No Rules (12 page)

She walked to the door and didn’t give him another glance. Just left.

Donovan stood alone in the room. He wasn’t sure if he’d underestimated her experience, or inadvertently triggered a dormant libido waiting to break free. Either way, he’d handled it badly and he was suffering for it. His pulse still raced, his mouth still tasted her sweetness, and his cock still stood fully aroused, wondering what the hell had happened to all the fun. He wished he knew the answer.

…

Jess felt the jitters start in her hands, and by the time she hit the main floor she had to lean against the banister to support her shaking legs. God, what had possessed her? Did she really just tell a man she’d intended to fuck his brains out? And not any man, but the most scary-desirable man she’d ever met.

The horror got worse: not only had she said it, she’d meant it. If she hadn’t already had every inoculation under the sun, she’d wonder if she’d come down with something.

Jess didn’t talk like that. She didn’t
do
that, that thing she’d almost done, falling to the floor with some man she barely knew and getting seriously, wildly intimate. Maybe Donovan did; he seemed like the kind of guy who would. And yet, he’d been the one to call a halt, not her. Why?

His stumbling explanation had been that he’d kissed her despite knowing Wally wouldn’t care for it. But he’d expected her to react differently. Meaning, he’d expected something other than the eager response he’d gotten.

She considered the puzzling situation of a man laying such a devouring kiss on a woman in hope of a negative reaction. She didn’t understand it. But they were in agreement on one thing—she would have expected a different reaction from her, too. Anger maybe, or intimidation. An indignant slap on the face wouldn’t be out of the question. Anything but the hot surrender that had melted through her, leaving her ready to, oh my God, fuck his brains out.

She wasn’t even sure how that particular act was done, but in that moment she’d felt sure she could do it. Incredible. Dr. Epstein would be astounded.

She would have been embarrassed by her actions, except for one thing—Donovan quite obviously wanted the same thing. A man couldn’t hide that kind of desire, and his had nudged hard and insistent against her stomach. Despite what he’d said, he hadn’t wanted to stop. And neither had she.

Jess’s legs stopped trembling. Tyler Donovan might be out of her league, but years of therapy had convinced her that her safety-obsessed, sheltered life had to end. She needed to take a few risks. She couldn’t think of a more desirable risk than Donovan.

Chapter Eight

Wanting Donovan and feeling kindly disposed toward him were two different things. He’d annoyed her. Jess knew the tension between them must be obvious, but didn’t care.

At least he couldn’t complain about her luggage this time. Kyle and Avery assured her that three pieces was barely sufficient for a woman of her standing and added a garment bag for good measure. Donovan scowled but didn’t argue. Mitch suggested carrying a small dog might be a nice touch, then laughed and ducked as Donovan cuffed his head.

Evan wished her luck and handed her a passport. “Familiarize yourself with it in case an official questions you.”

It looked slightly used. Jess opened the dark blue cover to find she’d become Suzanne Hassan from Dallas, Texas. Several pages were already stamped with the names of various European cities. “I get around,” she said.

“That’s just the last eighteen months, using major cities I thought you could fake some knowledge of if anyone asked.” At her look of alarm, he added, “They probably won’t ask; we bribe officials whenever possible to let us through with a minimum of hassle, but it’s my job to plan for every eventuality. Just make sure you know where you’ve been.”

“I can do that.”

“And that you have something to say about it,” Donovan added. “Customs might ask idle questions that don’t seem to matter, but do.” He took the passport from her hand and flipped through it. “For instance, how did you like London?”

How would she know? She’d never been out of the United States. She thought about shows she’d watched on the travel channel. “The underground was surprisingly clean and easy to use.” She was proud of herself for getting the terminology right.

Donovan shook his head. “You’re wealthy, used to first-class travel; you don’t even know where the tube stations are. You spent most of your time shopping in Harrods and entertaining in your rooms at the Milestone Hotel.”

She tightened her lips at the correction, and made a point to memorize the details he’d mentioned. “Okay.”

“How was Paris?”

She was afraid to mangle the pronunciation of most places that came to mind. “Marvelous, I discovered a new designer and ordered several outfits.”

He smiled his approval. “Better.” Turning pages, he raised an eyebrow at Evan. “Prague? Really?”

“It’s very international,” he claimed. “She can fake it.”

They both gave her a doubtful look.

No, she couldn’t. “Uh, I was sick and stayed in the hotel most of the time. I hope to go back someday and see the city.”

Evan smiled. “There you go.”

Donovan tucked the passport in a holder next to his own. “I’ll carry it for you. You don’t have to bother with official stuff.”

“I beg your pardon, aren’t I supposed to be an independent American woman?”

“Married to a wealthy Muslim man and traveling in his country. You are pampered and looked after like the valuable jewel you are.” He stated it as an impersonal fact.

So that’s how he was going to play it after their steamy kiss? “Fine, I can be a pampered jewel. My bags are in the foyer.” She turned on her heel and started for the car.

Mitch snickered as she left and she heard him ask, “What’d you do to piss her off?” If Donovan answered she didn’t hear it, but she imagined his sour expression and smiled.

…

The plane they boarded at Midway airport was larger than the last one, but just as anonymous. A flight attendant named Brian welcomed them aboard, then busied himself in the galley after takeoff as the cabin lights dimmed and the team settled onto the fully reclining seats, prepared to sleep most of the trip. Jess watched enviously as Kyle and Mitch dropped off within minutes. Behind her, Donovan knelt beside Avery’s reclined seat, their voices pitched too low for her to hear.

Takeoff had been smooth, and they reached cruising altitude without so much as a shimmy or bump. Jess kept waiting for the stomach-plunging drop from the sky that she knew was coming. She dug her fingernails into her armrests, popped a Xanax along with her Dramamine, and wondered if she should ask Brian for a glass of wine to go with it. Despite it being close to midnight, she was far too tense to shut down and didn’t have the military conditioning that might have allowed her to fall asleep quickly. What she did have was an entrenched set of fears and anxieties to go with her new ones, the ones the Omega Group had instilled when they’d hijacked her for this mission. Worries about what she’d encounter rolled through her mind in a never-ending convoy of insecurities—strange customs, foreign foods, plus four team members and two innocent victims who were depending on her for information she might never be able to provide. Hell, she could make a mistake in the first day—say the wrong thing, misidentify the stupid vase they’d all focused on—and blow the whole mission to bits. It was nerve-racking. Insane.

She had questions—so many questions—and a desperate need to take her mind off half a million pounds of metal suspended in the air. She needed to make a list.

She was digging through her purse for a pen when a familiar voice rumbled over her frazzled nerves, penetrating like deep-heating liniment. “You need to get some sleep now,” Donovan said, leaning close beside her. Warm tingles zipped through her body, responding to his voice despite her annoyance with him. Damn him.

“I’m going to make a list of questions, things I need to know. I’m not prepared for this trip at all.”

“You’ll get a chance to do that later. Sleep now. I’ll wake you when we refuel in Paris, and you’ll have a few hours to go over your concerns and our plans.”

Sleep on an airplane. He had no idea how ridiculous that suggestion was, so she didn’t even address it. “I can’t relax without some answers. You all seem to think I’ll get to Luxor and tour a few museums or something, and presto, I’ll figure out where the hostages are. But I can’t do that.”

“Calm down. We know that, Jess.”

“No, I’m not sure you do. I can’t just jump into your mission without knowing anything about the situation or the city or what you expect me to do, and I certainly can’t relax until I have a plan of action.” Once she got started, concerns piled on top of each other, faster than she could say them. “For instance, where did my father go when he was there, and who did he talk to? Do you know? Because that might help me figure out what he was thinking.”

Behind her, Avery punched a pillow and turned over in her seat, an obvious hint that they were making too much noise. Jess lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. “Also, is it safe to eat the fresh fruits and vegetables? I grabbed a jar of peanut butter from the kitchen, but I didn’t bring any vitamin supplements and I don’t want to compromise my health by not eating properly, and who knows what strange bacteria might be in the local produce?”

“Jess.” He said it firmly, cutting off her next comment. “You can ask everything later, and I’ll do my best to answer. Some things you’ll just have to figure out as you go.”

That was exactly what she didn’t want to hear. As her eyes widened in alarm, he held up one hand while rubbing his forehead with the other. “Forget that. I’ll find an answer for everything if it kills me.”

That was only marginally better since she wasn’t sure he took her fears seriously. “I don’t like being unprepared,” she said defensively. “As a professional whatever-you-are, you should appreciate that.”

“I understand. But the first and best preparation is to get some sleep.” When she started to protest that simplistic answer, he shushed her forcefully. “No arguments. Pretend you’re at home in bed. Close your eyes and go to sleep. It’s that simple.”

“Not if you have insomnia.” And a few hundred anxieties to go with it.

He looked like he might like to choke her to sleep, but asked with strained patience, “What exactly do you need to relax you enough to fall asleep?”

For one second she recalled the bone-melting languor that had hit her when he’d backed her into the dresser and kissed her until her head spun. That might work. But she couldn’t say that. “Ambien?”

“Sorry.”

She sighed. He sighed. Finally, he said, “Look, if you’re going to be awake, I want you to do something for me. Think about that ancient vase Wally mentioned. What era would it be from? What would it look like? What shape, what size? There must be typical styles from different dynasties, or whatever they’re called.”

“Not so much. Just a different pharaoh’s cartouche.”

“There you go. Think about that. Whose name might be on it? I want you to work on that problem, even if it takes hours. The vase is important.”

“Then I should make notes.”

“No, no writing. Do it in your head. It’s an exercise in freethinking. It helps you tap into the subconscious to get answers.”

Bullshit
, she thought. But she did enjoy a mental challenge. It had been a long time since the good days she and her dad had shared, back before he’d been taken hostage, when her mother’s psychoses were under control and her world had been a simple, happy place. She laid her chair back and, to humor him, closed her eyes. It wouldn’t cause her to fall asleep, but it would give her something soothing to occupy her mind for the six hours or so until she was allowed to pepper Donovan with the more important questions.

Making herself comfortable, she imagined her father’s small study at home, redolent of cigar smoke and musty, old books. And her father’s kind smile as he listened to her questions and wove stories for her of the ancient pharaohs and their queens. Time fell away and she was ten years old again, entranced by stories of people who’d lived four thousand years ago.

She woke to brilliant sunlight pouring through the window and the smell of jet fuel. Amazed, she sat up and leaned forward, blinking at the busy sight outside the window of planes taxiing and baggage cars weaving past them.

Paris. Time for her crash course in Egyptian culture.

…

“It’s simple,” Donovan insisted. “You wear the appropriate clothes, and you only have to talk to me.”

He pushed aside the remains of the breakfast the ultraefficient Brian had served them once they were back in the air, en route for Cairo. Brian had even slipped her another Dramamine with a mimosa and a wink. She had an immediate crush on him.

“The scenario is, you’re spending a couple days sightseeing and shopping while your rich, important husband takes care of business in Cairo. No one will question that. I’ll do the talking to anyone else, and take you wherever you need to go, whether it’s a museum or a bookstore or a tour of the tombs.”

There was no way it was that easy. It also didn’t address many of her concerns. But first things first. “Why did you say those three places, a museum, bookstore, and the tombs?”

“I’ve been thinking about Wally’s story. The whole point is to tell us where the hostages are being held, right? And he insisted on including an old vase, which means the vase is an important clue to where they are. I figure the best places to find an old vase in Luxor are the tombs or a museum. Outside possibility—a bookstore, because you write books, and maybe we’re talking about some famous photo in an old book, or something. I don’t know. Figuring that out is your job.”

“Sure,” she said drily. “Simple.”

“I have faith in you.”

“How could you possibly?”

His steady gaze held hers. “Wally did. That’s all I need to know.”

It stopped her cold. The father she barely knew and hadn’t seen in fifteen years had trusted her enough to put the lives of two strangers in her hands. He had faith she’d solve his riddle. That alone was staggering. That Donovan thought so highly of her father he didn’t question that trust, not even after hearing her own doubts, was more than she could fathom. She couldn’t imagine having that much faith in someone.

People broke promises. They misjudged. They changed their minds. Her father had done it when he’d deserted her. Of course, learning that her mother had insisted he stay away had tossed a big wrench in her neat little theory. She couldn’t blame everything on him anymore. Also that Wally had feared for her safety if it were known he had a daughter—she hadn’t realized that. It complicated the story, messing up the pigeonholes she’d created in her mind for everything that had happened. The divorce, her father’s promise to stay in touch, his disappearance from her life, and the resulting trauma that Dr. Epstein said was responsible for her inability to trust men, to let go of her inhibitions. Even sexually. It messed up all the truths she’d been trying to live with.

What was she supposed to do about that?

She must have been staring. Donovan looked at her expectantly. “Jess? Did you have more questions?”

She returned to her current situation with a mental jerk. “Yes. What’s an
abaya
?”

“It’s that robe-like covering Muslim women wear, usually black. I’m sure Avery packed a couple for you.”

“Yes, she did. What do I wear under it?”

“Uh…”

“And is a
hijab
that thing that goes on the head? How do I put that on? When can I take it off? Can I wear sunglasses?” He opened his mouth to reply, but she’d tapped into her mental list, the one he’d asked her not to write down, and she kept reciting it. “Is the water safe to drink? How about eating the food? Can I get organic produce? If a man speaks to me, can I answer, or do I have to defer to you? How about another woman? What if they ask me my husband’s name and what he does? I should know, just in case.”

“Uh, yeah. You can be vague. Make up a common name, like Ahmed. Tell them he’s a businessman and has investments in many properties.”