Tomorrow, Marie would have to fight with Behar’s family to keep mother and child here for another three days to give Behar time to heal and get past the worst of her post-operative pain. And soon, Behar would be pregnant once more and would face this ordeal again.
Jenna checked on Najida’s little girl next. She had finally managed to persuade Najida to breastfeed rather than giving her daughter butter, and the baby was now sound asleep beside her mother. The two would be leaving in the morning, riding in a donkey cart to their village two hours away.
Jenna kept busy through the night, checking on Behar, changing her IV fluids, giving her morphine—and ignoring the dirty looks the mother-in-law cast her way. “You have a beautiful grandson.”
“Impure woman,” the harridan hissed back.
You have no idea.
Jenna restocked supplies and folded and put away yesterday’s laundry, the relative peace of the night giving her time to think, her mind turning to Derek and what had happened in the safe room this afternoon.
I want to see your hair.
Jenna’s pulse skipped. No sexy pickup line or attempt at seduction had affected her the way those words had. Derek had taken her completely by surprise, yanking off her headscarf, sliding his fingers into her hair, inhaling her scent, his brow furrowing as if the smell of her shampoo pleased him. After six months of celibacy, separation from men, and hiding under a headscarf and tunics, she had felt exposed.
You smell like flowers.
She could hear Derek’s voice, hear the way the words rumbled in his chest.
You’re a beautiful woman, Jenna.
For a moment, she’d thought he was going to kiss her. He had stopped himself— which is more than she would have done. Now, she was left to imagine what it would have been like to have all that man and muscle hold her close, his mouth over hers, those big hands fisted in her hair. And so, shedidimagine it, again and again, until she found herself standing, eyes closed, a half-folded sheet in her arms.
Snap out of it!
On second thought, it was probably for the best that he hadn’t kissed her. One kiss would only make her want more, and that couldn’t happen, not here, not without putting them both at risk. No kiss was worth that.
Maybe with him it would be.
That was her ovaries. They were getting ahead of her again.
Jenna forced her mind away from Derek and finished folding the sheet.
* * *
Derek wanted to throttle Jenna.He strode back to the barracks in search of Farzad, certain things would go better for Jenna if Farzad heard what had happened from him—if the man wasn’t already aware.
Derek understood why Jenna had done what she’d done, but she’d come close to landing herself in a world of hurt. The men in that waiting room had been outraged, some of them talking about going to their village mullah. Where things would have gone from there, no one could know. Derek had talked them down, commiserating with them about the ignorance of Westerners and their women, doing his best to make light of the situation. In the end, news of a son had taken the edge off the husband’s anger.
Derek found Farzad and his men putting away their prayer rugs. He removed his woolpakol—the traditional men’s hat—and his patoo, which he’d wrapped around his face to hide his features and lack of beard. “A good morning to you all.”
He joined the men for tea and bread, grinning at their jokes about his appearance.
“If you were an Afghan man, you would have a beard,” Hamzad teased.
Derek rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “I’m growing one.”
When the men had eaten and finished their tea, Derek turned to Farzad. “May I speak with you where we cannot be overheard?”
Farzad’s face was expressionless while Derek explained what had happened.
“I would like to deal with my sister myself. I don’t believe she understands what she has done. She needs to learn the right way to act.”
Farzad’s face folded in a thoughtful frown. “Tell me, my friend, when were you a soldier here? You told Dawar you are not a soldier now, but I believe you must once have worn a uniform. You speak our tongue as one born to it, not like your sister, who has an accent. You slip into the clothes of an Afghan man as if you have always worn them. You did not need my help dressing this morning. The way you turned those men away from violence last night… You have been in Afghanistan for a long time.”
Derek could have lied, but he wouldn’t, not to Farzad. “I was an operator with U.S. special forces for many years. I left the army long ago to work in private security. I did not say this when Dawar asked because I did not know you or your men then, though I did not lie. I said I am not a soldier, and, indeed, I am not—not now.”
“Did you kill Talibs and al-Qaeda fighters?” Farzad’s face was still expressionless.