by Susan Mann
“I can get behind that,” she said, thrilled by this turn of events. Quinn took her place on the couch again and set her computer aside.
James plopped down next to her and uncorked the bottle with a loud pop. He filled the flutes with the effervescing wine and handed one to her. A sweet tone chimed when they clinked the glasses together.
She sipped the sweet drink, enjoying the sensation of bubbles exploding over her tongue. “Being seduced by a suave, sophisticated spy with champagne and chocolate in a hotel room? I feel like a Bond girl.”
“Seduced? I’m afraid you’ve misread my intentions.” He picked up the remote and pointed it at the TV. It flickered to life with the push of a button. “This is all about watching some quality Punjabi programming.”
“Uh-huh,” she deadpanned. She snuggled into James’s arm curled around her shoulders and sipped her drink.
He channel-surfed until he settled on what appeared to be a Punjabi soap opera. A highly attractive man and a stunning woman shared a dramatic moment over a piece of roti.
James swiped a strawberry through the whipped cream and held it in front of her mouth. Quinn went to bite into it, but she stopped herself. “Ravi warned us about fresh fruit.”
“It’s okay. They wash all their fruits and vegetables with a special solution. Stood there and watched them do it.”
“You’re brilliant.” Quinn bit into the strawberry. Intense flavor exploded over her tongue. “Wow, that’s sweet.”
“Grown here in Punjab, that’s why.” James ate the rest of the strawberry. “That is good.”
“Told you.” She downed the rest of her champagne and exchanged the flute for the parfait glass. She spooned a blob of mousse into her mouth. The airy texture was a perfect balance to the sweetness of the chocolate. Humming with happiness, she took another bite and watched James toss a raspberry in his mouth.
“You have a little chocolate right . . .” He pointed to the corner of his mouth.
She let his words hang in the air before finally saying, “Maybe you could get it for me.”
He reached out to swipe at it with a finger.
“Nuh-uh. Think outside the box.”
His eyebrow twitched. He leaned in and gently, torturously moved the tip of his tongue over the corner of her mouth. A rumble burbled up from deep in his chest. She expected him to escalate things. To her surprise, he sat back and finished off his glass of champagne. He might have been trying to affect a relaxed, blasé posture, but she knew he was up to something when she saw how his eyes twinkled.
Two could play that game.
Her movements deliberate and measured, she set the mousse on the table and refilled both flutes. After sipping more champagne, she swiped her crooked finger through the mousse, stuck it in her mouth, and closed her lips around it. Her finger lingered before she slowly slid it out through pursed lips.
James’s pupils dilated.
“I don’t want to hog it all.” She dipped her finger into the chocolate concoction again and put it in his awaiting mouth.
He held her gaze as he sucked on her finger. Every inch of her insides quivered.
After a moment, she slipped it out, picked up a plump strawberry, and loaded it with the dessert. She dragged it along James’s neck, leaving a trail of mousse from his ear to his collarbone.
“You got a little . . .” She bit into the strawberry.
“Maybe you could get that for me.”
She tossed the stem away and pressed her open mouth to his neck. In no hurry, she lingered over him, enthralled by the sweetness of the mousse and the saltiness of his skin. With each lick, each kiss, each nip, she felt his muscles grow more taut.
Already stretched to the limit, he snapped when she nibbled his earlobe. Exactly how it happened, she didn’t know, but she was flat on her back with James on top of her. She stared into his eyes and awaited him with inviting, parted lips. He gazed down at her for a long moment before slowly lowering his head. Her eyelids fluttered closed at the delicious torture of his lips lightly brushing over hers.
She threaded her fingers through his hair and brought his head down, opening her mouth a little wider. Heat spread through her as their tongues and lips met in one sensual kiss after another.
James shifted, angled his head, and deepened his kiss. His hand slipped under the hem of her top and glided over her belly. She released a pleasured moan when his fingertips drifted under the fabric of her bra.
Every inch of her body throbbed in time with her pounding heart. Her tongue moved deeper while her fingers worked the button and zipper of his trousers. She slid both hands under his boxers, over his butt. She pushed him into her.
He kissed her mouth, her jaw, her throat.
She slipped a hand under the back of his shirt. He shivered when she dragged her nails over his skin. When she grabbed a handful of fabric and tugged, he rose onto his knees, tore off his shirt, and tossed it away. He gazed down at her, his eyes bright with desire.
She drank him in as he towered over her. He was so beautiful. She had to touch him. She sat up, ran her hands over his broad shoulders, and kissed his wide chest. She raised her arms when she felt the hem of her top lift. He peeled it off and flung it away.
Her arms came down and around his neck. She pulled him into a skin-on-skin embrace and kissed him, long and hard and erotic.
James leaned her back and kissed the fullness of her breast above her bra. “I’ll get the mousse,” he mumbled.
“I’ll get the champagne and glasses.” Her words were thick and sluggish as she floated in her James-induced warm, glorious haze.
He moved her bra strap down and kissed the spot where it had been. “We won’t need the glasses.”
An eye drifted open and she glanced down at him. When she saw that sexy smile of his, she nearly incinerated.
He rolled off the couch and onto his feet and pulled her up into his arms. After another kiss that had Quinn’s legs weak and wobbly, they grabbed their dessert and drink and moved to the bedroom. Clothes were shed and bedcovers were tossed back.
They took turns smearing mousse over skin and licking it off. When they ran out of chocolate, James grabbed the champagne. Quinn expected him to take a swig directly from the bottle. He didn’t.
She gasped and arched her back when he splashed a bit into her belly button, covered it with his mouth, and sucked. By the time he did this three more times, she ached for him so badly she couldn’t restrain herself. She took the bottle from him, flipped him onto his back, and straddled him.
They moved together, savage and powerful, until euphoria welled up and enveloped her. She nearly blacked out from the intensity.
Afterward, Quinn squeezed James in a crushing, sweaty embrace and silently wondered if anyone would notice if she stowed away in one of his Moscow-bound suitcases.
Chapter Eighteen
James gingerly turned a page of yellowing newspaper and said quietly, “Why does it feel like I always end up sitting at a table in a library whenever I go anywhere with you?” The open hardback volume of bound newspapers was so large it covered half the metal table he and Quinn shared inside the Sikh Reference Library.
Quinn didn’t even look up from the article she was reading in a similarly sized volume of a different newspaper. “You’re just lucky, I guess. What do you expect, being married to a librarian?” James had taught her to work under the assumption they could always be overheard when in public, so they kept up the pretense even if their conversation was held in a volume a notch above a whisper. “We’d hit every strip club in town?”
In her peripheral vision, she saw him do a full body jerk. “I don’t see you as the strip club type.”
She looked up, her eyes sparkling with glee. “Stripper librarians. It could be a new thing. She starts off with her hair in a bun, glasses on a chain around her neck, and wearing a cardigan sweater. The next thing you know, she’s swinging those glasses around and wearing nothing but some strategically placed colored book tape.”
He started at her, dumbfounded. After a moment, he recovered and said, “You’re insane.”
“You love it and you know it.”
He shook his head and lost the battle to fight off the grin. “Lord help me, I do love it.” His features softened, and when he spoke again, his voice was deep and rumbly. “And you.”
An urge to touch him, to connect with him, overcame her. She covered his hand with hers and rubbed her thumb over the back of it. “I love you, too.” If her public display of affection was noticed, she hoped it would be forgiven as an American’s lapse of decorum. Quinn had never really noticed how often she and James were in physical contact—held hands when they walked together, shoulder bumps, quick kisses—until she had been forced to police herself against doing those very things. Indulging herself for another brief moment, she kept her hand firmly atop his when she asked, “Have you found anything?”
“Not really. All of the articles I’ve read pretty much say the same things. Nothing about what we’re interested in.” She knew he meant any clues that might lead them to the identity of the policeman who had been present at the youth hostel when Vikram Gupta and his fellow jawan had unloaded the library. “How about you?”
“About the same,” Quinn answered and closed the volume she’d finished looking through with a thump.
Quinn had done more research earlier that morning in hopes of uncovering a name. She’d struck out. The newspaper databases she searched had numerous stories about Operation Blue Star after the fact. The problem was those articles were for international audiences and didn’t include names of locals. And many of the photographs that had been run in the papers at the time were now blocked from displaying on her computer due to copyright considerations. That didn’t help her at all.
Given all those issues, Quinn had suggested they visit the library and look through the physical newspapers it had collected since its destruction. Since she’d already mentioned to Harbir Kaur, the librarian she’d spoken with a couple of days before, that she hoped to bring James to the Golden Temple complex and show him the library, Harbir hadn’t seemed surprised in the least when they walked in.
When Quinn said she and James wanted to take advantage of the library to see what the newspapers had written about Operation Blue Star, Harbir didn’t question it, mentioning it was a common request.
“I’m going to go get the volume of that weekly newspaper Harbir pointed out earlier,” Quinn said. “Be right back.”
As Quinn walked to the area where the bound newspapers were stacked flat on the shelves, Harbir hurried toward her from across the library. “Your husband is very handsome,” she said in a low tone when she caught up with Quinn.
“He sure is,” Quinn said.
“And so polite.” Apparently James’s greeting of “Sat Sri Akal” had earned him bonus points. “He treats you well?”
“He does.” She thought of the chocolate mousse he’d surprised her with the night before. And everything after. Her scalp prickled at the memory. “He’s incredibly sweet and treats me very well.”
“I will tell my mother. It will please her to know this.”
“Be sure and greet her for me. She’s not working in the langar today?”
“No, she is not here today.”
“That’s disappointing.” She really did want to show James off to Mrs. Kaur as if he was truly her husband. “We’ll try to come by another time so she and James can meet.”
“That would be wonderful. I look forward to it. Now I must get back to work.” Harbir turned and bustled away.
Quinn returned to their table and set the volume down.
James looked up at her and smirked. “What, you didn’t find a manuscript hidden behind a bunch of other books?” He was, of course, referring to the manuscript she’d found in a library in London during the Fitzhugh op.
“Nope. Sorry.” She sat and opened to the first issue published after Operation Blue Star. “You’ve made an impression on Harbir, though.”
“Really? What’d she say?”
“That you’re handsome and have nice manners.” Quinn shot him a crooked smile and deepened her voice. “You’re quite the librarian magnet.”
“You know how I like to wield my due date stamp.”
She snickered. “Okay, I deserved that after the stripper librarian comments.”
“I can’t let you have all the fun.”
“True.”
They returned to studying their respective newspapers. After another twenty minutes, James said, “Hey, check out this picture. It was taken when a bunch of army and police officials toured the damage to the complex.”
Quinn stood next to James and bent forward to get a better look at the grainy black-and-white photo. Five men in uniform stood as a group and stared grim-faced at something to the right of the camera. Two wore turbans and the other three military berets. She skimmed the text. “Those three guys in the front were commanders of the operation.” Quinn’s eyebrows shot up when she scanned the names listed under the picture. “The two guys in the back are Deputy Superintendent A. S. Dhami and Constable Kuldeep Singh.” Quinn snapped a picture of the photo with her phone. “Maybe one of these two guys is the Punjabi policeman we’re looking for. They seem pretty tight with the army and were clearly on scene in the aftermath.” Her gut told her she was on to something. “I’ll see what I can dig up on them back at the hotel.”
They browsed through the newspapers for another hour and failed to uncover any new information. It was time to check out the youth hostels. They said their good-byes to Harbir and headed for the car.
* * *
Mildly cool air blew from the Alto’s vents at near-gale-force winds. Despite its valiant effort, the little car’s air conditioner couldn’t fully overcome the face-melting heat of a Punjabi summer afternoon. Even as sweat trickled down her face, Quinn couldn’t complain. At least she wasn’t walking, pedaling, or riding in a tuk-tuk, fully exposed to the unrelenting heat.
A bus swerved out in front of them. James pounded the car’s horn and slammed on the brakes. After some impressively aggressive driving, James stopped the car at the third and final hostel on their list. The first two had been a bust. They weren’t even around in 1984. She assumed that would be the case for this one as well. Still, they had to check.
Quinn slipped off her sunglasses, pulled down the sun visor, and flinched when she checked herself in the mirror. It was like looking into the face of a stranger. She smoothed her hands over the long auburn wig and blinked at the contact lenses that changed her blue eyes to green. James assured her the contacts would become more comfortable over time. That time had not yet come.
James unfastened his seat belt and glanced at her. “Ready?”
She flipped the visor up and turned toward him. Reaching out, she brushed her fingertips over the fake goatee stuck to his chin. With his wig of shaggy brown hair, mustache, and now-brown eyes, he was as unrecognizable as she. “Ready.”
They climbed out of the car, and as expected, the blast furnace–like heat almost melted her. She adjusted her sunglasses and, as they walked toward the entrance of the hostel, peeled the back of her sweat-soaked top away from her skin.
James held open one of the glass double doors. She stepped past him, slipped off her sunglasses, and surveyed the lobby. A wooden counter stood on the right side of the room. A beat-up couch with hideous orange and yellow upholstery sat against the opposite wall. The small air conditioner attached to the wall behind the counter rattled as it labored to cool the room. It was mildly successful.
James replaced his sunglasses with a pair with thick, black-rimmed frames. They approached a twenty-year-old guy in a stretched-out light blue polo shirt perched on a high stool behind the counter.
“Can I help you?”
“I very much hope so,” James said in his precise British accent. “My wife and I publish a highly acclaimed travel blog. Perhaps you’ve read it. Hill and Ted’s Excellent Adventures.”
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Quinn dug her teeth into her lower lip to keep from laughing. The name killed her every time. The ever-thorough techs at the agency had mocked up a travel blog written by anonymous world travelers known only as Ted and Hillary. The analysts and technicians who had designed the website and written posts had really outdone themselves. Ted and Hillary’s misadventure of milking a yak and the particulars of the shaggy bovines’ amorous activities during their stay in a yurt on the expansive plateau of Mongolia had Quinn laughing out loud. The specificity with which the stories were told—including the smell of said yaks and the surprising sweetness of their milk—gave her reason to believe they were real-life anecdotes.
“I am sorry to say I have not read it,” the young man said. At least he was honest enough to admit it. The clerks at the other two hostels hadn’t been as truthful.
“Not to worry,” James said. “We write for the budget-minded yet discerning traveler. Our hallmark is to not only provide readers with the cost and condition of an establishment but to give a full account of it, including its history. As for this hostel, how long has it been here? Is it fairly new, or was established many years ago? If so, when was it last renovated?” As James’s voice sharpened with intensity, he leaned closer. “These are the kinds of things our readers need to know.”
The young man almost fell backward off his stool attempting to keep James at a comfortable distance. “I do not have that information, sir. I have only worked here one week.”
James waited a beat. When the young man made no attempt to otherwise assist them, James frowned, reached around into his back pocket, and removed a small notebook and pen. He made a show clicking the pen before flipping the notebook open and scribbling on the page. He muttered a narration as he wrote. “The hostel staff was singularly unhelpful when asked for more information regarding the age and history of renovations of the property. One must ask why.”
The clerk’s eyes rounded. He snatched the handset from the phone on the desk and said, “I will tell the manager you would like to speak with him. He can answer your questions.” He carried on an urgent conversation in Punjabi, all the while shooting furtive glances in James’s direction. “He will be here in a moment,” he said as he hung up the phone.
