Sanctuary: Delos Series, Book 9 Read online

For whatever reason, Teren hadn’t stopped him from being intimate in that one gesture last night, but that was beside the point. This was all his doing, and it wouldn’t benefit either of them. He’d seen the surprise enter her eyes when he’d connected with her, followed by arousal and need. Sure, he knew when a woman wanted him, and it was staring at him in her stormy gray eyes after his brief contact. And when he quickly pulled his hand away, he’d seen regret replace arousal—could it be regret that he’d stopped? Women didn’t like to be led on, and she was probably no exception.

  Hell, he had to admit it. Teren was attracted to him, so it wasn’t one-sided, which was both good news and bad news. It was right in front of them, in the darkness that had surrounded them on that walk, the warm breeze wafting like invisible lovers’ hands tugging at them to move closer to each other, not step away.

  But they had wisely separated because Nolan was embarrassed by his spontaneous act. Maybe that was why Teren had become cool with him at her duplex. Maybe it wasn’t that he’d scared her, it was that she’d yearned to taste him, kiss him, and more. He could wish.

  On the last mile toward Kitra, the ninth one, Teren held up her sweaty hand as the first rays of sunlight shot across the quiet grassland. “Can we slow and cool down?” she asked. “You okay with that?”

  “Sure, seven of those nine miles you were wide open and pushing.” He gave her an appreciative look. “You were doing seven-minute miles. Pretty impressive.”

  “Yeah,” she huffed, shifting into a walk. “It felt good to really challenge myself this morning.” And then her eyes gleamed with amusement. “I guess you inspire me, Steele.”

  Taking a mock bow in her direction, he said, “I think we work well together. You’re no cream puff, like I originally thought you might be.” He shot her a boyish grin, and she knew he wasn’t serious.

  Lifting her chin, Teren wiped the sweat off her brow and temples with her fingers. “Get over it, Steele! What if I called you something derogatory like that? How would you feel?”

  “Oh,” he said slyly, “but a woman being a cream puff is hardly an insult, Ms. Lambert. Just the other way around. She’s sweet to taste, to savor, to be placed in the category of a very special dessert.”

  Nolan hoped she recognized the double meaning as her eyes narrowed a bit. Food for thought? Maybe curiosity? That was good. He wanted to engage her on that level, let her know that he thought she was one helluva delicious treat and that he appreciated her. Still, he realized there were sexual overtones to his word choice, and he saw a more thoughtful look enter her eyes.

  “Well, I’m no one’s cream puff,” she replied, still trying to analyze his statement.

  “Women are beautiful by nature,” Nolan said, keeping his voice light as they walked. “I always think of them as one’s dessert in life.”

  “Not meat and potatoes? As dessert?” How he enjoyed her rejoinders. She was certainly easy to tease! “Not even. I suppose if I said you reminded me of a steak, you’d take that as a compliment?”

  “Sure, as long as it was medium rare, I would.”

  It was her turn to laugh, and she did, heartily, to Nolan’s delight. Her hair was mussed, with long strands around her face, some of them sticking to her perspiring skin, and he couldn’t suppress flashes of her lying on his bed, her hair spread out on the pillow as he licked the place behind her earlobe where an erotic reaction was guaranteed. He wanted to taste her long, smooth throat, move his tongue across her exposed nape, and watch as her breasts and nipples tightened to his exploring touch.

  His erection thickened. Get a grip, he warned himself.

  But it was too late. Teren was well aware of his erection and pretended not to notice. “I’m glad you have a good sense of humor,” she said, meeting his eyes. Instead of feeling insulted, she felt excited. Heat swept through her lower body with a promise of something so pleasurable she felt her thighs tighten.

  Now it was her turn to scold her body. She’d never had a good lover, according to Farida and Hadii, who had managed to get her to admit to her very limited knowledge of true ardor. They’d both given her sad-eyed looks, telling her a real man knew to please a woman first, not last. A real man knew how to make his woman growl like a satisfied cat after being taken by her male lion lover. Of course, Teren pretended to understand, but she didn’t really. The two women talked excitedly about orgasms, how wonderful they were, how having one threw them into a frenzy of wild pleasure.

  Teren would nod, as if in agreement. Though she suspected they knew she had never encountered such pleasures, she didn’t have the guts to admit it. And after all the trials she’d gone through with her family, she didn’t want anyone else telling her how inexperienced she was.

  Not that Farida or Hadii would ever say such hurtful words to her. Instead, they clucked like wise hens who had raised many broods of chicks. For them, Teren was just one more chick to love and educate. They never made her feel insulted, only cared for and nurtured. In fact, Teren had often admitted to herself that she wished either of these wonderful Sudanese women had been her mother, instead of the stern, unforgiving one she’d been given.

  Nolan wiped the sweat off his brow. Smiling, he said, “I like hearing you laugh, Teren. I wish you could see what I do when you let go.”

  Giving him a confused look, she didn’t know what to say to his husky declaration. Was that burning look a yearning for her? She had no doubt that this man wanted her, and for once, Teren wasn’t afraid or disgusted by it.

  Maybe Farida and Hadii were correct—maybe Nolan was the right man for her. She relied on their insight into men, having no trust in herself because she’d been such a failure at finding the right men to love. Brushing away the trickles of sweat from her face and arms as they walked in the warming air, Teren saw it was almost seven a.m., and already the heat of the day was reaching furnace levels. What little cool air had breezed past them during the run was gone.

  The two soldiers at the guardhouse came to attention as Teren and Nolan passed through the open gates. Teren saw the community awakening. Women in colorful clothing were standing in line to pick up trays and get breakfast in the huge dining room of the admin building. She smiled softly, watching the smaller children running around their mothers or playing happily with other children in line.

  These children had known only the pain and abuse of their fathers’ closed fists or open hands—now they laughed and played happily.

  It was a scene that always made Teren’s heart swell with joy; this moment made the whole day worthwhile. She knew every mother and child by name. The tragic stories of rape, abuse, and kidnapping for use by sex traffickers were a common thread among these women. Each had come to Kitra for safety, help, and healing. Some of their children had been sold by their fathers to male predators for sex; the money from these sales put food on the table for the family.

  It was a tragic way of life in Africa. Teren had witnessed the positive changes after a family had lived at Kitra for a year. The transformation was almost miraculous. She’d seen lives turned around as wounds were tended and mothers and their children began to heal, as the mother gained self-confidence instead of being browbeaten and abused. Over time, she learned the trade of sewing on a treadle machine. Sales were assured, as everything she created was sold in Kitra’s global Internet store.

  The women now had monthly incomes and their families would not starve. It was an altogether powerful testament to a charity doing things the right way for those in need.

  Teren often wondered if, had she been given similar help after her sexual abuse, she might have turned out differently—better than she found herself today.

  “Those kids look like they’re enjoying themselves,” Nolan murmured, bringing her back to the present. “Are they like this all the time?”

  “They are,” she answered softly, slowing down, then coming to a halt. She told Nolan about the women and their children and their difficult journeys to get to Kitra. She saw instantly how moved he wa
s by her stories, and she realized he could replace that professional game face with a glimpse of his deepest feelings. Wyatt had warned her that an operator would always maintain a stoic and unreadable demeanor. But she could see Nolan wasn’t like that. She could read him easily because for some reason, he was willing to allow her entrance into his private self—the man, not the operator.

  After she finished telling him about the women’s transformations, she said quietly, “Every day, Nolan, I receive the gift of seeing these women heal just a little more. Their children are healing. When a child first comes here, he or she is so frightened, just a silent shadow afraid to speak, wincing when someone lifts a hand, thinking they’re going to get cuffed or a fist in the face.” She saw the anger leap to his eyes, saw the tightening of his mouth.

  Reaching out, she touched his arm, which was damp with sweat, gleaming in the sunlight. “Farida, Samar, Nafeesa, and Charuni, who all work here, use every chance they get to hug, kiss, and hold these wounded children. They embrace the mothers too. And everyone here responds to the love.”

  She wanted to keep contact with him but pulled away as she saw arousal in his eyes. His look sent heat streaking down to her lower body, making it throb and ache with an unfamiliar sensation.

  “Love is always the greatest healer,” he replied, watching the group and trying to get his equilibrium back after the silent message of her touch. “I’ve met the people who created Delos, and I can tell you that they’re the same way.”

  Her gaze lingered on his. “And do they hire men such as yourself who have heart, who are able to reach out and do the same as we do here at the charity?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, unsure where this was going.

  “Wyatt warned me about you. He said you were an ex-military operator and that you would wear your game face when you were around me.” She gave a negligent shrug. “He said I’d never really know what you were honestly thinking or feeling.” She gestured toward the highway. “Yet, this morning on our run, you didn’t wear a game face. You laughed, smiled, talked, ran. I could sense things around you…”

  He put his hands on his hips, because if he didn’t, he was going to take a step forward, frame Teren’s gleaming face, and kiss her senseless. She wanted to kiss him. He saw it in her eyes, felt the desire around her. Nolan wouldn’t tell her how keen his sixth sense was because he knew it would embarrass Teren.

  She was fragile in a different way, he realized. She didn’t seem confident about her feelings toward him. At her age, most women had a very solid understanding of themselves in that regard, but she didn’t. And he couldn’t be like a rogue elephant in her life, stomping through it, tearing it up as a result.

  Choosing his words carefully was important. “Well,” he rasped, giving her a warm look, “I find that around you, Teren, that mask I’m supposed to wear melts away. I’m not blaming you. It’s just you. You invite me to be who I really am, not what I’m supposed to be for you. And yes, I can put that game face on in a heartbeat. But you know what? Around you, I don’t want to.”

  He saw instant relief come to her eyes. “That’s good,” she whispered unsteadily, touching her brow, pushing strands of hair away from her eyes. “Because I like being around the real you, Nolan. I hate people who put on an act to hide who they really are.”

  “Good. Does that mean you accept my presence here, even though you’re my PSD?”

  Her blinding smile went straight to his heart, accepting him fully and arousing a fierce yearning to make her his, to please her in every way possible both in his bed and out.

  “Yes…yes, I like seeing how you’re really feeling, Nolan. Don’t ever apologize for being who you really are around me. I love it…”

  CHAPTER 8

  The odor of raw sewage stung Enver Uzan’s nostrils as he walked near the White Nile riverbank. His eyes watered and he wiped them, muffling a curse. Khartoum’s slums were endless. It was a city of six million and probably half of it was comprised of starving Sudanese from the south, who had come here hoping to find help, jobs, and food for their families. But no such luck would be with them. The refugees set up their sagging canvas tents for miles on yellow dirt on this side of the slow-moving Blue and White Nile Rivers, which both flowed through the city southward.

  Although the river water was filled with sewage, the wives took their five-gallon plastic jugs daily to the riverbank and filled them up. They would boil the water to use for cooking, drinking, and bathing.

  Uzan loathed the smell of sweat combined with dirt on the tent-lined avenue, and he turned away from the thin, dirty children, their bodies shrunken so that their heads appeared twice their normal size. They stared up at him with glazed eyes as he passed. And why would they pay attention to this man who wasn’t wearing new clothing that would’ve instantly flagged the attention of one of the city’s roving gangs? They would want to kill him and tear the clothes off his body for starters, then rob him and slit his throat.

  Uzan wiped a hand across his trimmed black beard to dislodge the sweat. He was searching for a particular faded green tent with a gold lion painted on the side of it. He hated Khartoum, preferring to be back in Pakistan, but his lord, Zakir Sharan, had sent him on this sordid mission. Although he would never turn down an assignment, this one made him nauseous. He felt as if he were walking through the bowels of hell. The people were pitiful to look at and the children quickly scurried out of his way like wild animals, sensing he was someone important, perhaps dangerous.

  Finally, he stopped and asked a man leading a donkey—which was wobbling along with a heavy load of mud bricks—where he could find the caliph of Aziim Nimir, Great Leopard. The man quickly told him, his eyes hooded with fear as he jerked on the rope, the donkey braying in protest as the man and his beast lumbered off, wanting to get as far away from the stranger as they could.

  Uzan made a turn, walking down another long row of faded tan, white, and green tents. And just as the man had directed, there was Bachir’s “palace,” as he’d grandly referred to it on a satellite phone days earlier. Hell, decided Uzan, it looked like all the other ragged, thin, torn tents, with one exception: there were two haflas with food supplies piled high on the truck beds, zealously guarded by a motley crew of aggressive youths high on drugs. They strutted around the perimeter of the trucks like young lions, carrying AK-47s, looking fierce and threatening. The crowd surrounding them was hungry and saw there were sacks of sorghum, wheat, and rice on those beds. While they desperately wanted to get to them, the warning glares of the soldiers with their AKs stopped them. The crowd knew that if anyone tried to grab a sack, he would be shot.

  Making sure he kept his Glock 18 well hidden among the folds of the robe he wore, Uzan aimed for a young man with a missing eye standing at the half-open tent entrance. He, too, was armed and probably no more than eighteen. The boy glared at him and Uzan knew he was dangerous. Starvation could make a man crazy.

  These men were not like his al-Qaeda brethren, who came from villages in Pakistan and Afghanistan. They were well enough fed, their brains worked adequately, and they weren’t on drugs like this sorry excuse for an army.

  This was the first time he had visited Sudan, and he wasn’t at all impressed with the quality of the soldiers here. They all had shrunken stomachs and huge, protruding eyes. He estimated these men hadn’t eaten in days, but as he neared the tent, he smelled roasting goat meat being cooked inside, among other pleasant food odors.

  “I’m Uzan,” he told the boy. “Caliph Bachir is expecting me.”

  Instantly the boy’s eyes widened, and he looked the visitor up and down. Uzan was five feet eight and nearly twice the weight of this pathetic soldier.

  “Enver Uzan?”

  Surprised, Enver nodded. The boy had a memory, at least. “Yes.” He pulled a scroll from within the folds of his robe and handed it to the young soldier. “Give this to your caliph. It’s from Lord Sharan.”

  The young man disappeared, gripping the scroll. Uz
an was uncomfortable here in this deadly slum, feeling out of his element. He knew how to operate in Afghanistan and Pakistan, but not this sordid African country. Lord Sharan’s passion for destroying Delos Charities was uppermost in his mind. Uzan was one of twenty top officers who served his master, and they had all received orders and were being sent out to places around the world. Each had, as his priority, a specific Delos charity.

  Uzan had taken part in the planning of this imminent massive global attack. Because the Culver family—who owned the far-flung charities—had killed Sharan’s only two sons in Afghanistan, his lord was seeking an eye for an eye—nothing would stop him.

  Uzan considered himself fortunate not to have been sent to the hot, moist jungles of southern Africa or South America, as others had been. At least he was in a dry, hot climate—he’d been born in Pakistan and was used to it.

  The soldier reappeared. “Come,” he ordered in Arabic.

  Uzan slipped through the folds, suddenly surrounded by the pleasant, spicy odors of food being served. His stomach betrayed him by rumbling and he realized he was very hungry.

  He saw a man on a wooden throne, dressed in a white jalabiya, a white cap on his short black hair. This had to be Caliph Bachir, a murderer, a sociopath, and the leader of Aziim Namir, which had a fragile alliance with an al-Qaeda affiliate in Pakistan. Well, he’d find out shortly if he could work with the crazy Sudanese warlord.

  The Delos Safe House Foundation in Kitra was his target. Would this madman help him or not? Uzan carried enough Sudanese pounds in a heavy knapsack on his back to gather a mercenary army. But looking at these starved soldiers, he now wished fervently for a good group of Taliban or al-Qaeda–trained operators instead.

  Unfortunately, his orders were to work with Caliph Bachir. He was cursed.

  *

  Nolan was trying to quell his need to see Teren. He’d just left Ayman’s busy security office and was heading toward her office in another part of the administrative complex. Inside his black calfskin briefcase were documents for Teren. The other papers he was carrying had been given to Ayman.