Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart of Stone. Lindsay McKenna
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to do? Morgan hoped not. If Maya knew that he thought her statuesque and possessing a bold, primal quality few women willingly showed, she’d probably deck him where he stood. This was a woman who brooked no bull from anyone—ever. No, she was an equal and it was obvious in every step she took that she expected to be treated as such.
Mike rose. He moved forward, his hand extended toward Maya.
She glared at him and halted. Glancing back toward the street, she whispered, “Follow me. And don’t look so damned obvious, will you?”
Morgan looked at Mike, who lowered his hand, a contrite expression on his features. They both watched as Maya headed into the restaurant. It was 11:00 a.m. and there were few people in the usually popular place.
“Let’s go,” Morgan murmured, a cockeyed grin tugging at one corner of his mouth.
Mike good-naturedly grinned back and gestured for Morgan to go first.
Inside the restaurant, Morgan saw the owner, Patrick, standing behind the mahogany bar. Maya was leaning up against the counter, speaking to him in fluid French. As they approached, she swung her head in their direction. Her eyes grew slitted.
“Come on. Patrick has a table he reserves for me and my friends when I come into town.” She brushed between them and moved up the mahogany stairs, taking the steps two at a time to the second floor.
The restaurant was light and airy, with many green jungle plants and bright red, pink and yellow bromeliads in brightly painted pots here and there. Each table had a starched and pressed white linen cloth across it, and there were fresh flowers on every one. As Morgan climbed the stairs, classical music, soft and haunting, wafted through the restaurant. He shook his head, finding it odd that a five-star French chef would come to Peru and set up a gourmet restaurant in such a little backwater town. He wondered what the man was running from.
Maya was sitting at a rectangular table at the rear of the second floor of the restaurant, her back against the wall. It was a good position, Morgan thought. From her vantage point she could see everyone coming up and down those stairs. She’d put her pack down beside her chair and was speaking in Quechua to the waiter. As they approached, she looked up at them.
“Patrick makes the best mocha lattes in Peru. You two want some?”
“Sounds good,” Morgan said, making himself at home across from Maya. “Mike? How about you?”
“Make it three,” Mike said in Spanish to the Peruvian waiter, who was a Quechua Indian. The waiter nodded and quickly moved to the bar nearby to make the drinks.
Maya held Morgan’s glacial blue gaze. She knew he was sizing her up. Well, she was sizing him up, too, whether he knew it or not. As she folded her long, spare hands on the white linen tablecloth, she said, “Mike said you’re my new boss. Is that right?”
Nodding, Morgan said, “I’d prefer to say that you’ve joined our international team and we’re glad to have you on board.” He stretched his hand across the table toward her. “I’m Morgan Trayhern. It’s nice to meet you.” She took his hand. Not surprised by the strength of her grip, he met her cold, flinty eyes. She reminded him of a no-nonsense leader capable of split-second decisions, with a mind that moved at the speed of light, or damn near close to it. Already Morgan was feeling elated that he’d fought to get her spec ops as part of his organization, Perseus.
“Don’t bite him, Maya,” Mike intoned humorously as they released their mutual grip. “He’s the only junk-yard dog in town that’s friendly to you and your squadron.”
Taking the napkin, Maya delicately opened it and spread it across her lap. “It looks like I owe you some thanks, Mr. Trayhern. Mike, here, tells me that my number was up at spook HQ and with the boys over at the Pentagon. You certainly look the part of a white knight. Where’s your horse?”
Grinning, Morgan met her humor-filled eyes. Her laughter was husky and low. “I can’t ride a horse worth a damn. My daughter, Katy, now, she can,” he answered. “I like to watch her, but that’s as close as I get to a four-legged animal.”
“Got a picture of her?”
Taken off guard, Morgan nodded, moved his hand to the back pocket of his chinos and took out his well-worn, black leather wallet. Opening it on the table, he noted Maya’s sudden, intense interest. Her gaze was pinned on the color photos he kept within his wallet. Taking them out, he turned them around for her to look at.
“This is my oldest son, Jason. He’s fourteen.”
“He looks a lot like you,” Maya murmured. “That same dark, handsome face.”
Morgan warmed beneath her praise because he could tell already that Maya wasn’t one to make small talk or say things just to be polite. “Thanks. This is Katherine Alyssa, my oldest daughter. She’s riding her Welsh pony, Fred. And this last one is of my wife, Laura, holding our latest children, fraternal twins….”
Maya picked up the photo, her brows arching with surprise. “So, you have twins….” She studied it with renewed intensity. “You have beautiful children.”
“Thanks. My wife and I agree, though we are a little partial toward our children.” He said nothing more, realizing that because Maya was a fraternal twin, she would make a positive connection with his children. He liked the fact that despite her being a hardened military veteran, she had a soft heart, too. The more he got to know Maya, the more he liked her.
Handing him back the photos, she looked up. “Ah, here are our lattes. You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this….” And she reached out to take a cup and saucer from the waiter, thanking him warmly in his own language. He bowed his head and shyly smiled at her.
Mike thanked him also. When the waiter left, he chuckled quietly and sipped his mocha latte. “See? I told you Trayhern wasn’t the typical male bastard that you’re used to working with.”
Wrinkling her nose, Maya again met the solid blue gaze of her new boss. She sipped the rich coffee with delicious slowness and allowed the sweetness to run delectably across her tongue. Placing the flowered china cup on the saucer, she folded her hands on the table.
“I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into, Mr. Trayhern.”
“Call me Morgan. I don’t stand on ceremony with my people.”
“All right,” Maya murmured. “Do you know anything about us or did you buy us sight unseen, Morgan? A pig in a poke, maybe?”
Her direct and uncompromising gaze would have been unsettling had Morgan not liked that kind of straight-across-the-board honesty. When she lifted her lips and smiled, it was with a carnivore’s grin. She was playing with him, like a jaguar might with its helpless quarry. Houston was right: she shot from the hip. Good. “Yes, I saw the bottom line.”
“And the fact that I used to have three Boeing Apaches, but because spookdom decided to strangle me slowly by cutting my budget yearly, I had to cannibalize one to keep the other two flying?”
“I saw that.”
“And that I’ve got twelve overworked pilots who need some help and relief?”
“Yes, I saw that, too.”
“And that the men don’t like us women showing them up?” Her eyes glinted and she leaned forward slightly.
Morgan wasn’t intimidated by her low, furious tone or her directness. He met and held her stare. “I saw that, too, Maya.” When he used her first name, rolling it gently off his tongue, she recoiled. At first, Morgan wondered if she didn’t like his informality with her. And then, intuitively, he figured it out: Maya was expecting a hard-nosed bastard to show up and try to push her around, keep her outside the circle, like other men had before him. The look in her eyes was one of surprise—and then naked suspicion. Morgan knew he was going to have to sell himself to Maya. He would have to prove that, although male, he was trustworthy. That he would fully support her and the hardworking women comprising the secret