A shadow fell across the table.
She glanced up, expecting to see Bayani with a pitcher to refill her water glass. Instead, she found herself looking up at two big men with heavy mustaches. Both appeared to be in their late forties or early fifties, their dark hair graying, their faces ruddy from sunburn and too much alcohol. One wore a blue short-sleeved shirt with black slacks and a black striped tie, the other a gray suit.
“You are Laura Nilsson.” The one in the suit held out his hand, his accent distinctly Russian.
Why did people think that because they recognized someone, they had a right to intrude on that person’s space?
Irritated but not wanting to be rude, Laura shook the man’s beefy hand. She spoke some Russian, but opted for English, afraid that speaking their language would only encourage them. “I’m sorry, but I’m working and not—”
“Yuri,” the other one said, interrupting her and extending his hand as well. “I always watch you in the TV when I am in America.”
She stood, shook his hand, too. “It’s nice to meet you both, but I’m afraid I don’t have time to talk now. I’d like to be left alone to—”
“You are very brave woman.” Yuri pointed to his companion. “Nikolai and I are petroleum engineers working on the big oil project here. We come from Russia.”
No kidding.
Nikolai sat, an aggressive gesture. “Maybe you want to know more about our project, report on it for your news?”
They weren’t taking the hint.
Laura looked for Bayani, saw that he was on the other side of the room. All she had to do was get his attention, and the men would be escorted out of the restaurant. If they caused a scene, they’d be arrested and deported.
She tried to keep things civil. “I’m sorry, but that’s not the kind of news I cover. I would like to have a quiet dinner, so I’m asking you to leave.”
“We join you, maybe buy you a drink?” Yuri started to pull out a chair.
A hand shot out of nowhere and held the chair in place.
“The lady asked you to leave.”
It was
him
.
Laura had noticed him the moment she’d walked in and had taken more than one covert glance. He stood out in a room full of men in suits—and not just because he was so tall. He was dressed differently, too, wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, the black cotton stretching over the muscles of his chest. His skin and eyes were brown, his dark hair cut short. He had high cheekbones, full lips, and a square jaw, the combination both masculine and exotic. She’d guessed he was from Latin America, perhaps Brazilian, but his accent told her he was from the States. Given his physique, she was pretty sure he was military—or an operative from a private security contractor.
Now he stood between her and Yuri, his expression hard.
Was he trying to
rescue
her?
She fought not to roll her eyes.
Men.
Not wanting this to escalate into chest-thumping and head-butting, she did her best to smooth over the situation. “They were just leaving.”
Nikolai got to his feet, he and Yuri glaring at the man. “Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m the one who’s going to kick your ass unless you do what the lady asks.”
So they’d reached chest-thumping already.
Helvete!
Damn!
Laura found herself holding her breath, hoping Nikolai and Yuri weren’t so drunk and stupid as to start a brawl and get themselves or someone else hurt. They could all end up in jail on any number of charges—drinking alcohol, disturbing the peace, disrupting a place of business. An arrest would almost certainly lead to deportation, maybe even prison time. And that would have a devastating impact on Laura’s career.
Dubai was a nation of contradictions and illusions where everything was permitted, but nothing was legal. You could order alcohol, but if you got into trouble, you’d end up in jail for drinking it. You could walk around wearing the same clothes you’d wear at home, but if someone complained that you were dressed immodestly, you might be deported. Women could work and move freely throughout the city, but if they were raped and reported it, they—not the rapist—would likely go to jail for it. The difference between enjoying a peaceful stay and being arrested and deported sometimes came down to a single interaction with police.
She flew through Dubai a half-dozen times a year, the emirate serving as a kind of staging area for trips to Iraq, Pakistan, and Afghanistan. If she were deported and barred from re-entering, it would be very hard to do her job. She’d fought like hell to get where she was today, and she wasn’t going to let anything destroy what she’d accomplished—certainly not a couple of drunk Russians or some guy with a hero complex.
Laura watched Yuri’s face turn red, saw Nikolai’s nostrils flare.
Beside her, Mr. Chivalry hadn’t budged, but there was a tension about him that told her he was more than ready to take both men down.
Nikolai tossed back the last of his drink, glanced over his shoulder, and seemed to remember where he was. He spoke to Yuri in Russian. “Come. We don’t want to cause a scene. This bitch isn’t worth it. We don’t want to be deported.”
Still visibly angry, the two men turned and walked away.
Laura let out a breath, then looked up at her rescuer, tension turning to irritation. “You didn’t need to intervene. I didn’t need your help. What if you had provoked a fight? You’d have ended up in a Dubai jail.”
“I’ve been in worse places.” He held out a hand. “Javier Corbray. And you’re welcome, Ms. Nilsson.”
So he had recognized her.
Laura looked into his eyes, awareness arcing between them as she took his hand and repeated his name. “Javier Corbray.”
They stood there for a moment, he still holding her hand, she not drawing it away.
“I guess I’ll let you get back to work.” He gave her a nod, released her hand, and turned to walk back to his table.
Laura suddenly felt like a jerk. No, she hadn’t needed him to save her, but he hadn’t known that. He’d intervened believing he was truly helping her—and he’d apparently done so without expecting anything in return. If he’d been trying to hit on her, he wouldn’t be halfway back to his table now.
“So that’s it? You’re just going to rescue me and go?”
CHAPTER TWO
Some part of Javier couldn’t believe it. He was sitting in an upscale hotel restaurant in Dubai City having a conversation with Laura Nilsson.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Those dimples in her cheeks when she smiled. The soft curve of her lips. The column of her throat. The play of light on her silky blond hair. Those perfect blue eyes. Hell, she even smelled good—clean, soft, sweet. He wanted to take her up to his room, lift that black dress over her head, and spend hours exploring every inch of her body.
How could he ever have thought her anything but beautiful?
Clearly he’d been an idiot.
“What made you decide to become a TV journalist?” Given the X-rated ideas chasing through his mind, he was surprised his brain was functioning enough for him to keep up with the conversation. But in truth, she was easy to talk to, not at all the Valkyrie he’d imagined she would be.
She smiled as she answered. “When I was thirteen, there was a fire in the building across the street. Swedish TV sent a reporter. I watched as she interviewed the families. Most of them had lost everything. She was moved to tears by a little boy who was sobbing about the kitten his parents hadn’t been able to save. But when she went on the air, she was so calm and professional. She made everyone else in the country care about what had happened to those people. I decided that night I wanted to be like her, to share people’s stories with the world and make them care.”
Javier found himself hanging on her every word.
You want her.
Hell, yeah, he did. What man wouldn’t?
Did she want him?
Why in the hell was he asking himself that question?
Dubai was not the place for a quick fling unless he wanted to risk flogging and a stint in jail, not to mention a demotion in rank when he got out. Creating an international incident by fucking around was not what his commander expected of him. Besides, a woman like Laura probably wanted some kind of commitment, and Javier wasn’t interested in a relationship.
Sex? Yeah. Strings? Nah, man. It just wasn’t for him.
He’d learned the hard way that SEALs and long-term relationships did not go together. “You grew up in Sweden?”
“I have dual citizenship.” Her fingers traced a distracting line up and down the moist stem of her wine glass. “What about you? You haven’t told me what you do.”
He grinned. “No, I haven’t.”
And he wouldn’t.
He took OPSEC—operational security—seriously. He never shared the fact that he was a special operator with people who didn’t need to know, and he sure as hell wouldn’t talk about it in public when his country was at war.
When he said nothing more, her sweet mouth went pouty. “All right then, keep your secrets.”
Realizing what she might be thinking and not wanting to come across as some creep, he reached out and almost took her hand before he remembered where they were. The Naval Special Warfare travel advisory on Dubai warned service members to avoid so much as touching people of the opposite sex in public, apart from a simple handshake.
He rested his hand on the table close to hers. “I’m not dangerous.”
One blond eyebrow arched.
Okay, so threatening those two Russians made what he’d just said seem like a lie.
He leaned closer. “I’m not a danger to
you
.”
Her lips curved in a slow smile that made his blood ignite. “Oh, I don’t believe that for a second.”
What was it about men who gave off that “don’t fuck with me” vibe that made Laura want to do just that?
“You didn’t like Jumeirah Beach?” For a man who’d come to Dubai City to see the sights, he didn’t seem very impressed.
“Nah, not really.” He raised his beer mug and finished the glass, Laura’s gaze drawn first to his flexing bicep, then to his moist lips. “Growing up, I spent summers at my grandmother’s place in Humacao. You want to see a beach, come to Puerto Rico.”
So he was Puerto Rican—probably a mix of Taíno Indian, African, and Spanish.
“I’m sure it’s beautiful.”
He nodded, smiled, looking into her eyes. “A lover’s paradise.”
A bolt of heat shot through her belly, her pulse skipping.
He made the words sound erotic, pronouncing every syllable slowly, the warmth in his eyes signaling that he wanted her as much as she wanted him.
Surprised by the intensity of her own physical reaction, she raised her glass to her lips, only to find it empty.
“Let me buy you another.”
She set the glass down. “I’d like that. Thanks.”
She watched as he made his way through the crowded restaurant toward the bar to get another glass of wine for her and another beer for himself, his perfect, muscular ass shifting beneath the denim of his jeans as he walked, his movements sleek, confident. People stepped aside for him, as if they knew instinctively that they shouldn’t cross him.
But he wasn’t arrogant. Most men who were ripped and sexy like Javier had egos to match, standing at the center of their own vain little worlds. But Javier hadn’t shown a hint of swagger. Instead, he’d asked her a half-dozen questions about her job, seeming genuinely interested in her answers. He even knew about some of her bigger stories—her exposé on the Pentagon’s failure to supply soldiers with body armor, her investigation into the group of servicemen who’d been running a protection racket in Baghdad. She sensed something deeper in Javier, something that went beyond his good looks and charm, something real.
God, he turned her on.
From the moment he’d sat at her table, her mind had begun spinning sexual fantasies of the two of them together. Everything about him seemed to draw her in—his smooth skin, his voice, the stubble on his square jaw, his clean scent, those full lips. What would they feel like when he kissed her, tasted her, went down on her?
The very thought made her wet.
She’d always been careful about the men she allowed into her bed, sometimes going months and even years between lovers. Her job put her in the public eye, and the last thing she wanted was to leave a trail of men who would watch the news, point to her, and say to their buddies, “Yeah, I slept with her. I fucked the Baghdad Babe.”
Her career didn’t leave a lot of time for men, anyway. She had dreams of one day being a news anchor or perhaps even hosting an evening news program. She had no desire to get married, settle down, and have kids, and that meant she needed to steer clear of men who might mistake her interest for something more than sexual.
She watched as he paid for the drinks and then started back toward the table, another glass of chardonnay in one hand, a mug of beer in the other.
Would he be good in bed?
Pondering that question made her ache inside.
Oh, yes, he would be.
She couldn’t say what made her so sure of that. Maybe it was the way he paid attention to every word she said. Maybe it was the way he moved, so in control of his own body. Maybe it was the heat in his eyes when he looked at her. But she had a feeling that if she ended up in bed with him, he would make it well worth her while.
She crossed her legs, squeezed, trying to appease the ache, but that only made it worse, the feeling of arousal between her thighs impossible to ignore.
Pull it together, Nilsson.
Of course, there was no way for them to hook up—not here. Unmarried sex was illegal in Dubai. It was even illegal for unrelated men and women to be alone together. They couldn’t just get into the elevator, head to her room, and get it on. If they were caught, they’d go to jail, maybe even be flogged.
And wouldn’t that make for a nice news teaser?
Laura Nilsson arrested in Dubai for illicit sex with man she barely knew. Hormones to blame. Film at eleven.
She ran the words through her mind and found herself wondering again what Javier did for a living. Was he Delta Force? An Army Ranger? A Green Beret?