CHAPTER 2
Teren waited patiently outside the customs area at the Khartoum airport. She had her cell phone in hand, scrolling through messages from her two office assistants. Her mouth tugged at the corners as she looked up at the double doors, expecting Nolan Steele to come through them at any moment.
His color photo flashed on her screen. He had an oval face and large, hawkish marine-blue eyes that reminded her of the ocean’s depths. His mouth was something else—sensual, yet firm. He was almost painfully good-looking—far too handsome for his own good! He probably had an ego the size of Jupiter. She hoped not, because the moment the email from Wyatt Lockwood had appeared on her laptop, her whole body reacted to the stranger’s photograph. Those eyes…so full of secrets and, Teren sensed, pain. It didn’t appear on his unlined thirty-year-old face, but it was there.
She was just a year younger than him. She thought back to when she’d been an idealistic eighteen-year-old, filled with hope and the belief that the world was essentially a good place. She found out differently later that year and after her own traumatic experience, Teren had quickly revised her views about men. From that time on, they had been creatures she couldn’t understand or relate to. She’d become gun-shy around them, and now, over a decade later, she still felt that way.
But as she studied Nolan’s face, Teren felt her heart slowly begin to open, like petals on a lotus. Not wanting to feel like this, fighting it, she clicked her phone’s screen off but left the phone on, because he had her phone number in case they missed each other here at the busy, crowded airport.
A potpourri of spicy scents filled the air. Men wore either light-colored silk business suits or the traditional jalabiya, a loose-fitting garment, collarless, ankle-length, and long-sleeved. Some wore caps, others turbans. Because it was August, a season of dry, blistering heat, the jalabiyas were either white, cream, or tan, made of cotton-linen or silk, to deflect the burning rays of the sun outside this air-conditioned facility.
She nervously smoothed her tob, a head-to-toe gown of white cotton topped by a white silk hijab, the traditional scarf Muslim women wore over their heads when in public. She wasn’t Muslim, but Teren tried to fit in, not stand out. Knowing how dangerous it was to be a white, American woman in this third-world country, she didn’t want to draw attention to herself any more than necessary.
Normally, she wouldn’t have been here waiting for someone at the airport. She liked the red clay walls that surrounded Kitra, the sense of safety that was always there because Captain Ayman Taban ran his security force like the military man he’d been for twenty years.
So, where was this Steele guy, and was that even his real name or a cover one? After talking with Wyatt by sat phone, she knew he was going to be her personal bodyguard, and that he was ex-military, but Wyatt hadn’t said anything more than that. Tapping her slippered foot, Teren began to feel restless. She didn’t like being out in such a huge, bustling area with so many men and so few women. She knew she’d stand out because of her lighter skin.
In Khartoum, she dressed conservatively, the niqab, over her brow and nose, only a slit for her eyes, trying to hide her skin color. Here at the airport, her face was fully visible, the scarf draped around her head, neck, and shoulders. Steele had to be able to identify her once he came through the doors of customs. Sudan wasn’t a safe place in many areas and it was especially dangerous to a woman who stood alone without a male escort in tow. Too many terrorists were lurking around, and it always made her tense. Her nervousness this afternoon was heightened because she felt inexplicably drawn to Nolan Steele.
Teren wasn’t prepared when she spotted him at the exit doors of customs, along with several other Sudanese businessmen dressed in their robes. He was moderately built, wearing a tan T-shirt beneath a loose-fitting khaki jacket and trousers. Their eyes briefly locked upon one another, and Teren’s heart began to accelerate. He was here! Why did it feel like a homecoming instead of a first meeting? Her lips moved and then tightened, and instead, she lifted her hand.
He gave her a bare nod, his eyes narrowing, and every nerve in her body reacted to that swift, intense perusal he gave her.
And then, just as quickly, he lifted his chin, his gaze sweeping around the noisy, busy airport. She had the distinct impression he was actually a lordly leopard in disguise, calmly surveying his kingdom, not a stranger coming to a strange country. He walked like a hunter, light on his feet, avoiding any living animal in the immediate vicinity.
She watched in amazement as he threaded his way through the crowd. He moved like water flowing around rocks, disturbing nothing, gaining no one’s attention. Teren’s respect for him as a security contractor rocketed.
His shoulders were broad, squared with pride, his hand on a single bag that appeared to hold a laptop. His right hand was free. And as his gaze swept to her once again and briefly halted, Teren felt in that one, scorching moment, he had memorized her from head to toe.
It wasn’t sexual. It wasn’t lust. It was something indefinable, but just the power of it stirred up the heat simmering in her lower body. Once he was clear of the bustling crowd, his gaze locked on hers once more, and Teren felt as if she were being surrounded by such intense protectiveness, it stole her breath away.
Protection! It had been so long since she’d felt safe. So long…and he seemed to be invisibly embracing her, the sense of safety he radiated even stronger the closer he drew to her.
For once in her life, Teren found herself speechless. Their gazes clung to one another, and something passed between them that made her throat tighten. She fought back old, wounded emotions as she absorbed the look in his eyes, feeling his quiet authority and power. Now she lifted her chin and realized that, on some level, she didn’t want him to step away from her. It was the craziest, most out-of-this-world sensation she’d ever felt!
Almost dizzied by his palpable masculinity as he drew to a halt about four feet away from her, she stared up at Steele—gawked was more like it. Teren suddenly felt like an innocent eighteen-year-old who held all the hopes of the world in her heart.
Steele was a stranger. Ex-military. Black ops. So different from the world she lived in that what he was bringing with him was alien to her culture. Then his eyes warmed as he smiled down on her, and she felt heat sheeting through her, arousing her dormant body, ripping away all her fear, the sense of danger that always hovered around her. She felt a fire sparking to full life deep within her body, as if on some unknown plane of existence, she was meeting him after a long absence.
“Ms. Lambert?”
His voice was low and quiet. The vibration, though subtle, tingled through every cell within her. Teren barely nodded. “Yes.” The word came out smoky and soft, so unlike her. Nolan Steele brought out her female quality with just his mere presence.
Looking deeper into his eyes, Teren didn’t see arousal or lust. What she saw, however, was even more powerful: gentle understanding and yes, compassion burned in his eyes, aimed directly at her. How could that be?
She felt tongue-tied, scrambling inwardly to snap out of that magical cocoon he’d just woven around her. The feeling left Teren unsure of herself—normally, she exuded a quiet confidence wherever she went. Whatever magic he possessed made her feel excruciatingly female, and she gratefully absorbed it.
Steele gave her a wry smile, his eyes crinkling, the lines in the corners deepening. “Are you all right? You look a little dazed.”
Teren felt heat burnishing her cheeks. She never blushed, but she was now. She managed an apologetic, “I’m sorry…long day.” Well, that wasn’t a lie, just not the whole truth. “The heat, too.” She lifted her hand gracefully toward the automatic doors.
“Understandable,” he agreed with a nod. Holding out his hand, he said, “Nolan Steele. It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Lambert.”
His large hand engulfed her thin, narrow one, and the touch of his callused palm sliding against hers sent wild electric sensations up her lower arm. His fingers were long, strong, yet gentle, as he lightly squeezed her hand in return. Teren felt his latent strength, reminding her once more of that proud leopard who, while in repose, looked tame and nonthreatening—but he wasn’t. Skin against skin she sensed much more and couldn’t hold off images that had nothing to do with a simple “hello.”
Unsteadily, Teren pulled her hand free, her skin vibrating with his energy. “Do you have luggage?” she asked, trying to restore the impression of competence she’d brought with her.
“Yes.” He broke contact with her flawless gray eyes, which brought to mind the color of the sky just before dawn. “I’ve been here before, and baggage is that way.” He pointed in the direction of the highly polished hall that led to the right.
She blinked, her mind slowly returning online. “You have? I mean, you’ve been in Sudan before?” The way his lips parted in a grin, part boyish, part secretive, told her that Nolan wasn’t wearing his game face. He was being genuine.
Wyatt had warned her that she probably wouldn’t be able to read him or know what he was thinking or feeling. But that wasn’t true, at least not here and now. It was as if they were both standing before each other, exposing themselves boldly and fearlessly. She could almost feel his essence, and it swept her away in a glorious cloud of heat, light, and promise.
“Yes, ma’am. In fact, I’ve been here too many times,” he assured her. Nolan knew better than to cup her elbow and guide her down the massive, gleaming hallway leading to the escalator down to baggage. This was a conservative country, and a strange man could not touch a woman. Only family could touch family, and even then, it mattered which person in the family it was. Earlier, when they shook hands, any passerby would automatically think they were related and from the same family. They would think nothing of the greeting. Nolan gestured and said, “This way.”
Tucking her phone into the white straw purse hanging over her right shoulder, Teren nodded. Again, women here never led the way; rather, they followed the men. She was curious about Nolan having been in Sudan before. He walked like he owned the place, but it wasn’t arrogance. It was utter male confidence of the finest kind. She’d seen that same type of confidence in Captain Taban, the man who had won her deepest respect. It was quiet authority that no one dared breach or challenge. And yet, when Nolan barely turned his head, she saw his profile, felt his protectiveness envelop her even though she was a few feet behind and to the left of him.
Farida, Kitra’s director, had been urging her to leave and go stateside, back to her family home in Somerset, Kentucky, but to do that, Teren would have to revisit her past. She’d grown up in the small town, mostly full of devout Christians, and their set of morals and values were strong and unwavering.
She’d honestly tried to live up to that impossibly high bar of expectations but had failed. Not only had she paid for it personally, she’d also lost the baby she’d been carrying. Teren had been profoundly shamed by her family, who had lived in that area for over a century. The generations before her had been hardworking farmers, plowing the land, raising cattle, and keeping their large families fed. To go home was to resurrect a past between her and her parents and the townspeople who lived there. None of them ever forgot—or forgave her for—the sin she’d committed.
Teren had tried to go home once, but after a few days, she felt the shame, the guilt, the horrible grief of loss, and she’d had to leave. And all the friends she’d grown up with were now married and had housefuls of children.
And here she was: single and alone—and lonely. But not lonely in all ways, because Kitra soothed her wounded heart and scarred soul. Her family loved her. They had tried their very best to move beyond their intractable beliefs to forgive her. Some days, Teren believed they had done it. Other days, it was painfully clear that the people in the community had not forgiven her for her actions. She was the town’s “bad girl” and her reputation was forever ruined. It was a sin that kept on giving, and kept resurrecting itself every time she was home. It was just too much for her to deal with.
As she passively followed Nolan, her mind lingered painfully on the past. Could it be that this crazy feeling had taken over because she hadn’t been home for the last three years? Talk about confusing! Teren had her life all sorted out, organized, every hour accounted for. She was needed, respected, and loved at Kitra. In fact, the village would plunge into chaos if she weren’t there with the magic of her computer skills, her knowledge of electronics, and the world at large, far outside the country of Sudan. Here, she had a sense of purpose and knew she made a positive difference, and that meant everything to her. She worked closely with women who had been badly abused, raped, or kidnapped and forced into sex slavery or marriage. Teren felt lucky in comparison to them. All she’d received was abuse and the loss of her baby. These Sudanese women, with fear embedded beyond their eyes, had fled to Kitra to heal, to be protected from abusive husbands and families, to learn a trade and then be able to confidently start their lives all over again.
Their children would not starve. The women would not be beaten again, or end up with a nose or ear cut off, or have acid thrown into their faces because they were “bad wives” to their husbands, or worse, stoned to death.
The village of Kitra was Teren’s life preserver, just as it was for the Safe House Foundation, whose entire reason for being here was to act as a protective haven for such women, no matter what tribe, skin color, or nationality they were. If they came to the gates of Kitra, small children or babies in arms, Farida’s team took the young mothers in. Then they were fed and received medical care, as did their children. Each woman was given a hut of her own, clean and with rugs on the hard-packed clay floor, and mats, mosquito netting, and sleeping bags for all. She was then taken to Samar, the female psychologist, who was thirty-five years old, but seemed like she was a thousand years old to Teren. Samar had even helped her sort out much of her own guilt and shame.
Her mind moved forward as they left the escalator, and she saw Nolan read the overhead sign written in Sudanese Arabic, telling him which carousel would be dumping out his luggage.
Teren again noted how few women were here at the airport. She disliked certain Sudanese traditions and longed for the freedom not to wear a tob or other concealing garments. Instead, she longed to throw her leg over a horse and wear her beloved jeans and sleeveless tees. She could do that at Kitra, but not outside the walls of the village, where she again adopted the bearing of a meek, subservient woman. It was the only part of working in Sudan that she rebelled against. On most days Teren could handle it, but on other days, not so much.
At least she had the freedom of American clothes and she could move freely about the huge, enclosed, thriving village. It felt wonderful. Right now she longed to be back within the embracing walls of Kitra, wanted to tear this tob off her body, and toss it aside. But to do something that stupid would land her in Sharia court, and more than likely she would be publicly whipped or stoned to death for her insult to Islam.
There was just something about Nolan Steele that made her feel rebellious and want to throw off the trappings of her soiled past so she could feel free once more.
Nolan turned and eased the handle of his laptop bag into her hand. “Hold this for me for a moment? I see my luggage.”
Her fingers curved, closing around the canvas and leather handle. “Sure.”
He smiled at her then, that same deep warmth gleaming in the depths of his eyes, nurturing the spark of hope he seemed to bring her. Hope for what, Teren wasn’t sure, but there it was. Nolan walked toward the baggage carousel where she saw two green canvas bags. Vaguely, she remembered Ayman’s having had one too. They were called duffel bags by the U.S. military, if she remembered correctly. She watched as Nolan easily pulled them off the carousel, one in each hand.
“You okay carrying my laptop if I carry these?” he asked, halting in front of her.
She smiled faintly. “If I can wrestle a hundred-pound sheep to the floor of the shearing shed, I think I can handle a ten-pound laptop. Let’s go out those doors to your right. The parking lot is just across the roadway, and my hafla is nearby.”
“Sounds good. I’ll lead the way.”
Teren realized Nolan knew what a hafla was: a minibus that had a flatbed component, the most prevalent vehicle in and around Khartoum. She hadn’t been looking forward to teaching her security contractor about Sudanese customs after he arrived, and it was a pleasant surprise to know that he knew Sudan and its conventions.
Often, she had to drive into Khartoum to pick up items that required a flatbed truck. Kitra had no fancy cars, and her hafla had no air-conditioning in this ninety-five-degree Fahrenheit heat.
Teren breathed another sigh of relief as Nolan moved out of the cool air-conditioned terminal and into the dry, scorching sun overhead. She wondered what else he knew. How often had he been in Sudan? And why? Teren had lots of questions for him.
The corners of her mouth curved as she held the lightweight, floaty hijab to her head. It would be a sin in this country to have it slide off, revealing her hair.
The wind was hot and dry, tearing at her fingers where she firmly held the scarf in place as they hurriedly crossed the busy highway between the terminal and the parking lot. The sky was a pale blue, the sunlight at this time of year harsh and stunning to outsiders who weren’t prepared for it. Teren referred to it as “the burning” of the land, animals, and people. There was nothing comfortable about ninety- to one-hundred-degree heat in August. Even at night, it rarely got below seventy degrees.
Thank goodness Kitra had its own electric substation fueled with oil. It provided air-conditioning to the main administration building and the duplexes where she and others lived. This was truly a gift, because very few Sudanese, even within bustling Khartoum, had air-conditioning available. Only rich, huge skyscrapers and five-star hotels had such a desirable amenity.
Teren wanted to get back into that cooling air once again. Her admin office in the main building at Kitra was cool because the delicate computers, servers, and routers needed that kind of mild-temperature environment in order to operate.
She felt sorry for the Sudanese, who lived in huts and endured this awful summer heat. Everyone, by the time October came, was desperate for the cooler temperatures of the coming winter.
“Third row, white hafla, two cars down,” she called to Nolan. Teren was grateful he didn’t use his full stride—and he could have—leaving her to scramble to keep up. Instead, he monitored his pace for her sake, which she appreciated. She was eager to discover more about this tall, dignified operator whose very presence made her feel safe for the first time in years.