Course of Action: Crossfire (16 page)

The balcony overlooked a crescent-shaped pool. Its water shimmered a dark turquoise in the subdued lighting, while statues at either end of the half moon tipped constant, lulling streams into the water. A lush garden surrounded the pool, with feathery palms silhouetted against the dark sky and a riot of night-blooming jasmine perfuming the air. And beyond the walled garden was the deep, dark cobalt of the Gulf of Oman.

Thoroughly enchanted, Riley stepped back inside and smiled at the patiently waiting maid.

“The gardens are beautiful.”

“Most beautiful,” she agreed. “Do you wish me to draw your bath, madam?”

“Yes, please!”

“I will do so, and while the tub fills I shall fetch something for you to eat.”

* * *

Propped against the sloping back of a monster marble tub, Riley thought she just might spend the night there. Rose-scented water bubbled through the jets and lapped gently at her sore, strained muscles. A platter of char-grilled kebabs, fresh fruit and cheeses sat within easy reach.

She'd unwrapped the filthy bandages on her wrists and soaked the ugly bruises before attacking the succulent kebabs. The first she'd devoured in three quick bites. The second more slowly, savoring each morsel of tender meat, roasted onions and sweet red peppers. She was washing a third down with fresh-squeezed orange juice when the maid tapped on the intricately carved teakwood screen that separated the tub from the rest of the vast bathroom.

“Madam?”

“Yes?”

“There is someone who wishes to see you,” she said, peering around the screen. “I told him you were unavailable but he wanted you to know that he is here.”

Riley's pulse leaped. Sloshing upright, she asked eagerly, “An American? Tall? Brown hair? Blue eyes?”

“And very handsome,” the maid added, her eyes twinkling. “He says he is your husband.”

Riley scrambled to her knees and reached for a towel. “Send him up!”

“He's already up,” a deep voice said from just behind the screen.

The maid backed away, and Pete took her place. With something between a groan and a laugh, Riley sank back into the tub.

“I should have known you wouldn't wait.”

“Yeah,” he agreed with a wicked smile. “You should've.”

He was filthy. Dried blood still stained his neck and wrists. Some kind of soot or camouflage paint streaked his face. Dust coated the uniform he'd dragged on aboard the chopper, and two day's worth of dark bristles sprouted on cheeks and chin. Yet his raw masculinity aroused her more than every wealthy, sophisticated George Clooney–type she'd met or been courted by in her meteoric career.

Mental images of the body under that filthy uniform aroused her even more. She lounged against the back of the tub, letting the bubbles lap over the slopes of her breasts. The sensual swirl teased her nipples. Heat gathered low in her belly. To cover her sudden, aching need she splashed the water surface with her palms.

“I heard Scarface is going to require extensive medical care.”

“He's alive.”

His careless shrug told Riley the man was probably on life support. She couldn't work up much sympathy.

“So...” Pete's hands went to the top button of his uniform shirt. His smile was slow and bone-melting. “Want some company?”

The heat in Riley's belly shot up another ten degrees. Her body screamed
yes
at the same time her head shouted
no, no, no!

Despite all they'd been through, she hardly knew this man. They exchanged maybe a dozen stilted words at Aly's wedding before fate threw them together for two terrifying nights and one long, harrowing day. They'd talked a little about his family, hers. He'd kissed her, what? Twice? Three times?

And each kiss had left her craving more. That simple fact banished every doubt. Smiling, she waggled her fingers.

“Come on in, the water's fine.”

He scraped a hand across his chin. “I should shave first.”

“Later.”

He didn't need a second invitation. His uniform shirt hit the marble tiles. The snake coiled around his biceps held her attention only until his pants and boots came off. He shed the mud-colored, thigh-hugging boxer-briefs with the same speed she'd shed her well-worn bikini briefs earlier.

Lord, he was fine! Riley sighed with delight and sank lower, thoroughly enjoying the view. Between drafty dressing rooms and quick costume changes, she'd seen her share of barrel-chested tenors, puffed-up baritones and cleverly padded basso profundos. There was nothing puffed or padded about Pete Winborne. The man was six-one or -two of contrasting tan lines, roped muscle, washboard abs and flat stomach.

Her heart was thrumming in her throat when he settled into the bubbling water facing her and crooked a finger. Electric with need, she floated across and slithered up his thighs and his stomach.

“This,” he growled, digging his hands into her hair, “is what got me through the past twenty-four hours.”

“This?”

She wiggled higher and locked her arms around his neck. Her voice dropped to a throaty contralto.

“Or this?”

She dragged his head down. His mouth was hard and hungry. His tongue danced with hers. Whiskers scraped her cheeks and chin. Callous hands roamed her hips, her waist, her breasts. She could feel him growing hard against her stomach. Feel her belly clench in eager response.

Giving in to that compelling need, she pulled herself up another few inches and straddled his thighs. She rocked in the water, her hips grazing his, her mound rubbing his erection. He grunted and clamped his hands on her hips.

“We'll have to be a little creative,” he warned with a crooked grin. “At least until I get my hands on some protection for you.”

She could feel him probing her center, feel the hot inner gush that answered him, and gasped an urgent assurance.

“We're okay. I've always taken care of that myself.”

She'd had to, since her mother had flatly refused to even discuss the possibility Riley might experience the same biological urges as any other sixteen-or seventeen-year-old. Meredith Fairchild had insisted her daughter focus entirely, exclusively, on her vocal training.

Her mother would be shocked to learn how that training was paying off now! Riley's voice coaches had stressed the importance of singing from her diaphragm. She could pull air into the very bottom of her lungs. Push it even deeper, using her abdominal muscles. Exhale slowly, deliberately.

She used every one of those techniques with Pete when she relaxed enough to let him slide slowly into her. His hot flesh stretched her, filled her, lodged deep. She could feel every hard, ridged inch of him. Then she breathed in, pushed down. Her stomach went concave. Her muscles contracted. She sheathed him, as tight as a fist.

Exhaled.

Breathed in.

Exhaled.

“Whoa!” His eyes widened. A look of astonished delight creased his whiskered cheeks. “That's some action you've got going there, Slim!”

She gave a trill of low, husky laughter. “Hang on, Cowboy. You ain't seen nothin' yet.”

* * *

She damned near blew off the top of Pete's head.

Propping her hands on his shoulders, she rocked his world. Literally. Her hips and thighs and belly moved with a skill that had him groaning and straining and shooting into her
way
sooner than he'd intended. His mind mush, he sank back against the marble.

“Give me a few minutes,” he begged, eyes closed.

She sat back on her haunches. He felt himself slide out of her, felt the weight of her on his thighs.

“How few is a few?”

“Ten.” He opened one eye, let his gaze linger on the pinkish-brown nipples tipping her small breasts. “Make that five.”

“Well,” she murmured seductively, “if you're sure that's all you need.”

She arched her back and lifted her wet, honey-colored mane with both arms. Pete's blood hadn't fully recirculated yet, but the glimpse of golden pubic hair just visible under the bubbling water was a call to arms.

“To hell with that! I'm good to go.”

He pushed upright, catching her off balance. She had to lurch forward and throw her arms around his shoulders to keep from tumbling backward into the still bubbling water.

He took full advantage of her awkward position. Locking one arm around her waist, he used the other to push up and out of the tub. The water sluicing down his legs made the marble tiles treacherous, but he got to the bedroom without landing on his ass.

“Pete!” Riley shifted in his arms and squawked a protest as he headed for the bed. “We're soaking wet!”

“So?”

“So that coverlet is silk! And the pillows! And... Oh!”

He dumped her atop the silk and spread her legs. He still hadn't shaved. Still hadn't rid himself of all the sand embedded in his skin. But he owed this incredible woman for the wild pleasure she'd just given him and he intended to make good on that debt.

 

Chapter 7

R
iley surfaced slowly from what felt like a dozen layers of fuzzy sleep. She had no idea what time she and Pete had finally run out of steam, but it had to have been close to dawn.

She stretched languidly, snaking her arms over her head with only a few aching protests in her shoulders, and blinked sleepily at the generous folds of sand-colored silk in the canopy above. A catlike smile tugged at her lips as she discovered a new set of aches. Most were related to the beard burn on her inner thighs.

“'Bout time you rejoined the living.”

Still sleepy, she turned to the sound of Pete's amused voice. He was leaning against the bedpost, arms crossed, a fluffy white towel draped low on his hips. His scruffy bristles were gone and drops of water glistened on his shoulders and bare chest. Riley feasted on the delicious sight for a moment before arching a brow.

“Did you take another swim in the tub? Without me?”

“No, ma'am. That tub is reserved for joint operations. I've been down at the pool, doing laps.”

“Where do you get your energy?” she groaned. “I can barely move.”

“Which,” he said with a grin as he crossed the room, “is why I let you sleep instead of rolling you over and initiating a second round of joint ops. But now that you're awake...”

“Hold it right there, Cowboy! Before you initiate anything I need to, uh, use the bucket.”

“You're going to like this one. It's got twenty-four-carat gold handles.”

“I seem to recall that from last night.” She started to slide out of bed, remembered she was naked. “Face to the wall. And don't cheat!”

Laughter crinkled the white lines at the corners his eyes. “I think I've pretty well seen everything there is to see.”

“You haven't seen it in the bright light of morning.”

“It's long past morning, Slim, but if you insist...”

He angled his head away. She didn't trust him, of course, and took the precaution of swathing herself in the sheet. To her delight, she discovered her suitcases had been retrieved from her hotel and now sat on beautifully carved luggage racks.

“So what time
is
it?” she asked as she snatched up clean underwear and one of the lightweight, three-quarter-sleeved, ankle-length, no-wrinkle dresses that had served her so well during this concert tour of predominantly Muslim countries.

“Fourteen thirty,” Pete replied, his face still turned away. Mostly.

“What's that in human time?”

“Two thirty.”

She stopped at the arched entry to the bathroom. “I slept through breakfast
and
lunch?”

“You did. I, on the other hand, had breakfast five hours ago. The staff said to call down when you woke and they'd fix us up with lunch.”

“Make the call! I'm starving.”

* * *

They ate on a vine-covered terrace with an unobstructed view across the harbor to Muscat's old city. A blue-domed mosque held place of honor amid flat-roofed shops and restaurants. The pristine white buildings hugged the sea, crowded against it by the craggy mountains separating them from the desert.

Two yachts were moored in the harbor, each flying a penant with the royal insignia of a curved dagger superimposed over crossed swords. Massive oil-storage tanks, the source of so much of Oman's wealth, dotted the hills beyond the port. A dozen or more supertankers rode the waves just outside the port, waiting their turn at the pumping stations. As if in counterpoint to all the modern wealth, several traditional wooden dhows sliced through the blue-green waters.

Riley had no interest in the harbor's colorful scene, however. After her first ravenous attack on the feast provided by the villa's chef, she gave Pete all her attention while he shared the details of Scarface's capture and the takedown of the rest of his cadre.

“What about the girl?” Riley asked when he finished. “She couldn't have been more than sixteen or seventeen.”

“Maybe not,” he agreed grimly, “but she was hanging with the wrong crowd. I doubt the kid will see the outside of a cell before her fiftieth birthday. The Omanis aren't likely to forgive an attack on their soil anytime soon. Especially one that almost took the life of a member of the royal family.”

“Did you get an update on Prince Malik's condition this morning?”

“He's no longer critical. It was touch-and-go for a while, though. He lost a lot of blood, first when Scarface chopped off his fingers, then from the bullet he took when we broke out.”

“If he's able to have visitors, I'd like to go to the hospital.”

“So would I.”

* * *

A chauffeured limo ferried them to the gleaming white hospital in the new section of Muscat. Once inside, Riley and Pete were escorted to a suite in a private wing reserved for the royal family. Instead of the usual antiseptic hospital smell, the elegant suite was fragrant with huge masses of flowers and a delicate scent of frankincense.

Prince Malik was propped up in bed. Tubes snaked from his arm to four different bags suspended from a metal stand. His dark eyes were dull with pain but lit up when his visitors were announced.

“Pete, my friend! And Ms. Fairchild!” His mouth twisted in a rueful smile. “How good to see you without a gun or a knife being aimed in our direction.”

He stretched out his uninjured arm. When Riley placed her hand in his, he brought it to his lips. “They have told me what you did. I owe you my life.”

Embarrassed, she gestured toward Pete. “I only followed his instructions. He's the one who got us all back alive.”

The prince nodded, his glance shifting to the man at her side. “That's what PJs do.”

“So I've heard.”

He grinned at the drawled comment and shared a glance with Pete.

There was that bond again, Riley thought. The one that connected comrades in arms. She marveled at its power and wondered if she would ever feel anything as strong and sure and unshakable.

She got her answer about three seconds later. All it took was an easy loop of Pete's arm around her shoulders to include her as part of his select circle.

“I'd say it was a pretty much a team effort. But speaking of PJs...”

She could hear the mingled regret and resolution in his voice. Her stomach sinking, she guessed what was coming.

“I need to get back to Thumrait. We should conduct one more hot extraction before we wind up the joint exercise.”

The prince forestalled her instinctive protest. “I've already contacted the TOC. The joint exercise was terminated as of this morning.”

The news didn't appear to thrill Pete. What followed pleased him even less.

“I also spoke to your commander back in the States. He's agreed to put you on indefinite detached duty so you may serve as senior adviser to the Omani Special Forces.”

“What?”

The arm lying across Riley's shoulders went hard and tight. She barely controlled a flinch as the prince continued.

“You will be paid by the Omani treasury, of course. We will also provide a villa and a substantial cost of living supplement.”

“I don't think so!”

Al Said hooked a brow but continued calmly. “You must allow me to do this, my friend. I owe you a debt of honor.”

Riley held her breath as Pete struggled to contain his anger at this high-handed rearrangement of his life and career. The prince made an obvious effort to defuse the tension.

“But think how this will benefit both your country and mine. Your president agrees this arrangement will greatly enhance joint US-Omani operations. My uncle spoke with him,” he added when Pete's brows took a quick dive. “Personally.”

The effort seemed to sap al Said's strength. He blew out a breath, his face going pale, and sank back against the bed.

“I'm afraid I must rest now. Please. Take a few days to think about this, my friend. It would be to your great advantage, and to ours.” His gaze drifted to Riley. “I should like to speak with you again, Ms. Fairchild. Perhaps tomorrow or the next day?”

“Of course.”

* * *

Pete was quiet during the return trip. Too quiet.

Waiting for them at the villa was an invitation from the sultan to join him for dinner at the palace that evening. Pete nodded when the majordomo relayed the message and wandered into the high-ceilinged living room. Arms crossed, legs spread, he stared through the arched windows at the gardens beyond.

Riley tossed her purse on one of the divans and leaned her hips against its back. “Do you want to talk about Prince Malik's offer?”

“No.” With a small shake of his head, he tempered his brusque tone. “Maybe later, okay? I need to process it first.”

“Okay. Soooo... We've got four hours to kill.” She waited a beat. Let her voice glide down a full octave. “What would you like to do instead?”

His glance cut sideways. Surprise and the beginning of a smile filled his blue eyes. “I guess we could go upstairs.”

“And?”

“Get naked.”

“And?”

“Oh, I don't know.” The smile was full and potent now. “See if we fit together as good dry as we did wet.”

* * *

Pete vowed to take it slow this time. He was determined to explore the slopes and hollows and sweet spots he'd been too fevered to attend to properly last night. But when he advised the majordomo that they didn't want to be disturbed and joined Riley upstairs, she surprised him again.

She was standing in the middle of the sumptuous bedroom, drinking in the gauzy silk and gold tassels. “This could be the stage setting for Rimsky-Korsakov's
Scheherazade
. Or Strauss's
Salome
. Have you ever seen either one performed?”

“I've never seen any opera.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Your concert would have been my first brush with it.”

“Oh.” She digested that for a long moment. “Well, I've never watched a football game, so I guess all things even out.”

Pete couldn't disguise his shock. “You're kidding!”

“No, and I haven't jumped out of a plane, either,” she retorted, laughing at his dumbfounded expression. “But you gave me a taste of mountain climbing, so I think it's only fair I give you a taste of opera.”

“Now?” He threw a quick glance at the bed. “I sort of had other ideas.”

“Go! Sit over there!” She pointed to the padded bench at the foot of the bed. “You're about to be treated to a private performance of Salome's ‘Dance of the Seven Veils.'”

Okay, that sounded intriguing. Pete took a seat as instructed while Riley tested the straw-colored silk of the bed canopy.

“This will work.”

Tugging down a length of the gauzy drape, she gathered an armful of spangled cushions and disappeared into the bath.

“The opera's plot is pretty complicated,” she called from the other room, “but basically boils down to lust, rejection and revenge. King Herod of Jerusalem is obsessed by Salome, who's been rejected by John the Baptist. In this scene, she entices the king to have John executed and his head brought to her on a silver platter.”

“Like in the Bible.”

“Exactly. Salome's a tough role for mezzo-sopranos.” The whir of zippers opening punctuated her comment. “The highest note is the high B5, which is within our range, but the lowest is a low G-flat 3.”

“Oooh-kay.”

“And the Dance of the Seven Veils is really difficult. Most divas will use a stand-in for the dance portion. Someone trained in classical ballet.” She paused, then continued. “Those of us who opt to perform it ourselves wear flesh-colored body suits under our veils, although a daring few have finished naked at Herod's feet.”

“This is sounding better and better.”

“Yes, I thought you'd like that part.”

Pete stuffed a cushion behind his back. His first foray into the operatic world was turning out to be more interesting than he would have imagined.

“Ready?” Riley called.

“Ready.”

“Okay, long drumroll first. Imagine timpanis building to a sensual beat, followed by a crash of cymbals. Da-da-dum, da-da-dum, da-dummmmm!”

On the last note, she whirled in from the other room and stopped dead. She'd draped the straw-colored silk bed curtain over her head, lower face and body. A tasseled gold cord was tied around her waist. Emptied cushion covers in a rainbow of spangled colors dangled from the cord. All Pete could see were her brown eyes. Alluring. Seductive. Enticing.

Slowly, sensually, she raised her arms above her head. Her eyes locked with his, she began to trill a tune with a vaguely Oriental air. The notes were high and thin, like the call of a flute. Her hips began to move. Slowly at first, matching the rhythm that seemed to float like a playful breeze on the air.

To his surprise, Pete found himself as mesmerized by the incredibly graceful movement of her hands as by the erotic sway of her hips...until the tempo kicked up and the spangles started flicking from side to side.

Her trills were still high and clear and liquid, but her movements quicker. She pivoted on one foot, hips swinging, and sent him a look over her shoulder that damned near drained every drop of blood from his head.

He didn't hesitate when she sashayed closer. Taking her up on the invitation in those twitching hips, he caught the end of a soft, satiny cushion cover and plucked it free.

She tossed her head. Danced away. Swayed back, offering him a second scrap of spangled silk. A third. A fourth. Pete wasn't sure how he finally got her down to the seventh and last layer without going into cardiac arrest.

The fat gold rope at her waist belted that final veil. Glittering tassels dangled from its ends. His throat dry and his blood pounding, he followed their hypnotizing sway as her hips kicked right, left, right. When her hands dropped to the knot at her waist, he knew exactly how King Herod must have felt. He'd never wanted any woman as much he wanted this one.