Ricardo (The Santiago Brothers Book Three) (8 page)

Ric searched her face for any sign that perhaps she held the answer to his questions. “He didn’t believe we were still here.”

Mel shook her head, her brows meshing. “I don’t understand.”

“He thought after I asked for you that I got you out of here. Like it was some sort of rescue attempt.”

“Rescue attempt?”

“He believed I had knowledge of your kidnapping and that’s why I was so eager to have you.”

“But you didn’t know. Why would he think you’d know?”

Ric remained silent, wondering the exact same thing. Perhaps his lack of objection to Hassan’s earlier claim that he hadn’t had a woman in quite a while wasn’t as convincing a reason as Ric had hoped it would be. Abdul heard Hassan’s command: he’d receive the woman after a few days.
What’s his hurry?

He doesn’t treat the women kindly.

Faruq’s words sickened him. Had he mistreated Mel? Ric offered his hand to her and she accepted it. When she was on her feet, she attempted to pull away but he held her hand fast. Her curious eyes met his. “Did he hurt you?” he whispered softly. Hakeem cleared his throat and left the tent. Mel’s appalled stare didn’t dissuade him from asking her again. “I know it’s a personal thing to ask, but I’ve heard he can be…brutal.”

“No, he didn’t,” she said, her voice faint.

She avoided eye contact, but her hand now clutched his.
She’s hiding something.
“You can tell me.” Her eyes snapped to his. “Whatever happened…you can tell me.”

A strange mixture of emotions crossed her features. Confusion, pain, uncertainty. All of them quickly emerged and with the shadow in her eyes, faded almost as swiftly. “I’m
fine
. He didn’t hurt me.”

“Okay.” He believed she wasn’t telling the whole truth.

“Why did you kiss me?”

Ric cocked an eyebrow. “I needed to be kissing you to show them how preoccupied I am with quenching my thirst.”

“Your thirst?”

He smirked. “The men think it’s been a long time since…”

“Got it.” She tugged her hand from his and sat back down at the table to busy herself with her breakfast. “I think I want to eat some more food.”

Ric resisted smiling at her. She wouldn’t have seen it anyway because she was working hard to keep her gaze on her plate. “You’re quite a kisser.”

She choked on whatever piece of fruit she was eating. Ric rushed to assist her, but she held her hands up for him to stop. She drained the water from her bottle until it was half-empty, beat her chest with her fist, and released a few deep coughs. “I’m fine,” she said in a raspy voice.

“Hakeem!” Hakeem entered the tent. “Thanks for waiting. Stay with Mel.” Ric snatched a headscarf from the back of one of the chairs and wrapped it around his head.

“What are you going to do?” Hakeem asked.

Ric finished securing the scarf. “I’m going to see the sheik. Abdul is accusing me of being an American spy.” He eyed Mel, whose concern for him was clearly visible on her face. “Now I know Abdul is targeting me. It probably has something to do with you, and we need to know why.” A pair of dark shades was on the table and Ric slipped them on. “Keep her here, Hakeem. Use force if you have to.”

He wasn’t going to be able to forget it. In fact, he wasn’t going to be able to get it out of his mind in the foreseeable future. The kisses he shared with Mel were fantastic. Her excited gasp almost made him forget why he started the kiss, and her eagerness nearly undid his restraint. His chest was still in pain as, his heart had in vain to break through, although it nearly succeeded.

Leave it alone, Ric.

Yet, there was something about the way her lips molded to his that told him forgetting about the dark beauty in his tent wasn’t going to be easy. Her entire body had trembled beneath his; her hands pushed into his pectorals as if she tried to force him away, but there wasn’t any real show of resistance behind the action. Instead, when he had opened her mouth, the sigh that had escaped her lips was one of pleasure, not disgust. The sound had tightened every muscle in his abdomen, and Abdul’s squeaky voice had faded beneath the pounding of the blood in his ears.

What am I supposed to do with her?

He only planned to be at the oasis for a few days, no more. The intel from the analysts back at command had given this fact-finding mission a small window of opportunity. Whatever he could discover about the terrorists would be vital in thwarting the attack on the American Embassy. He just didn’t anticipate anyone frustrating his plans. First Mel, and now Abdul.

What did I do to make him think I’m a spy?

Other than show an eagerness to have Mel all to himself.

So where did that leave Mel?

Now he’d have to protect her. Not just from those working in the facilitation of the attackers, but from…Abdul? The sheik’s lackey seemed peculiarly interested in the woman and it couldn’t just be because she bared a striking resemblance to Hassan’s dead wife, Fatima.

There has to be more to this
. Ric trudged through the sand to Hassan’s tent. The heat of the afternoon sun had already singed his clothes, and they burned against his skin. Abdul’s decision to bring her here was wildly inappropriate — and hazardous. Hassan dealt in international commerce. Legitimate international commerce. If word spread he’d been a part of a kidnapping of an American citizen, he’d lose foreign investments and relationships, not to mention his life if a Special Forces hostage rescue attempt was sanctioned before Ric had an opportunity to get her to safety. Coupled with the knowledge that Hassan was a source for the agency, the amount of scrutiny he’d receive not only at home, but also from abroad, would put his life and the lives of his family in danger from America’s enemies.

What was Abdul thinking?

He’d have to figure that out while he was out here, but that would be a back-burner issue. First, he’d keep Mel out of sight and second, he’d confirm exactly who intended to blow up the embassy. Besides, Mel’s kidnapping could be nothing more than just Abdul trying to please his master. But with Abdul, Ric couldn’t be sure.

Ric waited until his name was announced before he entered Hassan’s tent. Hassan’s girth tumbled over the array of pillows he lounged on in the center of the tent. To the man’s right sat several elevated trays of fine cuisine and native dishes, and to his left, a bottle of chilled wine in a bucket of ice.

The man had grown grotesquely fat since his wife’s passing. People often grieve in different ways, most eventually coming to terms with the natural course of life, but Hassan had chosen to feed and had gained an astounding number of pounds in a few short months.

“Come in, my friend.”

Ric stepped forward, his eyes trained on the unbelievable number of pastries Hassan jammed his right hand into.

“What are you doing?” Hassan waved Ric forward with his left hand. “Come. Join me on the cushions. Would you like some wine? Are you hungry?”

Not anymore.
Ric couldn’t drag his eyes away from Hassan’s hand. Jelled food ran down his fingers as he fisted the rest into his mouth. The biscuit he managed to grab early this morning before joining Hassan and his team of advisors for a financial meeting had long since digested into fuel his muscles had eagerly expended. Unable to continue standing unless he wanted to appear rude, Ric settled on the edge of the pile of pillows, refusing Hassan’s offer of both the food and the wine. Food he could get later and the wine he’d only accept when absolutely necessary. The answers he needed lay within Hassan’s knowledge of the surrounding trade routes and personalities. Questioning a source was a delicate matter. He’d be no good to the mission inebriated.

And Hassan could drink anyone under the table.

“What are you doing here, my friend?” Hassan’s lips smacked as he chewed on a bushel of grapes. “I’d thought you’d be enjoying the beauty Abdul brought me. She is as lovely as my dear Fatima. Does she not please you already? It has barely been twenty-four hours—”

“No, Hassan. She’s…” She’s what? Beautiful? Afraid? Someone he couldn’t very well get to know? Attachments — the romantic kind — were highly discouraged in his line of work. In fact, not counting the occasional coitus affairs, relationships with the opposite sex were unsanctioned, unless you wanted to be pulled out of the field and placed behind a desk.

A desk.

The thought rocketed shivers of fear down Ric’s spine. He was a field agent. He’d worked hard — trained hard — for this job and nothing in the world made more sense than for him to be out here in the thick of the war against terrorism. Innocent lives were constantly threatened, freedom forever at risk, especially in certain areas where people were oppressed to the point of enslavement by their dictatorial governments. Whatever he could do to aid his country and that of his allies in the fight, he’d gladly make that sacrifice.

“Already so deep in love, are you my friend? Can you not even describe her beauty to me?” Hassan eyed him curiously.

He couldn’t deny a connection with the woman. After their conversation last night, he’d spent hours asking himself why he was so eager to share personal information with her. Once she revealed her association with Ale, Ric dropped his guard just a little bit.

Ric ignored the perspiration that seeped into the shirt from beneath his armpits and the heat that scorched his neck. Instead, he chose to concentrate all his might on pouring himself a glass of wine without sloshing the drink.

“Ah, so you have not poured your seed into her.”

Steady. Steady.
Ric recited his mantra as he slowly lifted the glass to his lips.

“Do not tell me something is wrong. How can you be happy if you cannot bed her?”

His cheeks were in flames. Ric emptied the half-full glass of wine in two gulps. “Nothing is wrong,” he blurted.

Hassan raised two caterpillar-sized brows at him. Between chews, he spoke. “And yet here you sit, with me. Instead of listening to the sounds of the woman’s pleasure.”

“I can’t say I’m happy about it.”

Hassan barked his laugh before he hacked and subsequently spewed out a chunk of what Ric couldn’t guess due to the extent of the mastication.

“Well, whatever it is, perhaps you want to tell me so you can go make sons.”

Sons. He was one of three — the youngest. The one his parents hadn’t planned for and who’d ultimately driven his father from their home. Sons? From birth, he’d been a disappointment and there wasn’t anything he could do to change that. His mother made that clear when, one after one, she ordered her boys from their home and thrust them into a life and a world they weren’t prepared for, even at eighteen years of age.

“Why so silent? Are you not a man? It is well beyond the time for you to be having sons. My Fatima…”

Hassan appeared stricken at the thought of his wife. His eyes glazed over and the hand covered in food now trembled near his mouth as pieces of whatever the man was eating fell from it. Ric watched Hassan’s Adam’s apple bob and weave before it returned to the center of the throat.

“My Fatima…” Hassan sighed and wiped his hands clean with a nearby cloth. “There was none so like her, Ric,” Hassan whispered. “I was asked why I’ve never taken on another wife. I couldn’t dishonor her love for me in that way.”

“That’s not a sentiment commonly shared among your peers.”

Hassan shook his head. “No. But my heart…” He placed his hand over his large chest. “My heart only had room for her. No one else could have it and no one else will ever fill it.” The sheen in Hassan’s eyes pooled into the corners near his nose before the tears slipped over the edges and down his cheeks.

One time. Ric had only seen Hassan cry once and that was right before Fatima’s death — when it was certain she’d pass on. Hassan had been unwilling to accept his wife’s fate and when resignation hit, the old man collapsed into Ric’s arms in front of a seething Abdul, who watched from the corner of the hospital room. It was he, not Abdul, who Hassan had called on to aid him in his time of grief.

“Hassan…” Ric still had no idea how to comfort his friend. There was a line one didn’t cross with their sources. Assets were just that: assets. Once feelings developed, either platonic or romantic, a handler lost the ability to control the source and thus jeopardized his own life. That boundary had been breached the night Hassan wept in Ric’s arms. His tears had reminded Ric of his mother’s when her husband had walked out on her for the last time. Ric had barely been able to comprehend the scene as he was still in elementary school, but the years hadn’t faded the memory of his mother’s emotional breakdown. Never had he seen someone so devastated; to witness it left an unshakable impression on his young mind. And when Hassan had accepted his wife’s terminal illness, Ric couldn’t leave the man to face the consequences alone. He held the soon-to-be widower for countless minutes, until the last of his tears had drained.

Ric tried again. “Hassan, you are still grieving. Perhaps you should take some time. Let someone else handle your business affairs for a little while.”
Someone other than Abdul.

A ghost of a smile briefly brightened the lines of Hassan’s tanned face, weathered by the desert sun. “That’s what I’d planned to do, but work… You can only trust your money to so many people. I trust only one person.”

He didn’t need to clarify. That’s why he continued to take meetings at his place of relaxation. Unless he was talking about Abdul.

“Come, Ric, what is it you want to know? What can I do for you, old friend?”

Friend.
Hassan was no fool. He understood his role as source and Ric’s as handler. Both recognized the thin line between business and personal. Ric was surrounded by men loyal to Hassan. If Hassan wished it, Ric’s final resting place would be the sands beneath this lard’s tent. Ric cleared his throat. “Two men have traveled here from the eastern shores of Somalia. The US Embassy is the target. What have you heard?”

“Heard?”