Straining, she looked toward the dock. There were several taxis waiting to be hailed by the offloading tourists. She had a small duffle bag with her clothes, toiletries, and cosmetics in it. Her gaze sifted through the tightly bunched group of Sudanese. It was easy to pick out Dan among the rest of the men clumped nearby. Her heart took off. He was clean-shaven and wearing a dark green baseball cap on his military-short black hair. That mouth of his sent a frisson of fire zigzagging through her and she tightened her thighs in response. She loved the way he used to kiss her. And when he smiled, she always felt such joy—but he wasn’t smiling now. He wore a pair of wraparound sunglasses like she did, his mouth set.
Sloan knew that someone from Wyatt’s team had called Dan on his sat phone and let him know who was coming and when she would arrive. A slight smile played at the corners of her lips as she entertained several reactions from him. Most likely, Dan would sputter that he didn’t need a PSD following him around like a loyal shadow. She was prepared for that argument. Would he be the warm, affable self she’d met at the canteen at Bagram? As the ship eased closer to the long, concrete dock, she got a better look at his face. He was lean, hard and tense. Sensing the tension in him was easy because more than anything, it was his mouth that gave him away. The man had sculptured lips that reminded her of the Greek statue Belvedere Apollo, she’d seen in the Pio Clementino Museum in the Vatican. Just beautiful.
Sloan decided she had it bad. She noted that Dan was wearing a blue and white short-sleeved plaid shirt with his ivory chinos. He had boots on his feet, not sandals. She had worn sandals to look more like a tourist, but her hiking boots were in her duffle, and she’d change into them after she got back to her apartment. The air was alive with shouts, noise and grinding sounds. Farther down from the slips were docking areas, gantries, and cranes that moved tons of foodstuff from the ship to the shore—the odors were many. The scent of petroleum was heavy and made her lift her upper lip in disgust. Air pollution was alive and well in Port Sudan.
The beauty lay in the Red Sea water. The ship halted, and the sailors on board swiftly threw out the lines to the longshoreman waiting on the concrete wharf. The men caught them with ease, rapidly tying off each rope to the pier. The scuba ship solidly hugged the length of the wharf. It had thirty tires hanging over the side of it to protect it from the hard concrete. She imagined the hard-working crew hated scrubbing off the black tire marks on that side of the ship. It was never-ending work.
Did he want to see her again or was she a reminder of one of the worst times in his life? She could see Dan clearly now. He had separated himself from the knot of restless taxi drivers and moved to the other side of the gangplank. His arms were crossed over his massive chest. Drowning in the past, Sloan could still see his body naked in her bed, beside her. He looked a little thinner now. The captain came down, dressed in starched whites, with an officer’s hat on his head and Sloan picked up her duffle bag in her left hand. She wasn’t going be the first one off, but close to it. Taking a deep breath, she thanked the captain in Arabic and started down the gangplank.
*
Dan kept his face carefully arranged as he watched Sloan Kennedy move with that trim athletic grace she had always possessed. His soul was starving for her. He never forgot the scent of her skin, or the citrusy smell of her shining, straight brown hair.
The sun was shining hot and bright on the eight a.m. arrival of the scuba ship from Jeddah. As he watched the sway of her hips, those long, beautiful legs hidden from view, he recalled moving his hands languidly up them until he arrived at those curved thighs of hers. Damn, she was such a sensual woman. Her clothing was loose and comfortable upon her body. She had an uncommon grace that few women possessed because she had been a black-ops warrior, trained and honed. Even today, he could tell she was still in top shape.
He wished he could see her eyes, wanting to make contact with them to sense where she was at more easily. When they’d had their sizzling love affair at Bagram, she was so damned easy to read. Sloan never put on the game face that he’d seen that night she tended him in the limestone cave in the mountains. Those were painful memories, and they were never far away from him. And yet, every cell in his body screamed for her. He looked down to her sandaled feet and smiled to himself: bright red polish on those delicate toes. As his gaze drifted upward, he noticed the same color on her short nails. Dan had always liked that about her. When Sloan was deployed, she wore no cosmetics, no nail polish, and washed her hair with Afghan lye soap so if the Taliban got a whiff of it on the air, they’d think nothing of it. At Bagram, she loved a special lemon shampoo and an orange shower gel. He wondered if he would get close enough to bury his face in her hair and smell it. Probably not.
Dan felt more guilt as she approached down the long gangplank, unable to forgive himself for walking out of her life. So, here he was, a lump tight in his throat, his mind running over a hundred things to say to this gorgeous, brave woman who had saved his life. The closer Sloan came to him, the more his mind dissolved into the heat and boiling brew deep in his lower body. He was in such trouble.
She stepped off the gangplank and onto the concrete, giving him an expectant look. Dan felt so much tension that it seemed to nail him to the spot. He was tongue-tied. Afraid. Wanting her. He was messed up and knew it. Dan pushed himself forward and reached for her duffle bag, their fingers connecting briefly.
“I got it,” he told her gruffly, feeling the softness of her fingers against his for a split second. A whiff of orange citrus wafted by his flaring nostrils. It brought back so many memories that he drowned momentarily in them.
“Thanks for meeting me, Dan.” Sloan held out her hand toward him. “Been a long time.”
Dan marveled at her modulated voice. Sloan was so laid back, but he knew in part, it was because she was a medic. She knew the power of calm over someone like himself who was lathered into a state of unrelenting tension and fear. He slid his other hand into her awaiting one, feeling his whole body begin an inner melt as she looked up, studying him from behind her dark glasses.
“Yeah, good to see you,” he croaked.
He never thought he’d see her again. But here she was. She was even more beautiful and accomplished, and confident than he recalled. He let go of her hand like it was burning him. “Come on, I’ve got the truck parked over here.” He gestured toward a nearby parking lot.
Sloan fell into step with him. “How far do you live from the airport?” She looked around, immediately going into PSD mode. Her job was to keep Dan safe.
“Two miles. Two miles too close. You’ll hear every jet take off and land. The windows in the apartments where we’re staying are thin and rattle,” he added, pushing the wire gate open.
“This is a very poor country,” she said, her gaze never fixed for long in one place.
“Yeah. Pretty stark.”
“Do you have water in your truck? I’m dying of thirst.”
He nodded, giving her a quick glance. “Yeah, I always carry half a case of bottled water in the passenger side seat.”
“The smells around here are horrible, Dan,” she observed.
He felt his skin prickle pleasantly when she whispered his name. She didn’t seem upset or worried about meeting him again. It helped him ramp down his anxiety.
“You get used to it after a while.”
“I don’t think so,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Does the apartment where I’m staying have air conditioning?”
“The landlord said it did.”
“That doesn’t sound like a blindingly enthusiastic endorsement.” Sloan saw the first hint of a smile tug at Dan’s lips. He seemed somewhat distracted, however, and she sensed unhappiness around him. He led her down one row to a dusty yellow Toyota Hilux pickup truck. It had seen better days—like Dan. He seemed tired and worn out. The man used to smile a lot. He had a rapier wit and dark humor that Sloan always appreciated.
“Well,” he said, opening the door for her, “getting your expectations up isn’t going to help the situation.”