Out of Control (21 page)

Okay, so it wasn’t the most romantic proposal and acceptance ever, but in a weird
way, it totally fit, and that made it a million times more meaningful than if he’d
handed me a ring on bended knee and quoted Shakespeare.

Not sure, but I doubted Robichaud knew any Shakespeare. He knew how to fire a gun,
could speak Arabic, knew the king of Saudi Arabia on a first name basis, and he was
brave enough to walk into a camp of Arab arms dealers, intent on getting revenge for
his brother’s death. He’d phoned my hardnosed father, opening up a door for me that
I’d thought was sealed shut.

And he’d kill the fucking shark.

Screw Shakespeare.

Chapter Thirteen

At nine o’clock that night, we sat around a small table in a private room of the top
floor restaurant at the Al-Higgi, drinking coffee with Faisal and Zafer al-Fahd, the
former arms dealer who Nick had told me married King Abdullah’s granddaughter. He
was a large man with soulful eyes and a thick beard. When he married, he’d been given
a post within the National Guard along with a house and a generous salary. But his
rise in social status had done little to change his outlook on things. Raised Bedouin,
he had a ferocious sense of vengeance, and because he was convinced Hakeem was a traitor,
he’d answered Faisal’s request for help with great enthusiasm.

Zafer was another man who’d felt the sting of Hakeem and his father’s poison. He was
currently out of the king’s good graces because he still had contact with the outlaw
Nawaf and the other arms dealers, a fact relayed to the king with relish by Hakeem.

When I asked how Hakeem would know that, Zafer said with a scowl, “He has spies everywhere.
Household servants, government clerks, oilfield workers. What he can’t discover as
fact, he fabricates. King Abdullah is wise, but when it comes to Hakeem and his father,
he is as a blind man.”

Still wearing his scarf and veil, Robichaud leaned back in his chair and crossed one
leg over the other. “After tomorrow, he’ll see very well.”

Despite our detailed plan, Faisal still looked doubtful. “If anything goes wrong,
we’ll all be executed.”

Zafer regarded him. “Ah, but this is pessimism. If all goes well, our country will
be avenged and our king will no longer be a fool.”

“He may well be angry at the revelation. Had you thought of that?”

“Of course. That’s why our plan is so good. Hakeem is revealed, but the king saves
honor.”

“And Tim Fresh will get his comeuppance,” I murmured with satisfaction.

“I’m looking forward to giving it to him,” Robichaud said with a sharp edge to his
voice. “In more ways than one.”

Zafer shot him an understanding look. “Because he killed you, no matter that he was
unsuccessful, it’s your right to kill him.”

Nick’s eyes never left mine. “I don’t intend to kill him, but when I’m done, he’ll
wish I would.”

Weird, I know, but a mental picture of a shark popped into my head.

…

I never enjoyed a shower as much as I did the one I took that night. We’d gone outside
the hotel to a pharmacy at the corner of the block and bought toiletries, including
shampoo and a box of condoms. While Nick watched the Al Jazeera news, I stood in the
shower and wondered if I’d ever get rid of all the sand. I think it was embedded in
my skin.

As soon as I was done, Nick got in and I spent the time waiting for him by brushing
out my hair and looking at myself in the mirror, wondering how he could possibly find
me attractive. The parachute fabric hadn’t completely kept the sun from burning me,
and the stark contrast between my pale breasts, belly, and feet, which had been covered
by my camisole and tennis shoes, and the rest of my body, looked odd. At least I wasn’t
peeling, thanks to the Bedouins’ special salve.

My hair could not have looked worse if I’d tried. There wasn’t a blow dryer in the
room, and I considered putting it in a braid, but that seemed so little girlish. On
the other hand, it lay completely flat against my head and reached just past my shoulders
in a straight line.

And my face—oh, my face. I remembered my mother always fretted about us getting the
slightest bit of tan on our faces, saying we’d look like sixty year old women when
we were thirty.

I was almost thirty, and didn’t think I looked close to sixty, but my face definitely
didn’t have the smooth, soft complexion I wished it did. Sand and wind and sun had
done its worst, and it would take a long time for it to fade.

For a woman who puts little stock in appearances, it was peculiar that I was beset
with anxiety. But cripes, I was about to make love to my future husband for the very
first time and I really wanted to look good. I remembered how I’d never gotten to
be Miss Alabama as a kid because I wasn’t pretty enough. That old feeling of inadequacy
washed over me and just wouldn’t go away.

That’s why, when Robichaud came out of the bathroom, I was already under the covers
with all the lights out. He stopped at the end of the bed and stared at me in the
half light from the bathroom. “You’re always a surprise, sugar. Is this your modest
thing again?”

I nibbled my lip. “Sort of.”

Naked, he appeared to be completely at ease. Not surprising. Even with his pale groin
and upper legs contrasting with the dark, burned tan of the rest of him, he was incredibly
hot. Robichaud was ripped and lithe, not an ounce on him of anything but muscle. He
was partially erect and I remembered his hallucinatory boast about lasting all night.

If I hadn’t been more nervous than a virgin in the back seat on her first car date,
I’d have told him about it and we’d laugh. Well, he’d probably make some arrogant
remark about it not being a fantasy, but it still would have lightened the mood.

Instead, I just lay there in my painful self-consciousness and stared at him.

Walking around the bed, he turned on the lamp and sat beside me, his hand stroking
my damp hair. “My God, you’re beautiful.”

I think I blushed. Honestly. And I’m certain I looked extremely skeptical.

He brushed his lips across mine. “I love you, Blair. Don’t you know that makes you
more beautiful to me than anything else on earth?” Sliding his hand beneath the covers,
he eased them away from my chin and kissed me again, harder this time. He raised up
a bit and looked down to my breasts, where his hand caressed one, then the other.
He was very good at that. “When I met you, I thought maybe I was attracted to you
because you were the only woman in a group of rough looking men. The contrast, you
know?”

I didn’t answer. I was beginning to feel the stirrings of sexual awareness, largely
due to what he was doing to my breasts.

“But then we had that dinner for Sweet’s birthday, and there you were in a whole roomful
of women, some of them very pretty.” He moved his gaze from my breasts to my face.
“There was no comparison, Blair. None. You’re smart and strong and competent, which
is all well and great, but from a purely male perspective, you’re unholy hot.” His
fingers tangled in my hair. “I love that you don’t fuss with this. And that you don’t
pile a bunch of crap on your face. You look better in a NOMEX fire suit and steel-toed
boots than most women look all tricked out in their Sunday best.”

That made me smile, because I knew it was a load of bull. “Okay, now you’ve gone too
far.”

“I’m serious.” The covers slid down to just below my navel, followed by his hand.
“My grandmother was two inches shy of six feet tall, always had a schoolmarm bun in
her hair, and wore black lace-up shoes with everything. She was a bit plain, I guess,
but I always thought she was pretty, because she smiled all the time, and her eyes
twinkled. My grandfather thought she was the finest thing in the state of Louisiana.”
The covers went even lower, all the way down to my thighs. He sat up and looked me
over, his lips ticking up into a wide smile, his voice dropping to a deep, slow drawl.
“Don’t hide yourself from me, sugar, because I’ll never not look, and I’ll never think
you’re anything but beautiful.”

Reaching for the covers, he threw them aside, then stretched out beside me, resting
his weight on one elbow while he held my cheek in his hand and kissed me. Really kissed
me, slow and long, hot and wet.

When he wrapped both arms around me and rolled to his back, I went with him, enjoying
the feeling of being on top, his erection pressed against me, his thighs supporting
mine, and our chests pressed together while I kissed him.

Eventually, he rolled over and I was beneath him, which had its own delicious qualities.
Careful not to press against my right side, his hands roamed, his fingers moved against
me and inside of me, and his lips never moved away from mine.

I wasn’t really conscious of when he covered himself with a condom, but suddenly,
it was there when my hand closed around him for maybe the tenth time. I smiled up
at him. “You’re good at that sneaky thing, Mr. Bond.”

“All for God and country.” He raised up and came into me as he kissed me—slowly, as
if he had all the time in the world. As if he knew that would make me crazy and wiggle
about in an attempt to make him hurry. He didn’t hurry. Not for a while, anyway. Not
until I was grabbing his ass and pulling at him and urging him to get on with it,
already. So close to letting go, and yet, so far away.

“What’s your hurry, sugar? We’ve got all night.” He said that just before he plunged
into me with a hard thrust, followed by another, and another, and on and on, until
I climaxed with a sharp intake of breath, my body bowed up against him, and my fingers
clutching his shoulders. I thought I was all done, coming down from the high, but
he didn’t stop. His thrusts gained momentum and his eyes grew darker before he lowered
his head to kiss me and matched the movement of his body with his tongue. He was wild
and unrestrained, and that, as much as how he loved me, sent me over the edge again.
I’d never had two orgasms right in a row, and the experience blew my mind. I was aware
of every inch of my skin, could feel a flush of heat from deep inside me, and I was
suddenly reminded of how I’d felt floating through the sky beneath a parachute. It
was surreal.

Only when I began to come back down to earth did Nick let go, and it was intensely
erotic, watching him lose all control. Eventually, his body slowed to a stop, and
he looked down at me with something like wonder on his handsome face. “Good God almighty,
I’m
so
glad you’re going to marry me. I get to make love to you the rest of my life.”

I’d never felt more feminine, or alive, than I did just then. And for the very first
time, I felt truly beautiful.

Screw Miss Alabama.

…

Much later, I decided maybe Robichaud hadn’t been fantasizing about lasting all night.
But I couldn’t find out for sure just yet. To be rested and ready for the following
day, we needed sleep. After he made love to me a second time, and I had an unprecedented
third orgasm, I was exhausted. He’d never admit it, but I felt certain he was, too.
He turned out the lights, drew the covers up, gathered me close and immediately went
to sleep. I was only seconds behind him.

When I woke, it was very bright in the room because the curtains didn’t close all
the way, letting morning in. Lying on my stomach, I raised my head and turned to look
at Nick. He was sprawled across the bed, one leg tangled in the sheets, one arm above
his head, and a pretty serious morning erection lying against his belly. We had thirty
minutes before we had to be up, so I shamelessly took advantage of him. I’m pretty
sure he didn’t mind that I woke him, just as I’m fairly certain he had the same thought
I did. Depending on how things turned out, it might be the last time we’d make love
to each other.

…

The
Hellas Constellation
was due to dock at nine o’clock that morning. She was a 38,000 ton tanker, one of
Saudi’s own, her hold empty and ready for a payload of ninety-five dollar a barrel
oil. She carried a full crew, plus one. A castaway on a green, inflatable raft had
been picked up off the coast of Yemen. His name, according to his U.S. passport, was
Richard Mullins. He was sunburned, dehydrated and disoriented, although he’d had the
wherewithal to set off a flare when he saw the tanker. Had the
Hellas Constellation
been a super tanker, sheer size would have prevented her from stopping to pick him
up, so it was very fortunate for Mr. Mullins that she wasn’t.

Mr. Mullins was fortunate in many ways. Before his burning yacht went down, he’d been
able to inflate his raft, stow enough provisions to last three days—although he was
a little short on water, poor man—and rescue his large suitcase. The yacht’s Pakistani
and Indian crewmen were not so fortunate. All of them perished. Mr. Mullins’s host
wasn’t aboard, having been called back to Jiddah on a business matter. He’d left via
helicopter mere hours before the fire.

His host was Faisal Al-Fulani.

Richard Mullins, of course, was Tim Fresh.

I was way ahead of him. I’d figured out Tim and Hakeem’s plan while I was trudging
across the Empty Quarter with nothing but time to think. The Yanbu port schedule for
August 8
th
, the mass of green plastic, the box of provisions, the heavy suitcase—possibly filled
with Semtex—all added up to a plot to blow another tanker and disable the loading
terminals on the Red Sea.

Granted, it had been purely conjecture, but once we made it back to civilization and
called Faisal, the theory became a real possibility.

He told us that, in a show of uncharacteristic familial support, Hakeem had suggested
he escape the glare of questions for a few days and offered his yacht to him. Faisal
took him up on it, but he’d only been out one night before Hakeem radioed and said
the Lacrouix and Book plane was discovered close to the Al-Fulani home in Jiddah and
Faisal needed to explain things right away. Hakeem sent a helicopter for Faisal and
instructed his yacht crew to head back to Jiddah.

Hakeem had set him up beautifully. We theorized that as soon as Faisal was off the
yacht, Tim had taken his place, probably via another helicopter. He killed the crew,
steered into the path of the tanker and dropped anchor until she was within half a
day’s distance. Then he scuttled the yacht, cast himself off in the raft, and waited
to be saved.

Brilliant.

Except Tim and Hakeem didn’t know Robichaud and I had survived.

It wasn’t until we met with Zafer that we knew for sure there’d been a castaway picked
up. As an officer of the National Guard, he had the right to gather information from
the Ports Authority, and they told him a man in a raft had been rescued the previous
evening, just about the time Robichaud and I checked into the Al-Higgi.