He was right.
Mike felt Khat leave, her thoughts elsewhere, her eyes growing clouded. Sensing pain or suffering around her, he said, “You’re right, in our business, we can have a short life. It’s hell on anyone who loves us. That’s why I’m not in a serious relationship. I wouldn’t want someone worried about me all the time over here.”
Pensive, Khat forced herself to eat because she knew her body needed the nutrition and energy. “My parents are very unhappy about what I do. They don’t understand it. Or me.”
“That’s too bad. You’re doing important but dangerous undercover work.” The hurt in her face moved Mike. He wanted to open his arm and ask her to come and lean against him. Khat needed to be held. It was so clear in her darkening eyes. Her mouth was pursed, as if holding back unknown pain and memories.
If one of her parents was Afghan, it was probably her father. He would have made the decision to move the family to the States, not the woman. And Afghan males were patriarchal as hell, superprotective of their daughters, wanting only two things from them: being a virgin upon their wedding day and giving them grandchildren to carry on their family lineage. He imagined if his thinking was accurate, Khat was seen as a misfit as a woman to her father. And it would have put a lot of pressure on her to live up to her father’s expectations of her, versus what she wanted to do with her life as an individual. Which was to become a Marine Corps sniper.
Khat wanted to move away from her painful past. “Your name? Michael? That is one of the archangels of heaven. Did your parents name you that because they knew you’d be a warrior someday?”
“My father named me after my grandfather. He fought in tribal wars that helped bring the House of Saud to power a long time ago. He was a warrior.” Mike gave her a wry look. “I think my father was hoping I’d become like him. Instead of picking up a scalpel, I picked up the sword.”
“Just as in the Koran, Michael the archangel is the one who battles, protects and defends.”
“I do my share of battling,” Mike agreed. “And I am protective of those I love.” His voice became gritty. “And I’m a sucker for women and children who need protection.”
Her skin riffled with the darkness of his voice. “Don’t look at me. I can protect myself.” Khat would never let on that she’d never felt as safe or shielded as the past two days with Mike’s presence in her life.
“It’s my nature,” he said seriously, seeing the haunted look come to her eyes. Something told him Khat rarely received any protection from anyone. She’d learned a long time ago to take care of herself and never expected help from another quarter. What the hell had happened to her to make her think like that? He shouldn’t feel so damned elated to discover she wasn’t married or wasn’t in a relationship presently.
“Your last name, is spelled T-A-R-I-K?”
Now why would she want to know that? “In the old country it was spelled T-A-R-I-Q, but when my father came to the States, he changed it to make it easier for his patients to pronounce and spell.”
“It’s my understanding the name means one who uses a hammer?” She lifted her chin and stared at him.
“Guilty on all counts,” Mike said, giving her a slow smile. “There’s various meanings to it. One is it means a bright, shining star that leads the way.”
“You are a leader. There is no question.”
“I try to be,” Mike said. “Another, the name of the Morning Star, Venus.”
“I think you’ve taken two of the three definitions to heart,” Khat said lightly.
“What? I’m not a star?” He chuckled. “I did love astronomy when I was a kid. My dad even bought me a small telescope so I could look at the stars.”
“But that lost out to becoming a warrior? Your first name, Michael, combined with your last name pushes you toward being a man of action. Someone who can use the sword.”
“You’re right.” He lost his smile. “If I had one wish before I left you, it is to know your full first name. I know Khat is your nickname.”
Feeling her heart move beneath his humble request, Khat saw the sincerity in his narrowing eyes. “I can’t. I’m sorry. Besides, my name does not have the glory and power that yours does.” She managed a small smile, appreciating him for who he was: a very brave SEAL. The joke was, her Pashtun name, Khatereh, simply meant, “memory.” And so it had been. There were branding memories in her mind about her scarred flesh and fractured soul she could never forget. And she was never the same after her capture. So much for memory.
She rose. “It’s time to go.”
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