Page 18 of Rebel Protector
Fair enough. She didn’t have many either. Friends meant connections, especially to the past, and she didn’t want to drag the past with her into her present.
“Well, Dom,” she tested the name on her tongue. “Are you going to answer my question?”
He glanced away. “What was the question again?”
He was stalling, but she wasn’t going to let him dodge it. “Who are you? The mercenary or the gentleman?”
His voice dropped to a low growl. “I don’t think you want me to answer that.”
A thrill raced up her spine that had nothing to do with the alcohol working its way into her system.So he’s a bit of both.
She took another sip of water, trying to steady herself.
“How much do you know about your boss’s business?” he asked, his voice tighter now.
She gave the rehearsed answer, the official line. “He sells farming equipment.”
“That’s what he told you?”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” she challenged, lifting her chin. If he wanted to dig deeper, it would force him to admit the truth about what he was really doing here.
He shrugged, noncommittal. “I guess so.”
She sighed, deciding to level with him. “It’s not the whole truth though, is it? Otherwise, why would he need someone like you?”
His jaw clenched, but his voice softened. “I’m not just a hired gun, Becca. I spent fifteen years in the Marine Corps. I’ve earned the right to call myself a soldier.”
“I know.”
His eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”
She kept her voice steady. “I did a background check on you. Standard protocol.”
His expression darkened, but before he could speak, the waitress returned, asking if they wanted anything else. He shook his head, dismissing her.
“What else did you find out?” he asked, his tone edging into something more dangerous.
She saw the tension in his jaw, the muscles flexing in his forearms, tight beneath that faded T-shirt.
God, those arms.
Her eyes flicked back to his face. “You joined the Marine Corps at seventeen, then went into special operations after ten years. You specialized in close combat and jungle survival.” She gestured around them. “I guess Panama must feel pretty familiar to you.”
“I trained in the jungles of Central America,” he muttered, as if that explained it all.
She leaned in a little. “What I want to know is, why did you go AWOL?”
“Enough about me.” His tone sharpened as he drained his drink, deftly avoiding the question. “Let’s talk about you.”
Becca raised an eyebrow. “There’s nothing to talk about. My life’s pretty boring.”
He gave her a long, appraising look. “Come on, that’s not fair. I haven’t had the benefit of a background check. The least you could do is fill me in on the basics.”
She sighed, resigned. “Okay, here goes. I grew up in North Carolina with my mom. Pretty standard upbringing. But when she passed, I went off the rails for a bit. Moved to Cali for a while.” She paused, then added, “It didn’t go well, so I moved to Europe. Lived in Paris for a couple of months, then Amsterdam, then Prague. Eventually came home.”
“How old were you when she died?”
“Eighteen. It messed me up for a while—we were very close.”