Seduced by His Target

by Gail Barrett

  Beside her, Leila swayed. Nadine moved closer to hold her upright and shot her a worried glance. Her cheeks were flushed, her feverish face beaming as she greeted the guests by name.

  And the dread inside her grew. She’d failed her sister-in-law badly. She’d never be able to save her now. The minute she tried, if she made even the slightest move, Sultan would detonate that bomb.

  But she refused to abandon her. She’d installed that bomb, and now she would stick by her side. Even if she couldn’t save her, even if she couldn’t stop the attack, she could try to minimize the results. If all else failed, she would knock Leila down and cover her with her body, muffling the bomb’s impact. Leila and she would die, but maybe they could spare some lives.

  But what about Rasheed? She studied the men crowding the entrance, distinguishing the secret service agents from her father’s guards by their black suits. Would they believe her if she asked for help? Could she convince them to look for him? And how could she do it without alerting Sultan?

  Then a commotion drew her attention, and she glanced at the door again. All of a sudden the vice president strode inside, surrounded by dozens of massive men, their wary eyes roving the room.

  Her throat squeezed shut. This was it. In minutes, the vice president would work his way through the line to her. And as soon as he got within range, the bomb would explode. But who held the detonator? Her brother? Abu Jabril? Her father? Or someone she didn’t even know? And how many unsuspecting people would die?

  A Japanese couple went by in the line. She greeted them by rote, a smile pasted on her face, while inside, her senses screamed. She wanted to rail at them to leave, to beg them to help Rasheed, to plead with them to get everyone away right now. She darted a frantic glance at Sultan, but his eyes were glued on her, and her hopes for a rescue died. She’d never felt more vulnerable or helpless in her life.

  Feeling nauseous, she cast another desperate gaze around the room. Then suddenly, her eyes stalled on a tall man standing beside a waiter, his black hair disheveled, his tuxedo tie hanging askew. She did a double take as he turned his head, and his gaze collided with hers. It was Rasheed.

  For a moment she couldn’t breathe. She stared at him, completely staggered, taking in his grim, black eyes—one all puffy and discolored—the stark lines of his angry face. His jaw was bruised. He wore a poorly fitting tuxedo jacket, the sleeves too short, the shirt buttoned wrong, as if he’d thrown it on in the dark. And a barrage of emotions rushed through her with the force of a tsunami—relief that he was alive, terror that he’d try something risky, horror that he’d watch her die.

  But at least he was still alive. And Sultan couldn’t make good on his threat to kill him—as long as she didn’t tip him off.

  Her heart racing, she looked away. Every part of her body trembled, as if she’d just injected a massive dose of adrenaline. She struggled to keep her eyes from Rasheed, trying not to betray his presence to Sultan. If her brother spotted him, he’d set off the bomb at once.

  The vice president approached the receiving line. Leila continued smiling and greeting the guests, her feverish eyes reflecting her delight. Unable to bear it, Nadine stole another glance at Rasheed, and spotted him weaving his way toward her through the crowd. Panic burgeoned inside her like a primal shriek.

  She’d thought her worst nightmare was being in her family’s power. She’d been wrong.

  Watching Rasheed approach his death was worse.

  * * *

  Rasheed elbowed his way through the ballroom, his instincts jangling hard. Something was wrong with Nadine, something besides the obvious fact that her murderous family had her under their control. He could see the terror in her eyes, feel the unseen menace vibrating the air, the sixth sense he had for danger warning him that something big was about to go down.

  Desperate to get closer, he shouldered his way through the crowd. He twisted and swerved, ignoring the startled looks his battered face evoked. Whatever was happening, he had to get her out. Her family might try to stop him, but he wasn’t about to let her stay. Not with all hell about to break loose.

  He skirted a cluster of people and caught a clearer view of her this time. She stood beside Leila in the receiving line, looking outwardly calm and graceful, and drop-dead gorgeous in a formfitting purple dress. But her face was unnaturally pasty, her eyes terrified when she met his gaze.

  She gave her head a little shake. He paused a beat, realizing that she was warning him off. But why?

  She raised her hand to her cheek and glanced away. Then she made little fluttering motions with her fingers, and cut her gaze back to him. Frowning, he tried to figure out her message as she greeted another guest. That motion with her fingers...

  Growing more confused now, he ducked his head. He grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter so he’d blend in. Then he studied the people around her—her father at the head of the line. Sultan standing beside him, watching Nadine with a strange intensity. Leila smiling and shaking hands as the guests paraded by.

  Nadine jerked her head toward her sister-in-law. She wanted him to notice Leila, but why? She made the flutter with her fingers again, pointing clearly at her face.

  It was definitely a signal. She was trying to tell him something about Leila’s cheeks—possibly the implants. But that bursting motion she was making with her fingers...

  A bomb? Inside Leila? She had a bomb inside her cheeks?

  Incredulous, he gaped at her. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe, the idea too shocking to absorb. But it was just heinous enough to be true.

  He shot a stunned glance at Nadine’s father. He was smiling broadly and clasping the vice president’s hands, as if they were the best of friends. Nadine caught his gaze again. She made a pressing motion this time. The detonator.

  Right. He had to find it. But who the hell had it?

  The vice president moved to Sultan. His pulse turning frantic, Rasheed motioned for Nadine to get away. But she shook her head, and suddenly, he realized what she was going to do. She was going to protect the vice president. She intended to throw herself over Leila and sacrifice herself when the bomb went off.

  His head felt light. He stared at her, and in that horrendous moment, his image of her sharpened. Her external beauty peeled away, revealing the essence of the woman inside. And all the emotions he’d held at bay came crashing back—admiration, respect, love.

  He loved her.

  He’d loved everything about her from the moment he’d met her—the feisty way she’d protected Henry. The way she’d refused to back down from Amir. The way she’d volunteered to help him defeat her family, risking her own life for the greater good. She was more than a survivor; she was a warrior.

  And now, she was preparing to make the ultimate sacrifice.

  She angled her head high. Her eyes turned even more desperate, but she didn’t budge. Even in this moment, she wasn’t thinking of herself. She was trying to protect him and warn him away.

  And suddenly, a flurry of memories flashed through his mind, of another woman, another innocent victim who’d been about to lose her life. He’d watched his wife die. He hadn’t been able to reach her in time.

  Now history was going to repeat itself.

  The hell it was. He wasn’t going to let her die.

  The vice president was nearing Leila. He’d never reach him in time.

  But he could reach Sultan.

  His gaze homed in on Nadine’s brother. Resolved now, he rushed toward him, hoping to hell he hadn’t guessed wrong. But any creep who could put bombs inside his wife would surely want to detonate them himself.

  Sultan veered away from the line. He walked briskly toward the door—and then a cell phone appeared in his hand. The detonator.

  Rasheed shoved through the crowd to his side. “Bomb!” he shouted and took a flying l
eap. He slammed into Sultan, knocking the phone from his hand. It fell and skittered away.

  They rolled across the floor. Rasheed punched and fought with a vengeance, knowing he had to prevail. Around them pandemonium broke out—people running, shouting, pushing. He smashed his fist into Sultan’s face, feeling the bones crack, determined to save Nadine’s life.

  A gunshot rang out. Around him, women screamed. Then more shots barked out in quick succession. People trampled him in their haste to flee.

  He rammed his knee into Sultan’s groin. Then he dived for the cell phone and scooped it up just as the Secret Service descended on them.

  “I’m CIA,” he shouted. “He has a weapon.”

  They hauled Sultan up and snapped on some cuffs. Rasheed jumped to his feet and whipped around. Security guards were barking into radios and swarming the ballroom. The security detail had hustled the vice president away. Nadine’s father was on the floor, lying facedown, a gun in his limp hand, blood puddled around his body. Dead.

  Breathing hard, Rasheed searched the crowd. Then a splash of purple on the floor caught his eye, and everything inside him froze.

  Nadine. People knelt and huddled around her, rendering first aid. He stared at the pool of blood, too terrified to think. Then he rushed over and shoved them out of his way. “Nadine!”

  Her face looked like wax. Blood stained her silk gown black. Her eyes were closed, her chest unmoving, and his heart stopped cold.

  He’d failed again.

  Chapter 15

  Rasheed paced up and down the hospital corridor, going steadily out of his mind. The sun had risen hours ago. Nadine had made it through surgery, spent several hours in the recovery room and was now in a private room under heavy guard. The nurses had gone through their second shift change since he’d arrived, but every one parroted the same refrain. He wasn’t a relative. She was sedated. They couldn’t let him in to see her yet.

  He wasn’t budging from this hallway until they did.

  He pivoted on his heel, his shoes making a squeak on the shiny tile, and strode past an open lounge. Another visitor, huddling with a cup of coffee, peered at him with blurry eyes. He knew he looked like hell—his eye swollen shut, dressed in a ridiculously short tuxedo, blood smeared on his once-white shirt.

  Nadine’s blood.

  His steps faltered. He stopped, dragged a hand down his unshaven face, and looked out the window at the grounds below. A catering truck pulled up, unloading food for the cafeteria. A man pushed a patient in a wheelchair toward the door. Nurses and doctors who had just come off shifts filed from the building, then fanned across the parking lot, heading home to their families and lives.

  He still couldn’t believe Nadine had survived. Hearing those gunshots, seeing her lying in that pool of blood...he closed his eyes, the memory shaking him even now.

  But she’d been lucky. The shot hadn’t hit anything vital. It had entered the fleshy tissue in her shoulder, missing her major blood vessels and bones. They’d removed the bullet and taken tests, and he knew she’d recover fine. He just needed to see her for himself.

  He turned and started pacing again, his thoughts circling back to the past night. Leila had survived, as well. She’d had surgery to remove the bomb and was still in intensive care, battling the infection the explosives caused.

  Nadine’s father hadn’t been as lucky. The Secret Service had taken him out the minute he’d brandished a gun—but he’d managed to shoot his daughter first. The disgusting man had been determined to avenge his so-called honor to his dying breath.

  The rest of the terrorists were under arrest, including Nadine’s brother, Sultan. And from what his CIA boss had told him, every intelligence and law enforcement agency in the country was at the McLean, Virginia, mansion, poring over it for evidence and clues.

  “Mr. Davar?”

  Rasheed spun around. A short, middle-aged nurse wearing flowered scrubs walked up, a dour expression on her lined face. “Come with me.”

  His heart lurched. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?” He fell in beside her, his anxiety ramping up again.

  “Your boss called my supervisor.” She grimaced. “We’re authorized to let you in. You can take a peek at her—but just a short one. She needs to rest.”

  Trying to curb his impatience, he accompanied her down the hall, shortening his strides to hers. Two armed guards stood by the door, their expressions stony as he approached. He waited for them to frisk him, knowing the security was for Nadine’s good. They weren’t taking any chances on another attack, even though the main terrorists were under arrest.

  “Five minutes,” the nurse warned.

  With a nod, he walked into the room. His gaze went straight to the bed, where Nadine lay asleep. Her black hair spilled over the pillow. Her skin was nearly as chalky as the crisp white sheets. Her eyes were closed, her dark lashes forming crescents on her pale cheeks. Her shoulder was heavily bandaged, her arm hooked to an IV.

  An intense rush of emotions consumed him. He loved her. And he’d nearly lost her. He’d nearly failed to keep her safe.

  And she looked so fragile, so vulnerable lying there swaddled in bandages, with machines beeping and flashing her vital signs. If he’d arrived even a second later...

  He swallowed hard, pushing away the dreadful thought. She’d survived. She was going to be all right. That’s all that mattered now.

  And he loved her so damned much. Her courage, her generosity, her passion and intelligence... She’d blasted every scrap of his resistance apart. From the moment he’d spotted her in that mountain camp, his heart had never had a chance.

  Stepping even closer, he reached out and touched her hair. Then he stroked his finger along her jaw, tracing the delicate line to her throat.

  He’d thought about a lot of things during the past night. There was something about a lonely hospital corridor that encouraged soul-searching and made it hard to evade the truth. And he’d come to the conclusion that most of his resistance to her, the reason he’d convinced himself he couldn’t love her was due to fear. He’d been afraid that he would fail her. He’d been afraid that, just like with Sarah, he wouldn’t save her when she needed him most.

  And most of all, he’d been afraid that he’d lose another woman he loved. He knew he’d never recover from that unbearable pain again.

  So he’d tried to avoid getting involved. He’d spent years suppressing his feelings and burying himself in the need for revenge. But even though he’d tried, he hadn’t lost the ability to feel. Even though his heart had seemed dead for the past five years, Nadine had proven he was still alive.

  His heart full, he picked up her slender hand. Then he gazed at the woman he loved, the irony of it suddenly clear. Because even though he loved her, or maybe because he loved her, he had to give her up.

  In the end, nothing had changed. He still had enemies trying to kill him. The terrorists could still come in pursuit. Even if he didn’t work undercover, even if he wanted to lead a normal life, there was still a chance they could come gunning for him—and retaliate against Nadine, just as they did to his pregnant wife.

  And that was a risk he couldn’t take. After all these years, she was finally free of her family’s death threats and the fear that had ruled her life. He couldn’t ask her to go on the run again.

  His throat thick, he released her hand. He crossed the small room to the door, then paused and took a long look back, feeling as if his heart had been wrenched from his chest. She’d be all right now. She’d survived the gunshot and would recover in a week or two. And she could now live a life free of fear, with the freedom she deserved—but only if he wasn’t in her life.

  Desolation keening inside him, he left.

  * * *

  The knock on the hospital door jerked her upright. Hope flaring inside her, Nadine snapped
her gaze to the door. Rasheed. It had to be him this time. She’d been in the hospital for over two days now, and he still hadn’t shown up.

  “Come in,” she called, suddenly breathless.

  A gray-haired man poked his head through the door. “Hey. Remember me?”

  She blinked, confusion giving way to surprise. “Henry?”

  “I can’t stay long.” His smile widened as he scooted through the door. “I’ve got to catch a plane. But when I heard you were here, I took a detour. I wanted to see you before I went back to New York.”

  Incredulous, she studied him as he came toward her. He looked thinner and his cheeks more hollow, but his skin color had improved. He’d dressed in slacks and a plaid flannel shirt that matched the pale blue of his eyes. His sparse gray hair was combed.

  Still not able to believe it, she shook her head. “Are you all right? How’s your head? How did get back to the States?”

  Laughing, he pulled up a chair beside the bed and sat. “My head’s fine. Having a hard skull comes in handy. Either that, or those coca leaves were a miracle cure.”

  “But what happened? Where did you get off the boat?”

  “It was quite a trip, actually. We were halfway to another village by the time the fisherman discovered I was aboard. He wasn’t happy, to say the least. I thought he was going to toss me into the river with the piranhas and crocodiles. And I couldn’t explain why I’d stowed away. He didn’t speak English, and I didn’t know enough Spanish to make any sense. I kept trying to pantomime how I’d gotten taken hostage, but he thought I was out of my mind. Anyhow, he forced me to get off in the next village. That was some place, just a little jungle outpost. It was even rougher than Buena Fortuna.”

  She tried to envision that. “What did you do then?”

  “I got lucky. There was an American missionary group passing through. They took me to Tarapoto in their boat. The priest there got me on a plane to Lima, even loaned me money for the trip home. The embassy in Lima had my passport; the rest of our medical team had turned it in. To be honest, the whole thing is kind of a blur now. I was in too much pain to remember a lot of it.”