dignity. It helped that she'd only caught him staring at her that one time since training had begun. He had actually looked annoyed, although she wasn't sure if it was because he'd been caught or because he'd been staring at all. She suspected he had been staring at her more frequently. She could always feel his eyes on her, but she hadn't caught him in the act. She had gotten a few looks from some of her soldiers who had known her longest, but no one seemed to suspect that she'd come close to swooning during their encounter earlier that day.
She jumped involuntarily when someone tapped on her headset. Turning to look into the gunnery sergeant's bright hazel eyes, she raised an inquiring brow while pushing one earpiece back from her ear.
Patrick nodded toward the range, where the soldiers were taking a break from firing. “Your soldiers are very good. You must practice regularly.”
“Of course, Gunnery Sergeant. What were you expecting? How else can one maintain good marksmanship?”
Patrick shrugged. “Don't you think you might be taken more seriously if your BDUs weren't designed by Prada? I mean, why on earth do you wear heels, and how do you fight in them?”
“Roberto Cavalli,” Lelia snapped.
“What?”
“Roberto Cavalli. Our uniforms are designed by Roberto Cavalli.”
“Why?”
Lelia gave him a puzzled look. “Because they look good, of course,” she replied as though speaking to someone who was a bit slow.
“No. I mean why do you have designer BDUs?”
“Because we want to look good,” she said, still carefully enunciating each syllable.
Patrick raised his eyes heavenward. “Marines aren't concerned about looking good. We are warriors.”
Lelia pursed her lips. “More's the pity for them then. I don't know why you can't look good and be a warrior. Besides, I've seen the US Marines' dress uniform. Pretty flashy, if you're not concerned about looking good.”
Patrick had the good grace to blush. “Good point, but we don't usually fight in our blues. Our MCCUUs are designed for combat.” In the way of American military personnel, he drawled the acronym for the Marine Corps combat utility uniform so the word sounded like mack-uwes , and with his deeply Southern accent, it had at least four syllables.
“So are ours. And believe me, we have no problem fighting in heels. In fact, when properly utilized, they make fairly good weapons. But then, you'll discover that this week.”
“Yes, but on you they're so…” He made an all-encompassing gesture toward her.
Lelia removed the ear protection from her head. “So what, Gunnery Sergeant?”
Patrick slipped his headset back into place as the soldiers resumed firing. “Never mind, Sergeant Assad.”
Lelia did likewise. Had she imagined it, or had he muttered distracting under his breath in response to her question? She couldn't possibly be as distracting to him as he was to her.
* * *
Patrick stood in the doorway of the gym watching Lelia as she bench-pressed what seemed to be at least a couple hundred pounds. He'd known before he even left his quarters that he had no business coming here, but he couldn't seem to stay away. The firm muscles under her richly toned skin rippled with effort as she did rep after excruciating rep. He was mesmerized by the movement of her breasts, which moved enticingly each time she inhaled and lowered the bar. Realizing that he was almost shaking with need, he moved toward the door but stopped at her single-word request.
“Stay.”
He paused, exhaled, then turned back to her, waiting for her to say something more. But she didn't halt the smooth flow of her lifts. What the hell kind of game was she playing? Her signals were so damned mixed, they were giving him a headache. But he was pretty certain she'd been telling him to keep away since the moment they'd met. So why had she asked him to stay now? If she was just
She jumped involuntarily when someone tapped on her headset. Turning to look into the gunnery sergeant's bright hazel eyes, she raised an inquiring brow while pushing one earpiece back from her ear.
Patrick nodded toward the range, where the soldiers were taking a break from firing. “Your soldiers are very good. You must practice regularly.”
“Of course, Gunnery Sergeant. What were you expecting? How else can one maintain good marksmanship?”
Patrick shrugged. “Don't you think you might be taken more seriously if your BDUs weren't designed by Prada? I mean, why on earth do you wear heels, and how do you fight in them?”
“Roberto Cavalli,” Lelia snapped.
“What?”
“Roberto Cavalli. Our uniforms are designed by Roberto Cavalli.”
“Why?”
Lelia gave him a puzzled look. “Because they look good, of course,” she replied as though speaking to someone who was a bit slow.
“No. I mean why do you have designer BDUs?”
“Because we want to look good,” she said, still carefully enunciating each syllable.
Patrick raised his eyes heavenward. “Marines aren't concerned about looking good. We are warriors.”
Lelia pursed her lips. “More's the pity for them then. I don't know why you can't look good and be a warrior. Besides, I've seen the US Marines' dress uniform. Pretty flashy, if you're not concerned about looking good.”
Patrick had the good grace to blush. “Good point, but we don't usually fight in our blues. Our MCCUUs are designed for combat.” In the way of American military personnel, he drawled the acronym for the Marine Corps combat utility uniform so the word sounded like mack-uwes , and with his deeply Southern accent, it had at least four syllables.
“So are ours. And believe me, we have no problem fighting in heels. In fact, when properly utilized, they make fairly good weapons. But then, you'll discover that this week.”
“Yes, but on you they're so…” He made an all-encompassing gesture toward her.
Lelia removed the ear protection from her head. “So what, Gunnery Sergeant?”
Patrick slipped his headset back into place as the soldiers resumed firing. “Never mind, Sergeant Assad.”
Lelia did likewise. Had she imagined it, or had he muttered distracting under his breath in response to her question? She couldn't possibly be as distracting to him as he was to her.
* * *
Patrick stood in the doorway of the gym watching Lelia as she bench-pressed what seemed to be at least a couple hundred pounds. He'd known before he even left his quarters that he had no business coming here, but he couldn't seem to stay away. The firm muscles under her richly toned skin rippled with effort as she did rep after excruciating rep. He was mesmerized by the movement of her breasts, which moved enticingly each time she inhaled and lowered the bar. Realizing that he was almost shaking with need, he moved toward the door but stopped at her single-word request.
“Stay.”
He paused, exhaled, then turned back to her, waiting for her to say something more. But she didn't halt the smooth flow of her lifts. What the hell kind of game was she playing? Her signals were so damned mixed, they were giving him a headache. But he was pretty certain she'd been telling him to keep away since the moment they'd met. So why had she asked him to stay now? If she was just