by Cindy Dees
All at once, he stepped forward of his own volition, grabbed her elbows and pushed her back against the wall of the apartment building. It took her a second to realize he’d maneuvered the two of them directly underneath a security camera, which meant they were in a blind spot, not visible to anyone inside.
His arms went around her and he swept her up against him like he had the first time, enveloping her body, mind and soul...
Then he kissed her again.
And what a kiss. His mouth was demanding. His tongue was demanding. The low sound in the back of his throat was demanding. She responded from a place deep down that she didn’t even know existed before now. She kissed him back with abandon, holding nothing back. Her mouth opened for his, she sucked at his tongue, and she reveled in the way this big, powerful man let her inhale him, and how he inhaled her in return.
The cool thing was she didn’t feel overwhelmed or overpowered, and surely he could have done both if he chose to. She felt like she met him on even ground, and he let her take the lead in their kiss if and when she wanted to. And the freedom to take charge was sexier than she could believe. She tugged his head down to hers so she could kiss him more deeply, more hungrily.
Huh. She was making noises deep in the back of her throat, too. Raw, hungry noises she’d never made before, but which came entirely naturally. She surged against him, loving how she didn’t budge him and how he absorbed her strength into him easily, comfortably.
Thank goodness. She wasn’t too much for him. The last time she’d been with the ex, he’d griped about how she’d gotten stronger than he was. Which had been true, of course. While she’d been working out ten hours a day training for the Medusas, he’d sat at home playing video games and drinking beer. Loser.
But Avi was fully as fit as she was, if not more so. He might be a man’s man, but he was also a warrior woman’s man.
Avi tore his mouth away from hers, and she was gratified to feel him breathing hard against her temple, his chest heaving. She’d done that to him? Cool!
“I promised I would wait to make love to you until you demanded it, but if we don’t stop now, I’m going to demand it from you,” he said gruffly.
“What if I’m okay with that?”
He smiled down at her, using his index finger to trace her forehead and cheek, scooping back a strand of hair that had escaped her serviceable bun. “I’m not okay with it. You have issues with men dominating you and pushing you around, and that’s not how we’re going to start our relationship. I’m sorry. That’s not open to negotiation.”
A relationship? As in more than a two-week Olympic fling? Really?
Lord, she felt like a yo-yo on a string bouncing up and down. Two-week fling. More than a fling. Just a fling. Full-blown relationship. Simple seduction. She had no idea what to think. Was that the point? Was he trying to throw her off balance? Or was she just hopelessly naive when it came to men?
Hope leaped in her stomach. It almost, but not quite, overtook the doubts raging in her mind.
As if on cue, Avi turned away from her then and strode away into the night, leaving her staring after him, utterly flummoxed.
What the hell had just happened?
What man kissed a woman into a sexual frenzy and then walked away from her? Particularly after she made it crystal clear she’d like to make love with him? Surely, she hadn’t read his signals wrong. He’d practically made love to her with his eyes while he was eating that ice-cream cone. She could have sworn he was totally down for sex with her tonight—if she demanded it.
Which she basically had, if not in so many words.
So. He was going to make her say it, was he? Maybe this wasn’t about her at all. Maybe he just liked to make his women beg.
She wasn’t sure whether to be outraged or amused as she made her way to her lonely bed. Either way, it left her wondering what on earth she was going to have to do to get that man to make love to her.
No surprise, she slept for crap. And it was all Avi’s fault.
Chapter 8
That woman was going to be the death of him.
Avi’s gaze strayed toward Rebel again from behind his mirrored sunglasses, and again dragged his attention back to the athlete he was here to protect. Man. He couldn’t concentrate at all today. Not after that kiss she laid on him last night. Nor after the sleepless, uncomfortable night he’d spent afterward, trying and failing to cool his jets. He had it bad for her. Worse than he could remember having the hots for a woman in a long time.
Even worse, or maybe even better, depending on a person’s perspective, it wasn’t just about the sex. She was a fascinating and complicated person—smart, funny and just unpredictable enough to keep him on his toes.
Who’d have guessed she would turn eating an ice-cream cone into a sexy seduction? Or that she would grab him by the shirt and drag him into a kiss that nearly removed his tonsils? Or that he would barely have the will to turn away from her and go back to his own bed alone?
It had been a very close call. He had almost decided to make love to her right there against that wall last night. It had taken every ounce of his self-discipline to break off that kiss, step back and walk away from her.
And that kiss was still messing with his concentration today. It had been just a kiss. Nothing more.
And yet, here he was, distracted by even the slightest movement out of Rebel, some fifty feet away from him. He was hyperaware of her, tensing every time she even twitched, looking wherever she looked every time she turned her head.
Get your head together, man!
Today was the first round of the women’s archery preliminaries. One of Israel’s most promising medal hopefuls, a young woman named Hadassah Jacobi, was shooting her qualifying round at the Olympic archery venue, built in a city park and flanked by temporary bleachers. Flimsy fences at each end of the archery range were supposed to keep random spectators out.
He wasn’t fond of the security here—the venue was far too open for his taste, far too easy for someone to slip in under the bleachers or around the end of the fences at either end of the range. But it wasn’t like he had any choice about where the event happened.
Still. He wished the IOC and the Aussies would take the potential security threats to the games more seriously. He’d tried in this morning’s daily briefing to bring up the subject of the pool incident again, but he’d been summarily shut down. The matter had been declared an accident, the case was closed and nobody on the IOC wanted to hear anything more about it.
Idiots.
But then, of all people, the Israelis understood more than most never to let down their guards. Never take safety for granted. He’d responded to enough bus bombings, mortar attacks and outright assassinations over the years to know that better than most.
It wasn’t that the Olympic Committee didn’t take security seriously. They just didn’t take it as seriously as he and his people did.
Avi glanced down the firing line, and near the far end he spotted the American shooter. Rebel was parked close behind her, hovering like a mama bear over her cub.
Each archer would shoot six sets, or ends, of twelve arrows each at a target seventy meters away, with each arrow scored for how close it came to the bull’s-eye. The scores out of this round would set the placement for the single elimination rounds, where archers would compete head-to-head against each other, tournament style.
Hadassah had just finished her fourth end and was in the top ten shooters, looking solid to advance to the singles rounds, where she particularly excelled. The Israeli coaches were relaxed, confident in their athlete.
Avi glanced to the other end of the firing line where, just beyond the American archer, an Iranian woman was struggling with her fifth round of arrows. She was on the cusp of making the singles round and needed to bring it home strong to advance.
It was probably no mistake th
at the Israeli and Iranian athletes were at opposite ends of the shooting venue. The Olympic Games might be about unity and peace, but there was no reason to tempt fate and throw antagonists together unnecessarily.
Although, Avi suspected the athletes wouldn’t care who stood beside them. It was the coaches and security teams who would snarl and snap at one another.
Rebel backed away from the American delegation slowly, easing off to her left, away from her shooter and toward the Iranians. Instantly, Avi went on high alert. What had she seen? Had she spotted Mahmoud or Yousef?
“Yakob, take over watching Hadassah for me,” he radioed tersely to his partner today.
“What’s up?” the other security man asked alertly.
“Just checking out some movement down the firing line.” The whole Israeli security contingent had been briefed that Mahmoud Akhtar and Yousef Kamali might be in Sydney, but they had not been briefed about the existence of the Medusas.
“Radio if you need backup,” Yakob responded.
“Will do.” He eased backward casually, blending into the crowd of coaches and equipment technicians milling behind the firing line, until he popped out the back of the press of bodies.
Stretching out his long legs, he walked swiftly toward where he’d last seen Rebel. The archery venue was in Centennial Parklands, a complex of several linked green spaces in downtown Sydney, dotted with massive fig trees and live oaks. The crowds were heavy in the park this morning, and Avi didn’t want to call undue attention to himself, so he was forced to weave through the throngs at no more than a fast walk.
He used his height to search over the crowd for Rebel, but she was hard to find. Not only was she short, but she was also adept at making herself invisible. She’d been heading in exactly this direction when he’d last seen her slipping out of the archery venue, though.
A creeping sense of dread began to overtake him. Something was wrong. What had she gotten herself into? Urgency to find her sooner rather than later lengthened his stride even more as he searched for her. He bumped into a man and apologized absently, his gaze still roving all around. Where was she?
If she was out in the open, he would have already spotted her—and she wouldn’t be in trouble.
But his gut was positively shouting at him that she was definitely in trouble.
He broke into a jog, thinking fast. Where would he go if he were a bad guy and was being followed by an Olympic security type? He would either head for the big crowds, or he’d go the complete opposite route and head for the most isolated area he could find.
Isolated. Isolated. Avi looked around frantically for any place in the park not mobbed at the moment.
Over there. A forested area with the spreading branches of jacarandas up high and brushy plants below. More to the point, it didn’t appear that the crowds were walking through the bushes. Lamenting his suit and street shoes, which would provide no protection against a snakebite, he prayed not to encounter any of Australia’s many deadly vipers as he eased into the dimness of the miniforest.
He slipped from shady spot to shady spot, pausing behind the trunks of towering jacarandas to peer about for any sign of movement. The grove was larger than he’d anticipated, though, and it was several minutes before he spotted what he thought might be a man, moving in much the same furtive fashion as he was.
Avi eased off to his left, circling around the other man to approach the guy from behind. Oh yeah. The man in front of him was definitely stalking someone. As Avi closed in, he made out more details. The man was wearing a dark suit, much like Avi’s. It even had the same slight bulge under the left armpit, indicative of a weapon.
The guy crept forward patiently, taking one step at a time and then waiting to see if he’d disturbed anyone or anything around him. Oh yeah. Definite operator.
The man had dark brown hair. A mustache. Dark tan—or maybe a naturally bronze complexion. Of course, being swarthy in coloring didn’t automatically mean the guy was Middle Eastern, but Avi’s gut vibrated with certainty. The man in front of him had to be from the Iranian delegation—
Avi tensed as the man suddenly sprinted forward, looking exactly like a tiger leaping to attack prey.
A shadow abruptly separated itself from a tree in front of Avi—a small form. Medium brown hair. Rebel. Damn. She’d been out here all along and he hadn’t spotted her once?
The Iranian closed in on her from behind—too fast for Avi to shout a warning—and at the last second before the guy reached her, she whirled to grapple with her attacker in silent, violent struggle.
Avi burst out of hiding and sprinted forward, closing in on the pair at top speed. Nobody was attacking Rebel on his watch!
The Iranian stumbled back, obviously taken completely by surprise by Rebel’s ability to fight back. But then the man closed in again. Avi was close enough to see the rage on the man’s face, the intent to seriously harm or kill Rebel, now.
If possible, Avi ran even faster, putting every ounce of strength he had into reaching her before something terrible happened to her. He crashed into the man and Rebel, peeling the guy’s hands off her throat by the sheer force of the tackle he laid on the guy.
The Iranian shouted incoherently, a sound of frustrated fury, as Avi’s body weight bore him down to the ground. They smashed into the earth, and the Iranian—maybe five foot nine and lean in build—got the worst of it by far as Avi landed on top of him heavily.
Avi both felt and heard the whoosh of air leaving the Iranian’s lungs as he knocked the wind out of the assailant. Avi rolled off the guy and came up onto his feet. He dropped to one knee, planting his other knee solidly on the guy’s throat. The Iranian stopped struggling completely, throwing his arms wide in what could only be interpreted as surrender.
“What are you doing out here?” Rebel demanded from behind him.
In his best Australian accent, Avi answered, “Savin’ you, obviously. Are ya all roight, mum?”
He desperately hoped she caught on and pretended not to know him. Avi also prayed the Iranian would peg him, not as Israeli or Olympic security, but as just some random dude in the woods diving in to help a woman being assaulted.
“I had it under control. I didn’t need saving,” she declared.
“Looked to me loike he was ready to kill ya, mum.”
“I let him get his hands around my throat so I could slip inside his guard and gouge out his eyes. I was about a second from taking him out, myself.”
“Well, then Oi saved ya the trouble,” Avi declared, never taking his stare off the man beneath his knee. To the Iranian, he said, “Who are ya, mate?”
“I’m with an Olympic delegation, you sonofabitch. Get off me.” The man tacked a few choice curses onto the end of his statement. Obviously, the guy had his breath back if he could spit curses at Avi like that.
“Have ya got them fancy credentials, then?” Avi challenged.
“Inside pocket of my suit.”
“Use your left hand and reach into your jacket,” Avi instructed. “Pull out your credentials very slowly, mate. Failure to follow my instructions will result in my leaning on my knee and rendering ya unconscious...or dead if I happen to lean a bit too hard.”
More cursing. But the guy did as Avi ordered and reached slowly into his suit to pull out his identification card.
“Take it if ya will, mum,” Avi murmured.
Rebel skirted wide around the Iranian’s feet and approached from the other side. She plucked the ID card out of the guy’s hand and examined it carefully. “His name is Farhad Jamshidi. Athletic trainer for the Iranian delegation.”
Athletic trainer, huh? So. The Iranians were sneaking in government types in coaching and support roles too, in addition to the athletes themselves. This guy had moved just like a Special Forces type as he’d sneaked up on Rebel. He was no civilian physical therapist.
“
What are ya doing out here in the woods, mate? We’ve got snakes, ya know. Big, poisonous bastards that’ll kill ya,” Avi said to the guy.
“This crazy chick was following me, and she freaked me out. I was trying to lose her.”
“And that’s why ya attacked her?”
“I thought she was trying to hurt me.”
Avi snorted. “Have ya looked at her, mate? She’s half your size. Are ya trying to tell me a big strong guy loike you can’t defend himself from a tiny little sheila?”
The Iranian scowled beneath Avi’s knee, not appreciating the aspersions being cast on his manhood. But the dude was trapped in his cover story. Either he was afraid of Rebel and had been defending himself, or he’d been out here flat out trying to assault her.
Avi pushed to his feet, not being particularly careful as he did it. The Iranian sat up, coughing and choking. Avi stared down at the guy, his gaze flat and unreadable, he hoped. “Take my advice, mate. Don’t attack civilians, particularly sheilas. We Aussies don’t take kindly to our guests being jumped in the woods.”
The Iranian threw one last spate of epithets at Avi before whirling and jogging away—limping as if he’d turned an ankle when Avi tackled him—back in the direction of the archery venue.
Avi dropped the Aussie charade, asking tersely, “Are you all right, Rebel? Did that jerk hurt you?”
“I already told you. I’m fine. I had things under control.”
“I’m just glad I got here when I did,” he responded fervently.
“You’re not listening to me. I had him—”
“I heard you the first time. Look, I need to get back to my post. Do you need to get back to the archery venue, too?”
She huffed in something akin to exasperation. “Yes. I do.”
He led the way, picking a path around and through the brush, keeping an eagle eye on the ground, searching for snakes that might strike at Rebel’s ankles. She, too, was wearing street shoes that provided no protection against a snakebite.
