Read Online Personal Assistance (Entangled Ignite) by Louise Rose-Innes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louise Rose-Innes
Tags: Romance, romantic suspense, special forces, Entangled, Ignite, soldier, Louise Rose-Innes, Personal Assistance
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did so that it wouldn’t do anything to stop the sudden, shrill ringing in her ears. Tom didn’t miss a beat. He linked an arm around her waist and thrust her through the mass of protesters, using his bulk as a shield and his incredible strength to barrage his way through.
She let him half guide, half carry her to the opposite side. She felt battered and bruised, and more than a little disoriented by the time they got to the relative safety of a mosque entrance, which was set back from the square.
He still held her around the waist, which she was grateful for, as she felt rather off balance. She put a hand against his chest to steady herself. His heart beat solidly under her palm. Its steady rhythm fed strength back into her body.
“We’ll wait here until you get your bearings.”
She rested her forehead on his shoulder, waiting for the ringing in her ears to subside. “I’ll be okay in a minute”.
Then something changed in the way he held her. His arm went from supportive to tender, holding her gently against him, rather than merely upright. Still trembling from the onslaught of the mob, she leaned into his hard body for support. The faint scent of his aftershave filtered into her nostrils, overriding her senses. He smelled and felt so good, she wanted to cling on forever and forget where she was and the dangers that lie ahead.
“I think we lost them,” he murmured, gently extracting himself from her embrace. “No one could have followed us through that.”
She straightened and stepped back, out of his personal space and back into reality. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” She managed a thin smile. “I’m fine now.”
The mob was becoming more agitated. One man had climbed up on a statue and was shouting chants at the crowd, who yelled back in unison. Men poured in from all directions. Everyone had guns or a weapon of some kind. A youth threw a rock at a glass shop window, which smashed all over the pavement.
“It’s turning ugly,” he cautioned. “Let’s get out of here. I can’t see our friends anywhere.”
After the busy intersection, they stuck to back alleys, finally emerging in front of a small pavement café that looked out at Highway 80, the four-lane, north-south highway that coincidentally shared the same number as Iraq’s “Highway of Death.” She hoped that wasn’t an omen.
“The air base is ten miles south on 80.” He stared out at the road from under the shadows of the café’s dirty awning. It was a good spot to survey the freeway and keep out of direct view. “Let’s see if we can hitch a ride.”
“From here?” She looked doubtfully at the steady stream of traffic turning onto the highway. There was no stopping until the traffic lights turned red, and it would be too obvious to try and hitch a lift then. Someone would spot them for sure.
“No, we’ll cross over onto the hard shoulder and walk for a while up the road. We can wait in a rest stop, out of sight. That’s the safest bet.”
A steady stream of people, mostly families and elderly couples, also trudged along the edge of the highway. The men carried suitcases and travel bags, while mothers gripped onto tiny hands to prevent the children from running into the road—their aim being to leave the city before the violence began.
She wanted to reassure them that it was going to be okay. That once she got back to England and relayed what was in her head, special forces would capture Hakeem and his government, and the violence would end. There would be no air strikes, no ongoing civil war, like in Syria. But she didn’t dare, because what if she was wrong? What if they couldn’t get out in time or if she was captured? What then?
“Won’t Hakeem’s men be expecting this?” She felt sick to her stomach. In a way, all these people depended on her, and she in turn depended on Tom. She glanced at the SAS soldier, so confident, so capable. But would he be able to protect her from a regime that
She let him half guide, half carry her to the opposite side. She felt battered and bruised, and more than a little disoriented by the time they got to the relative safety of a mosque entrance, which was set back from the square.
He still held her around the waist, which she was grateful for, as she felt rather off balance. She put a hand against his chest to steady herself. His heart beat solidly under her palm. Its steady rhythm fed strength back into her body.
“We’ll wait here until you get your bearings.”
She rested her forehead on his shoulder, waiting for the ringing in her ears to subside. “I’ll be okay in a minute”.
Then something changed in the way he held her. His arm went from supportive to tender, holding her gently against him, rather than merely upright. Still trembling from the onslaught of the mob, she leaned into his hard body for support. The faint scent of his aftershave filtered into her nostrils, overriding her senses. He smelled and felt so good, she wanted to cling on forever and forget where she was and the dangers that lie ahead.
“I think we lost them,” he murmured, gently extracting himself from her embrace. “No one could have followed us through that.”
She straightened and stepped back, out of his personal space and back into reality. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” She managed a thin smile. “I’m fine now.”
The mob was becoming more agitated. One man had climbed up on a statue and was shouting chants at the crowd, who yelled back in unison. Men poured in from all directions. Everyone had guns or a weapon of some kind. A youth threw a rock at a glass shop window, which smashed all over the pavement.
“It’s turning ugly,” he cautioned. “Let’s get out of here. I can’t see our friends anywhere.”
After the busy intersection, they stuck to back alleys, finally emerging in front of a small pavement café that looked out at Highway 80, the four-lane, north-south highway that coincidentally shared the same number as Iraq’s “Highway of Death.” She hoped that wasn’t an omen.
“The air base is ten miles south on 80.” He stared out at the road from under the shadows of the café’s dirty awning. It was a good spot to survey the freeway and keep out of direct view. “Let’s see if we can hitch a ride.”
“From here?” She looked doubtfully at the steady stream of traffic turning onto the highway. There was no stopping until the traffic lights turned red, and it would be too obvious to try and hitch a lift then. Someone would spot them for sure.
“No, we’ll cross over onto the hard shoulder and walk for a while up the road. We can wait in a rest stop, out of sight. That’s the safest bet.”
A steady stream of people, mostly families and elderly couples, also trudged along the edge of the highway. The men carried suitcases and travel bags, while mothers gripped onto tiny hands to prevent the children from running into the road—their aim being to leave the city before the violence began.
She wanted to reassure them that it was going to be okay. That once she got back to England and relayed what was in her head, special forces would capture Hakeem and his government, and the violence would end. There would be no air strikes, no ongoing civil war, like in Syria. But she didn’t dare, because what if she was wrong? What if they couldn’t get out in time or if she was captured? What then?
“Won’t Hakeem’s men be expecting this?” She felt sick to her stomach. In a way, all these people depended on her, and she in turn depended on Tom. She glanced at the SAS soldier, so confident, so capable. But would he be able to protect her from a regime that
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