Cullen watched Sabine for signs of fatigue. She started to breathe heavier as they walked down the street. At the footpath he’d discovered yesterday, he stopped.
“It’s a steep descent.”
“I’m fine,” she said, dismissing him to gimp down the footpath on her own.
Impressed by her courage and spunk, Cullen followed. He caught himself looking at her butt as she moved down the hill and had to force his gaze elsewhere. Rocks and brush painted the hillside, ending where a sandy inlet sloped into the ocean. Gentle waves lapped the shore, the only sound to be heard other than their footsteps.
“Oh,” Sabine breathed.
He stepped down the last of the incline, and his booted feet sank into fine, white sand. She was like a painting now. Hair sailing in a slight breeze, eyes full of appreciation that might not have been as profound had she not come so close to losing her life.
She sat on the sand and removed her hiking boots and socks. Then she rolled the hem of her lounge pants to the edge of her bandages, just above her ankles. Rising, she walked to the shore and went into the water, but only far enough to get her feet wet. That salt water would hurt her raw wounds like a thousand bee stings. Cullen removed his boots and rolled his pants up to follow her.
Waves splashed against rocks and crawled over the sand. Offshore, the water was so clear it looked like pool water, glittering, translucent cerulean fading to deep sea.
“Have you ever been to Greece before?” she asked.
“Many times,” he answered. “But never here. I’ve been to Santorini and Athens.”
“You speak the language like you’re from here.”
“My grandmother was born here.” It caught him off guard how easily that came from his mouth, personal information he usually never divulged.
“You’re Greek?” She gave him a survey, as though confirming it with her eyes.
“Partly. My mother married an Irishman. I had a knack for languages in college.”
“What was your major in college?”
“Political science.”
“What did you do after that?”
He just looked at her, knowing her questions were deliberate. He couldn’t tell her much about himself, particularly what he did after college. Not when a media frenzy awaited her return. Public curiosity would leave his company—which didn’t overtly exist and never could—too vulnerable.
“Did you join the military?” she asked.
“Something like that.”
Her mouth pursed and she stopped strolling through the water. “What’s your name? You can at least tell me that much.”
He stopped, too, and faced her. “Rudy.”
“That’s a stupid name. Even for a code name. Tell me your real name.”
He wanted to, and that heightened his concern. “Sabine …”
Pivoting, she resumed her walk through the water, her steps not as smooth as before, frustration giving her verve even as she limped. But that only managed to intrigue him more.
He caught up with her, noticing the subtle jostle of her breasts.
“I’m sure you know everything about me,” she said bitterly.
“I know your name is Sabine O’Clery and you’re thirty-three years old. Not married, no kids. I know you’re from Colorado and for some reason took the contractor job in Afghanistan.” He knew more but now was not the time to tell her.
She glanced at him. “I speak Farsi. There was a need for people like me there. I liked the idea of contract work because it gave me an opportunity to make more money and see interesting places.” She grunted her laugh. “At the time it seemed like a good idea.” Her face grew haunted and she stopped walking, staring out to sea.
“I’m sorry.” And he was, for putting that haunted look in her eyes.
Slowly, she turned and lifted her eyes. “How old are you?”
No harm in telling her that. “Thirty-five.” When she continued to look at him with those brilliant green eyes, he added, “Not married. No kids.”
“That sort of thing is hard for a man in your line of work, isn’t it? Having a family, I mean.”
He didn’t reply, wondering if she was trying to pry more from him. He couldn’t let her. He’d already said too much.
“How many of these missions do you do a year, anyway?”
Still, he didn’t say anything.
“Who do you work for?”
That especially was off-limits.
Anger flared in her eyes. He marveled at the intensity and couldn’t stop himself from looking down when she folded her arms in front of her.
“Is it my father?” She all but spat the last word.
“No.”
Her eyes narrowed and he felt dissected as she searched for signs that he was lying. She wouldn’t find any. He could pass any polygraph without flinching.
“Then it has to be the military.”
He just looked at her. Let her assume he worked for the military. It wasn’t completely a lie.
With a frustrated spin, she turned and limped to her boots.
He followed. “Do you have something against your father? Who is he?”
She sat on the sand and started to put on her socks, agitation showing in her movements. “I’m grateful you saved my life. And I’m sorry your teammates were killed.”
The memory of his teammates kept him from pressing her for an answer. Instead, he sat beside her, studying her fiery profile. Whatever had estranged her from her father, it must have something to do with the secrets Noah had to keep. She definitely didn’t like secrets. But he couldn’t let that stop him from keeping some of his own from her. What he did through his company was so black not even his commander in the army reserves knew the truth. If the media got hold of that, it would destroy him.
Sighing, he looked out to sea. He and Sabine were way too curious of each other.
“You probably like not telling me your name,” Sabine said without looking up from her boots.
He observed her for a moment, her words sinking in, confirming what he’d already guessed. The curiosity that could mushroom into more if he wasn’t careful.
“You don’t need to know anything about me,” he said as gently as he could. “As soon as I get you to London, you’ll never see me again.”
She stopped yanking the laces of her boots to look at him in surprise. “You’re taking me to London? What happens when we get there?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he started to put on his boots.
Sabine grunted and jerked the laces of her second boot together.
Best thing would be if they could just get along until he got her to London. He didn’t want her to bolt because he reminded her of Noah. “Why don’t we forget how we got here and just enjoy the island? We might not ever get a chance to come to a place like this again. I say we find somewhere to have dinner tonight. Something local, with fresh seafood.”
Deeper anger furrowed her brow. “What would we talk about, Mr. Thirty-Five, Not Married, No Kids?”
He supposed he should have expected her to react like that. And what was he thinking, suggesting they have dinner together?
“I told you I went to college,” he said. “You know about my grandmother,