In Rides Trouble by Julie Ann Walker

stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. She turned, glancing curiously into his dark eyes. They were the only part of him that hadn’t changed from the man he’d been before. Oh, the plastic surgeon had no doubt altered the shape, but the eyes themselves were likely the same. And if the eyes were the windows to a man’s soul, then Angel’s soul was lost…lost and hurting…
    “I never really thanked you for your hospitality that first night,” he said, squeezing her shoulder. “For making me feel welcome by cooking that, um…meal.”
    She swallowed down the deep sorrow that stuck in her throat like a load of peanut butter every time she really allowed herself to stare into Angel’s sad eyes and forced a playful snort. “That’s because you were too busy trying not to throw up.”
    “The matzo ball soup was not so bad,” he assured her.
    “It was barely palatable, and you know it.”
    He shrugged. “Okay, but the kugel—”
    “Was downright inedible,” she finished for him.
    “I thought the rugelachs were very tasty.”
    “Uh-huh, once you got past the fact that chewing them was tantamount to chewing rocks.”
    “Becky,” he grabbed her other shoulder so she was forced to continue facing him. His eyes were bright with sincerity. Too bright. Her cheeks heated. She’d never been very good at accepting gratitude. Even the head-knuckling “thanks” she usually got from the guys after doing them some favor usually made heat wash like water from the top of her head down over her shoulders. “It was wonderful of you to go to such trouble. I want you to know how much it meant to me.”
    “Stop,” she waved her hands in front of her eyes, trying to divert the conversation away from the uncomfortable road it was heading down, “you’re making me all faklempt .”
    He shook his head, his lips twisting. “You know the real pronunciation is verklempt .”
    “Well, that’s what I get from learning all my Yiddish from Saturday Night Live , isn’t it?” She made a face and he laughed.
    Thank God. Joking, palling around, now this was footing she was comfortable with.
    “Now,” she said, once more turning to head toward sick bay, “give me the scoop on the story everyone’s being told about the Hamilton ’s liberation.”
    “They are saying the pirates surrendered without a fight once a specialized group of spec-ops guys boarded the ship.”
    “And these spec-ops guys? Where’d they supposedly disappear to?”
    “It is a mystery.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “You know how those spec-ops guys are.”
    “Do I ever…”
    They stopped and nodded to another crewman who squeezed by them. Angel waited until the man was out of earshot, before continuing, “They’re telling everyone there was another ship, a NATO vessel—whose identity will remain secret—from which the group of men operated. Of course, that vessel has since quit the area.”
    Of course.
    “And the media?” she asked.
    “Will be fed the same story.”
    Sleight of hand built upon lies layered on top of deceit. Welcome to the Wonderful World of Clandestine Missions.
    Rounding a final turn, they finally came to sick bay. Anxiously stepping inside, she quickly took in the half dozen crisp, white hospital beds spaced three feet apart and lining opposite walls until her hungry gaze lighted on Frank at the far end of the long room. Every bed had its own blue-and-white striped curtain attached to an overhead, semi-circular bar. Its purpose was to give the patients a modicum of privacy. Lucky for Frank, since he was currently the only resident of sick bay, privacy was not much of an issue.
    The size of the hospital bed, however? Now that was an issue.
    She could see his big, bare feet dangling off the end of the mattress.
    He didn’t seem to mind, however, considering he was fast asleep, his heavy chest rising rhythmically in time to the gently fluctuating hum of the Patton ’s big engines.
    She took a hasty step forward