Jane watched as the therapist finally took the weights from Thomas Becker and set them down on the rack. The brunette looked annoyed. Probably because her patient seemed determined to push his physical limits when four weeks ago he’d taken a bullet to the arm.
“See you on Friday,” the physical therapist said.
Thomas Becker just nodded, then headed for the door.
As he got closer, Jane drew in her breath. Okay, she had to quit focusing on his body and remember why she’d come here. This man had saved her sister’s life. She was here to interview him, not f**k him.
“Mr. Becker?” she said when he reached the door.
He glanced at her, forehead wrinkling. “Who’s asking?”
“My name is Jane Harrison. You were in charge of the rescue mission for—”
“Elizabeth,” he finished. “She okay?”
“She’s great. Thanks to you and your team.” It unnerved her, how serious his expression was. He hadn’t even smiled in greeting. “Liz is my sister.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Jane faltered for a moment, not sure what to say next. It was obvious Thomas Becker didn’t have much interest in talking to her, seeing how his brown-eyed gaze kept darting toward the elevator at the end of the hall.
“Do you have a moment?” she asked.
“Not really,” he admitted. “I have an appointment in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll walk out with you then.” She took a step down the corridor, and he followed her, his strides a million times longer than hers. He didn’t do the gentlemanly thing either and try to match her gait, just barreled down the hall, while she struggled to keep up, which was hard to do in three-inch heels. She still wore the short black business suit and heels she’d donned for her morning meeting with her editor at Today’s World, the magazine she worked for, and the outfit hadn’t been designed for chasing after a very tall, very hot Navy SEAL.
“So, I came here to ask you a favor,” she said as she hurried after him.
“Yeah, what’s that?”
They reached the elevator, which triggered a spark of panic in her gut. She usually avoided elevators like the plague, but she wasn’t about to ask this man to go down ten flights of stairs after he’d gotten shot rescuing her sister. As he reached to punch the elevator button, she noticed how large his hands were. He had long fingers, oddly graceful considering the size of his hands, but covered with just enough calluses to give him that manly, rough edge.
“I’m a journalist, and I’d like to write a story about my sister’s rescue. Since you were in charge of the operation in Colombia, I was hoping to interview you.”
Thomas Becker studied her for a long moment, his gaze sweeping up and down, side to side. She felt it the second those brown eyes rested on the cle**age spilling out of the camisole under her suit jacket, because her ni**les tightened and poked against her bra. She could tell he was assessing her. Not in a sexual way, since his eyes remained expressionless, but like he was figuring out whether to take her seriously or not. Evidently he decided not was the answer to his internal question, because he offered a brusque shake of the head and said, “Sorry, not interested.” The elevator doors opened, punctuating his stiff response.
Without glancing back, he stepped into the car.
Jane stood frozen in place for a moment, insulted. A tad pissed. Then she bounded into the elevator after him, hoping he couldn’t see the hot flush on her cheeks. Why was this guy so rude? Liz had told her he’d been extremely warm and gentle as he’d lifted her into the helicopter. So either Liz was wrong and Thomas Becker was an ass**le or, as usual, Jane’s Playboy Bunny body had caused yet another man to reach an unfair conclusion about her.
Sometimes she hated the way she looked. And, to this day, she still wondered if her mom had engaged in a torrid affair with some Irish stud in order to produce a daughter like Jane Harrison. Because really, how else could she explain how utterly different she looked compared to everyone else in her family? Her parents, sister, and younger brother were skinny as twigs, with sandy-blond hair and dark brown eyes. Jane, on the other hand, had a head of shocking red hair that nobody ever believed was natural, blue eyes that were far too big for her face, and of course, that centerfold body. Her sister was willowy and graceful, a few inches short of six feet, like everyone else in the family. Jane? She was a paltry five-six, with her huge boobs, small waist, and curvy frame—all guaranteed to make sure most people lumped her in the airhead category without a second’s thought.
Well, she was no airhead. A bit of a wild child, sure. Definitely at one with her sexuality. But stupid? Nope. And she was a damn good journalist, with a big brain in her head to match those big br**sts.
Setting her jaw, she fixed Thomas Becker with a steely look and said, “Why not?”
He blinked, looking startled that she was in the elevator with him. “Huh?”
“Why aren’t you interested in doing the interview?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I can assure you, Today’s World is a very prestigious magazine, and I’m very good at what I do. I could paint you as an All-American hero, a regular GI Joe.”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “It sounds very tempting, Ms. Harrison—”
“Jane,” she cut in.
“Jane,” he amended. “But I’m still not interested in having an article written about me.”
“It won’t be just about you. Look, Mr. Becker—”
“See you on Friday,” the physical therapist said.
Thomas Becker just nodded, then headed for the door.
As he got closer, Jane drew in her breath. Okay, she had to quit focusing on his body and remember why she’d come here. This man had saved her sister’s life. She was here to interview him, not f**k him.
“Mr. Becker?” she said when he reached the door.
He glanced at her, forehead wrinkling. “Who’s asking?”
“My name is Jane Harrison. You were in charge of the rescue mission for—”
“Elizabeth,” he finished. “She okay?”
“She’s great. Thanks to you and your team.” It unnerved her, how serious his expression was. He hadn’t even smiled in greeting. “Liz is my sister.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Jane faltered for a moment, not sure what to say next. It was obvious Thomas Becker didn’t have much interest in talking to her, seeing how his brown-eyed gaze kept darting toward the elevator at the end of the hall.
“Do you have a moment?” she asked.
“Not really,” he admitted. “I have an appointment in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll walk out with you then.” She took a step down the corridor, and he followed her, his strides a million times longer than hers. He didn’t do the gentlemanly thing either and try to match her gait, just barreled down the hall, while she struggled to keep up, which was hard to do in three-inch heels. She still wore the short black business suit and heels she’d donned for her morning meeting with her editor at Today’s World, the magazine she worked for, and the outfit hadn’t been designed for chasing after a very tall, very hot Navy SEAL.
“So, I came here to ask you a favor,” she said as she hurried after him.
“Yeah, what’s that?”
They reached the elevator, which triggered a spark of panic in her gut. She usually avoided elevators like the plague, but she wasn’t about to ask this man to go down ten flights of stairs after he’d gotten shot rescuing her sister. As he reached to punch the elevator button, she noticed how large his hands were. He had long fingers, oddly graceful considering the size of his hands, but covered with just enough calluses to give him that manly, rough edge.
“I’m a journalist, and I’d like to write a story about my sister’s rescue. Since you were in charge of the operation in Colombia, I was hoping to interview you.”
Thomas Becker studied her for a long moment, his gaze sweeping up and down, side to side. She felt it the second those brown eyes rested on the cle**age spilling out of the camisole under her suit jacket, because her ni**les tightened and poked against her bra. She could tell he was assessing her. Not in a sexual way, since his eyes remained expressionless, but like he was figuring out whether to take her seriously or not. Evidently he decided not was the answer to his internal question, because he offered a brusque shake of the head and said, “Sorry, not interested.” The elevator doors opened, punctuating his stiff response.
Without glancing back, he stepped into the car.
Jane stood frozen in place for a moment, insulted. A tad pissed. Then she bounded into the elevator after him, hoping he couldn’t see the hot flush on her cheeks. Why was this guy so rude? Liz had told her he’d been extremely warm and gentle as he’d lifted her into the helicopter. So either Liz was wrong and Thomas Becker was an ass**le or, as usual, Jane’s Playboy Bunny body had caused yet another man to reach an unfair conclusion about her.
Sometimes she hated the way she looked. And, to this day, she still wondered if her mom had engaged in a torrid affair with some Irish stud in order to produce a daughter like Jane Harrison. Because really, how else could she explain how utterly different she looked compared to everyone else in her family? Her parents, sister, and younger brother were skinny as twigs, with sandy-blond hair and dark brown eyes. Jane, on the other hand, had a head of shocking red hair that nobody ever believed was natural, blue eyes that were far too big for her face, and of course, that centerfold body. Her sister was willowy and graceful, a few inches short of six feet, like everyone else in the family. Jane? She was a paltry five-six, with her huge boobs, small waist, and curvy frame—all guaranteed to make sure most people lumped her in the airhead category without a second’s thought.
Well, she was no airhead. A bit of a wild child, sure. Definitely at one with her sexuality. But stupid? Nope. And she was a damn good journalist, with a big brain in her head to match those big br**sts.
Setting her jaw, she fixed Thomas Becker with a steely look and said, “Why not?”
He blinked, looking startled that she was in the elevator with him. “Huh?”
“Why aren’t you interested in doing the interview?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I can assure you, Today’s World is a very prestigious magazine, and I’m very good at what I do. I could paint you as an All-American hero, a regular GI Joe.”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “It sounds very tempting, Ms. Harrison—”
“Jane,” she cut in.
“Jane,” he amended. “But I’m still not interested in having an article written about me.”
“It won’t be just about you. Look, Mr. Becker—”
