Free Secret Soldier by Dana Marton Page A

purpose. Her muscles just let go. The sight of him, combined with those words, was mind-boggling. Especially in light of what they were doing before dinner. “I think I’ll check in with the university.”
    “Mind if I take the bathroom first, then?”
    “Go ahead.” She reached for the phone, welcoming the excuse to turn from him.
    She couldn’t handle Gerald Thornton, and that was the truth. He was way out of her league. He had heartache written all over him. And now that their relationship had crossed from professional to–well, wherever it had crossed to—she wasn’t ready for it. Okay, she was more than ready for it, but she was also smart enough to know better than to act on her impractical impulses.
     
    TWO AMERICANS IN the house. El Jafar drew on the water pipe, considering every possibility one by one. He didn’t believe in coincidences.
    He had to get rid of them one way or the other. Now was definitely not the time to entertain strangers.
    First, he had to figure out whether they had a secret agenda or were speaking the truth. Most westerners in his country were liars and thieves. But the two Americans’ sudden disappearance would draw attention. He could only risk that if he was sure the deed had to be done.
    If indeed, they were in Tihrin as a result of a series of misfortunes, he would donate money to their cause and send them on their way. Fast. He had no time to waste.
    But first, he had to determine which way to deal with them. He glanced at the handful of computer printouts Ahmad brought over. His cousin was good at anything that had to do with computers, especially when it came to the bottomless resources of the Internet.
    Dr. Abigail DiMatteo. El Jafar looked at the grainy picture from her home page on the university’s Web site. Her background with the Peace Corps and everything else she’d said about herself checked out.
    He shuffled the papers and spread out the sheets that confirmed Gerald Thornton’s claims—reviews of documentaries that mentioned his name. No picture of him. El Jafar tossed the printouts aside and stood. The information Ahmad had found should have set him at ease. It didn’t.
    Neither of the guests had acted suspiciously. He could swear every word the woman had spoken was the truth. The man, Thornton, was harder to read, but seemingly open and relaxed. And yet, their presence in the house prickled his instincts.
    He sat and reached for the pipe again. If the foreigners were up to something, he would know it soon. He had made sure they were most closely watched.
     
    SPIKE LAY ON top of the covers, his eyes fixed on the bathroom door. It shouldn’t take her too long to clean up. They’d both taken showers earlier, as soon as they’d been shown to their room. He wore nothing but his black boxer shorts, wanting to make her as uncomfortable as possible so she would turn in to sleep right away. He needed the night to search the house and place his bugs.
    And yet, when the door opened and she came out, he wasn’t prepared for it. Nightgowns like that should come with a warning label from the American Heart Association. The bathroom light behind her outlined her figure through the sheer material, hiding little. Then she reached back and flipped the switch off.
    Damn. “You’re too thin,” he said gruffly and tried to focus on that, rather than on the number of other highly inappropriate ideas that swarmed in his head.
    “We’re in the middle of a famine.” She walked to the light switch by the door and turned that off, too. It didn’t make much of a difference; enough moonlight came through the windows to illuminate the room.
    “Are you eating enough?” It seemed safer to focus on that topic than on the fact that she would be in bed with him, in the matter of seconds. Technically, it was their honeymoon.
    “Stop acting like my mother.” She climbed under the covers and settled in as far away from him as the spacious bed allowed.
    “Sorry. Good night,