High Risk

by Simona Ahrnstedt

  He nodded and went out to the kitchen. While he rattled around in there, she shuffled into a sitting position and pulled the covers up over her shoulders. Freja was lying with her head on her paws, watching her. “Hi there,” Ambra said, and the dog got up and came over to her, letting Ambra scratch her under her chin.

  By the time Tom returned, Ambra’s brain was starting to work again.

  “Rehydration,” he said, and she took the glass. She sipped the liquid and studied him over the edge of the glass.

  “You scared me,” she said, suddenly remembering the way he’d changed.

  He sighed deeply. “And you almost scared me to death. When I found you out there . . .”

  “I was scared,” she explained.

  He seemed genuinely confused. “Why?”

  “You were so angry.”

  “Yeah, I was angry. But you didn’t think I would . . . that I’d hurt you?”

  She sighed. “It’s something I struggle with. It’s ingrained in me, I know that. But I was so scared, and I don’t know . . . I didn’t think. I just wanted to get away.” They were old feelings, and from a logical point of view they didn’t make much sense. She just couldn’t handle feeling powerless. But logic didn’t always help—she had been terrified and panicked.

  “You were spying on me. You called Isobel. I have a right to be angry.”

  “Yes.”

  He seemed serious, determined, and, yes, still a little scary, but he had risked his own life to save her, and she wasn’t afraid anymore. “My clothes, where are they?”

  He gave her an apologetic look. “They didn’t make it.”

  “Not even my underwear?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry.”

  Ambra looked away. She couldn’t stop herself from blushing. So this man had undressed her, down to her bare skin, while she was unconscious. That would take a while to process.

  “The power’s still not back on. I heated water on a gas stove. There are gas lamps in the bathroom. You can wash yourself, if you want. I put out a toothbrush. And you can have these.” He held out some thermal long johns, a fleece sweater, and a pair of socks—his own, of course. No male underwear, at least, she thought. She probably wouldn’t survive that embarrassment. She took the things from him.

  “How did you get my clothes off?” she asked.

  “They were soaked through and you were freezing cold. I was in a hurry, so I had to cut them.”

  Of course. She got to her feet, wobbled. Tom shot up like a rocket and put an arm around her waist. “I’ll carry you,” he said as Ambra clutched the clothes and the blanket so that it wouldn’t fall off her.

  “Please, I want to do it myself. I need to pee and to be alone. I don’t need to be carried.”

  Tom looked like he wanted to protest.

  She took another step. Her head was spinning. But she could do it. She took another step. And another. She would make it.

  “I understand if you want to close the door, but don’t lock it,” he commanded from behind her.

  “Sir, yes sir,” she muttered. But she really was dizzy and incredibly weak, so she decided Tom probably had a point. She would hurry to get dressed, she doggedly decided. If she collapsed in the bathroom and had to be rescued again, she at least wanted to be dressed.

  She quickly washed, dressed, and brushed her teeth. The sweater and long johns were soft and far too big. She had to roll back the sleeves several times, and the trousers dragged on the floor no matter what she did, but they were cozy and she felt much better now she was dressed. Her belt had survived, and when she tightened it around her waist the long johns stayed up. She pulled on the thick socks and the fleece, which practically reached her knees. She felt a little more like a person again.

  “There’s no power, we have no service, and there’s still a storm outside, at least one more night,” Tom told her when she came out. “But we’ve got enough wood and food to last a few weeks, so we’ll be fine. Plus I have one of the snowmobiles.”

  At that point, Ambra pulled an apologetic face, but Tom waved it away.

  “No criticism, I’m just thinking aloud. The way it’s snowing, we’ll have to dig ourselves out. You’ll have to stay here tonight.”

  She nodded. Her stomach rumbled.

  “I made a little food. I only have one camping stove. Swedish flatbread sandwiches and soup, is that all right?” he asked.

  She was starving, so after she wolfed down the food, he made coffee and handed her biscuits with cheese and butter.

  “Mmm,” she said.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Much better.” She was still exhausted, but considering she’d almost died in a snowstorm, she was surprisingly well.

  “You don’t have any frostbite. But you still might get a fever.”

  “Yes, doctor.”

  He didn’t smile. “If you go sit down out there, I’ll come. We need to talk.”

  Tom poured more coffee. Ambra curled up on the couch and tried not to think about the way they’d sat there making small talk . . . what was it, less than twenty-four hours earlier?

  “Why are you so interested in what happened in Chad?” he began, getting straight to the point.

  She didn’t have a good answer to his question. Other than the fact that she had a tendency to be suspicious of people, and that her suspicions were often justified. “I think I was born curious,” she eventually said.

  He put down his cup. “I’ll show you,” he said. He got up and walked away, returning a moment later with a stack of photos, which he put down on the coffee table.

  “This is what you saw. I’ll tell you about it, and I’ll answer your questions, but you have to swear that this stays between us.”

  Ambra’s hands clasped her coffee and she nodded seriously. “I swear.”

  Tom started to lay out the pictures on the table. Photos from the desert, some dark, others blurred. Sand, smoke, weapons. She studied them while he began to talk.

  “After I left the military . . .”

  “When?” she interrupted him.

  He shook his head. “Years ago. I moved over to the private sector, got a job with a British security firm. I worked abroad for a few years.”

  “Where?”

  He paused.

  “Come on, Tom.”

  She could see he was fighting with himself, but eventually he gave in and she felt a slight thrill of triumph. “Iraq. Afghanistan. Countries like that. Different places in Africa. But after a few years, I decided I was done with war. The jobs paid really well, but it was tough going and I wanted to come home.”

  To Ellinor, she filled in silently for herself.

  “I started working in Sweden,” he continued.

  “Lodestar?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you do things that were illegal?” The question was verging on rude, but she had asked it now.

  He looked down at his hands. Ambra waited. “Right and wrong don’t always exist in these countries,” he said slowly. “Not in the kind of work I do. I have a moral code of my own that I try to follow.”

  “Really?” Ambra couldn’t help but sound skeptical. In her experience personal moral codes didn’t mean much.

  “I know how it sounds, but it’s a way for me to stand up for what I did. I did a lot of routine work and administration these past few years, not so much active duty. But then that woman got captured in Chad.”

  “Isobel De la Grip?”

  “Yes. She’s an experienced field doctor. She was on her way to a pediatric hospital when she was captured by local thugs. Her boyfriend, or husband now, Alexander De la Grip, he got in touch with David Hammar. David called me for advice. No one knew what had happened to Isobel; we didn’t even know if she was alive. It ended with us going to Chad to search for her.”

  “Sounds like a bad action movie.”

  “A lot of things in that line of work do. But we managed to find out where she was being held. It was a village, in the de
sert.” He pointed to one of the pictures, which showed a village from a distance. She studied it and the other images. There was a grainy picture of Alexander De la Grip, several of various men bent over maps, all armed and dressed in fatigues. Merciless men. There was one of Tom, too. He was wearing sunglasses, his beard was short, his face dusty, and he looked serious. The picture was blurred, but it was Tom. She touched it.

  “I recruited some freelance soldiers, and we planned an attack and rescued her,” he said. “And then my helicopter crashed.”

  “But it was a village of civilians you attacked?”

  “That was where they were keeping her. We didn’t know if they were torturing her.”

  “Did any civilians die?”

  “I’ve gone through all the information from the operation, read the reports from everyone who was involved. As far as I can tell, no civilians were killed. It was dark and there was a lot of fighting, but I work with professionals, not psychopaths. The whole thing was over in a couple minutes.”

  “But people died?”

  “Not people. Soldiers. There’s a difference. According to the reports, my men killed two, maybe three of the kidnappers. Maybe they injured people who died later—we’ll never know. Those were the documents you saw. So if you ask me whether I ever killed anyone. . . yes. But not in Chad.”

  Ambra nodded. She didn’t want to hear any more.

  He sat back on the couch and studied her. “Now I want to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “Okay,” she said, and she tried not to squirm under his piercing gaze.

  “Was this why you came back to Kiruna?” he asked, watching her closely. She wasn’t the only one with trust issues, she realized. She had hurt him, this unshakable man.

  “To find out more about me? About this?” He gestured to the images on the coffee table.

  “I came to look into my former foster family, to try to talk to a social worker. Whom I probably caused real problems for.”

  He looked as if he didn’t entirely believe her.

  “I wasn’t even sure we would meet up here, as you might remember,” she reminded him gently.

  “Why did you call Isobel? Why didn’t you ask me?”

  “I didn’t know how you would react. You might have gotten mad. If you can imagine such a thing.”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry about that.”

  “And I’m sorry I snooped, that I overreacted. Sorry. But I came here to look into my background, not yours. I swear.”

  “What the hell were you thinking when you took off like that? In the cold? You could’ve died.”

  “But you saved me,” she said, trying to stifle a yawn. She was so tired. “I think I need to rest again.” She was suddenly completely exhausted.

  “You look drained,” he said. “If you get ready, I’ll make up the bed.”

  “Upstairs?”

  “No, it’s freezing up there. You’ll have to sleep down here.” He took their cups and went out to the kitchen. Ambra studied the pictures on the coffee table. She quickly took out her phone, which, by some miracle, still had four percent of battery left. She took a photo of the image of Tom. Some of the other pictures were visible in the background, but this was for her own use. She just wanted a picture of him. Afterward she trudged to the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and used the toilet. When she came back out, he had folded back the covers for her and was sitting by the fire, with his back to her. She pulled off her long johns, the fleece, and the socks, and she kept on only the long thermal sweater, which would have to act as nightgown. She lay down and pulled the blanket up to her chin.

  The last thing she heard was “sleep well,” and then she went out like a light.

  * * *

  When Ambra woke next time, she felt much more alert. The fire had died down, with just a single log alight in the open hearth. The room was dark, and it felt like the middle of the night. She heard a quiet snoring, and when she turned around she was surprised to see Tom asleep on the mattress next to her. She turned onto her side, her head resting on one palm, and studied his face. He was sleeping in his T-shirt, with a blanket over him. She reached out and stroked his forehead, the way he had hers. He made another sound, but he didn’t wake. The blanket wasn’t covering him completely, and she gently brushed her fingers over his chest. Her hand came to rest on his rib cage, which rose calmly beneath her palm. The man had saved her life, carried her in his arms, taken care of her. How hot was that? His skin was warm, but the house was cold; the tip of her nose was like ice, and she scooted toward him. For an elite soldier, Tom slept surprisingly deeply. She moved even closer and made an interesting discovery.

  Tom had a hard-on. She could see it through the blanket. And then she felt his hand on her hip.

  “What are you doing?” he asked huskily, turning his face toward her.

  “You’re awake?” she mumbled. She felt her blood start to pump more quickly, rushing to those parts of her body linked to sex. Her entire being was reaching out toward him and his presence.

  “I think so. How are you? What are you doing?” His words were rambling.

  He had turned onto his side, facing her, and their bodies brushed up against one another. Every time she took a breath, her chest touched his. Her nipples hardened. She slowly licked her lips, her eyes focused on him the entire time. Tom gave her an uncertain look. She didn’t remember having seen him look that way before. She laid a hand on his hip, moved closer to him. He swallowed, his big throat working, and then he came to meet her, slowly until their lips were almost grazing each other’s. Ambra gently swept her mouth over his. He lay perfectly still, and she almost didn’t continue, but then she raised her hand to his cheek and parted her lips, and he did the same. As her tongue entered his mouth, his came to meet it. His hand moved up the back of her neck, and when he kissed her it was hard and eager, not the least bit hesitant or uncertain; it was more a frustrated explosion, and Ambra whimpered. His tongue swept into her mouth, demanding and powerful. Kiss after kiss, as though all of the feelings that had been bubbling between them were finally unleashed. She pulled at his shirt, wanted to feel more of his glorious skin. His hand was on the curve of her back, pressing her firmly toward him. He pulled at her top, murmuring something about her wearing too much, and then his hands finally found their way beneath it. Ambra leaned against his neck and panted into him when his palm moved over her breast; he kept it there, warm and rough.

  “I want to look at you,” he said huskily.

  Ambra swallowed. But she withstood the impulse to pull down her top and helped him to take it off instead. She raised her arms, and he lifted it over her head, threw it to one side, and devoured her with his eyes. She shivered. His hand moved back to her breast. His eyes were jet black in the faint light of the low fire. Her small breasts had always made her feel unfeminine, but Tom’s wild hands, hungry kisses, and very hard evidence of appreciation made her feel attractive and sexy. She shuddered.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  She nodded, though her shiver was mostly due to everything going on between them. He grabbed a fur and placed it over her. “Better?” She nodded again. His body enveloped hers, his knees found their way in between her legs.

  “You take off your top too,” she said, her gaze not leaving him for a moment.

  He obeyed. Her eyes hungrily moved across his chest. She had seen it before, in the sauna, but right now, in the glow of the dying fire, so close up, he was almost too much. Muscular, a small patch of black hair on his chest, and a thin line down his stomach, scarred from battle. She would give anything to see him without a beard. But looking the way he did right now, there was a brutal sensuality to him, more wild than tame, and when his index finger traced an invisible line from her collarbone down to her breast, circling her taught nipple, she closed her eyes and gave herself over to the sensation of being desired. He bent down and took her other nipple in his mouth, and God it felt good. His hand stroked her stomach, her hips, her thighs. Ambra imp
atiently moved toward his big, slow hand, wanted it . . . ah, there.

  He cupped her sex with his hand, looked her straight in the eye as he slowly explored her most intimate area. She didn’t wax, had barely shaved in an eternity—it was like 1981 down there—but it didn’t matter; she thought Tom was a man who didn’t much care about that kind of thing. He caressed her, kissed her until she pantingly plastered herself against his hand, his mouth, his tongue.

  “Ambra,” he mumbled into her mouth. Over and over again. She pulled at his pants, wanted this so damn much. He let go of her, pulled back, left her.

  God, what was he doing? Ambra gave him a warning look. Don’t even think about stopping.

  Tom laughed, though it wasn’t a happy laugh, more a frustrated one.

  “Are you on birth control?” he asked.

  She shook her head. It was so long since she’d last had an active sex life. But he must have . . . ?

  “I don’t have any protection here,” he said, sounding stifled.

  Ambra propped herself up on her elbows. “Nothing?” she asked, unable to tell whether he was messing with her. “You have everything in this place. We could practically survive the apocalypse here.”

  He nodded. “Definitely. But there are no condoms. Sadly.”

  She slumped back down on the mattress. So. She couldn’t take the risk. She never wanted to get pregnant by mistake. The world didn’t need any more unwanted children with fucked-up parents.

  Tom leaned over her. “But I can keep doing this,” he said, stroking her stomach, cupping her again, moving his fingers in circles, deliberate, determined. No fumbling here, no more uncertainty, just a man who knew how to please a woman. Ambra parted her legs, raised them slightly.

  “You’re so damn hot,” he murmured. It was as if he could read her reactions, interpret every noise she made. Those hands and fingers, those words; they were like magic. His lips on her mouth, his kisses, caresses. His fingers, gently inside her, and then a little less gently, a rhythm that suited her better than any rhythm ever had.

  “Tom,” she panted, and he kept going, kept going. Christ, he knew what he was doing. She could feel it building inside her. She threw herself forward and back, pictured him penetrating her, pressing himself into her, making love to her, and then it came. The release. It just came and came. It was literally the best orgasm of her life, coming in long waves, making her lose herself, her entire body tense, pressing herself into him.