Page 5

The amusement in his stare faded into determination, and from determination into gluttonous pleasure, and from gluttonous pleasure into mindless delirium. She knew the feeling. Words failed her, and she heard herself panting his name over and over in a bad parody of a porn flick.

She fought to the last inch of her being, but without warning the dam gave way utterly and completely, crashing in on her and deluging her with waves of pleasure so powerful that she was flattened beneath the weight and power of them.

The good news was that Ian shouted and let go at nearly the exact same instant.

She collapsed back against the soft cotton sheets while he supported his upper body with his elbows on either side of her head.

“You killed me,” he finally mumbled.

Ditto . Aloud, she managed to breathe, “Wow.”

Gradually she caught her breath, and the heaving of his chest slowed against hers. His heartbeat, frantic against her breast, slowed as well.

With the return of oxygen to her brain came a sudden and alarming burst of sanity. She’d just fallen in the sack and had the hottest sex of her life with a total stranger. She’d had to ask him his name mere seconds before the actual act.

“I won,” she declared.

“Did not. You so came first,” he retorted.

Hah. So it had been a contest. “Yeah, but I had the best orgasm,” she replied.

He grinned down at her. “You go ahead and think that if it makes you feel better, honey.”

Eyes narrowing, she purred, “Yes, but I’m ready to go again. Right now.”

He threw his head back and laughed richly.

It was an infectious sound and her lips couldn’t help curving up in an answering smile.

Until she felt his flesh stirring inside her, though.

Her smile faded and she stared up at him in shocked anticipation.

Soon, a new erection filled her and he began stroking her lazily into oblivion once more.

“Before I lose the ability to form sentences,” she murmured, “how are we going to define a win, here?”

He studied her thoughtfully.

“Most orgasms? She suggested hopefully.

“Oh, no. You’re not stacking the deck on me like that. Loser’s the first person who can’t stand and walk across the room.”

Oh, my. She hoped she lost.

It took a couple of hours, but she was officially declared the loser when Ian managed to roll out of bed with a groan and shamble into the other room to fetch them bottles of water.

The ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, sending sultry air wafting across her flushed skin.

It was going to be a month before she could summon the strength to walk again.

He came back and sat down on the edge of the bed, gloriously naked.

He was possibly more intimidating without clothes than he was fully decked out in warrior’s gear.

Like this, she could see all the layers of rock-hard muscle, the collection of scars that spoke of winning more fights than he’d lost, and the overall toughness of the man beneath the fancy military gear.

His physique was a sharp reminder that she was not as well equipped physically as a man to be out here on the edge of Hell all by herself. Of course, she would like to think she compensated for that by being smarter than most of the men gathered in a hellhole like this.

Holding a wad of the top sheet to her chest, she sat up and finally took a good look around his place.

It was decorated as hedonistically as any seraglio.

Colorful and complicated Turkish rugs covered the floors, and elaborately carved wooden furniture adorned the corners.

Low bed surrounded by white gauze curtains, currently pulled back, pile of silk pillows, a tall, brass hookah pipe--it looked like a set straight out of a 1930’s sheikh movie.

“You decorate this place?” she murmured.

He glanced around and snorted. “Not my taste. It came like this. The deal is I keep it from getting looted, and the owner doesn’t tell anyone I’m here.”

Abundant mirrors gave both the bedroom and living area a sense of open space…and reflected her disheveled image from a half-dozen different angles. Her lips looked rosy and swollen and her hair was a wavy mess around her face.

Beyond a doorway obscured with long strings of beads, her gaze lighted on a porcelain toilet and a claw foot bathtub. She threw him a sour glance. “And to think, I’m living in a one-room dump with no running water, an Army cot, and a chamber pot.”

He grinned. “With the sewers destroyed, I have to pay a boy to clean out the septic tank from time to time. But I repaired the rain cistern on the roof. I have running water.” He added slyly, “Late in the afternoon when the sun has heated it, I can take a hot bath.”

“Now you’re just showing off.”

As he stepped into camo pants, he asked over his shoulder, “Hungry?”

“Thirsty,” she replied.

He disappeared into the other room and she hunted around until she found her panties wadded on the floor beside a fancy antique armoire. Her bra had landed on the back of an armchair in the far corner. She shimmied into both and then scrambled into her pants and tank top.

Embarrassment overcame her at having just fallen into bed with a man she barely knew. Even if he had just done the exact same crazy thing. Blushing furiously, she stepped into the living room.

Ian tossed her a bottle of water from over by the kitchenette. She caught it neatly with one hand and proceeded to down it. She tossed the empty bottle back at him. Unfortunately, he turned and snagged it before it could bean him in the back of the head. Good reflexes.

He said dryly, “We got a little sidetracked before, but we do need to talk.”

Sidetracked? She would call the last few hours an epic detour.

This was not a conversation she was looking forward to. But he was without question stronger than she was—she knew that from first-hand experience—and he could force her to stay here, and to talk for that matter, if he wanted to.

She scowled while he put a bunch of grapes, dates, and crackers on a plate and sliced open a pomegranate.

He paused on his way over to a low, Occidental-style table—not the one she’d sat on not too long ago while they tried to give each other tonsillectomies with their tongues, thankfully—and pulled the long chain dangling from a ceiling fan. It began rotating lazily.

The air wafting down from it was warm, but the light breeze against her skin was welcome, nonetheless.

He put the plate on the table, sank down onto a cushion beside it, picked up a date, and bit into it. “Are you going to join me, or are you just going to stand there and stare?”

Her scowled deepened as she plunked down on a cushion across the table from him. “Who are you?”

He grinned. “Funny, but I was about to ask you the exact same thing.”

“You first,” she snapped.

“No, you,” he snapped back.

“No, you, ” she retorted, “I asked first.”

“I caught you, and I’m feeding you.” He added archly, “And I did win our contest.”

Jerk . She glared but answered, “My name’s Piper Roth. You?”

“Ian McCloud.”

“Who do you work for?” she demanded.

“Ah, ah, ah. I caught you, remember? Who do you work for?”

She nibbled a cracker. Sipped more water. Glanced up at him as if she’d forgotten the question. He shifted a foot so his knee stuck up and propped his elbow on it. And waited. Studying her with disconcerting intensity. God, she could get lost in those piercing green-on-brown eyes of his.

Work, Piper. Focus. He wasn’t going to buy her cover story for a minute, but she might as well throw it out there. She replied, “I’m an aid worker. I’m here to give kids vaccinations and vitamin shots. Teach women proper nutrition for their kids.”

“While toting around a sniper rifle?” He snorted. “Who signs your paycheck?”

“Who says I’m collecting a paycheck?”

He rolled his eyes. “ Nobody comes to this place for random shits and grins. You’re on a job. Aid worker, huh? That’s a pretty thin cover for a woman in this part of the world.”

He would not be wrong. She shrugged in response and replied, “Who are you working for?”

“I’m U.S. military.”

Translation: military intelligence, or maybe straight up Defense Intelligence Agency. Or he could be part of a Special Ops Team. “Where’s the rest of your unit?” she asked.

“I’m a one-man show.”

“No way. Nobody’s dumb enough to come to this place without back-up.”

“Where’s your back-up, then?” he challenged.

She huffed. “I don’t need back-up to give kids vitamins and vaccines.”

“Your employer sent you to the most dangerous corner of the globe with that crappy a cover? Are they trying to kill you?”

Frankly, she’d said pretty much the same thing to her boss before she left on this assignment. But the intel she was chasing down had been hot, and time had been short.

She’d been tracking an American separatist group calling itself the Patrick Henry Patriots—PHP, for short—for longer than she cared to think about. Over a year, now.

When one of their members had popped up on a government computer as having bought a ticket to Khartoum, Sudan, it had set off alarm bells galore in various government agencies.

Seeing as she was the only full-time operative tracking PHP who would recognize most or all of its members on sight, she was by far the most qualified person to be over here finding out what a bunch of bubbas from Idaho were doing in a place like this.

Of course, not only did she knew all of the group’s members on sight, but she also knew their MO’s.

Which was why she was confused as hell by this junket into North Africa’s hottest hotbed of terrorist activity.

The Patrick Henry Patriots were all about American patriotism.

They despised foreigners of all stripes and believed the white, American male—armed with a shotgun, pick-up truck, and a case of beer—was the rightful ruler of the entire planet.

Ian startled her out of her musings by declaring forcefully, “Your boss is an asshole for sending you here. Quit this job and go home. Now.”