Covert Evidence (25 page)

Why had he shown up in Antalya when he did? And where was he now?

Ian wished he could see Cressida’s composite map. “Why didn’t you bring a computer?”

“I was warned traveling to Eastern Anatolia with sophisticated mapping software and data would be a bad idea.”

She took a step toward him, then stopped. “Ian, I know you’re mad I didn’t tell you, but you need to understand, this has been my secret, and mine alone, for months. I had no idea
anyone
had seen my composite map. I honestly didn’t think it was relevant to what was going on. I’m sorry—” She stopped and took a deep breath. “I haven’t told anyone. Not my best friend. Not my mother. Not my advisor. I didn’t even tell the man I lived with. It never even occurred to me it was something
you
needed to know.”

Put that way, it was hard for Ian to hold it against her. But he tried. He was developing feelings for her—which was flat out forbidden in his world—while in Cressida’s world, Ian was just another mistake on a long list of them.

She’d kissed Ian once. Not that he was counting…except apparently he was…

All he really knew was his life was forever changed thanks to this screwed-up mission, and Cressida Porter had managed to steal a piece of him he hadn’t known was up for grabs. “You can find an entrance to the tunnel?”

She bit her bottom lip. “Maybe. But I doubt we’ll be able to open it, not without tools and a team of workers. My goal for this trip was just to locate it. Then use Lidar next year to map the length.”

As a poker player, Ian didn’t like the odds. But at this point, he had no other hand to play. “We’re ditching the bike. We’ll rest during the heat of the day and start walking in the late afternoon. For lack of a better plan, we’ll head to your tunnel.” He patted the ground next to him. “We may as well rest in the shade while we can.” He refused to acknowledge the reason he urged her to his side was because he wanted to be next to her.

He had a feeling he’d never recover from meeting Cressida. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to.

W
alking south was far more pleasant than the bumpy motorcycle ride, except Ian missed the press of Cressida’s thighs and the feel of her hands on his hips. When they rode, every bump and bounce was a reminder that she was with him. That they were alive.

And in spite of everything, he was pretty damn grateful to be alive.

The burn had ached less on the motorcycle, as his pack had been tucked in a saddlebag, but walking forced him to wear the forty-pound pack crammed with weapons and survival gear, and even though Cressida had tripled the layers of gauze, there was no avoiding the rub of pack on wound.

But the pain was yet another sign he was alive, so he accepted it without complaint.

It was half-past dark, and they’d covered at least ten rugged miles when Ian saw a campfire lit in the distance. They finally drew close enough for him to discern the camp configuration. He stopped and held a hand out to halt Cressida.

“What…?”

“Sweetheart, would you like something other than trail mix for dinner tonight?”

Her brows drew together. “That depends. Is that a friend of yours?”

“Nope. Never met them before in my life. They’re Kurdish nomads. Shepherds. You’ll never meet kinder, more giving people. Best of all, they won’t have phones, TV, radio, or computers. They won’t have seen our pictures on the news. Given we’ve got about forty miles of walking ahead of us and need to refresh our supplies, I think we’d be wise to accept any charity they offer.”

She smiled, and her shoulders relaxed a bit. “So what’s our story?”

“It’s doubtful they speak English, so you don’t have to worry about memorizing a role. Odds are they’re Sunni Muslims. We’ll say we’re married and on vacation.” He cut a glance her way. “We’ll go with the honeymoon cover again. Everyone’s a sap for newlyweds.”

As they walked, he took her hand and threaded his fingers through hers. “This is how they would expect American newlyweds to walk.”

Her fingers tightened around his. “They wouldn’t be bothered by the public display of affection?”

“Hand-holding is common in the Arab world. Men hold men’s hands here as a sign of friendship. While a man holding a woman’s hand isn’t as common, we’re Americans, and even Kurdish nomads are familiar with Americans and our relaxed social mores. If we want to sell them on the fact that we’re married, we need to look like what they’d expect to see.”

She halted midstride, their entwined fingers forcing him to stop too. “So, you mean I can do this in front of our potential Kurdish hosts?” Cressida released his hand and slid her arms around his neck, then planted her lips on his. Her tongue invaded his mouth. Sweet, hot, and sexy as hell.

He cradled her face between his hands and slid his tongue over hers. This. He needed this. She gave him a taste of everything he’d given up for his career. Everything he could never have.

He ended the kiss before he completely forgot himself. If all went well with the nomads, not only would they have all night, they’d even have a bed.

“So is that a yes?” Cressida asked.

He shook his head, trying to remember what the hell they were talking about. Oh yeah, PDAs in the nomad camp. He cleared his throat. “Um. No. That would be a bad idea. In fact, you’ll probably be expected to hang out with the women and keep your hair covered.”

There’d been no need for her to wear her headscarf so far, but she’d kept it with her and pulled it out of the pack now and draped it over her hair. Ian arranged it into the proper drape.

Her wide mocha eyes caught the moonlight, and he held in a breath to even out the gut-clenching awareness that this was no ordinary attraction.

He took her hand and continued toward the campfire that beckoned. “I’ll tell them we’re here to visit my motherland—my mom was an ethnic Kurd. We ran out of gas when I got it in my head that it would be fun to go off road and explore. You’ll pout and show you’re annoyed with me for insisting on the dangerous adventure.”

They walked in companionable silence, the light of the fire growing brighter with each step. “So my handsome new husband led me astray on our rental bike. We were on our way to meet your cousins on our honeymoon to fulfill your granny’s dying wish.”

“I like that. Nice attention to detail, without being too elaborate.”

“Why did I agree to fulfill your granny’s wish on my one and only honeymoon?”

“I promised you a five-star hotel in Istanbul. And a Turkish bath. And to satisfy you in every way.”

Her breath hitched. “That would do it.” She squeezed his hand as they drew nearer the camp. “So. Am I mad at you for our predicament, or too infatuated to care?”

“With me as your husband? Infatuated. Obviously.”

He glanced sideways and caught her eye roll.

“I’m pretty sure it’s your fault,” he added. “You wanted to go off-road.”

“Please. A woman who wants a five-star hotel and sex isn’t going to beg to ride off-road on terrain likely to make you a soprano.”

“Sweetheart, there’s no need to worry in that department.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“I can’t wait.”

Her throaty chuckle sent a jolt of desire straight to his groin. In the midst of the most messed-up op ever, he was…
enjoying himself
. Huh. That was a first.

They approached the camp. Ian cradled her hand in both of his as he hailed the nomadic shepherds in their language and said a silent prayer that these people were exactly who they appeared to be.

He was sick to death of surprises and betrayal.

Chapter Twenty-Five

C
ressida’s heart pounded as they entered the camp. It was late. Dark. Four men sat around the fire. One held a drum, another a sitar—or something like it, Cressida wasn’t sure—and the soft music came to an abrupt stop when Ian hailed them.

She had no clue what Ian said, but his manner was congenial—very John, if she were to analyze him—and his tone upbeat. The men smiled and ate his John act up. Cressida was whisked off to join the women. As far as she could tell, this was a group of four or five families. The cluster of tents was more permanent than an overnight camp, but, as Ian had said, no electricity. No modern conveniences.

The women spoke rapidly, and Cressida couldn’t understand a word. But a plate of food was set before her, and after hours of walking, her appetite had returned. She thanked the women profusely for the warm, spicy meal. A few of the dishes were similar to foods she had tried in Van when she had dinner with John—a lifetime ago.

After the meal, the women presented her with a basin of heated water, and she realized they were offering her a bath. A cloth soaked with perfumed water was the most heavenly thing she’d ever smelled—until she was handed a homemade bar of soap with inclusions that looked like flower petals and herbs. Never in her life had she enjoyed the spicy, warm scent of soap as much as she did at that moment.

The women left her alone with hot water and the most precious bar of soap in the world, which she used to scrub her skin and work lather through her hair. When the women returned, they dressed her in a peasant blouse and skirt. Embroidered in the local custom, the cloth had to be valuable, and she protested. But the women didn’t understand, and she didn’t want to insult them. So she donned the clothing, tying the laces across the bodice. The cotton garments were clean, soft, and comfortable.

Fed, clean, and clothed, she was led to another tent—this one slightly farther from the others, and from their knowing glances and occasional giggles, she had a feeling she and Ian were being given special accommodations because they were on their honeymoon.

Unlike the goat-hair tent where she’d been fed and bathed, her new tent had tapestry walls. The main piece of furniture in the square room was a futon-like pallet. Beside it sat a low table surrounded by pillows. The floors were covered with elaborately woven kilims.

Beautiful and exotic on a normal occasion, after days on the run, the tent represented paradise. And she’d be sharing it with her…
husband
. They had stopped running, even if only for one night.

Now it was time for
her
to stop running and take what she wanted. It was time to pause and enjoy a moment of pleasure with Ian. After all, they could die tomorrow.

The women left her, and she sat on the pillows by the table and poured herself a cup of tea. Ian would join her soon. Her body heated at the thought of acting on the sexual current that had pushed her toward him from the moment she met his gaze across a crowded airport terminal. Of finally reaching the release that had coiled in her since they’d almost made love in the shower in Siirt.

She sipped her tea and waited.

And waited.

The tea turned cold. The music outside the tent continued. An hour passed. She stretched out on the futon. Her eyes felt heavy, and she couldn’t keep them open.

The music stopped sometime while she dozed. She woke up to silence and wondered where Ian was.

He wasn’t coming.

Maybe he’d left her. Maybe he’d tucked her safely away with these people she couldn’t communicate with. Maybe he was
gone
. He’d abandoned her…

Hurt and fear rocked her to the core.

How humiliating to be abandoned by her fake husband on her fake honeymoon, right before they were about to do some very real consummating.

The canvas curtain door shifted, and Ian entered the tent. Relief flooded her but didn’t eclipse the fear of abandonment that had struck with shocking speed. “Damn you!” she growled as she launched herself at him. She grabbed his shirt and pulled him to her, pressing against the chest she’d feared she’d never get to touch again.

“Did you miss me?” he asked.

She released his shirt. “No. Why would I?”

He smiled a devilish, carnal smile. “Because you want me.”

“Maybe I did, before you left me alone—
for hours
.”

He moved closer. “I was ingratiating myself with our host.” He shrugged. “Working. Protecting your ass.” He smiled and reached for the named body part.