Lindsay McKenna - Destiny's Woman

Most Anglos were bastards, in her experience. Sending Joe Calhoun a glance as she lifted her head, Akiva found her heart pounding briefly. Why did she feel so out of sorts around him? she wondered as she watched him write down information on a notepad he held in his large hands. His profile was strong, and for some reason reminded her of the White Mountains on the Apache reservation in Arizona where she’d grown up. The res was a craggy, windswept piece of land, baked by the brutal heat of the sun in summer and freezing cold in winter. Joe’s face was craggy, too, with high cheekbones, a chiseled, full mouth, and strong chin.

He was six feet tall, like her, and medium boned, with more of a swimmer’s body than a weight lifter’s. Most Apache helo pilots were lean and mean looking. Joe was lean and tightly muscled, but he had a kind-looking face, not the face of an aggressor. He didn’t fit the normal mold of a warrior, and that stymied Akiva. And yet the army had promoted him to instructor pilot, so he must have the goods or he wouldn’t have made the grade to the Apache program. The old maxim of her grandmother—never judge a book by its cover—must apply to Joe, Akiva thought.

She remembered the warmth she had seen in his gray eyes when she’d met him that first day of training in the Boeing Apache Longbow helicopter. Normally, combat pilots had predatory eyes, reminding Akiva of an eagle in search of its next quarry.

Not so Joe Calhoun. He’d completely thrown Akiva off guard with his friendly, good ole boy smile and demeanor. He was soft-spoken and gentle with her at all times. And unlike most pilots, Joe never cussed. That was a surprise to Akiva, because cursing in the heat and stress of battle was as common as breathing among combat people. And Joe had treated her like a lady, being solicitous and sensitive to her needs as a person, rather than a faceless soldier.

It hadn’t taken Akiva long to realize Joe Calhoun was a man of the past, thrown into the present. In her mind he did not fit the combat or instructor pilot mode—at all. And because she couldn’t pigeonhole him, he kept her off balance. Only when Akiva could label someone was she able to react in a way that protected her from that person. With Calhoun, there was no slot to place him in, and that unsettled Akiva completely. He’d always treated her with deference and respect. In fact, the admiration in his voice during training was wonderful—but Akiva tried to throw off his praise and warmth just as quickly as he dispensed it. Anglos were not to be trusted under any circumstance.

Yet the worst part was, she was drawn to him! Few men had stirred the flames within her as Joe did. Akiva tried to ignore her quickening heartbeat each time he gave her that gentle smile. Her yearning to know what it would be like to kiss his smiling mouth really shocked her. For all Joe’s gentleness, which in itself was a powerful beacon that drew Akiva, he stirred her womanly nature, too. Akiva didn’t like being drawn to an Anglo. No matter how personable Joe appeared to be, somewhere within him was the darkness all Anglo men carried. She knew it lurked within him, even if she hadn’t experienced it.

She glared at him for a moment. Why did he have to be so damned different? Was it because he was from Texas? She would feel a helluva lot less jumpy if she could only figure him out. Then she’d know what tact to take with him, her well-ordered world would once again fall into place and she could relax.

“And who’s the drug lord in the area?” Akiva demanded in a dark tone.

Morgan’s brows knitted. He replaced the map with a color photograph of an older man with silver hair. “Javier Rios. He’s the kingpin of drugs in southern Mexico. His son, Luis, is a helicopter pilot, and they have four civilian helos that Luis and his mercenary pilots use to fly. The helos have a fixed fuel range and Luis takes his helos to dirt airstrips in various areas along Mexico’s Gulf Coast, to fixed-wing planes that load it on board and fly it into the U.S. So Luis’s job is as a middleman on these flights.”

Akiva stared at the silver-haired gentleman, who stood against a background of whitewashed stucco arches overhung with hot-pink bougainvillea. It was a beautiful villa, the red-tiled patio behind him filled with several pottery urns holding blooming flowers.

Rios’s heritage was clearly Castilian, Akiva noted. He was dressed like a patron of old in a wine-colored, short-waisted jacket embroidered with gold thread, a starched white shirt, and a maroon neckerchief held by a gold-and-amethyst clasp. The man’s face was wide, and Akiva was sure that in his youth he’d been extremely good-looking. Now his silver hair was neatly cut and a small mustache lined his upper lip. But his eyes made Akiva shiver; a dark brown, they reminded her of the hooded look of a deadly viper getting ready to strike at its prey. Rios’s thin lips were smiling, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. It was the lethal smile of someone who knew he had ultimate power over others. A chill worked its way through Akiva, though she tried to ignore it.

“Rios is well regarded in the archeological world,” Morgan noted. “He’s donated millions to a number of projects over in Italy and is on the board of a number of internationally famous museums. He has a penchant for Rome and loves all things Roman.

“The villa where this photo was taken is just outside San Cristobel. There is an airport near the town, and he routinely flies in and out.

“Javier Rios is a man of old world traditions. Those who know him say he’s a throwback to the days of Queen Isabella, when Columbus was searching for the New World. He’s highly educated, with a doctorate in history, and he sponsors worldwide workshops on Roman antiquity. His latest project is saving a number of mosaic walls and floors found in old Roman villas in northern Italy that are being threatened by rising waters from a nearby dam.”

“What a nice guy he is,” Akiva growled sarcastically. “The world probably looks up to him with admiration.”

Joe grinned over at her. He liked Akiva’s testy humor. Most combat pilots had a black sense of humor; it served to reduce stress during tense situations they often found themselves in. “My daddy always said that if it looks like manure, smells like manure, then it probably is manure.”

A sour, unwilling grin pulled at Akiva’s mouth. She met Joe’s smiling gray eyes, and try as she might, she couldn’t stop from grinning at his comment. “I like your daddy. He’s a smart dude.”

Nodding, Joe felt immediate warmth, soft and velvety, slip around his heart. It was the first time Akiva had actually been spontaneous with him. Maybe being a C.O. was going to change how she related to others. That possibility made him feel good inside.

“My daddy had a sayin’ for every occasion,” he assured her with a chuckle. Again, Joe saw a spark of warmth in her eyes. Joy deluged him unexpectedly. What would it be like to see that look in her eyes as he kissed her? The thought had heated promise. Joe carefully tucked that desire away in his heart, for now was not the time to pursue it—or her.

Morgan grinned over at Houston. “The world might see Javier Rios as an educated man of immense wealth who supports the arts, but beneath, he’s a drug dealer, pure and simple. So, Joe, I think your assessment has cut to the core here. Manure is manure—even if you dress it up and hide it under expensive clothes.”

Houston rubbed his chin and studied the two pilots who would be taking the mission. “Rios is a cultured man of letters and principles. He loves bullfighting, and supports the sport financially all over Mexico. At this villa he raises bulls that will be trained for the arena, not only in Mexico, but Spain as well.”