Sandra Hill by Hot, Heavy Page A

avoid my teammates?”
    She looked at him as if his head must be particularly thick. It was a look she’d perfected years ago with the men in her family. “Because I smell, you lackwit. I would not want to expose others to my stink.”
    His jaw dropped again. “But you don’t mind exposing me to your stink?”
    She stood up. “You deserve it.”
    Women! Go figure! …
    Ian couldn’t figure Yasmine out.
    Okay, he’d obviously not been a rocket scientist inthe past when it came to women; otherwise, Jennifer wouldn’t have been screwing her personal trainer behind his back. But Yasmine was something altogether different.
    First of all, she behaved like a bleepin’ shrew, nagging and complaining about every little thing. And she looked and smelled like an old hag. Cripes, you could build a bird’s nest in her hair. Yet he felt an odd attraction to her. And, no, it had nothing to do with his glimpse of those world-class breasts … or almost nothing.
    Second, she was childlike in her ignorance about everyday things. Like thinking a rifle was a club. Like believing he was talking to himself when he was communicating on his radio headset. Like being ecstatic over MREs—she had eaten three of them before her hunger was satisfied, not to mention two fudge brownies, a handful of hard candy, peanut-butter snack crackers, and a dairy shake. You would have thought the barely palatable rations were a gourmet meal.
    She was wide-eyed with wonder at all the things she saw or was told about. Cage especially had made a big impression when he talked to her about his Cajun people. He even sang her a freakin’ Cajun song. The dolt!
    Ian reminded himself how sheltered some women still were in the Arab lands. Wearing the traditional chador or burqa, which covered them head to toe except the eyes. Rarely leaving their homes. Not exposed to TV or radio. But Yasmine didn’t strike him as the type who would tolerate that kind of life. And she sure as hell wasn’t meek.
    Third, she was mean enough to be a terrorist.Hadn’t she tried twice to kill him? Hadn’t she punched him several times? But did that mean she really was a terrorist, or in cahoots with them?
    Fourth, she continued to call them all trolls. At first, he had thought she meant that they—he, in particular—behaved like trolls. But he was beginning to think she believed they were actual trolls … part of some troll society or something.
Geeesh!
Which must mean she was a mental case.
    Fifth, it was hard to tell under all that grime, but Ian did not think she was Arab. At least, she didn’t look like any Arab woman he’d ever seen. Not that he was an expert on such things. But Omar had remarked on the same thing.
    They were still waiting for final orders from CentCom, although he’d spoken to his contact several times since leaving the tango site. Cage and Omar had gone back to relieve JAM and Geek. After taking a short nap, JAM came out to relieve him from guard duty outside the cave. Coming inside, he saw that Yasmine was still talking with Geek and Pretty Boy in her stilted English. He might not be sure if she was Arab, but it was clear that English was not her first language.
    “Tell me again why you need to get to Baghdad, darlin’?” Pretty Boy lay on his side in front of the fire with his head propped on a braced elbow.
    Yasmine, from the opposite side of the fire, sat on crossed legs. “Do not call me dearling. I am not your dearling.”
    “Sorry,” Pretty Boy said with a smile that said he couldn’t care less if she objected to his endearment, which he didn’t mean anyhow.
    “In Baghdad, I might be able to find a ship traveling to my homeland. Once there, my people will give me aid.”
    “Where is your homeland?” Geek asked. He looked up from the mini-laptop he was studying with logistical information about their mission.
    “Norsemandy,” Yasmine said.
    “I thought you said you were from Russia,” Ian said.
    Yasmine jumped, not having realized