Covert Evidence

by Rachel Grant

  She bit her bottom lip. “Maybe. But I doubt we’ll be able to open it, not without tools and a team of workers. My goal for this trip was just to locate it. Then use Lidar next year to map the length.”

  As a poker player, Ian didn’t like the odds. But at this point, he had no other hand to play. “We’re ditching the bike. We’ll rest during the heat of the day and start walking in the late afternoon. For lack of a better plan, we’ll head to your tunnel.” He patted the ground next to him. “We may as well rest in the shade while we can.” He refused to acknowledge the reason he urged her to his side was because he wanted to be next to her.

  He had a feeling he’d never recover from meeting Cressida. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to.

  Walking south was far more pleasant than the bumpy motorcycle ride, except Ian missed the press of Cressida’s thighs and the feel of her hands on his hips. When they rode, every bump and bounce was a reminder that she was with him. That they were alive.

  And in spite of everything, he was pretty damn grateful to be alive.

  The burn had ached less on the motorcycle, as his pack had been tucked in a saddlebag, but walking forced him to wear the forty-pound pack crammed with weapons and survival gear, and even though Cressida had tripled the layers of gauze, there was no avoiding the rub of pack on wound.

  But the pain was yet another sign he was alive, so he accepted it without complaint.

  It was half-past dark, and they’d covered at least ten rugged miles when Ian saw a campfire lit in the distance. They finally drew close enough for him to discern the camp configuration. He stopped and held a hand out to halt Cressida.

  “What…?”

  “Sweetheart, would you like something other than trail mix for dinner tonight?”

  Her brows drew together. “That depends. Is that a friend of yours?”

  “Nope. Never met them before in my life. They’re Kurdish nomads. Shepherds. You’ll never meet kinder, more giving people. Best of all, they won’t have phones, TV, radio, or computers. They won’t have seen our pictures on the news. Given we’ve got about forty miles of walking ahead of us and need to refresh our supplies, I think we’d be wise to accept any charity they offer.”

  She smiled, and her shoulders relaxed a bit. “So what’s our story?”

  “It’s doubtful they speak English, so you don’t have to worry about memorizing a role. Odds are they’re Sunni Muslims. We’ll say we’re married and on vacation.” He cut a glance her way. “We’ll go with the honeymoon cover again. Everyone’s a sap for newlyweds.”

  As they walked, he took her hand and threaded his fingers through hers. “This is how they would expect American newlyweds to walk.”

  Her fingers tightened around his. “They wouldn’t be bothered by the public display of affection?”

  “Hand-holding is common in the Arab world. Men hold men’s hands here as a sign of friendship. While a man holding a woman’s hand isn’t as common, we’re Americans, and even Kurdish nomads are familiar with Americans and our relaxed social mores. If we want to sell them on the fact that we’re married, we need to look like what they’d expect to see.”

  She halted midstride, their entwined fingers forcing him to stop too. “So, you mean I can do this in front of our potential Kurdish hosts?” Cressida released his hand and slid her arms around his neck, then planted her lips on his. Her tongue invaded his mouth. Sweet, hot, and sexy as hell.

  He cradled her face between his hands and slid his tongue over hers. This. He needed this. She gave him a taste of everything he’d given up for his career. Everything he could never have.

  He ended the kiss before he completely forgot himself. If all went well with the nomads, not only would they have all night, they’d even have a bed.

  “So is that a yes?” Cressida asked.

  He shook his head, trying to remember what the hell they were talking about. Oh yeah, PDAs in the nomad camp. He cleared his throat. “Um. No. That would be a bad idea. In fact, you’ll probably be expected to hang out with the women and keep your hair covered.”

  There’d been no need for her to wear her headscarf so far, but she’d kept it with her and pulled it out of the pack now and draped it over her hair. Ian arranged it into the proper drape.

  Her wide mocha eyes caught the moonlight, and he held in a breath to even out the gut-clenching awareness that this was no ordinary attraction.

  He took her hand and continued toward the campfire that beckoned. “I’ll tell them we’re here to visit my motherland—my mom was an ethnic Kurd. We ran out of gas when I got it in my head that it would be fun to go off road and explore. You’ll pout and show you’re annoyed with me for insisting on the dangerous adventure.”

  They walked in companionable silence, the light of the fire growing brighter with each step. “So my handsome new husband led me astray on our rental bike. We were on our way to meet your cousins on our honeymoon to fulfill your granny’s dying wish.”

  “I like that. Nice attention to detail, without being too elaborate.”

  “Why did I agree to fulfill your granny’s wish on my one and only honeymoon?”

  “I promised you a five-star hotel in Istanbul. And a Turkish bath. And to satisfy you in every way.”

  Her breath hitched. “That would do it.” She squeezed his hand as they drew nearer the camp. “So. Am I mad at you for our predicament, or too infatuated to care?”

  “With me as your husband? Infatuated. Obviously.”

  He glanced sideways and caught her eye roll.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s your fault,” he added. “You wanted to go off-road.”

  “Please. A woman who wants a five-star hotel and sex isn’t going to beg to ride off-road on terrain likely to make you a soprano.”

  “Sweetheart, there’s no need to worry in that department.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  Her throaty chuckle sent a jolt of desire straight to his groin. In the midst of the most messed-up op ever, he was…enjoying himself. Huh. That was a first.

  They approached the camp. Ian cradled her hand in both of his as he hailed the nomadic shepherds in their language and said a silent prayer that these people were exactly who they appeared to be.

  He was sick to death of surprises and betrayal.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Cressida’s heart pounded as they entered the camp. It was late. Dark. Four men sat around the fire. One held a drum, another a sitar—or something like it, Cressida wasn’t sure—and the soft music came to an abrupt stop when Ian hailed them.

  She had no clue what Ian said, but his manner was congenial—very John, if she were to analyze him—and his tone upbeat. The men smiled and ate his John act up. Cressida was whisked off to join the women. As far as she could tell, this was a group of four or five families. The cluster of tents was more permanent than an overnight camp, but, as Ian had said, no electricity. No modern conveniences.

  The women spoke rapidly, and Cressida couldn’t understand a word. But a plate of food was set before her, and after hours of walking, her appetite had returned. She thanked the women profusely for the warm, spicy meal. A few of the dishes were similar to foods she had tried in Van when she had dinner with John—a lifetime ago.

  After the meal, the women presented her with a basin of heated water, and she realized they were offering her a bath. A cloth soaked with perfumed water was the most heavenly thing she’d ever smelled—until she was handed a homemade bar of soap with inclusions that looked like flower petals and herbs. Never in her life had she enjoyed the spicy, warm scent of soap as much as she did at that moment.

  The women left her alone with hot water and the most precious bar of soap in the world, which she used to scrub her skin and work lather through her hair. When the women returned, they dressed her in a peasant blouse and skirt. Embroidered in the local custom, the cloth had to be valuable, and she protested. But the women didn’t understand,
and she didn’t want to insult them. So she donned the clothing, tying the laces across the bodice. The cotton garments were clean, soft, and comfortable.

  Fed, clean, and clothed, she was led to another tent—this one slightly farther from the others, and from their knowing glances and occasional giggles, she had a feeling she and Ian were being given special accommodations because they were on their honeymoon.

  Unlike the goat-hair tent where she’d been fed and bathed, her new tent had tapestry walls. The main piece of furniture in the square room was a futon-like pallet. Beside it sat a low table surrounded by pillows. The floors were covered with elaborately woven kilims.

  Beautiful and exotic on a normal occasion, after days on the run, the tent represented paradise. And she’d be sharing it with her…husband. They had stopped running, even if only for one night.

  Now it was time for her to stop running and take what she wanted. It was time to pause and enjoy a moment of pleasure with Ian. After all, they could die tomorrow.

  The women left her, and she sat on the pillows by the table and poured herself a cup of tea. Ian would join her soon. Her body heated at the thought of acting on the sexual current that had pushed her toward him from the moment she met his gaze across a crowded airport terminal. Of finally reaching the release that had coiled in her since they’d almost made love in the shower in Siirt.

  She sipped her tea and waited.

  And waited.

  The tea turned cold. The music outside the tent continued. An hour passed. She stretched out on the futon. Her eyes felt heavy, and she couldn’t keep them open.

  The music stopped sometime while she dozed. She woke up to silence and wondered where Ian was.

  He wasn’t coming.

  Maybe he’d left her. Maybe he’d tucked her safely away with these people she couldn’t communicate with. Maybe he was gone. He’d abandoned her…

  Hurt and fear rocked her to the core.

  How humiliating to be abandoned by her fake husband on her fake honeymoon, right before they were about to do some very real consummating.

  The canvas curtain door shifted, and Ian entered the tent. Relief flooded her but didn’t eclipse the fear of abandonment that had struck with shocking speed. “Damn you!” she growled as she launched herself at him. She grabbed his shirt and pulled him to her, pressing against the chest she’d feared she’d never get to touch again.

  “Did you miss me?” he asked.

  She released his shirt. “No. Why would I?”

  He smiled a devilish, carnal smile. “Because you want me.”

  “Maybe I did, before you left me alone—for hours.”

  He moved closer. “I was ingratiating myself with our host.” He shrugged. “Working. Protecting your ass.” He smiled and reached for the named body part.

  She stepped out of his reach. “The music ended a while ago.”

  “Ten minutes isn’t a while. And I took a walk.” His voice lowered. “So I could get you something.”

  She eyed the hand he’d tucked behind his back, as if he reached for his pistol. What kind of game was he playing? “I already have a gun.”

  His smile deepened as he produced a fistful of wildflowers. “For you.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath. A ragged bunch of flowers had never looked prettier. She took them from him and held them to her face, breathing in their fresh scent. “You were picking wildflowers?”

  He nodded. “I can’t wine and dine you, but I could at least get you flowers.”

  In the middle of this crazy, scary nightmare, Ian had gone off into the night to gather flowers? She clutched the handful of blossoms even tighter in her fist.

  He took a step toward her. “I’m used to being alone. It’s how I’ve always been. Now, my world has exploded. I’ve been burned. Yet all I want is you. I don’t want to be alone when I can be with you.”

  Cressida’s breath caught.

  “Sooooo…you want to finish what you started in Siirt?” he asked.

  She laughed at his quick emotional retreat and set the flowers on the table. She planted herself before him. “You didn’t need the flowers. All you had to do was step inside the tent.”

  He stroked her cheek. “Yeah, but I wanted to see you smile when I gave you the flowers. Because your smile is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Ian caught Cressida up against him and took in her sexy, sweet scent. They were safe, and would remain so for at least a day. During this respite, he planned to explore Cressida Porter. Thoroughly.

  She slid her hands around his neck. “Tell me one thing, Ian. One thing to make me believe in you.”

  “In Antalya, I wanted to break cover when I realized you were Hejan’s pigeon. Something about you…struck me. I didn’t want you caught up in this mess. But all I could do was hold you back when the fight broke out, to keep you from getting hurt.”

  Her eyes widened. “That was you?”

  “Yes.”

  Her voice turned husky. “If I’d met you that night…things might have gone differently.”

  He shook his head. “You would have met John.”

  “That’s too bad, then,” she whispered in a throaty voice, “because I’m not interested in John. I want Ian.”

  “John isn’t here. Poor bastard was killed in an apartment in Siirt.” Ian’s heart pounded, and he wondered why. This was just a joining of bodies. A respite. One he desperately wanted, but not vital.

  Yet somehow, this moment felt vital. Like he was baring his soul, not just his body. It was crazy, but still, he felt it, the pounding heart, the windup of increasing tension. He was coiled tight, ready to spring. Ready to touch. Taste. Own.

  Cressida reached for his shirt and pulled it up, over his head. She purred softly and stroked his pecs and biceps. He couldn’t help but flex and flash a smile. “Yours. All yours.”

  “What do you want in return?”

  He tugged at the ties on her peasant blouse. “You. All of you.”

  “You aren’t asking much.”

  “I’m giving everything and asking for the same.”

  “Okay, then.”

  He undid the bow above her breasts to open the embroidered top. She didn’t wear a bra, so the split blouse exposed her high, round breasts and nipples waiting to be tasted. He cradled her breasts, rubbing his thumbs across the tight peaks, while his lips trailed down her neck, across her soft cleavage, finally stopping to suck one nipple into his mouth, then the other.

  Her fingers threaded through his hair as she let out soft panting breaths. He raised his head and kissed her deeply. They had all night, and he intended to enjoy every minute.

  Starting with tasting all of her. He pulled the blouse over her head and tossed it aside, then dropped to his knees. His hands skimmed her flat belly, then tugged down the full skirt that hid the part of her he ached for. From her scent, he knew she was aroused and ready. A sweetness that was pure, sexy Cressida. He almost felt a buzz as all the blood in his body surged to his cock. Lightheaded and hard, he reached for her sexy lace panties and slid them down her smooth thighs.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said with all the reverence he felt.

  “You already know you’re getting laid. You don’t need to lay it on so thick.”

  He sat back on his heels and looked up at her. She was serious. More than serious. She was…self-conscious. How could she be? She was perfect. Stunning. Every fantasy he’d ever had—on steroids.

  He stroked between her thighs, touching the slick heat he couldn’t wait to taste. She let out a soft moan, but he sensed she was still nervous, not relaxed enough to enjoy the invasion of his tongue. “I’m telling you the truth. You’re beautiful. Perfect. Sexy.” He stood and took her hand, leading it to his thick cock trapped in his now very uncomfortable jeans. “See what you do to me?”

  “Even a perfect Delta Force spy will get hard when presented with a naked woman.”

  “Not like this—”

  She pressed her fi
ngers to his lips. “Just shut up and kiss me.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said and followed orders. He opened his mouth and explored hers with his tongue, groaning at the sweet taste of her. Even more arousing was her response. Sexy heat and soft sounds. The mewing noise she made in the back of her throat only made him harder. “Touch me,” he said against her lips.

  Her hands slid down his bare chest and cupped his erection through his jeans. Why was he still wearing jeans? He murmured hot promises in her ear, what he intended to do to her, but mostly, how he intended to make her feel.

  She purred and sucked on his tongue as she opened the buttons of his fly. Then her soft hand pulled him free and stroked the length of him, while her other hand shifted to cradle his balls. Intense pleasure pulled a low growl from his throat.

  She pushed him toward the pallet and he realized he was not the one in charge of this encounter. Cressida had always been in charge. And now she was proving it. She could do anything. Demand anything. And he’d give it to her. Hell, he’d probably even break cover if she asked.

  She’d bewitched him with her amazing mix of innocence and sexy. And he was ready to finally have a taste. He pulled back from her touch and nudged her to the bed. “No. I’m seducing you.” He followed her onto the low futon. “And you’re going to scream my name—my real name—before I enter you.”

  “Who are you again?” she asked and let out a naughty laugh.

  He narrowed his gaze. “You’ll pay for that, missy.” He placed his hand between her thighs, sliding his fingers along her slick opening and stopping on her clit. Humor left her as she let out a soft pant. “Ian,” she said.

  “More,” he demanded.

  “Ian Boyd.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want Ian Boyd.” She sucked in a sharp breath as his finger flicked across her clit. “Inside me.” He stroked again. “Now.”

  He smiled. Damn, Cressida Porter was the hottest, sexiest thing he’d ever seen. He scooted lower and slid his tongue over her clit. She bucked upward, against his mouth. He licked her soft folds, savoring the sweetness and slick peach texture, as he pressed his tongue inside her.