All the Queen's Men

by Linda Howard

  He was saying things any woman in her right mind wanted to hear from the man she loved, Niema thought dimly. But, damn him, he was saying them when she was on the verge of dying. And maybe what he was saying was turning her on even more, because every word seemed to go straight to her very core.

  “You seem to think the end of this job is the end of us. Not by a long shot, sweetheart. You’re mine and you’re going to stay mine.”

  “John,” she gasped. “I love you. But if you don’t start moving your ass this very minute—!”

  He laughed, a deep-throated sound of pure pleasure, and obeyed her command. He lifted her thigh over his hip and moved hard and fast, going deep. She stiffened, her legs trembling, and erupted in a violent climax. He joined her before her tremors had ceased.

  Afterward, she couldn’t stop trembling. The pleasure had been too intense, too prolonged, and she still couldn’t quite believe all the things he had said. She twisted around to face him. Immediately his expression became guarded.

  She managed a smile, though her heart was pounding so violently she could barely speak. “Don’t think you can get away with saying things like that only when my back is turned.” She touched his face, cradling his cheek in her palm. “Did you mean them?”

  A shudder wracked him. “Every word.”

  “So did I.”

  He caught her fingers and pressed them to his lips, then folded them in his hand. For a moment he seemed beyond words.

  She kissed his chin. “I don’t expect more from you than you can give. I know who you are, remember? You have a job to do, and I won’t ask you to give it up. I’ll probably go back into fieldwork myself—”

  “Why am I not surprised?” he asked in a wry tone.

  She couldn’t seem to stop touching him. All those long hours in bed with him had only made the yearning worse, instead of sating it. She stroked her hand over his rock hard chest, pressed a kiss to his throat. “We’ll work it out. We don’t have to make decisions now, or even tomorrow.”

  His eyebrows rose and he rolled, tucking her neatly beneath him. Propped over her on his elbows, he said in amusement, “You’re being very gentle with me.”

  “I don’t want to frighten you off.”

  “After waiting five years to have you? Sweetheart, you couldn’t frighten me off with an elephant gun. But you’re right about one thing: We don’t have to make any decisions other than what to eat for breakfast. We can steal a few days just for ourselves before we go back to D.C.”

  “Can we?” That sounded like heaven—nothing to do but sleep late, make love, lie in the sun. No roles to play, no disks to steal. They could just be themselves. She still couldn’t quite take in everything he’d said: How could she not have known, not sensed his attraction to her? But maybe she had; maybe that was what she had picked up on when they were in Iran that made her so uneasy. She hadn’t been able to tell what it was, because John was so good at hiding what he was thinking, but she had known there was some tension there. Would she have been ready earlier to hear what he was saying? She didn’t know.

  They were together now, and that was all that mattered.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  John made a call on the radio, and a couple of hours later the man with the outboard brought some clothes to the boat: jeans, T-shirts, underwear, socks, and sneakers. “Have you heard anything on Ronsard?” John asked as he took the bundle of clothes.

  The man shook his head. He was dressed much as he had been the day before, in cotton pants and a pullover shirt, with dark sunglasses that prevented anyone from seeing his eyes. “Nothing since last night. His men were all over Marseilles. Looks like you lost them there. We’ll keep tight surveillance on the yacht, though, just in case.”

  Niema waited until the Company man left, then went out on the deck. “Clothes,” she said with satisfaction, taking the bundle from John’s arms. “Thank God. Being naked when you have clothes to put on is one thing, but being naked when you have no choice is nerve-wracking.”

  He reached out and fingered the thick bathrobe she had tightly belted around her after showering a few moments ago. “You look clothed to me—too damn clothed for my taste.”

  “That’s the point. If you have to work for something, you appreciate it more.” She stepped away from that encroaching finger and headed back below deck.

  “Then you should consider yourself the most appreciated woman in the civilized world,” he growled.

  Maybe he hadn’t meant for her to hear him, but she did. Her knees went a little weak. Every time she thought of the things he’d said that morning her heart started thumping hard and fast. She was so happy she was afraid she might fly apart.

  They would face problems in the future, probably in the near future. She didn’t know what form their relationship would take, whether there would be any formal commitment or just an unspoken arrangement as lovers whenever they happened to be together—which might not be very often. But all of that was in the future. For right now, for these couple of stolen days before they caught a military transport back to the States, all they had to do was love each other.

  He hadn’t said he loved her, but he didn’t have to. She felt it every time he touched her, with a wrenching blend of tenderness and almost savage lust that made his hands tremble, or when he looked at her with his emotions naked in his eyes. John was so controlled that the very fact he let her see what he was feeling told her more than words ever could.

  She didn’t have to have any promises, any plans. Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe losing Dallas had made her afraid to count on the future; all she knew was that she was happy just having John now.

  He came below deck and leaned against the door frame, watching as she took all the articles of clothing out of the bag and placed them on the bed, dividing them into his and hers stacks.

  “Are you going somewhere?”

  “No, I just want to get dressed. I guess I can’t believe Ronsard has given up, and if there’s trouble I want to be wearing more than a robe.”

  John strolled forward and hooked a finger in the belt around her waist, pulling her against him. She went willingly, looping her arms around his neck. “We’re safe enough here on the boat,” he said. “The only way anyone can get to us without being seen is from underwater. We’re under constant surveillance, and the boat has electronic countermeasures in place in case anyone tries to eavesdrop.”

  “So we have to stay on board until we’re picked up?”

  “I wouldn’t mind a couple of days of downtime.” A slight smile curved his lips. “On the other hand, I’m not Superman, either, so we might as well get dressed.”

  He stripped off his tuxedo pants, which was all he was wearing, and was in shorts and jeans by the time she stepped into a pair of underpants. He eyed her feet. “You need Band-Aids on those blisters before you put on socks and shoes. I’ll get the first-aid kit.”

  Niema sat down on the bed and examined her feet. The blisters didn’t look bad and weren’t bothering her; the antibiotic cream she’d put on them the day before had helped a lot, plus she had been barefoot since coming on board the boat. Still, he was right: They needed protecting. Runners learned to take care of their feet.

  He came back with a small white kit in his hand and sat down beside her. “Feet up,” he said, patting his lap.

  Smiling at the luxury, she turned around and lay back on the pillows, lifting her feet onto his lap and giving herself up entirely into his hands. These strong hands gently cradled her feet, dabbing cool ointment on the blisters and covering them with adhesive strips. He performed the task with the same fearsome concentration he applied to everything.

  Still holding her feet in his hands, he looked up at her: “Did you know the feet are an erogenous zone?”

  Alarmed, she said, “I know they’re a ticklish zone.” She tried to regain custody of her feet but with very little effort he controlled the motion.

  “Trust me.” His tone was both so
othing and cajoling. “I won’t do anything to tickle you.”

  She was trying to jackknife into a sitting position when he pressed his mouth to her right instep. She fell back on the pillows, her breath tangling in her throat, spikes of pleasure shooting all the way to her groin. She sucked in a deep breath. “Do that again.”

  “My pleasure,” he murmured, caressing her instep with his tongue and eyeing with interest her hardening nipples.

  Niema closed her eyes. What he was doing was incredible: She didn’t have the least inclination to laugh. His touch was firm, almost massaging. His tongue unerringly found the most sensitive spot on her instep, stroking it until she had to choke back moans of pleasure. Then he turned his attention to her left foot, shifting so he was facing her and a foot was in each hand. He divided his attention between them, kissing and licking and sucking until she could no longer hold back those moans. Her body twisted and arched, and her breathing became ragged.

  She was scarcely aware of when he deftly slipped her panties down her legs, only that he was cupping her bottom in his hands and lifting her up to his mouth. His hair was cool on the insides of her thighs, his mouth hot as he stabbed his tongue into her. She was so aroused that she began climaxing in moments, the sensation so intense that blood roared in her ears and reality contracted until it existed only in the sensation between her legs.

  When she finally managed to open her eyes, he was smiling at her. “See?”

  “Wow.” She stretched languidly. “Do you have any more tricks?”

  He laughed as he stood up. “A few, but we’ll work up to those.”

  He had taken the edge off her interest in getting dressed, but she did it anyway, then joined him on deck. The sun was bright on the water. She looked across at the crowded beach and the city beyond. “I wish we could go into the city,” she said as she slipped her sunglasses on her nose.

  “Maybe later. Let’s see if we pick up anything else on Ronsard before we go into the city.” He picked up a pair of binoculars and scanned the beach.

  “Looking at the topless women?” she asked, pinching his butt. “I thought you were too sophisticated for that.”

  “A man never gets too sophisticated for that,” he murmured and laughed when she pinched him again.

  Late that afternoon he got another report from the Company men on shore. Ronsard seemed to have pulled his men; though there was still surveillance in place at the airports, no one was actively beating the bushes for them.

  “Looks like we can do a little sightseeing,” he said.

  She was aware he was indulging her. “You’ve been to Nice before, haven’t you?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been to most places before.”

  “What do you do for relaxation?”

  He thought about that for a moment. “Hide away on a boat on the Riviera and make love to you,” he finally answered.

  “You mean . . . you never just get in a car and drive? Rent a cabin somewhere in the mountains, go fishing, look at the scenery?” She was aghast, wondering how anyone could live under such unrelenting stress.

  “Like a normal person? No.”

  Mr. Medina, that’s going to change, she thought staring at him. When he had downtime, she would make certain he relaxed some place where he didn’t have to constantly watch his back or keep up a cover. That would probably be the only way they could be together, somewhere so isolated they would have to make an effort to see another human being.

  John radioed in that they were going ashore.

  “Do you want surveillance?”

  He thought about it. “How many men do you have?”

  “We can keep the yacht covered, or we can cover you, but we’ll be stretched thin if we try to do both.”

  It was a calculated risk, Niema knew. Just because Ronsard’s men hadn’t been spotted didn’t mean they weren’t there. But everything in John’s life was a calculated risk—and lately, so was everything in hers. This was how it would be, she thought; this was the life she was choosing, the life she wanted.

  “Put one man on us,” John finally said.

  “Will do.”

  He tucked his pistol into his waistband at the small of his back, then put on a lightweight jacket. Niema had found a straw tote in the cabin and she dropped her pistol into it.

  The yacht had its own motorized dinghy, and they went ashore in it. The sun was low in the sky, the light mellowing, the shadows deepening. They walked for a while, strolling along with the other tourists. They stopped for a cup of coffee at a sidewalk café; she browsed through some lovely little shops and started to buy a six-foot long, sky blue scarf, only to realize she had no money. “I’m broke,” she told John, laughing as she pulled him out of the shop.

  He looked back. “I’ll get the scarf for you.”

  “I don’t want you to get the scarf. I want you to get some money for me.”

  “Independent hussy,” he remarked, tugging free and going back into the shop.

  She waited on the sidewalk, arms crossed and toe tapping, until he rejoined her with the scarf wrapped in tissue paper. He dropped the weightless package in her tote, and a kiss on her nose. “That’s from me. As for operating money, I’ll have more funds delivered to us tomorrow.”

  “Thank you.” Over his shoulder she caught a glimpse of a man watching them. He quickly turned away and entered a shop. She said thoughtfully, “Do you know what our Company tail looks like?”

  “I spotted him when we left the dinghy. Khaki pants, white shirt.”

  “A man wearing black pants, white shirt, and a tan jacket was watching us. He went in one of the shops when he saw me looking at him.”

  John moved immediately, though without haste, curving his arm around her waist and walking with her into the nearest shop. Once they were inside he walked quickly through the shop, with the owner sputtering after them, and out the rear entrance. They were in a narrow cobblestoned alley, dark with shadows, open at both ends. He turned to the right, so they were going toward the shop in which their unknown watcher had gone.

  If the man followed them into the shop and out the back, he would instinctively turn left, in the opposite direction from which he had come. If they could get out of the alley before he decided he’d been made and came after them, they would shake him.

  They almost made it. The man burst into the alley when they were two doors from the end. The shopkeeper was squawking in his wake, frustrated that people were using her shop as a shortcut. He ignored her as if she were no more than a mosquito, brushing her off as he drew a pistol from the shoulder rig beneath his jacket.

  The shopkeeper screamed and rushed back into her shop. John shoved Niema into a recessed doorway and dove in the opposite direction, pulling out his pistol and rolling as he hit the ground. The first shot clanged into a metal trash can. The second shot was John’s, but the man jerked back into the shop.

  “Run!” John said, and fired another shot at the doorway of the shop. “I’ll keep him pinned.”

  She was reaching in the tote for her pistol, but at his command she took off at a dead run, knowing any delay could hinder him. Ahead of her, people were scattering away from the mouth of the alley, screaming and rushing for cover.

  She reached the end and whirled around the wall, flattening herself against it and peeking around. John was working his way back, firing carefully timed shots that chipped large chunks of brick off the building. When he was near he wheeled and grabbed her wrist and they ran down the street, dodging through confused and alarmed pedestrians.

  “Do we head for the dinghy?” she gasped, setting into stride.

  “Not until we shake them. I don’t want that boat identified.”

  Meaning the boat wasn’t just a place for them to crash. It had classified stuff on board; maybe the boat itself was classified.

  As they ran she pulled the tote bag off her shoulder and dug in the bottom of it for her pistol.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, taking a look behind
them. “Right!”

  She wheeled right. “Putting the pistol where I can get to it without having to dig,” she growled, jamming the weapon under her waistband in back as he had done and pulling her T-shirt out to cover it.

  A shout followed them. Unfortunately, the streets were still crowded with tourists, and heads turned to follow them as they ran and dodged. All anyone chasing had to do was follow the ripple of disturbance.

  “Left,” John said, and they turned left as smoothly as if they were joined at the hip. “Right.” They took the next right. If they could get people looking in different directions it might create enough momentary confusion for them to gain some ground and slip away.

  They dodged onto a small side street, bright with flowers growing in boxes and in pots set on narrow stoops; the doors were gaily painted, and children wrung the last moments of sunshine from the day. John increased his speed; they had to get off that street fast, before any kids got hurt.

  They turned right, down an alley so narrow sunlight never penetrated it; they had to run single file. The street ahead of them was purple with shadows, alive with people. Lights were winking on.

  Someone barreled into John as soon as he emerged from the alley and they went crashing to the ground. For a split second Niema thought it was an accident, then arms grabbed her from behind and she reacted automatically, driving her elbow back into a gut that wasn’t as hard as it could have been. The guy whooshed out his breath in a violent explosion. She ducked out of his hold, whirled, and poked him in the little notch beside his eye. She didn’t have the proper angle, back to front, but he went down anyway, writhing on the ground and vomiting.

  John grabbed her wrist and yanked her into a run. She looked back and saw her assailant lying unmoving on the ground. The man who had tackled John was kind of half sitting, half lying against the wall. He wasn’t moving either.

  “Don’t look,” John still towed her by the wrist, so fast her feet barely touched ground. “Just run.”