“Don’t go down any more decks,” the big guy said.
“Why?”
He forked up his eggs as if this was a perfectly normal conversation. He cleaned up nice, real nice. The t-shirt they’d found for him, in Navy dark blue, stretched tight across his chest and outlined every muscle. The antithesis of the lean Colonel Gibson. His black hair reached his jawline, slicked down with the shower he’d taken since they’d parted. It emphasized both the nasty scar and the strength of the jaw that bore it. She could see that the scar continued on his chest, ducking below the line of his collar. She wondered how far down it went and how he’d earned it.
And his eyes were amazing. It felt not as if he was watching her, but rather as if he saw her. A gestalt view, watching her whole person, not just her face or, mo
