No Rules

by Starr Ambrose

  “Was it?” she asked eagerly, then laughed. “It was. I was pretty damn good.”

  He grinned. “You could have a career as a spy.”

  “You think so?”

  Her wide-eyed question looked so sincere he had to choke back sudden alarm. “No.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “Close one. For a second there I was ready to throw over the Mossy Log Meadow for a life in espionage.”

  “Lots of foreign travel involved, I hear. To countries crawling with germs.”

  “Are you making fun of me, Donovan?”

  “Never.”

  “Because I just might surprise you.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” he said, and she smiled with satisfaction, laughter dancing in her eyes. Damn, he wanted to lick her all over.

  They each ordered different desserts and split them, sharing half. Jess rolled her eyes with pleasure at both his bassboosa, a semolina cake with almonds, and her ummali—nuts and raisins in warm custard, covered with pastry. The meal was a success, except for the tea, which she pronounced a total failure. “Too strong and too sweet. And I’m from the South where sweet tea is a religion,” she emphasized.

  He’d had everything before, but it all became a new adventure with Jess, tasting, savoring, and passing judgment. The only thing she balked at trying was lamb. “It’s a baby sheep,” she said. “I don’t eat babies.”

  “It’s delicious.”

  “Baby killer.”

  “Maybe you’ve written too many books about talking animals. This one couldn’t talk.”

  “Sure it could; it spoke Sheep. Just because you can’t understand it, doesn’t mean you should eat it.”

  “I saw you eat chicken.”

  “Fully grown, not a baby chick.”

  “Adults are fair game?”

  She shrugged. “You have to draw the line somewhere. I draw it at eating babies.”

  “Chicken murderer.”

  “Baby killer. Baa-baa, help.” she bleated piteously.

  He grabbed his neck with a strangled, “Squawk.”

  She giggled and tossed a piece of bread at him. He picked it out of his tea, holding the soggy bit as she lifted an eyebrow playfully, daring him to throw it back.

  He considered her thoughtfully. Starting a food fight wasn’t what he wanted to do. Not even close. What he wanted to do was dive across the table and kiss the smirk right off her face. Yes, that would work well for him. Kiss her until she moaned and melted into him and wrapped her arms around his neck. He wanted that shapeless abaya on the floor, wanted his hands on her body, wanted their bodies joined together in a blistering hot union that would leave them both panting and drained.

  “Hello?” She waved a hand between them. “Where’d you go?”

  He focused on her. The lips he’d been fantasizing about closed over a morsel of cake and he narrowed his eyes as she stopped chewing, then met her startled gaze with his heated one. He was afraid she might turn timid again and blush. But her expression grew speculative and her lips curved upward. She wasn’t backing down an inch. His fantasy just got hotter.

  “You done eating?” he asked.

  “Almost.” She lifted her spoon and gave it a long, deliberate lick.

  His eyebrow may have twitched. He didn’t smile. If she thought he was playing around, she’d better think again. He wasn’t considering chasing her home for some tickling and polite sex. What he was considering required full nudity, long, torturous minutes of licking and sucking and rubbing, followed by some hard thrusting and guttural crying out. They might have hours to kill before someone made a move for that vase, and he didn’t intend to spend it reading a book.

  Her eyelids closed slightly, and she bit her lip. Oh yeah, Jess knew exactly what he was thinking.

  Whatever moral fabric had held him back from making a move on his friend’s daughter seemed to have shredded irreparably. He still wasn’t the kind of guy Wally had wanted her to get involved with. But hell, he wasn’t thinking about a relationship, he was thinking about satisfying a raging lust that had his mind spinning and his dick as hard as a steel rod. She’d already claimed pretty much the same thing, back when he’d first kissed her in Chicago. No marriage proposal, she’d said, just let her fuck his brains out. Hell, yeah.

  Damn it, Wally, what did you expect? It wasn’t just that Jess was prettier than any daughter of his had a right to be. She was also smart and determined and above all, brave. He’d gradually realized how hard it was for her to do what they’d demanded, but instead of curling up in a whimpering ball as her mother had done when faced with far less, she made herself face her fears and do what scared her most. That was the definition of bravery in his book. It was nothing for him to fly to Egypt and walk the streets, seeking out some truly bad guys so he could take them down. He was trained for stuff like that. But she wasn’t, and she’d done it anyway. And more—she’d performed emergency first aid and done it in a style he’d never forget.

  He respected and admired her. No problem there—Wally would approve.

  He also wanted her, badly. Her combination of looks, brains, and courage went straight past admiration and stirred up every sexual impulse he’d ever had. He couldn’t wait to experience her unforgettable promise.

  This time, respect for his friend and mentor’s advice wasn’t going to be enough to stop him.

  …

  Jess wasn’t naive. She knew what Donovan expected, and had every intention of giving it to him. She liked sex. She liked having orgasms. She just hadn’t figured out how to put the two of them together successfully.

  Seeking help for her problem had been an act of desperation. It had been embarrassing to admit such a personal thing to a stranger, even if he was a therapist. But she didn’t want to go through life without ever knowing what it felt like to come apart in some man’s arms. To shudder and go limp and be thoroughly satisfied. People in books did it and people on TV and so did her friends, if she could believe them. All she wanted was to share that lovely, fulfilling release with a man rather than a plastic sex toy.

  Dr. Epstein had proved to be wonderfully sensitive, assuring her that her problem was not that uncommon. He’d even pointed out a logical reason for it, once she’d told him about her parent’s divorce and being abandoned by her father. It made so much sense to see that she had a fear of opening herself up to more rejection and hurt from a man. She held back, even while appearing to give everything, never allowing herself to be utterly vulnerable. She just couldn’t let go for that final surrender, he said.

  The few men she’d gotten serious with had always been sensible, considerate partners, men who appreciated safety over recklessness and careful planning over impulsive decisions. Good men, but as Dr. Epstein pointed out, obviously not sensitive enough to her sexual needs to bring her to a climax. But there was an easy solution, he’d said. What she needed was to feel totally secure and safe with a man so she could relax and let go. She needed a man who would never rush her, never put his enjoyment ahead of hers, and make sure she was ready for whatever he did before he did it. To ask permission, rather than rudely taking and thereby breaking her trust. She needed a considerate, gentle, nonthreatening partner.

  It made sense. She’d imagined herself lying back on her bed, completely trusting her partner to touch only where she wanted him to, when she was ready for it. It wasn’t the sort of mental picture that made her all hot and bothered, but it was certainly what the doctor had prescribed: nonthreatening.

  She’d found that man in her last boyfriend, Gene. They’d clicked instantly as friends. As a lover he’d been very cooperative and sweet, even stopping once in the middle of sex when neither one of them was getting anywhere. They decided to call it off in favor of pizza and a movie. Gene had even refused to let her feel bad, saying if she was a failure that made him a failure, too, and he preferred to think they just weren’t as highly sexed as some other people. How much more nonthreatening could a guy get?

  Secretly, she’d wond
ered if Gene might be denying his true sexuality, but his family was so rabidly homophobic that she didn’t have the heart to suggest he try dating a man instead. So they’d decided to just be friends, something they were both good at, and to leave mind-blowing sex to people who knew what they were doing. Which obviously didn’t include her.

  Except, maybe it did. Donovan made her wonder if Gene had been wrong. Or rather, her response to his kisses and his touch made her wonder. He wasn’t gentle, and she was sure he didn’t meet Dr. Epstein’s definition of nonthreatening, but oh my God, did she ever respond to him. She had no idea why. Neither was she about to question it. Because never in her life had she been so close to coming apart in a man’s arms as she’d been when he’d backed her into that dresser in Chicago and slipped his hands under her shirt and his tongue inside her mouth. And again here in Luxor, with her bare breasts pressed against his chest and his mouth attached to hers, her mind had gone spinning into space and her body had nearly gone up in flames on the spot. She had actually ached for more, and if he hadn’t been bleeding all over the couch just ten minutes before, she would have gladly taken it.

  He looked okay now. She gave him a critical glance as they left the restaurant. “How’s your side? Does it hurt?”

  His eyes burned into hers. “Not a bit.”

  Oh, my. Her heart tripped over itself at his words. It wasn’t so much a lie as a promise that he didn’t care if his stitches popped open and blood spurted out; it wasn’t going to stop him from getting her naked and having his way with her.

  That alone should make her freak out and shut down entirely. She knew he would not be asking permission to touch her or kiss her or, please God, thrust deeply into her. If she didn’t come right out and tell him no, he’d take her. He’d bend her body to his will. Ride her hard. Do her. Every phrase she thought of sent delicious tingles through her.

  Something had changed drastically. She didn’t know if it was due to being in a foreign country where everything looked, sounded, and tasted strange, or if losing her father had freed her from some self-imposed inhibition. She only knew that Tyler Donovan turned her on like no one else ever had. Like she’d feared no one ever would. She meant to see exactly how much.

  She had no doubt he wanted the same thing. For different reasons, of course, because he didn’t strike her as a man who had ever worried about whether he’d be able to perform. In fact, as they neared their house, he seemed more like a man whose stiff stride indicated a serious source of discomfort beneath his thobe, one that demanded immediate relief.

  She went ahead of him up the long flight of stairs to their door, conscious of him close behind her. At the small landing in front of their door she stepped aside to allow him to unlock it. Their arms brushed, a slight, nonsexual contact that sent shivers of anticipation up to her shoulder and across the back of her neck. She was so ready for this.

  He pulled the door open and she stepped out of the way as it swung out on the small landing, then followed him through the door.

  She didn’t make it into the apartment.

  Two steps ahead of her, Donovan stopped abruptly. His head jerked one way, then the other. With a suddenness that surprised her, he ducked and pivoted on one foot. In one whirling motion he dodged the thrust of a man’s arm—an arm that wielded a flashing blade—and slammed into her. With a startled, “Oof,” she flew backward, landing on her ass on the floor outside the door.

  Donovan’s arm reached past her, above her head. The door slammed in her face.

  Chapter Fourteen

  On the other side of the door Jess heard a rapid succession of dull thuds. The door shuddered as if someone bounced off it, hard.

  She tried to stand but only managed to get to her hands and knees. Hanging her head, she clutched her sore chest and gasped for breath. She’d had the wind knocked out of her once before when she’d been thrown off a horse, and the impact with Donovan’s back was just as bad. Despite the scuffling, grunting, and pounding on the other side of the door, it took several seconds before she could haul air back into her shocked lungs and stand. Staggering, her breath rasping, she grasped the doorknob and pushed.

  The room had changed. A man lay draped over the coffee table where they’d eaten supper the night before. A few feet away Donovan grappled with another man. As she watched, he used two hands to jerk down on his neck, then knee him in the face. With a sickening crunch, the man’s nose broke. The next second, he crumpled into an unconscious heap.

  Donovan blew out a breath and threw her a quick glance. “Close the door,” he ordered.

  She did, staring openmouthed as he ripped the cords off the rattan window shade and bound both men hand and foot, then hog-tied them. Finishing, he lifted each man’s eyelids and stood, looking at them with disgust before turning calmly to her. “Get changed,” he said. “Something that makes you look like an American tourist.”

  When she just blinked, his expression softened and his demeanor seemed to drop into a lower gear. He walked to her and touched her face, cupping her jaw with a gentle hand. “I’m sorry. Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

  She shook her head. “I, uh, no, you just knocked the wind out of me.” She looked at the two unconscious men, each with the dark skin tone of a native Egyptian. For the first time she noticed the two knives in the center of the floor. “Were they after me again?”

  “Both of us, by now. We need to leave, Jess. Fast. They know where we are and what we look like. So I want you to look like someone else—can you do that?”

  She nodded. “I have slacks and a blouse,” she began, then stopped herself. He didn’t need to hear wardrobe details. “Yes.”

  He smiled. “Good. Come on.”

  He took her hand and led her down the hall to the bedrooms. It was a move she’d been imagining in a completely different context five minutes before, and she nearly giggled at the absurdity of how things had changed. It’s shock, she told herself, and tried to adjust to her new reality. Donovan had done it in a split second—he’d spotted danger and kept her out of harm’s way as he fought off two attackers. She had to keep up.

  She stripped off the hijab and abaya. She already wore a white short-sleeved knit top and shorts, so she just changed the shorts for a long, colorful skirt and brushed out her hair. Most of the female tourists she’d seen made no further concessions to the Muslim culture, and it didn’t seem to be expected of them. She hurriedly zipped everything into her three bags, then grabbed Avery’s neatly packed duffle, thanking her silently for her military efficiency and preparedness.

  Donovan was already back in the living room with four duffle bags piled near the door—his, Kyle’s, Mitch’s, and the one she knew held weapons. He wore jeans and a white button down shirt, and was bent over one of their attackers, slapping the man’s face. The man responded with an annoyed string of Arabic and tried to move away. He didn’t get more than two inches.

  “Hey! Talk to me,” Donovan ordered.

  The man squinted at him, confusion turning to an angry glare. He said nothing.

  Donovan slapped him again, not gently. “Who are you?”

  The man worked his jaw, wincing. “I am nobody,” he said in passable English.

  “Why are you here? What do you want?”

  “To kill you.” His eyes found her. “And her.” He said it with such a lack of emotion that it sent chills down Jess’s back.

  Donovan’s mouth tightened. “Why? Who sent you?”

  “I don’t know him. He had money, I agree to the job. I don’t ask why. Maybe you know why, eh?”

  Donovan stood, turning his back on the man dismissively. With a nod at her four bags, he asked, “Ready?”

  She nodded.

  “Our two friends have kindly provided us with a car. Here, let me carry the garment bag.”

  The large bag was awkward, but he already had four, and the ones with the guns probably weighed more than all of hers put together. She hefted the garment bag, then the others. “I’m good
, let’s go.” She gave their attackers a final glance. The conscious one eyed her with cool interest, as if wondering what made her worth killing but not really caring. His gaze made her feel unclean. She sincerely hoped Donovan had hurt him.

  Downstairs, he led the way to an older-model Fiat. They tossed their bags in the backseat and got in, Donovan taking the wheel. She reached for her seat belt from habit, but found it stubbornly stuck and unusable. She experienced a brief moment of panic, hearing her mother’s voice listing all the horrible consequences of not wearing a seat belt—mangled limbs, months of rehabilitation, even coma and life support.

  Donovan didn’t even try his seat belt, starting the car and darting out in front of a motor scooter just as it backfired. She ducked from an imagined gunshot, only slightly relieved to find herself mistaken. It could have easily been real. Maybe seat belts weren’t their biggest concern at the moment.

  When they turned onto a busier street he wove through traffic as aggressively as a native, using the horn freely and obeying traffic laws only when there was a policeman directing traffic. The main roads still hummed busily at ten p.m. with the lifeblood of Luxor—cars, buses, and caleches carrying tourists.

  Donovan headed northwest with apparent purpose, which didn’t surprise her. She imagined he’d simply gone to Plan B—what to do when ambushed by murderers in your house. “Where are we going?”

  “You’re going to get your wish, Cinderella—you’re going to the palace. The Winter Palace hotel.”

  She’d seen it in tourist brochures—a five-star luxury hotel near the Karnak temple. “Don’t you think we need a reservation?”

  “Money talks.”

  It did, and quickly. She wandered the beautiful lobby as he checked them in, admiring the heavy draperies, chandeliers, and colonial-era-style furnishings. The stately architecture of The Winter Palace had brought the elegance of Victorian England to the summer residence of the pharaohs. She ran her hand lovingly over the delicate painted china of a lamp, wondering about all the dignitaries and royalty who might have done the same thing over the decades.