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Shit, I’ve handled military knives with a less sharp edge than the one she put on that word. I definitely could’ve chosen a better one. “Let’s call them guidelines—and not evenmyguidelines. They’re more like the country’s guidelines.”
“Such as?”
“Jordan is normally safe, but these aren’t normal times. Amman is flooded with refugees. Not all are innocent, so don’t leave the hotel without me. When we’re working at Za’atari, keep a low profile, let me know where you are, and don’t wander around without me.”
I wait for her to argue, wait for her to tell me to shove my rules up my ass because, for a fraction of a second, that’s exactly what her face tells me she’s thinking. Honestly, I wouldn’t blame her one bit because I suddenlyfeellike an ass.
She grins a little and all that annoyance falls away. “The Grand Hyatt in Amman is now like a Taliban hut in Afghanistan?”
Her smile, so coy and knowing, lights a fire under me. Now, I feel like explaining myself, justifying my speech. “There are a lot of people here, not just Jordanians, and not just people playing by the rules. This area is in flux, so if I’m eighty klicks away in Za’atari or even working with Salma within Amman, you’re pretty much on your own. I’m only suggesting that you have some situational awareness.”
She lets out a breath forced enough to knock over a tombstone. It’s so exaggerated that I almost laugh, but she speaks first.
“You’re right. In fact, I was thinking that after our initial inspection of the camp, I’d leave you to work with Salma. I don’t want to get in the way.”
Okay, that makes no sense. She’s here, according to her mother, to get a feel for what IPT does so she can get a handle on PR. How can she do that at the hotel? Is she’s hiding the fact that she’s mad about something? I would normally press, but I can’t wander into her emotional jungle right now. She’ll have to cope.
I stand up and hold out a hand. “Great. You ready?”
Suddenly, something in her face shifts, softens. Her gaze travels up body and then she pins me with eyes made for midnight pleas and hot sighs. It’s all I can do to stop myself from dropping to my knees, kissing her lips, finding her desire, and pulling free every soft and needy sound.
I flinch when she takes my hand and a surge of electric lust shoots up my arm. She steps closer and rises onto her toes. The space between us grows hot enough to give Death Valley a run for its money. My breath sounds as loud as an engine, which makes sense since my engine is roaring.
She grabs my waist, pulls my body flush against hers, and wiggles.
I am instantly hard enough that I lose the ability to think or move.
A grin on her lips, she whispers, “I have rules too, but I always seem to break them.”
She kisses me. Heat explodes, detonates, takes out any feeling but her tongue as it races along the seam of my lips.
Oh, hell. I open my mouth, push my own tongue against hers, and explore her wet warmth.
God, kissing her feels amazing. I reach down, cup her ass, help her along as she grinds herself against me. She moans so deeply it cuts off all other sound, even the poundingyes! yes! yes!of my heartbeat.
Lifting her, I begin to back her toward a seat, any seat.
She stops me with a hand to my chest and a shake of her head. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I really shouldn’t.”
I gape at her, and it takes me a full three seconds before I’m able to coax my hands to drop her ass.
With her feet back on the floor, she shrugs in apology. “There’s too much at stake. I mean, for you and your charity. So, let’s keep this PG while we’re here.”
A sharp and annoyed slap of disappointment. What happened? She was… I can’t figure this woman out, but I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of saying so.
I smile as if it doesn’t matter. “That’s fine with me.”
Huge lie. Growing bigger by the minute.
11
JUSTICE
Our transportation from the hotel to Za’atari refugee camp is a dusty old pickup truck, driven by a teenage boy thin enough to make me want to make him a sandwich. And I don’t cook. Next to him is his grandmother, Salma, a small woman with brown eyes that are both open and shrewd. She’s Sandesh’s contact here and runs the women and children’s center in Za’atari called Salma’s Gems.
The IPT works alongside her, letting Salma make the decisions on what that IPT support entails. After all, who would know better than someone living here, on the ground here, what needs to be done. Another thing, that draws me to this handsome man—he’s savvy.
As we drive along the dry road toward Za’atari’s front gate, Salma explains she’s a doctor who started a medical center when the refugees arrived. Since then, she’s expanded her mission with small-dollar donations. Momma, through Sandesh’s IPT, is the first big donor. I’m glad the money will be put to good use and ashamed that it took this operation to focus our attention here.
