On bare feet she kicked a hip to the side and sized him up. “All bluster, that one,” she said with a pointed finger and an incline of her head. She made a little sound with her mouth and turned away.
He caught her by the arm like he’d done in the loo the night before, only this time his hold had teeth. She stopped with a jerk, but she didn’t turn.
“I’m sorry. I…I can’t.” His words sounded hollow. Because they were a lie. He could. He was just the biggest kind of coward. One who judged other people, his best friend, when he couldn't turn the light on himself out of fear. Fear of what he might see. Of what he might lose, if he started living again.
“Just stop sending me mixed signals,” she breathed. “You’re making me dizzy.”
Magdalena took a step, but his grip held, not ready to let her go. She executed a nice finger bend, except it hurt like a bitch, and walked out of his hold. He rubbed his hyper-extended knuckle, pissed at his inability to let go of her and his past. Law rubbed the ache in his empty chest and watched Magdalena’s hourglass figure disappear around the partition.
She called out, “Do you have bread in that bag?”
His brows rose, surprised at her quick rebound. She must not be that hard-up for you, old man. As real age went, he was only a few years older than her, but as life experiences played into the equation, he was eons older. He couldn’t drag her into his shit.
“Yeah,” he answered.
“Good. I’m starving. I might save you some, if you’re lucky.”
“Oh, I thought you were trying to stay fit.”
“You know,” she yelled above the spray of the shower. “Someone really needs to kick your ass. I’m gonna start training. So look out, buster.”
He laughed despite himself and started unloading the goods from the corner. Bacon sizzled in the pan and he rinsed the knife he’d sliced tomato with when Magdalena came around the corner in a blasted towel. Water droplets peppered her shoulders. Her hair sat high atop her head in a messy knot with the errant strand stuck to her wet skin. Law dropped the knife into the sink so he wouldn’t chop a finger off.
The minx smiled brightly, sauntering across the room toward the pallet. “Smells like a proper fry-up to me. Don’t start without me.” She plucked her bag up from the ground and headed back the way she’d come.
The hand-sized swath of black against her pearly skin drew his attention then tossed it for a good loop. “Come here, Magdalena.”
Her arms stopped swinging and she turned a scowl on him. “I thought we just smoothed this bumpy road. So, don’t go fuckin’ it up again. A girl can only take so much.”
“This isn’t about that,” he said, gripping the counter for patience.
“Oh.” The scowl melted away and something akin to a frown took its place. “What is it then?”
“Just. Come. Here.” When she checked a brow he added, “Please.”
She came hesitantly this time. Gun-shy from their last encounter.
“Turn around,” he ordered with a jerk of his head.
“Look,” she said, smacking both hands to her hips. “I know you saved me, and you’re Baine’s friend, and you made me lunch yesterday and breakfast now, but if you don’t quit ordering me around—"
“I need to see your tattoo,” he hollered. Law’s mouth fell open in surprise. He’d never yelled at a woman. Ever. But blast it all to Scotland and back, she rankled his last nerve. Law sought his voice to apologize when she put a hand up.
Magdalena’s hands levered across the bar from him. Her voice came in a growled whisper. “Say please.”
Law exhaled a faint, “Please.”
She nodded her approval. “Thank you. I think we need to work on our basic manners before we kill one another.”
His head bowed in agreement.
Magdalena turned and suddenly everything, well a whole crap load, came into focus. Africa, in all her rigid beauty, stained the milky skin, starting five inches below her sandy hairline and spreading his palm’s width centering her spine. It ran down to the middle of her shoulder blades. The continent wasn’t a defined line. Art imitating life for certain. Instead, rows of words filled its body, stopping where the edge of the land would on a map. He spoke French and Arabic and had spent enough time in Africa that he could read some Swahili, Shona, and Igbo. The words he recognized reinforced his thought that they’d jumped to the wrong conclusion about the threat.
Develop. Accountable. Government. People raise your voice. Peace. Be still. Clarity. Transparency. Let the world hear and know your pain.
“When did you get it?”
“Nearly seven months ago.”
“Where?”
“Nairobi.”
“What the hell were you doing in Africa?”
Magdalena wheeled on him. Her arms folded across her middle and her eyes narrowed to slits. Somehow she made a terry cloth look haughty and too damn sexy for either of their benefit.
“Bloody hell. If you keep speaking to me like I’m an incompetent twit, you’re going to find an early grave. Ugh!” She smacked at an errant hair tickling her nose then continued. “Yes, I’m still in school, but it’s to finish my doctorate. I’m a journalist and a fucking good one at that.”
Why couldn't they have a blasted exchange without somebody yelling or snapping their teeth like rabid dogs? Irritation pricked his nape. His blood pressure knocked on the top of his skull. To keep from losing his mind in the impending explosion, Law went palms-up in surrender.
“I didn’t imply you were incapable, you jumped to that on your own.” He continued speaking before the breath she’d sucked formed another lecture. “All I meant is Africa is no place for an Englishwoman.” He waved his hands to stave off her attack. “I’ve had too much experience there. Witnessed corruption at its worst. Seen more death than anyone should. And things worse than death.”
Law stepped around the counter and grabbed Magdalena’s hand. “I’ve seen the fallout of teenage boys with assault rifles and free reign. When I think of you there, my mind does crazy things.”
Her lips thinned. Light brown eyelashes fluttered over her cheek as she thought or remembered. He didn’t know which. Then she caught him in the sea of her gaze. “I’ve seen some of the same, but I’ve also seen hope and happiness that shouldn't exist in the horror. And I can’t overlook the miracle of humanity. Yes, it’s dark. It’s also light and love.
“I went as a journalist for the UN with the MONUSCO mission to the Democratic Republic of the Congo.”
“Jesus, Magdalena. And your father let you go? Baine let you go?”
She smiled. “You don’t know me very well, but I do what I want. And I needed this trip to get myself in order.”
“Yeah, at what cost? Your life?”
Her softly sloping shoulders raised then slowly fell. The solemnity in her eyes twisted his middle. “I wasn’t living before Africa. Just slowly killing myself. So, for me it was worth the danger.”
Law stepped away, dropping her hand. He turned into the room, pacing, as he processed the unsettling information. Not the least of which was knowing she’d been hurting and needed a brush with death to help her put things in perspective. He rubbed the knot at his pec, damn near his heart.
“You said you got the ink in Kenya. But I thought you were stationed in the DRC?”
“We were pulled out of Goma when things got tense. They talked about sending nonessential personnel out for good, but the Congolese revolutionaries announced a ceasefire and resumed peace talks with the government.”
As she spoke his fists clenched. She hadn’t just been in DRC. She’d been at the epicenter of the United Nation and Congolese Armies’ efforts to hold out the M23 militia.
“Tell me more about your responsibilities,” he said, still pacing.
“What does Africa have to do with any of this?”
“That is what I’m trying to figure out. The chavs last night were knuckle-dragging gym rats, but the information they had was more so
phisticated. More seasoned than common domestic issues.”
“It didn’t seem common to me,” she said. “The threats that weasel made before he knew I was there seemed more involved than a relationship gone bad.”
Law planted his face in his hand. “Please, just humor me.”
Refusing to deny her gut instinct, she pressed. “But that bastard threatened me. He told me he knew people who would give me mine for sticking my nose where it didn’t belong.”
“Stubborn woman,” he huffed.
“How about you get breakfast before it burns, and I go put on some clothes and tell you what you want to know over food?”
Law’s gaze shot to the narrow cook top and pan of ultra crisp pork. “Damn.” He lunged for a fork to rescue the strips from oblivion. “Fine, but don’t take an hour getting made. Everything is ready.”
She laughed. “Yeah. Well-done.”
16
Breakfast had never tasted so good. Even with Law’s narrowed glare her enthusiasm refused to curb. She pinched a slice of bacon between her thumb and forefinger, swirled it in the yellow soup of her fried egg then shoved half the length into her mouth. When she bit down, the salty meat, oil, and yolk blended on her tongue. Her head arched to the ceiling as she inhaled deeply, savoring the rich taste.
She swallowed on a moan and grabbed the last triangle of toast. Breakfast in the Congo had been a scrimp meal of fufu, rice, or the occasional MRE. None of which satisfied the glut of a full British fry-up. Magdalena scooted a slice of tomato and piece of mushroom onto the bread and carried it to her mouth. After two more massive bites she could fit no more into her stuffed tummy.
The stool back squeaked as she leaned into it and stretched. A yawn sang from her gaping mouth. When it was over, bone deep satisfaction snuggled her close. She’d done her best to ignore Law throughout the meal, answering his questions, but avoiding his pissy expression.
But the daft urge to peruse his gorgeous features won out and she scowled back at him, cataloging his sharp nose, wide jaw, and ample lips. “What?”
He sat like a tightly screwed bottle of shaken champagne, waiting to rupture. His head shook side to side and his lips remained clamped in a thin line.
Magdalena huffed. “I don’t know what more you want me to say. Two of us traveled with the convoy from Goma to Rutshuru and back, interviewing people as we were allowed, taking photos. Then they left us at the office, with guards and other aid workers, to craft our stories. We were never without protection.”
Law’s biceps bulged from the sleeves of his blue T-shirt, made tighter by the way he crossed his arms over his chest. Veins meandered over the muscles, touring his fine physique. Sunny blond hairs sprinkled his forearm of tanned skin, making her wonder where he’d gotten all the sunshine, since London only now embraced her summer temperatures.
“The stories and pictures, where are they?”
“I have copies of all the things I submitted in boxes at my dad’s. Plus, notes, journals, and my personal pictures. We couldn’t keep any of the original documents or press pictures.”
He stood with amazing economy, stacking their plates and carrying them to the counter. “Get dressed. We’re going to your father’s.”
She looked down at the billowy floral top, teal blue shorts, and sandals she wore. “I am dressed.”
He puffed the air with his sweet mouth and a thrill skated up her spine. Law cleared the dishes and set them in the sink before scooping his keys and phone off the counter. After a few taps of his thumb, he placed the device to his ear and repeated the code he had the previous night.
“Any news?” he asked. There was a short pause.
“Thanks, Khani. Let me know when you do. I’m going back to Baine’s to grab some things. Tell your guy. I’d hate to have to take out the rookie.”
When Magdalena saw his smile from this angle she noticed a small dimple form among his scruff. The ensuing throaty laugh curled her toes and pebbled her nipples. What a bloody shame he wants naught to do with you.
“I probably would,” he said into the phone. Then turned toward her. “I could use the stress reliever.”
She flipped him the bird.
Law stowed his phone and walked to the door. “Don’t open the door for anyone. Not an old lady. Or a kid. Or a delivery man.”
Magdalena flew from the chair, crossing the room in four strides. “No, you said we were going. You’re not leaving me here.”
His chest rose and fell as he looked down at her. “Yes. I am. You’ll be safer here.”
One more step brought her in licking and punching distance. “I thought you were rather smart, but you’re not picking up on things very quickly. Do you take vitamins? Maybe your B-12 is low.” She reached around him and grabbed the knob, placing her breasts inches from his abdomen. Knowing it would rankle him, she winked. “Unless you want a titty fuck I suggest you step aside.”
And wouldn’t you know, he’d be the first to decline the offer.
Law moved away so fast she’d swear she’d accidentally offered to chop his dick off instead. But she walked through the doorway with a triumphant grin on her face. He trailed behind several yards, and when they climbed onto the bike, he didn’t wrap her arms around him like he’d done before. He did hand her the blasted helmet though.
The bike rumbled to a stop at a petrol station half way between his flat and her father’s house. He slid off and she followed, uncomfortable on the bike without his steady frame to clutch. She’d stayed on the tiny seat where he’d plopped her the night before out of fear. Things were still crazy, but hopefully they’d work through it soon and she could get far away from Lawrence Pierce. In an attempt for momentary breathing room, Magdalena wrestled out of the helmet and started for the glassed entrance of the station.
“Where are you going?” Law asked, a twinge of irritation lacing his deep voice.
“Inside,” she snapped. “Pub crawlers and footballers, it’s not the Congo.”
His right hand slicked over his head. It was a wonder he had hair left. “Tart, you’re pushing the limits of my sanity. And control,” he added, his gaze raking her from head to toe.
She felt it as sure as his touch gliding down her neck, over the swell of her breasts and curve of her hip, against her legs to the tips of her pink toes. “Well, the feeling is extremely mutual.” When she turned away his hand wrapped around her wrist then eased down her palm. He interlaced their fingers and with the other began unscrewing the gas cap.
Mags shoved her left hand into her back pocket, struggling to disregard their palm kiss. It proved impossible as his fingers encased her hand. A heady sense of security and girly infatuation snookered her brain. She shifted her legs in antsy steps forward then back again, restless to move and also unwilling to lose the contact.
Law positioned the nozzle in the tank, depressed the lever then squinted at her sideways over his shoulder. “Don’t you have any pants?”
His gaze aimed at her fidgety legs. When she didn’t answer he faced her. “I thought journalists presented themselves with a little class?”
“Screw you,” she shot with little indignation, unwilling to fall prey to his bait. “These gams haven’t seen the light of day in a year. They were buttoned up in Africa for fear of enticing the wrong man. So,” she said, propping her free hand on her hip, “I’ll let them breath.”
Magdalena swooshed her legs, provoking his intense grimace. “Why, am I enticing you?”
“We need to keep a low profile and you’re drawing unwanted attention.” He replaced the tap to the stand, screwed on the cap, and then released her hand.
The withdrawal stung, but she took comfort in the brief view of his tented pants. Someone in his past hurt him deeply and the urge to track them down and beat them to death with her cricket bat kicked her already racing heart into overdrive.
Law swung a leg over the bike and eyed her. His lips parted to speak, but his phone beeped. “Hey, Khani,” he answered. The white of his
knuckles shown brightly around the black device. “Your guy was supposed to be there so this shit wouldn’t happen.” He listened for a minute, his eyes roving the horizon. “Hot-headed amateur.” His eyes rolled heavenward. “I’m five minutes out. I’ll try not to leave him with permanent damage.
“Hop on, tart. We’ve got to go.”
17
Worn leather spines lay like swept dominos on several shelves while others littered the oriental rug and old hardwood, appearing as though someone used her mother’s antique book collection like confetti at a celebration. They must have been lauding the destruction of her family’s sanctuary. Like a London alley hooker, the sofa lay on its back, skirts flapped open, ready to be taken.
Magdalena followed Law through the living area. He leaned into the kitchen, but she didn’t need to see the shattered china more closely. She’d seen enough of it in the dining room. Her father’s house mimicked her life. An upended disaster for which she could neither atone or understand.
He turned, but her blank stare into nothingness wouldn’t focus. Law’s hands cupped her shoulders, but his warmth lost the battle with her woe. His touch migrated to the base of her skull. Her scalp tingled as his fingers dove into her hair and when he tugged, pain pricked her senses. Their gazes collided only a second before his lips brushed over hers.
The haze of anguish receded, shoved aside by a thunderhead of passion. His fingers held her, a willing prisoner as his mouth cuddled hers, their lips fit together like interlocking puzzle pieces. For a moment only the air they shared and rumbling heart beats stirred. Then, as if he were tasting a dessert for the first time after years of non-indulgence, his lips tugged hers.
Magdalena’s body conformed to Law’s rigid front. Heat engulfed her lower lip as he sucked it into his mouth then laved it with the silk of his tongue. The exquisite torture device curled up the side of her upper lip and, following his touch, her mouth opened. He tilted her head and sealed their lips together. His tongue aggravated hers, much like he did when they weren’t touching. It pushed in hard then backed off to a maddening distance. When her tongue chased after his they wrestled, his always ending on top.
Justice Mine: a Base Branch Novel Page 9
