Free Mackenzie's Mission by Linda Howard Page A

deflected her attention from the fact that he was holding her captive.
     
      Caroline considered the situation. She tugged briefly on her arms, but he held her firmly, and there was no way she could free herself from those iron hands. He was too tall for her to hit him in the face with her head. "I still have the option of stomping your instep and kicking your ankle or knee."
     
      "Yes, but you're too close to put much power behind it. You can hurt me, but not enough to make me let you go. If I were an attacker, sweetheart, right now you'd be in some serious trouble."
     
      She wiggled experimentally again, testing her limits of movement. His arms were locked around her, and she was pressed fully against his muscled body. She shivered a little at the unexpected pleasure of it, so surrounded by his warmth and scent. He smelled delicious; she had never noticed any other man smelling the way Joe did, and it wasn't just the fresh scent of soap lingering on his skin. It was a hot, musky scent, subtle and powerful, making her want to bury her nose against him and drink it in. The effects were strong and immediate; her breasts began to tingle and ache as her nipples peaked, and hot tension tightened her loins.
     
      She cleared her throat and tried to take her mind off her body's reaction; they were in the office, for heaven's sake. Just because she had changed her mind about wanting to experience more of this man/woman thing didn't mean she wanted to do it here . "Umm…so what should I do when I want to attack?"
     
      "You should learn how to fight first," he replied, and pressed a quick, hard kiss on her mouth as he released her.
     
      Her lips tingled from the kiss, and she licked them. His gaze slid to her mouth and darkened. She tried for nonchalance to hide the fact that she was shaking all over. "So, what do you recommend?" she asked as she set the chair upright and briskly backed out of the computer program, just to give herself something to do. She switched the machine off and faced him with a bright smile. "Martial arts?"
     
      "Dirty street fighting would be better. It teaches you how to win any way you can, and to hell with fighting fair. It's the only way you should ever go into a fight."
     
      "You mean like throwing dirt in the guy's eyes and stuff like that?"
     
      "Whatever works. The idea is to win, and stay alive."
     
      "Is that the way you fight?" she asked. She desperately needed to sit down, her legs were shaking so much, but he would tower over her if she did, and the thought of that made her nervous, too. She compromised by propping herself on the edge of the desk. "Is that what the Air Force teaches its pilots now?"
     
      "No, that's the way I was taught to fight when I was a kid."
     
      "Who taught you?"
     
      "My father."
     
      She supposed it was a masculine bonding thing. Her father had taught her calculus, but that wasn't quite the same.
     
      "I've been researching the typical fighter pilot," she said. "It's interesting reading. In some ways, you're the perfect stereotype."
     
      "Is that so?" He showed his teeth in a very white smile, though maybe it wasn't a smile at all.
     
      "Well, in some ways you're atypical. You're unusually tall, more suited to a bomber than a fighter. But fighter pilots are typically intelligent, aggressive, arrogant and as determined— maybe stubborn is a better word—as a bulldog. They want to be in control at all times."
     
      He crossed his arms over his chest, dark lashes shadowing his glittering eyes.
     
      "Fighter pilots have keen eyesight and fast reactions. Most of you have blue or light-colored eyes, so you're certainly typical on that. And here's an interesting little tidbit… fighter pilots usually have more female children than male."
     
      "Finding out will be fun," he drawled.
     
      She cleared her throat. "Actually, I thought you might already know."
     
      He lifted his eyebrows. "Why's that?"
     
      " I did