panic, not to lose focus. But this was a shock, the impact of her sudden presence as powerful as if he had been punched in the gut. He hadn't realized, he thought, how hungry he had been for the sight of her, otherwise why blurt out something he had kept from her five years ago?
Almost no one who met him knew his real name. It was safer that way, for both parties. So why had he told her, this woman who had every reason, if not to actually hate him, to at least avoid him? She had heard him tell her husband to, in effect, kill himself. She had been standing there staring at him with her eyes black as night, her face paper white with shock, when he told Dallas to press the button that would end his life as well as complete the mission. That wasn't something a woman forgot, or forgave.
She was almost as pale now. For a moment he hoped she hadn't heard of him before. It was possible; he was in black ops, his name whispered among people in operations, but she worked on the technical side and would seldom, if ever, come into contact with field operatives.
Her throat worked. "John Medina is ... just a legend," she said, her voice strained, and he knew she had indeed heard of him.
"Thank you," he replied casually, "though I don't know if I like the word 'just.' I'm real enough. Want to bite me to prove it?" He sat down on the edge of Frank's desk, one foot swinging, his posture totally relaxed despite the tension screaming through him.
"I thought pinching was the proven method."
"I prefer biting."
Color tinged her cheeks, but she didn't look away "Your eyes were brown," she accused. "Now they're blue."
"Colored contacts. Blue is the real color of my eyes."
"Or you're wearing colored contacts now."
"Come look," he invited. As he had expected, though, she didn't want to get that dose to him.
She gathered her composure and sank back into her chair. She crossed her legs, her posture as relaxed as his. Maybe more so; her movement riveted his attention on her legs, on the few inches of thigh she had revealed. He hadn't seen her legs before; she had worn pants, and often those had been modestly covered by the chador. They were very nice legs: slender, shapely, lightly tanned. She still looked to be in very good shape, as if she worked out regularly.
Abruptly aware of the response of his body, John snapped himself back under control. He glanced up and found her watching him, and automatically wondered if she had crossed her legs to distract him. If so, it had worked. He was irritated at himself, because sex was one of the oldest, most hackneyed distractions, and still he had let himself slip.
Frank opened the door, breaking the silence between them. He carried a tray on which there was a large thermos of coffee and three cups, but no sugar or cream. "Have you two introduced yourselves?" he asked smoothly, glancing at John so he could take the lead in giving Niema whatever name he chose.
"He says his name is really John Medina," Niema said. Her voice was cool and calm, and once again John had to admire her poise. "Five years ago I knew him as Darrell Tucker."
Frank flashed John another glance, this one full of surprise that he had so quickly revealed his true identity. "He goes by a lot of names; it's part of his job description."
"Then John Medina may be an alias, too."
"I can't give you any comfort there," Frank said with wry humor. "I've known him most of his life, and he's the real McCoy-or Medina, in this case."
John watched her absorb that, saw the quick suspicion in her eyes that Frank might be lying, as well. She wasn't a naive, trusting little soul, but neither was she experienced at completely hiding her thoughts and emotions.
"Why am I here?" she asked abruptly, switching her gaze to John.
Frank drew her attention back to him. "We have a ... situation." He poured a cup of coffee and handed it to her.
"How does that involve me? Could I have some cream and sugar, please?"
The simple question rattled Frank, unused
Almost no one who met him knew his real name. It was safer that way, for both parties. So why had he told her, this woman who had every reason, if not to actually hate him, to at least avoid him? She had heard him tell her husband to, in effect, kill himself. She had been standing there staring at him with her eyes black as night, her face paper white with shock, when he told Dallas to press the button that would end his life as well as complete the mission. That wasn't something a woman forgot, or forgave.
She was almost as pale now. For a moment he hoped she hadn't heard of him before. It was possible; he was in black ops, his name whispered among people in operations, but she worked on the technical side and would seldom, if ever, come into contact with field operatives.
Her throat worked. "John Medina is ... just a legend," she said, her voice strained, and he knew she had indeed heard of him.
"Thank you," he replied casually, "though I don't know if I like the word 'just.' I'm real enough. Want to bite me to prove it?" He sat down on the edge of Frank's desk, one foot swinging, his posture totally relaxed despite the tension screaming through him.
"I thought pinching was the proven method."
"I prefer biting."
Color tinged her cheeks, but she didn't look away "Your eyes were brown," she accused. "Now they're blue."
"Colored contacts. Blue is the real color of my eyes."
"Or you're wearing colored contacts now."
"Come look," he invited. As he had expected, though, she didn't want to get that dose to him.
She gathered her composure and sank back into her chair. She crossed her legs, her posture as relaxed as his. Maybe more so; her movement riveted his attention on her legs, on the few inches of thigh she had revealed. He hadn't seen her legs before; she had worn pants, and often those had been modestly covered by the chador. They were very nice legs: slender, shapely, lightly tanned. She still looked to be in very good shape, as if she worked out regularly.
Abruptly aware of the response of his body, John snapped himself back under control. He glanced up and found her watching him, and automatically wondered if she had crossed her legs to distract him. If so, it had worked. He was irritated at himself, because sex was one of the oldest, most hackneyed distractions, and still he had let himself slip.
Frank opened the door, breaking the silence between them. He carried a tray on which there was a large thermos of coffee and three cups, but no sugar or cream. "Have you two introduced yourselves?" he asked smoothly, glancing at John so he could take the lead in giving Niema whatever name he chose.
"He says his name is really John Medina," Niema said. Her voice was cool and calm, and once again John had to admire her poise. "Five years ago I knew him as Darrell Tucker."
Frank flashed John another glance, this one full of surprise that he had so quickly revealed his true identity. "He goes by a lot of names; it's part of his job description."
"Then John Medina may be an alias, too."
"I can't give you any comfort there," Frank said with wry humor. "I've known him most of his life, and he's the real McCoy-or Medina, in this case."
John watched her absorb that, saw the quick suspicion in her eyes that Frank might be lying, as well. She wasn't a naive, trusting little soul, but neither was she experienced at completely hiding her thoughts and emotions.
"Why am I here?" she asked abruptly, switching her gaze to John.
Frank drew her attention back to him. "We have a ... situation." He poured a cup of coffee and handed it to her.
"How does that involve me? Could I have some cream and sugar, please?"
The simple question rattled Frank, unused
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