by Rachel Grant
She cleared her throat. He loved the way she did that and wanted to keep making her throat dry with desire. It was the only thing that sounded remotely good in a world where he’d just lost everything that mattered to him.
“Who are you working for?” she asked in a husky voice.
“Up until about ten minutes ago, the CIA. Now, apparently, I’m a free agent.”
“Al-Qaeda? Kurdish separatists?” She paused and sucked in a sharp breath. “ISIS?”
He sighed. She was determined to steer this conversation in non-titillating directions. “Hejan was a Kurdish separatist. I was his case officer. His manager.”
“The story you told, about how you learned Turkish, was that true?”
“Yes. And I did grow up in Chicago.” What could he say to gain her trust? It was going to be a long-ass journey to the consulate if she fought him the entire way. “Like yours, my mom was a single mother. And like you, I don’t know my father’s name. But I can do you one better. My dad was a john. My mom’s sick joke was to name me after him. Ian is John in Gaelic. So my preferred alias isn’t just a convenient common name.”
He kept all emotion out of his voice as he told her that. Hell, he’d never told anyone that. Not even Altan, his best friend and next-door neighbor who’d known exactly how his mother earned the money to pay for her ever-increasing addictions.
“Where is your mother now?” she asked.
Ian shrugged. “Don’t know. Don’t give a damn.” He lifted his chin at the condemnation in her eyes. “Don’t judge me, Cressida. She doesn’t deserve my consideration.”
Those beautiful brown eyes cast downward. “I’m sorry,” she said, with a slight catch in her voice.
He gave a short, sharp nod and swallowed the lump in his throat. He could go days, weeks even, without thinking of his mother and preferred it that way.
He slowly rose to his feet, reaching out a hand to pull her up. Not surprisingly, she refused his help but stood anyway. “Microwaved canned beans are waiting for us. And now that you know who—and what—I am, it’s time you tell me everything Hejan told you. Zack drove us to ground instead of killing us for a reason. My guess is you know something or have something he wants. Did Hejan give you anything besides the digital recorder?”
It took all Cressida’s willpower to keep her face blank and not touch the evil eye pendant. She didn’t trust John—dammit, Ian—not by a long shot. She’d tell him about the pendant only if she decided she could trust him.
Ian’s question clicked everything into place. Aside from the digital recorder and the translated map—which had been taken from her hotel room in Van—the only other item Hejan had given her was the pendant. He’d given it to her in private and had been particularly tense about it. The pendant was important. But why? What made it special?
Maybe when John—crap, Ian—was asleep, she’d be able to check it out.
She ate her beans and told him about Hejan. What else could she do? She couldn’t run. He’d stop her before she made it to the door. She was entirely dependent upon him.
Stupid of her to choose to seduce him rather than grab his money and gun and run while he was in the shower. Such a fool. Had she ever trusted a man worthy of the sentiment?
Since she was seventeen and harbored a shameful crush on Three, she’d traveled a straight path to destruction with the men she wanted. She crossed her arms over her chest and sat back against the head of the bed. “Can we watch the news? I want to know if they mention me.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re stuck with me either way.” His voice had hardened. Ian had a different voice and manner than John. Ian was harsh. Suspicious. Angry.
She had her own anger where he was concerned. “You could have stopped me, you know. When I left the hotel last night to meet Berzan, I still had the digital recorder. I’d have given it to you. You could have prevented all of this from happening.” The accusation burned in her throat. “You probably could have saved Hejan too.”
“My job wasn’t to save Hejan.”
She shivered at the way he said that. “What was your job?”
“My job was to follow you, witness the drop, and follow the next link in the chain to the top.”
“I was bait.”
He cocked his head. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“When you put a worm on a hook and dangle it in front of a hungry fish, it’s bait.”
“Not always.”
“When does bait want to be pierced with barbs and eaten?”
His gaze narrowed. “When it’s a lure, with hidden barbs, embedded, part of a beautiful, vicious design. I had no idea what you were, Cressida. I still don’t.”
“I’m not a fucking lure.”
His smile was slow and sent the wrong kind of shiver up her spine. “You’re certainly alluring.”
Or maybe it was the right kind. All she knew was she felt things she didn’t want to. “Fuck you.”
“Is that an offer? I accept.” His eyes swept her from head to toe. “You are so damn hot, not even frigid water could keep me down.”
His words pissed her off—and turned her on in the most twisted way. For once, she knew he spoke the truth. He’d screw her without regret if she just gave him the green light.
Hot, erotic memories of the shower flooded her. If he’d just moved his hard cock a few millimeters, she’d have pressed down, and he’d have been deep inside her. One deep thrust and her whole body would have been gripped with pleasure. What was wrong with her?
She was sick. Depraved. And likely held the land-speed record for Stockholm syndrome.
“Think about it,” he said in a deep, seductive tone. The polished businessman she’d met on the flight was long gone. This man was all rough edges and rumbly voice. Carnal. Primal. A warrior.
His hard body was pure sculpted muscle. If she’d ever in her life wanted a no-strings-attached fling, Ian Boyd would be the type of man she’d want. Alpha to his very core with a body worthy of a master artist.
However, sex with Ian Boyd had far more than strings. It had ropes. Handcuffs. Possibly even treason attached. “Pass, thanks.”
He leaned into her and rubbed his thumb across her bottom lip. “Your eyes are so expressive. You have a hard time hiding what you’re thinking. And for a moment there, you were remembering how it felt—how I felt, against you. In the shower. And you want to finish what you started.”
That was no magic trick. He’d probably been thinking the same thing.
She brushed his hand aside and stood, then crossed the room and turned on the TV. She returned to the bed and sat cross-legged, trying to block him out as she watched the news.
He settled beside her, reminding her that no matter how she felt about him, they’d be sharing a bed. They both needed sleep, desperately, and he clearly wasn’t about to make the gentlemanly offer and take the floor. Frankly, she didn’t gaze at the floor with longing either.
The news was all about Ian. He groused and complained about the inaccuracies and cursed bitterly at the characterization. When a hastily pulled together interview was announced and a man in uniform appeared on the screen, Ian went silent. She had a feeling he held his breath.
“Who is that?”
“Shhh,” he said, waving her off.
On the TV, the CNN anchor said, “We’ve just received a clip of a statement made by Lt. Col. Harrison Makefield. Makefield was accused double agent Ian Boyd’s commander when Boyd was a Delta Force operator.”
The anchor’s voice cut off, and the recorded statement began. “I’ve known Boyd for over a dozen years. There is no doubt in my mind he’s innocent of the crimes he is accused of. Someone in the CIA”—a bleep covered the next word—“up, and they’ve hung a good man out to dry. I’ve never had a finer, more patriotic soldier under my command. I will stake my reputation—my entire career—on his innocence.”
Ian leaned back against the headboard, a soft smile on his face. Much more like the smiles she’d seen fr
om John than anything Ian had displayed. “Thank you, Harry.” He touched his fingers to his brow in a salute. “He’s a fine man.”
His change in demeanor was…captivating. The harsh edges were still there, but part of the anxiety left him. He laughed at some of the more outrageous accusations. He smiled.
Ian Boyd’s real smile was devastating. As John, there’d been an obsequiousness that carried through to his smile. But Ian… Ian bowed to no one, least of all a foolish archaeologist who’d managed to embroil herself in an international incident.
What if he really was what he claimed? An agent, one of the good guys, who’d been burned by the real traitor?
“The fact that Zack Barrow hasn’t been mentioned means his cover’s intact,” Ian said. “My guess is he’s pulling the strings. He’s the only person who knew about the safe house.”
She glanced sideways at him. “He had to know he’d be your first suspect when the house started to burn. So why did he light the fire?”
“He knew I’d be so busy reacting—trying to get you to safety—that he’d have time to pull this stunt, blowing my cover before I could inform Ankara. No way can I call Ankara now. If we’d gone straight to Batman, instead of stopping here, I’d be in custody now—and likely wouldn’t survive the night. Hell, he probably planned to show up at the NATO base and take you off their hands—with my boss’s blessing. You’d have trusted him after learning I was the double agent.” Ian paused, his gaze fixed on the TV, which showed footage of the burning checkpoint. “He must’ve rigged the explosive while we were at dinner.”
“Do you think he was nearby during the explosion?”
Ian nodded. “A cell phone is an easy remote, but he had to be watching, to know the soldier had the bag and we were clear. He knew the ring would alert me, that I’d protect you.”
She shuddered at the idea that someone could blithely detonate a bomb knowing it was in an innocent soldier’s grasp. But that’s what terrorists and traitors did. Then there was Ian, who’d protected her and would sport scars for the rest of his life because of it. “Why did he kill the soldier?”
Ian fixed her with a stare. “It was the first shot fired in the next holy war. A Turkish soldier targeted by the CIA.” He waved his hand at the screen. “You can see what a big deal it is, as our governments alternately point fingers, then scramble to show unity.”
She gathered the loose bedspread into her fist, wondering how she’d gotten caught up in something so outrageous. So horrific. She’d thought things were bad when Todd claimed she’d stolen university equipment, but that was a scuffle on a playground compared to this. “Was Zack behind the mugging?”
“I think so. He had the guy with the knife in position to prevent me from following the mugger.” Ian frowned. “He knew I couldn’t leave you, even if it meant letting the data get away.”
“What’s on the USB drive that’s so important?”
“Two things that I know of: bank information that will allow Hejan’s group to retrieve millions of dollars set aside to fund international bombings, sabotage, and radical violence; and a list of Americans who fund terrorism.”
Chapter Nineteen
Cressida’s gorgeous mocha-and-amber eyes went wide with shock. “Americans funding terrorism,” she said flatly. “I know it happens. But I can’t understand it.”
“That’s because you aren’t greedy.” It was one of the things about her that appealed to him—her motivation appeared to be academic achievement, not financial gain. “Nor are you a religious zealot.”
She clutched her evil eye pendant. “No. I’m just a fool.”
“Stop being so hard on yourself. Hejan used you.” He wanted to savor the flavor of that innocence on his tongue. In his line of work, he never encountered innocence. “My first guess as to why Zack turned is he was hired by someone whose name is on that list. There are a number of people who support terrorism because they benefit from the military industrial complex. A country living in fear is a country willing to spend on their military.”
“You aren’t saying our government…?”
“Not necessarily. We can’t rule out the possibility there are military personnel on the list, but I’m talking about the CEOs of companies like Raptor. I’m talking about gun and airplane manufacturers.”
She reared back. “No way is Keith Hatcher funding terrorism.”
“Relax. It was just an example you’d understand. No one suspects Raptor—not anymore. Alec Ravissant is solid. He checked out on all levels and so did Hatcher. But the previous owner…well, let’s just say he was guilty of far more than he was convicted of. The rumors of biological weapons were true.”
“How do you know?”
“Sorry, it’s classified.”
She dropped the pendant and crossed her arms. “I’m trying to trust you, Ian. I’m trying to understand.”
He sighed. Did the secrets matter anymore when they had to work together to get out of this country and survive? “I assisted the Department of Justice on that case, working the Middle Eastern angle. Yes, I found a connection, and that’s all I can say.”
She nodded and flopped back against the headboard. She’d dressed quickly in the bathroom, right before her escape attempt. She hadn’t put on a bra, and her nipples showed clearly through the thin fabric of her shirt in the cool, air-conditioned room.
His cock thickened as he enjoyed the view, even though it was doubtful they’d ever return to the sort of truce that included recreational sex. Too bad, since, with Ian’s cover blown and being wanted for the murder of the checkpoint guard, they couldn’t seek refuge at the NATO base in Batman. They had a much longer route to safety now and would be spending several days together. Her bold invasion of his shower had awakened his libido with a vengeance.
They watched the news for another hour, mostly a repeat of what they’d already heard. Sabal was never mentioned. Neither was Zack. Nor was Cressida. Ian was a traitor. The news—or lack thereof—in a nutshell.
His old CO was ready to go to bat for him, as were a few of his Delta buddies. The CIA had gone mute, which was standard protocol. The director made a cursory statement about this being an ongoing investigation, confirmed Ian was employed by the agency, but did not say in what capacity. The director did add that outing a covert agent’s identity was a felony punishable by up to ten years in prison and a fifty thousand dollar fine. He went on to describe the death of Richard Welch in Greece in 1975—the result of the man’s affiliation with the CIA being outed, and reminded reporters of the Valerie Plame debacle.
Ian was left feeling exactly as he was supposed to: wondering if the CIA had burned him, or if Zack had, and if it was Zack, would the CIA stand by Ian or hang him out to dry?
Zack had had hours to convince the powers that be of Ian’s guilt, while Ian had…nothing. No way to prove he hadn’t killed the guard. Not even Cressida was convinced of his innocence.
She lay on her back on the bed next to him, one hand tucked beneath the pillow and eyes closed. He didn’t believe for a moment she was asleep. She wasn’t that good at deception. Not with him, anyway.
He took the opportunity to study her. The spectacular body splayed before him in light cotton shirt and jeans. Her dark lashes were startlingly long against tan cheeks. The delicate arch of her eyebrows, her full lips, and the gentle curve of her chin were such a harmonious blend, he could stare at her for hours. A strange notion. He’d never had time for such a simple pleasure before.
They’d reached an uneasy truce, but she’d made it clear she considered herself his prisoner. When they left this apartment, she’d turn him in at the first opportunity, thinking she was doing the right thing as an American patriot.
He would die. And odds were she would too.
Somehow, he had to save her from herself and get her out of this damn country.
Sleep came fitfully for Cressida. It didn’t help that she shared a bed with a man she alternately feared and wanted. A man who was so big and m
uscular, he took up more than half of the double bed.
A man who might be a terrorist. A man who was holding her prisoner.
A man who’d saved her life. More than once.
A man who made her forget the insane situation with one touch of his deft fingers.
She twisted under the covers and studied him, wondering how deeply he slept. She wanted to check out the pendant. Could there be a microchip inside?
Hejan had been adamant that she never take it off. Even as he set her up for this awful journey, he’d been warning her. But of what?
Ian’s short dark hair stuck up on one side. His features were softened with sleep, his mouth less foreboding when not accompanied by a suspicious stare. Firm, square chin with a slight cleft below soft lips, the feel of which haunted her every time she closed her eyes. Sharp cheekbones, thick dark brows—they all combined to make a handsome face that would have caught her eye anytime, anywhere.
Even in the air-conditioned room, sweat gathered at his hairline in sleep. It glistened in the bright daylight that seeped through the blinds. She imagined running her tongue across his collarbone, tasting the salt on his skin. She licked her lips, then let out a silent sigh at her foolishness.
She scooted to the edge of the bed. She’d go to the bathroom and check out the pendant. Careful not to wake her sleeping guard, she placed one foot on the floor.
A hand latched on to her wrist with an iron grip. “Where do you think you’re going?” His voice didn’t even sound sleepy.
“To pee. Is that allowed?”
“With the door open, sure.”
“I don’t think our relationship has progressed to the peeing-with-the-door-open stage.”
“Fine, then I’ll stand outside the door and listen.”
“You’re a bastard. You know that, right?”