by Rachel Grant
He shrugged. “So are you.”
“Yeah. Aren’t we a pair?” She stood and crossed to the bathroom. True to his word, he followed.
“I don’t know what you’re worried about. The door doesn’t even close after you smashed the handle.”
“I’m not worried. Just cautious.”
Inside the bathroom, she studied the pendant.
“I don’t hear anything.”
“Back off. You’re giving me shy bladder syndrome.”
He laughed.
In disgust, she dropped the pendant back under her top, took care of business, then returned to the bed. She’d learned nothing about the pendant, except that it looked solid at a quick glance—no obvious hidden chamber. Hard to imagine it could be something terrorists desperately wanted.
Wired, she couldn’t close her eyes, let alone relax enough to fall asleep. She shifted positions. Right side. Then left. Nothing was comfortable.
“You need an orgasm,” Ian said, his voice breaking the tense silence.
She snorted. “You must have been an awful teenager. Always telling girls ‘we could die tomorrow,’ in an attempt to get in their pants.”
He chuckled. “Come to think of it, we could die tomorrow, but I didn’t mean it that way. I meant you’re wound tight. An orgasm would relax you. You can take care of it yourself. Or, I could help.”
“That’s very magnanimous of you.”
“I’m a giving sort of guy. I can make you come with my mouth or fingers. No penetration. Nothing in it for me.”
How sick was she to be tempted by his indifferent offer? It didn’t help that the idea of making him hot, then leaving him empty held a certain spiteful appeal. She flipped over on her belly. “No, but thanks.” Silence descended. The air conditioner clicked on. The unit had a high-pitched whirr that scraped at her already taut nerves. Finally she said, “What happens next, Ian?”
“We head west.”
“We aren’t going to Batman?”
“No. Batman is where Zack will expect me to go, and any soldier—NATO or otherwise—who believes I’m a traitor will take a shot at me before stopping to ask questions. I’ve got an unwritten shoot-to-kill on my head. Possibly even a written one. NATO is out.”
“Why west?”
“Because the countries to the east will kill a CIA agent even faster than a NATO soldier will kill a traitor, and to the south is a heavily patrolled and closed border with a country embroiled in a vicious civil war. We’ll head to the Med. Maybe we’ll catch a container ship to Venice.”
“Why Venice?”
“Because it’s not in Turkey, where I am currently wanted for killing a Turkish soldier.”
“And from Venice? Where do we go from there?”
He shrugged. “First we have to get to Venice.”
“Do you speak Italian?”
He said something, soft, low, a gravelly texture in his voice she’d only heard when they were in the shower. Desire ripped through her with lightning speed. She had no clue what he’d said but had a feeling it was explicit and involved her.
“You aren’t going to ask me what I said?” She could hear laughter in his voice.
“I think I can guess.”
He said more in the same low voice. Soft, sexy words that knit a seductive spell.
“What gives, Boyd? You’re hitting on me more now than when you were playing the role of John Baker. Yet I have the distinct feeling you don’t like me.”
The bed shifted as he rolled to his side. They were face-to-face in the shadowy room. “I never said I don’t like you. Besides, it was Baker’s job to win your trust, but he didn’t trust you. He thought you were smart. Sexy. But he had a lot of questions. He had to maintain a degree of professional distance. I on the other hand—”
“What, no more third person?”
“John Baker is a role. I am Ian.” His fingertip traced her lips. “I had the same suspicions as Baker, but my secret is out, and I’ve been able to question you directly when Baker couldn’t. My doubts are gone. Professional distance is no longer possible or required.”
“So your attitude toward sex now is ‘why not’?”
“Pretty much. We’re stuck together.” The finger tracing her lip slipped inside her mouth, a slight strategic advance followed by a quick retreat. “I’m still hot from your shower invasion. I want to fuck you, very much. I want to make you come, make you call out my name in that sexy throaty voice you have when you’re turned on. Sex would release tension and pass the time. Win-win.”
“I wanted sex with nice-guy John Baker. I’m not interested in Ian Boyd.” This was an outright lie. She’d been interested in John Baker, sure. But Ian Boyd? He turned her on in the most disturbing way. And she feared he knew it.
She realized now that Ian, not John, had been the man who gazed at her with stark concern in his eyes after the assault by the train. For a moment, a brief flash of time, Cressida had mattered to Ian Boyd. And after twenty-eight years of craving a look like that, she wanted to matter again to the man who’d given her the first taste.
“You’re lying, Cressida. You want me as much as I want you.”
“Physically, sure. But that doesn’t mean I’ll act on it.” She paused. She had no pride left to lose, may as well admit the truth. “I’ve got an abysmal track record with men. Every time I’ve trusted my judgment, I’ve gotten burned. And with you, I’m completely at a loss. If you’re a double agent, and I stay with you, I’m dead. If I take off on my own, then Zack or whoever blew up the soldier will find me. Lose-lose.”
His finger left her lips, traced her cheekbone, then strayed to her hairline. The touch was gentle, sweet, and, surprisingly, lacked persuasion. “I don’t think there’s anything I can say to convince you you’re safe with me. But will you accept you’re safer with me? We need to work together if we’re both going to get out of Turkey alive.”
She nodded. She’d given this a lot of thought. “I won’t run from you, and I won’t try to turn you in.”
He shifted closer and kissed her forehead. “Good. Get some sleep, Cress. Every hour after this one could be worse than the ones that came before.”
“Well, aren’t you a little ball of sunshine?” she said with a grimace.
He chuckled. “I’ve promised myself I won’t lie to you anymore. Ever. That includes giving you my honest take on our situation. And frankly, it isn’t good. In fact, we could die tomorrow, so if you want to get laid, now’s the time.”
She let out a soft laugh and rolled over. They both needed sleep if they were going to survive the upcoming difficult hours.
Chapter Twenty
Erica Scott twisted her key in the old lock on the front door of Building One in the Washington Navy Yard. At eight p.m. on a weeknight, no one was around, which was her purpose for dropping in at the office after business hours. Her boss, a man who bore the impressive title of Underwater Archaeologist for the US Navy, was long gone and therefore wouldn’t pepper her with questions due to his constant need for attention. She’d have quit her job at the NHHC two years ago, if she didn’t have designs on the man’s job.
She nodded to the portrait of Lincoln in the front hall as she did every time she entered the building and climbed the stairs to her office, a large room that overlooked the Anacostia River. The wiring in the building might be sketchy, cold drafts made the office uncomfortable in the winter, and over time she’d become a believer in the tales that the building was haunted, but damn, she had a view, even at this late hour, as lights sparkled off the dark flow of the river.
She dropped the résumé files she’d brought home on her desk. In two months, the Navy planned to bring up a sunken US submarine from the Strait of Juan de Fuca, and her boss had been urging her to oversee the excavation. Diving would be done primarily by Navy divers assisted by the laughably named SCRU—Submerged Cultural Resources Unit—of the National Park Service, but the project would require several deep-water dives to ensure the historic ves
sel wouldn’t be destroyed during retrieval, and Erica had yet to tell her boss she couldn’t dive because she was eleven weeks pregnant.
She planned to suggest her assistant, Undine Gray, for the job, but knew the boss man would insist they come up with a short list of candidates from the résumé files. He had a thing for Undine and would resist sending her off for two months. But Undine had grown understandably uncomfortable around him, which was one of the reasons Erica wanted to send her.
Undine, Trina, Mara, and her former intern, Cressida, had taught Erica what it was like to have friends again after the painful loss of everyone who’d mattered to her years before. Of course, one reason she’d bonded so quickly with Cressida might have something to do with her being an intern. Erica couldn’t even say the word intern without smiling.
Now Cressida was in trouble, and she would do anything to help her, which was why she’d come to the office after hours. A CIA operative had been outed in Eastern Turkey—in the very area Cressida had gone to research. Erica was here to search the service records for references to Ian Boyd. She had better access to Navy files than Army, but Delta Force and SEALs often worked together. That overlap could lead to interesting tidbits. She and Mara had agreed the computer records request should come from Erica’s computer, not Mara’s, given that Mara was married to the attorney general.
She’d just accessed the database and had typed in Boyd’s name when her phone rang, causing her to jump. No one but Lee, Mara, and Trina knew she’d gone to the office at this hour.
Caller ID rarely worked on the office phones. It had to be Lee, checking on her. The stick had turned blue two weeks ago, and they’d yet to tell anyone the news. Right now it was their little secret, and Lee was adorably giddy about the whole thing. Erica didn’t know if she was ready to be a mom—thankfully, she had several months to get used to the idea—but Lee, he was beyond ready to be a dad. She rubbed her belly as she reached for the phone. This was one lucky baby, to have Lee Scott for a father.
“Erica Scott,” she said as greeting. She was still surprised by how much she liked sharing his name, liked the way it bound them together. Kind of a shock considering how long she’d put off marrying him, but that wasn’t because she didn’t love him and want to spend the rest of her life with him. It was the exact opposite. She’d loved him too much to marry him before she was certain she wanted to have children. He’d always been clear he wanted children, and she couldn’t doom him to childlessness because she was afraid of motherhood.
“Ms. Scott, I’m with the CIA. We have some questions for you about your former intern, Cressida Porter.”
She jolted. Had her computer search alerted them? If so, that was awfully fast. “Um, sure?” The man hadn’t even given her a name, but she supposed with the CIA that was to be expected.
“I will be at your office in five minutes.”
“No,” Erica said firmly. “I’ll go to Langley.” No way in hell would she take anyone’s word they were with the CIA. The only way to confirm their credentials was to meet inside their lair.
“Fine. We’ll expect you within the hour.”
After she hung up she sent Trina a text: Late night confab needed after I meet with boys at Langley. Your place or mine?
A minute later, Trina replied: Keith’s office. Raptor has files. Bring Lee.
The “Raptor has files” part of her message was hopeful. It meant, thanks to his Raptor cover, they had access to information on Ian Boyd. They were gathering everything they could on Boyd. It was time to find out if he was friend or foe.
Ian decided it would be safest to leave the studio apartment an hour before dawn. He restocked the backpack with supplies while Cressida dressed. She stepped out of the bathroom with a scarf draped over her hair. “Is this how it’s supposed to go?” she asked as she fussed with the ends of the cotton cloth.
He stood and took the ends, rearranging the drape so it covered her gorgeous brown hair without signifying any particular religious group. He stared into her eyes, all at once thinking Muslims were crazy to want to hide something so beautiful. His hands dropped from the scarf to her hips. He didn’t know why he continued to touch her, and searched for a reason. Testing her timid trust? Surely he had an agenda. His life was always driven by agenda.
But right now, it appeared his agenda was to kiss Cressida Porter, for no other reason than that he couldn’t resist.
He kissed her softly at first, giving her the opportunity to refuse. When she didn’t, he deepened the kiss. His tongue slipped between her lips and explored both her mouth and response. Ian Boyd kissed Cressida Porter for the very first time.
Her response differed from her wild, wanton seduction in the shower. Her tongue slid against his, not promising a hot, fast fuck, but offering something far more pleasurable, far more intense. Far more arousing.
In alarm, he lifted his head, breaking the kiss. He held Cressida against his chest as he rested his chin on her covered head. Eyes closed, he caught his breath. Was he developing…feelings for her?
He felt responsible for her, sure. That was understandable. He might even like her. And he appreciated her intelligence, even enjoyed her company. But feelings, caring, emotional attachment, those were dangerous. He might not be John anymore, but she was still a mission. An assignment. Without her, he couldn’t prove his innocence. He’d forever be known as a traitor. That was unacceptable.
Emotional involvement with Cressida Porter was a dipshit idea.
“That was…interesting,” Cressida said. She leaned back and met his gaze, her eyes filled with confusion.
Yeah. Welcome to the club. He gently pushed away from her. “Ready to go?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Goddamn typical man…” she grumbled good-naturedly as she turned and grabbed her suitcase.
He couldn’t resist objecting. “Typical? I assure you, I’m anything but.”
She glanced over her shoulder, her mouth twisted in a wry smile. “You’re a braggart who avoids any hint of emotion. Typical.”
She had him there. He plucked a wad of cash in three different currencies from his backpack and handed it to her. “If we get separated, you’ll need this.”
Her jaw snapped closed, and all hint of humor left her.
“If anyone recognizes me, I want you to run—as far from me as possible. Head to the US Consulate in Adana. If you can’t get to the consulate, then go to the press. The more public you are, the safer you’ll be. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” It hardly mattered what would happen to him. The important part was getting Cressida to safety.
Cressida grumbled with frustration when Ian insisted she choose which of her belongings were the most important and transfer them into a smaller backpack. The rest would stay behind in the studio apartment in Siirt. She was tempted to leave a note with her papers, but what would she say? Help, I’ve been abducted by a spy who is trying to protect me, and everything he’s done to help me has only put him in worse danger. He might not be the bad guy. But I’m not sure. So only save me if you can do so without harming him.
Leaving a note proved impossible, though, when he went through all the items she left behind, ensuring nothing important was missed. His mouth quirked in a smile as he plucked the box of condoms from the suitcase and deliberately tucked it into her backpack.
His smile combined with the action sparked a flash fire in her center. Damn traitorous body. She cleared her throat and said, “What will happen to my stuff?”
“Nothing until the landlord shows up when the rent is due next month.”
Well, a month from now would hardly help her anyway. She mulled what she knew as her body cooled. She’d decided to trust him, but her trust remained fragile. She again debated telling him about the pendant.
Once he had what he wanted, he might abandon her. He’d made it clear the microchip was his mission, not protecting her.
She didn’t have to decide now. She could tell him later. Or never.
>
Never was probably a good idea.
With her belongings transferred, she said good-bye to her notes. To her plans. This was the end of her academic glory before it had even begun, because there was no way in hell she’d turn in that grant proposal now. She would never find the tunnel.
If she survived and escaped, nothing could convince her to return to this place where she’d been used as a courier for terrorists.
She followed Ian to the apartment building’s garage, where he led her to an Eastern European motocross-type bike and handed her a helmet. At least now the backpack made sense. No way could she carry a suitcase on that thing, and the saddlebags were only big enough to hold his backpack. “Where did this come from?” she asked.
“I bought it when I set up the apartment. It’s always good to have backup transportation, especially agile vehicles. Bikes and horses are the only way to get around here off-road.”
Cressida took a step back. “Wait. Off-road?”
“There are military checkpoints in every direction. Off-road, we can avoid them.”
She blanched. Going overland? In this terrain? Was he insane? “I can’t,” she said. Her reaction was visceral. She felt as if a brick wall stood between her and the bike. She couldn’t take a step toward it.
Ian placed a hand on her shoulder, gently nudging her forward. Toward that invisible wall. “You can.” His voice dropped to a soft, soothing tone. “You will.”
“I’m scared. I’ve never liked motorcycles.”
He pulled the scarf from her head and stuffed it into her backpack, then slid the shiny black helmet in its place. “Wear my leather. It will protect you. And I’ll take it easy. I promise.”
Leather in the summer sun would be unbearable during the heat of the day, but she understood he was sacrificing his skin for hers. Again.
His lips brushed against hers, then he buckled the strap under her chin. “You can do this, Cress.”
Did she have a choice? No.
She broke through her mental wall and mounted the bike. “Please tell me you’re good at driving these things.”