AFTER ANOTHER AGONIZING moment, she nodded, turned, and sprinted back the way they’d come. After a few seconds, Trevor shouted.
“She’s making a run for it. I’ll go get her.”
Crawley pushed and shoved his way through the mass of bodies until he reached Trevor and Fay, lying on the ground.
“What the fuck happened?”
“She found a rock,” Trevor said. “Pretended to hurt her knee.”
Crawley started back down the access tunnel. “She won’t get far. I’ll drag her back by her fucking cunt hair.”
Trevor put a hand out, effectively stopping the other man. “No one goes but me.”
Crawley let out a raucous laugh. “Thinking with your John Thomas again, Willoughby? Just make sure you catch back up. Hate to leave you behind for the coppers to snatch.”
Without replying, Trevor turned and sprinted after Shelby. They reached the packing room at the same time.
“Now what?” she gasped. She knelt next to Floyd, who rolled his head to look at her.
“I don’t want to die,” he said.
Trevor ran to the rolling door. “It’s padlocked.”
“Wait!” Shelby called. “They’re out there. The police. Jukes said they were at the back door. What if . . . what if they shoot you?”
Trevor gave her a grim look, but hesitated. “I’ll surrender.”
Shelby gazed up at him, wide-eyed. “That will blow your cover, won’t it. Your mission will be a bust.”
Trevor sighed, looking up at the ceiling. “I’ll figure something out.”
“No.” Shelby couldn’t believe what she was saying. “Use me as a hostage.”
A surprised laugh burst from Trevor. “No.”
“Then . . . then . . . isn’t there another way out of here?”
Trevor looked down at her. “Don’t you know?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’ve never been down here.”
“I saw another door, just as we went into the access corridor,” Trevor said.
“Where do you suppose it goes? Floyd, do you know?”
“Get me out of here.”
“Floyd,” she said. “Unless we find a way out of here, we can’t get a paramedic in here to save you. So do you know where that door leads, or not?”
“Old . . . steam tunnels, I think. Don’t . . . leave me here to die.”
She patted his shoulder. “Sooner I get out, sooner you get medical help. Just hold on, all right?”
He shivered, going into shock.
Trevor pulled a small leather packet out of his back pocket, and went to work on the lock, which gave way only grudgingly. It took some muscle to get the door to swing open. It creaked loudly.
“We need to move. Fay’ll be awake and telling them I knocked her out.”
“Oh, no! I didn’t think of that. Won’t that compromise your mission, too?”
“Let’s worry about one problem at a time.” He felt around inside until he found a switch and flipped it. Eerie blue lights flickered on. “Let’s go.”
Floyd groaned behind them, but Trevor spared only one look at him before pushing Shelby into the dimness. He pulled the door shut after them and turned the lock. “That’ll hold them for a while.” He moved swiftly down this new tunnel, ducking his head to keep from banging it against the ceiling, eyeing the pipes all around them. “Steam pipes. That’s how they used to warm buildings, back before central air. There’s going to be some sort of an exit.”
They moved as fast as they could, given the poor lighting. Dust and cobwebs hung in the air, which was thin and musty smelling. In about a hundred yards, the tunnel curved around to the right. A few more yards down, and they both saw it at the same time.
“Manhole,” Shelby whispered.
Trevor reached up to the wheel, pulling hard to get the old mechanism to work. At last, it clicked, and he tugged it open.
“No fresh air,” he said, disappointed. “I wonder where this goes, then.”
He gripped the edges of the hole and lifted himself up, then reached down a hand for Shelby. She gripped his palm tightly, and he lifted her through. He couldn’t help a spark of pride flickering somewhere deep inside him. She was calm, strong, and capable.
He would protect her, whatever the cost.
Pulling a small penlight from his back pocket, he used it to chase back some of the shadows around them. This tunnel was even smaller than the last, and both ended up crouching as they made their way through. Unlike the others, this access path was littered with rubble. Rocks, chunks of wood, old pipe fittings. Footing was treacherous, and he kept a hand on Shelby’s elbow to help guide her.
He stopped several times to let them rest. “You’re doing great,” he said.
Shelby rubbed her knee. “So what are you really doing with that group of lunatics?”
“An apt name,” he said. “They call themselves the Philosophy of Bedlam. They consider themselves to be a force for change to bring down a corrupt and ineffectual government.”
“So, what? Their goal is to create chaos? Just that? No ideology, no philosophical mandates?”
“That sums it up neatly. They purport to believe that undermining the foundation of our civilized exterior will allow our true chaotic selves to emerge. That if all humans were permitted to do exactly what they wanted to, with no societal restrictions, humanity would bloom into something greater than the sum of its parts.”
Shelby sucked in a breath. “But that’s insane. There’d be anarchy.”
Trevor dipped his head. “Quite so.”
She massaged her knee again. It had begun to swell, but there was nothing he could do about it right now.
“And your mission was to . . . disband them?” she guessed.
“Not exactly. My mission was to discover the names of the members of the Bedlamites, but to find the brains behind the movement as well. Eric Koller is the cell leader, though truth be told I have nothing to support the idea that there’s more than one cell. Eric is the one with the scar, which he got in Northern Ireland during the Troubles. He’s smart, but the entire anarchist movement is being pushed from above him. I need to find out who and why.” He held out a hand, which she took. “We need to keep moving.”
She followed him as he moved. “What did you find out? And what happened upstairs? Why were you in the museum in the first place?”
Trevor sighed. “It’s too long a story to get into now. For the moment, our priority has to be getting you somewhere safe. I’ll check in with my superiors, and we’ll reassess at that time.”
“Do you have a cell phone?”
“A burner phone for this mission. Not a single bar, I’m afraid. We’re too far below ground and the walls are too thick.”
The tunnel curved again. This time, as they turned the corner, they saw a ladder bolted to the wall on their right. Trevor inspected it, and the cover above them. They heard faint sounds of water dripping. Trevor tested the ladder, then put his weight on it.
“Sturdy enough.” He pushed against the barrier, which lifted with difficulty, and poked his head through. “Another tunnel. This one’s a bit taller. We won’t be crouching, at least.”
Shelby followed him up the ladder, and he closed the cover behind them. Water dripped down the walls and pooled on the floor. At least, he hoped it was only water they were walking through. The smell suggested otherwise.
The light seemed brighter here as well, but that could just be because they’d gotten used to the dimness. As they walked, the gloom around them lightened. They reached another built-in ladder. This one ended in a manhole cover. Light and shadow chased across it.
“We’re under a street,” he said. He checked his phone. “Two bars.”
“Call—”
“I am.” Trevor dialed nine-nine-nine. “A man’s been stabbed inside the August Museum and needs immediate medical aid. He’s in the basement packing room.”
She heard the voice on the other end start to say something, but Trevor disconnected and pocketed the phone.
“Let me go first and see where we are,” he said.
He had to put some muscle into it to lift the heavy cover, shoving it back just far enough to risk a quick peek. Shelby radiated anxiety below him.
“The main traffic is just west of us,” he reported. “I’ll tell you when to go. When you’re out, turn right immediately and go into the alley.”
“Okay,” she whispered. “Or . . . or we could just stay here.”
He understood. The tunnels gave a false sense of security. Soon they would have to face the reality that would come when they crawled out of their dark hole.
He, at least, was a wanted fugitive. At best, the authorities would assume she was his hostage. At worst, they would brand her a terrorist, too.
Trevor pushed the cover halfway open and climbed out. He immediately turned and offered her a hand. She climbed out next to him and took it, letting him steady her for the last few steps. He squeezed her hand reassuringly.
“Go.”
ONLY AS THE daylight hit them did Shelby notice that he still had the semiautomatic rifle slung over his shoulder, muzzle down.
“Get rid of it,” she hissed.
“Agreed.” He lowered it into the manhole and slung the strap over the edge of the ladder. Kneeling, he pushed at the cover, which barely moved. He shoved and strained until it covered most of the hole. “Damned thing must weight two hundred pounds. Staying here is riskier than leaving this thing ajar. We could be seen at any moment.”
He took purposeful steps toward the alley, grabbing her hand and pulling them halfway down its fifty-foot length before slowing and looking around. It was narrow, dank, and putrid with the stench of human waste. One man, dog on his chest, sat inside a cardboard box. The dog woofed halfheartedly. Several other bodies lay wrapped in blankets or sleeping bags against the wall. The hopelessness and despair of these men and women—one with a child—was palpable.
Shelby instinctively reached for her purse, only to stop, momentarily confused as her hand encountered nothing but air. Trevor slid his wallet free and placed a few bills in the mother’s hand.
“Your ID,” Shelby said. “What if you’d been searched?”
Trevor smiled briefly. “They’d’ve found a driving license for Trevor Willoughby and a couple hundred quid. I’ve done this before.”
Her face reddened. “Of course. Sorry.”
They kept pushing through. About two-thirds of the way down, a figure, then two more, materialized from a doorway. In their late teens to early twenties, also homeless by the look of their clothes and the unpleasant aroma of body odor, these three were predators, pure and simple. Shelby made no protest when Trevor pushed her behind him.
“I don’t know you.” The one in the middle, dead-eyed and whip thin, spoke first. “I don’t like strangers in my alleyway.”
“We’re just passing through, lads,” Trevor said, holding his hands open and away from his body. “We don’t want trouble.”
“Too bad, mate. This place belongs to us. You can’t be going through our home spot without paying the toll.”
Trevor glanced over his shoulder. Shelby half turned, and sure enough a fourth young man was taking the money from the woman’s hand. A fifth held a metal pipe.
“You have two choices, mate,” the skinny one said. “There’s five of us and two of you. Hand over your cash, and we’re done. Or we take it, and you and your pretty bird here get hurt.”
Trevor stiffened. “You only have one choice, mate. Leave now, and I’ll let you live.”
The other two men laughed, but the leader’s eyes grew deadly. He drew a butterfly knife from his front pants pocket and flipped it open. To Shelby’s untrained eyes, he seemed alarmingly comfortable with the weapon.
Don’t panic. She swiveled her head, trying to watch all of them at the same time.
“Stay behind me.” Trevor didn’t stop walking. Shelby obeyed, heart racing. Why wasn’t he backing away? Shouldn’t they try to run?
When he was within ten feet of the gang, the one to Trevor’s front left charged him, fist raised, swinging at Trevor’s jaw. Trevor swiveled toward him, bringing both arms up and slamming them into the boy’s forearm, effectively stopping the punch, then rammed his elbow into the boy’s jaw. Grabbing the boy by the neck and bicep, he yanked him in close as he brought a knee up into his stomach, then punched him twice in the face before shoving him hard toward the leader. They collided; the boy sat down hard as the leader stumbled back.
Trevor grabbed Shelby’s upper arm and pushed her with him so that they were both beyond the gang. “Go to the other end. Wait there.”
Instead of running with her, he turned back to the pack. Shelby took several steps away, but then stopped. No way was she leaving him to face five attackers by himself.
In the short time they’d maneuvered around the first three, the other two reached the group. The one with the pipe in his right hand swung it overhand toward Trevor’s head. Trevor threw his left arm up, blocking the attack by smacking his forearm against the man’s wrist. He looped his right arm under Pipe’s and seized his own left wrist as he stepped close and jerked his arms inward, forcing Pipe’s elbow into Trevor’s chest. Trevor yanked his arms down hard, hearing Pipe’s shoulder ligaments pop, then punched his kidneys several times before letting him sag to the ground. Pipe clutched his shredded shoulder, screaming obscenities.
“You fucking son of a bitch!” The first boy got up, wiping blood from his nose with the sleeve of his shirt, and lunged for Shelby. He grabbed her upper arms, pulling her in front of him.
Her training as a Foreign Service Officer included an annual self-defense course for women. Mustering her courage, she raked her shoe’s sharp heel down his leg, wrenching herself free as he cried out in pain. Curling her fingers back, she brought her palm up, striking him as hard as she could under his jaw, then grabbed his shirt at the neck and drove her knee up into his groin. And again and again, until he sagged to the ground, clutching himself and moaning. She backed up several steps.
The other boy hit Trevor from the side, fist slamming into Trevor’s jaw and temple. Trevor ducked away. Before she realized what she was doing, she darted forward, hitting the man from the side and pummeling him with her fists. He turned and clocked her in the face. She fell hard, ears ringing.
With a roar of rage, Trevor seized her attacker and swung him around, fist cocked back, just as the leader’s hand arced down. The knife bit deeply into the boy’s shoulder. He screamed.
“Shelby!”
“I’m okay,” she croaked, managing to get to her hands and knees.
The man on the right reached for something at the small of his back.
“Gun!” she gasped.
Trevor leapt past the first two to the third just as the man brought a revolver out from under his shirt. The man yelled something she couldn’t make out. Moving almost too fast for her to see, Trevor drove his left palm into the man’s right shoulder and smashed his fist into the man’s face. The man ignored the blood spurting from his nose, managing to bring the revolver up to Trevor’s midsection. Trevor knocked the gun aside, capturing the man’s wrist and continuing to swivel his own body so he cradled the man’s arm under his own. Scooping the man’s wrist and turning, he brought the gun up and tore it from the man’s hand, reversing it so it was now pointed at him. The man froze, gaping.
Trevor pressed forward half an inch so that the barrel of the revolver pressed into the man’s eye. He leaned forward until his mouth nearly touched the other man’s.
“Run.”
The man held his shaking hands up in a gesture of surrender, taking several shaky steps back. “No trouble, mate, yeah? We’re gone.”
One of the boys put his arm around the bleeding leader’s shoulder, lifting him to his feet and supporting him. The one who’d grabbed Shelby groaned as he struggled upright, clutching himself. All five backed away and shuffled to the mouth of the alley, disappearing around the corner.
The entire fight had taken less than a minute.
Trevor watched for a moment more, then came to squat next to her. She gave up trying to get to her feet. He gripped her chin lightly and turned her head, making a soft sound as he traced the puffy part of her face where she’d been hit.
“Bastard.”
Shelby couldn’t seem to drag enough air into her lungs. “Knife. Knife. He had a knife.”
Trevor put both hands on her cheeks. “Shelby. It’s over. They’re gone. Breathe.”
She was embarrassed at the tears clogging her vision. “Are you . . . hurt?”
Trevor grinned at that, the cocky grin she remembered so well from Azakistan. “From those juvenile delinquents? You don’t think much of my training, if you think they posed any kind of a threat.”
His I can take on the world and win attitude radiated from him. But anyone could fall to the stab of a knife. Shelby couldn’t stop Floyd’s face from swimming to the fore. “Do you think your friends left the museum? Do you think Floyd is still alive?”
Something shuttered in Trevor’s face. He still thought she and Floyd were together. Now wasn’t the time for that particular conversation, though. “We need to get somewhere safe. Regroup. Wash.”
They were both filthy, with blood and dirt and God knew what else stuck to their clothing. Walking to the opposite end of the alley, Shelby paused while Trevor peered out. “We’re not far enough from the museum. It’s about a block down, but all the focus is away from us.” He batted ineffectually at the grime and sweat. “If we move naturally, we should be okay. There are a lot of gawkers.”
Shelby gathered her nerve. “Okay. I’m ready.”
They stepped into the street. She couldn’t help the glance toward the museum and its mass of emergency vehicles. She couldn’t see much. The street was clogged with people watching the drama unfold, and the news crews had arrived to add their chaos to the mix.
Trevor grabbed her hand, and they walked casually, hand in hand, down the street and away.
“Why don’t you turn yourself in now? Get it all straightened out?”
Trevor pulled out his cell phone. “I’m putting you somewhere safe first. There’s no telling what Eric or Crawley might do. I need to get an update.”
They reached the end of the street and turned left. Trevor cursed. “Pardon my language. There are too many people ringing or taking videos. All phone circuits are busy. All right. Let’s grab a taxi.”
“And go where?”
“Your flat,” he said at once. “We can get cleaned up and you can pack a hold-all. I’ll take you to safety, and then go back to HQ.”
The taxis passing took one look at their disheveled appearance and passed them by. Finally, a minicab slowed beside them. He looked almost as rumpled and dirty as they did. “Show me some cash.”
Trevor pulled out his wallet and held up a few bills. The driver nodded, and they climbed into the back seat.
“We’ve had a load of building material dumped on us,” Trevor said. “We’re not sleeping rough, though I agree we look like tramps.”
The driver grunted acknowledgment. “Where to, then?”
Shelby gave him her address, then settled back in the seat. Trevor remained tense beside her. It took almost thirty minutes of driving through the congested London traffic before they reached Shelby’s flat. Trevor paid the man, adding a generous tip. The building housing her London flat, though much nicer than her apartment building in Azakistan had been, had no elevator. They walked up the three flights of stairs to her door.
“I don’t have my key,” she said, realization dawning. “No keys, no ID, no money.”
“Not a problem,” Trevor said. He pulled out a leather tool kit, and in a short time, her locks clicked open.
“If I knew it was that easy to pick a lock, I’d’ve gotten five or six deadbolts.”
Trevor opened her door and gestured for her to enter first, ever the gentleman. She made a beeline for the kitchen, and grabbed two bottles of water. They both drank thirstily.
“Why don’t you shower first,” she suggested. “I’ll pack a bag.”
“Brilliant. After I check your knee.”
“What? It’s fine.”
“It’s not. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you limping, though I appreciate your willingness to soldier on.”
She also wanted to see how bad the damage was. Pulling out a kitchen chair, she sat down, unbuckling her strappy platform heels and kicking them off. Her dress hit her mid-thigh, so it was simple for Trevor to crouch in front of her and probe her knee. She sucked in a breath.
“Hurts, does it?”
“A little.”
“Well, the good news is I don’t think you’ve done any damage. When you hit your knee just in the right place, it hurts like a moth . . . er, it hurts a lot. Your knee is swollen and you’ll have one hell of a bruise, but you’ll be fine.”
“Thank you.”
Before she could think too much about how good it felt to have his hands on her, if only to check her knee, she fetched some towels and put them on the back of the toilet. “You’ll have to use my soap and shampoo,” she said. “You’re going to end up smelling like a grapefruit.”
He smiled at her. “I don’t mind. I remember your scent very well.”
Her breath whooshed out. Had he really just brought that up? His face closed down, as though he, too, realized the poor timing. Without another word, he went into the bathroom and closed the door in her face. She waited until the water turned on and the shower curtain screeched back before she went into the living room and turned on the television. She flipped to BBC One. As expected, they were covering the hostage crisis.
“Specialist Firearms Officers stormed the museum after negotiations with the terrorists failed to yield results. The suspected terrorists, members of anarchist group Philosophy of Bedlam, fled on foot and evaded police blockades. Twelve of the fourteen hostages were released unharmed. One hostage was apparently shot; he was rushed to St. Baldwin’s Hospital, where his condition remains closely guarded. Specialist Crime and Operations Chief Superintendent Stuart Anton reported that the fourteenth hostage, a woman whose name has not yet been released to the public, is believed to have been taken with the anarchists when they fled. It is unclear whether the woman is actually a hostage, or is herself a member of the Philosophy of Bedlam. We will, of course, keep you updated on this serious situation. Anthony, back to you.”
They’d gotten the detail about Floyd’s stabbing wrong, but it was possible he might still be alive. She breathed a silent prayer. He might be a rat bastard, a married man who’d pressured her for weeks to sleep with him, but he didn’t deserve to die in the basement of his own museum, stabbed in the gut by a madman.
The shower stopped. Shelby couldn’t stop the shiver of awareness that Trevor stood, naked and dripping wet, less than twenty feet from her. Memories of his amazing physique swamped her. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Running her hands across soft skin over steel muscle had been a treasure. Feeling him holding her while they writhed together . . . her breathing deepened and moisture gathered at her core. The bathroom door opened and he stepped out.
He’d evidently used her razor to scrape the scruff from his jaw and had slicked back his long dark hair. Water droplets winked at her from his broad shoulders. One slid down past his ear. She traced the movement with her eyes, then dropped her gaze to his trim waist and narrow hips, hidden by the towel. His skin was bronzed by the sun, testament to his long hours of training and multiple missions.
His chest deepened, and she realized he’d inhaled, and jerked her gaze back up to his. His attention was laser-like, dark slashing brows over intense brown eyes centered on her lips. His own parted on a sigh. His eyes swam with remembered passion and heat and a craving she could see pouring from him.
He turned away abruptly, one big hand holding the towel. “It’s your turn in the shower.”
His curt tone made it clear he wasn’t interested in a repeat performance. Shelby couldn’t blame him. Did she want to make love to him under the stinging spray of hot water? Yes, if she were going to be honest. But it would be the worst idea to become involved with him again. He lived a dangerous, unpredictable life. And he’d left her bed to go to another woman. That still hurt, all these months later. Still, if her life thus far had instilled anything in her, it was the knowledge that men were rarely reliable.
“Thank you.” She walked past him down the hallway, entered the bathroom, and closed the door in his face, much as he had to her earlier. She turned the water as hot as she could stand it, using her loofah to scrub herself clean. Of the dust and grime, the terror of being held hostage, the betrayal of finding out Floyd was married. Of his stabbing, of rekindled feelings toward Trevor she thought she’d crushed. When she finally finished, there was not a drop of hot water left, and her skin was red from scrubbing.
Wrapping a towel around her torso and another around her wet hair, she peeked out the door to make sure Trevor wasn’t nearby, then darted across the hall to her bedroom. She changed quickly into fresh clothes, dried her hair, and reapplied her makeup. Finally ready, she went back out into the living room. Trevor wasn’t there, but enticing smells wafted from the kitchen. She followed her nose.
Trevor stood at the stove, feet planted wide, clad in nothing but that stupid towel as he stirred something in a saucepan. Watching him, half naked and cooking, caused hot flashes to travel from her hair to her toes and back again. He looked like a wet dream.
As though sensing her presence, he half turned, looking over his shoulder. “I thought as long as we had a minute or two, I’d create sustenance.”
It was such an odd way of saying he was cooking a meal that she laughed. She tried to ignore him, but all that golden skin made her ache for something she’d lost. Maybe never had.
“It’s just an omelet,” he said, turning back to the stove.
She couldn’t help the way her eyes tracked down his spine to the white towel. To say the day had been stressful would be a major understatement. Taken hostage, finding out the man she’d been dating already had a wife and might even now be dying, then banging around in dark tunnels. Her knee ached, though the swelling had gone down. The last thing on her mind was sex. But intimacy? A warm, reassuring hug?
Well, she’d made her bed when she’d rejected him.
“You keep looking at me like that, and I’ll have to do something about it.”
She gasped. “Your back is turned. How did you know I was . . . um . . .”
“I feel your eyes on me. I like it that you look at me that way. Shelby—”
Suddenly, she did not want to hear what he had to say. All the reasons she should never have gotten involved with him were still there. Nothing had changed. It had been one night, and it couldn’t happen again.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “that I didn’t think to put your clothes in the washer before I showered. I’ll do it now.”
He nodded, still without turning around. “I have a small pouch under the inner sole of my shoe with some cash in it. Would you get that while you’re at it?”
“Sure.”
As she tossed his clothes into the machine, she couldn’t help but bring his shirt to her nose. Beneath the grime, it smelled of him. Delicious and sinful. There was no underwear. Did he go commando?
By the time she returned, he’d put two plates on the coffee table and was flipping through the channels.
“The news said earlier they escaped, but left the hostages behind,” she offered. “They’re all safe. There was no update on Floyd.”
He didn’t respond. She sat as far from him on the sofa as she could and dug into her omelet. It was delicious. “So you can cook, too?”
“Too?” He looked at her, his expression unreadable. “As well as what?”
Make love like a dream. She bit the words back. Trevor had proven to be the same as any other man. They liked to fuck. Sometimes they liked to fuck enough to marry. They didn’t stay faithful for long, though. Inviting a physical relationship with Trevor would just lead to heartache and betrayal.
“Fight,” she said instead. “Go undercover. Be an SAS officer.”
“Hmm.”
He looked like he was about to say more when adverts ended and the news came back on. The newscasters gave a recap of the hostage situation, now resolved but for the disappearance of one of the hostages. Her picture flashed up on the screen, and the commentator gave a few brief lines about her background and job with the State Department.
“One of the hostages, Floyd Panderson, curator of the August Gallery, where the standoff occurred earlier today, is in critical but stable condition at St. Baldwin’s Hospital near Soho. He is expected to make a full recovery.”
“Oh, I’m so glad he’s not dead,” she whispered.
“Not dead is different from still alive.” Trevor’s voice was soft and questioning.
She met his eyes. “Not that it’s any of your business, but we’d only been dating for a few weeks. I didn’t know he was married.”
“Obviously. Did you”—he stopped to clear his throat—“visit his office?”
She pressed her lips together and released them; a nervous gesture. “No. He was pushing to become intimate. But I wasn’t ready.”
“Good.” This time, his voice was even softer.
“Trevor, I’m not sleeping with you, either,” she said baldly.
His eyes narrowed and his mouth flattened. “I didn’t suggest you should. After last time, it’s not worth it to me.”
That stung. “Look, I owe you an apology. What I did in the hospital . . . it was a shitty thing to do, and I feel terrible about it. But you did, in point of fact, leave my side to go to another woman. I met her at the hospital. Christina Madison.”
Trevor nodded slowly. “Who has just become engaged to Gabriel Morgan from the Combat Applications Group.”
He meant Delta Force. “Are you . . . okay?”
“Natch. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I mean, with her, you know. Being with another man.”
Trevor frowned. “I did not go to her for any romantic reason whatsoever. She’d been arrested by a local imam. She needed a male to pretend to be a family member to pay a fine and promise to beat her and lock her in her room. Does any of that sound romantic to you?”
“Only if you’re into that.” Shelby scratched the corner of her eye with her forefinger. “You and she were involved prior to that, though. I heard things.”
“Speculation and innuendo. My team and I were able to give assistance during an operation gone wrong. There was never anything more to it than that.”
So the rumors were inaccurate. That shouldn’t surprise her. “You have the reputation as quite the womanizer, though,” she said. “Is that gossip, too?”
Trevor simply looked at her, puzzled. “No. I’m a healthy man with healthy appetites. The issue is my profession. The life of a soldier is hard enough, with deployments and separations, missing birthdays and holidays. Multiply that by a hundred, and you come close to the life of an operator.”
“What do you mean? Because it’s dangerous?”
“Yes, but it’s more than that. I deploy at a moment’s notice. Often, I either don’t have the time, or am not permitted, to call and let someone know I’m going. Not parents, not a wife and children, not a girlfriend. How would you feel if the man you’re dating simply disappeared, for weeks or months at a time? My chosen career makes relationships challenging.”
“But the right woman—”
“Is incredibly rare to find. I love what I do. I won’t give it up. But it makes it damnably difficult to form a serious relationship. I’m not home often enough to build a solid foundation as a couple, nor to meet a woman strong enough to be a partner, to understand and accept that part of my life. Divorce rates amongst special operations forces are extremely high, and there’s a reason for it.”
Her brows pulled down. “So you sleep around. It’s easier that way?”
“The women I sleep with are looking for the same thing as I am. No strings, no commitments. Just healthy, recreational sex. Given those parameters, it’s virtually impossible not to get a reputation. But it’s equally difficult to find a woman who wants that.”
He stood and took their dishes into the kitchen. She followed him in. He rinsed the plates and put them on the drying rack, then turned to her, hurt in his eyes.
“The irony of life is that the first woman I’ve had romantic feelings for in years dumped me while I was lying in a hospital bed.”