by Rachel Grant
With cold parents like that, it was no wonder Sarah had gotten knocked up at such a young age. But life in California wasn’t much better for baby Cressida. The police visited her home often due to Sarah’s loud, violent fights with her various boyfriends. Cressida received her own bruises, and CPS intervened a few times, culminating in a stint in foster care before she ran back to her mother’s house.
In spite of all this, according to school records, Cressida had been a brilliant student. She graduated near the top of her high school class and received a full scholarship to Berkeley. She turned Cal’s graduate school down in favor of the underwater archaeology program at Florida State.
Nothing in her background added up to someone who’d become disillusioned with her country and joined a terrorist group, but he still had questions.
No doubt Cressida’s childhood had been the stuff of nightmares, but her struggle wasn’t the sort that generated anti-American sentiment. No. Her background was a breeding ground for depression, low self-esteem, and abusive boyfriends of her own.
International terrorism wasn’t on the long list of side effects, let alone the short one.
But he couldn’t ignore the boyfriend with Jordanian ties who’d stolen Lidar equipment and implicated her in the theft. Now, here she was in Eastern Anatolia, hoping to use Lidar to find ancient smuggler tunnels.
As Ian escorted her through the lobby of the old hotel, he slid his hand down her spine, settling on the small of her back. That Lidar theft nagged at him. Had she fooled everyone?
Was Ian simply another dupe to a sexy spy with exceptional acting skills?
The hotel clerk’s eyes widened when Cressida entered the lobby all torn and dirty. He spoke rapidly to John, who answered in Turkish, explaining, she assumed, her mugging. After a moment, the man produced a new key to her room and slid it across the counter. To John, she said, “Thank you. I don’t know how I would have explained the situation without your help.”
His jaw tightened as he touched her cheek, his thumb lightly tracing what she suspected was a raised welt. She had to look like hell, which matched how she felt. “We’ll just have to make sure you don’t go anywhere without me from here on out,” he said.
The idea of him feeling even slightly protective of her made her pathetic heart beat a little faster. “That’s impossible. I have research, and you have work—”
“I’ll clear it with my boss. You need an escort, and I’m volunteering.”
She didn’t understand him. One moment he could be too nice, too accommodating. Then she’d get a hint of…something… A darker nature, maybe. Or a dangerous vibe. Whatever it was lurked deep, telling her that Mr. Affable wasn’t necessarily the real John. And if she were being honest, she was more attracted to the man he hid than the one he presented. It appeared she’d inherited her mother’s poor sense of self-preservation.
There was more to it, though. She couldn’t meet his gaze without returning to the moment he’d swooped in and saved her. The knife still loomed large in her mind. She could so easily imagine it finishing the arc and slicing into her.
John had fought with a brutality that in any other circumstance would horrify her. The dangerous vibe wasn’t in her imagination. That was the real man, buried under that amiable demeanor. And he’d unleashed that ferocity to save her.
She was no stranger to violence. She’d witnessed her mother take blows and had received a few herself when she was younger. Never, not once in the darkest times of her childhood, had anyone been there to help her when she needed it. His presence and action had fulfilled a long-buried childish dream of rescue.
Then there had been that moment right after he’d knocked out her assailant, when he’d looked at her with an intense, concerned expression that spoke to her core. He was a stranger, yet he’d looked at her like she was something to be treasured, protected. She’d felt as precious as an ancient, gilded vase inscribed with secrets of the past.
She’d waited her whole life to see that look on a man’s face.
There was something seriously wrong with her if she could flip from terror to lust to distrust in the flash of a second, but it had happened as they stood next to the train, and now here she was, leading him to her hotel room, hoping more than anything that once they were alone, he’d kiss her.
A kiss could make her forget the terror. Forget her lost passport and money. Forget her stupidity. She wanted, more than anything, to forget. Just for a moment.
Todd had ruined her last night in Antalya, and now she’d been mugged in Van. In true Turkish fashion, she wondered if she were cursed. Without thinking, her fingers strayed to the evil eye pendant, which hadn’t protected her. But then again, John had come to her rescue, so maybe it had.
She thought of a way to thank John for his services, proving she was as foolish as her mother, a woman whose sexual history was a textbook of don’ts.
“You okay?” John asked.
She stepped into the tiny elevator, realizing she was dazed, and it showed. “Fine. Sorry. Just…shaken up, I guess.” She leaned against the back wall, tucking herself into the corner.
He hit the button, then faced her, stepping so close she was warmed by the heat of his skin. His eyes were hot with desire. “I very much want to kiss you right now.”
Her heart kicked up a notch. Maybe wishes do come true. “What’s stopping you?”
He rubbed his thumb over her bottom lip. Her heart no longer merely raced; it pounded with the force of a bass beat. “We’re both coming down from adrenaline, and your judgment is clouded by gratitude.”
The heat that had begun to unfurl low in her belly retreated. “You’re turning me down. Again.” She couldn’t hide the hurt in her voice.
“No. I’m giving you a chance to back out while I’m still able to listen to my conscience.”
That delicious heat returned. She placed a hand on his chest and felt the truth—his heart beat as rapidly as hers. “To hell with your conscience.”
The elevator door opened on her floor. Before he could turn, she leaned up and brushed her lips over his. His mouth didn’t respond, but his eyes flared with hunger. He stood frozen before her, blocking the exit, his thoughts unreadable but his desire unmistakable.
The elevator doors closed. “We missed my floor,” she said. Her voice was a dry rasp.
“Who needs a conscience?” His mouth descended to hers. She opened to let his tongue inside—hot, arousing, exactly the stress reliever she needed.
She slid her hands up his chest and around his neck. He pressed into her, pinning her in the corner. His tongue delved deeper, a firm sensuous caress that lit a fire in her center. He tasted sweet, hot. Perfect.
John Baker was nothing like any man she’d dated. For starters, he was pure alpha in the way he spoke, moved, and beat the crap out of armed thugs. Not to mention he was tall, muscular, and fluent in multiple languages. Brawn and brains happened to be her very favorite combination, and the confidence in his kiss turned her into a puddle of want. She gave as much as she took, reveling in the sweet heat.
He lifted his head, releasing her mouth. She opened her eyes. His gaze burned with arousal that likely mirrored her own. Behind him, the elevator doors slid open. She’d been so caught up in the kiss, she’d forgotten they were in a public elevator.
His broad chest blocked her view, she shifted to glance around him and caught sight of a couple. The woman wore a dark chador. Her eyes were wide with shock.
John cleared his throat and stepped back.
She glanced at the control panel. They’d overshot her floor. “Going down?” she asked.
The couple took a step back and shook their heads. The man said something in Turkish or Farsi, which she interpreted as, “We’ll catch the next one.” The door slid closed again.
Cressida hit the button for her floor, met John’s gaze, and licked her lips. “I am definitely going down.”
He laughed—full, loud, sexy—and she felt a rush.
Jumping into bed with him was crazy, but right now, in her freaked-out vulnerable state, crazy might be what she needed.
The elevator stopped again at her floor; this time they exited. When they reached her room, she pulled the key from her pocket and glanced over her shoulder at John. “Can we order wine from room—”
John pushed her aside, out of the doorway. A gun appeared in his hand. “Get down.”
“What—”
“The lock is broken.” His voice pitched low.
She glanced at the handle. Fear took her breath. A crowbar or some other tool had snapped the mechanism.
Nagging doubts returned to the forefront. John had been on her flight. He was in the same hotel, he’d been on the train platform when she was mugged, and now, he was here. With a gun.
John—not the elusive Berzan—was the only common denominator.
She stared in horror at the man with the gun trained on the door. A moment ago, he’d kissed her silly. But she’d regained her wits and did the only smart thing—what she should have done by the train—she kicked him in the back of the knee, then ran for the stairs at the end of the corridor.
Chapter Ten
Motherfuckingsonofawhore. She’d caught him off guard, and Ian went down. He bumped the door, shoving it open, forcing him to throw himself to the side, out of the line of fire.
He tucked himself against the wall as Cressida bolted down the hall. He wanted to follow her, but his six would be exposed if he did. He jumped to his feet and kicked the door wide. A quick scan. No one.
She’d almost reached the stairwell. No time to search—he had to go after her. He couldn’t lose her like he lost the damn chip. He sprinted down the corridor and shouted, “Cressida! Wait!”
She shoved the door open and disappeared. Shit! Whoever had broken into her room was just as likely to be waiting in the stairwell, but chasing her down with his gun out would only freak her out more. He holstered his weapon at the small of his back. The action could be the biggest mistake he’d made all day, and given his fuckup by the train, that was saying something.
He launched himself into the stairwell. She’d reached the landing below and was rounding the corner. He leapt down and caught her waist, pulling her down. He rolled to take the brunt of the fall.
His back hit the wall. His arm held her trapped, pressed against him. With his free hand, he covered her mouth, cutting off a piercing, echoing scream. “Quiet! I’m not the enemy—”
She bit him. It hurt like a bitch, but he didn’t release her.
“Dammit, Cressida. I’m trying to help you.”
Eyes wild with fear, she pressed her teeth deeper into his flesh.
He sucked in a sharp breath, praying she wasn’t desperate enough to break skin. “I might need that hand to beat the crap out of the next asshole with a knife who attacks you.”
Her jaw eased but didn’t release him.
“Please, Cress. Whoever was in your room could still be there. You’re vulnerable.”
Her teeth unclenched.
“Don’t scream. Please.” He lifted his hand from her mouth.
Her eyes were hard, cold, and unflinching.
He’d kissed her to play her, to see how far she was willing to go, but like a damn rookie, he’d gotten caught in the heat. In the end, the kiss was real, and it had taken a world of effort to stay in character.
This is a job. She is a job. Forget the other crap and do your fucking job.
“Why did you run?” he asked.
“I don’t know why I was mugged or why my room was broken into. Yet I know you were on the plane. You have a room in my hotel. You appeared by the train right after I was mugged. And you have a gun—yet I never saw you claim a bag at the airport. Which means either they let you take it on the plane, or you got it here. Who are you?”
“I told you. I’m a security consultant. The gun is part of my job.”
“Bullshit. I’m not an idiot. I can do math, and you don’t add up.”
He smiled, but with a grim bent. This would be easier if she were a fool. “Dumb luck got me a seat next to you on the plane. I’m a single man, and you’re a beautiful woman. I spend more of my time in the Middle East than I do on US soil, and you were like a taste of home. So I’m guilty of being homesick and probably superficial.” He stroked her cheek as the fear in her eyes slowly receded. “I was on the pier by the train platform for my job, for which I carry a gun, which I checked through a security service and picked up before heading to the taxi line. You must not have seen it.” A lie, but she likely didn’t know Turkish gun-check procedures, and he wasn’t about to tell her he’d stored more than one gun and a few other necessary items in Van last month when he scouted the area for this mission.
“I have high-end clients who need protection,” he continued, “so I have permission to carry concealed throughout the Muslim world. Local governments want my clients’ business.”
“If it’s not somehow connected to you, then why was I robbed?”
His hold on her loosened—but interestingly, she didn’t take the opportunity to break away. They must present quite a picture, lying on the hard floor of the landing between hotel floors. He rose and pulled her to her feet beside him. “Let’s go to your room and see what we find.”
He could still see hesitation in her eyes. He’d lost her tenuous trust, but she wanted to believe him, which was half the battle.
How to play her? Another kiss?
No. Too soon. Too heavy-handed.
He took a deep breath. He had only one option, but it required putting his trust in her. If he was wrong, if she was a part of Hejan’s cell, then he was signing his death warrant. He reached behind his back, slowly, and pulled his Sig. Holding the top of the gun with the barrel pointed down, he pressed the grip into her hands.
She looked at him questioningly. Guarded.
“Have you ever handled a gun?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Good. Keep it. We’re going to go up to my room. I’ll grab another gun, then we’ll search your room.” He hoped to hell that if Zack waited in his room, he was listening and would vacate immediately.
She studied the gun in her hands. “No safety?”
“No. The safety is the long pull for the first shot.”
She met his gaze. “Thank you. And I’m sorry I kicked you. And bit you.”
He shrugged. “You’ve good instincts for self-preservation. It appears you might need them.” That was an understatement.
As they headed up the stairs to his room, he pulled out his cell and speed-dialed Sabal, but the hound didn’t answer. Shit. He needed to know what Sabal had learned from the guy with the knife. She’d want to report the break in to the police and would no doubt question why Sabal hadn’t delivered her assailant to local authorities as promised.
His hotel room was blessedly empty and undisturbed. He retrieved his backup weapon, and together they returned to her third-floor room. At her broken door, he pulled his gun and nodded to her, indicating she should mimic his movements. They flanked the door, but he entered first, well aware she was at his back with a loaded gun.
If she wanted to take him out, this was her moment.
She didn’t shoot him.
He released his pent-up breath and quickly searched her room, equally relieved when some unknown intruder didn’t shoot him either. Not shot twice in the same minute. Maybe his luck was changing.
Her room had been thoroughly tossed. Papers were spread everywhere, and her bed had been stripped.
He dropped onto the bare mattress. “You can’t stay here,” he said. “It’s not safe.”
“I’d love to leave, but I have nowhere to go. I don’t have money or ID. At least this hotel already ran my credit card. With the lock broken, they should give me another room.”
He waved his hand to indicate the mess. “Someone obviously wants something from you. Did they get it?”
Her face showed nothing but fear and bewilderment. “I
don’t know. I’m nobody. I don’t have anything anyone could possibly want.”
He believed her, which surprised him. “Don’t forget the man with the knife. It wasn’t a simple mugging. This was all planned.”
“You’re scaring me. Worse than I already am. I have no idea what’s going on or why.”
“You should be scared. Listen, my company has a safe house in the area. I’m taking you there.”
She stiffened. “Shouldn’t I go to the police?”
“We’ll stop at the police station on the way.” He wasn’t sure if his words were a lie. He might be able to take her to the police, but he needed to talk to Zack first. Or Sabal. He needed to know what the hell was going on. Then he’d know what to do with Cressida.
“If I go to a safe house with you, won’t it look like I disappeared?”
Dammit. He’d hoped she wouldn’t catch that implication right away. “For your safety. Yes.”
She studied the gun in her hand, as if weighing it. He had a feeling the heft of the gun equaled the amount of trust she had in him. “I need to go to the police and call my friend Trina. People need to know where I am. I’d be a fool to take off with a stranger and disappear.”
He stepped toward her. John needed to turn on the charm, but she was so skittish, he could easily overplay his role. He lifted her chin with his forefinger, bringing her gaze to his. “I work in security, Cressida. This is what I do. Something strange is going on, and you are at the center of it. I’ll figure out why, but to do that, I need you to let me protect you.”
Her gaze darted around her trashed hotel room. She sucked in a sharp breath and, he suspected, stifled a sob. “I’m here to work. I need to gather data for my grant proposal. For my dissertation. I’ve worked my whole life for this trip. I spent every penny I have just to get here. There must be some sort of mistake. Whoever is behind this must have me confused with someone else. I’ll go to the police. Clarify that I’m nobody. Maybe this”—she waved her arm to encompass her trashed hotel room—“will stop, once whoever did it realizes they’ve targeted the wrong person, and then I can do the work I came here to do.”