Flashpoint

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “All I want is to talk.” He had a nice voice, a mellow baritone that had the slightest trace of a Western accent. “Sophia.”

  She met his eyes—they were light brown, almost exactly the same color as his nondescript hair—but she could see only intelligence and a constant alertness there. There was no recognition, no awareness, no indication he knew he’d hit a giant cash jackpot.

  Of course, with this man, this magician who had followed her through that crowded marketplace, that didn’t mean anything.

  He was much older than she’d thought when she’d seen him both in the bar and in the dimly lit factory—not in his twenties, or even in his early thirties. No, up close, in the hard morning light, she could see that it had been several years since he’d crossed to the other side of forty. He had lines on a face that, from a distance, she never would have described as handsome, although looking at him now, up close, she didn’t know why not.

  His nose was straight, practically patrician, and the rest of his features were equally even and pleasant-looking, although his mouth was thin, his lips tight. He had lines around his mouth and crow’s feet at the outer corners of his eyes. On most people those would be called laughter lines, but she got the sense that this man didn’t spend enough time laughing to warrant that label.

  “Do you mind if we sit?” he continued. “Out there?” He gestured behind him to the former sitting room, now empty of easy chairs. “I’ve been on my feet most of the night.”

  As had she.

  Who was he, what was he, to have been able to follow her the way he had? And what, exactly, did he want from her?

  “Are you CIA?” she couldn’t keep from asking, even though she knew that he couldn’t possibly be.

  His answer was “No,” and his amused smile chilled her. He thought it was funny that she might mistake him for a government agent, which meant that he was probably one of those ex-pats who had no loyalty to their former country, or to fellow Americans.

  She was so dead.

  Sophia let him lead her, his fingers firm and his hand warm through the sleeve of her dress. Together they went into the outer room, where her robe and the veil he’d taken from her at the factory lay by the door.

  Thoughtful of him to return them. Not that she’d need them for more than the ride to Bashir’s palace.

  She caught sight of herself in the big wall mirror. Even in the dimness of that windowless space, her dress was exotically sheer—but not too sheer in this light to reveal her collection of cuts and bruises. Because of that, she was better than naked—she was nearly naked and shimmering. Her terror shone around her, too, and she hoped he couldn’t see that as clearly as she could in that mirror.

  With a quick glance in its direction, she saw that he’d relocked the door. If she tried to run, it would take some time to throw back the bolt and pull the door open and . . .

  No. Best thing to do was figure out a way to get to the gun that was beneath the blankets of her bed.

  Her bed.

  She could see in the mirror that the American had noticed her glance at the door. Good. Let him think she was considering escape in that direction. She looked at the door again, a quick flick of her gaze, just to give him something to focus on.

  Because unlike at the factory, he now seemed unaffected by her outfit. Which meant it was going to be more difficult than she’d hoped to get over to her bed.

  “You have a last name?” he asked as he gestured for her to sit against the wall that was farthest from both the door and the inner room.

  Sophia nodded as she lowered herself to a sitting position.

  He sat on the floor, too, right in the middle of the room, blocking both her route to the door and to that gun.

  His eyes were carefully on her face and she shifted, pretending to get comfortable, testing him, and . . . Sure enough, his gaze dropped. Only briefly, but it did drop.

  Okay. Okay. He was human after all. If she worked this right, she could play out this scenario—bed him, then kill him, then run.

  Think. Think. What had she already told him? How could she use that best to win his trust—or at least make him close the gap between them?

  Back at the factory, she’d told him that Dimitri was dead. Bashir, too. He’d guessed her name—Sophia—but he didn’t appear to recognize it, although she also knew that he played his cards close to his vest. He was impossible to read.

  If he did know Dimitri, or at least of Dimitri, he might also know that Dimitri had a wife named Sophia. And if he knew that, and if she gave him a false last name now, he’d know she was lying and . . .

  “Ghaffari,” she finally answered him. She couldn’t afford to have him think she was lying about anything. “My name is Sophia Ghaffari.”

  He didn’t react. He didn’t even blink. “You’re Dimitri’s wife?” His voice was blank, too—devoid of either skepticism or belief.

  “I was his wife,” she said. “I told you. He’s dead.”

  He was silent for a moment, then, “Yes, you did. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  She made herself laugh, but didn’t say anything more. She had to wait until he asked. If she volunteered too much information, it would come out sounding like a story.

  After an eternity, the American spoke again. “I guess you heard me tell Lartet that I have money for Dimitri—money that a mutual friend owed him.”

  She knew where he was going with this and shook her head. “That’s not why I followed you. I don’t want your friend’s money.” Not quite true—she wanted all the money she could get. But it was only a matter of time until everything this man had in his pockets belonged to her.

  And if she could manage it, she would kill him after he took off his T-shirt and those cargo pants.

  What she wouldn’t give to be rid of this awful dress, to have real, Western clothes to wear—pants—even if they were too big. She could cut and color her hair and hide in plain sight among the Western relief workers. . . .

  “Why did you follow me?” he asked.

  She answered that one truthfully. “Because I knew everyone Dimitri knew, and I didn’t know you. I wanted to know who you were and who this friend of yours was.” Back at Lartet’s bar, she had dared to hope that this American might be able to help her—that he really was some do-gooder relief worker who’d be enough of a sucker to lend her a hand. But he’d made it more than clear back at the factory that that wasn’t the case. “But there is no friend,” she asked him now. “Right?”

  He nodded in agreement, watching her with eyes that seemed able to see inside of her head. “Yeah. That’s just an easy way to find someone. Free money, you know? People come to the surface, even out of deep hiding, if they think someone’s going to hand over some cash.”

  Sophia made herself hold his gaze, telling herself that he couldn’t really read her mind. She tried to make the eye contact something sexual, to infuse it with interest. “So, who are you, then?” She let her gaze wander lazily down his body. He wore his T-shirt loose, size large when in fact he was barely a medium. That was how he managed to look thin when he really wasn’t. “You’re good, you know,” she told him.

  He smiled slightly in return and as she looked back into his eyes, she saw it. Heat. He was attracted to her. Her heart actually skipped and the rush of triumph made her breathing unsteady. But she held his gaze as he shook his head, as instead of answering her he asked, “When did Dimitri die?”

  This entire conversation was surreal. That she could sit here and talk about this, as if it had happened to someone else, as if she hadn’t really been there at all . . .

  She blinked away the echo of her own voice, screaming as Dimitri’s head hit the tile and rolled . . .

  Keep it together, don’t lose it now. Answer his questions, smile at him, keep his interest, do whatever she had to do, and maybe, again, she’d survive.

  “Two months ago.”

  He nodded, and she was glad she’d told the truth. Clearly he’d been asking around,
looking for Dimitri, and he may well have spoken to someone who’d seen her husband the night before their lunchtime visit to Bashir’s palace. But no one had seen him after that. At least not alive.

  Maybe she was reading too much into one little nod, but she could feel the American’s trust—and his interest in her—increasing.

  “He was . . . executed by Padsha Bashir.” That she volunteered. But damn, she hoped he didn’t notice that slight hesitation. She was trying to sound nonchalant. As if she didn’t give a damn.

  “Was there a reason or was it a whim?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” Sophia answered. “I suspect it had something to do with a business deal gone bad. With money that Dimitri owed him.”

  The American nodded again. “You said before that Bashir’s dead, too.”

  Sophia also nodded. “He died during the earthquake. Part of his palace collapsed.”

  “Who told you this?”

  “No one,” she said. “I was there when it happened. I was . . . lucky to get out alive.”

  “You were there,” he repeated. “That was just a few days ago.”

  “I was living there,” she clarified. “In the palace. I had been—for the past two months.”

  He looked at her, at her hair, at her face. At her dress. Yes, that’s right, American, put this dress and those two months together. . . .

  She spelled it out for him, allowing her voice to quiver. “I was a prisoner there. Dimitri gave me to Bashir, just before his death.”

  “Gave you.”

  “He wasn’t the kindest of husbands.” Her voice shook even more. Somewhere, Dimitri’s headless body was spinning in its grave. Good. Let him spin for all eternity. He deserved it, the fool, for trusting Michel Lartet. “Neither was Bashir.”

  The American sat very still, just watching her, thinking . . . what? She honestly didn’t have a clue.

  Sophia let her eyes fill with tears. It wasn’t hard to do. “I escaped from the palace right after the first earthquake. That’s why I couldn’t tell you my name in front of Lartet’s man. I didn’t know this before last night, but Michel Lartet is working for Bashir. And I’m pretty sure Bashir’s nephews are searching for me. That’s probably why Lartet had you followed. To get to me. I think he figured if you knew Dimitri, you knew me.”

  The American actually laughed. He had nice teeth, straight and white. “I don’t mean to imply that you won’t be missed, but if Bashir’s really dead, I think his nephews have other things on their minds right now.”

  Sophia let a tear escape, and then another. She knew what she looked like when she cried—tears made her seem younger and more vulnerable. Frightened. Alone. This man would have to have ice water running through his veins to keep from reaching for her.

  But he didn’t move.

  “Please,” she said, holding out her hand toward him. “They are after me. I know it. I need help.”

  “If you want me to help,” he said, still not moving an inch toward her, “you better tell me the truth about why they’re after you.”

  She’d intended to tell him. But she’d expected to be in his arms before she did. This would be so much easier if she were clinging to him, her face pressed against his shoulder.

  Instead she was forced to sit there, holding his gaze.

  “If you tell me what’s going on, Sophia,” he said quietly, “I’ll help you. But I need the truth.”

  She nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks, hot rivers of fear and desperation. The truth. What was the truth? The truth was she’d say or do anything to stay alive. Anything.

  “I killed him,” she admitted with a sob. “Bashir. During the quake.”

  She let herself fall apart and finally—alleluia—the American moved toward her. Finally she was in his arms, her head tucked beneath his chin, her cheek against the soft cotton of his shirt. He smelled like her yearly childhood visits to her grandparents in New Hampshire, like America—the home of the dryer sheet and the land of the deodorant stick.

  Even his breath was sweet.

  Sophia let herself cry in earnest.

  “Hey,” he said. “It’s okay. You’re okay now.”

  But she wasn’t. Even if she could believe him, she so wasn’t even close to okay.

  “I was with him,” she sobbed. “That morning. In his chamber. And then the quake started, and there was chaos. His back was to me, and I picked up his sword—he always kept it nearby. He got such pleasure from other people’s fear—and I ran him through.” She pulled back to look at him, letting him see the truth of that in her eyes—the horror of taking a life, mixed with the triumphant ferocity of her hatred for Bashir. “I killed him with his own sword.”

  The American believed her. At least she hoped he did.

  “Okay,” he said. “You’re right. They’re definitely after you.”

  “Please help me.” She didn’t let him answer. “I have money,” she lied. “In a Swiss account. Neither Dimitri or Bashir knew about it. If you help me get out of Kazbekistan, I will make it worth your while. Whatever price they’re offering for my return—I’ll double it.”

  He was still just looking at her, and from this up-close vantage point, his eyes were extremely disconcerting.

  He gave nothing away. Sophia knew with a frightening flash of clarity that all of her interpretations of his responses, his nods, his eye contact, were just that. Her interpretations.

  She had absolutely no clue what this man was thinking.

  “Please,” she said, and her voice shook with fear that was not feigned.

  And then, because there was nothing else left to say, she kissed him.

  Sophia Ghaffari kissed him so sweetly, it completely caught Decker off guard.

  He knew he couldn’t trust her. He’d be a fool if he did. Except . . . his instincts were shouting that much of what she’d told him had been the truth. Of course, his instincts were also standing up and cheering about that completely nonhesitant hand she’d already placed upon the fly of his pants.

  Sex with a beautiful stranger . . .

  It was exactly what he wanted, what he needed.

  Except he couldn’t do it. She didn’t want him—she wanted his protection. This was barter, plain and simple, and he wouldn’t play that game. He was better than that.

  Wasn’t he?

  Yes. Although a very large part of him didn’t want to push her away. It was the same part of him that was mentally checking the contents of his pockets. Condom—right lower front, along with ibuprofen, bandages, and a PowerBar: part of a bare essentials health kit he carried in a plastic pouch.

  Not that he was intending to use it.

  Except, oh, holy shit, he was actually thinking about using it.

  But when she went as far as to unbuckle his belt, he finally pulled back, relegating her to arm’s length before she managed to completely unfasten his pants. “Hey. I said I was going to help you,” he told her. “You don’t need to—”

  She reached for him. “I want to—”

  Yeah, sure. He caught her hands. “Well, I don’t.”

  She actually laughed in his face, tears sparkling on her eyelashes. Jesus, she was sex personified. And impossibly beautiful. Even when she cried. Maybe especially when she cried—and she knew it, too. What had she done to Dimitri to make him willing to pass her off to Padsha Bashir? If that was really what had happened. Decker suspected he wasn’t getting the whole story there.

  “Liar,” she said.

  Deck shrugged, knowing that his words were undermined by his physical reaction to her—a reaction she’d already wrapped her fingers around once. He tightened his grip on her hands. Smooth, soft hands . . . “Honey, you can believe whatever you want.”

  “So you’re just going to help me.” She was genuinely amused as she pulled one hand free and wiped her nose with the back of it. “Out of the goodness of your generous heart. And you want nothing—whatsoever—from me in return.”

  Her hair was in her face, a bab
y-fine blond tangle that would probably slip like silk beneath his fingers. But Decker didn’t let himself reach out to push it behind her perfect ear. He focused instead on the impossible—ignoring the fact that her breasts rose and fell with every breath she took, and that she did indeed have hennaed designs on her perfect body beneath that nearly sheer dress. “That’s right.”

  She shook her head. “That doesn’t work for me. How do I know I can trust you?”

  Decker laughed. “And you think . . . what? That if we have sex, you’ll be able to trust me?”

  “No,” she said. “Bad word choice. Not trust you—I’ll never trust you. I’ve learned the hard way not to trust anyone. But if you come into the other room with me and . . . well, I trust myself to make sure that you’ll want to keep me around. At least long enough to find out whether or not I’m lying about that Swiss bank account.”

  She was actually serious. Except there was something in her eyes that Deck couldn’t quite get a read on.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she continued. “You’re thinking, Could she really be that good?” She held his gaze. “The answer is yes. But why take my word for it when I’m willing to show you?”

  Things like this didn’t happen to him. A beautiful woman, wanting to . . .

  No, he was deep in Nash’s territory. He could hear an echo of his partner’s voice. She begged me to stay. What was I supposed to do? Just walk away . . . ?

  “I think—,” Decker started, but Sophia—if that was really her name—leaned forward and kissed him again. He saw it coming, but he didn’t back away. He just sat there and let her lick her way into his mouth.

  Jesus, he wanted to . . . wanted her . . . wanted . . .

  But shit, it was half past late. Decker had to get back to Rivka’s house. He had a team to lead, a terrorist’s laptop to locate. Tom Paoletti’s additional assignment—to find Dimitri Ghaffari—had been secondary. And Ghaffari was dead.

  Allegedly. Sometimes he believed Sophia, and sometimes—like right now—he doubted every word she’d ever uttered in her entire life.

  That should have been reason enough to not want her giving him those soul-sucking kisses, her cool hands skimming up beneath his T-shirt along the bare skin of his back, her body soft and warm, pressed against him. . . .