“Where were you born?” Umar repeated. “Where were you raised? What environment did you grow up in?”
“I…” Azahari glanced over his shoulder at the men behind him, then turned back and shrugged. “Penang,” he finally said.
“Ah.” Umar nodded. “A city boy, yes?”
Azahari swallowed, nodding hesitantly.
“Well, city boy”—Umar was now smiling in earnest—“lucky for you I was raised in this very jungle. Which means, as the Americans would say, I have more than one or two tricks up my sleeve. All I need is rope and a lot of fishing line. We have both in the truck, do we not?”
Chapter Nine
Steady was going to blame his erection on the adrenaline and not the fact that Abby felt phenomenal in his arms. She was so soft. So delicate and feminine and—
Sí, so the adrenaline obviously wasn’t the culprit here. The culprit was lithe arms, round breasts, sweet breath, and an adorable young girl who, in the last eight years, had turned into a sinfully sexy woman.
He had to adjust his stance. It was either that or she’d feel the hardened length of him pulsing insistently against her hip. Hello? he imagined his dick saying. Even though we barely escaped a group of crazed terrorists, and even though you’ve never expressed the tiniest bit of interest in me, I’d still like the opportunity to come out and play! So, how ’bout it, eh?
The male sex organ was an amazing thing in that it actually lived every day in a perpetual state of hope. Which reminded him of the comment she made back in the hut concerning the extra magazine in his pocket or him being happy to see her. Then that brought to mind her statement about him never seeing her as anything other than a kid sister.
What was she? Crazy? Or maybe she’d been too naive all those years ago to recognize the signs of ball-busting lust he’d been unable to hide. You know…the cartoonish bulging eyes and the lolling tongue. It’d been inappropriate as hell then, given her age. And it was inappropriate as hell now, given their precarious situation. But regardless of time or place, whenever he was near her, ball-busting lust was exactly what he felt. When he looked at her, when he really allowed himself to take in the wonder that was Abigail Thompson, he couldn’t help but imagine hot, hungry mouths opening over sweaty, quivering flesh. He couldn’t help but fantasize about what it would feel like to—
“Carlos.” She pulled back to look at him. Her eyes were bright. Their color two shades lighter than the vibrant jungle around them.
Nobody used his given name anymore. Hell, even he now thought of himself as Steady. And it was the sheer novelty of it, of hearing Carlos on someone’s tongue—on her sweet tongue in particular—that accounted for the fact that his body reacted the same way it would had she pressed her lips to his belly. At least that’s what he told himself when his scrotum tightened until it was almost painful.
“What, cariño?” His heart beat wildly with the thrill of her nearness. Up close like this, he could appreciate how her skin shone with health under a thin dew of sweat. He could count each of the faint freckles smattered across her button nose. He could easily see how her little chin trembled ever so slightly when her eyes darted down to his lips…and held there.
He stilled, every cell in his body coming to a screeching halt. If he were a bird dog, he’d be on point. Woof! Was it possible that she—
“If…if I…told you something…” She licked her lips, her tongue flashing pink. Puta madre! He may have been on point before, but now his whole body was as tight as a piano wire.
She must have noticed the sudden change in him, because her breath hitched and she quickly glanced into his eyes.
What he saw in her expression struck him dumb. He would have expected chagrin or despair or, hell, even pity. Those were the looks she’d given him when he’d decided to press his luck and seek her out after Rosa’s funeral. So the hot, unbridled, unmistakable flames of lust glowing in her eyes caught him completely off guard.
Okay, was it possible that here, in the jungle, she didn’t care about his pedigree…or lack thereof? Or was it possible the years of separation, or years of maturity, had made her realize that, when it came to the kind of chemistry they had, there was no such thing as being born on the wrong side of the tracks? Did he dare hope? Unlike eight years ago, there was nothing holding him back from giving her the full court press if he thought she might welcome it. She was no longer that naive young girl who needed to be approached gently, carefully. She was a full-grown woman, and if—
She licked her lips again. For one wild and crazy moment, he wondered if it was an invitation. And even if it was, should he risk acting on it?