Ian shrugged. “All I know is Hejan had no intention of you delivering the data to anyone but the CIA.”
They reached the top of a rise, and the steppe unfurled before them: miles of nothing, but in the far distance, she thought she saw dark structures dotting the landscape in the early dawn light. The edge of civilization at war.
Ian pulled out his cell, inserted the battery, and dialed. Again he spoke in rapid Kurdish. Call completed, he removed the battery from the phone and handed both to her. “I want you to hide below, in the thick shrubs at the base of the hill. Watch. Wait. If they shoot me, don’t move. Don’t make a sound. Not until they leave. Then call Logan. Understand?”
Her throat had gone dry, but she nodded.
“Even if they torture me and I beg you to come out of hiding, do not do it. Only come out if you hear me say—” He paused, then said, “Hay-Adams.” His jaw tensed. “You got that? Hay-Adams. If I don’t say Hay-Adams, stay put.”
She gave a sharp nod. If he could be calm and detached, so would she. “How long until they get here?”
“They said thirty minutes—so my guess is ten. You need to get out of sight. They’ll have binoculars and will see us long before we see them.”
She nodded and pivoted on her heel. He’d just said being shot or tortured were on the short list of possible outcomes, then dismissed her without consulting her first. She was back to feeling helpless and was terrified for his safety.
She’d taken three steps when he said, “Cressida…”
She stopped, her back stiff. She couldn’t turn and face him.
Footsteps scraped across the rocky ground. He halted, so close she felt the heat of his body. “I’m not sending you away because you have the pendant.” His voice was low, raspy, positively bursting with emotion that pushed up against the dam of his control.
“Then why are you sending me to hide, Ian? Because I really don’t relish the idea of watching people torture you and not being able to do anything to stop it.”
He let out a harsh growl. “I’m sending you away because if I’m wrong about these people, you could get hurt. And I can’t let that happen.”
At last she turned. “Why, Ian?”
His nostrils flared, then his expression shuttered. “Because getting you to safety is my mission.”
The hope that had been building deflated, bouncing around in her chest like an untied balloon that had slipped from her fingers. “Okay, then. If you need me, you know where I’ll be.” She turned and set off down the hill.
“Hay-Adams, Cressida.” The words floated in the air, full of meaning he wouldn’t voice.
He’d kissed her, held her, let her know in a dozen ways in the last twenty-four hours that he wanted her, and, more important, he cared about her. But he’d also made it clear his life was here, in the Middle East. She wanted The Hay-Adams, held on to that fantasy like the lifeline it was meant to be, but not if he wasn’t offering her more than orgasms. She could have those on her own.
She scanned the low shrubs and spotted a decent hiding place. She took off her backpack and tucked herself down into the thick branches, then pulled the gun from the pack and checked the load. She was ready.
She studied Ian, who stood ever vigilant at the top of the rise. He was different, nothing like any man she’d ever known. And for the first time in her life, she knew without question her instincts about him were solid. He was the one for her, and she wanted all of him. Everything. Love. Commitment. Cohabitating. She hated picket fences, but if he was a fan, it wasn’t a deal breaker.
But for that reason, she couldn’t show up for a weeklong tryst at The Hay-Adams. It would hurt too much when he walked away.
If he intended to check his emotions at the door, she’d check out altogether.
But before it was time to face everything she couldn’t have with him, he had to survive the next ten minutes. She heard the low rumble of a vehicle and was thankful the shrubs were thick and concealing. Not to mention that her top was so coated in dirt, it was now mottled earth tones—a perfect, natural camouflage.
The vehicle, an old Toyota Land Cruiser, approached slowly, and Cressida suspected the two dark bars poking out on both sides were gun barrels of one kind or another. Sure enough, as the Toyota drew closer and turned to go up the hill toward Ian, she got a better view. Machine gun muzzle. Maybe an AK-47? She didn’t really know guns.
Her heart went into overdrive as the old Cruiser pulled alongside Ian—who stood as remote and still as a marble statue with his hands in the air.
A door on the Toyota opened, and someone got out. Only bits of the words came down to Cressida, the voice so faint, she wasn’t even certain they spoke Kurdish.
She should have chosen a closer shrub.
They spoke for several minutes, Ian never taking his eyes off the muzzle pointed at his chest. Finally, he moved forward and pressed his hands against the vehicle as someone patted him down.
They must have determined he was safe, because he dropped his hands. He never once looked Cressida’s way. She marveled at his control and wondered if it was military training or CIA.
Probably both.
One of the YPG soldiers laughed, and the melodic sound carried down to her. A woman? How…surprising. Wasn’t this a Muslim group?
After several minutes of conversation, Ian started down the slope toward her. When he was within easy earshot, he said, “Hay-Adams, Cressida.” The soldiers waited behind him, but their machine guns were pointed up, not at his back, thank goodness. “Ollie ollie all come free.”
She smiled and shook her head. Worst. Hide-and-seek game. Ever.
“I thought it was Ollie ollie oxen free?” she said as she extracted herself from the bush.
He chuckled. He seemed lighter somehow. “Now how would that make sense?”
“Well, for starters, who is Ollie?” She brushed brambles from her clothes as she stood up straight. With a glance up the hill, she said, “Are we really free oxen?”
He plucked a twig from her hair. “Yes. They want us to locate the tunnel on a map. They’ll send out a team to confirm. If they find it, then an hour after sunset tonight, they’ll take us across the river. All we can do is wait and pray for a cloudy night.”
She nodded. One day in Syria. Then on to Iraq.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
All four soldiers were women, and they were curious about Cressida, wanting to know her relationship with Ian and about her work in the US. But none of them spoke English, so Ian provided the translation for both sides of the conversation, which made it interesting when they asked about Ian.
“He’s arrogant and bossy,” she answered. “Refuses to voice his emotions and likes to pretend he doesn’t have them. He’s dedicated to his mission. Being a spy is probably the only thing he really cares about. But he’s decent in bed.”
Ian choked on a laugh and said something in Kurdish to the soldiers without missing a beat.
Cressida was similarly curious about the women and asked several questions of her own. Ian explained that the Kurds in Syria had no problem with training women for combat. Kurdish views on women’s rights were one of the reasons jihadists and al-Qaeda had targeted them.
There was no doubt these women were true soldiers. They moved with the same skill and agility as any man in uniform she’d ever seen, ever alert and ready to lay down bullets to clear their path if need be.
Fortunately, there was no need, and they were taken to a house in the heart of a Kurdish stronghold. Somehow, telling these women fighters the location of the tunnel felt better to Cressida. Not just better, it felt good. Which made no sense, because, regardless of gender, the tunnel would be used strategically. But maybe this wasn’t a choice of lesser evils. Maybe they’d allied with the right side.
Cressida couldn’t fault what these people—these women—were fighting for: freedom from an oppressive government, the right to an education, the right to work, the right to live and make their own choices, and
the right not to be subjected to chemical weapons attacks.
Little things she’d taken for granted as an American woman.
After they pinpointed the tunnel based on Cressida’s calculations of the distances they’d traveled, she was led to a bathroom, complete with a deep claw-foot tub. Oh, blessed plumbing.
She stripped off her dirty, sweat-soaked T-shirt and jeans, noting streaks of blood on the shirt from scrapes earned while digging their way out of a dark, dry tomb. She soaked a long time in the hot water, easing aching muscles while ridding herself of layers of dirt. With closed eyes, she allowed herself to indulge in a fantasy of a shared bath with Ian in a deluxe suite in a luxury hotel, but a glance around her surroundings reminded her that she didn’t need luxury to be happy. She figured she’d be content anywhere with Ian.
After the bath, she returned to the living room, which was lined with narrow cots, a makeshift military barrack in what had once been a single-family home. Exhausted from days of walking, digging, and well over twenty-four hours since she’d last slept, she collapsed on a cot, too tired to even wonder where Ian was. Guarded and tense, she couldn’t imagine being able to sleep in spite of her exhaustion. She listened to the quiet conversation of soldiers—both male and female—being carried on in the next room. Unable to understand the low, even sounds, her brain morphed them into a soft white noise that offered comfort, a signal that all was fine in the war zone, allowing her to drift into a light sleep.
* * *
Ian watched Cressida sleep, her dark, damp hair a shimmering halo around her face. It was a relief, almost, to be able to look at her without seeing the fear and hurt in her eyes. Fear he’d triggered. Hurt he’d caused.
He’d known from their first meeting she had a strong need for male approval, and when he’d read her bio later, he’d understood why. Yet even knowing this, he’d pushed and manipulated, finally taking what she offered but giving her none of what she wanted in return.
He wanted her. Unequivocally. He’d meant his vow about the hotel, and if she agreed to it, he’d sure as hell follow through.
He’d lay down his life to get her out of this mess. But could he give her more than his body?
He couldn’t imagine that. He’d been in the espionage game too long to have the kind of heart that did anything other than pump blood.
His life was an elaborate poker game. Bluffing, high stakes. He always had to be prepared to fold and wait for the next hand or go all in, because he’d known when he started playing there’d be no walking away from the table.
Ian was an excellent poker player. But then, he loved the game. His boss—and now Cressida—had speculated it was the only thing he loved, and they were both probably right. But now the game could end. One card left to draw. His opponent was sitting on an inside straight, while Ian held three jacks. With the right card, it was anyone’s hand.
And here he was, staring at Cressida, thinking about the game. She deserved better than a coldhearted bastard whose life was an exercise in deceit. She’d had enough deceit.
One of the soldiers—a woman—sidled up to him and whispered, “You don’t look at her like she’s an assignment, Ian Boyd.”
Thank God the woman spoke Kurdish, as she echoed the words he’d told all the soldiers when they quizzed Cressida with eager enthusiasm because it was rare for them to meet an American woman of like age.
Ian shuttered his expression, turning on the spy with ease. “Did they find the tunnel?” he asked.
She nodded. “We will deliver you across the river, as agreed.” She nodded toward the kitchen in the back of the house. “There is food. Wake her?”
He paused, considering. Cressida had to be hungry, but she needed sleep even more. The river crossing would be dangerous, as would be the drive to Erbil. She had to be rested and ready, and they had hours until they set out. “Not yet. I’ll make sure she eats before we leave.”
With a nod, the soldier left, and Ian stretched out on the cot next to Cressida. He needed to be ready for the crossing too.
He slept for several hours, waking in the early evening. Cressida was up. She sat quietly in the corner, gazing out the window. Lost in thought. He assembled two plates of food and returned to her side. They ate in the gathering darkness. Light created a target, and while this house, this neighborhood was currently safe, everyone knew that could change in a flash, so no lights were lit. Ever.
The lengthening gray shadows reminded Ian of their first meal together, at the restaurant in Van, when he’d introduced her to Kurdish cuisine. She licked her fingers after taking a bite, and that fast, Ian was hard.
Because he had heretofore unknown masochistic tendencies, he slid a bite of shish taouk from a skewer and dipped it in a sauce. “Try this,” he said, bringing the morsel to her lips.
As he’d hoped, she took a bite. Her beautiful brown eyes closed, a soft smile and relaxed lidded eyes said she savored the flavor. Those heavy lids lifted to a sexy half-mast as she leaned forward and took the rest of the bite. This time she brazenly flicked her tongue against his fingers.
The woman was a sadist. And he her willing victim.
They stared at each other in silence across the shadowy table. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “Wheels up in thirty.”
She rolled her eyes. “Chicken.”
When it came to her? Probably. But he owed her the unvarnished truth. “This is my life, Cress. How I feel doesn’t matter. I’m a spy.”
“Not anymore.”
She’d shown her cards too soon. It was a solid move, but spying was too deeply ingrained. After years in the business, he couldn’t handle love and the vulnerabilities it invited. But that didn’t change the fact that he wanted her. If she let him, next time he’d seduce her properly and wouldn’t be a raging ass afterward. “One week,” he said.
She raised a brow in question.
“The Hay-Adams or wherever you want to go. I can give you a week.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want ephemeral. I can get that from a bar pickup seven days a week. That’s not what I want from you.” She stood and left the room. A moment later, he heard her in the kitchen, offering to help wash using words she must have learned from the women in the nomad camp.
Pain lodged in his gut over the finality in her rejection. He’d expected it. Hell, he deserved it. But it didn’t make accepting it any easier.
He occupied himself before their departure with helping the soldiers prep for the river crossing: checking fuel tanks, and rehashing the plan, going over the maps. Busy work, as well as a strange ending to what had been an intense, private journey.
At last they were on the boat, a familiar, simple aluminum riveted hull propelled with an outboard motor and tiller steering. He could be back in Chicago prepping for a day on Lake Michigan, except this was nothing like that, with everyone on the boat armed with machine guns and the precious cargo to be delivered was the woman he wanted with every beat of his cold heart.
The crossing itself was almost anticlimactic after everything they’d been through.
A large, dark Humvee waited on the rise above the opposite bank. The team of Kurdish soldiers pointed their machine guns at the vehicle with unflinching vigilance. Ian pulled his own gun, and motioned for Cressida to do the same.
They would take no foolish chances.
The skipper steered the boat toward the beach, raising the motor as he did so. They ran aground, and two soldiers in front hopped over the bow onto the truncated beach.
From the shrubs that lined the bank, Ian heard the prearranged bird call. Sean Logan and his team.
Upon hearing the sound, Cressida tucked her gun away and jumped over the gunwale, splashing into the shallow water as she raced up the beach.
“Cressida! Wait.”
She ignored him, completely unmindful that she’d just created a target of herself. Ian would be dammed before he let anyone take a shot at her. He darted after her, catching her around the waist and pulling he
r back against his chest. “Wait.”
She shoved at him. “Let me go! We know it’s Sean.”
“Yes, but there could be others. Like Zack. And Todros. They could be waiting to take a shot at you.”
She froze. “Damn. I’m sorry! I didn’t think—”
“It’s okay. This isn’t your world. It’s mine.”
She leaned her forehead on his chest. “Your world sucks.”
“Tell me about it.”
Their Kurdish escort surrounded them and walked them up the short beach. At the bank, Cressida glanced around for permission to climb. Ian gave a short nod, remaining at her back.
She’d taken two steps up the soft, silty slope, when a black man in fatigues emerged from the foliage, crouched down, and thrust his hand to her. “Hey, Cress. Long time no see.”
She let out a soft squeal and took his hand. He pulled her up and dropped her on the bank next to him, moving as he did so to block her from view of the river. As soon as her feet landed, she threw her arms around him.
Jealousy rocked Ian when Logan’s arms circled her and crushed her to his chest. Christ, he was pathetic. It was one thing to be jealous of Todros Ganem—the son of a bitch had lived with Cressida for the better part of a year—but he had zero cause to be jealous of Logan, and a million reasons to be grateful she counted the man as one of her friends.
But he couldn’t imagine how a man could be her friend and not want her. It was illogical, unthinkable. Like Earth without gravity. Impossible.
For the first time he considered how he’d feel someday upon hearing the news Cressida had fallen in love. That she’d gotten married. Or was having another man’s child.
How could he live with himself, knowing she could have been his, but he’d pushed her away?
He climbed the bank and was proud of himself for not yanking her from the Raptor operative’s arms.
Cressida pulled back. “Damn, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” She nodded to Ian. “Sean Logan, this is Ian Boyd.”
The man offered his hand while giving Ian an assessing perusal. They shook hands. Firm, efficient. Not quite friendly.
Dangerous To Love Page 279
