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I clenched my jaw. “Fine.”
Then I turned and walked out of the room.
18
Rachel
The briefing was like the other 60 I’d given over the years: cut and dried. Just the facts.
And, like at least a third of those other briefings, I had to deal with an asshole who thought I didn’t belong in the room.
He was part of the Spanish Special Forces – but blatant disrespect wasn’t a phenomenon limited to Spaniards, Latins, or even Europeans. The last time it had happened, it had been a South Korean colonel. Before that, a South African. And before that, it had been one of my colleagues at MI6.
But it was always a man. Always.
I dealt with it in the usual way: I told him that if he didn’t want to be in the room, he could leave. I set my boundaries very clearly, and when he pushed back, I pushed back harder.
Most of the time, they swallowed their pride and went along to get along.
Sometimes they didn’t.
I could tell Delgado was going to be one of the latter. He put on a smile and said ‘yes,’ but I could see the desire for payback in his eyes.
If a man had chewed him out, he would have taken his lumps and retreated with his tail behind his legs.
But I was a woman… and what I’d done to him was unforgivable.
I told myself I would figure out what to do about him later. Then I went on with the briefing.
The good news was that I seemed to have won over the rest of the group. At least, I didn’t sense any outright hostility, which I regarded as a win.
After the briefing was over, I discussed logistics with the American in charge of the op. As I started to pack up my things, I pondered what I should do about Delgado –
When the sexiest voice I’d ever heard jolted me out of my thoughts.
“Hello.”
I looked up at a face that was even hotter than the voice.
He was tall – probably 6’4” – and broad-shouldered with dark blond hair. Lots of muscles stretched out his olive grey t-shirt: a powerful chest, huge biceps, and a flat stomach.
I’d noticed him as soon as I’d walked into the briefing – and I’d had to avert my eyes. He was so attractive that it was distracting.
It took me a second to place him. The photo I’d seen in his file was clean-shaven, taken back when he was still in Sweden.
Like most Special Forces guys who deployed to Afghanistan, he’d grown a beard. Unlike other Special Forces guys, though, his was neatly trimmed and made him ten times hotter.
I couldn’t recall his name at first – but those crystal blue eyes jogged my memory.
“Henriksson, right?”
“Call me Lars.”
His voice was deep but not too deep… more a rich bass than a basso profondo. The aural equivalent of the smoothest whiskey you’ve ever tasted.
His accent was American, and he spoke with only the tiniest trace of a Swedish accent.
Looked hot, sounded hot –
