Wade (10 page)

She pressed her lips together until they hurt, closing her eyes for a second. When she thought she could speak without her voice shaking, she asked, “What now?”

“Guess.” As he offered that laconic comment, he turned to put his back to the wall behind them as if he intended to hold it up.

“I have no idea. You said everything was arranged, that it would be easy, no problem.”

“The arrangements were for two days ago. I changed them over to this morning because you said that's how long it would take on your end. You missed that deadline, too. So here we are.”

A chill moved over her. “You're saying we're on our own?”

“And on foot.”

It wasn't what she wanted to hear. “You and I, the two of us.”

“You were expecting maybe the Green Berets and a Bell & Howell to zip you out to a waiting sub?”

“I don't. I mean, I just thought this rescue, or whatever you want to call it, would have a support team.”

“So it did. Favors were called in and people paid off. There were a couple of places reserved in a truck convoy heading for the Pakistan border and on to the international airport at Rawalpindi. But that was then and this is now. They pulled out when you didn't show.”

“Still you came when Treena sent for you?”

“I promised John.”

She turned bodily to stare at him through the screen over her eyes, half-afraid there was something more, something about his reasons that she didn't know.

His eyelashes rested on top of his cheekbones and his hands pressed back against the wall behind him. She could hear his breathing, fast and shallow, as if against the bite of pain. Freeing a hand, she put out her fingers and touched the warm, sticky wetness at his waistline.

“Idiot,” she exclaimed. “You're bleeding to death, and we stand here talking. What were you thinking?”

“That you have more to say for yourself now than when I first saw you,” he answered with the ghost of a laugh.

“As if it matters!” Reaching up under her burqa,
she removed the long, veil-like scarf that covered her hair. She made a small tear with her teeth, then ripped the cloth in half and folded it into a long pad. Wrapping this into the remaining length, she freed her arms then pressed the makeshift bandage to Wade's side, circling his waist with the free ends.

He grunted a little as she pulled them tight to knot them. “Very efficient.”

“I hope it does some good.”

“Can't hurt. Thanks.”

His breath felt warm against the top of her head, even through her burqa, as she bent to check her handiwork in the dark. The mild and almost disinterested sound of his voice troubled her since it seemed to indicate that he was either light-headed from blood loss or drifting into a form of shock. “It's nothing.” She slipped her arm around his waist with a brusque movement, then turned him toward the far end of the alley beyond the dark Volvo. “Come, we have to find shelter.”

“You have a plan?”

“I know where I may be able to find help, but it's several blocks. Can you make it?” He was too tall for her to support very well, but he seemed able to stand well enough. As he shifted his arm that she'd draped over her shoulder, his fingers dangled against the swell of her breast.

“I can if you can.”

She thought there was humor in his voice, as if either her annoyance or her efforts to take up the slack
in the rescue effort amused him in some way. There was nothing funny about it to her. She had to find medical attention for him, and soon.

Chloe guided the American past the Volvo without looking at it, then down one block and over another. From there, she veered into a path that led through the vegetable garden of an elderly couple she knew, then along the back side of a warehouse used to store sheep's wool and lambskins. The two of them came out onto a boulevard lined with compounds whose big houses were crowded with shade and fruit trees and surrounded by fences. Some were of mud or stone, some of iron that had been installed during Victoria's reign. It was an exclusive area, silent and aloof in its screened isolation, though jasmine vines and orange trees shared their scents with passersby.

Chloe's progress slowed as she stumbled with Wade from one patch of shadow to another, stopping for every noise and every passing vehicle, investigating every cross street before venturing to the other side. The entire night began to seem surreal, as if she might also be in some form of shock. That she was now dependent on the man who leaned so heavily against her was so unbelievable that it was hard to grasp. She wasn't sure where she was going or what she was going to do when she got there, had nothing with her except the clothes she wore. All she knew was that she had to keep walking, keep moving because to stop could mean the end of everything.

Ahead of them lay another wide intersection. At
one time, there had been a working stoplight, but now it dangled uselessly on its wires so that crossing it could be a distinct hazard here where every man felt the right of way was his to take. She caught the gleam of headlights as she approached. Narrowing her eyes to peer behind them, she recognized a slow-moving patrol car.

She swung back the way they had come, glancing around in swift search of cover. There was none, at least nothing that they could reach in time. The nearest alley was a block back behind them; a tall iron fence set on a low wall of stone blocked off the closest screen of shrubbery. Still, she had to do something fast.

There was only one reason for a man and woman to be seen on the streets together in violation of curfew. It was prohibited and incredibly lewd, but more acceptable to male officialdom than a man and woman unrelated and unmarried being caught alone together at night.

Dragging Wade into a patch of deep shadow, she pushed him into place with his back to the fence. She snatched up the hem of her burqa and skirt beneath, raising them to her waist as she plastered herself against him from her breasts to her knees. Galvanized by the rumble of the patrol car's engine coming closer, she lifted her arms behind his head and applied pressure until he bent and hid his beardless face in the folds of blue cloth that draped against her neck.

Brightness from the headlights struck the fence
rails beside them. The car stopped at the cross street and did not move on, as if the occupants had spotted them. This was the moment of greatest danger, when the police must decide whether to stop and punish a prostitute apparently servicing a client in this quiet neighborhood or move on and leave them in peace. It could go either way, for this was a respectable and affluent area where such things were not done, but it was also possible that the man enjoying her might be a resident of some influence. With a low moan of fear, Chloe moved against the man she held, desperately grinding her hips.

Then she felt him shift his feet to a wider, lower stance. He lifted one arm around her waist to support her and reached with the other hand to clasp her hip. He kneaded it as if in appreciation for the firm, resilient flesh, then smoothed down along her leg until he could lift her knee and settle the naked softness at the juncture of her thighs more completely over his groin.

A shiver of purest pleasure gripped her, spreading in a radiating wave from the center of her being to every inch of her body. The sensation was stunning in its intensity, shocking beyond imagining at such an inappropriate time and place. She wasn't alone in her reaction, either, for Wade's grasp tightened and he stopped breathing. At the same time, she felt distinctly the sudden increase of heat and hardness where they were most closely crushed together.

She stiffened, tightening her arms around him.
“Don't,” she said in something near panic. “I was just trying to…I mean I only wanted…”

“I know,” he murmured against her ear. “The idea is cooperation.”

“Don't help so much!”

“I'm trying, but…there's not a lot I can do about it.”

The rich timbre of his voice moved over her like a caress. She could feel her nipples tightening, stinging a little where they drove into the muscled planes of his chest. The layers of cloth between them seemed an unbearable impediment, and she was miserably aware of a strong urge to know what it would feel like to be pressed against him with nothing separating them except air and human will.

It was just physical reaction, she told herself a little wildly. That was all, had to be all. She was a normal woman who had been deprived of sensual gratification. That she hadn't missed it until now was an irony she might find funny someday. But not now. Not now.

“You'd better move a little more,” he offered. “The patrol are gawking like a couple of hayseeds at a sideshow.”

She jerked back automatically, but he immediately pulled her close again.

“There you go, like that,” he answered. “You'll get the hang of it in a minute.”

A small sound of distress left her, but she knew that he was right and they needed to pretend. As she
moved against him again, she whispered, “I don't believe you're badly hurt at all.”

“Some things are guaranteed to revive a man.” He shuddered, grasping her thigh. “But I swear I ache all over, and I'm so weak in the knees right now that the only thing holding me up is this fence and a truly desperate need to see what you're going to do next.”

“Nothing!”

“Now that's a shame.”

The amusement in his voice had a strained edge, she thought, as if his teasing might be a defense against other thoughts, other needs. The urge to put a stop to it united inside her with exasperation and perversity until it became an ungovernable impulse. Turning her head, positioning the mesh of her burqa at the level of her mouth with an experienced movement of her chin, she caught the hair at the back of his neck in her clenched fingers to angle his head toward her. Then she pressed her mouth to his.

He certainly cooperated; there was no doubt about that. He slanted his lips to match the cool contours of hers from corner to corner, moving them in blind exploration. Their surfaces were smooth and warm, and sweet in a way she'd never experienced, never dreamed. The abrasion of the crocheted screen between them was both irritant and incitement. The moist and delicate probe of his tongue, tracing around and through the small, square spaces between the thread bars, touching the line where her lips came together only at intervals, brought the tingling need
to tear away the barrier for deeper, more positive contact. She could feel every suppressed instinct and desire she'd ever had rushing through her, seeking an outlet. She was lost in the sensation, uncaring of where she was or what she should be doing. It was pleasure and terror and the remedy for both, the only possible antidote for the horror of violence and pain she had witnessed. And nothing had ever been so compelling in her entire life, nothing so impossible to resist.

T
he sound of the police car behind them changed as it began to roll again. The glow of the headlights shifted, moving along the fence railings and away from them down the cross street. Wade took a firm grip on his better intentions and lifted his mouth from Chloe Madison's lips. Bracing against the fence, he released her knee and raised his hands to clasp her shoulders and put her away from him. Then he did his best to ease upright without calling attention to the quivering of his thighs or the uncomfortable lump under the zipper of his jeans.

She stepped back and let the damn tablecloth she wore fall into place again, straightening its folds the way some women might try to tidy their hair after that kind of mind-blowing kiss. She didn't look at him, which probably wasn't surprising. The truly amazing thing was that she hadn't clobbered him.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd come so close to losing it. That pretense of lust combined with virginal sweetness had been mind-blowing. She had no idea what she'd been doing to him, he thought.
Sheer instinct and native talent had moved her. It had certainly been enough to rouse his interest.

She'd felt so good, so right. Concentrating on incoming sensations had allowed him to forget for a few seconds his involvement in the death of another woman. It would have been easy, so fatally easy, to take over, take matters where she really didn't want them to go in his need to lose himself in her. Lust was the greatest medicine in the world for pain and self-directed anger.

As she reached for his arm, he let her take it and settle it over her shoulders once more. He kept a little distance between them, however, so his thigh wouldn't be pressed quite so disturbingly against her hip. She set out with firm, purposeful strides, and he matched her pace, walking like a prize bull to market toward wherever she was going and whatever she had in store for him.

They came upon the house not long afterward. A bungalow like a dozen others they'd passed, it was set back behind walls of mud plastered over with molting stucco. Nothing moved under the trees that surrounded the house, and its windows, under deep eaves and wide verandas, showed no lights. Chloe followed the wall until it made a right angle, then moved on a few more yards until they came to a side gate. As she sank to her knees, Wade felt his heart lurch. Then she searched under a pile of stones covered with ivy and pulled out a key.

Moments later, they were skirting the side of the
house on a path that looked as if it might take them to a back entrance. They passed a circle of shrubs, a set of wicker lawn furniture arranged as if for some Victorian tea party, and an arbor with a white, sweet-scented vine tumbling over it. As they neared a woodpile half-hidden under some kind of creeper, a night creature squeaked in alarm, then shot from under it. The streaking flight brought Wade around with a jerk that sent pain stabbing into his side and startled a curse from him.

“Mongoose.”

Chloe's whisper was even, almost offhand. Either she had far too much control over her reactions or was so close to the breaking point that nothing had the power to make her jump. Wade thought it was probably the last. Lord knew she'd seen enough to try anybody's soul, especially this evening.

The events that had taken place in the house where she'd lived with her stepbrother were too fresh, too vivid in his mind. He shoved them away with an effort. He'd deal with them later, when time and distance had taken the edge off. Too many other things required his attention now, such as staying upright and alert enough to deal with any further surprises.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Or at least he would be one day.

“Only a little more to go.”

“Lead on,” he said, keeping it light, keeping it cool. Keeping it together.

“Your side is really hurting, isn't it?”

She had it wrong, but her concern still touched him. “I'm fine.”

“Sure you are,” she returned in disbelief.

God above, but what if she'd died back there instead of her stepsister, paying the price for his lack of foresight. Losing John's daughter might have been more than he could take. Against his will, he saw again the flash of the knife, the blood. How could he have guessed such a thing would happen? How could he have expected any man, even a fanatic like Ahmad, to turn on his own flesh and blood. It was so unnatural that it was almost impossible to guard against it.

Don't think about it, he warned himself. Don't get lost in how or why, or what might have gone differently. Don't, please God, start comparing those few fatal seconds to the time with the oilman's wife, even if both had ended with a woman dying who should have lived. No, he wouldn't analyze or agonize, not yet.

In tones harsher than intended, he asked, “So are we going to knock or just stand here all night?”

“Anxious to find a place to sit down, are you? Or maybe lie down?”

“Either one will do.” What he really wanted was to get her inside, out of sight, out of obvious danger.

“Right. There's a night watchman around somewhere. He should be checking on us at any second.”

From the darkness in front of them came the noise of a man clearing his throat, a gravelly rasp that sug
gested age and maybe smoke-damaged lungs. He stepped into view then, flicking on a small flashlight at the same time so its light puddled around his feet. His face was like ancient wrinkled leather with his eyes set in the folds like jet beads. A gray rag of a beard dangled from his chin and his faded clothes looked as if he slept in them regularly. Regardless, the assault rifle tucked under his arm was polished by years of care and handling.

The old man played the flashlight over their faces with a brief query that was incomprehensible to Wade, though Chloe seemed to understand it well enough. Her greeting was pleasant and she stood still, barely squinting under the bright scrutiny.

“Ah, the American lady,” the watchman exclaimed with warmth edging into his voice. “Welcome again to this house. And to the infidel also.”

So much for finding a safe place to go to ground, Wade thought in moody silence. He hoped the old man was trustworthy, because he obviously knew Chloe and had heard of him. Not that Wade meant to depend on his discretion. He'd keep his eyes open just as he had on the little stroll that had brought them here.

Chloe explained their problem in a few short sentences. The watchman tipped his head as if pondering the options open to him. Then he gestured for them to follow and led the way into the house.

They wound their way through what appeared to be a storeroom, some brand of butler's pantry and a
dining room. Crossing an antechamber, they emerged finally in a large common room where a fountain bubbled in a stone basin set into the floor of mosaic tiles and overstuffed furniture held down the edges of a Bakhora rug. The old man folded himself in half as he indicated the seating, then left them there.

Wade didn't much care for the setup. He looked at Chloe with raised brows.

“We wait,” she said in answer to that unspoken query.

“For what?”

“Whatever comes. Patience is an Islamic virtue, one that you'd have to cultivate if you lived here.”

He doubted it, but didn't argue since he could hear the brittle sound of strained nerves and exhaustion in her voice. It was no great surprise to see her move to an ottoman and drop down onto its cushioned surface.

“Sit down,” she suggested, waving at the chair next to it. “Please. Before you fall down.”

He perched on the edge of the sofa. Sinking into its soft maroon leather was a great temptation, but he didn't intend to get too comfortable in a place that he might have to leave on short notice.

The minutes slipped past. The water music of the fountain was soothing but served to mask sound. Wade thought he could hear the ticking of a large clock from the next room and also voices from some more distant area, maybe down the corridor where the watchman had disappeared. He'd have been more wary except that the dominant one sounded female.

Then the slapping of sandals on tile came toward them. A woman materialized out of the dim recesses of the house. Rotund, wearing a caftan of some silky fabric in purple and green, a profusion of clinking silver jewelry, and with her hair streaming around her in wild salt-and-pepper strands, she looked like an exotic witch.

“Forgive me for keeping you waiting. But fear not. I've made preparations, given instructions and all is in hand.”

“Instructions for what?” Wade asked as he climbed slowly to his feet. His knees still worked, even if they did feel like overcooked spaghetti.

“For your care, tall one,” the woman answered with a smile.

“And you are?”

It was Chloe who answered his question, leaving her ottoman and moving to stand close beside him as if to keep him from doing anything foolish. “This is Ayla, a friend who is also a widow.”

“Yes, yes, it happens when twenty million men are killed in twenty years. But I do not repine. War is a horrible thing but may bring good on occasion.”

It sounded as if she didn't exactly miss her husband, Wade thought with a glance at Chloe.

She nodded, as if anxious for him to understand and cooperate. “Ayla opens her home as a school, among other things. It's best that you know little more than this.”

Wade wondered if they really suspected that he
might blab about the widow's activities if he was arrested. They had no idea how unlikely that would be.

“All right then?” the woman named Ayla asked as he fell silent. She gestured toward the corridor and stepped back. “This way.”

Chloe moved to stand beside Ayla. He remained where he was, gazing from one to the other in perplexity as he waited for someone to lead the way.

“Please,” their hostess said with another wave toward the dark corridor.

It flashed through his mind that a trap lay somewhere out of sight. Then he dismissed the idea as ridiculous. “Right,” he said with a gesture for them to precede him. “Whatever you say.”

“The way is to the left, two doors down.”

He inclined his head. “After you.”

“No, no, Wade Shah, after you.”

The title of respect, a little like saying “sir,” was really too much but gave him an inkling of the problem. He could feel his neck growing hot as he said, “Ladies first. At least that's how I was brought up.”

“You are very kind, but I must insist.”

“So do I.” Wade folded his arms over his chest.

“You don't understand,” Chloe said. “It's the custom for men to go first.”

He'd noticed men striding along the street with women trailing after them, but he didn't intend to make a habit of it. “I do understand,” he corrected, “but it's not the way we do things where I come
from, and my Benedict ancestors would spin in their graves if I forgot it.”

“But you went ahead of me in the street earlier.”

“Back there was different. It was dangerous for you to go first.”

“Circumstances change the rules then?”

“Only when it comes to safety. Don't try to confuse the issue by comparing that time to this, because it's not the same thing. Now the two of you can go first or we can stand here for what's left of the night. It's all the same to me.”

“You're being ridiculous,” she said in controlled anger.

She was probably right, but this was one thing he was going to do his way. He only watched her without answering.

“What is wrong?” the widow asked, looking from one to the other of them as if trying to guess at the subject of their exchange in a language she apparently had trouble understanding.

“He is being polite,” Chloe told her with a dark glance in his direction. “In his own stubborn American way. It may be best to humor him.”

“How so?” The widow's frown deepened.

“Like this,” Chloe said, and led the way down the corridor with her head at a regal angle.

The widow still seemed confused and reluctant until Wade took her arm and moved her bodily along with him. She got the idea, finally. Which was just
as well, since she released herself and took his arm to support him after the first few steps.

Any satisfaction he might have felt was short-lived. The room they entered looked like a hospital unit. There was a high bed with a length of plastic covering the white sheets, gooseneck lamp, sink with running water in the corner, and rolling table with medical supplies laid out in an orderly row. Completely missing from the setup, so far as he could see, was any trace of tetanus serum or antibiotics. He hoped like hell that Ahmad kept his knife clean.

“Sit here on the bed, if you please,” the widow said to him. As he levered himself up onto the high mattress, she turned to Chloe. “Shall I put in the sutures, or will you?”

Indecision hovered in Chloe's face. “It may be better if I do it,” she answered finally. “You can always take over if it's more than I can manage.”

“Let me get this straight,” Wade asked, just to be sure he had the gist of the exchange in Pashtu between the women. “One of you is going to sew me up?”

“We can't risk going to a hospital since we don't know what has happened with Ahmad or who may be searching for you. Anyway, the care you'd have here may actually be safer. This isn't exactly a throwaway society where disposable needles hit the trash every two seconds.”

“I noticed,” he said dryly.

“Ayla's husband was a physician and this was part
of his private clinic where she used to assist him before the Taliban came. She can take care of you now, if you prefer.”

“I don't think I do,” he answered. It was probably stupid but, all things considered, he'd rather put himself in the hands of someone he knew.

“Good. She has other arrangements to make. We must be gone from here before daylight.”

He blew out a short, hard breath, then gave a firm nod. “Right. Let's do it.”