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“It’s always the same. I fight and struggle and thrash. Bite. Which is me, how I live my life. It doesn’t work. The thing that works… I’m not a religious person. At all. But when I give in and pray, something in that prayer lifts me, wakes me up, but the waking is the worst part. Because I know exactly how she must’ve felt. And I know that…” I take a deep, cleansing breath before I can manage, “My prayers didn’t work for Hope.”
Silence. I turn to him, stare directly into his eyes. It’s an invitation to talk, a way of saying,You can trust me. You can share your pain with me. I will respect it.
For a long moment, he stares into my eyes, then looks away. “Thanks, Justice. For sharing and for waking me. I’m going to leave it there. Okay?”
When he looks back, he reaches to put his hand over mine, but stops. His hand hovers, waiting for me to reject him for not sharing his story.
I’m not built that way. I’ve shared too much with my siblings. I know how hard it is to break through the pain of our past, and I know how much a touch can do to ease that pain.
I flip over my hand.
He drops his hand into mine and we thread our fingers together.
It should be a sweet gesture, a comfort in the dark, and, in some ways, it is. My body sighs with relief, but also the heat of him…
My libido perks up. My body warms from head to toe. My mind begins providing images of our lips colliding, of him dragging me into his seat, into his lap. My mental images become us tearing our clothes off, our mouths and tongues searching. I groan. Out. Loud.
“Justice.” Not a question, an affirmation. One word, but that tone… The invitation is there.
Kiss me. Taste me. Have sex with me.
I pull my hand away, lean back, and close my eyes. I can’t allow myself to speak or look at him, because I want so desperately to engage in some hot, steamy sex right now.
But I have to face facts: fucking him will complicate my mission. I intend on leaving his side nearly the moment we land, and I can’t do that if we get hot and heavy now.
I know his type. He’d feel a greater need to reach out, ask how I’m doing, worrying that he might’ve crossed a line. All of that wouldn’t only endanger the mission, him, and his work. I want to screw Sandesh, not him or his charity.
I can feel him watching me, waiting for me. Gritting my teeth, I shake my head and let the images of his hot body play through my overactive mind, driving me toward a fitful night of hot dreams.
10
SANDESH
The smiling Jordanian customs official looks around the luxury aircraft, and I try not to think about the weapons I stowed in baggage or the weapon in the bag by my feet. My hands are sweating as he offers Justice and I kind words of welcome.
We pass him our documents and without questions he stamps them. A moment later, without any kind of search, he exits with a cheerful wish for a pleasant stay.
Relief loosens the knot in my shoulders. The last thing I need associated with my charity is a weapons charge. But it seems Mukta Parish is good as her word. I had doubts about the ease with which she said I could bring weapons into the country. I took a chance.
Most aid workers need some kind of protection in an active war zone, usually hired guards or, like I typically do, weapons purchased in country.
Shaking off the stress of the last few moments, I stow my passport and multi-entrance visa inside my backpack. Justice takes it all in stride, as if it’s all her due. Another way we are so different. Except, last night she proved she isn’t the Parish Princess I’d thought her to be. She’s kind, willing to sacrifice herself—her private self—to offer comfort to someone else.
After checking my email on my cell, I reply to a nonurgent update from Mom’s care center, stow my laptop, then stretch the travel from my limbs.
Across the cabin, Justice’s midnight-dark eyes skim my body.
I smile at her.
With an annoyed shake of her head, she returns to checking her emails or text or whatever has her interest on her cell.
Instant agitation marches like muddy boots down my spine. She’s been distant since waking this morning. I’m hoping she doesn’t regret sharing her nightmare so freely with me last night, especially after Ididn’tshare. That would suck, because she gave without expectation last night, and that… that was beyond decent. Still, even if I don’t know what her issue is with me, it feels like a problem, a problem that’s about to get worse.
Ready to face the demon, I walk over to where she’s enamored with her phone. I sit beside her. “We need to go over some rules.”
Her brows and eyes go up, and she’s kind of beautiful and fierce and a million miles above me.
She lowers her phone and puts it into her backpack. “Rules?”
