by Gennita Low
SEX LIES & SPIES
SHORT VIGNETTES IN THE LIVES OF SPIES.
EACH NOVELLA OF THIS SERIES IS A SHORT STORY SHOWING
SECRET MOMENTS BRINGING TWO SPIES TOGETHER
THE GAME
SEX LIES & SPIES Series
by
GENNITA LOW
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Gennita Low
The Game (Sex Lies & Spies)
Copyright © 2013 by Gennita Low
ISBN-13:
ISBN-10:
Cover Photo by Romance Novel Covers, LLC
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The Game (Sex Lies & Spies). Copyright © 2013 by Gennita Low. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Gennita Low e-books.
Advantage. The first move, by White, begins with a slight advantage in time.
Small advantage. An advantage so insignificant that the opponent sometimes doesn’t even realize it is an advantage. Accumulation of small advantages leads to a winning attack.
CHAPTER ONE
John Dallas adjusted his binoculars. Scowled. Adjusted them again.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered softly, so no one could actually hear his words. His horse moved restlessly at the sound of his voice. His displeasure must have somehow conveyed itself to the man on horseback beside him.
“Do you not like what you see, Johan?” the man spoke in accented English, using the Muslim variation of John’s name. “I assure you she comes from good stock. Maybe your European schooling has made you unused to her clothing, but I have been told she is pleasing to look at.”
The last sentence was spoken loudly, so the others behind them could listen in, if they chose. John snorted, his eyes glued to the binoculars. He knew what the man was trying to do—make sure he didn’t forget he had a role to play. As if he could. His grip tightened as he surveyed the approaching group of people.
His companion obviously didn’t like that reaction, because he started speaking in his native Pakistani dialect hurriedly. “She is a little old, but that’s because she, unlike most village women, has been to school. But that’s what you demanded, that she be educated. And you agreed that her dowry is what you wanted.”
Yeah, amazing how they came up with the perfect candidate. He’d thought his request almost impossible, but as always, the powers-that-be had a way to make things happen. He reined in his temper and put away the binoculars. He pulled at the collar of his garment. It was stifling hot and he wanted out of these Pakistani sacks. He wanted to be back in the States. So the faster he went through with this, the quicker he would be able to demand an explanation.
He didn’t quite know how the hell he’d gotten into this mess. One minute he was just negotiating for a unique exchange. The next, he found out he was part of it.
He gritted his teeth, then tried to pass it off as a smile to reassure his increasingly alarmed companion. “Everything is well, Hashem,” he told the man. He couldn’t afford to make anyone nervous right now. They were being watched, he was pretty sure of it. “She looks exactly as I’d imagined.”
Indeed she did. There was no mistaking the face, even though the rest of her was swathed in those black umbrella-shaped garments in which the people here imprisoned their women. Heart-shaped. Small nose. A mouth made for a man’s fantasy.
John couldn’t believe that this was happening to him. She was his dream woman. A killer dream that visited him whenever he let down his guard. A witch who wouldn’t let go of his balls. A master manipulator.
And he was marrying her today.
***
All around them were mountains. They had traveled four days to reach this particular spot and everyone was dusty and tired. It certainly was not the usual way to meet a wedding contingent. The groom-to-be sat on his black horse, looking expectantly in the direction of the approaching group of people.
The men behind him, at some given signal, started clapping their hands in unison, a sign of welcome in these parts. One had to make noise to show approval; silence meant confrontation. They also knew there were eyes in these mountain parts, eyes that reported anything out of the ordinary.
The arriving contingent rode over the slope, trotting at a moderate pace, and finally came to a slow halt not far from the waiting camp. John and his friend, the only ones on horseback, rode to meet them. They ignored the heat as they studied the other group.
The waiting men in the other group eyed the tall one on the black mare, perfectly aware which of them was the leader. Dressed like that, in traditional garb, he looked like one of them, black hair and fierce dark eyes that assessed everyone.
“Salaamua’laikum. Welcome,” John said, “brothers.”
“Not yet,” the one in front replied, a bite to his voice.
John lifted an enquiring brow. “Of course. Whenever you are ready.”
“Do you have what we asked for?” This was spoken in a low voice.
John leaned forward on his horse. From afar, it looked like a warm gesture, brother to brother. “As long as you have what I want,” he answered cryptically, giving a passing glance to the cart that had stopped behind them. It was pulled by two donkeys, and flanked by men on each side. “Which one of the women is mine?”
The tribesman’s smile was very white against his dark tan. Tall, broad-shouldered, with intelligent dark eyes, his English was perfect New York. He struck an imposing figure, machine gun hanging loosely on one side, a broad sword on the other. Gold flashed in his ear. With the mountain backdrop, he looked as if he stepped out of another time, a warrior ready for battle.
“The one staring back at you,” he told John. “She can speak English, cook, sew, and dance. Just a little too old, and thus a little disobedient. Not what our village men usually go for. What do you think?”
John looked over the man’s shoulder. His intended was certainly being disobedient, daring to stare at her future husband straight in the eye. At least she wasn’t smiling. He nudged his horse to turn around, gesturing for the others to follow. “She will do.”
***
An old maid’s wedding wasn’t anything more than a quick handshake in these parts of the world. The woman would be grateful, glad to find someone to take care of her. Her relatives would be relieved. Unmarried women in villages were frowned upon, unless they were maids or nannies.
So the man and the woman joined hands under the stern eye of an imam and a cloudless sky, and that was it. There was the marriage tent, staked for the night while the witnesses gathered outside to make a record of the event. The men drank sweet coffee and sang. The women held their own party inside a separate tent. A gentle mountain breeze streamed through the camp, and the atmosphere became slightly more relaxed.
The newly married wife carried a jug of water from a nearby stream, and waited by the front flap of the tent for her new husband. He was in the men’s tent, signing documents, taking note of what she came with.
She couldn’t quite believe that he’d actually gone through with the marriage, but of course, he had no choice. He needed her dowry.
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A reasonable time must pass before her husband could come to her. She was no young maiden and he was no eager youth clamoring after his first wife. The Muslims, she noted, were allowed four. At her age, she supposed, she was remarkably fortunate to be the first. The last thought was made with her usual sarcastic sense of humor, something no one here knew existed.
Well, no one, except her husband. He knew.
And he would be exacting revenge as soon as they entered their tent that night. Sizzling anticipation thrummed through her, even as she stood waiting just outside their tent, serene as the first light of dawn.
Male voices mingled with the approaching darkness. Torches were lit. She smelled the food. She heard the soft whinnying of the resting horses. The cooling mountain air was welcoming. Somehow she hadn’t quite envisioned her wedding day to be quite like this. Shrouded. Alone. Waiting like a supplicant.
Her husband suddenly appeared before her, a menacing figure in his robes, six feet two inches of masculine power. She waited till he paused in front of her, close enough that she caught the scent of man and horse. She’d been waiting for this moment all day. Longer than that, actually. Bending down, she picked up the large jar of water. On cue, her husband sat down on the stool she had readied. Not a word passed between them.
She knelt down, placed the jug close by, and slowly unshod him, first one foot, then the other, before starting the traditional footbath a married man in these parts received before entering his abode. It was an honor a newly wedded woman bestowed on her man.
His tension was evident in the way his calf muscles were clenched. It was dark enough to allow her to explore him more curiously than was proper, and she moved her fingers boldly and slowly over the top of one foot. She palmed the arch of the other as she poured water over it, taking her time as she ran her thumb around the sensitive pads under the toes. Leisurely, she dried them with a towel, inserting a finger between his big toe and the one next to it. Ah, he liked that. He jerked forward, locking her finger with his toes.
He stood up so suddenly, she would have fallen on her backside if he hadn’t grabbed her under her arms. There was masculine laughter from those gathered close by as he jerked the tent flap open and unceremoniously hauled her into their temporary home.
So the groom was impatient for his bride after all.
A most auspicious beginning, murmured the imam to Hashem, who nervously wiped his brow
***
A newly married man had his priorities. John pushed his bride on top of a bed of pillows, straddling her in one swift move. He bent down and kissed her thoroughly. It was either that or yell at her and he didn’t want to start their wedding night that way.
God, he’d forgotten how a kiss could be hotter than a desert. And how he could lose
himself in the heat. Her tongue darted into his mouth mischievously, and immediately, every cell in his body responded like fireworks on July Fourth.
He’d gone too long without her, that must be it. Impatiently, he lifted his head, looking for an opening to her garment, his fingers skimming everywhere. This robe thing must be a version of the chastity belt.
“How the hell do you get out of these mummy sheets?” he finally demanded.
“Husband, we have all night,” purred the woman under him, her face flushed from his kiss. She had the voice of a seductress, low and full of promises but instead of answering him, she held a finger to her reddened lips and moved to sit up.
John didn’t like the way she could make him forget important things, such as safety and privacy. This wasn’t the first time either and that was why he stayed the hell away from her. He put his weight on his knees, so she could slide up into a sitting position. He liked that she had to look up at him this way, so he didn’t move. Not when he fully intended to be on top tonight. He watched as she removed part of her head covering, loosening her collar and exposing her neck and shoulders. The object dangling from a chain around her neck caught his attention, stopping his more lustful inclinations for an instant. She took the chain off and handed it to him.
“Continue what you’re doing,” he ordered, before reluctantly getting off her so he could use the micro scanner to search the room for listening devices. Apparently, she didn’t trust things to be as they seemed.
She continued taking off her garment slowly, watching him with her tawny whiskey-colored eyes. They could make a man weak in the knees with just a heated look, yet would glitter with predatory alertness when she sensed danger. He dreamed of those eyes often—half-open, slightly tilted at the corners, a dreamy wildness in them just before she succumbed to passion. He would wake up sweaty and horny in the middle of the night, cussing at their agreement.
Her burnished brown hair was longer, braided down well below her shoulders. A gray tank top clung to her, emphasizing her small breasts. Its oval neckline was mouthwateringly low, and when she bent forward to untangle that horrible thing she was wearing, the soft mounds looked like they were going to pour out of the top. John swore softly, and she glanced up, fake innocence in her eyes.
The tent was “clean,” and she nodded when he handed her gadget back.
“Missed me?” she asked, stretching out of her clothes.
A fine film of perspiration covered her body, clad only in the taunting tank top and underwear. Clothes were amazing things, John concluded, looking at the concealing garment tossed on the floor and what she had on now. And the woman who wore both had the same effect on him, no matter how many layers she put on. Missed her? That ought to be the understatement of the year. He watched her hungrily. And angrily. She had no right invading his world so unexpectedly.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, pitching his voice to a low growl. “I was supposed to exchange the weapons for the downed pilot—and babe,” his eyes swept down her body, “you certainly don’t look like the picture of Captain James Kirby to me.”
“He’s dead.”
John sucked in his breath. That wasn’t the answer he’d expected. “What do you mean?” he demanded. “They wanted weapons for the hostage. There was no way they were going to kill him till I saw him. I want some explanations, Kel.”
“Leiha.”
John frowned.
“Leiha,” Kel insisted, calmly standing up and looking around the tent. She seemed totally unaware what her half-naked body was doing to him. She opened a small trunk and pulled out a towel. “Your wife, remember?”
‘That is another thing I want explained,” John said grimly. He walked purposefully to her and put both hands on each of her arms. Damn. He wanted to shake her and pull her close at the same time. “Quit playing games with me, Kel.”
Kel’s head snapped up, her eyes glittering. “I thought that was what you like, Dallas,” she drawled. “When you walked out of my life, I remembered distinctly your last words being, ‘I can’t leave the game, babe. If you want to get married, catch me by surprise.’ I don’t know what you’re complaining about.”
He stared at her. “That was—“ He paused. He tended to yell when he was frustrated, but now wasn't the time to lose his cool. Taking a deep breath, he adjusted the volume of his voice. “—three years ago! And you’re taking my words out of context. You were after marriage, babe, and you gave me an ultimatum.”
“Hah. And like a coward, you left.” She pushed against his chest, trying to break free.
Ignoring her efforts, John hauled her closer. “Of all the twisted—! You were the one who walked out on me!”
He’d woken up one morning and she was gone, having left a note telling him where to find her. As if he was going to run after her. So he’d given her time to cool off but, after a while, it became abundantly clear it was over when she wouldn’t even take his calls. Not long after that, she’d requested a transfer and she was out of his life. Well, that suited him just fine. He didn’t have time to mess around with a smart-mouthed trainee, no matter how addicted he was to her mouth.
God, he had missed her. Every
day, like a man on narcotic withdrawal. It’d been years, but that kind of high was unforgettable. His training had been his salvation. He’d ruthlessly pushed away that part of him that wanted her back. He had a job to do, lives to save. Time passed quickly when you traveled all over the world negotiating with danger and death.
But now, time seemed meaningless because here she was, in his arms again. That same lush mouth was curled into the mocking pout that make him think of sex. Apparently, he was still a hopeless addict.
And, he still loved her. Wanted her.
“Nonsense. You didn’t even call me for a month!” Kel slithered her arms up his chest and locked her fingers behind his neck. “That meant you walked away from me first.”
John ignored the way her breasts were pushing against his body. There was an argument going on here. He wouldn’t lose just because she was trying to distract him with unfair tactics.
“When you didn’t return my calls, that meant you wanted out,” he countered. He also tried to ignore the sensuous undulating of her lower body against his. Well, parts of him weren’t succeeding. A growing part definitely wasn’t. He muttered, “I wasn’t going to make a move until you gave in.”
It sounded stupid now, whatever murderous revenge he’d planned to take when he saw her again. Incredibly stupid, when he knew he could have been doing all the undulating he wanted with her the last three years. The reasons he’d given her were still valid, though, but he was sure he could have talked her into agreeing with him if he’d been given it chance.
Kel glanced down meaningfully at the part of him that was moving. A mischievous smile lifted her lips. “Food or fight, honey?” she purred, conjuring up naughty images of good times spent in his bed feeding each other strawberries and cream. Naked.
John swallowed a laugh. No one but his Kel was such an outrageous lover. And she always had her mind on food—and sex—a truly hungry woman at all times. He frowned at how easy it was to start thinking of her as his again. No way. Not again.