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Byron Hawkins supposed there was some decency left in him yet, some goodness that had hidden itself away from the shadow that lurked inside him. The tactician part of his brain said he had to leave her. Their probability of survival was cut in half without a clean escape. But he knew with a certainty that if he left her, there would nothing clean about his escape. His hands would be covered in one more person’s blood.
Only logic told him they might be anyway. By taking her with him, he was accepting responsibility for her. She’d said she wasn’t a child, but she was an innocent, no matter how fast or hard she could punch. He was the one with combat experience; he was the one who’d be making the calls. And he was the one who had to live with her voice in his head if he failed.
Even as he debated with himself, he knew what his answer would be. Dread curled like a poisonous snake in his gut, ready to strike.
* * *
FOR ONE HORRIBLE MOMENT, Damara thought her savior was going to leave her behind. She could see his eyes harden with what must have been resolve; then they were filled with so much pain. Something awful had happened to this man and sliced him so deep there was nothing to cauterize the wound. It was obvious in his every movement, but most especially in the darkness in his eyes. It struck Damara as strangely beautiful.
Yes, he was definitely a killer. He’d snapped Sergio’s neck with the swift and easy brutality of a predator. She hadn’t been lying when she’d said she was grateful—Sergio was her brother’s head security adviser. A pretty title for what amounted to head torturer. She needed this Byron Hawkins to make her escape, and, in doing so, to save her country from Abele.
And she knew there was more to Hawkins than this machine he’d made of himself.
Damara found herself intrigued by him, by his pain. It didn’t hurt that he was handsome and strong. He dwarfed her, a giant, deadly wall of lethal power. What woman wouldn’t find that attractive?
Damara had to remember she wasn’t just a woman. She was a princess. In her heart, there was only room for her people—her country. She understood what it was to live a life in service. She also understood that she’d do whatever was required to get herself out of Tunis.
“It’s ten minutes to the port of La Goulette, but I plan to make it in five. Let’s go.”
Relief flooded her. He would help. She followed him outside and he led her through some well-groomed shrubbery to where he’d hidden a Ducati.
He handed her the single helmet, and she took it gratefully.
“It’s a 1199 Panigale R. Wish I could take it with me,” he said, a certain amount of wistfulness in his voice.
“Did you steal this?” She eyed him.
“What do you think?” He mounted the bike, swinging one long, powerful leg over the side.
She supposed that didn’t matter. Damara had more pressing problems. The seat was tiny, and he dwarfed the machine the same way he dwarfed her. She didn’t think there was any way she was going to fit on the thing, but Damara had said she wasn’t going to complain about accommodations and she wouldn’t break her promise.
Especially not when he could still change his mind and leave her behind.
If she didn’t fly off the back end of the bike. She was very certain that on this bike lay the path to some horrible maiming.
“Don’t be shy now, Princess.”
She’d never heard anyone say princess in that way before. It made her shiver. It wasn’t reverent or at all proper. In fact, it was rather intimate. As if she was his princess to do with as he pleased rather than a head of state he’d been contracted to escort. She wasn’t sure if she liked it or not.
His arm snaked out and wrapped around her waist as he hauled her onto the front of the bike. As he revved the engine, he said, “Hold on.”
She was barely aware of the speed or even the scenery as it melted into swirling colors at the edges of her vision.
The man holding her dominated all her senses.
He was a solid wall against her back—his body was immovable like a marble statue, but he exuded heat like a bonfire. Even when she’d been surrounded by bodyguards in the royal palace, she’d never felt as safe as she did right at that moment. It was insanity. They were tearing through the streets, barreling toward even more danger. Damara was about as far from safe as she could be.
Only she was almost out of Abele’s reach, and that felt amazing, too. It made her giddy, a false sense of freedom. She knew she’d never be truly free—she had a duty—but it would be a gift to be able to serve without being under his cruel thumb.
When she tried to stop thinking about the strong man who held her, she couldn’t help but focus on how fast they hurtled through the air. She’d swear that the bike wasn’t even touching the road. It was either the bike or him.
She breathed deeply, centering herself and pushing down her fear. Damara could smell the salt and the sea, something that never failed to ground her. Strangely enough, it seemed to be coming from him more than the air around them.
Their bodies swayed and twisted with the bike as it shot through the streets and alleyways, and for a moment, Damara could swear she was riding the wind. That thought somehow made it better. The wind was her friend, or so she’d thought as a child. It reminded her of the time she’d launched herself off the small cliff at the summerhouse, leaping into the wind so it could carry her safely to the lagoon with the bright blue fish below. Her nanny had almost had a stroke, but Damara had been so confident that her friend the wind would cradle her gently until she slipped into the clear waters. And she supposed she was lucky that it sort of had.
The colors and scenery slowly untangled into recognizable things as Hawkins decelerated the machine. They emerged on a small hidden beach that stank of fish guts and gasoline. Damara had been to Tunis and La Goulette numerous times, but she’d never known anything like this was here.
Well, what had she expected? To leave a secured international port from a monitored dock?
She saw the boat that would be their mode of transport. He wasn’t kidding—it was going to be a tight fit. She bit her lip. It was true that she’d trained hard for the skills that she had, but she wasn’t used to hardship or discomfort.
You can do this.
She would do anything she had to do to stop Abele and save Castallegna, she reminded herself.
“Get in and lie down. I’ll cover you with the tarp until we’re clear.”
Damara did as she was told. The boat stank like old fish and must, and she pulled her shirt up over her nose. The roar of a small motor soon rattled the hull, and Damara didn’t know how long she lay there under the tarp as still and quiet as she knew how to be until he pulled it back from her face.
The first thing she noticed was the sky. The stars were big and bright, like glittering holes burned out of the pitch—breathtakingly beautiful. She could smell the salt in the air again, and the ocean around them seemed so black and fathomless, except for the pale ribbon of moonlight the shone down like a winding road over the inky waves.
“There’s no way we can make it together to Marsala in this. There’s a cargo ship anchored just over there that’s headed to Marseille. It’ll be close quarters, dirty and dank for about twenty hours, but I think it’ll do the job.”
Twenty hours? She could do this. Damara was used to sitting in on political dinners, parties and other things where she had to be still and quiet. This was just more princess training. She turned her attention from the sky to where he gestured. “How are we going to get aboard?”
“Captain is a friend. I got in touch with him before I dumped my cell. You’re not carrying any electronics, are you? Phone, iPod...”
She shook her head. “No, I knew they’d be able to track me.”
“Smart girl.”
Pride swelled and bloomed at his praise. She didn’t even know him, and after this she’d never see him again. It didn’t matter what he thought of her as long as he got her to the States.
“He’s going to linger there for the next twenty minutes, and we have to get aboard and down in the cargo hold before any of his crew sees us. So I need you to do exactly as I say when I say it. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes,” she agreed easily.
He maneuvered the boat up next to the cargo ship, and the sound of the small motor was drowned out by the idling growl of the giant engines of the ship. A rope ladder had been left hanging down the side for them.
She grabbed hold of the ladder, the rope abrasive on her palms. For all of her training, she still had the hands of a princess. Damara wouldn’t complain; instead she would just do as he instructed. She tried to be as quiet as she could, remembering her ballet lessons and balancing her weight so she didn’t flail and clang against the side like some alarm alerting everyone to their presence.
When she pulled herself to the top, she heard voices and she ducked her head, still clinging to the rope ladder. She looked down at Hawkins.
What’s wrong? he mouthed.
She made a talking motion with her hand, and then held up three fingers to indicate the number of voices she’d heard.
He put his head down for a moment, and then he began to climb. She would have shimmied back down the ladder and into the boat, but she saw it had already been set adrift. They were well and truly stuck.
Damara made herself as narrow as possible while still holding herself steady, and he started moving up the ladder behind her, his feet and hands on the outside of hers.
Even though Damara was used to warm temperatures and to heat, she wasn’t used to his heat. His body was so hard and hot—even with the layers of clothes between them, his skin seemed to burn her.
She tried not to think about it—the way she fit against him, the way the hard planes of muscle pressed against her, how small and safe she felt, even dangling off a rope ladder hanging over dangerous waters.
As he moved higher, she became very aware of another part of his body that was just as hot, hard and insistent as the rest of him. Her cheeks ignited, and she knew that even in the dark, her face would be scarlet.
He didn’t stop to apologize or make excuses or even acknowledge all the intimacies that were now between them. This was just a job to him and his arousal was just another bodily function.
Damara didn’t know him, but she knew his kind. He may be there to help her, but he was still a mercenary. Still a man paid to kill. She rather imagined a man like him would have to be cut off from attachment to anything. Even himself.
She exhaled heavily and pushed all of those thoughts out of her head. She didn’t have the time or the luxury to think about anything but escape, if the muffled sounds of a struggle were any indication.
Damara bit her lip to keep from calling out to him.
Every second dragged on for what felt like hours as doubt and fear filled her until he reached over the side and grabbed her arm to help her up. His knuckles were bloody, but he was otherwise unharmed.
The image of his hands, though—it burned itself into her brain like a brand. They were broad and strong, scarred, purposeful. They were the hands of a man who’d had to fight for everything he had. The way he moved, helping her, still using those hands even though he’d split his knuckles open, it was as if he didn’t even notice the pain, if there was any. It was as if he’d simply chosen not to feel it.
Damara found that impossibly noble.
And it made her blush hotter.
She had to stop thinking of him as a man and think of him as what he was—a means to an end.
Another echo of voices spurred him to action, and he lifted the cover off a lifeboat so they could crawl inside.
She could barely see him in the darkness, but the moon was bright enough overhead that a tiny bit of light shone through the canvas tarp. He held a finger up to his lips to indicate she should stay quiet.
Something sharp needled her back and hip. Damara wanted to stay still and silent, but it quickly became agony. Hawkins seemed to know and he pulled her tight against his body.
Time stopped again, just as it had on the ladder. She was stiff and frozen, but this time his fingers pushed her hair out of her face.
Those same bloody, damaged hands touched her gently, soothed her. This man said so much without saying anything at all. It was all there in that one simple gesture.
You’re safe.
I’ll protect you.
And she believed he would.
There was a part of her that didn’t want him to protect her. Part of her that wanted him to be a bastard. She didn’t want to get caught, but she couldn’t stop thinking about his hands. What they’d feel like on the rest of her body, what they’d look like on her skin.
Her face was so hot now she was sure that her cheeks would explode. She was embarrassed by the direction of her thoughts. It was all just fantasy anyway. She’d read too many forbidden books and been denied reasonable human contact for too long all in the name of purity. Her body might be untried, but her mind certainly wasn’t.
Damara shifted carefully to make herself more comfortable, but she was at a loss for what to do with her arm. If this was a lover’s embrace, she’d have clung to him, but he was a stranger. It was as if her own arm was this awkward part of her that didn’t belong on her body.
“It’s okay.” His breath tickled against the shell of her ear. “You can touch me. There’s nowhere else to go.” His voice was so low, she could barely hear it.
Heart hammering against her chest, she did as he suggested and wrapped herself around him.
The hard length was still there and it occurred to her that it might be a gun instead of— She was such a silly girl. She’d been so caught up in the fairy tale of being a princess he had to save, she’d imagined this whole attraction between them like some stupid movie. She’d even romanticized his indifference. Another reason why she had to get her head back in the game. She couldn’t afford to be a princess now. She had to be a leader. Damara had learned there was a big difference.
Except, he went through the motions of pushing her hair out of her face again. It was a caress, a touch for the sake of touch.
“Sleep, Princess. It’s a long ride to Marseille.”
She didn’t bother to tell him that there was no way she’d be able to sleep. Not with his nearness, his heat, the adrenaline still coursing through her veins from the events of the day. Or the possibility of being discovered.
Damara tried not to notice how strong he was, tried not to think about how good he felt under her hands, his strength wrapped around her. No, she was certain she’d never sleep. Especially when he’d said, It’s okay, you can touch me. It made her think about touching him. A lot. Being touched by him.
What if his hand strayed just a bit, and what if she arched into his touch. What if— No, there was to be no sleep for her.
But she was wrong, because it was some time later that she was startled awake by gunfire.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_eb54598a-05af-5c64-b7f5-9b6b564d565b)
THE SOUND OF SEMIAUTOMATIC gunfire launched Byron into high alert. He’d been enjoying the feeling of holding Damara in the dark and the quiet. It was as if there were no other people in the world but them. She’d been pliant and warm, and she smelled of things like hope, things he dared not name. She’d quieted that buzz of guilt that played almost constantly in his head.
He heard yelling now but no return fire. They were being boarded.
They’d been at sea for several hours and piracy was more common in the waters to the east of them. The shipping lane they were on was largely unmolested. He’d made sure of that.
Stomping, banging on the side of the ship and loud voices echoed through the tiny space. He recognized the language as Russian. Byron only had a rudimentary knowledge of the language. But there was a heavy presence of Russian mob on Cyprus and in Greece, so he’d encountered several factions in his work for the DOD.
But as of yet, he didn’t have any intel that they were involved in piracy—at least not outright. They were subsidizing some of the Somali crews but not Russian crews. Shit, this was about to get dicey. The imagery of her face peering out from the body bag haunted him.
Just let me keep her safe. Just let her live through this.
When she started awake, he pressed his palm over her mouth gently to keep her from shrieking. “We’ve been boarded, but everything is going to be fine. Just remember to keep quiet and do as I say,” he reassured her.
Her eyes were wide and luminous, still so trusting.
He started processing their situation from every angle—each scenario that was within the immediate realm of possibility. He strategically moved them around the chessboard, trying to figure out the safest and most expedient course of action.
Until he heard Castallegna.
Renner had told him there were international and unsavory buyers for the Jewel.
For Damara.
He’d kill them before he’d let them touch her.
A calm came over him. His heartbeat slowed and the peace he’d been seeking filled him. Because this was his purpose; this was what he’d been born to do. And in this, he could keep her safe.
“Don’t leave me,” she whispered. It was the second time she’d sensed what his actions would be before he took them.
“I’ll be back.” He shifted carefully, hoping to make his exit from the lifeboat unseen.
