Hell or High Water (Deep Six #1)(85)
Ahmed frowned. “But it does not make any sense.”
“I know!” Banu bellowed. All his dreams, all his aspirations were circling the drain, and he couldn’t figure out how the hell it had happened. Unless…Could it be that someone else knew about the chemicals? Was there a third party at play here that had somehow tracked the case and was now claiming the capsules for themselves?
Or had the CIA discovered the theft early on, early enough to find Nassar and torture him into giving up the coordinates of the wreck so they could go down and retrieve the sunken chemicals? But then, where was this salvage ship Nassar had spoken of? Had he sunk it? Was that the debris they saw? If so, how the hell had Nassar allowed the yacht to be overtaken? Unless…had he simply been outgunned?
All of it was possible, Banu supposed. None of it made any real sense.
His heart raced, his lungs ached, his thoughts whirled in a series of tight circles that made him dizzy. And then, suddenly…calm. It poured over him, welcome as a rain shower on a hot summer day, cooling his frenzied heart, soothing his burning lungs, focusing his mind on a single point.
This was his chance. This was The One. And it didn’t matter who those men were or what had happened. He had to get those chemicals back. And he might know just how to do it.
There weren’t many rules when it came to the high seas—a powered vessel always gives way to a sailing vessel; two powered vessels always pass each other port-side to port-side—but one standing, inviolable principle was that you never ignore a Mayday or call for assistance.
It was gutsy, this plan of his. And maybe a little crazy too. But nothing ventured, nothing gained. And if he did somehow manage to pull it off, just think of what that would mean to his story. He could see the headlines now: MASTERMIND BEHIND TERROR ATTACK PULLED OFF AMAZING HEIST TO RE-SECURE CHEMICALS AFTER INITIAL LOSS. And perhaps this had been Allah’s plan for him all along. A road map to even greater glory.
He turned to Ahmed who lifted a brow at the smile splitting his face. His tone was gleeful when he said, “I have an idea.”
*
6:42 p.m.…
“Hey, now,” Leo said. “Where are you goin’? We’re not finished here.”
Olivia stepped out of the shower and grabbed one of the navy-blue towels hanging over a rod, wrapping it around her body. Warm. It was so soft and warm. A heated towel rod. Some people really know how to live.
Looking down at his semi-flaccid cock—even wilted it was still impressive—she lifted a brow, donning a saucy smile so he wouldn’t see what she was truly feeling: heartbreak.
She’d been an idiot to think she’d be fine as long as she stopped things short of full-on sex. Or maybe Bill Clinton was the idiot. Because when two people shared intimacy like that, giving pleasure and taking pleasure, it forged a bond between them. A bond that, when welded together with the love she felt, became unassailable. Unbreakable. She was going to remember what they’d done for the rest of her life. Remember the way he’d loved her with hands and mouth. So tenderly. So precisely. Remember the way he’d given himself over to her. So unhesitatingly. So unquestioningly.
In that moment, she’d known what it was to be trusted, to be cherished, to…belong. To him. She’d belonged to him. And him to her. And now she was doomed to mourn the loss of that belonging for the rest of her life.
But she couldn’t let him know. Keep it casual. Keep it fun. Don’t let him see you’re hurting. Keep that CIA-agent cap screwed on tight, Mortier.
“Not finished?” She winked at him, gesturing with her chin toward his manhood. “I’d say we are. At least for a while.” Her voice was rough with unshed tears, but she hoped he mistook her tone for that of spent passion.
When he wiggled his eyebrows, she breathed a sigh of relief. He turned off the shower, and the resulting silence pressed in on her, seeping into the hollowness in her chest until she wanted to scream. She needed to get out of there. Get some air. Get some perspective. Get—
“Never underestimate the regenerative powers of a man who has finally gotten his hands on the woman he’s been fantasizin’ about for almost two years,” he told her, grabbing a towel and rubbing it over his wet hair.
He gave himself a few good scrubs, then held out the terrycloth, one sandy-brown eyebrow raised. “This thing’s hotter than burnt toast.”
“I know, right?” His hair was standing out every which way, making him look…adorable. Still big and tough, but a little bit boyish too. And, ow. Her heart hurt. Like, seriously hurt. It took everything she had to maintain her smile. When she couldn’t quite manage it, she swiped another towel off the rack and bent at the waist. Flipping her hair upside down, she twisted the towel around it turban-style. Breathe, Olivia. Just breathe. Keep it casual. Keep it fun. Keep that CIA-agent cap screwed on tight. And that had become her new mantra, apparently. “What wonders will we discover next, do you think? I’m half expecting Jeeves to come in and offer to help us don our dinner attire.”
She straightened to find him applying the towel to his chest and shoulders, then down his legs. The way he moved was poetry. Each flex of his muscles in rhythm and rhyme with the whole of him. “If he does, I’ll be forced to punch him in the face.”
“Huh?” She frowned.
“I’m feelin’ pretty territorial right about now,” he admitted, grinning unabashedly. “And I’d like to keep the number of eyes who get to see this”—before she knew what he was about, he hooked a finger in her towel and whipped it off—“to a bare minimum.”