Not much time left with her, but he didn’t intend to waste a minute of it. His pulse thumped stronger, harder in his ears. Could he do it? Put his heart out there for her to crush again just for the chance to sleep with her one more time?
Hell yes.
He angled closer. He could almost taste her, just from memory.
“Jose, wait.” She pressed her hand harder against his chest. “That isn’t what I meant.”
“Really?” He nibbled her bottom lip.
She sighed, her breath tangling with his next breath.
“Really,” she said softly, her mouth moving along his. “I told you about my mom because I thought we could use this time to talk things through more fully, to get closure.”
Right now this felt more like a second chance than an ending. He skimmed a kiss along her jaw. “Okay, then you talk.” He kissed his way down to her neck. “I’ll listen.”
Her head fell back, giving him fuller access. “Because even though we broke up a month ago, it hasn’t been simple to close the door on what we… shared. I’ve realized I need more time with you.”
And just that fast, her hands went into his hair. She guided his mouth back to hers and kissed him. Full-out kissed him, and God help him, he was all in.
He slid his arms around her and hauled her closer. The familiar give of her curves against him felt so damn good. He knew they couldn’t take this any further, not here, not now, and there was a certain freedom in that. And knowing he could just taste her, hold her, be with her—that drove him crazy. The past four weeks without her, thinking about never seeing her again, had damn near driven him nuts.
The touch of her tongue to his sent a possessive growl humming low in his chest. He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, although he hoped tonight would find him and Stella in a shower together, then a bed, where he would use every bit of foreplay in his arsenal.
But here, now, he needed to hold onto control for a while longer.
Stepping back, he eased his mouth from hers and slid his hands around to cup her elbows. His senses went on high alert, taking in everything about her, from the softness of her skin to the brush of the cotton cloth she still held.
“Stella, if you’re through here, let’s head over to the quarters where we can be alone, talk about where you want to go next…”
The sound of the door opening again echoed up from the other side of the stacked crates. Stella blinked fast, clearing away the fog of passion from her eyes. She hurried around the corner, back into plain sight just as the teenage Ajaya stepped out, his eyes wide and panicked.
“Where are you taking me? You cannot just send me back there, not when they know I have been here.” His voice cracked, his agitation increasing the longer Mr. Smith stayed silent beside him.
The agent was playing the kid, pushing him for more with psychological pressure rather than physical harm.
Ajaya tugged at the hem of his overlarge T-shirt. “I know things, more things. I know about that.”
He pointed to Stella.
Jose stopped cold, his hand sliding around her waist.
Mr. Smith didn’t even blink.
Ajaya waved his hand toward Stella again. “The cloth, the one stolen from the compound. The writing in the border. It tells their plans.”
Mr. Smith blinked.
Foreboding iced up Jose’s spine, years of survival instincts shouting this was about to get bad. Really bad. He resisted the urge to thrust himself between Stella and whatever the kid was about to say.
Stella inched forward, her hands twisting in the wrap. “What plans, Ajaya?”
“To kill people when your vice president’s wife visits.” The teenage boy reached toward Stella, his fingers almost brushing the rippling fringe. “The details are written in a code in the fabric.”
Chapter 6
Stella unwound the cloth from around her waist, handling the fabric as carefully as crystal. Cradling the material draped over her hands, she took in the pattern scripted along the edges. The stark halogen lights high in the hangar glinted on flecks of silver thread.
Messages were commonly woven into the patterns or borders of these cloths, so that in and of itself wasn’t unusual. There was no reason to beat herself up over not considering it before now. All the same, she wished somehow she’d considered the possibility that a cloth was more than a “cloth.”