Sandra Hill (14 page)

“No!” he said. “No, no, no, no, no!”

“What a lackwit,” Maddie said.

“You shouldn’t call your groom … uh, potential groom … a bad name,” Dolores advised Maddie. Some guard she was, too!

“Dearling”—Maddie said the odd endearment with sugary sweetness—“I would rather lie with a three-pronged goat than be your bloody bride.”

Now, there’s a picture.

At first there was silence, and then Cage pronounced, “I think they make a perfect couple.”

Ian had the sensation of drowning in quicksand.

The sucking sound of a man drowning in quicksand …

Later that evening, Ian was at the party, half blitzed, heading for a total, knee-walking drunk. As if that would help anything!

Just then, an old acquaintance of his walked up. Dan Sullivan was a pain-in-the-ass CIA agent he’d met years ago at some Pentagon cocktail party hosted by Ian’s admiral father. Dan liked to needle him every chance he got. Actually, Ian usually did a good job of needling back.

Ian glared at Dan, but did the man take a hint and vamoose? Nope. He looked like the proverbial cat that swallowed the canary. His smirk boded ill for Ian.

Taking a long swig from his longneck, he braced himself.

“How’s it hanging, spy guy?” he asked. Judging by his continuing smirk, Dan must have heard about his “predicament.” Hell, everyone at the party had, thanks to his big-mouth squad members. “Long and
hard, Kermit.” Dan thought it was cute to call him Kermit, as in frogman, what SEALs used to be called in the old days. “And you?” Dan was still smirking.

“Hot and heavy,” Ian replied. It was their usual back-and-forth greeting, but it seemed to have more significance for Ian now. Why he was attempting to make small talk with the jerk-off was beyond him. Must be the beer.

“I just came back from a late-night meeting with the boss. You are in deep shit,” Dan informed him, with glee.

What a loser!
“What else is new?”

“Oh, this is new, all right.” Dan deliberately failed to go on.

But Ian wasn’t going to give in and ask.

Finally Dan couldn’t help himself. “Madrene Olgadottir, or whatever the hell her name is, is not Jamal’s bed bunny. Nope. Yasmine Bahir was spotted this afternoon in Kabul.”

Ian felt the blood drain from his head. He’d suspected as much—that Yasmine wasn’t … Yasmine—but somehow confirmation came like a sledgehammer to his thick head. “So, who is she?”

“Damned if we know. Not yet. She has no social security number in the U.S. Interpol has no data on her. She’s still suspicious. Hell, she keeps giving a cock-and-bull story about harems and raising an army to get back her estates, but exactly where those estates are, we can’t figure out, and she’s not telling. Not yet.”

“Where does that leave her?”
Or me?

“We can’t hold her. Oh, we’ll put a tail on her, once she’s released, but for now, sayonara.”

They’re releasing her? Wow!
“Do you plan on relocating her … somewhere?”

“No. Why would we?”

Because she’s lost. Because she’ll never get to her destination from here. Because it’s the right thing to do.
“Well, maybe because we are responsible for her being here.”

“
We
are not responsible for her being here, Rambo.
You
are.”

Don’t hit him. Do … not … hit … him.
“You can’t just dump her here in Baghdad. It’s a snake pit right now. And she doesn’t have a clue about this city and its dangers.”

“We offered to transport her back to northern Iraq, but she refuses to go there. Something about milking camels and harems and camel spit.”

Ian barely stifled a grin. So, he wasn’t the only one being subjected to her wild stories. “Then find her a safe house here,” Ian demanded.

“I don’t think so. We’d rather drop her and see where she goes.”

She won’t last a week. With her mouth … and, yeah, her beauty, she’ll be raped or dead in no time. Probably both.
“She’s not my responsibility.”

Dan raised his eyebrows at Ian’s vehemence. “Who said she was?”

Yas … Maddie, that’s who. She’s like a barnacle on my backside, determined to make me feel guilty. Well, I won’t.

“Of course, the word is already out. Even if she’s not affiliated with any terrorist cell, I suspect they’ll want to talk to her. Just in case.”

And we all know how tangos talk.
Ian suddenly recalled a woman they had found in an Afghan terrorist camp last year. Her breasts had been cut off, and a vile object stuck into her vagina … all while she was still alive and before they chopped off her head. “You would subject her to that?”

“We’ll be watching her.”

Just like you took care of the Afghan woman?
“Bullshit! You and I both know that the tangos might get hold of her anyhow. Did you see that Arab girl we brought back? Her only crime was having a powerful father. What do you think they might do to a woman they suspect has spilled some secret information to the feds?”

Dan shrugged.

Ian blinked several times and unclenched his fists.
Life sucks, and I am not friggin’ Superman.
“I’m outta here tomorrow. She can be toast, or not toast. I don’t care.”

Oh, God! Yes, I do care.

I shouldn’t care.

Yes, I should.

A numb feeling came over him as Dan swaggered away, off to needle someone else. The prick!

His teammates came up to take Dan’s place. Apparently, they had overheard it all.

“Are we really going to leave her here?” Geek asked. He was an innocent, despite having been blooded on this mission. He still believed the good guys always won, Prince Charming rescued the princess, all that crap. Not that Ian was a prince, not by a long shot.

“Hell, no!” the other team members said as one.

Then they all looked at him.

And JAM took a piece of paper out of his pocket that Ian knew without being told was a marriage license.

Ian was not a wuss. He could very easily hop on that plane tomorrow … actually today since it was two a.m. There had been many times in his career when he’d had to make decisions for the greater
good, even when something or someone had to be sacrificed. But in those cases, there had been no other choice.

Besides, there was something about this woman … something that tugged at his memory. He could swear he’d seen her somewhere before. And, honestly, she drew him to her, even when he had thought she was an old hag. Hell, she thought he was prettier than Pretty Boy. He made her flutter. There were worse things in the world.

His shoulders slumped with resignation.

“I think I smell wedding cake,” Sly said.

What you smell is smoke coming out of my ears.

“Dum dum dee dum,” Pretty Boy sang.

How would you like to no longer be pretty?

“I know where there’s a little chapel we could use,” Omar offered.

I know where there’s a hole I could stuff you in.

“I could sing,” Cage offered.

Yeah. If we want to drive all the dogs in Baghdad nuts.

“Do you have your dress whites here?”

I am not making an event out of this fiasco.

“Can I be your best man?” Cage looked at him hopefully.

“No, me.” “No, me.” “No, me,” the rest of them said.

“We can all be best men,” Cage offered, and they all smiled their agreement. Except Ian.

This is going to be a sideshow.

“I’m going to go check the Internet to make sure it’s all legal and everything,” Geek said and left the party.

Oh, yeah. Gotta make this stick.

JAM saw the dismay on Ian’s face and and
assured him, “It’s only temporary. You can get an annulment when you get home.”

That’s for damn sure.

Avenil came out of nowhere and put a hand on his shoulder. The guy was like a ghost. You never knew when or where he would show up. Into Ian’s ear, he whispered, “You’re doing the right thing.”

Ian, deep down, believed that to be true, too. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be allowing himself to be railroaded.

“If this is my wedding eve, I guess this must be my bachelor party, except there’s one thing missing,” he said, resigned to whatever fate held for him. “Where are the strippers?”

The troll takes a wife, the troll takes a wife, high ho, the …

“Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?” JAM asked.

“If I must,” Madrene replied.

Her prospective husband snorted his disgust. Then he whispered into her ear. “I’m doing you a favor, lady. Shape up or I’m out of here.”

She looked at JAM, the SEAL who was acting as minister; he had been a priest or almost-priest at one time. “Yes.”

“Yes what?” JAM asked.

“Yes, I take the lout to be my husband.” Then she turned to the lout. “Now are you happy?”

“No, I’m not happy,” Ian told her, disgust thick in his voice. But when JAM asked him, “Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?” he said “Yes.”

After a bunch of words, most of which Madrene
did not understand, JAM announced, “By the power granted me by church and state, I now pronounce you man and wife.”

I cannot believe I am wed-fast again. I vowed never to take another man into my life. It hurts too much. Ah, but I have no choice. No choice at all. And that is ever a woman’s lot. I thought I was different.

JAM had been serious throughout the short ceremony, but now he winked at Ian. “You may now kiss the bride.” The other SEALs, the two female soldiers and many other military friends present to bear witness clapped and chanted, “Kiss, kiss, kiss!”

Ian was as surprised as Madrene by that suggestion, but she was the first to react by snorting her revulsion and stomping down the steps of the makeshift altar. She had only gone down two steps when Ian grabbed her by the upper arm and pulled her back.

“If I’m going to be leg-shackled to a shrew—” Ian said for her ears only.

Wait just a bloody minute. I am the one being leg-shackled here.

“—I am going to get some recompense.”

If I had coins, I would not be in this predicament.

With his words, he hauled her flush against his body, one hand around her waist and the other buried in her hair.

Oh. That kind of recompense.

Their eyes locked for one long second.

She wanted to protest, but her limbs and tongue were frozen. His mouth spoke anger, but his eyes—brown as clover honey—entreated her to surrender.

And then he kissed her.

Nay, kiss was too weak a word for what he did.
His lips were not rough on hers, as Karl’s had been most times, especially when he had the alehead. Instead, his firm lips moved back and forth till he found just the spot he wanted. Then his lips coaxed hers in the most compelling way to return his kiss.

And she did. Blessed Frigg! She did.

It was too much, and not nearly enough.

With a soft moan against his open mouth, she raised her arms around his neck and pressed her body even closer. For the first time in her life, she relished the difference between man and woman. For the first time in her life, she did not disdain the softness of a woman’s body or the hardness of a man’s. When he teased her mouth with his tongue, she gasped, and he used that opportunity to slip his tongue inside. She was not sure whether to be outraged or excited.

No contest. She was excited. In fact, her knees buckled.

With a chuckle, he caught her, and only then did he draw away from her. But he still held her in a close embrace.

They both stared at each other with shock. What had just happened? The brute had hoped to punish her with a humiliating kiss. But instead, they had both been overcome with … what? She could not say, having never experienced such a pull toward another human being. And she could see that Ian felt the same. They were in their own small world, and it was a blissful place.

But then the rest of the world intruded. All around them, people were offering congratulations, as if this marriage were something to celebrate. The men suggested coarse ideas for Ian to use in the bed furs, as if there would be bed play between them. Amber
and Dough-lore-ass had tears in their eyes, as if this joining came from love. But it was done, and Madrene was safe, for now. She should be thankful.

Turning to her new husband—
what a thought!
—she said, “Thank you.”

He just grumbled.

Boar!
“Once I get my bearings, I will be off, believe you me. I have friends in high places.”

He rolled his eyes.

Boar!
“If I could have found a way home without your help, I would not have … inconvenienced you.”

“Inconvenienced! Lady, you are a huge boulder in my life.”

Boar!

After that, JAM brought a document for them to sign. Ian scratched out some words with a most ingenious pen—it had ink in its body—then turned to her. “I cannot write,” she confessed.

All of them looked on her first with surprise, then pity. Why? Few men and even fewer women learned to read in her land. They were too busy trying to survive. Chin lifted with pride, she put a mark where JAM indicated, then led the way to the back of the rude metal building, where a small repast had been set out. A sweet cake with frosted words on top. Small pieces of bread with meat in the center. That bitter brew known as cough-he. And a red liquid that resembled weak blood; ’twas called punch. She had no appetite, but tried each of them. It would have been impolite to Amber and Dough-lore-ass not to. The men had no such reservations, gobbling the food and drink as if they hadn’t had a break in fast a mere two hours ago.

The man known as Cage came up to her then, took her by the waist and twirled her about. “Best wishes, chère. It’s time to kiss the bride.” And he did just that. On the mouth.

The rogue!

Next came the man named after one of the apostles, Luke, also called Slick. He was a serious man, and the look he gave her was somber. Kissing her on the cheek, he said, “Give it a chance, honey, and this marriage just might work.”