Close Pursuit. Cindy Dees

child’s mouth, but the baby wouldn’t swallow it and only squalled louder.

      “We’ve got to quiet her down,” Alex bit out. “Once the artillery fire stops, people for miles around will hear her screaming.”

      “Any ideas?” Katie asked, frantically rocking the furious baby.

      “She needs to suck to trigger her swallowing reflex.”

      “I already tried getting her to suck my finger as a makeshift pacifier and she wouldn’t do it.”

      “She needs to suckle. As in a female breast.” He threw her an expectant look.

      Katie stared. “News flash, Doctor. My equipment is not currently in service for milk production.”

      “She doesn’t need to get any milk. She just needs a breast to suck. Once she’s sucking strongly, then we can squirt some IV fluid into her mouth and she’ll swallow it.”

      An embarrassed impulse to refuse speared through her gut at the same time intellectual certainty that she would do it rolled through her brain. She tried unsuccessfully to juggle the baby and her coat and her shirt, until Alex’s big, warm hands slipped inside her coat and took the baby. Awkwardly, she raised her shirt, baring her bra, which happened to be lacy and white and practically glowed in the dark.

      “Not very practical lingerie for Zaghastan,” he murmured in amusement.

      The bastard sounded like he was enjoying the view a little too much. She glanced up, irritated, and muttered, “I wasn’t expecting to show it to anyone while I was here.”

      “So you wear sexy lingerie entirely to please yourself? That’s encouraging.”

      “How so?” she blurted. She wished the words back as soon as they left her mouth.

      “You struck me as too...virginal...for that naughty bra. I’m glad to see I underestimated you.”

      Her gaze narrowed at the faint challenge simmering in his voice. She reached for the edge of her bra cup and slowly, deliberately, pulled it down. Alex’s gaze riveted on her flesh as the swell of her breast and its rosy nipple were revealed. His gaze flared like an arc welder, and her pulse spiked hard in response.

      Without comment, he eased the infant to her breast. The baby was too mad or too inexperienced or both to know what to do, however.

      “I apologize,” he muttered.

      “For what?”

      “For this.” He reached in front of the infant’s mouth with his fingers and pinched her nipple. Hard. She jumped and would have squawked were they not in the middle of a war zone. Involuntarily, her back arched into his hand, trying unsuccessfully to ease the sharp pressure.

      “Oww,” she breathed.

      He let go and made a small sound of satisfaction. “Better.”

      She ventured a look down and realized her nipple now jutted out, swollen and full.

      “Rub it on the baby’s face. Across her mouth,” he instructed.

      She did so, stunned at how erotic it was to be doing this in front of him. Without warning, the baby latched on and gave a tug that shot sensations all the way to her groin. “Oh!” she gasped.

      One corner of Alex’s mouth curved up knowingly. He reached between her breast and the baby with the IV bag and slipped the pinholed corner into the infant’s mouth. She felt the baby swallow against her flesh.

      “It’s working,” she breathed. “Do it again.”

      Working together, the two of them got a few ounces of IV fluid down the baby, who fell asleep quickly after that. Alex hooked his finger under the lace and lifted it into place, running the back of his knuckle lightly across her nipple in the process. Damned if it didn’t stand up proud and eager again, pushing impudently through the lace. And damned if he didn’t stare down at it, his eyes ablaze, until her breath came short and fast.

      “Zip up,” he ordered sharply. “I don’t need either of you catching a chill.”

      She scowled at his back until it occurred to her that it might have been sexual frustration putting that edge in his voice. Abruptly, she felt much better as she tucked the sleeping baby into her coat and zipped it up.

      “We need to name her,” she announced. “We can’t just keep calling her ‘the baby.’”

      Alex threw her a startled look over his shoulder. “You do it. But, for God’s sake, don’t name her something native. Pick something American-sounding.”

      “Why?”

      “We’ll need to take her back to the States with us. Which means we’ll need to pass her off as our baby. What would you name our daughter?”

      Their baby? The notion was both thrilling and scary to contemplate. “How about Charlene?” It had been her grandmother’s name.

      “Slut I went to school with was named that. Try again.”

      “Alexandra?”

      That earned her rolled eyes and a firm, “No.”

      “Catherine?”

      “You want to name a baby after a violent, dead queen?”

      “Fine. You come up with a name you like!”

      “Katrina.”

      “Sounds a little grown-up for a tiny baby.”

      “She won’t be a tiny baby for long. And you can call her a nickname like Kat or Trina in the meantime.”

      “Teeny Treeny?”

      He groaned under his breath. “Call her Dawn. The sun will be coming up soon.”

      She actually liked the symbolism of a new day after the darkness of night. Goodness knew, this child had been born under the blackest of circumstances. And she couldn’t think of any horrible nicknames other kids might come up with for it. “Dawn, it is.”

      “Speaking of dawn, we need to take cover soon,” he commented.

      “Why?”

      “Given the size of last night’s battle, I expect more drones will patrol the area today.”

      “Isn’t the U.S. the only country with attack drones? Why would the good guys come after us?”

      He whirled and demanded, low and angry, “Since when is the United States presumed to be the good guy?”

      Her jaw dropped. She’d been raised among soldiers and cops dedicated to country and service...to the death. It was anathema in her home to suggest anything other than the United States was right and good and decent.

      Alex huffed. “Don’t get me wrong. Democracy is a hell of a lot better than the available alternatives. But spare me the religious fervor for mom, apple pie and the Stars and Stripes.”

      “What the hell did Uncle Sam do? Pee in your Wheaties?” she demanded.

      Pain. Grief. Rage. Desolation. The emotions flitted through his eyes so quickly she could barely register them, let alone catalogue them. What the—

      “Not on the list of approved topics for conversation between us,” he bit out. He turned around and stomped off without waiting to see if she followed.

      “If there’s a list of approved topics, how come I didn’t get a copy?” she called after him.

      A mumbled retort floated back over his shoulder, “Above your pay grade.”

      Her eyes narrowed. She wasn’t about to let him get away with blowing her off. But first she had to catch him, and he was practically jogging toward the head of the narrow valley now. She’d always hated it when her brothers used their superior size and strength to ditch her. In retrospect, she’d probably been an annoying pest more often