a wall of windows that invited the sun to pour into the lobby. She wouldn’t want the job of working the reception desk in the summer. The