Flame's Dawn

by Jillian David

Barnaby shut the door and scrabbled around, working blind in the scant light from the hallway and outside the window that filtered under the closet door. There, he found a mail bag.

  He frigging hoped this idea worked.

  “Get in here.”

  “Get in where?” she whispered.

  “In this bag. I’m going to tie up the top and tuck you behind the rack, in the corner.”

  “What?”

  “Trust me, Jane. You’ll be safe.”

  After a gut-wrenching delay where she didn’t move for a full five seconds, she replied. “Okay.”

  She blindly patted his arm and worked her way down to his wrist, where he held the bag open. Her soft hands on his skin ignited parts of his body that had been long neglected, and he bit back a curse.

  He refused to think of anything besides her safety.

  A mere shadow in the darkness, she stepped into the empty canvas bag and crouched down. Her leather pumps brushing over his hand made his groin tighten.

  Voices and footsteps traveled down the hall. Stop thinking about your libido and concentrate on keeping Jane alive.

  Footsteps. Louder. Damn.

  The unbalanced fan continued to whir, its ineffective blades seeming to murmur for him to go faster.

  More gunshots. The entire canvas bag jumped as he cinched the drawstrings over her head.

  “You have to hold still, Jane. Even if someone comes in here, whatever you do, hold still,” he whispered.

  A muffled response served as assent.

  The steps slowed.

  Barnaby shoved her into the corner, crammed between the back wall and the end of a metal shelf.

  Opening another canvas bag, he stepped into it.

  Damnation, letters filled the bottom third of the bag.

  The fan whirred. The strains of Herman’s Hermits’ “There’s a Kind of Hush All Over the World” straggled into the closet.

  The office light clicked on, pale yellow illumination sliding beneath the closet door.

  Barnaby sweated as he worked fast to clear that canvas bag and set the mail on a shelf. He couldn’t be bothered to make it look like properly stacked postal products. His hasty shelving job would have to do.

  Another footstep. Then two.

  As quietly as he could, Barnaby clamped his jaw shut against the twinge in his arm as he opened the bag. He stepped in, but his body didn’t completely fit.

  Bloody hell.

  Glass crunched outside the closet door.

  Barnaby shoved his six-foot frame down as far into the bag as possible and raised the top of the bag.

  When he cinched the top, it stopped just above his brows. His buzzed scalp stuck out.

  The doorknob rattled, and Barnaby’s heart stopped. He bent toward Jane, hoping to heaven that the top of his head wouldn’t be visible in this position.

  After a shout in Vietnamese farther away, whoever stood outside the closet replied with foreign words.

  The metal door creaked on worn hinges. Barnaby froze.

  He was so close to her, Barnaby could hear Jane’s short, sharp breaths, muffled through the canvas, like she had her hand over her mouth. Her body shook, and he wanted to drag her into his arms and soothe her trembling.

  The door swung open, and whoever stood there muttered something in Vietnamese.

  One step, then two, closer to their hiding spot. Jane twitched, and Barnaby prayed the person at the door didn’t notice.

  At another shout from down the hall, the person in the office barked back. Crunching treads faded toward the front lobby.

  Another round of gunfire erupted. English shouts and then more footsteps pounding down the hall.

  Then silence.

  Chapter 2

  Jane couldn’t breathe. The air had turned stale in the thick cloth bag, and her legs shook with the effort to hold her crouched position. Never mind that if the VC caught her, they’d have a treasure trove of secrets the likes of which they’d never imagined. No one, not even the major, knew the extent of her work with the CIA.

  Joining the intelligence community had seemed like a good idea four years ago. But how much could a high school student really understand about a foreign country that had only been briefly covered in world history class?

  Apparently a lot and about Vietnam in particular, as her indoctrination into the CIA attested. In fact, a high school student gifted in learning languages and pattern recognition could become an operative who could contribute to the intelligence efforts here in Vietnam. However, her training hadn’t prepared her for what she’d seen in Khe Sanh. And training sure as heck hadn’t prepared her for the real possibility of death or capture.

  What about her transfer to a safer location, the embassy?

  Safer. What a total joke.

  She flinched at a loud rap outside the building. She’d gone from life in a tailspin to being part of a mission with the CIA to crawling out of a mailbag.

  Forget about direction and purpose. All she wanted now was to get out of this insane country.

  More rat-a-tats outside the building rattled her nerves.

  And to add insult to injury, that stupid old radio kept on cranking out the American Top 40 hits as if nothing was wrong. As if VC wasn’t five steps away from finding and killing her. The upbeat chorus of “Daydream Believer” taunted her on every level. Damn those space cadet Monkees.

  Judging by the volume of the shouts and pops of ammunition, fighting continued but on another floor or was being repelled outside. But she and Barnaby weren’t out of danger yet.

  Movement from the warm body leaning against hers made her jump. The rustling of the canvas seemed way too loud.

  Barnaby had done exactly as he’d promised. He’d kept her safe.

  Fear and relief crystallized into a stark need for Barnaby’s arms to slide around her and hold on tight.

  Be careful what you wish for. A date within two mailbags was not exactly what she had in mind.

  A tendril of coolness made her gulp in fresh air as Barnaby uncinched the top of the sack and helped her out of the hiding spot. His hands, strong and sure, supported her as she stepped out of the bag.

  Behind him, the closet door stood open. In the semidarkness, the office furniture loomed large and menacing, throwing shadows that could hide anything. Or anyone.

  Panic clawed at her. She should have listened to the general, should have listened to Barnaby. Should have left Vietnam after Khe Sanh. But no, she’d had this warped sense of duty. If she had no purpose, she had nothing, and her personal safety be damned.

  Even now, the communications equipment crackled in the office, daring her to continue doing her job.

  Well, forget that.

  “Are you all right?” Barnaby’s whisper caressed her as surely as if he’d touched her face.

  “Yes, thanks to you.”

  She needed him to continue to hold on to her arm. Needed the tether of his strength to keep from going to pieces. He had become her anchor in this dark closet.

  More pops and explosions, quieter now, drifted back to their hiding spot.

  “Stay or go?” he asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “Stay in this closet or try to find safety?”

  Shouts that she translated as barked VC commands came from the floor above them. Or was it down the hall? She was too frazzled to think clearly. Tremors shot through her body.

  “We don’t know what’s out there. I’m not even sure where to run to at this point.” She cursed how her voice wavered. “But we’re sitting ducks in here, if someone came back.”

  “You are correct.”

  The warmth in his tone gave her strength, while also making her want to curl up into his muscled frame and hide from the mad world.

  “Can we stay here for a while longer?” she asked.

  “That’s as good a plan as any, milady.”

  What was the deal with this guy? With her ear for language, she’d noted his accent and word choices slid in and out of
normal patterns. This wasn’t the first time she’d detected a slight English accent that he tried to hide. Who was Barnaby Blackstone?

  The man had saved her life; that’s who he was. Maybe he had his own secrets—who didn’t?—but bottom line, he had promised to keep her safe and had made good on that promise. It was a solid enough track record for Jane right at that moment.

  When he leaned away, her fingers uncurled and splayed out toward him in an unconscious movement. With effort, she pushed her hands down to her sides.

  “All right.” His low voice, a notch above a whisper, flowed over her. “I’ll just pull the door shut. Don’t worry. I won’t let anyone harm you.”

  The creak of unoiled hinges set her nerves on edge. Everyone in Southeast Asia could hear the noise.

  Once the door closed, she relaxed. Something about Barnaby’s confident manner made her believe he would stop a tank to keep her safe.

  His form was a mere shadow. Their too-loud breaths punctuated the still air.

  “Barnaby, I—thank you.”

  A pause. In the darkness, his hand returned to her arm, startling her until his thumb brushed circles over her skin. “My pleasure.”

  The shakes had set in for real now.

  “My dear, you’re shivering.”

  “Only nerves, which makes sense.” Of course it makes sense. Everything made sense to brave Jane, the girl who in high school found herself with no family, then pulled herself together and became a linguistics and pattern expert for the CIA. Wow. And just look at her now, cowering in a closet.

  “Here.”

  In the darkness, she startled at the rasp as he scooted the burlap sacks under a metal shelf. Then, with gentle, steady hands, he backed her up a step until she sagged against the corner of the closet farthest away from the door. Barnaby’s broad chest brushed against her, and she rested a hand near his heart. Each steady thud under her fingertips fortified her nerves. His stance made it obvious: Anyone who wanted to get to her would be going through him first.

  The thought both excited and unsettled her.

  “May I?” he asked, his low voice rocking her back on her heels.

  Man, he was so close to her.

  “May you what?”

  “Do this.” He snaked an arm around the small of her back and another around her shoulders.

  When he pulled her close, she gripped his shirt in two fists and held on for dear life.

  “Shush, dear. You’re safe,” he murmured, almost to himself.

  He slid his hand into the hair that had come free of her regulation bun. The sensation of his fingers on her scalp sent heavenly shivers down her spine. When he urged her head forward into the crook of his solid chest and shoulder, she nearly came apart by the tenderness of the act.

  While he crooned nonsense words, she gave in to her nerves and sagged into his muscled frame, inhaling his light cologne and potent, earthy scent. For just a few moments, maybe she didn’t have to go it alone. Maybe she didn’t have to put up a brave front and be the first to volunteer for a risky mission. Instead of searching for her purpose, she could take the comfort offered.

  Maybe she didn’t have to do everything by the book.

  They were in a closet. In a foreign country. During a war. And Charlie with guns prowled outside the office, eager to kill them.

  Regulations be damned.

  It took a few moments to register his lips whispering over her forehead. Firm but soft, his mouth traveled over her hairline, trailing warmth and pleasure.

  In the darkness, his hand tightened over her lower back, creating the slightest arch of her body toward his.

  And boy, did she like it.

  When he made another circuit of her hairline, she turned her face up and intercepted his mouth when he reached her temple.

  The brush of his lips against her lower one tilted her equilibrium. At his sharp intake of breath, she froze. Okay, she had crossed a major line. She got it.

  “I’m so sor—”

  He smothered anything she had to say with a hungry kiss that made her thankful for the wall behind her. So hard did he kiss her, when she gasped, the air she inhaled came from his body, feeding her, sustaining her.

  Even as she slid her hands to the nape of his neck and tugged him closer, he needed no encouragement, judging by the growls of male interest rumbling from his chest into her bones. She felt the vibrations all the way down to her toes.

  At an explosion in the distance, his arms tensed like iron bands, but he still held her in a gentle embrace.

  Jane couldn’t change the circumstances of their situation, but at least she could make the best of things while they hid from the VC.

  If only his kisses didn’t make her want to squeal. The one action that would put both of them in immediate danger.

  So she focused on her growing passion instead. She met his mouth, desire matching desire, as she experimented with angles and levels of pressure, testing the limits of his abilities.

  Who would’ve thought? He had no weaknesses in the kissing category. Not a one.

  As a matter of fact, he got extra points when he slid his tongue between her lips and took the kiss to a whole new level.

  Clutching at his corded shoulders, she hung on as he used his mouth in new and amazing ways. Her breasts tingled and her core ached; he had her so turned on as he transported her to a place a world away from Vietnam.

  In a single smooth move, he slid his hand under her blouse. The rasp of his palm skimming over her stomach sent her into orbit and made her strain on her tiptoes to arch into him even more. With feather light passes, he stroked her skin until she tingled with the need to have his hands on every inch of her body.

  Their breathing, his low growls, and her little gasps were the only sounds to fill the closet. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else could hurt her as long as Barnaby had her in his arms.

  “Oh my dear, you’re so sweet, so beautiful,” he groaned, rubbing his thumbs over her plain, nylon bra.

  When he rolled a nipple between his fingers, she would have collapsed if not for his strong arm anchoring her to his heated torso.

  Exactly as it should be.

  The thought rocked her to the core. They fit perfectly.

  He dipped a hand lower, over her hip, and ran a fingertip under the hem of her skirt.

  “Barnaby,” she breathed. The hand disappeared, leaving a void that craved his touch. “What’s wrong?”

  He stroked her hair. “Nothing at all, my dear. I’m just ... you’re an amazing woman. I want to ... but I won’t if you don’t— Just know that I understand if ... Criminy.” He groaned and rested his chin on the top of her head.

  “Don’t stop on my behalf.” No more coloring between the lines. They only had right now, and she wanted him, plain and simple.

  “Are you sure?”

  She groped for his hand in the darkness and hooked it under her skirt.

  “Completely certain.”

  Chapter 3

  Forget the knife lust, Barnaby’s mind had become consumed with another hunger altogether. The ever-present need to kill had been surmounted by his need for Jane. Not since 1553 had he wanted a woman so badly.

  Not any woman, but Jane, this woman with a fierce commitment to her job despite personal danger, a sweet smile that greeted him every morning, and a body that seemed designed to nestle perfectly against his own.

  Speaking of which, when she gave that breathy sigh against his mouth, the perfection of the sound sent a jolt of desire into his hard cock.

  He slid his fingers inward along the skirt fabric. The heat between her legs felt like the sweetest, most perfect warmth, and he inched his fingers upward. Her delicate floral scent, like those yellow apricot flowers here in Saigon, surrounded him.

  God’s teeth, what he’d give to see her treasures for himself! But without light, his other senses became amplified, as if his mind wanted to imprint the memory of her into his soul. Every sound she made set his nerves on edge. Every
sweep of his rough palm over her silky skin elicited an answering tightness in his groin. The tiny noises she held back as they both tried to remain unheard ... he wanted to be inside of her posthaste.

  When she gripped his arm where the bullet had passed through, he couldn’t reconcile the mixture of pain from his rapidly healing wound and the pleasure of her hands on his body. He wanted more of her contradictions—pleasure with pain, sweet but seductive, soft and tough. Her invasion of his senses threatened to render him senseless. He had to have more of her.

  Hooking her undergarment with a finger, he slowly drew the lightweight fabric down her legs until she stepped out of it.

  The wondrous world of her flesh and her pleasure was his to explore. Verily, he wanted to feast upon her, take his time, draw out her passion. But whatever might occur outside the door necessitated a more time-sensitive encounter tonight.

  As he brushed a finger over her core, he absorbed the surprised gasp with his mouth. She was eager for him if her pelvis rocking against his hand was any indication.

  Leaning back to unzip his pants, he thanked the holy host that modern garments had much faster access for times like this.

  He couldn’t see it, but his cock, hard and ready, pointed toward Jane. Obviously, it knew what it wanted.

  He leaned into her, his damp tip brushing over her soft flesh before it stopped at her closed thighs. She shifted and bumped against the wall.

  With the close quarters, he needed a creative solution to this untenable conundrum. Patting over the shelving in the closet, he found a solid metal level that would do brilliantly.

  “Lift your leg a bit,” he whispered.

  She nipped and licked his lip, making him forget his name. Then she complied, and he directed her foot and trim ankle to a shelf a few feet off the ground.

  Another stroke of her soft flesh, and she trembled enough to rattle the shelving. He separated her folds and nudged the head of his cock into her slick core.

  Pressing her bent leg outward, he swiveled her hips to accept more of his shaft. Heaven and hell shot through his body at the contact, and he wanted to drive into her, mark her as his own, and fill her completely. With brute force of willpower, he held his Indebted strength in check. Barely.