“What? She started it.”
Blade stroked Sheila’s neck. “If you treat her nicely, she’ll return it in kind.”
Things progressed slowly, with Jack having to dodge the camel’s sneak attacks. Finally, Blade ordered him away and finished it up himself. When he was satisfied, he clambered up into the big, awkward-looking saddle.
“Come on, Jack. Up here, or you’ll be walking.”
“Don’t know why we can’t take the non-spitting, toothless buggy,” he muttered, but hauled himself up behind the assassin.
“As I said, it’s too conspicuous.” With a gentle tap of his foot to Sheila’s neck, Blade said, “Hup, hup.”
Groaning so loud it echoed in the small space, Sheila heaved herself to her feet. Jack shouted in alarm as the beast rocked back and forth violently. He nearly slid right off, scrambling for a hold on Blade to stop himself from taking a tumble.
Blade laughed, then announced, “Duck,” as Sheila hit her top height.
Jack swore as his head came an inch off smacking into the beams of the roof. Blade only laughed harder.
“Fuck you, Blade,” Jack growled. “And the camel you rode in on.”
“I apologise, Jack. Camel riding is a bit startling for the first-timer.” He patted the arm Jack had wrapped around his waist. “I promise, it gets easier. Until we stop and she sits to let us off.”
Jack didn’t know what blocked the foul litany of curses he wanted to let loose—anger at being laughed at, embarrassment at clinging to the other man in surprise, or extreme embarrassment at clinging to the other man and then forgetting to let go when the chaos settled. Whatever it was, he released Blade with careful deliberation that didn’t speak of shame, and reached back to clutch at the rear of the saddle instead.
“Ready?” Blade asked, amusement still in his voice.
“Just do it.”
“As you wish, Jack.” He tapped Sheila’s neck again. “Let’s go, Sheila.”
The camel blinked her long lashes at him, then padded out into the day.
Blade had found a spare pair of sunglasses, which Jack had taken gratefully. Out in the brilliant sunlight, he was also thankful for the hat from the assassin’s stocks. A flap draped around three-quarters of the brim, protecting his neck and the sides of his face from the sun. He wore a camel-pack of hydro-lyte under his shirt to keep him hydrated. Within half an hour, he was sweating profusely, especially where the swaying motion of the camel rocked him against Blade’s back. The only good thing about it was seeing Blade sweat as much as he did.
They travelled northward, the sun to their right. Sheila moved at a steady pace that carried them over the burning ground at a good clip. After a while, Jack learned to move with the beast. It wasn’t unlike horse riding, just a little less smooth. And a bit more stinky. And higher. Jack didn’t have a problem with heights, but the ground did look awfully far away from camel height. He found himself reaching for Blade whenever Sheila’s stride hitched.
“Just hold on if it feels more secure,” Blade said.
Removing his hands again, Jack mumbled, “Wouldn’t want to hinder you.”
“You grasping me and then letting go is very distracting, Jack. One or the other, please.”
He settled on holding the back of the saddle. There was already enough incidental touching going on. He didn’t need to add to it purposefully.
A towering escarpment of red rock appeared on the horizon in front of them an hour or so later. Jack was sucking deeply on his hydro-lyte by then, feeling the heat crawl into his skull. His shirt was soaked with sweat, his jeans also starting to fill up. It was a wonder he had enough fluid left to fuel the half-mast erection he was desperately trying to hide from Blade.
It was an involuntary response to the motion, the occasional push against Blade’s back, and his body rejoicing in no longer being sick. It didn’t mean anything.
“Not much further,” Blade announced, steering Sheila towards the cliffs. “Then we’ll stop until the worst of the heat passes.”
“Thank God,” Jack said.
It took another hour to reach the rocks. Blade directed Sheila along the foot of the edifice. There were no shadows to be found, the sun blaring at them from their side of the cliffs.
Thankfully, a narrow opening in the cliff face appeared not long later. Sheila scrambled over crumbling rocks, as eager as Jack to find some relief. Inside the cliff, the passage meandered, barely wide enough for the camel and her passengers to pass through in places, the packs scraping against rock.
Jack loved it. The temperature began to drop, shadows crowding the narrow space and, eventually, he thought he felt a touch of moisture in the air.
“Where are we going?” he asked, unable to wait.
“You’ll see.” Blade’s tone was smug.
Before Jack could demand a real answer, the passage opened up and they spilled out into a . . .
“A rainforest?” Jack gaped.
Under a partial overhang of rock high above, plants flourished in a vibrant burst of long-missed green. Honest-to-God trees and giant ferns, grass and flowers, vines and creeping moss. Somewhere, water fell into a pool, misting the cool air.
“Not a rainforest.” Blade eased Sheila to a stop. “Just a haven from the desert where plants can grow unmolested by the extreme temperatures.”
“Shit. Why didn’t we come here sooner?”
“Because I couldn’t get you on Sheila while you were delirious.”
Jack considered that for a moment. “Sounds like you tried.”
“One of my more foolish ideas, I’ll grant you.”
About to snark a response, Jack let out a startled yelp as Sheila rocked her way back into a sitting position. When things were relatively still again, Jack threw himself off the animal with a grateful moan. Sheila immediately twisted her neck to spit.
Dancing out of the way, Jack gave her the finger.
Blade took a couple of bags from Sheila’s packs, then slapped her on the rump. The camel humped her way back to her feet and, saddle swaying ponderously, padded off into the trees.
“She’ll be back,” Blade assured Jack.
“I wasn’t worried.”
Blade smirked. “Of course not. Breakfast?”
It was cool enough to eat, so Jack agreed. Cold beans and tinned fruit under the beautiful green canopy. His back to a lumpy tree trunk, Jack felt much better. This was what he’d been missing. Life. The desert was barren, hollow. A vacuum waiting to pull him into its emptiness. This gorge reminded him of the Cardamom Mountains, of the beauty he’d found in the thick, tangled lives of plants, animals, and humans. If a tiger stepped out of the trees right now, he’d probably throw his arms around it in relief.
Between a full belly and the cool air, Jack dropped into a light doze. He was vaguely aware of Blade puttering about, organising packs. Sheila wandered back occasionally, for a pat and a quiet word, before disappearing again. Then Jack could ignore the growing pressure no longer.
He stood and stretched. “Gotta piss.”
The assassin nodded and kept doing whatever he was doing.
Jack ambled off a ways, took care of business, then went in search of the waterfall.
He found it rather close by. A roughly circular pool at the bottom of the cliff, full of green-hued water, filled by a respectable-sized waterfall emerging from the cliff face about two dozen yards from the bottom. Small fish zipped through the clear water. Across from him, a white-plumed heron stood on a rock, watching the water intently.
The water was deliciously cool, so Jack stripped in record time and waded in. The first few minutes he spent splashing about, simply happy to be immersed in water after so long. The heron didn’t appreciate the noise or him disturbing its hunting, so it launched on a wide spread of pristine white wings and ghosted away through the surrounding trees.
Wish you were here?
No, because here was near to bloody perfect.
“Are you having fun?”
Jack startled and sank below the surface. He came up spluttering to hear Blade laughing. Blinking water out of his eyes, he found the assassin on the bank, calmly stripping. Jack’s erection made a comeback at the sight of so much pale, taut skin over sleek muscles.
“I was,” Jack groused, turning away and swimming for the waterfall.
Under the spray, he found a ledge that lifted him mostly out of the water. It proved no respite, however, because Blade followed him out with strong strokes. Seemingly unashamed of his nakedness, Blade hauled himself up beside Jack. He handed over a cake of soap and proceeded to work his own into a lather.
“Think of everything, don’t you,” Jack grumbled.
“I do try, and I have a lot of experience to draw on. Of course, now I know to bring packets of saline in future, as well.”
Jack snarled silently, then washed because getting properly clean would be so damn good. When he tried to rub the soap through his hair, though, he encountered a problem.
“Goddamn splint.” He wrestled his broken arm free of a tangle of curls.
Blade lifted his own freshly washed head out from under the waterfall. “Do you need a hand?”
“No. I’m fine.” His words were belied by the splint catching on more strands and making him wince.
“Here.” Blade came up behind him. “Let me.”
Keenly aware of how it would look to refuse, Jack stood still while Blade lathered up his soap.
“Could you sit? You’re a bit taller than me.”
Jack sat. Blade crouched behind him, knees to either side. The touch of his fingers against Jack’s scalp was gentle as he kneaded the soap through knots and snarls. Jack had to work to hold down the shiver in his shoulders. It had been so long since anyone touched him like this. Well, that he was aware of. Blade had presumably taken care of him while he’d been sick, and Jack was so bloody grateful he’d been out of it, because if he’d felt like this then, who knew what he might have done while not aware.
He was highly conscious of Blade’s proximity, of the heat of his body so close to his bare back, the fact they were both naked. The memory of moving against him during the ride was sharp and clear and hard to dismiss. The lean body, the firm muscles of his thighs, the sinuous way he’d rolled with the animal’s gait.
All the tangles worked out, Blade dragged his fingers through Jack’s hair, drawing it out straight and chuckling as it pulled back sluggishly into sagging curls. Then he dug his strong fingers into Jack’s head, massaging his scalp.
Christ! Jack almost moaned. It was harder to hold back when Blade pressed two fingers into his temples and rubbed in circles.
“You need to relax,” the assassin murmured. “You’re very tense.”
How else was he supposed to be when a slight shift in either of their positions would reveal his hard dick to Blade? Jack couldn’t reply. If he unclenched his jaw, he wasn’t sure it wouldn’t be to groan in pleasure.
When Blade stopped the massage, Jack stupidly thought the trauma was over.
“I like your tattoo.” Blade’s nimble fingers skimmed down Jack’s left shoulder blade. “It’s very beautiful.”
Jack almost laughed. No one who’d seen it before said that. Mostly, they asked what it meant. If he was truthful and said it was a reminder of his mother, it generally sent the inquisitive man running.
“It’s a Saint Thomas Cross,” he said softly. “Symbol of my mother’s religion.”
Blade made a quiet, appreciative noise, his fingertips tracing the outline of the cross, from the lotus flower base to the dove at the top. It took every ounce of strength and willpower to sit still for it, even more than when Blade had washed his hair. This was . . . was . . . intolerable, frustrating, personal. Wonderful. Arousing.
No. What it was, was ridiculous. This man was Ethan Blade. Ethan Blade! An assassin. He was the man who’d willingly broken Jack’s cover for his own purposes, who’d torn his bloody way through thirty soldiers and calmly played doctor minutes afterwards. He was a cold-blooded killer. Not someone to lust after.
It wasn’t because of Blade. Anyone touching him right now would probably generate a hard-on.
Still, when Blade finally stopped, Jack couldn’t help a small sound of disappointment.
“Rinse off,” Blade said, somewhat subdued. Was he annoyed Jack hadn’t been able to relax while Blade was touching him? Would the truth of the matter make him angry or . . .
Jack pulled back from that avenue of thought and twisted to thrust his head under the waterfall. Behind him, Blade dove off the ledge into the pool. When he surfaced, he swam directly for shore.
“We have fresh clothes back at the packs,” he said loudly so Jack heard him over the rush of the water. Then he gathered up his dirty clothes and walked away, naked.
Jack scrunched his eyes closed against the sight of those toned legs, that muscular arse, and that lean back. Fuck. This wasn’t happening.
Except that it was, and his dick wasn’t listening to reason. It didn’t care how many people Blade might have killed. It just liked the way he’d touched Jack. And the way he looked. The way he could make Jack laugh. The way he appeared so young and innocent when he slept. The feel of his body shifting against Jack’s. Even that accent.
Jack didn’t know the exact moment he’d wrapped a fist around his dick. Even when what he was doing registered, he couldn’t stop, too caught up in the sensation of heat building in his stomach, in the coiling tension in his guts. Even the harshness of his rough palm against the aching head of his dick worked, making him think of Blade’s hand pressed to his, of the similarities between their gun-grown calluses.
Jesus. He was wanking to the memory of Blade touching him. Maybe he was still delirious. This was just the fever having its cruel way with him. Which made him pull forth the image of Blade helping him from the bed to the outer room. The sight of his hand against Jack’s stomach. Pale skin against dark, the contrast fascinating and amazingly arousing.
Jack came with a startled gasp, his orgasm taking him by surprise. It rocked through him in successive waves, tremors lingering long after he’d fallen back on the rock, water splashing over his heated body.
“Damn,” he whispered when he’d caught his breath.
Wanting to put it behind him as quickly as possible, Jack rolled off the ledge and into the pool. After washing thoroughly, he made for shore. He scrambled back onto dry land and shook off as much water as he could. Not particularly fancying strolling back to Blade naked, he bent to put on his jeans.
And froze.
A pair of boots stood back in the ground cover, partially hidden by a tree. Blade? Come to spy on Jack wanking? No, those weren’t his boots, but they were familiar.
Slowly, Jack straightened and found himself looking down the barrel of a rifle, held by one of Valadian’s soldiers.
Maxwell pushed Jack down into a chair and stood over him. McIntosh woke up each screen in the table and angled them all towards him. They held pictures of Maria’s body.
Was this his fault? Had she been killed just to frame him? Or had she found something she shouldn’t have?
“You liked her, didn’t you?” McIntosh asked quietly. “It was why she was chosen as your handler for the Valadian operation. Did you know how worried she was when you went dark? Quite the stressful time for Maria. She thought you were dead, that she hadn’t seen the danger coming and left you there to die.”
Jack shook his head in mute denial.
“Is that why you killed her? Because she left you out there alone?”
“I wasn’t alone.”
“No, I guess you weren’t. You were with your new ally, Ethan Blade. Did Maria find something out about your relationship with Blade that required her being silenced?”
“No.”
“Really? How can I trust anything you say now, Jack? You’ve already lied about so much.”
He clenched his jaw over the angry response, waiting until it passed. “I’m not lying ab
out this, ma’am. I didn’t kill Maria.”
“Her neck was broken in a single move. Something I know you are capable of. You said it yourself, in your report about your time in the desert.”
The fog of shock was fading fast, leaving Jack’s head clear and sharp. A spike in adrenaline flowed through him, his body trained to respond to threats.
“I didn’t do this,” Jack said calmly. “You know I wouldn’t do something like this.”
McIntosh studied him for a long moment. “Convince me why you had no need to silence her. Explain why you didn’t want her looking into Blade’s movements during the past year.”
“You listened to the conversation we had. My reasons were exactly as I said to her. Digging into Blade’s life is dangerous, even from a distance.”
“Are you saying Blade had something to do with her death?”
“No. He’s locked up.”
“By your own words, Jack, the man’s a meticulous planner. Couldn’t he have planned for this? Perhaps he has an accomplice.” McIntosh eyed him keenly. “Does he?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
The questioning continued in this manner for a long time, circling around the accusation Jack was working with Blade, coming at it from all directions. They were still trawling through the mountains of information Maria had on Valadian and Blade, yet McIntosh all but said she was convinced they’d find the proof in there. Jack kept up a deadly calm throughout it all, the anti-interrogation training he’d had with the SAS and the Office working against those who’d once benefitted from it. McIntosh didn’t resort to anything as crude as threats, though, using repetition as her main weapon. Asking the same questions over and over, couched differently, in random order, trying to trip up his answers.
All the while, Jack searched for clues in her words. Was she the traitor? Had she killed Maria and questioning him was a cover for her own actions? Had he played ever so sweetly into her hands by avoiding the Shadows on the stairs? Jack could only hope his answers were as innocent sounding as her questions.
Five minutes to the deadline, the door to the meeting room clicked open.
Startled mid question, McIntosh snapped her ice-cold glare onto the newcomer.
Where Death Meets the Devil Page 18