Then she noticed a shadow flitting from a shrubbery to the trees beside the runway. Within the shadow of another bush, she could see the reflecting glint of a lens aimed their way.
He can’t see Tal’s scars.
Desperately she grabbed his shoulders, pulled him close and pressed her mouth to his, hoping Tal had enough acting skills to make his side of the kiss look passionate—
Yet before she’d even finished the thought her tongue was twined around Tal’s so tight it gave a whole new definition to tonsil hockey, her body splatted against his like paint on a wall, and she wriggled and whimpered like an excited puppy going walkies, begging for petting and stroking…and oh, he was petting and stroking, his hands hard on her bare skin beneath her top, sending jolts of heated need from skin to her most feminine core while she purred and moaned in helpless pleasure…
Verity West the Iceberg? An iceberg in the equator, maybe. She was so hot for him steam was curling around her ears. Even though warning bells in her brain screamed at her to back off, she couldn’t help it. Her hands found his bare skin and caressed him in ardent eagerness. Her mouth, with a will of its own, remained plastered on his, harder and hotter. She couldn’t stop it, couldn’t help the languid sexual heaviness of her body, urging her on, urgently demanding more, demanding it all.
Cupping that glorious male butt in her hands—oh, finally, this fantasy had come true—she moved against him, purring in delight at the hard male reaction she felt to the kiss. His kiss grew even harder. His hands were everywhere, caressing her bottom and breasts, sending hot shivers of need through every single nerve ending. The alarm on her lambent hormonal clock shrieked at her—five years, four months and eighteen days since she’d last been loved by a man…and oh, to love Tal, to finally have him touch her body, slowly strip off her clothes and bring her to completion, right here, right now…
“How’s the throat infection, Miss West?” A familiar voice: Gary Brooks, from a tabloid not known for its discriminating taste in stories—or their verification of what they printed as “fact.” “Did you feel like sharing germs with your lover?”
Tal’s whole body jerked. She emulated the movement, not needing to pretend to make it look real, she’d forgotten all about the damn reporter. She gasped and turned away. Oh, no, what had he seen—and photographed? “Tal, close the door!”
“Too late, sweetness,” he whispered dryly. “As was your intention, I think, when you grabbed me.” With a cynical twist to his smile, he turned toward the eager photojournalist, still snapping off picture after picture.
“No,” she whispered urgently, pushing him back. “Don’t let him see the scarred side of your face!”
His face cooled with instant comprehension and complete self-control. With a pang, she knew her chance of making a connection to him was gone. He shrugged and moved into the shadows. “Sure. I don’t particularly want to be scrutinized as the walking freak show fiancé or husband of the beautiful Verity West. Just as well, I haven’t seen my parents since before the accident, and nobody outside the Nighthawks knows about it.”
She closed her eyes. She’d foreseen this, but it slammed into her soul—the guilt of a woman who knew too well how it felt to need to hide from ridicule. And she’d done it to him, she’d made him feel not good enough for the person she was now.
Damn you, Nick—you opened the door, then gave him the ammunition to slam it right back in my face.
With all her will, she turned to Gary Brooks, mustering up the haughty, imperious look that had first given her the Iceberg tag, but Tal spoke first from within the shadows, his graveled voice strong and confident. “We’ll do you a deal, mate. Take off for now—hold those shots, and we’ll give you the announcement of your life, complete with exclusive photos.”
Mary-Anne gasped. He’d not only grasped Nick’s take, he’d taken full control of the mission in three sentences. Yes, a perfect take on what Nick would want. He and Nick were alike, all right, and in more than just looks.
“Just one photo of you both first, face-on,” the man pleaded, who’d obviously already caught on: he wasn’t arguing.
“Tomorrow, in Sydney.” She jumped in, before Tal could speak. When the journo looked mutinous, she added, “Do you know who this is, Gary? It’s the man all the stories were about three years ago. You’re going to have the scoop of your life in twenty-four hours. I’m willing to put that in writing, if you go away now. We’ll meet you at the Grand Hotel, tomorrow at four.”
Gary Brooks’s eyes lit with a mingled kind of ecstatic wariness. “I’ll release every damn picture by tomorrow if I don’t get that contract,” he threatened, and left.
“Well, you sure know how to take charge of a situation, don’t you, sweetness?” Tal spoke from the superheated half darkness of the wall. “He must have taken about twenty-seven shots of us eating each other alive. Anson will be happy with our progress. We’d better call him to get a real marriage certificate.” He shrugged. “We can stay together a year or two, make our families happy, go home for visits, right? I’m not going to risk hurting Mum and Dad, or Aunt Miranda and Uncle Ed—not for any of Anson’s save-the-world principles.” His eyes glittered with sardonic humor. “And Greg was my best mate for twelve years—we still call each other now and then. I won’t dump his little sister, sweetness. You’ll have to dump me.”
Not knowing what to say, she nodded. Everything he said was right, with the mission and their families in mind—but considering their mind-blowing kiss and its degrading, tacky aftermath, his self-control chilled her soul. “I don’t want to get married in Cowinda,” she said quietly. The one thing she couldn’t face. A real-yet-sham wedding with Tal was bad enough, but she’d never survive the hype and happiness of everyone in Cowinda. She’d break down for sure.
He gave a short laugh, without humor. “Fair enough—it’s too personal for us both. We’ll do the whole thing in Sydney. We can call our parents when we get there and tell them what’s going down. What’s the condensed version—that we met again by accident and fell madly in love?”
It took all her self-control to keep the tears in. If he knew how she’d dreamed of that since they’d passed each other in the hall at headquarters in Canberra three years ago. How she’d wished she wasn’t urgently needed in Nick’s office just as he was leaving on assignment… “That’s about the size of it.”
“Okay, done. We’ll say problems with your schedule kept us from coming home for the wedding. They’ll understand that, and be too busy to think about being hurt, I hope.”
“I think we’d be better off giving it a day or two. We need to orchestrate our romance a bit.”
His mouth twisted. “Wining and dining, sizzling slow dances, a few kisses. Yeah, a whirlwind society courtship sounds like the perfect end to our decade-old torrid billabong affair. Being in Sydney should maximize the impact. If we hide my face, that is. How does Anson plan to do that, by the way? And why?”
There was no easy way to say it. She took a breath and blurted it out. “Burstall might not know your real name, but he knows you survived the blast. He knows you’re Australian, and he also knows you’re a doctor because of the kit you left at the village.” She heard her own voice, full of quiet despair. “He knows the extent of your injuries, too—there were several unauthorized hits on your hospital records at the database. You were admitted under a fake name, but we can’t take risks. You’re relatively safe to go to Amalza if he sees no sign of your injuries or scars, but if we go to the Embassy and you show up with your face as it is now, along with your limp, and being an Australian doctor—all the world knows your profession, thanks to Ginny—it will only take seconds for Burstall to put two and two together, and he’ll kill us both.”
The deadly cold look on his face said it all: he already knew what she was going to say before he asked. “What’s the