by Laura Taylor
David heard footsteps, but he didn’t release Emma. Glancing up, he spotted the senior embassy security officer. The man paused in the open doorway, his expression compassionate as he took in the scene before him.
"You’re in luck," he said quietly. "Our weekly supply plane arrives tomorrow morning. My people are working out a way to get you two on it without anyone being the wiser. Ambassador Highgate will be down shortly to greet you." He closed the door once David nodded in response to his news.
Alone again, David guided Emma to one of the couches. He tugged her down beside him and held her against the hard wall of his chest.
"I will never get used to the violence people are capable of inflicting on each other," she admitted as she swiped at her tears. "Did you see all those poor children and the terror etched into their little faces?" She broke off, unable to continue.
Her pain–riddled voice increased the ache in his heart. He rested his chin atop her head, gently running his hands up and down her arms in an effort to soothe her. Sensing she had more to say, he waited.
"I’m shocked we’ve made it this far."
He eased her onto his lap and encircled her with his arms. His own anxiety had nearly eaten him alive during the previous twenty–four hours. Like Emma, he was amazed that their luck hadn’t run out yet.
As for the violence they’d witnessed and the cruelty they’d endured, the warrior in him couldn’t muster any surprise. Good and evil existed, and episodes of inexplicable inhumanity occurred across the globe on a daily basis.
"David?"
He glanced down at her upturned face. Wide–eyed, lashes still damp from her tears, and dangerously pale, she stared at him. He ignored the faint warning of his conscience, lowered his head, and settled his mouth over hers. His emotions burst out of him like a runaway freight train, and he claimed her mouth, plunging his tongue into its depths.
Emma arched into him, too hungry for him not to respond with equally fervent passion. With a throaty moan she abandoned herself to his seductive assault even as she derived comfort within his fierce embrace. A rough brand of sensuality tinged their appetites for each other, making them breathless, reducing them to quivering nerve endings and the most basic instincts.
Several minutes passed before they heard a firm knock on the door of the suite. Protected from view by David’s large frame, Emma shuddered and sagged against him. He held her, allowing them both time to pull themselves together before they faced their unexpected audience.
They reluctantly eased apart. Emma gave David a faintly wry smile. Despite the desire still flaring in his body, David was beyond being embarrassed. At the moment he cared little about what anyone thought of him. His sole concern—securing safe passage out of the Middle East for Emma.
He reluctantly stood, crossed the room, and pulled open the door. A pleasant–looking man in his mid–sixties stood there. David stepped aside to allow him entry.
"Major Winslow, Miss Hamilton, welcome to Canadian soil, despite the limited borders of this particular piece of real estate. I’m Ambassador Highgate," the man said, shaking hands with David once he entered the suite’s parlor. "First, let me assure you both that you’ll be safe here. I must say, it’s a relief to see that you’re alive and in fairly good health. We only recently learned that you were being held in the same prison cellblock."
"You have excellent informants, Mr. Ambassador." David sat back down beside a subdued Emma. Reclaiming her hand, he was relieved to discover that she’d stopped shaking. "We appreciate your hospitality, sir." He waited for the ambassador, a gray–haired, pipe–smoking gentleman clad in silk pajamas, smoking jacket, and leather slippers, to settle comfortably on the opposite couch before he prompted, "Your security officer mentioned message traffic."
The ambassador nodded. "All very secure, I assure you. Once we confirmed that you and Miss Hamilton were still alive, we immediately notified your State Department. We’ve been in constant touch with them for the last few weeks."
The older man leaned forward and tapped the contents of his pipe into a crystal ashtray. "We knew, of course, about your last mission, Major. The American, Canadian, and European media people haven’t let the story die, especially since reconnaissance missions were, and still are, legitimate features of the U.N.’s cease–fire agreement, but it wasn’t until Miss Hamilton was placed in your cellblock that one of our more reliable information sources identified your precise location and reported back to us."
"We weren’t certain that anyone even knew where we were," Emma remarked. A thought occurred to her, so she voiced it. "An elderly man working in the prison kitchen gave me two oranges several days ago."
He smiled benignly at her. "Certain diplomatic sources, which will have to remain unnamed to ensure their safety, assured us that Major Winslow was still alive, although we were routinely denied an opportunity to see him on behalf of our American colleagues. We conveyed what little we knew to the appropriate officials in Washington on a regular basis, but our inability to verify your physical well–being, Major, left us very concerned and at a distinct disadvantage."
"They could have executed me right away," David said bluntly. "Fortunately they considered me an interesting diversion and kept me around for their amusement."
The ambassador clearly understood his meaning, but he was tactful enough to refrain from further comment. Instead, he turned his attention to Emma. "And you, Miss Hamilton. You were missed almost immediately. First by our Miss Winthrop, who said you failed to attend a dinner engagement, and then by the Child Feed authorities in Europe and in America, your family, the U.S. State Department, and representatives of the United Nations, who’ve all been lobbying for access to you by the Red Cross since you went missing. It took us a few days and several bribes, but we finally established that you’d been detained by the secret police because of your lack of proper travel documents. We concluded that you’d probably been robbed and were attempting to make your way to safety. Unfortunately, we were also denied an opportunity for a face–to–face visit with you."
Emma nodded. "That’s pretty much what happened. You obviously tried to help us, Ambassador Highgate, so please don’t apologize. It’s a relief to know that someone was trying to ascertain our situations, especially since we don’t have an embassy here."
"Well, you’re out of that miserable place now." He pushed up to his feet, cradling his pipe in the palm of his hand. "You must be exhausted, my dear."
"We both are," she admitted. "Would it be possible for me to speak with Mary?"
"I’m afraid that Miss Winthrop is absent from the embassy at present. She took home leave to be with her father, but she was very concerned about you and asked me to keep an eye out for you."
Emma straightened in alarm. "He didn’t have another heart attack, did he?"
The ambassador didn’t try to conceal his surprise. "You do know our Mary and her family quite well, don’t you?"
Emma nodded. "We’ve been friends since college."
"Mary’s father is getting a pacemaker. Tomorrow, I believe. It seems he’s finally strong enough to undergo the surgery."
Emma sagged with obvious relief. "David and I hid in her house today. I left her a note. She’ll know where to look for it when she returns."
The ambassador walked around the long, low coffee table that separated him from David and Emma. They stood, too.
"Since the secret police rarely release their prisoners except, of course, in a casket, I’m left to assume that you engineered your own escape. Care to tell me how you managed it, or would you prefer to wait for a debriefing by your own people?"
David smiled the satisfied smile of a man who’d survived in spite of staggering odds. "It was nothing more than an accident of fate, sir. Someone blew out the wall in our cellblock during a rocket attack about twenty–four hours ago. We took off, and we’ve been on the run ever since."
Ambassador Highgate shook his head in wonder. David concluded by his expression that, ha
d they been caught, they would have faced a firing squad or a public beheading televised by Al–Jazeera.
"Amazing! As I indicated, we repeatedly attempted to gain access to you both via diplomatic channels. Storming the prison wasn’t an option, I’m afraid, although there was some indication—rather an oblique indication, I might add—that one of your covert military teams was preparing to try to extract you, Major."
David nodded. He’d prayed that such an attempt would be made on his behalf. Despite the fact that the mission hadn’t occurred, he still appreciated the fact that he hadn’t been abandoned or forgotten.
"What about our families?" Emma asked. "Can we let them know we’re all right?"
"Not a good idea, my dear, at least not right now. There’s always the risk that information about you could leak, no matter how secure our communications system might be. If that were to happen, then you’d compromise my staff and you could easily find yourselves permanent residents of the embassy. Until cooler heads prevail in the government and the current dictator is ousted, a siege mentality prevails in this country. It wouldn’t do for you to be trapped here indefinitely."
David squeezed Emma’s hand and glanced down at her. "Patience, babe."
She smiled for the first time that night, aware that her eagerness to be free had momentarily eclipsed the reality of their situation.
"Your State Department and military will handle notification of your families," the ambassador continued. "My people will focus on getting you two out of the country at the earliest possible moment, which will probably be tomorrow morning, if Mr. Winston, our security officer, has his way. He was once with British Intelligence, so you can probably imagine some of the clandestine tricks he’s got up his sleeve for occasions such as this one."
Emma smothered a yawn as she leaned against David. The ambassador appeared sympathetic to her obvious fatigue.
"Why don’t you get some rest, Miss Hamilton? One of my aides will arrive shortly with refreshments for you, as I’m certain your meals haven’t been of a sumptuous nature in recent weeks." Gesturing with a free hand, he explained, "This is the parlor for a two–bedroom suite. Each bedroom has a private bath. If you need medical attention, we have a physician and a nurse on staff, and your laundry can be seen to while you rest."
"Thank you, Ambassador Highgate, for everything." Emma stepped forward. "All I really need is a long soak in a hot tub and some sleep. I’m afraid the stress of dodging bullets has worn me out."
"Certainly, my dear." He took her extended hand, his manner reflecting the courtliness of a by–gone era as he gently patted it. "You’ve obviously been very courageous throughout your ordeal. If you were my daughter, I know I’d be enormously proud of you."
She flushed, thinking that any courage she possessed had come from David. She glanced at the man who dominated both her heart and her thoughts.
The ambassador turned to David. "Major, I’ll need to speak with you privately before you retire. Your State Department will require certain verification information, as I’m certain you already realize. After that, your time is your own until Mr. Winston is ready for you tomorrow morning."
"Certainly, sir." David hugged Emma and promised quietly, "I’ll be back soon."
She nodded, flashed a parting smile at the ambassador, and made her way to the bedroom. She closed the door behind her and sank back against it. Looking around the finely–appointed room, she couldn’t help comparing it to the filthy cell she’d recently occupied. Emma shivered, cast aside the memory, and headed for the bathroom.
** ** **
David found Emma in bed after he finished his conversation with the ambassador and the embassy security officer. He stood at the end of the bed, his heart bumping erratically in his chest as he surveyed her in repose. Naked and sprawled on her back, her long black hair framed her face and tumbled across her pillow.
Leaning down, David ran his fingertips up the length of her exposed leg. She stirred, but she didn’t awaken. When he pressed a light kiss to her forehead, she moaned and whispered his name. Instead of sinking down beside her, he forced himself to step back from the bed and the temptation she posed.
He knew she needed to sleep, almost as much as he needed to feel her avid mouth and tender touch skimming over his body, lingering here to tantalize, pausing there to torment. Shaken by the depth of his hunger for her, David abruptly turned away and strode into the bathroom.
Stripping down to his skin, he stepped under the needle–sharp spray of a hot shower. He stood there until the muscles in his body began to relax and the hunger he felt for Emma eased to something approaching a manageable level. And all the while he repeatedly reminded himself that he owed them both time to think, time to be certain that being together once they returned to their respective lives was what they both really wanted.
After placing their soiled clothes outside the bedroom door, David extinguished the bedside lamp Emma had left on for him and joined her. He drew her into his arms and pulled a quilt over their bodies.
He held her, absently noting the sound of air–raid sirens in the distance and trying not to think of the next leg of their journey to freedom. If successful, it would end with their parting.
** ** **
Emma jerked awake to the sound of someone knocking on the bedroom door. David’s arm, resting across her midriff, tightened protectively around her. A moment later, he lifted his tousled head and looked at Emma.
"Someone’s at the door," she whispered.
He grunted and forced himself out of the bed. Snagging the towel he’d abandoned the night before, he secured it at his hips, crossed the room, and yanked open the door. Emma tugged the covers up to her chin and listened.
"You’ve got an hour and a half to dress and eat," Winston told David. "Canadian travel documents required to depart the country have been prepared for you. Read the documents and memorize the highlights. The ambassador’s barber will give you a trim, Major, and there are several wigs in the closet in the other bedroom for Miss Hamilton. Tell her to select the auburn bob so that it will match her documents."
"Then we’re leaving in the open?" David asked as he accepted a batch of papers from the security officer.
Winston nodded. "The less subterfuge, the better. The airport guards, security police, and immigration officials are less likely to challenge you that way. Any questions?"
"None. We’ll be ready."
Emma watched the two men shake hands. She wondered if they would ever see Mr. Winston again, but she doubted it. She sensed that he was the kind of man who preferred to remain in the shadows.
David closed the door and turned to Emma as she drew herself up into a seated position against the headboard. The rumpled sheets had snagged at her hips, and the sight of her full, pink–tipped breasts and sleek belly almost made him groan aloud.
He glanced down at the top page of the sheaf of documents he held. "Feel like pretending to be Charlotte Truesdale from Toronto today?"
"I’ll pretend to be a rabbit popping out of a magician’s hat if it’ll get us home." She flipped back the covers and scooted across the bed.
Moving quickly, she exposed those long, shapely legs he adored—legs that he immediately imagined parting and encircling his hips as he sank into the tight wet heat of her body. With tremendous effort he again redirected his gaze to the documents he held while Emma strolled naked into the bathroom.
He shaved before spending five minutes with the barber, who gave him a quick trim. For her part, Emma hurriedly showered. David took his turn in the shower while she applied light make–up, plaited her hair and pinned the braids into a coronet, and then donned the auburn wig. Both were quiet as she slipped into a simple gray silk dress and low pumps, and he dressed in a conservative suit, crisp white shirt, dark tie, and highly–polished dress shoes.
David stored his flight suit and boots in the false bottom of a small suitcase he found in the closet, then added toiletries and miscellaneous items of casual c
lothing from the bureau in the bedroom they’d used before he zipped it closed.
When they stepped into the sitting room, breakfast awaited them in chafing dishes that had been arranged on the bar that separated the suite’s kitchenette from the dining table. Emma barely tasted her food, but she managed to drink a glass of orange juice and eat a small bowl of hot cereal while she perused the paperwork supplied by Mr. Winston.
David ate with the appetite of a condemned man consuming his last meal as he scanned his portion of the documents. She sensed that it would take more time for him to believe that he would eat regularly again. One of the hazards, she decided, of being imprisoned for several months and wondering if he would ever know freedom or a decent meal again.
"Are you ready?" David asked a little while later as they stood at the door of the suite.
Emma paled, but she squared her shoulders and met his gaze. "Yes."
He dropped a hard kiss on her lips. "We’ll make it, Emma."
She nodded, and then flashed him a quick, strained smile. "No other option, is there?"
He pulled open the door, slid his free arm around her shoulders, and guided her into the hallway. From there they descended a staircase to the central reception lobby of the embassy building. Both knew without discussing it that their departure from the Canadian Embassy would place them in harm’s way yet again.
Once their luggage was loaded into the trunk of an armor–plated limo from the embassy’s fleet of vehicles, they departed the compound with two other Canadian diplomats. Their deliberate visibility and conversational exchanges with their fellow passengers declared to any observer that they were simply visiting Canadian diplomats with nothing whatsoever to hide. In short, their successful flight from the country hinged upon their ability to bluff by giving the performances of a lifetime. The alternative: death by firing squad or globally televised beheadings.
Two members of Winston’s armed security team, the driver and the man riding shotgun in the front passenger seat, focused their attention on the crowded roadway, as well as on the embassy vehicle that preceded them and the one that followed in their wake. Hard–looking, vigilant men, neither one spoke as they wended their way out of the city.
