Mark (In the Company of Snipers Book 2)

by Irish Winters

  He swallowed hard, his eyes glued to her walking fingers.

  Libby took control of the situation. You’re in for it now. With a flounce of her head, she pushed him onto his back again. He didn’t offer any resistance, so she climbed on top, one knee at each side of his jean pockets.

  Her blood pounded with what she was about to do. She and Jonathan hadn’t sealed their love, but this was Mark. She had no doubt he loved her, wanted her. Love with him was rich and deep and true. He was her man; it was time he understood that.

  She let him suffer as her fingers smoothed over his pecs and down his ribs, lingering over the place where his nipples might be. It was kind of hard to tell beneath his light cotton shirt and the T-shirt beneath. A moan escaped his lips. Oh, yeah. She’d just hit pay dirt.

  Her blood ran hot and ready. His, too. Even now, his eyes flicked over her breasts, before they jerked back to her face. He was trying hard to maintain control, but she intended to demolish that line of resistance between them once and for all. As his eyes turned to molten obsidian, his breathing became more labored. Libby smiled. She might be a dainty woman, and he a heavy weight, but she wasn’t going to give up this battle without a Clifton-sized fight.

  “No, Libby. Come on.” He tried to push her up and off, but all she had to do was wiggle against his zipper, and he stilled.

  “Shush, Mr. Houston.” She placed a finger to his lips. “You’ve had your say. Now it’s my turn.” Oh, Mark. You are already mine.

  With her breath mere inches from his lips, his chin tilted automatically in anticipation. Libby paused right there, right at that one second to kiss position. She brushed her fingers through his sideburns, slowly massaging his scalp. He closed his eye, his hands on her hips again. She arched against him just once. It was enough. He’d risen to the challenge. Oh, my.

  “So what I think you’re telling me, and feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, but you want to refrain from making hot, passionate love to me for the next three hundred and sixty-five days. Is that right?” She stuck out her lip, willing all of her feminine wiles into play.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He removed his hands from her hips and clasped them behind his head. “You’re right. A year is exactly three hundred and sixty-five days.”

  Hooded eyes met hers. So much electricity crackled between them that Libby wished now that she had locked her bedroom door. It wouldn’t do to have her mother walk in on them, not like this. She shook her head, and let her hair fall over and around his face, knowing how much he loved that. He was right where she wanted him, trapped inside their secret compartment, their heavy breathing, and all that body heat.

  “That’s a very long time.” Libby was the youngest of three children, the spoiled baby in the family. She knew how to get her way. If older sisters and parents could be coaxed, coerced, and finagled, this handsome ex-Marine could be, too.

  “Are you sure that’s what you want to do?” she asked breathlessly, her heart pounding for air and blood.

  Mark closed his eyes. He was weakening. She could tell.

  “Okay. Okay.” His groan was incredibly deep and sexy in her ears, but now he’d covered his eyes with his arm.

  Look at me Mark. You know you want this as much as I do.

  “How about ... three hundred?” he rasped, his breathing heavy.

  “Sixty.” She countered the second the words left his mouth.

  “No.” He moved his arm as his eyes popped open. Now he smiled. “Too low. Two-forty.”

  “Never.” She tossed her hair, her resolve shaken. Every little move he made only excited her more. If he didn’t give in soon, she would combust. “Too high. Ninety.”

  She cringed. What had she just said? How on earth could she wait three months?

  “Think about it,” she said softly in his ear. “Two hundred and forty days is an awfully,” she said as she licked the edge of his ear with just the tip of her tongue, ending at his ear lobe, “awfully long time.”

  He shivered. The groan that met her ears was the one she had been waiting for. He was cracking. Any minute now and—

  “Okay. I give. You win.” He bolted upright, sweeping her into his arms as he lifted her off her very comfortable position. It happened so fast. Her hair flew into her eyes when she found herself sitting on the edge of the bed again, her body aching for his.

  He stepped back, took a deep breath, and knelt at her knee. She trembled. This was it, but she couldn’t think clearly. Not yet. All she saw was the matching heat in his eyes. His panting matched hers, breath for breath. Energy arced between them. Mark wanted her. Even now, she could see him stifling the predator side of himself. She reached to caress that worried wrinkle from his brow.

  Oh, Mark. How can you NOT make love to me?

  He grasped both her prowling hands in his, his gaze scorching her from head to toe.

  Kiss me. Just kiss me.

  “Libby.” He blew out a huge breath and started again. “Will you please ... please marry me in one hundred and eighty days?” Trembling, he pulled a gold diamond ring from his jeans pocket, and held it between them.

  Libby could barely see, her eyes too steamed with wanton need that hadn’t yet subsided. Hot blood throbbed through every vein. She had just tried to seduce the man she loved—and failed. She was as aroused as she could possibly get without having done any of the things she wanted with Mark. And to Mark. And he had politely and kindly rejected her. She gathered her wits and fell into those dark, dark eyes.

  You look so – hot.

  But one hundred and eighty days was better than three hundred sixty-five. Wasn’t it? Right now logic failed her. She couldn’t count. One number sounded as good as the next. Breathlessly, she brushed her hair out of her eyes and saw the tender look of love in his. At last his ardent proposal registered. And then she saw the ring.

  “Babe,” he whispered hoarsely, the question shining in his eyes. There was that scared little boy look again, that ghost that seemed ready to slap him down the moment he got too close to her.

  “Oh, Mark,” she cried. “I don’t know about one hundred and eighty days, but yes. I’ll marry you. You know I will. I love you so much.” She groaned. Of all the times to become celibate!

  “Whew. That was tough.” He rose off the floor, and sat at her side, kissing her chastely in the middle of her forehead. “That’s only six months. We can make it to April. I know we can.”

  “You think so?” she asked with a petulant sigh when he pushed the ring over her knuckle.

  Mark cupped her chin in one hand and gazed into her face, his eyes full of love. “Have you ever found your presents before Christmas morning?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes.” What did Christmas have to do with getting married?

  “Didn’t it spoil the magic of the day?”

  Yes. Okay. She had to agree. That simple act of childish curiosity had ruined everything. There were no surprises, no anticipation, and .... Oh. Yeah. Now I get it.

  “Making love with you is more important than Christmas.” The sincerity in his voice took her breath away. “Maybe I’m old fashioned, but I think we both have a tremendous gift to give to each other, just once—on our wedding night.”

  She stilled. Where on earth had this darling man come from?

  “I don’t plan to simply love you, sweetheart.” He kissed her forehead again. Somehow that simple act reached into the depths of her free-spirited soul. “I plan to cherish you every day for the rest of your life—and then some.”

  Mark was so tender as he poured his feelings out, but it was his vulnerability that touched her now. This man was unlike any other she had known. Something else dawned on her.

  “I’ve never seen this side of you,” she whispered. “Are you, umm, are you a—”

  “Virgin?” he said the hard word for her.

  “Yes.” She was embarrassed and curious at the same time. How was it even possible? “I mean, umm, I am. Are you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I am.” He nev
er hesitated, his eyes still burning into hers.

  All those arguments with Jonathan flashed back to her. She’d thought he had chosen the Corps over her because she wanted to wait. Now she was glad she had.

  “You look surprised,” he said, a bemused glitter in his eye.

  “I guess ... I just assumed ... I mean ....” She didn’t know what she meant. This made everything he had told her so much more—rare. “But you were a soldier.”

  “So?”

  She studied the man beside her. Dark, handsome, and strong as an ox, Mark was the kind of guy most girls dreamed of, lusted after, and persuaded into marrying them. “I guess I thought you would be like all the other guys,” she said softly.

  “What? Horney?” He chuckled. “Believe me. I am like all the other guys. I’m no saint.”

  “Then why haven’t you, umm, you know … done it?” She bit her lip at her adolescent question.

  “Because I’ve been waiting my whole life for you,” he whispered reverently. “Just you.”

  Humility washed through her heart.

  Six months was going to be a long time.

  “What’s up?” Mark turned his bedside lamp on as he answered his phone.

  “We fly out today,” Alex said. “Mother’s got us booked out of Chicago to D.C., and from there we head back to Bagram.”

  “When?”

  “Noon today. We’ll be flying all night. Tell Zack. I’ll pick you up at nine.”

  “Can I ask why?” Mark rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He had planned on taking everyone out to dinner to announce his engagement to Libby.

  Alex sighed. “We’ve had a security breach.”

  “A hacker?”

  “Yes.” He sounded less than pleased.

  “Just like you suspected, huh?” Mark stifled the urge to call Mother and tell her, ‘I told you so.’

  “This guy is good. He hit the FBI server, too. That’s how the Russians knew where the Clifton girls were. Name is Stanislav Egorov. He’s one of Kensington’s lieutenants. Right now he’s out to avenge his boss. According to Harley’s latest threat assessment, he’s putting another army together. It’s time we finished this.”

  “And he got Libby’s flight information from our server?”

  “Most likely.” Alex explained his plan. “We’ll bait him and eliminate him. Sound good?”

  “Who’ll stay here with the Cliftons?” Mark needed to know.

  “Kelsey.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a little much?” he asked jokingly. With Seinkevitz and his henchmen out of the picture stateside, Mark’s fears had been pretty much laid to rest.

  “I figure between her and Rosemary, another Russian doesn’t stand a chance at the Clifton farm. Besides, Kelsey’s been known to hit a good tight pattern when she needs to. I’ve also asked Murphy and Roy to lend a hand, just in case.”

  “Okay then. See you at nine.”

  It was bound to happen one of these days. The easy mission in Wisconsin was at an end. Back to work. Mark rang Zack.

  Then he rang Libby.

  “But Mom.”

  Libby stood on the other side of Marie’s empty bed helping strip the sheets to be laundered. Some things never changed at the Clifton household. Laundry always got washed, dried, and folded on Monday. Tuesday meant ironing and folding whatever lingered after Monday. Wednesday was all about gardening, canning, or freezing, depending on the season. The bread for the week turned from hard red wheat into golden loaves on Thursday.

  Friday was an optional day that might entail grocery shopping, butter churning, or a dozen other little chores that needed doing. Saturday was the heavy-lifting day when floors were scrubbed, carpets shampooed, and everything else in the house dusted or polished. Last of all, Sunday was a day of well-deserved rest, but even that meant a morning spent at church, choir practice, and Sunday school lessons.

  “It’s important to your father.” Rosemary used that scolding tone Libby remembered so well from her childhood. “It’s good, rich farmland. He wants Mark to have it, so there’s no sense arguing. Besides, he’s awful proud of that young man of yours.”

  Libby’s face warmed. She was pretty proud of Mark, too. “But he lives in Virginia. What will he do with twenty acres in Wisconsin?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Rosemary rolled the armful of dirty sheets into a pile and tossed it into the laundry basket at the foot of the bed. “It’s a gift. He can do whatever he wants with it.”

  “Is Dad doing this to get him to stay here?”

  “Now Libby Clifton.” Rosemary’s voice escalated a notch in dismay. “How could you say such a thing? Your father wants to make sure Mark knows he’s part of the family. That’s all.”

  Libby eyed her mother suspiciously. Something else was going on; she just couldn’t put her finger on it. She floated the sun-bleached fitted sheet over the mattress pad for her mother to reach. Together, they tucked the corners, and then the sides. The top sheet went next.

  The contentment of this simple chore soothed Libby. She had loved helping her mother ever since she could remember. Her near-death experience had given her a new outlook on all the things she had once found boring. She didn’t mind gathering the eggs from the cranky chickens either. Even old Rufus, the mean Leghorn rooster, got a kind pat on his combed head this morning. Of course, then he had tried to scratch her legs with his three-inch spurs, and she had to thump him with the piece of one-by-one she always carried with her into the chicken pen. But for a minute there, she almost liked him, too.

  “Mark asked me to wait for him.” She smiled shyly at her mother.

  Rosemary stopped fussing with the pillowcases. “Wait?”

  “Yes, wait, as in wait for our wedding night. You know.”

  “Oh.” Rosemary’s eyes misted. “That kind of wait.”

  Embarrassed, Libby focused on stuffing Marie’s pillow into its too tight pillowcase.

  “That young man of yours is the best thing that ever happened to you,” her mother whispered, “and to this family, too.”

  “He’s ten times the man Jonathan was.”

  Libby looked at the doorway at that emphatic declaration.

  Her opinionated father stood there with his hand on the door jam, balancing on shaky legs. “You hear me, young lady?”

  “I’ll always love Jonathan,” she admitted openly. Jonathan was her first true love. How could she not love him? “But Mark holds my heart,” she whispered shyly. “Everything’s different with him.”

  Jerry nodded approvingly.

  “But Dad.” She had to know. “Why are you giving him twenty acres of your best south forty? It’s not like he’s going to move here and start farming, you know.”

  Her father’s eyes twinkled. “Land is what a man gives a man. You oughta know that by now.”

  “But Dad—”

  He cut her off. “’Sides, if I thought there was any chance that young man would move back here and take up farming with me, I’d give him a hundred.”

  Thirty-One

  The flight back to Afghanistan was a long day’s flight aboard an Air Force C-5 transport. It could’ve been worse. Could’ve been aboard a C-130. That would have taken days.

  As the ramp lowered, Mark, Alex, and Zack were met with a pleasant breeze immediately spoiled by the forever present aroma of septic and dust. Harley waited by Arzad’s rusty van, but Alex got right down to business.

  “Status report.”

  “Egorov returned from Russia last week,” Harley said as he stowed their gear in the back of the van. “He’s got close to a dozen men as of yesterday. A couple more show up every day. Must have one heck of a recruiting program.”

  “Is the hotel ready?”

  “Yes, Boss. One room. One night only. It’ll be interesting to see what Imir actually gives you though. Arzad thinks he’s working with the Russians.”

  Arzad nodded at Harley’s comment. “Imir is not to be trusted, Mr. Alex.”

  “I’m not trus
ting him. Believe me. You know where we’re going?”

  “Yes. I drop Mr. Harley and Mr. Zack at market. I take you and Mr. Mark to hotel.” Arzad grasped his friend’s arm. “You sure about this?”

  Alex looked him in the eye. “No worries, old friend.”

  “But this man is more worse.”

  “Why do you say that?” Alex asked.

  “He’s right,” Harley intervened. “Egorov started a campaign of terror. We found Nasim yesterday. Egorov’s men tied him to a stake in his field. This was tacked to his shirt.” Harley handed a note to Alex.

  “Translation?”

  “It says one man every day until someone talks. Egorov wants to know what happened to his boss. He thinks these farmers had something to do with it.”

  “Is Nasim still alive?” Mark asked, his anger instantly red hot.

  Harley nodded. “Yeah, but they roughed him up and broke a few of his fingers, like that was hard for a bunch of thugs to do to an old man.”

  Mark turned to Arzad. “As soon as this work is done, I need to see him. You will take me there, okay?”

  Arzad nodded sadly. “I would like to take you now.”

  “Later, old friend.” Alex stared at Arzad, a hard glint in his eye. “Let’s get this over with once and for all.”

  Hurriedly, the men finished loading their gear. Within minutes, Arzad had dropped Harley and Zack at the market, then drove to the front door of the hotel. As he helped Alex with his gear, he asked again, “You so sure about this?”

  His broken English made Mark smile. It was obvious that Arzad respected Alex as an equal, but he treated Mark, Zack, and Harley more like sons.

  Alex clapped a hand to his friend’s shoulder. “When this is done, you and your family must move to America. Will you make an old friend happy and consider that?”

  Arzad shook his head, obviously distressed.

  Just then Imir, a nervous man with an expensive three-piece suit and an oily smile, strolled out of the hotel doors and interrupted their friendly discussion. “Ah, so these are my new American guests.” He clasped Alex’s hand in both of his, the jowls on his chubby face quivering as he gushed. “It is not often that I have the honor of hosting the great Mr. Stewart and his fine associate.”