In baggage claim, the Babes carefully tucked their passports into one of the two dozen zipper pockets decorating their fancy travel purses. Rose did the same as she headed for the baggage carousels, searching for their flight number.
The carousel wasn’t even thunking around yet, so she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the drive, and from there the street, alternating her first good look at Turkey with glances at her downloading email, hung up on what looked like a monster file from the HR department. She was on the leadership team tasked with interviewing new hires and weeding out the bad matches before the senior leadership team met with the top three candidates—and they were always hiring. Right now the highest priorities were an IT director for the newly acquired office in Tulsa, an operations specialist for her own department, and a senior security position she hadn’t had a chance to look over yet.
Outside the window reunion scenes played out, families greeting each other with hugs and kisses for men and women alike. The neon signs in the shops across from the airport’s main drive were in the Cyrillic alphabet, unreadable to her. Her brain was so fried it took a moment for her to latch onto a word in English, neatly lettered on a small sign just in front of her.
Powell.
That was her name! The man holding the sign looked Western, even American, with his dust-marred desert combat boots, a pair of cargo pants, and a fleece pullover the twin of her grandmother’s but in black, no embroidery. Their eyes met, and Rose felt a hot thrill shoot along her nerves. Her heart started to pound.
He looked familiar. The sun was setting, drenching the covered airport drive in shadows, and there was something beguiling about his face. Despite the shadows, she could tell his hair was a sandy blond with a hint of curl to it, the beard covering his jaw slightly darker. Backpack straps curved around his shoulders, and his sunglasses hung from the V created by his unzipped fleece. It wasn’t just his face, she realized. It was the way he held himself, totally still in a swirling scene of airport chaos, feet planted, unmoving, like he could stand there forever. Jack had the same stance.
“Oh,” she said, feeling rather stupid. Without looking at her phone, she walked over to him.
“Keenan?” she hazarded.
He nodded. Up close his eyes were denim blue, and fringed with spiky blond lashes. His deep tan extended down his neck and into the gray T-shirt under the black fleece, and she was staring.
“I’m jet-lagged as hell,” she started, intending to explain why she’d been goggle-eyed.
“Nice to meet you, jet-lagged as hell,” he said. “Jack always called you Rose.”
She laughed, feeling off-balance and ridiculous, two emotions she didn’t often experience. Keenan was probably used to women going all tongue-tied around him. “Yes, I’m Rose.”
With that amused not-quite-a-smile on his face, he held out the hand not holding the sign. Bracing herself for the bone-crushing grip so often used by men, inadvertently or not, Rose squeezed back. But Jack’s grip was firm, warm, and when she started to pull free after the usual couple of seconds handshakes lasted, lingered with the same heat as his gaze lingered on her face.
Not good. Not good at all, because she had a rule about military men. She didn’t date them. She was the daughter of a career Army officer and the sister of a Navy SEAL. They were extraordinary men, and extraordinary men didn’t fit into her strategic plan for her very ordinary life. There was no use in going down that road when she was all too familiar with the dead end.
Keenan held her hand a moment too long, then let go. “Welcome to Turkey,” he said.
“Thanks,” she said. She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and reached for her composure. “The flights were all on time and smooth, which is a good thing when you’re traveling with nervous flyers.”
“Where’s the rest of the group?” he asked as he rolled up the sign and tucked it into the empty water-bottle pouch on the left side of his backpack.
Rose peered through the glass to the baggage claim area, then pointed. “Grannie’s the one in the purple fleece. Her cousin Marian is the one with the hat. Florence, their friend since the third grade, has her nose buried in her guidebook. Should we go introduce you?”
“You bet, Jetlag,” he said.
The walk across the baggage claim area left Rose feeling like she had a wolf at her heels.
“It’s very kind of you to use your leave to be our guide,” Grannie said when they’d all shaken hands.
“I’m not on leave, ma’am,” he said, his shoulders tightening ever so slightly. “I left the Navy around the same time Jack did.”
“Did you fly into Ankara on the same flight we did?”
“No, ma’am,” he said. “I’m living in Istanbul. I picked up the Land Rover there and drove here today.”
“Living in Istanbul?” Florence said. “But you’re American.”