Two of a Kind by Susan Mallery Page B

should be flattered.”
    “I don’t think so.”
    She glanced at his left arm and lightly touched the tattoo visible below his shirtsleeve. “This also intrigues them. The older women equate tattoos and your former profession with danger. The younger ones simply find you sexy. Yet both can listen to your voice every night, which makes you more approachable. It’s a tempting combination.” She paused for a second, then laughed. “Like catnip to a cat.”
    “Look at you, all one with the clichés.”
    “I find them helpful in social situations. The structure of my speech is on the formal side.”
    “It might just be your word choices.”
    She nodded. “I agree. I know too many words, and I enjoy precision in my speech. But others find it off-putting.”
    “They need to develop a sense of humor.”
    “I wish I had one. I don’t always get the joke. I have trouble with cultural references. I’ve caught up on the television I missed while I was growing up, and I’ve read the significant books.” She flashed a smile. “I understand the worlds of Harry Potter and Twilight. ”
    “Magic and vampires? Not my thing.”
    “Yes, but you’ve proven my point. You know what they are, even without having read the books or seen the movies. From the time I was small until I was sixteen, I missed out. I could tell you about the progress made in work on the origin of the universe, but I completely missed the rise in popularity of the American Girl doll.”
    She started to say something else, then stopped. Her gaze sharpened. “You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she said quietly. “While you were held by the Taliban, you experienced the same phenomenon. Existing out of time.”
    She touched his arm again, her fingers warm against his skin. “Not that I’m equating what I went through with what you did.”
    “I wasn’t getting USA TODAY delivered, if that’s what you’re asking.”
    He kept his tone light and was prepared to deflect any questions. He didn’t talk about his past—not with anyone. It was done, he’d moved on. He wanted to say he’d healed, but he knew that would never happen. The nightmares were proof. Some wounds stayed open forever. But he got by and, for the most part, managed to fool everyone into thinking he was just like them.
    “I would have kept looking,” she said, returning her attention to her dinner. “If you’d been one of my team. They were wrong not to keep looking.”
    He noticed that while she seemed fascinated by her steak, she wasn’t eating.
    “No one knew,” he told her. “That was the point of my assignment.”
    “Someone always knows. Someone has to get you in and have a plan to get you out. Equipment is supplied. They shouldn’t have left you.”
    She didn’t know the details, but she could guess. And she was right—someone had known. His team had been dropped off and told they were on their own. But someone had known where they were.
    “Politics,” he murmured and reached for his wine.
    “How many others?” she asked.
    “Three.”
    Three men he’d watched die. Slowly, painfully. One by one, they’d given in to the torture, to the madness.
    He set down his glass. “They had families. Some had kids. They talked about them, how they missed them, how they wanted to see them again. They had hope. They believed. They told me it made them strong, but they were wrong. Having something to live for meant they had something to lose. Those bastards hurt them more because of it. I walked away because living and dying were the same to me.”
    He’d learned his lesson then. It was safer to just be his own man. To not care. Having nothing left to lose had saved his life.
    “Love is death?” she asked.
    “Something like that.”
    “I want to explain that you’re wrong, but you have no reason to believe me. The mental and emotional scars of your imprisonment would be significant. Lessons learned in traumatic situations stay with us always.” She gave him a