Accidental Commando by Ingrid Weaver Page B

catch. A glance at Sergeant Gonzales made her realize they were talking over their radios again. She sighed and leaned her back against the wall. Her shoulder brushed the frame of a painting, knocking it askew. She straightened it, moved a few more inches to her right and tried again. She wished she could pass the time by snapping a few pictures, but the president’s guards had forbidden her to take photographs in the private wing of the palace. “Is it always this boring?”
    “Boring is good,” Tyler said. “When things get exciting there’s usually a problem.”
    “It seems we were in a big rush to get here and all we end up doing is holding up the wallpaper.”
    “It’s the army way.”
    “Huh. ‘They also serve—’”
    “‘Who only stand and wait,’” he finished.
    She blinked. A cowboy who knew his Milton? “Let me guess. Your sisters made you read poetry.”
    “Something like that.”
    “By the way, where’s that big gun of yours today?”
    “I left my rifle upstairs.”
    She leaned sideways to study him. There were no obvious bulges under his jacket. Nothing that couldn’t be accounted for, anyway. “You’ve got to be carrying a weapon someplace.”
    “We always come prepared for the job.”
    “You don’t want to get specific, do you?”
    “It wouldn’t be relevant to your story.”
    “How would you know? A lot of readers would like to learn—” What you’ve got hidden under your clothes. She tamped down the thought. “They’d like to know exactly what a soldier does on an undercover mission,” she finished. “Major Redinger said you’d cooperate with me, remember?” He grunted.
    “And that reminds me, you haven’t yet told me what kind of soldiers you are. Only the major wears a uniform. Are you from the Special Forces?” When he didn’t reply, she tried again. “You might as well tell me, because I’m going to keep asking until you do.”
    “Yes.”
    “Ah. Okay, that’s what I thought. You’re commandos, right?”
    “We’re just soldiers, ma’am.”
    She glanced at the closed doors again. “Come to think of it, I remember reading something about the envoy’s father when he was in the Gulf. General Haggerty used to move around with a group of Special Forces guys for bodyguards. He didn’t really need them. He just thought they looked cool in their black outfits. He was able to make a great entrance whenever he walked into a room surrounded by his personal ninjas. I think they were from Delta Force.” She focused on Tyler again. “Like you, right?”
    “I was in grammar school during the first Gulf War.”
    “You didn’t answer my question.”
    “Didn’t I?”
    “ Are you from Delta Force?”
    He hesitated, as he frequently did before he replied. Clearly he was weighing everything he told her concerning the mission. “Only Hollywood uses that name. The men you’ve met belong to Eagle Squadron. We’re from Operational Detachment Delta.”
    She pursed her lips in a silent whistle. The Hollywood name was fine with her. This was better than she could have hoped. How many reporters got the opportunity to be embedded with Delta Force commandos? They were notoriously secretive. This story would be hot. Almost as hot as these commandos.
    But that particular fact definitely wasn’t relevant to her story, she told herself. It made no difference if each of the men she had met happened to be incredibly handsome in their own, individual ways. Vic Gonzales had his brooding, Latin good looks. Jack Norton had a lean and hungry predator aura. Kurt Lang reminded her of Wolverine without the hardware and bad hair, and Duncan Colbert could have posed for a book cover as a buccaneer. Of course, none of them came close to Tyler with regards to sheer, physical magnetism.
    Tyler was looking at her mouth, which made her realize her lips were still puckered. She pressed them flat and took out the spiral notebook she’d borrowed from Chief Esposito.
    “I have a question you