CHAPTER 3
Sloan stood near the gangplank, trying to tamp down her expectations as the blue and white luxury scuba boat anchored into the slip at Port Sudan. She had flown into Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, and took a quick jet from there to Jeddah to catch a ride on the vessel. There were fifteen other tourists, mostly from Europe, on board with her. They would stay in the area and take the boat out to scuba dive in the nearby reefs. The morning was clear, the air smelling of brine from the Red Sea. The water was a translucent green and turquoise and made her think she was gazing at a jewel of nature.
In a bow to local customs, Sloan was dressed modestly in her olive-green cargo pants, Birkenstock sandals, and a lightweight, long-sleeved white blouse. She adjusted her black baseball cap and sunglasses; her hair pulled back in a ponytail. None of the crew on board gave a second look at what she was wearing, and the other tourists were dressed similarly.
Her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. Picking it up, she saw that Dan Malloy had sent her a text message: I’m at slip four. Will be waiting at the end of the gangplank. Quickly she texted back: Ten minutes. Sloan.
Her heart wouldn’t stop pounding. She was unhappy with her body’s eager response to meet him once more. In her dreams, she was making love with Dan. He was the most skilled lover she’d ever had, and she missed him in every possible way.
Straining, she looked toward the dock. There were several taxis waiting to be hailed by the offloading tourists. She had a small duffle bag with her clothes, toiletries, and cosmetics in it. Her gaze sifted through the tightly bunched group of Sudanese. It was easy to pick out Dan among the rest of the men clumped nearby. Her heart took off. He was clean-shaven and wearing a dark green baseball cap on his military-short black hair. That mouth of his sent a frisson of fire zigzagging through her and she tightened her thighs in response. She loved the way he used to kiss her. And when he smiled, she always felt such joy—but he wasn’t smiling now. He wore a pair of wraparound sunglasses like she did, his mouth set.
Sloan knew that someone from Wyatt’s team had called Dan on his sat phone and let him know who was coming and when she would arrive. A slight smile played at the corners of her lips as she entertained several reactions from him. Most likely, Dan would sputter that he didn’t need a PSD following him around like a loyal shadow. She was prepared for that argument. Would he be the warm, affable self she’d met at the canteen at Bagram? As the ship eased closer to the long, concrete dock, she got a better look at his face. He was lean, hard and tense. Sensing the tension in him was easy because more than anything, it was his mouth that gave him away. The man had sculptured lips that reminded her of the Greek statue Belvedere Apollo, she’d seen in the Pio Clementino Museum in the Vatican. Just beautiful.
Sloan decided she had it bad. She noted that Dan was wearing a blue and white short-sleeved plaid shirt with his ivory chinos. He had boots on his feet, not sandals. She had worn sandals to look more like a tourist, but her hiking boots were in her duffle, and she’d change into them after she got back to her apartment. The air was alive with shouts, noise and grinding sounds. Farther down from the slips were docking areas, gantries, and cranes that moved tons of foodstuff from the ship to the shore—the odors were many. The scent of petroleum was heavy and made her lift her upper lip in disgust. Air pollution was alive and well in Port Sudan.
The beauty lay in the Red Sea water. The ship halted, and the sailors on board swiftly threw out the lines to the longshoreman waiting on the concrete wharf. The men caught them with ease, rapidly tying off each rope to the pier. The scuba ship solidly hugged the length of the wharf. It had thirty tires hanging over the side of it to protect it from the hard concrete. She imagined the hard-working crew hated scrubbing off the black tire marks on that side of the ship. It was never-ending work.
Did he want to see her again or was she a reminder of one of the worst times in his life? She could see Dan clearly now. He had separated himself from the knot of restless taxi drivers and moved to the other side of the gangplank. His arms were crossed over his massive chest. Drowning in the past, Sloan could still see his body naked in her bed, beside her. He looked a little thinner now. The captain came down, dressed in starched whites, with an officer’s hat on his head and Sloan picked up her duffle bag in her left hand. She wasn’t going be the first one off, but close to it. Taking a deep breath, she thanked the captain in Arabic and started down the gangplank.
*
Dan kept his face carefully arranged as he watched Sloan Kennedy move with that trim athletic grace she had always possessed. His soul was starving for her. He never forgot the scent of her skin, or the citrusy smell of her shining, straight brown hair.
The sun was shining hot and bright on the eight a.m. arrival of the scuba ship from Jeddah. As he watched the sway of her hips, those long, beautiful legs hidden from view, he recalled moving his hands languidly up them until he arrived at those curved thighs of hers. Damn, she was such a sensual woman. Her clothing was loose and comfortable upon her body. She had an uncommon grace that few women possessed because she had been a black-ops warrior, trained and honed. Even today, he could tell she was still in top shape.
He wished he could see her eyes, wanting to make contact with them to sense where she was at more easily. When they’d had their sizzling love affair at Bagram, she was so damned easy to read. Sloan never put on the game face that he’d seen that night she tended him in the limestone cave in the mountains. Those were painful memories, and they were never far away from him. And yet, every cell in his body screamed for her. He looked down to her sandaled feet and smiled to himself: bright red polish on those delicate toes. As his gaze drifted upward, he noticed the same color on her short nails. Dan had always liked that about her. When Sloan was deployed, she wore no cosmetics, no nail polish, and washed her hair with Afghan lye soap so if the Taliban got a whiff of it on the air, they’d think nothing of it. At Bagram, she loved a special lemon shampoo and an orange shower gel. He wondered if he would get close enough to bury his face in her hair and smell it. Probably not.
Dan felt more guilt as she approached down the long gangplank, unable to forgive himself for walking out of her life. So, here he was, a lump tight in his throat, his mind running over a hundred things to say to this gorgeous, brave woman who had saved his life. The closer Sloan came to him, the more his mind dissolved into the heat and boiling brew deep in his lower body. He was in such trouble.
She stepped off the gangplank and onto the concrete, giving him an expectant look. Dan felt so much tension that it seemed to nail him to the spot. He was tongue-tied. Afraid. Wanting her. He was messed up and knew it. Dan pushed himself forward and reached for her duffle bag, their fingers connecting briefly.
“I got it,” he told her gruffly, feeling the softness of her fingers against his for a split second. A whiff of orange citrus wafted by his flaring nostrils. It brought back so many memories that he drowned momentarily in them.
“Thanks for meeting me, Dan.” Sloan held out her hand toward him. “Been a long time.”
Dan marveled at her modulated voice. Sloan was so laid back, but he knew in part, it was because she was a medic. She knew the power of calm over someone like himself who was lathered into a state of unrelenting tension and fear. He slid his other hand into her awaiting one, feeling his whole body begin an inner melt as she looked up, studying him from behind her dark glasses.
“Yeah, good to see you,” he croaked.
He never thought he’d see her again. But here she was. She was even more beautiful and accomplished, and confident than he recalled. He let go of her hand like it was burning him. “Come on, I’ve got the truck parked over here.” He gestured toward a nearby parking lot.
Sloan fell into step with him. “How far do you live from the airport?” She looked around, immediately going into PSD mode. Her job was to keep Dan safe.
“Two miles. Two miles too close. You’ll hear every jet take off and land. The windows in the apartments where we’re staying are thin and rattle,” he added, pushing the wire gate open.
“This is a very poor country,” she said, her gaze never fixed for long in one place.
“Yeah. Pretty stark.”
“Do you have water in your truck? I’m dying of thirst.”
He nodded, giving her a quick glance. “Yeah, I always carry half a case of bottled water in the passenger side seat.”
“The smells around here are horrible, Dan,” she observed.
He felt his skin prickle pleasantly when she whispered his name. She didn’t seem upset or worried about meeting him again. It helped him ramp down his anxiety.
“You get used to it after a while.”
“I don’t think so,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Does the apartment where I’m staying have air conditioning?”
“The landlord said it did.”
“That doesn’t sound like a blindingly enthusiastic endorsement.” Sloan saw the first hint of a smile tug at Dan’s lips. He seemed somewhat distracted, however, and she sensed unhappiness around him. He led her down one row to a dusty yellow Toyota Hilux pickup truck. It had seen better days—like Dan. He seemed tired and worn out. The man used to smile a lot. He had a rapier wit and dark humor that Sloan always appreciated.
“Well,” he said, opening the door for her, “getting your expectations up isn’t going to help the situation.”
Ouch. Sloan wondered if that went for them, too, but she bit back the smart-assed question. He looked exhausted, and her compassionate side took over. When he slid into the dusty driver’s seat, she noticed that there was no air conditioning in the truck. She wore a red neckerchief and took it off, wiping her brow and around her mouth and neck.
“You can open up some of that bottled water and soak it in that. This place makes you feel dirty,” Dan said.
That was a good idea. He had six bottles of water in a container sitting in the middle of the plastic seat. “Out on the Red Sea, it was beautiful. So pristine, the color of the water so clear and pretty,” she said, dipping her neckerchief into the bottle.
“Yeah, out there, it’s nice. Really nice. Here, not so much. It’s like flying. Up there,” he gestured toward the sky, “you feel clean and free. But when you land, you come back to the pain and suffering on this planet.”
Sloan heard a deep wistfulness in his voice as he talked about flying. “You used to scuba dive. Do you still?” At least she knew something about him that could ease the strain so obviously strung between them. She watched him put his hands on the wheel, remembering those same hands skimming her body, creating such fire and need within her. Sloan gulped down some of the tepid water. Then, she blotted her face and neck with the damp neckerchief as Dan drove slowly out of the parking area. Just the warm air circulating through the open windows cooled her a little bit.
“I try to go out on one of those scuba boats at least once a month. Gets the Port Sudan crud washed off me. I think better after a weekend of being in the salt water. You look at the beauty underwater, and you forget about what’s on top.” His comment was cryptic.
He drove faster once he reached the main road. There were a lot of trucks, vans, and haflas—a half truck with a cab and a flatbed behind it—around them. She saw a few Mercedes speeding along, all shiny, black, and polished compared to the rest of the vehicles around her. “I’d love to go scuba diving if we have a chance while I’m here.” She lifted her chin, looking over at him. Sloan felt a reaction, one of hope, around him. And then, like fog on a hot morning, it was gone.
“Okay, I’ll keep it in mind.” Dan opened his hand on the steering wheel, the wind whipping through the cab. “We’ve got a lot to talk about, but I don’t want to say much here. Your apartment is across the hall from mine. I need to get you settled in. And let’s hope the air conditioning is working better in your place than it is in mine.”
Sloan couldn’t smell any alcohol on his breath, and he didn’t appear to be drunk. He drove like he owned the road and was competent, his reflexes as she remembered them. She felt guilty over being undercover about the allegation made by Dr. Reeves. Sloan hoped it was a quirk, and Dan hadn’t been drinking all the time. The scar along his right, lower arm brought the past shearing back to her as if it was yesterday. The bullet had shattered both bones in his lower arm. It had been nearly impossible to put aside her emotional reaction to Dan being gravely wounded.
“We’re on an adventure,” she said quietly, removing her sunglasses, wiping the dampness away from her face and eyes. Dan turned and gave her a swift, intense look as if he was memorizing her face at that moment. He wiped his mouth, trying to steady his emotions. Sloan’s eyes reminded him of soft diamonds sparkling with morning light, so clear, alert, and filled with intelligence. He tried to steel himself for her anger, her pouting, or maybe her silence after they met—but she did none of those things. She looked healthy and had a good, deep tan, so she had to have been on a mission where there was plenty of sunlight. Maybe he’d ask her about that later if they could bridge a connection with one another again.
In no time, he’d gotten off the main drag and made a turn down a narrow asphalt street. There were stucco buildings, two or three stories tall on either side and a lot of wrought iron gates and walls with concertina wire on top. They were wrapped around the homes to protect the owners from theft—and theft was a way of life around here, Dan thought. He pulled into his parking space.
“Your home away from home,” he said, gesturing to the three-story pink stucco building in front of them.
“Not very inspiring, is it?” Sloan hooked the sunglasses over the v-opening to her blouse. The cotton material was already sticking to her sweaty skin.
“No, and it’s not much better inside, so prepare yourself.” Dan pulled his sunglasses off his face, tucking them into his pocket. “Let’s go,” he urged gruffly, climbing out.
She slid out and shut the door, the dust rolling off the side panel. Dan had made a point of grabbing her duffle bag out of the rear of the truck to carry it for her. She noticed he used his left hand again. Was his right arm not as strong since the crash? The muscles on both arms looked the same, so she knew he must be using both arms equally. He pulled out his key and unlocked the gate, pushing it aside and gesturing for her to walk through it. As she did, her arm barely brushed against his torso, the opening not exactly wide. The scent of Dan, the sweat on his flesh, filled her nostrils. Her skin prickled.
Dan locked the gate and used another key to open the entrance door to the building. He led her up the stairs to the second-floor and pushed open another door. The hall had thin, well-used dark brown carpet. “Here’s my apartment,” he said, hooking his thumb over his right shoulder. “And here’s yours.”
Sloan tried to prepare herself as he opened the chipped, white painted door. The place was musty smelling, the windows locked. The red-tile floor was flat and smooth, but dusty. It would need a good mopping. Dan edged by her and placed her duffle bag in the small bedroom on the full-sized bed with brass head and footboards. Coming out of the bedroom, he said, “I’ll show you the air conditioner. Pray it works.”
The air conditioner was stuck in a window frame. It was a smaller unit and didn’t exactly fit the window. Someone had pushed newspaper around the edges of it to keep the hot air from entering the apartment. When Dan flipped it on, the antiquated piece of equipment started churning and making whirring, chugging noises. Sloan stood to one side, holding her opened hand over the vent. She looked up, connecting with Dan’s eyes, feeling his warmth, and it took her off guard. He was staring at her, and she could tell this time he really was memorizing her. But it didn’t make her uncomfortable because she’d grown used to it when they’d been together. Dan often told her that falling into her dove-colored eyes was like being absorbed by luminous moonlight at dusk. He painted such beautiful words about her, about her body and heart.
“I think I feel a little cool air,” she said tentatively, an unwilling smile coming to her lips.
“Yeah, these units are probably twenty years old. The landlord doesn’t give a damn and doesn’t want to spend any money to update the place.”
“Is your unit any better?”
He snorted. “Mine has frost coated over parts of it, and that’s the only coolness I get. Most of the time, I have my windows wide open.”
“But then,” she said, “you’ll hear the jets and smell everything.”
Shrugging, he muttered, “You get used to it.”
Turning, she saw how drab and depressing the colors were in the place. There hadn’t been a new coat of paint on these walls in a long time. It had furniture, but it all looked beaten and battered with time and use.
“I hope Delos isn’t paying a whole lot for these places,” she said dryly, running her hand across the pink-tiled counter.
“Hey,” he said, following her, his hands on his hips, “people consider this a rich man’s palace.”
She smiled a little. “I imagine they would.”
“Where did you just come from?”
Frowning, she tilted her head. “Somalia. I headed up a volunteer medical team to a village of one thousand people.” Instantly, she saw his brows flatten, his eyes churning with emotions.
“That’s one damned, dangerous place, Sloan.”
Shrugging, she said, “I go where Artemis sends me. I was fine with it, and there weren’t any problems.” She smiled a little and held up her arm. “I got a really good tan out of it, too.”
“You haven’t changed a bit,” he murmured wryly, shaking his head, giving her a crooked smile.
“No, I probably haven’t,” she agreed, seeing that boyish look on his face for just a moment. She lapped up the amusement in his eyes and felt as if Dan were giving her a thumb’s up—that he approved of her just the way she was.