“He died a few years ago.” She gulped in bracing gasps of air, until the familiar smells of paste and paper helped balance out the scent of this man.
“I am sorry.” He squeezed lightly, offering comfort.
She accepted.
“Me too.” Any other words about that time in her life lodged halfway up her throat, loyalty and self-preservation holding them back. She needed to get away from Sam, now, before she did something she regretted. But she also needed a moment to compose herself before she faced anyone. “Waiting for the festivities to kick into high gear has the children restless. Perhaps I should get them a snack.”
“I will help.”
She looked back, guilt tugging her. “I really should stay…”
“Half the staff is with them.”
Her hand went back to his chest again. “Sam, I’m not sure this is…”
“I know.” He skimmed his knuckles down her cheek in the most sensual caress she could remember experiencing. “I am a poetic man, but I am still very much a man who is aware that you are very much a woman.”
Her knees already weak, she didn’t even pretend to protest when his mouth sealed over hers. She swayed into him, opened for him in a full-out kiss like she hadn’t experienced in… a long time, longer than even before she and her husband split. Sam tasted like cinnamon and felt like unmovable marble. Steady felt so very good after so long in a state of upheaval and fear.
The sharp bolt of desire that shot through her shocked her. She’d known him for a year, and yes, she’d been attracted to him. But this? This out of control, crazy need to tear away his clothes—have him peel hers from her body—the feeling blindsided her.
As much as she wanted to tell herself that her reaction came from years of abstinence, she knew better. Samir Al-Shennawi, the quietly reserved chemistry teacher, was kissing her socks off with a confidence and expertise that had her toes curling.
“Annie,” he said against her mouth, his broad hands cradling her face. “We need to stop this, dear.”
A cold splash of reality washed over her. Good God, this wasn’t the time or the place… She sagged back against the shelves of boxed school supplies. “I don’t know what I was thinking…”
“Shhh… I don’t mean that at all.” He tucked his shirt in quickly. Had she done that? “Someone’s coming.”
Oh. Damn. She smoothed her hands over her loose muslin pant suit, dimly registering voices swelling louder through the halls, along with the echo of racing footsteps.
“Annie?” a voice called. The school secretary, Veronique, had left her homeland of France for this job, to help in her mother’s old hometown. “Annie, Mr. Gueye and I need your help…”
Annie stepped out of the nook, leaving Samir behind her as she fast-tracked down the hall. Hopefully he would take the hint and stay behind rather than stir gossip.
Veronique ran to meet her, unlike the normally collected secretary who fielded childish antics without a wince. “On the television,” she gasped, looking every one of her seventy-plus years at the moment, “there’s some kind of disruption in Mogadishu. A riot or something at the airport, and the children are terrified. Your class needs you.”
Her racing heart stopped for a beat before picking up again. Of course the kids were petrified. Most of them had witnessed war. Some had even seen their own families gunned down.
A firm hand settled on her shoulder, slowing her. She looked back at Samir, his onyx eyes sharp, focused. “What’s happening?”
Annie shook her head. “Veronique?”
“I’m not sure of the details. Once the plane landed, explosions started. The news people were running for cover.” Veronique took her elbow and guided her back toward the cafeteria, obviously too distracted to even question why Samir was here with her. “But there are reports of shooting and tear gas… They say an attack has been made on the vice president’s wife.”
Chapter 11
The world was seriously frickin’ conspiring against her.
Stella sat stuck at a computer screen looking at Predator footage of the melee outside her hangar. Someone had set off firecrackers just as the vice president’s wife stepped off the plane.
Firecrackers, for God’s sake, then just claimed they were celebrating. More likely, the fireworks had been a distraction for the bigger “show.”
Damn it. She hammered computer keys in frustration.
Mr. Smith had set up a mobile command center in a small hangar in the area sectioned off for private jets. The setup mimicked the one back at the base, making it easier to pick up where they’d left off in tracking down that bio toxin. Mr. Brown directed tracking data while Mr. Jones directed the collection of human intel.
The fact that this “goodwill” event was still happening in spite of the raised threat level blew her away. But the White House and VP’s wife had insisted on the diplomatic necessity. They’d ordered more protection and moved forward.