Page 2 of Love and Forgiveness (Rough & Ready Country #6)

IZZIE

“Allow me to introduce our head conservator, Professor Roland Abadie of the Ecole de Condé in Paris.” Jose Gallego, the Kabul field director, says. I offer a hand to the diminutive man in front of me with sloped shoulders, a unibrow, and scraggly salt-and-pepper hair and beard.

He shakes it brusquely before letting it fall with the rapidity I’ve grown accustomed to among my French colleagues. Apparently, Americans hold hands too long when shaking for French comfort. I nod without smiling, another American pleasantry not so greatly appreciated in other parts of the world.

The old professor stares at me through impossibly thick coke bottle glasses before saying in a Gallic accent, “Enchanté. Or should I say pleased to make your acquaintance? I’m familiar with your work on some of the buddhas and bodhisattvas recovered after this Taliban nightmare began.”

I nod. “Yes, it’s been a painstaking process. No doubt similar in scope to your work here.” Glancing around the museum backroom, my eyes dart from one precious artifact to another, haphazardly stacked on shelves and covered in layers of thick powdery dust.

Achaemenid and Sasanian statues line the walls, and I make out everything from prehistoric figurines to jewel-encrusted bracelets and earrings, coins, and a tantalizing golden Aphrodite sculpture, standing no more than two inches tall.

With more than seventy percent of the museum’s culturally diverse collection stolen since the early nineties, I’m pleasantly surprised by the finds in this large, warehouse-like room.

But it could use better lighting and a good airing out to remove some of the unsurprising, though overpowering, musty smells.

“We are very much in need of your expertise. As you’ll see, there’s still so much to do.

More than 7,600 shards recovered, all in various states of assemblage and cataloging.

Our friends at the National Museum of Afghanistan have gone to risky lengths to preserve these fragments.

But it’s heartbreaking to see what those barbarians did to these sacred, irreplaceable objects. ”

He’s referring to 1,500-year-old Buddha sculptures from Hadda systematically destroyed by the Taliban beginning in 2001.

Like Gallego and Abadie, I’ve been called in to help clean, document, preserve, and reassemble as many of these fragments as possible and am acting as an assistant art conservator.

For me, this work started at the University of Chicago during my Master’s Degree program, a degree I completed less than three months ago, just after my twenty-fifth birthday.

A second, jovial man comes over and vigorously shakes my hand.

Jose continues, “And this is Professor Giuseppe Allegheri of Padua University.” Before I can react, Giuseppe kisses me on both cheeks.

His mane of tousled black hair streaked white tickles my cheeks, and his brown eyes dance with vibrant, infectious energy.

“Signorina Isadora Webb, we have been waiting for you. How exciting to finally meet! We’re going to keep you very busy, you know.

” I have to concentrate hard and fall back on the linguistics class I took to decipher his extravagant Italian accent.

I can’t suppress a laugh as I watch his bushy black eyebrows wag up and down.

Professor Allegheri’s art conservation work in South Asian antiquities is legendary.

Finally meeting him takes my breath away.

The same goes for Professor Abadie, although I’m less familiar with his work in 3D modeling.

Despite being in a room with two titans of my field, though, I can only half concentrate on our meeting, thanks to the intimidating private contractor standing near the back wall of the artifact room.

He’s well over six feet tall and proportionately burly dressed in khaki cargo pants with an olive-green canvas belt, a brown quarter-zipper sweater, matching fleece jacket with zippered compartments on the sleeves and chest, and desert camouflage combat boots.

Despite the many layers, his muscular, athletic build is evident. My heart pounds behind my ribs.

The epitome of masculinity, from his bronzed skin to his devastatingly rugged five o’clock shadow, I guess he’s about my age, mid-twenties.

Thankfully, he wears a khaki baseball cap, shadowing his eyes.

I don’t know what I’d do if I could see them clearly, and I don’t know why I even have this thought.

I just know on a visceral level that eye contact with him is dangerous.

Highly dangerous. Besides impeccable posture, he looks ready to kick into action at a moment’s notice, a trait punctuated by the automatic rifle slung over his shoulder.

Even though his eyes remain darkened beneath the bill of his cap, I feel his gaze searing into me.

It makes me breathe shallowly. My voice has a slight shake to it when I chat back and forth with the professors, and I don’t know if it’s from jet lag, the stress of traveling into a military zone, or the man whose eyes never leave my body.

When Jose heads for the imposing security guard, my mouth goes dry, and my palms feel heated and sweaty.

I pause hesitantly, and Jose waves impatiently for me to follow.

Keep your shit together, Izzie. I try to discreetly rub my hands on my long dark blue skirt, in case I need to shake hands.

“And this, Ms. Webb, is your mahram,” he says looking up at the tall security guard.

The room feels alive with electricity as I tilt my head up, absorbing the image of the gorgeous, terrifying man more closely.

“My mahram?”

“Yes, your escort or guardian. Although things have relaxed greatly since American occupation, Afghanistan remains a largely traditional country. This means you’ll need to travel in the company of Private Ormsby at all times.”

“He’s hardly a relative or family member through marriage.” I try to say the statement nonchalantly, referring to the letter of local custom. But my voice cracks halfway through, which has Jose rushing off to find me the bottle of water I refused ten minutes earlier.

Calling over his shoulder, Jose says, “He’s the best we can do. Pretend he’s your brother or husband. Just know that his training and knowledge of local languages and customs are unsurpassed. These skills, rather than the narrative you weave, will keep you safe. You couldn’t be in better hands.”

Did he really have to mention husband, hands, and this tall drink of water in the same breath?

My cheeks flush, and I know it’s not lost on the security guard.

The corners of his mouth tilt up slightly at the words.

Or maybe my blush. I can’t say which. All I know is his grin is no accident.

The man exudes discipline from every pore of his body—no smile could escape that fortress unintentionally.

Private Ormsby scrutinizes me, and at this closer range, I make out bold cheekbones, a square face, and a broad chin. A muscle feathers in his clenched jaw, and everything about him is severe and fierce.

But a soulful curiosity in his shadowed eyes makes them dance as he takes me in. The contradiction leaves me breathless and curious as my gaze remains locked with his.

Jose waves the water bottle in front of my face to get my attention again. Real slick, Izzie.

Dread and elation have been constant companions since learning I’d work in Afghanistan. Now, heart-thumping panic joins them.

How can I stay a moment longer in this man’s presence?

Let alone rely on him as my escort? It’s not possible.

He’s way too hot to stand in the same room with, let alone take on every work field trip.

I can barely breathe or think right now.

How in the world will I get my head screwed back on tight enough to work around him?

I exhale sharply, realizing I’m still staring at the man now attached to me at the hip.

Even more shocking, he returns the favor, unblinking and unapologetic, until my cheeks burn.

I’m the embodiment of unprofessionalism, hoping that none of my colleagues notice the subtle yet heated eye exchange between us. Finally, I look down, rattled.

A rumbly drawl brings my attention back up to his face. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Webb. Feel free to call me Wolfe.”

I look up into the shadowy face of the security guard, inhaling sharply. The deep vibration of his words makes my body flush. I have to get a hold of myself. But this goes way beyond the limits of my professionalism.

I’m not sure I trust my voice right now, so I unscrew the water bottle, taking a casual swig. Only I’m so nervous that I miss my mouth, sending a waterfall of ice-cold liquid down my white silk button-down shirt. I shudder involuntarily at the icy shock, and Jose stares at me wide-mouthed.

Looking down in horror, I watch the water transform the front of my shirt nearly translucent, giving Private Ormsby a perfect view of my lacy ivory bra, ample breasts, and pebbled nipples.

God help me! I gasp, putting the cap back on the bottle and buttoning my black business coat to cover most of the water stain.

Still, the fabric clings wantonly to my cleavage above the plunging neckline of the jacket. I can tell the security guard’s gotten an eyeful from the direction of his gaze. He swallows loudly. I clear my throat, and his eyes snap back up to mine.

Shaking my head, I try to ignore the whole thing. What else can I do? Crawl under a rock?

“The name’s Isadora, but you can call me Izzie.” I reach out to shake his hand with my free one, and he hesitates. I don’t know if he’s unused to shaking hands in his line of work or if there’s some other reason he doesn’t want to touch me.

Finally, he takes my cue. Like every other part of this beastly man, his hand is gigantic, making mine look miniature. I’m a plus-sized woman standing nearly six feet tall, so the feeling is unusual to me. Being dwarfed by this sexy giant is surprisingly refreshing and a total turn-on.

When the soft flesh of my palm touches the rough flesh of his, I hold my breath as if an electric shock passes through me. Searing sparks zing from his hand to mine and back again, co-mingling trails of fire and desire between us.

At least, that’s how it feels to me as waves of delicious lust travel between my hand and heart. I stifle a gasp at the strange and unprecedented sensations. I can tell by how his nostrils flare, and his shadowed eyes grow even darker that he notices it, too.

Despite the brutish look of the man, something else catches my attention. His cheeks turn ruddy. If I had to find one word to describe him, it would be bashful.

It’s the sexiest dichotomy I’ve ever seen—a bashful warrior. My breath can’t keep up with my wildly beating heart, which leaves me panting in front of him. It’s intolerable.

He’s still holding my hand, and I feel my full attention captured in the few inches of flesh he touches.

“Izzie,” he repeats in a softer tone, like a whispered prayer. “You can count on me to keep you safe, protected. I won’t ever let anything happen to you.”