“He did—but I’m not leaving yet.”
Delara buzzed her on the old intercom system. “If you’re back, Jenna, I need your help. We have six women in labor, and one is in distress.”
“I’ll be right there.” Jenna hung up her coat and adjusted her headscarf. “I need to go. You know the way out.”
Derek moved just enough to let her through. “We’ll finish this conversation later.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” She caught the clean, masculine scent of his skin as she passed, the warmth of it curling inside her.
Ignore it. You’re probably just ovulating.
She didn’t look back but made her way through the secured doors into the hospital’s labor and delivery wing.
* * *
Derek watched Jenna disappear,cries of pain drifting through the doorway. Well, this was going exactly as he’d thought it would. Why had he let Hamilton guilt him into taking this job?
You’re a fucking idiot. That’s why.
Behind him, someone pounded on the door. “Tower! Come out!”
Women poked their heads out of their rooms to see what was happening. Some gasped when they saw him, disappearing quickly behind closed doors again. Others pulled scarves over their faces, their eyes wide.
Hell.
He couldn’t be here. If villagers believed midwives were keeping company with unrelated men, it could put their lives, as well as Derek’s, in danger. He headed outside again to find the security guard standing there, fury on his face.
“It is not proper for you to be in there! This is for women only! You will have to speak with your sister outside.”
“My apologies.” Derek wouldn’t pretend that he couldn’t read the sign on the door, given that he spoke Dari. “In my impatience, I didn’t think.”
Farzad seemed to accept this. “Let us get out of this cold and have some tea.”
The snow had picked up, icy flakes falling hard and fast as Derek followed the man out of the compound toward the concrete building that was the guards’ barracks. Inside, it was warm and well lighted. The hospital compound had been built with UN money and, unlike much of the countryside, had electricity, a backup generator, and running water.
A dozen men in uniforms sat together on the carpeted floor, some wrapped in patoos—traditional woolen shawls—weapons propped against the walls behind them. They fell silent as soon as they saw him.
Farzad introduced Derek, told the men why he’d come. “Like his sister, he speaks our tongue, so watch what you say in front of him.”
The last part was mostly meant as a joke—but not entirely.
Derek pushed a grin onto his face, sat beside his host, and accepted a cup of steamingkahwah. “Tašakor.”
Thanks.
A basket of naan sat on a low table beside a dish of dried dates, empty bowls stacked to one side.
“Dawar, bring our guest a bowl of lamb stew.”
Derek wasn’t hungry but didn’t say so. Hospitality was the cornerstone of Afghan culture. Until he persuaded Jenna to go back to D.C. with him, he was stuck here. He needed to cultivate goodwill among these men, get them to trust him. He also needed to check each one of them against Cobra’s database of suspected Talibs, escaped IS fighters, and al-Qaeda sympathizers.
The youngest of the men stood and hurried off toward what must have been the kitchen, returning almost immediately with a bowl.
Derek thanked him, reached for a piece of naan, and used it as a spoon. The stew was hot and savory. He nodded his approval, bringing grins to the men’s faces. “Mmm.”
“Are you a soldier?” Dawar asked.
“Dawar!” Farzad admonished him. “Let our guest eat.”