by Dana Marton
“Do you want to go over to say hi before we leave?” Gerald set his fork down and picked up his glass.
They hadn’t really known each other that well. Jamal had been more Nate’s friend than hers. Still… “Why not?” she said.
But Jamal and his companion rose to leave long before she was done with her meal. She wiped her mouth, watching as they made their way among the tables toward her. Luckily, Gerald had picked a table right by the door so the men had to walk by them to get out.
“Jamal?”
He stopped and looked at her.
“Abigail DiMatteo. Remember? Nate Korsky’s girlfriend from Georgetown.”
His aristocratic mouth immediately stretched into a warm smile. “Abigail? Forgive me, I didn’t recognize you dressed like this,” he said in nearly unaccented English.
Gerald stood and extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Gerald Thornton, Abigail’s husband. Would you join us for coffee?”
Jamal hesitated for a moment. “Certainly. Excuse me for a second.”
He walked his companion to the door, where they talked for another minute or two, and then he returned to their table.
“What are you doing here?” he asked Abigail.
“I work in Tukatar, starting up a program for war orphans.”
“Still trying to save the world?” He flashed her a warm smile then turned to Gerald. “And you?”
“I’m filming her work to prepare a documentary. Well, I was filming.” He shrugged. “Our hut was firebombed yesterday, so for the moment we are without a home or supplies.”
She knew what was coming before Jamal even opened his mouth and could have kicked Gerald under the table for it.
“You must stay at my home. I would love to have you as my guests for as long as you would like.”
Middle Eastern hospitality allowed no other answer. “That’s very kind of you, but we got a room at the Hilton. We’ll be fine.”
“I insist. I could not let my friends stay at a hotel when my home is so close to the city. May I send a car for you later?”
“That would be lovely. Thank you,” she said, knowing that to refuse would have been incredibly rude, if not an outright offense.
Chapter Four
Spike looked around the room and wished Jamal had sent Abigail to the women’s quarters. Rooming together would make it harder to place the dozen or so bugs he had hidden in the secret compartment of his sandal before burning down the hut.
He would distribute the bugs then get Abigail out of there as fast as he could. Once he told the Colonel his mission had been accomplished, a surveillance team would be sent in with the proper equipment. They could pick up whatever was said in the house without having to come within a hundred feet. And hopefully, what they heard would lead them to Suhaib. Fast.
His role in the operation was a relatively minor one, unfortunately, close to being completed. He’d been put on the job as a precaution, in case anything untoward had to be done-such as blackmailing or forcing Dr. DiMatteo if she were uncooperative. Or if successful completion of the mission called for something grossly illegal. As a member of the SDDU, a secret military unit whose existence was known only by a select few, he could get away with a hell of a lot. More than members of any government agency or military branch that actually had to report their activities to a string of superiors and were closely watched by Congress.
But everything had gone smoothly so far. The fact that he hadn’t been able to recruit and train Abigail was a minor glitch. It would have been better if she had been able to conduct the mission on her own. A lot less suspicious. The original plan didn’t call for him at this stage, only as distant support. Still, now that he was in, he was glad for it. There were too many unknowns in a house of this size to properly train a novice for every possibility. He would place the bugs; then they’d get out before anyone caught on and had a chance to dig into Gerald Thornton’s background.
Once Abigail was safely back in Tukatar, he would see if the Colonel would let him in on the action at the takedown. Having come this far, he didn’t want to miss out on all the excitement.
Hearing footsteps outside the door, he stepped to the side, instantly alert. He could not afford to let his guard down as long as they were in this house. The sound of heels on stone came closer, then stopped. A woman. Still, he would not allow himself to relax.
The door opened and so did his mouth, but no sound came out Abigail?
The abayah was gone. She wore a pale green figure-hugging pantsuit. Yes, sir! The sight of her made his throat go dry. Her bun was down, her auburn locks swaying around her face, falling to the middle of her back.
She twirled around laughing, as excited as a teenager at a mall shopping spree. “Chanel. I got set up by one of Jamal’s sisters. You wouldn’t believe what these women wear under their abayahs.”
“Wow.” His brain kicked into gear finally, and he was suddenly aware of the room for more than its strategic qualities such as where they could take cover in the event of gunfire. For the first time, he registered the silk sheets and velvet pillows, the sheer curtains that flanked not only the narrow windows high up the wall but also the antique four-poster bed with its extensive gilded carvings. The room was meant for seduction. And here in front of him was Scheherazade.
She came closer.
He offered her a nonchalant smile. “Want to rest before dinner?” Any excuse to get her to the bed.
Her eyes, the rich brown color of the smoothest Belgian chocolate, widened. It seemed ridiculous that he’d ever thought her less than gorgeous. She had the kind of natural, wholesome beauty he had not understood enough before to appreciate. Now he wondered why he’d ever thought the artifice of makeup and a fancy hairstyle could hope to compete with that. Her gaze was filled with such longing, it seared through him.
He lowered his voice. “What are you thinking about?”
“That I would give anything for a big bowl of spaghetti and meatballs with gravy,” she said. “Not that I don’t like the local delicacies, it’s just … it would be nice to have something familiar every once in a while.”
He appreciated the irony of the situation. They were alone in a bedroom straight from a dream, and all she wanted was a bowl of spaghetti. Disappointment slapped him back into rational thinking. “I know what you mean. I’m dying for a cold Budweiser.” Among other things.
She laughed again, and the soft sound skittered across his skin. She was set on driving him crazy. He couldn’t be distracted now. He was here to do a job. He had to get her out of his blood.
“Abby?” He took another step toward her. “Mmm?” She was looking at the fruit basket on the octagonal handpainted table by the door. “Are you attracted to me at all?”
Her gaze snapped back to him. “Not really,” she said without breathing.
She was lying like a rug. He could tell from the way she fidgeted.
It was simple. He had a mission and she was distracting him from it. He had no choice but to neutralize his attraction. She was like a glass of ice water dangled in front of a thirsty man. All he had to do was to take a sip and be done with it, release himself from her strange hold and move on to what he was here to do.
“You owe me a wedding kiss,” he said in his best seductive voice.
She was staring at him, alarmed. “It was a pretend wedding.”
“A pretend kiss, then.” He moved closer and lowered his head, brushing his lips against hers. And embarrassed himself by groaning. Her lips were as soft as silk. One touch was not enough. Just a little more and he could say, “Been there, done that” and walk away.
He nibbled on her lower lip playfully, holding back the urgency that rushed through his veins. When he licked the seam of her lips, she parted them in surprise. He wouldn’t have been a good soldier if he didn’t press forward when given an advantage.
She tasted.like mint. His hands sought her, broug
ht her closer; his fingers were lost in her lustrous hair, getting tangled just as he was getting tangled in the force of unexpected sensations. He was going too far. He had to stop.
But it was she who pulled away. “That was pretend?” Her voice sounded weak.
He took a deep breath. “Absolutely.” He was pretending like hell that she hadn’t just rocked his world.
She searched his face. “Gerald, I—”
“Call me Spike,” he said, and kissed her again.
He’d made a mistake thinking one kiss would be enough. Her body fitted his perfectly, and there was no hiding how much he wanted her. And yet, this was neither the time nor the place. Even if it was, Abigail was not the right type of woman. Maybe he could seduce her—God knew, he wanted to—but she deserved more.
And what if he did seduce her and found even that was not enough?
“Mr. Hareb would like to request the pleasure of your company at dinner, if you would join him at your earliest convenience. ” A disembodied voice spoke from the room’s intercom.
Spike pulled away, his head reeling. “We better go.”
“Yeah,” she said, slightly dazed, her eyes swirling with confusion, her lips swollen with his kiss.
He walked to the door and opened it for her, knowing it was best that they got out of there right now.
They walked down the opulent hallway—enemy territory, he reminded himself, on alert again. He forced his mind to the task and counted the doors on each side, hoping to get some sense of the layout of the house. The front door where they had come in was farther from their room than he would have liked. Maybe there was a nearer point of exit. Finding that out was one of the first things on his list just in case. But he didn’t get the chance to nose around much. A servant waited at the end of the hall to escort them to dinner.
They followed him to a large room where about a dozen people sat around a western-style dining room set. Their host had money and good taste, a rare combination. Spike’s glance slid from one oil painting on the wall to another.
“Ahlan wa sahlan.” Jamal welcomed them as he rose to introduce his family: his mother, his wife, two brothers and their wives, who were visiting. The women looked slightly uncomfortable, some of the men suspicious. Clearly, Jamal’s family was not as accustomed to western ways as he was.
“Shukran.” Spike thanked him for his hospitality and exchanged the customary pleasantries, while trying to take the measure of the man. Just how involved was he in his youngest brother’s activities? How westernized had he become while attending university in the U.S.? Could he be, given sufficient incentive, turned against his brother?
Spike sat and crossed his legs, his right calf on his left knee. He rested his left hand on his ankle, his sandal and the dozen or so bugs in the secret compartment within easy reach. He retrieved one and pressed it on the underside of the table while reaching for his glass with his other hand.
ABIGAIL CLOSED THE door behind her. Gerald wasn’t back yet. Good. He’d been invited to join the men after dinner to enjoy the water pipe. She hoped he’d stay a while. She needed a little distance from the man.
Spike? She grinned and shook her head at the nickname. There had to be a story behind that. The man was full of surprises.
The kiss for one. What on earth was that about? And she couldn’t really blame him. It wasn’t as if she’d been screaming no. On the contrary, she’d nearly melted on the spot. So they had chemistry. Now what? Ignoring it seemed like the best thing to do. He would make his
documentary and be gone, hopefully soon. Then she could return to her ordinary life—after the few years it would take to forget him.
Once she had the foundation’s money and made a few improvements in the village, if all went well the mullah would be impressed enough to let her stay, even without a husband in residence. A man traveling for work and leaving his wife behind for extended periods of time wasn’t all that unusual.
She walked to the bed to drop her armload of clothes on the sumptuous coverlet, touched’ by the women’s extreme generosity. They had neither seen nor heard of her before today, and yet they treated her as a longtime friend. She’d been taken by Jamal’s wife and sisters-inlaw back to his sisters’ rooms. The two girls—one seventeen, the other nineteen—had not been present at dinner, not allowed in the presence of a strange man, as they were unmarried.
She sat next to the pile and looked at the white phone on the carved bedside table. She’d been invited to make as many calls as she liked. She picked up the receiver and dialed her parents’ number. Since she’d last talked to her mother—fought with her, more specifically—she’d been nearly killed twice. Once by the bandits and once by the fire. She would never actually tell Mom that, or she would never hear the end of the nagging, but she felt the need to touch base. To make things better between them than the last time they left it.
The phone rang five times before the answering machine picked up. “It’s me,” she said. “Just thought I’d check in. Everything is okay here. Miss you.” She took a deep breath. “I love you both.”
The door behind her opened and closed. She set down the receiver and turned around.
“Anything exciting?” Gerald asked with one of those disarming smiles that always stole her breath.
“Not here.”
He threw her a questioning look, amusement glinting in the comer of his eyes. “About—before we went to dinner—”
“Would you like to use the phone?” She shot up from the bed and gathered the clothes in her arms. She should hang them up before they got wrinkled. “We could buy a new battery for your cell phone while we’re out shopping together. Or you could ask Jamal if he has a charger that would work. You probably have people to check in with.”
He shook his head. “No family. No significant other.”
Great. She had meant to imply someone like his boss at the foundation, and not come off sounding as if she were fishing to find out whether he had a girlfriend at home. But now that he had volunteered the information… His quick “no significant other” was awfully hard to believe. She had no doubt whatsoever that women threw themselves at him wherever he went.
He kicked off his sandals and stretched. “Ready for bed?”
She dropped the clothes back on the coverlet. Not on purpose. Her muscles just let go. The sight of him, combined with those words, was mind-boggling. Especially in light of what they were doing before dinner. “I think I’ll check in with the university.”
“Mind if I take the bathroom first, then?”
“Go ahead.” She reached for the phone, welcoming the excuse to turn from him.
She couldn’t handle Gerald Thornton, and that was the truth. He was way out of her league. He had heartache written all over him. And now that their relationship had crossed from professional to–well, wherever it had crossed to—she wasn’t ready for it. Okay, she was more than ready for it, but she was also smart enough to know better than to act on her impractical impulses.
TWO AMERICANS IN the house. El Jafar drew on the water pipe, considering every possibility one by one. He didn’t believe in coincidences.
He had to get rid of them one way or the other. Now was definitely not the time to entertain strangers.
First, he had to figure out whether they had a secret agenda or were speaking the truth. Most westerners in his country were liars and thieves. But the two Americans’ sudden disappearance would draw attention. He could only risk that if he was sure the deed had to be done.
If indeed, they were in Tihrin as a result of a series of misfortunes, he would donate money to their cause and send them on their way. Fast. He had no time to waste.
But first, he had to determine which way to deal with them. He glanced at the handful of computer printouts Ahmad brought over. His cousin was good at anything that had to do with computers, especially when it came to the bottomless resources of the Internet.
Dr. Abigail DiMatteo. El Jafar looked at the grainy picture from her home page on the university’s Web site. Her background with the Peace Corps and everything else she’d said about herself checked out.
He shuffled the papers and spread out the sheets that confirmed Gerald Thornton’s claims—reviews of documentaries that mentioned his name. No picture of him. El Jafar tossed the printouts aside and stood. The information Ahmad had found should have set him at ease. It didn’t.
Neither of the guests had acted suspiciously. He could swear every word the woman had spoken was the truth. The man, Thornton, was harder to read, but seemingly open and relaxed. And yet, their presence in the house prickled his instincts.
He sat and reached for the pipe again. If the foreigners were up to something, he would know it soon. He had made sure they were most closely watched.
SPIKE LAY ON top of the covers, his eyes fixed on the bathroom door. It shouldn’t take her too long to clean up. They’d both taken showers earlier, as soon as they’d been shown to their room. He wore nothing but his black boxer shorts, wanting to make her as uncomfortable as possible so she would turn in to sleep right away. He needed the night to search the house and place his bugs.
And yet, when the door opened and she came out, he wasn’t prepared for it. Nightgowns like that should come with a warning label from the American Heart Association. The bathroom light behind her outlined her figure through the sheer material, hiding little. Then she reached back and flipped the switch off.
Damn. “You’re too thin,” he said gruffly and tried to focus on that, rather than on the number of other highly inappropriate ideas that swarmed in his head.
