Tall, Hard and Trouble

by Cerise DeLand

  He remained very still, if he even breathed. “And?”

  “Many of those leaders sponsor terrorist groups.” She didn’t tell him why she had those kinds of pictures. If he agreed to help her, she would tell him. Have to. And god, won’t that be a relief!

  “We’ve known about a lot of them for decades,” he said with a note of trepidation.

  She shifted, uneasy at this next. “Yes. But you know any photographer takes hundreds more shots than they need, just to ensure getting the best ones. Anyway, I reviewed my thumbnails after I got back to Washington. I wondered if they saw me take shots, tracked me and attacked Maria instead.”

  He pondered that for a moment. “Why would they expect that she—or you—would carry pictures out to a restaurant? Unless it seemed like a business meeting. Did it?”

  She shrugged. “Who knows if that was their attackers’ assumption.”

  For a long minute, he examined her face with the precision of an expert analyst of human nature. “Okay. Tell me now. Why am I here?”

  She licked her lips. “I recommended you back in January to Nasar when they offered me the contract for the museum work.” I knew even then I needed to see you again, hope you might talk to me, forgive me for how I’d left you. “I hoped you would accept because I knew you, your staff and your technology were the best in the business. But now that I suspect what really happened to Maria, I’m even more happy that you’re here.”

  “And you’re afraid.” He said it in such a way that he was stunned that she could feel fear. “Understandable.”

  “Is it? God, I’m not certain. I seem to see thugs everywhere I look. I tell myself I’m crazy, that this can’t be, that it’s ridiculous to think that anyone could do such a horrible thing like attacking Maria. But I’m becoming paranoid.” I suspect everyone. Now, even Nasar and Jamal. “I hate it. I was never like this.”

  Grant ran his hand up into the curls above her ears, cradled the back of her head and pulled her tightly into his embrace. Her face to his strong throat, she wrapped her arms around his body and hugged him for all her might. He stroked her spine, planted his lips on top of her head and said, “So does this mean you’re happy you decided to switch from taking pictures of battles to museum pieces?”

  One reason. “Yes, I’m becoming a wuss.”

  “A wise wuss.”

  She let her head fall back so that she could view his face. God, he killed her with the sculpted symmetry of his features. The golden tan. The wide, black, winged brows. The contrast of the dazzling eyes. The sharp cheekbones. The wide, stern mouth. How long it’s been since you’ve held me and looked at me like you do now. Like you want to eat me up.

  She drifted away from him. Got to her feet. She’d told herself when she decided to recommend him for this job that she wouldn’t fall into bed with him. Even though she craved him like the earth needed the sun. It was not fair to him, given what she had to do. Now that she’d seen him, embraced him, she warned herself once more not to even think about starting a physical relationship with him again. Not because she didn’t want him. But because she still hadn’t told him everything about herself. What she did. Why she did it. Hell.

  She smoothed her hands down her linen skirt and headed toward the door. “I should go.”

  “Coco. Wait.” He stopped her with the rumble of his bass voice that she’d heard in her dreams for three lonely years. “After what you’ve just told me, I don’t approve of you in a separate room.”

  She curled her shoulders. Closed her eyes. How she wanted to move in, talk with him, laugh with him, maybe even sleep with him, make love to him. “I’ll lock my door.”

  “No dead bolt can keep out a maniac.”

  “I have to take my chances.” She put a hand to the doorknob.

  “Stop. Listen. I signed that contract, so it’s my job to keep you safe. Because I can’t put a bodyguard into place for you in on such short notice, I am your security. Therefore, you sleep here.”

  She pinched the bridge of her nose. She was exhausted from worry and the trans-Atlantic flight. Seeing Grant again had sapped her energy more than she’d anticipated. She was getting too old to be running around the world doing one job she loved—and a second that she’d come to hate. And she was much too hungry for him to be a lady. “Don’t push me, Grant.”

  He strode to her and stood so close behind her, she felt his body heat radiate against her. “You aren’t checking in. No one needs to know you’re here. I’ll reserve the adjoining room for me and I’ll bring up your luggage. We should go through it when I bring it up just to make certain no one tampered with it. We leave for Qunitar tomorrow morning. I have my jet. You’ll fly with me.”

  She faced him and sucked in air. She was so close to him now that she could feel his breath on her lips. And she ached, wanting him just as she had had him three long years ago. Totally in love with her. But that was impossible, wasn’t it? “I don’t need to go with you. I—I have a ticket.”

  “On a commercial airliner?” he asked like she must have rocks in her head.

  She nodded, smiling sadly at his indignation over her objection. “I’m in first class.”

  He cursed beneath his breath. “First class is no defense against C4 and crazy men.”

  “You’re right.” She’d known it, but a cover was a cover. She nodded, grateful, but knew she slid down a steep slope that could only lead straight into his embrace. She rubbed her arms and turned to look out his window into an uncertain future.

  “Stay here. Have a nap,” he ordered, his guttural voice one that soothed her weary heart.

  “Doubt I can.”

  “Try anyway. We’ll have dinner together. I’ll make the arrangements.”

  She didn’t turn, didn’t want him to see her tears, her joy, her frustration at her inability to control her desire for him. “Eight?”

  “Eight.”

  “Ciao.”

  “Ciao, bella.”

  Chapter Three

  At eight-twenty, he took her hand and led her onto the private launch he’d ordered to take them across the lagoon to the restaurant. Glancing around the piazza, he saw no one near them. No one tracking them. Good. He’d chosen a five-star restaurant that had good food, its own marine stop and a clear view of the walks and the blue sea around Venice. His knowledge of the setting and sense of its security meant he could concentrate on the elegance of her fingers as she slung her purse strap over her shoulder and clasped his hand. He’d always liked her fingertips on him.

  By eight-forty, they claimed the reservation he’d made just before they lost it. He’d always scolded her about being late. She was late for every event in her life. But as Coco preceded him to their table on the veranda overlooking the lagoon, he watched the way she walked in the black high heels. Her black cocktail dress moved with the gentle sway of her hips and he had to clear his throat. Old memories filled his brain. He’d always appreciated the way her hips filled his hands.

  Over vodka tonics, he kept the conversation polite, irrelevant to the challenges before them. Plenty of time for those discussions. Right now, he preferred to admire the way the black silk slipped over her breasts. And the way her nipples pebbled beneath the fabric as his gaze fell to them, time after time.

  She knew he grew hungry for her. He could tell by the way she shifted in her chair and glanced away more frequently as the pinot grigio arrived to accompany the appetizers. He had planned this examination of her charms back at the hotel. Not just to fill himself up with the sight of her again, but to unnerve her. Revenge could have its carnal rewards and heaven knew he was the one man who had adored every inch of her body.

  He grinned, proud as hell he was succeeding at making her aware of his need of her.

  “Tell me how your mother is?” he asked over the Prosciutto crudo. He’d met the lovely widow, of whom Coco was the younger spitting image, three years ago in Washington when he and Coco were inseparable for four wild months.

  “She’s ve
ry well,” Coco said. “She has a new book out about twelfth-century Moorish history. And she’s recovering well from the loss of my dad.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Coco’s father had died four months before Coco and he had met. Coco had still been in mourning because her father had died with his reputation in tatters—and her love for her dad had colored their affair. Coco’s nerves were raw, her emotions uncensored, her ability to declare desire for him quick, her trust in him apparent. At least in most things. “Did she retire?”

  “No. She refuses to resign from the faculty.”

  “Still at Georgetown then?” He lifted the white wine to his lips as he took in the beauty of her face.

  With rapt attention, she opened her mouth to watch him as he licked his lower lip with his tongue. She shook herself slightly, then fastened her attention on her sliced delicacy from Parma. “My mother is working on another book when she’s not haunting her office on campus.”

  “The subject this time is what?” He was being pleasant, of course. What else could he do? Coco wasn’t going to jump into his arms. After all, she had left him. So if his payback was hell for her, he figured she deserved a little of it. He’d certainly suffered her loss like an addict failing the AA program. He had to know if she had suffered. And why she had.

  “The fight for the conquest of Jerusalem. King Richard of England and the Crusades.” She sat back as the waiter removed her plate.

  “The rise of the Islamic empire.” He glanced out over the lagoon and grinned. Not at the view of the moon reflecting in the water, but at the fact that she was now wiggling in her chair regularly. Needing him. He would bet last year’s income on it. “Your mother is a delight. I can hear her laughter.”“ Like yours when you’re tickled. “Untamed.”

  She stared at him, his eyes, his lips. And then she dropped her gaze to her wine glass.

  The primi piatti came. He had the spinach linguine.

  She dug into her risotto. “This is the first time in months I’ve felt like eating.”

  “Looks like you need it.” He hoped that she wanted to eat because she was with him again. Enjoying herself. And safe. He gestured with his glass, more at ease himself since she’d left him in D.C.. “You’ve lost weight.”

  She gave him a valiant smile. “At my age, most women want to lose a few pounds.”

  But your loss isn’t from dieting or vanity. You’ve worked yourself to the point where you have dark shadows beneath those gorgeous purple eyes.

  “Thirty-three?” he asked with humor. Yes, damn it. He recalled her birthday. “Such an old lady.”

  “I’m decrepit.”

  “Hardly.” He chuckled and swirled his pasta. Damn, he had to smile the way she surveyed him like a woman who hadn’t dined on a man in years. She was unfettered. Obvious. Not trying to hide her perusal of him. He tingled with it.

  She took in the breadth of his shoulders, his shirt and tie, the Italian suit he’d ordered handmade the last time he’d been to Milan on business. “You on the other hand, look fabulous. Still working out like a body builder, I see.”

  “Good for business to look fit.”

  “People trust men with big beefy muscles, huh?” She ribbed him, putting her lips around the fork and pulling off a bit of risotto.

  He could imagine her mouth on him. Tight. Wet. Warm. He had the urge to put a finger inside his shirt collar. He was getting hot. And hard. “They do. Builds confidence.”

  She grinned and tucked in for another forkful of her dish. “Does the shaved head do that, too?”

  “I would assume so.” He was happy to concentrate on twirling his pasta and not look at her. “I’ve seen an increase in the number of clientele. So I must be presentable.”

  “Why did you shave your hair?” she asked in a dulcet tone that took his breath.

  She cared about his hair? Christ, he was going to jump her. He had to admit his foible. “Vanity.”

  She fell back in her chair, chuckling. Her breasts jiggled. Up and down. Up and down. “That’s a characteristic I never thought you had!”

  The wistful nature of the topic drifted to a more serious note. If you’d stuck around long enough, you’d know. No, he was not going to show her his anger here. He’d already done that this afternoon. Tonight was about finding out where they were going, not where they’d been. “Yeah, well, I can be just like any other guy.”

  She leaned forward. Put her fork down. Let her gaze roam over his forehead and ears, his cheekbones and nose, his lips, his chin, to come back and admire his eyes. “I don’t think so.”

  It took him a second to get past the lump in his throat. “I was getting gray.”

  From the way she adored his features, one by one, all over again—and winked, she didn’t care. “Where?”

  He hooted. “Forward, aren’t you?”

  “You always liked me that way.”

  He wouldn’t deny it.

  “Where?” she insisted.

  “At my temples.”

  “Ah.” Satisfied, she leaned back again.

  Thank god. If she’d continued to ask him precisely where else he was gray, he would’ve had to rip off that lovely black silk in front of all these very ritzy people and take her right here on the linen table cloth. Then he’d strip and show her where else he was gray.

  She traced a line through her risotto with her fork. Then locked her gaze on his. “I’m different, too.”

  “How?” Tell me who you are now, why I should still crave you.

  “I want to change what I do for a living.”

  “Why?” he asked and knew the question was delivered in a dark inquisitive tone that went beyond the banter they’d indulged in.

  “I can’t take the pressure. Not any more. Too many people I piss off. Too much flying. Too many issues.” She looked around the room, tears beading on her lashes. “Especially since Maria.”

  He reached across the table and took her hand. The zing of electricity he felt between them humbled him, destroyed his desire to keep up the small talk. “I’m glad you got me involved.”

  She sniffed. Blinked and put a thin smile on her face. “I know you’re angry. You have every right to be. But I—”

  He raised his other hand in the air. “I’m here. I’m good with this.” Until I see what you have in mind for how deep we go this time.

  “Can you do this? Be with me? And not…”

  Make love to you? Probably not. He was going to make her admit the attraction that had never died. Never been replaced by any other lover. “Not what?”

  “Not hate me?”

  “Jesus!” he seethed. Other diners turned to stare at them. “I never hated you.”

  Something cracked inside her body then. He saw her go lax. Saw the sun shine through the storm clouds she seemed to be carrying around with her today. “I’m glad. Grateful.”

  “I don’t want your gratitude.”

  “I don’t want yours either. I want—”

  Dead stop. She froze. Her eyes were wide with shock.

  “What?” He hoped he’d said that like it was just normal conversation. But he winced, listening to the echo of his voice in his head, knowing he’d pleaded with her.

  She gulped. Her eyes were still stuck on him. “Is there a woman?”

  Now that transformed him into Superman. He became more himself, more assured, more forgiving…and yeah, grateful she’d asked the one question that could fill the chasm she’d blasted through his self-esteem when she left. “No one.”

  Blushing like a girl, she licked her lips and fiddled with her napkin.

  No one permanent. No one like you.

  Finally, she lifted her face. The regret that lived in her eyes told him the one thing he needed to know. She’d met no one, either.

  “Eat your dinner, babe.” He lifted his chin, indicating she put her attention on her dinner. “I’ll be grateful if you keep yourself healthy.” And I’ll be happy to keep you safe.

  They got through the rest of the
ir dinner with increasing ease. She shared stories about her last few projects in Egypt and Jordan. She’d done photo spreads for two travel magazines on Israel and Palestine many times before and loved being able to work in an area she knew so well. He told her what little he could about his contracts in Afghanistan, Japan and Mexico. He brought her up to date on friends of his whom she had met. “Both Cord and Tate Ryder are married, now. I recently helped Tate and his wife clear her of some problems she had with Witness Protection and the FBI.”

  “I gather you can’t talk about it?”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “Right. Some things we mustn’t know about each other,” she offered and from the look on her face, she regretted the statement. She cast her gaze to the moonlit sky. “Ever been to Qunitar?”

  “Often. Once in 1990 when I was a green Marine. It was after Desert Storm and I was Military Police, attached to our Embassy. Not much to do in an Arab country for American boys. I sat on my duff reading the one hundred great books.”

  “Let’s see. While you were on your duff, I was in junior high.”

  “Driving little boys wild.”

  “No way. I had braces and long gangly legs.”

  “I like your teeth. Dentist did a good job.” Love the legs, too, he was certain his expression added. I want to put them around my neck again.

  “Signore?” The waiter cleared his throat. “Will that be all for you this evening?”

  Pulled from his desire for her, Grant looked up at the man. “Si, grazie.”

  Within minutes, Grant paid the bill and led her out onto the walkway. A breeze came off the Mediterranean and Coco rubbed her arms. As they strode to the launch station, he checked their surroundings. Clear. Then he removed his jacket, swung her around toward him and placed it over her shoulders. She clutched the lapels securely to her in the wind, but did not look at him as she murmured her thanks.

  The launch puttered up to the dock and they climbed in, the only passengers. The trip was short, only three minutes to cross the strait. And he dare not talk. His voice would give away in a second his intention to kiss her and never stop. What was just as bad was that she didn’t talk, either. Their camaraderie had died and he looked out over the black waters and cursed the lack.