No woman is complete without her team…even if she doesn’t know them.
Mike Munroe stepped up to the two women after the general was out of hearing range.
“What is wrong with you two? Are you trying to get shot?”
Holly, the blonde Australian who had been on his flight—apparently asleep from the moment she hit the seat until the helicopter’s skids touched the ground—arched an eyebrow at him. Clearly practiced to put men in their place, he didn’t bother reacting to it.
The petite brunette on the other hand ignored him completely as she carefully labeled the scrap of metal she’d bagged.
“I mean seriously. The man had a revolver.”
“That’s not a revolver. It’s an M17; a Sig Sauer P320 to civilians. Nice upgrade from the M9 your Army boys used to carry,” the Australian was emphatic.
“He was going to shoot you.”
“Not with a revolver, he wasn’t, mate. Because he didn’t have one.”
Mike considered kneeling down and pounding his forehead on the sandy soil.
The blonde turned her back on him to show the NTSB emblazoned across the back of her vest that he probably should have noticed sooner.
“How’d you get here from Australia?”
“Decided to hop a ’roo and try something new. ATSB, Australian Transport Safety Board, sent me over for cross training.”
“Here,” he tossed her a tube of sunscreen. She was fair-skinned enough to burn in minutes. She tossed it back right at his face. Only his quick reaction time managed to save his nose. Normally women appreciated his thoughtfulness.
She then pulled out a ball cap as if that would save her ears, neck, and other exposed areas. She made an unruly ponytail through the loop of the cap. The woman looked as if she’d hacked off her hair with a knife. Maybe the big one strapped to her thigh.
Her cap was yellow and green and announced the Australian Matildas.
“Who are they?”
“Hallo! Best soccer team in Oz? Well, not yet, but they will be. Catch a clue, pretty boy. There’ll be a quiz at end of week.”
“It’s already Saturday.” And dammit, that reminded him that he’d had a hot date lined up for this afternoon: 5K run, dinner at Basta, and hopefully some serious sex afterward. At least he had before they’d mobilized him out of Denver a couple hours ago. He checked his cell. No reception. No way to reach her. Alejandra—even her name was sexy—was gonna be pissed, probably past recovery. This sucked in so many ways.
“Better get studying then, hadn’t you?” Holly was enjoying herself too much at his expense, so he ignored her.
The brunette was drifting away, turning back toward the wreck. “Excuse me, is one of you Miranda Chase?”
The brunette turned back to look at him with narrowed eyes. Then she opened them incredibly wide—but not as if she was surprised. More as if she was seeing how wide she could make them. She didn’t speak; instead she tapped her badge.
He glanced down and read her name.
Mike held out a hand. “Hi. I’m Mike Munroe, your operations and human-performance investigator.”
“You’re not Evelyn,” Miranda narrowed her eyes again. Was she angry that he wasn’t?
He made a show of glancing down at himself. “No, I don’t seem to be. At least not today.”
“He could be an Evelyn,” Holly inspected him from head to toe as if he was a dead fish. Usually ladies liked what they saw when they looked at him. Alejandra certainly had.