by Gail Barrett
He shot her an assessing gaze. “That must get discouraging.”
She couldn’t deny that. It broke her heart when the victims returned to their abusers, and the cycle started again. “Sometimes it seems pointless,” she admitted. “But I still have to do what I can.”
Trying not to dwell on that depressing thought, she tugged in a breath, filling her lungs with the fresh sea air. The sound of the waves began to grow louder as they neared the beach.
“So why did Leila marry your brother if he treats her like that?” Rasheed asked after a moment.
“She didn’t have any choice. The marriage was arranged. She was an orphan, and her guardian owed my father money, I think. I don’t remember the details exactly.” She’d had her own problems to deal with back then. “But I think the marriage was part of the arrangement they made to pay off the loan.”
“That sounds barbaric.”
“It is barbaric. Women are property to men like him. And Leila was pretty. She had those typical Persian cheekbones.” Or at least she did before Sultan ruined her face.
Rasheed turned his head. “That’s unusual, isn’t it—an Iranian marrying a Jaziirastani?”
“Not really.” But she knew what he meant. Jaziirastan and Iran were ancient enemies, neighboring countries whose border was in perpetual dispute. Even now they were political rivals, both vying for dominance in the Middle East.
“Intermarriage isn’t that uncommon in the border areas. Not as much as you’d think. And I doubt my brother cared where she came from. She was pretty, and he needed a wife.”
The path came to an end in a grove of casuarina pine trees. Beyond the trees was the sandy beach. “Over here.” Taking the lead again, he walked to a wooden bench in the shade of the wispy pines.
She settled on the bench beside him, fallen needles carpeting the sand beneath her feet. Then she gazed out at the turquoise water, the electric greens and blues dazzling her eyes. The beach wound along the shore, a blinding white streak against the azure sky, a true tropical paradise.
And for the first time since her ordeal began, the tension knotting her shoulders began to unwind. She’d been so incredibly scared during the kidnapping, so worried about helping Henry, so terrified at facing her brother again that it felt good to relax for once—no matter how brief the respite.
Rasheed bent down and picked up a tiny pinecone, then tossed it across the sand. “So what’s next for Leila?”
She turned her mind to her sister-in-law again. “She’s not out of danger yet. I’ll go back after lunch to check on her. I have to watch for bleeding and infection, at least for the first few days. She’ll be uncomfortable for about a week after that, until the swelling goes down.”
“So the surgery’s painful?”
“It’s not fun—not something I’d go through to please a monster like Sultan.” She made a face. “Of course, it’s not just battered women who have cosmetic surgery. It always amazes me the lengths people will go to just to look a certain way.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’re already beautiful.”
She laughed at that. “Hardly.”
He raised a brow. “Oh, come on. You must know how you look.”
Her face warmed. She knew she had nice, symmetrical features. And her unusual eye color made her stand out. “I guess I’m okay.”
“Okay?” His gaze traveled over her face, the intensity in his eyes making her belly do a somersault. “You’re a hell of a lot more than just okay.”
The gravel in his voice made her pulse leap. The heat in his gaze held her immobile, making it impossible to draw a breath. Her heart thundering, she skimmed the beard shadow emerging on his jaw, the slight fullness of his lower lip, the craggy hollows of his lean face. And the memory of his kiss came back in a crazy rush—the heat, the delirium, the need.
Her pulse going haywire, she looked away. She was glad that he found her attractive. God knew, she was having a terrible time resisting him. But even if they wanted to take this maddening need to another level, they couldn’t risk it. They had way too much at stake.
“I don’t put much stock in physical beauty,” she explained. “It’s more a handicap than an asset.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Because if you’re pretty, that’s all men see. Beautiful women are objects to them, something they want to acquire. If I’d been plainer, if I’d had a different nose or eyes, my father wouldn’t have cared so much about marrying me off. But he saw me as a commodity, an object he could trade to increase his power.”
“Nadine, nobody who knows you could think you’re only a pretty face.”
Her heart tumbled again, his words loosening something inside her, a need she’d repressed for years. The deep-down need to connect. “My father and brother do.”
“Yeah, well, they’re Neanderthals.” A smile slashed his face, and everything inside her stilled. Grim-faced, he made her pulse race. But when he smiled...the crinkle of his dark eyes, the flash of his white teeth against his swarthy skin, the wicked slant of his sexy grin made every feminine part of her burst to life.
“I’m surprised you became a plastic surgeon,” he continued. “Considering what you think about beauty.”
Still slightly breathless, she tore her gaze away. “I know. It’s complicated.” As complicated as her feelings for him.
Determined to compose herself, she fastened her gaze on the gorgeous sea. Seagulls swooped and dived for fish. The small waves curled and boomed to shore, a million drops of water sparkling in the midday sun. A container ship dotted the horizon, sailing north toward the United States. “My mother had a lot to do with it.”
“You two were close?” he guessed.
Nodding, she closed her eyes. The sun warmed her face and arms. The breeze whispered offshore, tousling her hair. Sitting beside Rasheed, with his hard arm brushing hers, and the rhythmic pull of the waves filling the air, it was so darned tempting to forget the world, forget the evil men lurking nearby, forget the violence of her dreadful past. But she could never escape the harsh reality of her life. The fact that her father had found her proved that.
“I never would have become a doctor if it weren’t for my mom. She knew it was my dream. And she knew my father would never let me go to medical school, that I’d eventually have to escape. So she put away money for me. When I found out...it really tore me up at first.” She’d been a total mess inside, plagued by the worst kind of guilt. “If she hadn’t saved that money for me, if she’d spent it on her medical care instead, maybe she would have survived.”
“You don’t know that. And even if it’s true, she made that choice. Parents who love their kids sacrifice for them. That’s what they do.”
“I know.” It had taken her a while, but she’d finally reconciled herself to her mother’s choice. “But I still felt that I owed it to her to fulfill my potential. I didn’t want to waste her sacrifice.”
“And that’s why you help others now.”
She glanced down the beach. A guard had begun walking toward them, but he was still a hundred yards off. She lifted her gaze to Rasheed’s. “What was your childhood like?”
“Normal, I guess. My parents were Jaziirastani immigrants, and I was their only child. They were linguists. They both taught at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey. That’s where I grew up—in California. They worked hard and were grateful to live in the States. They taught me to appreciate the freedom we have.”
“But you felt safe.”
“Sure.”
“Well, I didn’t. I grew up in an abusive family. You can’t imagine how bad that is. I watched my father beat my mother. We were terrified and always on edge. And the constant threat of violence, the hyperalertness you live with in a house like that...you never really overcome it. It affects how you think, who you
are, what you do.
“I was too young to help my mother. And I couldn’t stop my brother from mistreating his wife. But I still wanted to fight back. These women...these victims of domestic abuse...the surgery isn’t really about beauty. It’s about restoring their self-esteem. I figure if I can ease their suffering, if I can help restore their appearance and feelings of self-worth, maybe it’ll encourage them to take charge of their lives.”
He picked up her hand. He threaded his fingers through hers, the rough warmth of his skin a balm to her soul. He gave her hand a squeeze, the spontaneous gesture more soothing than any words could ever be.
“And that’s why you changed your name?”
Impressed that he understood, she met his eyes. “Nadira brings back too many bad memories. I’m not that helpless child anymore. I’ve left that repressive lifestyle for good.”
For a minute neither spoke. Then Rasheed released her hand and looked away. She tipped her face toward the sun again, delighting in the warmth on her skin. And suddenly she realized why Rasheed had brought her to this spot. He’d noticed her exhaustion and wanted to help her relax.
She slipped him a sideways glance, thrown abruptly off balance again. Who was this enigmatic man? How could someone so violent be so compassionate, too? How could he be willing to fight Amir one moment and show her tenderness the next? He kept poking holes in her preconceptions, forcing her to constantly reassess her opinion of him.
She’d always divided men into two distinct camps—good and bad, gentle and violent. Those who lived peaceful lives and those who attacked. And by most measures, Rasheed fell in the latter group.
Except...he wasn’t bad. Despite his violent lifestyle, he kept protecting her. He kept blurring those rigid lines, muddling the black-and-white world she’d constructed to keep herself safe, turning her impression of men on end.
“So what happened when you ran away?” he asked.
She met his gaze again. She never talked about those days. The threat of discovery had always been too high. Once she’d become Nadine Seymour, she’d left every trace of her former life behind.
But Rasheed already knew who she was. He’d revealed his undercover work to her. And she knew he’d understand.
“It was scary,” she admitted. “I was only seventeen.”
“Where did you go?”
“Baltimore. It was the closest big city to D.C., which is where we lived. I figured I could disappear there. But life on the streets...” Goose bumps rose on her skin despite the heat. “It was awful. Terrifying, really.” The criminals, the drug addicts, the predators preying on unsuspecting girls.
“I got lucky, though. I met up with two other girls right away, the ones I told you about. Haley and Brynn. We became best friends. They’re a few years younger than I am, so I was the leader of our little group.”
“You watched out for them.”
“I guess. Some guardian I turned out to be, though. I didn’t have a clue about how to survive. But neither did they. We muddled along together, figuring things out.”
“You said you witnessed a murder?”
She nodded, the memories of that horrific day rushing back. “Brynn did. She’d gone into an abandoned warehouse to take some photos. She wanted to be a photographer, so she was always taking pictures of people and things. Haley and I went with her, but we were too scared to go inside. There was a gang that hung around there, the City of the Dead, and we were afraid they’d be inside. So we waited for her on the street.
“It turned out that we were right. They were in the warehouse, executing a man. Brynn caught the shooting on film. The killer chased her. He chased us all.” She hugged her arms, remembering the terror of their escape, the awful paranoia that had plagued them for years. “He’s been after us ever since.”
She shook her head. “Ironic, isn’t it? I left home to escape the violence, but what I found on the streets was even worse.”
A wave crashed over the beach. A sandpiper lifted his leg, waiting stoically as the water swirled around him and raced back into the sea.
“Anyhow,” she continued, “we stayed on the move after that. After enough years went by, we started setting down roots. I went to medical school and moved to New York. Haley opened a shelter for pregnant teens in Washington, D.C. Brynn became a photographer, a famous one, actually. She lives in Alexandria, Virginia now.”
“You weren’t afraid the killer would find you?”
“We figured he was probably dead by then. Gang members tend to die young. But we’ve been careful. Even if he’s not around, we all have other reasons to hide.” The same reasons that had caused them to run away from home.
“And that’s why you need to contact them?”
She nodded. “I need to warn them, just in case.”
He pulled a piece of paper and pen from his pocket, and handed them to her. “Write down their phone numbers, and I’ll pass them to my contacts. I’ve already asked them to check on Henry, too.”
Grateful, she jotted down the numbers, then gave the paper back. He tucked it into his pocket, but his gaze lingered on hers. Uncomfortable with his inspection, she tipped her head. “What?”
“You take care of everyone—Henry, Leila, your friends. The battered women you help. I just wondered who looks out for you.”
For a moment, she couldn’t speak. She gazed into his inky eyes, the dark potency luring her in. And without warning, she had the strongest urge to curl up in his muscled arms, to take refuge in his embrace, and let him shelter her from harm.
Startled, she looked away. What was wrong with her? She couldn’t depend on Rasheed. No matter who he was, no matter how much she wished life could be different, that was a risk she couldn’t take. She knew darned well that only the strong in this world survived.
“No one,” she said. “I don’t need anyone looking out for me.” Rising, she nodded toward the guard closing in on them. “We’d better go. We’re about to have company.”
And they still had a terror plot to foil.
Not waiting for an answer, she led the way down the jungle path. A dragonfly buzzed past. Birds flitted through the trees, their plumage as bright as the tropical flowers peeking through the leaves. But the scene didn’t seem as peaceful now.
Because the truth was, the temptation to lean on Rasheed had left her shaken. It had opened the door on a yearning she’d buried for years—the need to have a partner in her life, the hunger to find a man who would share the burdens and joys and pains.
The cottage came into view, its fuchsia bougainvillea spilling over the clay tile roof. Rasheed pulled her to a stop. “I’ll come back later this afternoon with the agent I told you about. He wants to talk to you.”
“All right.”
“I’ve been assigned to guard you again tonight. Not that it matters. Everyone on the island is loyal to the cartel. If you try to escape, no one will help you leave.”
“I figured that.” And she was used to relying on herself.
But as Rasheed strode away, a wistful feeling seeped through her heart. Because for the first time, she wanted to lean on him.
And that was the scariest thought of all.
* * *
He was in trouble.
Rasheed knocked on the cottage door several hours later, a drum of anticipation making his muscles taut. He’d tried to convince himself that this was all about the case, that the restlessness gripping his nerves was due to the urgency of the upcoming attack, but even he wasn’t buying the excuse. His feelings toward Nadine were growing personal. Sexual. He was having a hard time thinking of her as anything except a woman he desired. And the longer he hung around her, the more he learned about this amazing woman, the worse the craving got.
And that was wrong on too many levels to count. He had a job to do. He couldn’t get involved
with a woman he had to protect. And even if he wanted to ignore that reality, Nadine wasn’t the casual-sex type—and he wasn’t a long-term man.
She swung open the cottage door. He drank in the amazing sight of her—her smooth, tawny skin, her slumberous green eyes, the alluring fullness of her soft lips—and his good intentions crumpled to dust. Her snug T-shirt hugged her breasts to perfection. Her loose, drawstring pants rode low on her hips, emphasizing the curve of her slender waist. Her black braid shimmered in the light, and a small crease crossed one cheek, as if she’d just awakened from a nap. Her eyes were heavy lidded, adding to the sleepy look.
Lust arrowed through him, the sudden image of her lying naked beneath him directing all his blood straight south. With difficulty, he tamped back the surge of arousal, determined to keep his mind in line.
The answering heat in her eyes didn’t help.
Suddenly remembering the agent standing behind him, he cleared his throat. “Can we come in?”
“Of course.” She stepped back, and he brushed past her, trying not to inhale her enticing scent. He signaled for her to stay quiet as the CIA agent followed him through the door, carrying a leather bag.
Disguised as one of the island’s gardeners, his fellow operative wore a grimy ball cap, a dirt-stained, sleeveless T-shirt and baggy jeans. But unlike the other gardeners, he kept a pouch filled with high-tech equipment hidden in his wheelbarrow beneath his tools. Opening it, he pulled out several gadgets, then methodically scoured the room, sweeping it for cameras and electronic bugs. Several minutes later, he stopped.
“The room’s clean,” he announced. “No one is listening or watching that I can tell.”
Nadine frowned. “You’re sure?”
Rasheed spoke up. “Don’t worry. He knows what he’s doing. This is Felipe Ochoa, by the way, the agent I was telling you about.”
Ochoa, a Hispanic man of medium height in his thirties, walked over and shook her hand. Nadine gestured to the table, and they all took their seats.
