Course of Action: Crossfire

by Lindsay McKenna;Merline Lovelace

  “I’m Dr. Sutterfield. I’ll take over. Hey! Get some light in here.”

  Blinding, high-powered beams stabbed into the truck. A second person climbed in to assist the doc. Riley inched around them, scrambled out of the Range Rover and fell into Pete’s waiting arms. They were sticky with blood and sweat, yet she’d never felt anything as strong and safe and welcome.

  Their nightmare was over. They’d reached an outpost of civilization. One with electricity and cell-phone towers and, mercifully, real food. Only after Pete eased her out of his arms did she realize the phone towers were a mixed blessing.

  “I need to borrow that.”

  He gestured to the iPhone held by a grim-faced tour guide. The jeans-clad Omani handed it over instantly. As Pete stabbed a series of numbers, another bystander stepped forward to offer Riley a bottle of water. A third shrugged out of his long, loose outer robe and draped it over her shoulders. She accepted both with fervent thanks and guzzled half the water while Pete waited to be connected.

  “Thumrait TOC, this is Majan one-five.”

  He paused, was obviously asked for some identification.

  “Winborne, Peter. Master Sergeant, United States Air Force. AFSC 1T2X1. Currently on detached duty as part of a US-Omani Special Ops exercise. Be advised that Ms. Riley Fairchild, Prince Malik al Said and I have escaped the cadre of Abdul Haddid’s troops who raided the opera house in Muscat. Prince Malik is wounded, condition uncertain at this time. Request you advise Omani Central immediately.”

  He paused again. Listened intently. Broke into a savage smile.

  “Roger that, TOC. I’ll need a set of camis and full assault gear. Give me an ETA. Right. Right. Over and out.”

  He hit the disconnect button and tossed the phone back to its owner, then hooked Riley’s elbow and drew her aside. “Scarface’s video hit the airwaves a little over an hour ago. The metadata pinpointed our exact location. And your code words tipped our guys as to the number and firepower of the raiders.”

  Fierce satisfaction resonated through his voice.

  “Elements from the Special Ops unit at Thumrait are already in the air. They’re diverting to this location. Should be here in less than ten minutes. What’s more,” he added with a feral gleam in his eyes, “they think they have a satellite surveillance lock on Scarface’s vehicle.”

  “And you’re going with them to intercept it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He countered her dismay with that quick, cocky cowboy grin. “It’s what we PJs do.”

  Of course it was. She knew it wouldn’t do any good to argue that he’d already done enough. That she needed him. Right here, with her. Tonight. Tomorrow. Next week. Next...

  She took a step back, startled by the intensity of that need. Pete didn’t notice. His attention was all on the doc climbing down from the Range Rover.

  “How’s Prince Malik?”

  “Stable. The hand needs immediate attention, but you did a good job on the gunshot wound considering what you had to work with. Where’d you get your medical training?”

  “Air Force pararescue.”

  “That explains it. Air ambulance on the way?”

  “Ten minutes out.”

  “Good. Let’s get over there, in the light. I need to take a look at those abrasions.”

  Riley huddled under her borrowed robe while Dr. Sutterfield cleaned Pete’s bloody back, chest, arms and knees, and applied a liberal dose of antibiotic cream. He was then offered a white robe by one of the camp operators. The camel-tender, judging by the pungent aroma that wafted from the loose-fitting garment when Pete returned to Riley’s side. He started to say something but suddenly whirled and scanned the horizon.

  “There they are. Four o’clock, coming in low and fast.”

  She followed his pointing finger and spotted the specks zooming through the night sky. A few seconds later she heard the whap-whap of their rotors. Mere moments after that, one of the specks grew large enough for Riley to distinguish a white medical helicopter with its distinctive red stripes on the tail. The other two remained almost invisible except for their cockpit lights...and the high-powered searchlight that suddenly drenched the entire camp in brilliant white.

  The medical chopper touched down first, generating a whirlwind that had everyone flinging up their arms against the flying sand. Two burly, gun-carrying behemoths in black jumpsuits, kevlar vests and ball caps bearing the crest of the Omani royal guards jumped out first. A medical team came next and was directed to the Range Rover. While Dr. Sutterfield briefed the medics, Pete approached the guards. Hands up, palms out, he ID’d himself and had a short, fast colloquy.

  One of the guards nodded, and Pete hurried back to Riley. His borrowed robe was far too short for him but he ignored the way it flapped at his calves and rode up his forearms when he reached for her.

  “You’re flying back with the prince to debrief the sultan’s security forces. I should be there before you’re done. If not, the guards promised they’ll augment the security at your hotel suite until I get back to Muscat.”

  “You will get back?”

  “Count on it. And when I do...”

  She was ready this time. Went up on her toes to meet him halfway. The kiss was quick and hard, but the raw promise in it sent pleasure rolling through her.

  As soon as she was aboard, Pete ducked under the blades of the closest military chopper. It was rocking on its skids, ready to go. He’d barely scrambled through the open side hatch before it lifted off. The second chopper followed seconds later. The last Riley saw of him, he’d ripped off the white cotton robe and was diving into a pair of camouflage pants.

  * * *

  After a quick phone call to her manager to let him know she was safe, Riley spent a grueling two hours with the chief of the sultan’s security forces. More than willing to help, she dug hard and deep for details. The number of attackers who’d rushed the Royal Opera House. The drive through the desert. The type of restraints they’d used, their weapons, physical descriptions, accents, every word Scarface had spoken to her.

  The exhaustive debrief might have lasted even longer if a personal representative of the royal house hadn’t intervened. Tall and as lean as a hawk, he wore a ceremonial black robe with a curved, silver-hilted dagger tucked into his sash.

  “Peace be with you.”

  The traditional greeting was warm and sincere. Riley replied in kind.

  “And with you.”

  “I am Prince Faheem al Said, cousin to Prince Malik.”

  “How is he? Our last report said he was in surgery.”

  “His wounds are grievous, but he’s expected to recover, thanks be to Allah.”

  “And the team that went back after Haddad’s men? Sergeant Winborne and the others? Have you had an update from them?”

  “They encountered some resistance, but the raid was a complete success.”

  “Some resistance?” Fear iced Riley’s veins. “How much is some? Was anyone hurt?”

  Faheem’s lips curved in a small, lethal smile. “None of our men were injured, but I believe the one they referred to as Scarface will require extensive medical attention. He and his associates will join their leader, Haddad, in our maximum-security prison. And now to more important matters.”

  His smile lost its predatory edge, his voice warmed.

  “My uncle was at a meeting of OPEC heads of state when you were attacked and taken hostage. He’s cut short his trip, however, and is even now on his way home. Both he and Prince Malik have been informed of your heroic actions tonight, Ms. Fairchild. They’ve each instructed me to express their most heartfelt gratitude and their wish that you accept the hospitality of the royal house for as long as you remain in Oman.”

  Pete had told Riley he’d join her either here or at her hotel. She wasn’t about to change addresses until they reconnected. Before she could think of a polite way to decline the invitation, however, the prince sweetened the deal.

  “The al Alam Palace itself is used p
rimarily for ceremonial functions, but there is a guest villa within the palace grounds. You would have complete privacy to recover from your ordeal, every luxury at your command. Your own pool, walled gardens, a spa, use of a yacht should you wish it.”

  Although the security team had provided Riley with a clean tunic and a pair of the loose trousers favored by Omani women, she had sand in every pore and her hair felt as gritty as used tarpaper. The shimmering image of a luxury villa with its own pool and perfumed gardens was too tempting to resist.

  “It sounds wonderful, but I need to wait for Sergeant Winborne’s return.”

  “That may be hours yet. And the sultan has offered the good sergeant his hospitality, as well. Let me escort you to the royal compound and get you comfortably settled. We’ll do the same for Sergeant Winborne when he returns.”

  * * *

  This, Riley thought when she emerged from the limo a half hour later, could have been the setting for Rimsky-Korsakov’s lavishly romantic opera Scheherazade. They’d driven through the palace’s ornate blue and gold gate into a vast U-shaped complex of white marble buildings. Circling these, they’d reached the guest quarters.

  Her delighted gaze roamed the bubbling fountains, the flowering pomegranate and pear trees, the gleaming white two-story villa. She could almost hear the opening motif of the opera’s fourth movement as Prince Faheem escorted her up the shallow steps to the villa’s brass-studded front door.

  A majordomo in an embroidered skullcap and snow-robe waited on the front steps. Bowing low, he offered a traditional greeting and introduced himself.

  Prince Faheem accompanied her inside but went only as far as the gloriously tiled entry. “I will leave you here, Ms. Fairchild. If you wish anything—anything—you have only to tell one of the staff.”

  “All I wish for right now is a bath, something to eat and an update on Sergeant Winborne’s status as soon as possible.”

  “You shall have all three. And once again, may I say you have earned the gratitude of the entire al Said family. Such a debt is not something we take lightly.” Bowing low, he saluted her with a flourish of his hand and left.

  A maid in silky black trousers and a colorful tunic denoting her tribal roots stood at the foot of a broad staircase. After the majordomo issued some brief instructions, the maid showed the way to a master suite that encompassed the entire second floor.

  Once again Riley felt as though she’d wandered onto the set of Scheherazade. The living room was the size of a hotel lobby. Colorful spangled pillows accented low couches and chairs. Hand-loomed Persian carpets covered the marble floors, while electrically operated screens and curtains cleverly disguised every modern convenience.

  The bedroom was every bit as magnificent. A canopy of sand-colored silk crowned the massive bed. Three-foot-long gold tassels anchored the gauzy material to the four posts. Tall, arched windows lined two walls. Shuttered sliding doors dominated a third. Riley slid back one of the shutters and stepped out onto the balcony, her breath catching.

  The balcony overlooked a crescent-shaped pool. Its water shimmered a dark turquoise in the subdued lighting, while statues at either end of the half moon tipped constant, lulling streams into the water. A lush garden surrounded the pool, with feathery palms silhouetted against the dark sky and a riot of night-blooming jasmine perfuming the air. And beyond the walled garden was the deep, dark cobalt of the Gulf of Oman.

  Thoroughly enchanted, Riley stepped back inside and smiled at the patiently waiting maid.

  “The gardens are beautiful.”

  “Most beautiful,” she agreed. “Do you wish me to draw your bath, madam?”

  “Yes, please!”

  “I will do so, and while the tub fills I shall fetch something for you to eat.”

  * * *

  Propped against the sloping back of a monster marble tub, Riley thought she just might spend the night there. Rose-scented water bubbled through the jets and lapped gently at her sore, strained muscles. A platter of char-grilled kebabs, fresh fruit and cheeses sat within easy reach.

  She’d unwrapped the filthy bandages on her wrists and soaked the ugly bruises before attacking the succulent kebabs. The first she’d devoured in three quick bites. The second more slowly, savoring each morsel of tender meat, roasted onions and sweet red peppers. She was washing a third down with fresh-squeezed orange juice when the maid tapped on the intricately carved teakwood screen that separated the tub from the rest of the vast bathroom.

  “Madam?”

  “Yes?”

  “There is someone who wishes to see you,” she said, peering around the screen. “I told him you were unavailable but he wanted you to know that he is here.”

  Riley’s pulse leaped. Sloshing upright, she asked eagerly, “An American? Tall? Brown hair? Blue eyes?”

  “And very handsome,” the maid added, her eyes twinkling. “He says he is your husband.”

  Riley scrambled to her knees and reached for a towel. “Send him up!”

  “He’s already up,” a deep voice said from just behind the screen.

  The maid backed away, and Pete took her place. With something between a groan and a laugh, Riley sank back into the tub.

  “I should have known you wouldn’t wait.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed with a wicked smile. “You should’ve.”

  He was filthy. Dried blood still stained his neck and wrists. Some kind of soot or camouflage paint streaked his face. Dust coated the uniform he’d dragged on aboard the chopper, and two day’s worth of dark bristles sprouted on cheeks and chin. Yet his raw masculinity aroused her more than every wealthy, sophisticated George Clooney–type she’d met or been courted by in her meteoric career.

  Mental images of the body under that filthy uniform aroused her even more. She lounged against the back of the tub, letting the bubbles lap over the slopes of her breasts. The sensual swirl teased her nipples. Heat gathered low in her belly. To cover her sudden, aching need she splashed the water surface with her palms.

  “I heard Scarface is going to require extensive medical care.”

  “He’s alive.”

  His careless shrug told Riley the man was probably on life support. She couldn’t work up much sympathy.

  “So...” Pete’s hands went to the top button of his uniform shirt. His smile was slow and bone-melting. “Want some company?”

  The heat in Riley’s belly shot up another ten degrees. Her body screamed yes at the same time her head shouted no, no, no!

  Despite all they’d been through, she hardly knew this man. They exchanged maybe a dozen stilted words at Aly’s wedding before fate threw them together for two terrifying nights and one long, harrowing day. They’d talked a little about his family, hers. He’d kissed her, what? Twice? Three times?

  And each kiss had left her craving more. That simple fact banished every doubt. Smiling, she waggled her fingers.

  “Come on in, the water’s fine.”

  He scraped a hand across his chin. “I should shave first.”

  “Later.”

  He didn’t need a second invitation. His uniform shirt hit the marble tiles. The snake coiled around his biceps held her attention only until his pants and boots came off. He shed the mud-colored, thigh-hugging boxer-briefs with the same speed she’d shed her well-worn bikini briefs earlier.

  Lord, he was fine! Riley sighed with delight and sank lower, thoroughly enjoying the view. Between drafty dressing rooms and quick costume changes, she’d seen her share of barrel-chested tenors, puffed-up baritones and cleverly padded basso profundos. There was nothing puffed or padded about Pete Winborne. The man was six-one or -two of contrasting tan lines, roped muscle, washboard abs and flat stomach.

  Her heart was thrumming in her throat when he settled into the bubbling water facing her and crooked a finger. Electric with need, she floated across and slithered up his thighs and his stomach.

  “This,” he growled, digging his hands into her hair, “is what got me through the pas
t twenty-four hours.”

  “This?”

  She wiggled higher and locked her arms around his neck. Her voice dropped to a throaty contralto.

  “Or this?”

  She dragged his head down. His mouth was hard and hungry. His tongue danced with hers. Whiskers scraped her cheeks and chin. Callous hands roamed her hips, her waist, her breasts. She could feel him growing hard against her stomach. Feel her belly clench in eager response.

  Giving in to that compelling need, she pulled herself up another few inches and straddled his thighs. She rocked in the water, her hips grazing his, her mound rubbing his erection. He grunted and clamped his hands on her hips.

  “We’ll have to be a little creative,” he warned with a crooked grin. “At least until I get my hands on some protection for you.”

  She could feel him probing her center, feel the hot inner gush that answered him, and gasped an urgent assurance.

  “We’re okay. I’ve always taken care of that myself.”

  She’d had to, since her mother had flatly refused to even discuss the possibility Riley might experience the same biological urges as any other sixteen-or seventeen-year-old. Meredith Fairchild had insisted her daughter focus entirely, exclusively, on her vocal training.

  Her mother would be shocked to learn how that training was paying off now! Riley’s voice coaches had stressed the importance of singing from her diaphragm. She could pull air into the very bottom of her lungs. Push it even deeper, using her abdominal muscles. Exhale slowly, deliberately.