In a movement she hoped seemed casual, she turned, faced him. “When do we leave?”
“A few hours.” He’d lightened his brows, too, she observed. He would probably also wear contacts to change the color of his eyes. She wondered if it ever seemed odd to him that while other men put on a suit and tie to go to work, he had to become someone else entirely.
But that thought was quickly followed by another. She couldn’t see Walker James wearing pinstripes and keeping banker’s hours. There was something much too elemental, too primitive about him for that. He would be attracted to danger, to excitement. If he hadn’t turned to espionage, he’d be engaged in something else just as risky.
“Let’s go over our covers again.”
She stifled a sigh. They’d been over their stories so often she could repeat hers backward. “My name is Rose Mahrain. My father was the Tamir ambassador to America and we divided our time between Washington, D.C., and Tamir. My husband was also in government, until his death two years ago. When Sheik Kamal offered me a diplomatic post, I eagerly accepted. This will be my first assignment out of the country, and I am naturally anxious to do well.” As was usually the case, the cover could be substantiated, at least on the surface. If an inquiry was conducted, it would be discovered that the details corresponded exactly with a woman by that name, who had been sent out of the country for the course of this assignment. Except the real Rose Mahrain had been offered no such post.
As Englishman John Logan, Walker, too would have a cover that would withstand scrutiny. She found herself anticipating the character he would adopt, complete with accent.
“How did your husband die?”
The continued questioning annoyed her. She was not a schoolchild reciting a memorized lesson for a critical teacher, although she’d certainly repeated this one for Walker often enough. A hint of mischief seized her. “He died in bed.” Her improvisation earned her a narrowed look. “I am a woman of great…needs. I pleasured him to death.”
There was a long pregnant pause. “Stick to the script,” Walker advised finally. “This job is going to be complicated enough without you being deliberately provocative. You may get a response you hadn’t counted on.”
“I have no intention of provoking a response from our targets!”
“I was talking about me.”
Her throat abruptly went dry. There was an all too familiar heat in his eyes that she hadn’t meant to ignite. This tension between them was causing her to act out of character. In every job she prided herself on her ability to remain cool. But something about Walker brought out an unfamiliar impulsivity. The last time she’d given in to those impulses, she’d gotten badly burned in the process. She’d do well to remember that the next time she was tempted to drag a response from him.
To distract them both, she rounded the desk to cross to the window. “What have you learned about the prime minister?”
“His name is Hosni El-Dabir. He’s a career politician, so he’ll be well acquainted with Sheik Ahmed Kamal and his family, even though the two countries don’t have much to do with each other. If he brings up a subject you aren’t completely familiar with, you’d be better off to admit ignorance. He’ll know if you bluff.”
“Thank you so much for the advice,” she said with mock politeness. “I do not know how I manage without your wisdom on other assignments.”
Still wearing a slight frown, he looked at her. “Don’t get bitchy, Jaz. I’m not belittling your ability, just giving you some facts. This thing isn’t going to work if we’re at each other’s throats all the time.”
Since she had thought much the same, she was ready to agree with him. Perhaps even to suggest some sort of truce. But the suggestion he made next drove all other thoughts from her mind. She gaped at him, doubting she’d heard correctly. “What did you say?”
“I said maybe we should just spend an hour or two in bed and get it out of our systems.” When she couldn’t seem to manage an answer, he went on. “Sexual tension can be a distraction, one we don’t need. A couple of hours burning up the sheets would go a long way toward relieving that.”
She couldn’t remember ever being propositioned quite so passionlessly. The offhand crudity left her speechless. But in the middle of summoning a blistering retort, she caught the flicker of anticipation in his eyes. He wanted a reaction from her, she realized. Any reaction.
So instead of giving him the response he was looking for, she merely arched a brow. He’d never know what her cool, mildly amused tone cost her. “I am afraid I must turn down your charming proposition. One night with you was more than enough.” She turned and made her way to the door. “I will be ready to leave in two hours. We can meet at the front doors.” Her hand was on the knob when she paused and looked at him over her shoulder. “Oh, and Walker? You could never be a distraction to me. My taste for loutish Americans was completely erased three years ago.”
She pulled open the door, sailed through it with queenly grace. The only thing that marred her departure was knowing that he watched her exit with a satisfied smile still on his lips.
“Madame Mahrain.” The Maloun prime minister lingered over her hand, addressing her in Arabic. “It is an honor and a great pleasure to have you visit our nation.”
“The pleasure is mine, sir. What I have seen of your country so far is very impressive.” Jasmine answered in the same language, that of her birth. Walker hung back circumspectly. “May I present my assistant, John Logan? I’m afraid he only speaks English.”
In heavily accented English, El-Dabir turned to Walker and said, “Welcome to our country. I hope you enjoy your stay.”
“Thank you, sir.” Walker’s tone was respectful, with a clipped British accent. He remained at Jasmine’s elbow, a couple steps behind her, in a position of silent deference. She wondered if it was the first time in his life that he’d acted deferential to anyone, even if it was feigned.
She would never have believed the difference he could manage in his appearance. She’d been prepared for the lighter hair, the contacts that changed his piercing blue eyes to a nondescript hazel. Like her, he’d placed slim cotton pads inside his cheeks to alter the shape of his face. But the alteration went beyond the obvious. The black loose-fitting shirt and trousers he’d chosen were a size too big. He stood with his shoulders slightly rolled, his chin tucked. Little details taken by themselves, but together they gave him the look of a man inches shorter, many pounds lighter. His manner suggested a lowly government employee whose demeanor was light-years away from that of the confidently arrogant Walker James.
El-Dabir led them down a graciously wide hallway into a large airy room. It was furnished with a lovely piano in one corner, with chairs and couches scattered throughout the rest of the space. As Jasmine and Walker seated themselves on one of the overstuffed couches, the prime minister summoned a servant and issued an order for tea. Then he returned to his guests and sat on a chair facing them.
“I trust your trip was pleasant.”
“Sheik Kamal’s jet is quite comfortable. Far more luxurious than I am used to.” As she spoke, Jasmine studied her host surreptitiously. Hosni El-Dabir did not look like a career politician, she mused. As most Maloun males, the prime minister wore a traditional jellaba. He’d donned a jacket over the hooded loose-fitting robe, and a kaffiyeh covered his head. His nose was flat, as though it had been misshapen in a brawl. He had the square body of a boxer, and his dark gaze had a way of sliding over her face rather than focusing on it. In contrast, his hands were well-manicured, the skin surprisingly smooth when he’d touched hers. If Maloun had an American equivalent of the syndicate, she could have easily pictured him at its helm.
“The sheik hopes you will forgive him for sending an emissary for this very important meeting. Problems at home require his attention.”
El-Dabir