Chapter 6

Chapter Six

By the time Marlowe opened her eye again, she found herself in the great state of Virginia, of all unlikely places. Not Afghanistan or Pakistan, not even in that part of the world. But far, far away from those familiar, yet famously chaotic trouble spots. Which was good, considering how badly she needed to recuperate and recharge. Once she was back on her feet again, though, she was out of there. She had work to do and women to save. Those women in Afghanistan had no one else to rely on, and Marlowe refused to let them down. They were her family. Them. Only them.

Instead of the surgeon she'd never met in Pakistan, she was now attended to by Dr. Libby Houston, a bright, cheerful, blonde who wasn't afraid to pull up a chair beside her bed to chat. Dr. Houston seemed to care. She was open and friendly, and she had five kids. Five. Unheard of in America.

She'd just taken Marlowe for a walk in the hall—with a walker. At first, Marlowe was annoyed that Dr. Houston thought she needed one, but, yeah. Once she was upright and on her feet, the walker came in handy. The last thing she needed to do was fall. The bottoms of her feet were still tender and her left shoulder ached. The sling was another godsend she hadn't expected she'd appreciate as much as she did.

They didn't walk far before Marlowe wore out, and that was embarrassing. She was young; she should've been able to run down that wide hallway. Twice. But nope, she'd toddled along like a decrepit old woman, back to her room, where Dr. Houston helped her into bed, then pulled a chair over and sat down to chat.

Dr. Houston wasn't dressed like that nurse in—wherever. Oh, yeah, Pakistan. She wore jeans and a white t-shirt, not scrubs like most doctors wore. Mischief glinted in her extraordinary cobalt-blue eyes. "You were surprised when I told you I have five kids. Why's that?"

Marlowe hated that she was easy to read. "What happened to the American dream, a white picket fence and two-point-five kids, Dr. Houston?"

"Libby. Just Libby, Marlowe." Dr. Houston, err, Libby, shrugged. "I'm pretty sure that's a myth. My husband Mark always wanted a big family, so, when I scored as high as I did on the MCAT—"

"What's MCAT?"

"The Medical College Admissions Test. It's a prerequisite for students going into the medical field. We didn't tell anyone. Kept it a secret until I could sign MD after my name. Anyway, after four hectic years juggling time between our three girls, Mark's job, my clinicals and med school, one night while he was fixing dinner, Mark asked if I'd ever consider adoption. So here we are now, the proud parents of five little girls, two we adopted from Puerto Rico." Libby leaned into Marlowe, cupped her hand, and whispered, "I'll tell you a secret. I'm pregnant again."

"Don't you know anything about birth control?"

"Yessss, I do!" She squealed like a silly teenager in love. "But Mark always wanted six kids, and I made sure he's going to get his wish."

"Six? That's half a dozen." Marlowe held back asking, ‘ Are you crazy?'

She couldn't imagine getting a family that size out of Afghanistan. The logistics would be a nightmare. Saving one woman and child was tough enough, sometimes nearly impossible. But six? An adult woman and five kids, assuming her husband was already safe in the United States. What was Libby thinking? Not that she needed saving, or that she lived in Afghanistan, but six children?

The crazy woman was still grinning like a spoiled, little girl. "Which is why I'm not in private practice anymore. Working here keeps me closer to home. I work fewer hours, and I get to see more of Mark and my kiddoes."

Marlowe couldn't help but wonder why American women like Libby got to live lives of wealth and ease, while others in the world were forced into poverty and unbearable savagery. Too many times, she'd witnessed brutality waged openly upon defenseless men, women, and children, all done in the name of Allah. Not that Christians and atheists were any better. They weren't. The crimes committed under the various names of God and religion were the worst.

But Libby was genuinely pleased to be pregnant? And she loved her husband? She had no idea how lucky she was. Trouble-free lives were not the norm in Afghanistan since the Taliban took over again. Women were considered less than men, unworthy of higher education. They were easy targets, harassed, and publicly beaten by the morality police if they dressed immodestly. Which basically meant without wearing that godawful burqa just so, or if they went out in public without male escorts. Like a dog on a leash, women were no longer respected or needed, other than to provide male children for the Taliban's insidious plan for the rest of the world. To be used as unwilling suicide bombers. Heaven help the female children. Too many had mysteriously disappeared or were brazenly stolen from their mothers' arms in broad daylight. That was one way the Taliban funded their activities, by selling virgins. Little boy and girl virgins.

Suddenly, Libby took Marlowe's hand. "Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

Very carefully, Marlowe extracted her fingers from Libby's and slipped her hand under the blanket. "You didn't. I just…" What? Don't belong in America even though I was born here? "I was thinking how different things are here. Where I've been… In Afghanistan…" How does one explain the vast difference between these two countries to someone like Libby? Marlowe settled for, "Life here isn't the norm for the rest of the world."

"How so?"

"Well, like, you're happily married, you have a big family, and you can support them. You were allowed to go to college, then to medical school. You're a woman, but you're also a doctor. You can do whatever you want, even adopt children from another country."

"Puerto Rico is an American territory, so adoption wasn't difficult. After the last hurricane, there were so many kids left without parents or grandparents, it was the least we could do. Where were you born? Are you really from Afghanistan?"

"No, Chicago."

"So your family lives in…?"

"No. I don't know where my parents are, and I don't care. I don't have brothers, sisters, or other relatives, and I don't need anyone, understand? Haven't in years. Don't expect that to change."

"Why were you in Afghanistan, Marlowe?" Libby's voice gentled. "You're not military. Were you working with Doctors Without Borders or an organization like it?"

"Is this an inquisition?" Marlowe snapped, unwilling to explain her choices to someone who had no idea how hard life was for the rest of the world.

Libby's smile grew softer. "Ha, me interrogating anyone. That'd be funny. It just seems like you could use a friend, Marlowe, and I know a few women who are dying to meet you. Are you interested in meeting them?"

"I mean, umm…" Marlowe had no idea how much to share. She never had time for girlfriends. She'd been busy saving unfortunate women with invisible targets on their foreheads. She got whole families out of harm's way, no matter the cost to her. Her getting caught was her only mistake in Afghanistan. Thankfully, none of her women were with her the afternoon she was abducted. Because of her, there were twenty-one families reunited and living in America. They were happy. That was something to be proud of, and she was.

"Marlowe, honey."

Her head jerked up and straightaway, her eye zeroed on the calm, steady man at the door, the only man who called her honey. Asher. She gulped seeing him there, hanging on the overhead door jamb by his fingertips. The uniquely male scent that came with him was overwhelmingly warm and intoxicating, even at this distance. Her nostrils flared. Her heart missed a beat. Or two. A strange, warm tingle hummed between her legs, where nothing had hummed before.

"Well, it's about time," Libby teased, her countenance still bright and cheery. "I was just asking Marlowe if she'd like to meet a couple TEAM wives. They keep asking when they can visit. What do you think, Asher?"

"I think that's up to her."

The way his green eyes seemed to be drinking her in was downright disconcerting, but Marlowe couldn't have looked away if she'd tried. She was drawn to this guy like a rusty nail to a magnet. Suddenly, she had a bad case of restless leg syndrome. She hadn't seen him since Pakistan and now he was here. He came back. For her? Or was she another assignment? A mission. Unfinished business? That had to be it. She was just a job, and when he was done, he'd leave. That was what people did. They used you up, then threw you away.

He was dressed in black again this morning, and he was so much taller and broader than she remembered. Those muscular shoulders… the same shoulders he'd carried her on while running up that steep hillside. His biceps were magnificent. Not inked, as far as she could tell. But either his short-sleeved, black polo was a size too small or she was seeing things. Incredible, fantastic things. Slim hips. The shiny silver and gold belt buckle was new, but those stovepipe legs were incredibly long and his thighs were as thick as tree trunks.

Every bit of this quiet man was chiseled lean mass, and the way he stood there at her door waiting, like he needed permission to enter, was nice. Unusual, but not spectacular. Except everything about Asher was special to Marlowe. She'd become a silly moth drawn to a flame that could eventually kill her.

She had no idea what to think or say, until Libby put her hands on her knees, lifted up from her chair, and said, "Oh, I see how it is. I'll just leave you two—"

"No. It's not like that. Not at all," Marlowe replied quickly. A little too loudly. "It's just that… Libby, wait. What did you want to know?"

"Nothing I'll let you two get reacquainted. If you need anything, press the call button. See you later. Buh-bye."

Asher stepped aside as she breezed out the door, then asked, "May I?"

That voice. Marlowe loved how it vibrated straight to her soul. "May you what?" she croaked.

"May I come in? A gentleman never assumes. He always asks a lady."

"Oh, that. Sure. Yeah, come in. We were just talking. Not about you. You know, just about… things." Why am I rambling?

Asher strolled in, shutting the door behind him. Man, he was tall. He sat on Libby's chair, crossed an ankle over his opposite knee, and said, "We need to talk."