whatever was said in the house without having to come within a hundred feet. And hopefully, what they heard would lead them to Suhaib. Fast.
His role in the operation was a relatively minor one, unfortunately, close to being completed. He’d been put on the job as a precaution, in case anything untoward had to be done-such as blackmailing or forcing Dr. DiMatteo if she were uncooperative. Or if successful completion of the mission called for something grossly illegal. As a member of the SDDU, a secret military unit whose existence was known only by a select few, he could get away with a hell of a lot. More than members of any government agency or military branch that actually had to report their activities to a string of superiors and were closely watched by Congress.
But everything had gone smoothly so far. The fact that he hadn’t been able to recruit and train Abigail was a minor glitch. It would have been better if she had been able to conduct the mission on her own. A lot less suspicious. The original plan didn’t call for him at this stage, only as distant support. Still, now that he was in, he was glad for it. There were too many unknowns in a house of this size to properly train a novice for every possibility. He would place the bugs; then they’d get out before anyone caught on and had a chance to dig into Gerald Thornton’s background.
Once Abigail was safely back in Tukatar, he would see if the Colonel would let him in on the action at the takedown. Having come this far, he didn’t want to miss out on all the excitement.
Hearing footsteps outside the door, he stepped to the side, instantly alert. He could not afford to let his guard down as long as they were in this house. The sound of heels on stone came closer, then stopped. A woman. Still, he would not allow himself to relax.
The door opened and so did his mouth, but no sound came out Abigail?
The abayah was gone. She wore a pale green figure-hugging pantsuit. Yes, sir! The sight of her made his throat go dry. Her bun was down, her auburn locks swaying around her face, falling to the middle of her back.
She twirled around laughing, as excited as a teenager at a mall shopping spree. “Chanel. I got set up by one of Jamal’s sisters. You wouldn’t believe what these women wear under their abayahs.”
“Wow.” His brain kicked into gear finally, and he was suddenly aware of the room for more than its strategic qualities such as where they could take cover in the event of gunfire. For the first time, he registered the silk sheets and velvet pillows, the sheer curtains that flanked not only the narrow windows high up the wall but also the antique four-poster bed with its extensive gilded carvings. The room was meant for seduction. And here in front of him was Scheherazade.
She came closer.
He offered her a nonchalant smile. “Want to rest before dinner?” Any excuse to get her to the bed.
Her eyes, the rich brown color of the smoothest Belgian chocolate, widened. It seemed ridiculous that he’d ever thought her less than gorgeous. She had the kind of natural, wholesome beauty he had not understood enough before to appreciate. Now he wondered why he’d ever thought the artifice of makeup and a fancy hairstyle could hope to compete with that. Her gaze was filled with such longing, it seared through him.
He lowered his voice. “What are you thinking about?”
“That I would give anything for a big bowl of spaghetti and meatballs with gravy,” she said. “Not that I don’t like the local delicacies, it’s just … it would be nice to have something familiar every once in a while.”
He appreciated the irony of the situation. They were alone in a bedroom straight from a dream, and all she wanted was a bowl of spaghetti. Disappointment slapped him back into rational thinking. “I know what you mean. I’m dying for a cold Budweiser.” Among other things.
She laughed again, and the soft sound skittered across his skin. She was set on
His role in the operation was a relatively minor one, unfortunately, close to being completed. He’d been put on the job as a precaution, in case anything untoward had to be done-such as blackmailing or forcing Dr. DiMatteo if she were uncooperative. Or if successful completion of the mission called for something grossly illegal. As a member of the SDDU, a secret military unit whose existence was known only by a select few, he could get away with a hell of a lot. More than members of any government agency or military branch that actually had to report their activities to a string of superiors and were closely watched by Congress.
But everything had gone smoothly so far. The fact that he hadn’t been able to recruit and train Abigail was a minor glitch. It would have been better if she had been able to conduct the mission on her own. A lot less suspicious. The original plan didn’t call for him at this stage, only as distant support. Still, now that he was in, he was glad for it. There were too many unknowns in a house of this size to properly train a novice for every possibility. He would place the bugs; then they’d get out before anyone caught on and had a chance to dig into Gerald Thornton’s background.
Once Abigail was safely back in Tukatar, he would see if the Colonel would let him in on the action at the takedown. Having come this far, he didn’t want to miss out on all the excitement.
Hearing footsteps outside the door, he stepped to the side, instantly alert. He could not afford to let his guard down as long as they were in this house. The sound of heels on stone came closer, then stopped. A woman. Still, he would not allow himself to relax.
The door opened and so did his mouth, but no sound came out Abigail?
The abayah was gone. She wore a pale green figure-hugging pantsuit. Yes, sir! The sight of her made his throat go dry. Her bun was down, her auburn locks swaying around her face, falling to the middle of her back.
She twirled around laughing, as excited as a teenager at a mall shopping spree. “Chanel. I got set up by one of Jamal’s sisters. You wouldn’t believe what these women wear under their abayahs.”
“Wow.” His brain kicked into gear finally, and he was suddenly aware of the room for more than its strategic qualities such as where they could take cover in the event of gunfire. For the first time, he registered the silk sheets and velvet pillows, the sheer curtains that flanked not only the narrow windows high up the wall but also the antique four-poster bed with its extensive gilded carvings. The room was meant for seduction. And here in front of him was Scheherazade.
She came closer.
He offered her a nonchalant smile. “Want to rest before dinner?” Any excuse to get her to the bed.
Her eyes, the rich brown color of the smoothest Belgian chocolate, widened. It seemed ridiculous that he’d ever thought her less than gorgeous. She had the kind of natural, wholesome beauty he had not understood enough before to appreciate. Now he wondered why he’d ever thought the artifice of makeup and a fancy hairstyle could hope to compete with that. Her gaze was filled with such longing, it seared through him.
He lowered his voice. “What are you thinking about?”
“That I would give anything for a big bowl of spaghetti and meatballs with gravy,” she said. “Not that I don’t like the local delicacies, it’s just … it would be nice to have something familiar every once in a while.”
He appreciated the irony of the situation. They were alone in a bedroom straight from a dream, and all she wanted was a bowl of spaghetti. Disappointment slapped him back into rational thinking. “I know what you mean. I’m dying for a cold Budweiser.” Among other things.
She laughed again, and the soft sound skittered across his skin. She was set on
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