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HE’D HAD his second cup of coffee by the time she reappeared dressed for the day.
“There’s fruit and sweet rolls.” Since he couldn’t be sure what Willow would like, he’d gone with the safest bet. “And coffee.”
She dove into the fruit before having her first cup of coffee.
Watching her eat so ravenously reminded him that she’d skipped dinner on the plane last night. He’d assumed she was too upset to eat. She was bent on making up for it now it seemed. Her lips closed around a strawberry and he couldn’t help but stare.
He now knew something personal about Willow Harris the woman, not Willow Harris the ex-wife and mother. She loved strawberries. The way she closed her eyes and relished the burst of flavor on her tongue spoke volumes about just how much she loved the lush red berries.
She opened her eyes and her cheeks turned pink. “Sorry. I get a little carried away sometimes.”
He sipped his coffee and tried to act nonchalantly. “I’m the same way about coffee.”
She’d left her hair down. Even in the plain white pullover and khakis she looked soft and feminine, elegant somehow. Maybe it was because she was so tiny and her clothes, though conservative, fit so well. At five-two, she couldn’t weigh more than ninety pounds. And even though he recognized that her clothes weren’t designer, more like bargain super center, they looked tailor-made for her figure.
Like her, he’d dressed casually. Jeans and a pullover sweater with a casual sports jacket. Though the temperature was probably in the mid-sixties, it could drop unexpectedly. Especially if it rained. No matter what the weather did, the jacket would serve another purpose as well. Weapons were illegal in this country. Carrying one required certain precautions on his part, concealment being top priority.
Willow stopped eating long enough to ask, “Did I hear you making an appointment with someone?”
He grabbed a sweet roll. “We’re meeting my real-estate contact at ten-thirty. We’ll look at a couple of properties today and get the lay of the land. I made a couple of other calls to local agents as well.”
She poured a cup of coffee and sipped it thoughtfully before voicing her next question. “When can we drive by the house?”
She wanted a glimpse of her son. He certainly understood that. But moving too hastily could prove a mistake.
“We’ll do some driving around in that area later this evening, maybe just before dark.”
“Today’s Thursday, the family may be out to dinner as a group tonight. Getting close to the house probably won’t be difficult.”
The Kuwaiti work week was generally Saturday through Wednesday. Thursday was considered a sort of family night. The next two days were holy days, not to mention a national holiday, Hala February.
“As long as we maintain an appropriate distance, I think we’ll be okay,” he warned, not wanting her to get her hopes up too high. Just because they drove by didn’t mean she would get to see her son.
“I understand.”
He wondered if she did.
She devoured another strawberry. The act made his gut clench. He had to get a handle on these unusually strong feelings of attraction and protectiveness. Certainly he intended to protect her, but he realized already that he was having difficulty maintaining objectivity.
Not good.
Recognizing the problem was the first step, he reminded himself. Just like at Alcoholics Anonymous. Not that he’d attended enough of those sessions to know what came next, but he did know that pinpointing the problem was essential in correcting it.
Funny, he realized abruptly, he hadn’t thought about alcohol since that tense moment on the plane. Not that it would have done him any good. The only way to get an alcoholic drink in Kuwait was to go to a private, very illegal, party. Still, he felt some sense of relief at not waking up to the urge to pour himself a drink.
He hoped the change for the better was about getting his life back together with this career endeavor. But he had a feeling it had more to do with his distraction with his client than anything else.
And that was definitely not good. At all.
“Whenever you’re ready, we’ll get going.” Getting his head screwed back on straight would be a hell of a lot easier outside the intimacy of this room—away from the bed they’d shared last night. No matter that nothing had happened. Waking up to her cuddled up against him had been more than enough to inspire his too-vivid imagination.
Evidently, while he’d overindulged in alcohol since exiting his military life, he’d neglected his physical needs. Now he was paying the price of having gone too long without sexual release.
She grabbed the scarf and quickly wrapped it around her head to cover her hair and neck. “Okay. I’m ready.”
He shouldn’t have let her come.
The realization slammed into him like an unexpected mortar round.
She was afraid. She was vulnerable. He’d allowed her to come to this country where being a woman could be a handicap under far too many circumstances.
Protecting her might very well be impossible when push came to shove.
He’d warned her about that.
Unfortunately he was the one who hadn’t fully heeded the warning, because right now he felt completely obsessed with keeping her safe. And that compulsive need jeopardized the mission overall.
All signs of objectivity had vanished the instant he’d seen the sheer terror in her eyes back at that airport.
He had no choice.
He had to keep her safe.
Or die trying.
Chapter Seven
11:00 a.m.
“You do not want to get caught on the street or anywhere else in Kuwait with these weapons.”
Spencer surveyed the array of handguns his contact had to offer. A Beretta.9mm, a.40 Glock, as well as your garden variety.32s and.38s. Various ammo clips and silencers. Night-vision goggles and binoculars.
The night-vision goggles would be nice, but he was on a budget here. With that in mind, he reached for the Beretta and the.32.
His contact pushed several clips and a box of bullets across the table. “That should set you up.”
Spencer paid him in cash, American currency.
“You know how to contact me if you need anything else.”
Spencer tucked the Beretta in his waistband at the small of his back. The.32 he dropped into his jacket pocket. “We won’t be here long enough to require anything else.”
Though Patrick Bach had always been a reliable contact for most any sort of special needs any time day or night Spencer had called on him in the past, there was always risk involved in a transaction as illegal as this one. Those in the trade didn’t always play by the same rules transaction after transaction. The rules changed based on the buyers and the quantity of money they were willing to spend.
Spencer had worked operations when he’d been forced to rely on his own methods for survival, including arming himself on the local black market. Bach hadn’t once let him down. But there was always a first time.
As Bach packed up his wares, he glanced at Willow then he grinned and said to Spencer, “I didn’t realize you’d separated from the military and gotten yourself an actual wife, Anders. I guess this is one way to keep domestic life blissful.”
Spencer had instructed Willow to remain on the far side of the room and to refrain from speaking to Bach. So far she’d done so. Since he hadn’t introduced her to the man, he had to assume Bach was fishing. It also meant that his arrival in-country had hit the underground grapevine. Nothing he hadn’t expected.
Spencer picked up the ammo and dropped it into his pocket. “I didn’t realize you’d gotten so curious about the personal lives of your customers, Bach.” Spencer didn’t offer the first glimmer of amusement in response to the jab at humor.
Bach held up both hands in the universal gesture of surrender. “Just making conversation, man. Just making conversation.”
Spencer leaned closer to him and smirked. “Besides, you know a guy like me never really goes back to civilian life.”
A knowing grin spread across Bach’s face. “Right.” The devious glint in his eyes told Spencer the sly bastard had taken the comment exactly the way he’d intended.
If Bach leaked that Spencer was in-country doing illegal business related to his former career that was so much the better.
To her credit, Willow had the submissive female act down pat. Even in the elevator ride back to the lobby she stayed in Spencer’s shadow. This posturing kept Bach from getting a good look at her face as they exited the building.
The fewer details he was able to pass along, in the event he was so inclined, the better. Taking every possible precaution to protect her would be in the best interests of them both.
Willow kept her gaze lowered as Anders shook hands in closure with his contact. She’d worked extra hard not to look at the man during the meeting. Even now, as she climbed into the passenger seat of the SUV Anders had rented, she didn’t look up.
Once shielded behind the tinted windows of the vehicle, she surveyed Damascus Street. She could just make out the stripes of the painted water-storage tanks in the distance. Beyond that, if they were to drive in that direction, they would come upon the park and then the industrial area. She and Khaled had picnicked in that park… before. She’d never been allowed to take her son there. Khaled had rigidly dictated where and when she could take her son from the residence.
She’d wondered what he was afraid of. Asking had proven a monumental mistake. He’d lashed out at her, making her feel incompetent and untrustworthy when it came to caring for their son.
Eventually she’d learned the truth. Khaled had made so many enemies he feared their retaliation against his family, especially his only child.
Goosebumps spilled over her skin. Her son was not safe as long as he was associated with her ex-husband and his evil deeds. Somehow she had to get him out of this country. She had to find a way to ensure Khaled was never allowed custody of her child again.
Not even for a day.
On some level she felt remorse that her son would not be able to know this side of his heritage. She could try and teach him the Islamic values, but it wouldn’t be the same. That was the saddest part in all this. Ensuring his safety and having him in her life equated to tearing him from the land of his birth. It was the only way.
She couldn’t trust any member of her ex-husband’s circle, especially not his mother. Massouma was totally fixated on every detail involving her only son’s child. Once Willow took Ata away, he could never return or she would be right back at square one.
Coming to terms with that finality hadn’t been easy. She’d lived in this land for three years. Her respect for these people went as deep as the oil wells that paraded through the desert beyond the suburbs of the city. But nothing or no one was as important to her as her son.
“It isn’t easy being back.”
Anders’s comment tugged her from the depressing thoughts. The words were a statement rather than a question.
“There’s a level where I feel torn,” she admitted, surprised even as she said the words. “I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But I do.”
She didn’t know precisely how, but somehow he understood how she felt. Maybe because he’d spent so much time in the Middle East during his military career, or perhaps simply because he had been betrayed himself. Did he have any idea how much his appreciation for her feelings meant to her?
That he’d managed to draw her in so deeply, so quickly, was a little scary. Still, she couldn’t deny enjoying the feeling of being protected.
“I’m glad Mr. Colby asked you to take this case.” It was the best way she knew to thank him for his perceptiveness and compassion.
The stall in traffic allowed him to look at her for several seconds before moving forward once more. “I hope you don’t change your mind before we’re finished.”
He held her gaze an extra beat, but the blare of horns prodded his attention back to the traffic.
Willow told herself to look away. It didn’t do any good. She kept staring at his profile long after he’d looked away. She recalled the way she’d felt that morning when she’d awakened next to him. Even before that, she’d slept like the dead for the first time in months.
He made her feel safe.
It was crazy. She scarcely knew him.
That he’d separated from the military in such an egregious manner should have put her off… should have her unsettled about his trustworthiness. Yet, she trusted him completely… felt fully protected in his presence.
He had stood up for the woman, a complete stranger, in the motel room next to hers. It had been so long since she’d seen an act of chivalry so impressive and selfless that maybe she was overreacting. Then again, she hadn’t had sex in more than a year. As embarrassing as that fact was, she wasn’t actually ashamed of it. She’d slept with one man in college, another after settling into her job following graduation, both had been relationships versus casual sex. Her next partner after that had been her husband.
She’d never had casual sex in her life.
Part of that was a direct result of her strict upbringing. There were times when that not-particularly-pleasant upbringing had come in handy. For instance, when she’d taken up residence in Kuwait, dressing and behaving conservatively had come naturally to her. She’d been almost thankful for her parents’s ironfisted child-rearing methods. But then those same methods had ingrained in her a willingness to trust the man she’d married when she shouldn’t have. She’d blindly gone into that relationship and followed all his edicts without once questioning anything until it was way too late.
Not that she blamed her parents for her mess. She didn’t. This was a tragedy of her own making. Still, they were not totally free of guilt here. She’d learned the hard way that lying in one’s self-made hard bed was not the only option. Even now she could hear her father’s voice echoing that sentiment, You made your bed, you’ll have to lie in it.
The muscles in her face tightened, making her jaw clench at the old hurt. No. You didn’t have to simply lie in it. There were things a woman could do, should do, when her husband mistreated her, physically or mentally.
If she’d only realized sooner what kind of man Khaled was, she might have escaped with her son before he’d suspected her disillusionment or her plans.
That wasn’t really true. If she’d suspected something wasn’t right she would have gone to him and asked, assuming he had been falsely accused, just as she did when she’d discovered the discrepancy in his finances. There was no getting around the fact that she had simply been naive. And in love.
Big mistake.
Her attention shifted back to the driver, the man she respected so much despite knowing him for a period of time more accurately measured in hours than in days. Was she making the same kind of mistake all over again?
She’d watched the way he handled that illegal business with the guns. Did she really have any reason to trust him? Sure, he seemed to sympathize with her, seemed compassionate toward people in general, but did that make him a good guy deep down where it counted?
Stop it.
They were here. He was doing his job so far. She had to stop overanalyzing every single thing. She could not afford to be distracted. Her actions could very well distract him. Allowing that to happen would jeopardize what they were here to do.
Time to get her act together and focus.
Time to behave like a mature woman who had learned her lesson about trusting the wrong man. The compromise was simple. She should appreciate Spencer Anders for his seeming compassion and empathy as well as his obvious skill at doing what had to be done in this situation and environment. All the while, she most definitely should understand that his ability to get the job done did not make him a good person.
Somehow she had to learn to separate her feelings. Respect didn’t necessarily have to equate to trust or… anything else. Like the feelings of attraction she had experienced lying next to him that morning.
She was a woman, she had needs. Those needs could not be permitted to get tangled up with the heat of the moment. Recognizing the problem was the key to moving forward productively.
She definitely recognized the problem. If she were really lucky, he didn’t. Knowing that he knew she was even remotely attracted to him would just be too humiliating.
“Our next stop is the building on the left at the coming intersection. We’re a little early.” He checked his wristwatch. “Ten minutes. We’ll park and wait in the car.”
“Is the person you’re meeting at this location an actual real-estate agent?” Anders had told her that the last guy worked on the fringes of the business as a cover for his real job—selling weapons in a country that had banned the personal ownership of weapons years ago. She had known men like that existed in Kuwait when she’d lived here—as did those who sold alcohol illegally. There was a whole underground of illegal activities here just as there was any place else.
This was, however, the first time she’d had direct dealings with the folks who carried out those prohibited trades.
“This one’s for real. I picked his agency from the listing in the local paper and called to make the appointment this morning.” He parked the SUV in a narrow alley between what appeared to be two office buildings. When he’d shut off the engine he turned to her. “There’s one more after this for cover purposes, and then we’ll drift into tourist mode.”
There was such intensity in his eyes, such determination. How could she not believe he would make this happen? She’d watched men like him in the movies, read about them in books. A hero. Every instinct told her this man was exactly that.
She had to believe.
“Oh, yeah, you mentioned that earlier.”
For the first time since arriving at the airport and having that customs officer scare ten years off her life, she felt confident again.
Jim Colby had promised her.
The man he’d chosen for her case would make it happen. She believed that with all her heart.
Believing was something she was really good at most of the time. Her childhood had included a deeply entrenched certainty that without faith all was lost. She’d never once failed to have enough faith. Even when objectivity would have served her better, she’d stuck by the idea that faith would get her through whatever life tossed in her path.
Maybe that was how she’d survived when she’d feared her ex-husband might simply kill her to silence her. It would have been relatively easy in this society. Women certainly weren’t the ones front and center in the mainstream. Without any other family ties here, if she’d gone missing hardly anyone would have noticed, much less asked about her.
Anders opened her door, dragging her from the disturbing speculation. She hadn’t even realized he’d gotten out.
She climbed out of the SUV and followed him to the front entrance, admiring the architecture and scattered palm trees along the street as she went. There wasn’t a lot of landscaping to brag about in Kuwait, but the immaculate care taken of the city was noteworthy, as was a good deal of the architecture. An art gallery across the street nudged at her curiosity. There was a time when she wouldn’t have missed a gallery of any kind, even one that catered to the really bizarre alternative art she didn’t particularly care for. She loved studying the work others did with their hands.
Did that make her a hands girl?
She glanced down at the right hand of the man next to her. She’d noticed his before. Nice hands. Big, but not rough-looking. Well-formed with long, blunt-tipped fingers. Not the artist type, but the capable kind made for touching a woman in ways she could only imagine.
Jerking her gaze front and center, she railed at herself for being so foolish. She’d gone off on a very inappropriate tangent there. Probably just her mind attempting to find ways to decompress. Distraction wasn’t a problem, as long as she didn’t obsess about any part of him she would be fine.
Right?
Right.
Okay, now she was answering herself. Not good.
Anders signed in at the reception desk in the lobby. She waited near the cluster of chairs and potted palm trees. The ceiling soared high, allowing for a wall of windows that invited the sun to pour into the lobby. She wouldn’t want the job of working the reception desk in the summer. The air conditioning might keep the room at a tolerable temperature, but there was no way to escape the harsh glare of the summer sun in this part of the world. It could be brutal.
As Anders approached her, she decided making a quick trip to the ladies’ room before the real-estate agent arrived might be in order.
The sign for the restrooms as well as the elevators held a prominent position on the wall well behind and beyond the reception desk that dominated the front of the lobby.
“I’m going to the ladies’ room. I’ll be right back.”
He glanced around the deserted lobby. “I’d feel better seeing you to the door.”
There was no need to be embarrassed. He was right.
“Whatever you think is best.” She headed for the designated corridor.
He stayed in step right beside her. When she reached the door, he hesitated. “Maybe I should check it out first.”
“Anders, I’ll be fine.” She looked back in the direction they’d come. “You should wait for your appointment. You’ll still be able to see this door from the waiting area.”
He glanced back to confirm her assertion. “All right.” That intense gaze landed back on hers. “But make it fast. I won’t relax until you’re back in my line of vision.”
She pushed through the door, leaving him staring after her.
For a couple of moments she stood on the other side of the door wondering if he’d walked back to the waiting area or if he’d opted to hang around until she emerged once more.
She didn’t remember the last time anyone had worried so about her. That he did it with such care made her feel warm inside.
Shaking her head at just how pathetic she was, Willow moved toward the stalls. The restroom was pretty much like one found back home. The American influence in Kuwait couldn’t be ignored even when it came to toilets.
When she’d relieved herself and washed up, she considered her reflection a moment. At twenty-eight she still looked young, but she felt old inside. She’d stopped feeling young and vibrant ages ago.
Willow tugged the scarf from her hair and ran her fingers through the long, blond length. She’d thought about cutting it several times, but something always got in the way. Or maybe she was afraid to change much of anything for fear her baby wouldn’t recognize her.
Would he even remember her?
Pain arced sharply inside her. What would she do if he didn’t? He would cry for his father… people would notice. How could they hope to get through customs and back on a plane if her child screamed the entire time?
What if attempting to steal him was a mistake?
Willow closed her eyes and fought back the emotions churning wildly inside her.
She was doing the right thing.
She knew it. She believed it with her whole heart.
Faith. Where was her faith?
Anders was waiting for her. The real-estate agent might have arrived already. She shouldn’t be in here worrying about an issue that hadn’t come up yet.
Taking extra care, she wrapped the khimar around her hair and neck. A few blond strands peeked past the scarf, a vivid contrast to the black silk. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips red from biting and licking them repeatedly. She needed Chap Stick.
No, what she needed was to relax.
Stay calm.
Get this done.
Summoning her wayward courage she moved to the door and pulled it open. Anders still waited near the potted palms and seating area. Evidently the other man hadn’t arrived yet.