by Kaylea Cross
A group of children ran toward them dressed in brightly colored garments and smiling gap-toothed smiles.
“Hello.” Dempsey smiled and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “What language do they speak?” he asked her.
“Probably a mix of Wakhi and Kyrgyz.”
He grunted, which suggested his skills didn’t include those two obscure languages.
“Some of them speak English,” she added.
They marched into the center of the tiny village and a little man came to the door of his house and smiled at them widely. He wore two jackets and a knitted cap, his features those of ancient Mongolia. The others wore an eclectic mixture of clothes from the traditional to a soccer jersey pulled tight over several layers of sweaters. The man in the doorway, clearly the chief elder, chattered at them in his own language. Axelle pulled her hat more firmly over her hair until it was covered. The people here were moderate in their religious beliefs but she didn’t want to offend.
Dempsey said, “I need a telephone, and my wife and I need somewhere to rest.” He put his hands together and leaned his head to the side, mimicking sleep.
She swallowed the knot that formed in her throat at the words. The man was nodding and trying to drag Dempsey into his house for tea while the women urged her to follow them.
“Go,” she said. “I doubt the guy would take on the whole village.” She could barely keep her eyes open anyway.
“I’ll be there as soon as I’ve radioed HQ.”
She nodded gratefully. She knew he’d check on Anji and Josef too. And her leopards. The weight of guilt wanted to crush her—so many had died so that Dmitri Volkov could lure her here a few months early. Who had he been talking to on the sat phone? Her father? Or someone else?
The women showed her into a hut. Before she went inside she noticed Dempsey watching her from the doorway of the other hut. He smiled then turned away. Her heart hurt. She could hear him asking for a radio or telephone. The women ushered her inside and she asked to use the facilities, which were as basic as she’d expected. After she’d cleaned up, they gave her some clean clothes but she was too tired to get undressed. She pulled back the heavy cloth curtain to reveal a rich red blanket spread on top of a roughly constructed platform. It was as close to a real bed as she was likely to get in this place and she wanted to kiss the ground in relief. She nodded her thanks and, as soon as they left her alone, she fell face-first onto the bed and was asleep in seconds.
* * *
Reports were Volkov survived the bombing raid.
Jonathon stepped from his car outside Lucinda Allworth’s Suffolk home and ran his fingers through his hair. Security was subtle but thorough and he had to show ID to a protection officer before he was even allowed to knock on the door. He hadn’t called ahead. Didn’t want to give her the opportunity to refuse to see him. He knew that if he turned up on the doorstep she was English enough to invite him in for a cup of tea.
“Jonathon?” She opened the door, looking thin and delicate in a pretty cotton dress covered with summer flowers. “Come in.” She smiled and waved to her security detail before stepping away from the door and ushering him inside.
He leaned forward to kiss her cheek and she blushed. She’d always been an oddly shy creature. Pretty, but almost embarrassed about it.
“You look beautiful, Lucinda, but then again you always did.” He let his gaze warm as his eyes swept over her. His skin prickled with unexpected desire. This wasn’t going to be a chore at all. He was old. He wasn’t dead.
“Oh.” She touched her cheek and blushed. He contained a smile. She always acted so…surprised when he gave her compliments. You’d think he’d never kissed her or seen her naked.
“How are you, my dear? Coping with the circus?” He closed the door and followed her through to the kitchen. She was always baking, and the smell of scones scented the air. No wonder Sebastian had needed to lose a few pounds. Maybe if he hadn’t been so fat he could have escaped that bullet. Maybe not. Jonathon pursed his lips.
It was Volkov’s fault. All of it.
“I would have brought you champagne to celebrate David’s victory, but I remembered you don’t drink.”
“It was all rather super, Jonathon.” Her eyes sparkled at him. “I did actually have a few glasses the night of the election.” And was probably dragged out of the hall and stuffed in a taxi before she’d ended up on the breakfast news, nissed as a pewt.
He touched her arm. A calculated move. Comfort and interest. Enough of both to gauge her reaction to him—to them. “Sebastian would have been proud, my dear. You’ve done a wonderful job with your son.”
She smiled sadly and touched his hand. “Not many people remember Sebastian anymore.” She chewed on her bottom lip, then met his gaze. “Sometimes I think you and I are the only people who knew he existed.”
Jonathon moved closer, saw her eyes flicker with sudden awareness.
“I’ll never forget him, Lucy. I loved him. He’s with me every single day.” He touched his heart, then tipped her chin and slowly leaned closer. “I tried to forget you, but after I saw you on the news I had to come.” He kissed her gently. Eased her into the idea of heat and passion. She kissed him back, this hollow little woman in her pretty dress in her sweet country kitchen. She kissed him back and he was going to reward her by making slow sweet love to her and then, in the dark depth of night, he’d confess his deepest darkest secret—that Sebastian hadn’t died in a plane crash at all. Instead he’d been killed by the same monster who’d tried to blow him to smithereens in Yemen. A monster who’d risen from the grave.
He sank his hand into her hair and nipped gently at her mouth and started backing her up the stairs toward the same bedroom she’d once shared with her husband. And this sweet little woman was going to grasp wholeheartedly onto the idea of revenge for her husband’s killer because she’d be feeling guilty about the pleasure Jonathon was about to give her in ways fat old Sebastian had only ever dreamed of.
Well, maybe they both deserved a little fun in their dotage.
And once she found out this new truth, she’d run to her son, the Prime Minister, and he’d stop at nothing to avenge his late father. And they could all live happily ever after. Except Dmitri, because he’d be dead.
* * *
Dempsey walked up to the small hut they’d been given for the night, gritting his teeth with frustration. The village’s Soviet-era radio wasn’t working and there were no satellite phones to call HQ. As far as the Regiment was concerned he might as well be dead. He assumed his GPS was still sending out a signal, but with a mysterious hit squad after them that signal was as likely to kill them as save them. Still, there were other troopers in the Wakhan Corridor and it wouldn’t be long before some of them caught up to him. Then they could pursue the subject—a sixty-three-year-old demon with a bullet hole somewhere in his hide—who’d so far managed to kick Dempsey’s ass.
They were a different breed, that generation, pure gristle and spite. Like his da. The only time he’d ever seen his old man break was when he’d found out Siobhan was dead, and that hadn’t lasted long.
He yawned, his jaw cracking. Except for a snatched hour here and there, he hadn’t slept properly in days and he was starting to drag. When adrenalin was pumping you didn’t need much sleep. In the relative safety of the village, he figured he had little choice but to finally drop his guard and get a few hours’ kip.
He pushed in through the thick curtain that formed the door and strode to the drape that divided the room. The paraffin lantern the village elder had given him created an intimate atmosphere. He exhaled a long slow breath when he saw Axelle fast asleep on the bed. To the consternation of his hosts he’d sat with a view of the hut the whole time he ate. Volkov was the wiliest bastard he’d come up against in years and he worried about Axelle’s safety.
But she was okay. She was more than okay.
He didn’t remember the last time a woman had affected him like this. Maybe
never. He put the tea they’d given him beside the bed. Smiled at the vision she made asleep. Like any old combat veteran she slept with her boots and hat on. He dropped down to the bed and rubbed his eyes.
She stirred.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said.
She blinked awake and pushed into a sitting position, pulled off her hat and dragged her mussed hair over one shoulder. She suddenly looked young. Not kickass and capable. Dark circles smudged tired eyes. The set of her chin looked uncertain for once, not ready to take on every adversary.
“There’s no working radio or satellite dish within twenty miles.” He sounded as disgusted as he felt.
“These people have next to nothing.”
He handed her his canteen of water and she took a drink. They were way beyond the social niceties.
“How they survive here is beyond me,” she said.
“I was going to ask why the hell do they stay here but having visited the rest of Afghanistan, this place has some advantages.”
“It used to.” Her dark eyes haunted him. “Maybe not so much anymore.”
He shrugged out of his backpack, which felt like it had been welded to his back. “The military only want Volkov. They won’t stay unless there’s a reason.”
“It doesn’t bother you?” Her eyes drifted away from his.
“What?”
“Being sent on a mission to kill someone.”
“I wasn’t sent on a mission to kill anyone. I was sent to capture him.” He closed his mouth, pissed he’d admitted that much.
She smiled. Knew she’d got him. “Dead or alive though, right?”
He rubbed his hands over his eyes then rested his elbows on his knees. “Axelle, you’re a smart woman. You know there are times when we can’t all hold hands and sing ‘Kumbaya.’” He decided to tell her the truth because he wanted her armed with real knowledge in case she had to face this bastard again—especially if he wasn’t there to help her. The thought tore at his guts. “Volkov went AWOL from the Red Army and joined the mujahedeen in late 1980. When that fight was over, he was still so full of bloodlust he sought out Islamic militants and taught them the basics of bomb-making, which they’re now using to terrorize governments and civilians around the globe. I don’t care what his reasons were. Perhaps he’s misunderstood, but I don’t give a rat’s arse. I spent my life protecting people and he’s spent his trying to destroy them. There is no redemption for a man like that, no matter the circumstances.”
She sat staring at him, her eyes wide with understanding rather than the horror of killing she’d expressed earlier. He’d said more than he should but after being kidnapped she was due some sort of explanation. Not that the bosses would see it that way.
“Are we staying here overnight or are we leaving?” Her eyes were still bleary, but she was clearly ready to go if they needed to. But, Christ, he was toast.
“Let’s get a few hours’ sleep, and we’ll slip out before dawn.” He wasn’t sure they’d find a safer spot than this anywhere close by. He felt exposed but there was only one of him—he couldn’t stay awake indefinitely.
He undid the laces on her boots and pulled off one, then the other. He rubbed her feet and she groaned, and he tried to ignore what the sound did to him deep in the pit of his belly. “Go back to sleep. I’ve got a few things to do before I get any rest.”
He checked each of his weapons and made sure they were clean and loaded and within arm’s reach. He went outside and did a quick perimeter check of the village, seeing what everyone was up to and if anything seemed out of place. He didn’t know if the people here were fooled by the cover story he’d given them—that he and his wife were on a hiking trip from her camp for their honeymoon. Hell, he didn’t even know whether they’d understood any of his words, but they’d eyeballed his weapons with a healthy dose of respect and Dempsey figured they recognized the gear of a professional soldier when they saw it.
Though he’d never told them he wasn’t a soldier. He’d just said he was Axelle’s husband—something he didn’t want to dwell on. Back in the hut he bent down and undid his boots. Slipped them off with his socks. Drank a sip of his lukewarm tea. Unstrapped his body armor and placed it on the floor beside his other stuff. Damn, he was tired. He figured he’d better keep his T-shirt and trousers on, else his reflex reaction to Axelle might scare the shit out of her if she woke and found him pressed against her like some horny git.
He turned back to the bed expecting her to be asleep. She wasn’t. She lay watching him with an expression that made his heart stand still for three hopeful beats.
“You ever been married before?” Her voice was soft and a little bit husky.
He cleared his throat. “No. The army doesn’t go well with marriage and I’ve never met anyone…” He stopped, disconcerted. “Is this difficult for you, pretending to be married to a man like me?” He’d known it might be but had ignored it. He needed to keep her safe, whatever the cost.
A sad smile curved her lips. “We were only actually married for a year and he was gone for half of that.” The pain was there though, beneath the surface.
He sat and didn’t break eye contact. “I’m sorry.”
She nodded. There was nothing he could say that would make up for what she’d lost. Shit happened. People died every day. They died crossing the road, eating unwashed vegetables and sneaking off to the market to meet boyfriends they weren’t supposed to have.
He lay down and closed his eyes. He could feel her beside him. Her breath soft against his arm. Her knees brushing his as she curled toward him. Trusting him because of what they’d been through together.
Somehow—inconceivably—he’d bonded with this fiercely independent woman. They’d become partners in survival, and those feelings merged with desire in his head to create something mind-blowingly complex and yet utterly simple. Her hand crept down to meet his and their fingers entwined and locked.
“Dempsey.” Her voice was soft in his ear.
She was driving him crazy and she didn’t even know it. “I’m trying to sleep.”
“I haven’t thanked you, for everything you’ve done since we met.”
His heart banged like a teenage boy having his first wet dream. “I’m just doing my job.”
He felt her nod then he felt her hand on his stomach and his heart about stopped.
“It’s more than that.” Her hand rested lightly on his shirt. She’s trying to get warm, idiot. Then her hand traveled south and he didn’t have to second-guess her intentions any longer.
“Axelle…” He groaned as she touched him. He’d dreamed about her stroking him there, like that. He lay, afraid to move because he might already be asleep and this could be a hell of a dream, except dreams didn’t feel this hot, and dreams didn’t smell like an exotic mix of honey and silk. Her hand slipped to the waistband of his trousers, and she started undoing buckles and buttons.
Oh, fuck. Put a gun in his hands, he was fine. Give him this woman and he was lost. Blood pumped. Flesh burned. He was too scared to move. He wanted her so badly, lust crawled over his skin and licked its way over his body in a wanton feast. Her fingers unsnapped his pants and suddenly she was touching him without any barriers, and his eyes flashed open. He grabbed her wrist and twisted her flat onto her back. He drilled his gaze into hers. “You don’t owe me this sort of thanks.”
“What if I want you?” She blinked away a sudden sparkle of moisture from her eyes. “What if, for the first time since my husband died, I actually want a man?” Her lips trembled as she fought with emotions.
He couldn’t stand to see the anguish in her gaze. He already knew what she’d lost. And he felt the echo of that loss because it was something he’d never have. He lowered his lips to hers, tracing the outline, memorizing the texture and taste.
Her lips parted on a sigh. “We don’t need promises or rings. Give me something good to remember.”
There was no way he could deny her. Who was he kidding? He
didn’t want to try.
“I almost died today and can’t even remember what it feels like to have an orgasm.”
“Really?” His voice broke. So much for Mr. Macho. She was kissing him, those soft pink lips nibbling his skin, and he was remembering how amazing she’d looked naked through the scope of his rifle. How desperately he wanted to touch her skin. Giving her an orgasm would be his pleasure
“Do you have a condom?” she asked.
He reached into one of his zippered pockets and pulled out a foil package. “They’re standard issue.” He would have explained the 101 uses of condoms but she took it from his fingers. She was going too fast and at the same time not fast enough. He wanted to be inside her, but he also wanted this to last more than five seconds.
She was about to rip it open when he stopped her. “Wait.” Hungry for the sight of her bare skin he started peeling off her shirt and pushed aside the material only to be confounded by another T-shirt.
“Good God, woman, how many layers are you wearing?” He pushed the shirt off her shoulders, then lifted the T-shirt over her head.
She sat in the lamplight in her plain black sports bra and baggy trousers. He watched the swell of her breasts rise and fall. Heard the catch in her throat as he touched her smooth skin with his calloused finger—so soft. Her nipples pressed against the cotton and he lowered his head to taste her.
The press of beaded nipple against his tongue had lust ripping through him. His hands molding her body, he pulled her closer, tasting every inch of skin he could find. She tugged at his shirt, trying to drag it over his back but he wasn’t helping, he was too busy unclipping the fastenings of her bra, his heart pounding like a machinegun.
This was a mistake.
He was letting down his guard at a time when he should be on high alert. And his brain felt like he’d been dipped in anesthetic because he was so tired.
But it might be the best mistake he’d ever made.
