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How many people would deny their own rescue in an effort to catch a terrorist?
The woman was fierce. Strong. Resilient.
The fact that she was here now was proof of that.
He had no idea what she’d faced on a daily basis. Six weeks of being held captive. Forced to work long days in the desert. And that didn’t even take into consideration the physical and sexual abuse she might have suffered. But still she sat here, sipping her drink in the nation’s capital, looking like any other woman out on Thursday night.
She had grit.
He knew the questions that swirled around her and her actions. Hell, he’d just spent the last four days being grilled at the motherfucking Pentagon because military intelligence couldn’t decide if she was off her rocker or if she really had been an unwilling guest in Makram Rafiq’s compound.
But still, this woman whose integrity and sanity was being scrutinized by no less than top analysts in the Intelligence Community sat with her head high, more beautiful than he’d imagined possible.
Their waiter arrived, and Chris remembered his earlier hunger. There was a spread of food for them at the party in the loft, but ascending stairs on crutches was a pain in the ass, and Chris was happy to buy Diana dinner, especially since it gave him time alone with her.
It was wild to realize he could actually talk to her. There wasn’t even any kind of conflict of interest, given that his debriefing was done and she knew he was a SEAL and which op he’d recently been sent on. It might be good for her to be able to speak of her rescue and what went down in the stairwell. Not here, of course. No, any conversation about his—and her—work would have to take place in private.
Maybe he could convince her to go to his hotel room. He shook his head at the thought. She’d probably be horrified at the suggestion. Assume he was coming on to her.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Don’t like the menu?”
“No. Sorry. Just got distracted.” He quickly ordered a half dozen small plates and asked if she wanted to try anything else.
She smiled and shook her head. “That sounds like a good start.”
The waiter left, and Diana lifted her cocktail and leaned back against the cushion. “So tell me about yourself, Lieutenant Flyte.”
Was that a hint of flirtation he heard in her tone? She wasn’t the easiest woman to read, but that was probably due to the fact that their brief shared history was…traumatic.
He had no clue who the real Diana Edwards might be. “What do you want to know?”
“How long since the divorce?”
Well, at least she didn’t dance around sensitive subjects. “Technically, the papers haven’t been signed, but the relationship was officially over last January, and on the rocks for more than eighteen months before that.”
Was he trying to signal his marriage was long over with his detailed answer? Yes. Did he want her to know it wasn’t too soon for him to move on? Also yes.
“Why haven’t the papers been signed?”
“I spent a long time on a…big-ass boat recently. I came home to find the papers in my mailbox. I’ve been too slammed to read through them, and I never sign anything without reading.”
“Makes sense.”
“If you’re wondering if I’m the kind of guy to draw it out because I’m having second thoughts, the answer is no.”
“Any kids?”
“No. It never felt right to start a family with me being gone so much of the time, and Pam said she was content to wait.” No point in mentioning that she was pregnant now, clearly having reached the end of her contentment, but never having shared that detail with Chris when they were still together. “We married when she was just twenty-four and I was twenty-six.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Nine years.” He took a sip of his beer and turned the questions on her. “What about you? Ever been married?”
She shook her head. “I was engaged, but my fiancé died in a car accident. It will be two years ago in March.”
“I’m so sorry.”
She nodded and sipped her drink. She set it down and fussed with her napkin. Her voice was even in a way that reminded him of that first night in the wadi, when she spoke with unfathomable calm. “I was in the car. He was driving. It was rainy, and we were on an unfamiliar mountain road. We were arguing. I’d been accepted into a CIA training class, and once it became real and not theoretical, he was no longer comfortable with the idea. He was dubious about me violating archaeologist ethics and using my credentials to gather intel in the Arab world. He wasn’t wrong, mind you. It was something I grappled with myself.”
