Jane Harrison lingered in the doorway, unable to take her eyes off the man across the large workout room. As far as faces went, his was nothing extraordinary. No Brad Pitt or anything. Average features, eyes an unremarkable shade of brown, a dark buzz cut. Handsome, sure, but nobody who would make you freeze in the middle of a busy street with your tongue hanging out. Yet, that’s exactly what she was doing, wasn’t it? Half-drooling as she stared at him. It was the body. She’d never seen anyone so ripped, so masculine. He was about six feet or so, with broad shoulders, a chest that looked rock-hard, and a trim waist that led to a taut backside.
He wore a light blue T-shirt, and his biceps flexed and bulged each time he lifted one of the weights in his hands. A tall, brown-haired woman stood next to him, frowning, and even from across the room, Jane heard the woman tell him to take it easy. But Jane knew this wasn’t the kind of man who took anything easy. Intensity rolled off him in waves.
She’d planned on approaching him here, in the brightly lit gym at the physical therapy center, but she hesitated by the door. Liz hadn’t mentioned how commanding this man was. Or what a great body he had. Then again, Liz had probably been too busy getting shot at to notice what her rescuer looked like.
Jane watched as the therapist finally took the weights from Thomas Becker and set them down on the rack. The brunette looked annoyed. Probably because her patient seemed determined to push his physical limits when four weeks ago he’d taken a bullet to the arm.
“See you on Friday,” the physical therapist said.
Thomas Becker just nodded, then headed for the door.
As he got closer, Jane drew in her breath. Okay, she had to quit focusing on his body and remember why she’d come here. This man had saved her sister’s life. She was here to interview him, not fuck him.
“Mr. Becker?” she said when he reached the door.
He glanced at her, forehead wrinkling. “Who’s asking?”
“My name is Jane Harrison. You were in charge of the rescue mission for—”
“Elizabeth,” he finished. “She okay?”
“She’s great. Thanks to you and your team.” It unnerved her, how serious his expression was. He hadn’t even smiled in greeting. “Liz is my sister.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Jane faltered for a moment, not sure what to say next. It was obvious Thomas Becker didn’t have much interest in talking to her, seeing how his brown-eyed gaze kept darting toward the elevator at the end of the hall.
“Do you have a moment?” she asked.
“Not really,” he admitted. “I have an appointment in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll walk out with you then.” She took a step down the corridor, and he followed her, his strides a million times longer than hers. He didn’t do the gentlemanly thing either and try to match her gait, just barreled down the hall, while she struggled to keep up, which was hard to do in three-inch heels. She still wore the short black business suit and heels she’d donned for her morning meeting with her editor at Today’s World, the magazine she worked for, and the outfit hadn’t been designed for chasing after a very tall, very hot Navy SEAL.
“So, I came here to ask you a favor,” she said as she hurried after him.
“Yeah, what’s that?”
They reached the elevator, which triggered a spark of panic in her gut. She usually avoided elevators like the plague, but she wasn’t about to ask this man to go down ten flights of stairs after he’d gotten shot rescuing her sister. As he reached to punch the elevator button, she noticed how large his hands were. He had long fingers, oddly graceful considering the size of his hands, but covered with just enough calluses to give him that manly, rough edge.
“I’m a journalist, and I’d like to write a story about my sister’s rescue. Since you were in charge of the operation in Colombia, I was hoping to interview you.”
Thomas Becker studied her for a long moment, his gaze sweeping up and down, side to side. She felt it the second those brown eyes rested on the cleavage spilling out of the camisole under her suit jacket, because her nipples tightened and poked against her bra. She could tell he was assessing her. Not in a sexual way, since his eyes remained expressionless, but like he was figuring out whether to take her seriously or not. Evidently he decided not was the answer to his internal question, because he offered a brusque shake of the head and said, “Sorry, not interested.” The elevator doors opened, punctuating his stiff response.