In Glory, Kansas, a fairy-tale wedding has local tongues wagging. But through this false engagement, can a wounded warrior and the woman he’s protecting find true love?

Byron Hawkins doesn’t want to be responsible for anyone ever again. The former Black Ops soldier is better at taking lives than saving them. But on a mission in Tunisia to deliver a package to safety, Byron is dismayed to find that the precious cargo is actually a hostage rescue, and that his orders are to take Damara Petrakis back to US soil and hide her in plain sight—as his newlywed wife.

Back in Byron’s hometown of Glory, Kansas, petite, fierce Damara keeps surprising him; she may be royalty, but she’s fully trained in martial arts and will sacrifice anything for her country. As the town rallies around the returning hero and his bride-to-be, he’s finding that it’s way too easy to play the part, and after the hell he has seen, that terrifies him. Byron didn’t want another life to save, but the passionate beauty he’s sworn to protect might just turn the tables and save him instead.

Dear Reader,

Thanks so much for coming back to the world of Glory. This book isn’t so much about small-town life as it is the things we learn from the family of community. How it makes us stronger than we know, holds us up even when we let them and ourselves down. This book is about learning to forgive ourselves and finding one’s true place in the world, and best of all, being able to give and receive love knowing you’re worthy of it. That seems like such a simple thing, an obvious thing, but for a lot of us, it’s not. It’s something we have to learn, something that has to be proven to us time and again, as our hero and heroine learn.

I enjoyed making this journey with Damara and Byron, and I hope you do, too.

Much love,

Sara Arden

Unfaded Glory

Sara Arden

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Nicolase Mallat

and things both spoken and unspoken.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Dear Reader

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

BYRON HAWKINS HAD an earworm.

Most people got them at one point or another—a Top 40 hit they couldn’t escape, a catchy ad jingle, a children’s song heard one time too often. A bit of auditory flotsam that’s busywork for the brain, a refrain that plays over and over.

Byron had such a loop, but he wasn’t lucky enough to have anything as innocuous as the last song he’d heard on the radio. He had the screams of his team as they died.

Their terror and pain was always with him whether it was a damning whisper or a roar that sounded like the army of hell.

He knew it was no less than he deserved for his failure. If he hadn’t given the order to pursue the guerrillas, they’d have all made it back to camp. They’d have gone home to their families at the end of the mission.

Instead, they were ambushed and tortured.

Instead, he was the only one who went home.

And Hawkins knew it was his fault no matter what the incident review board had to say about it.

It had been a mistake from the beginning to believe that he could be a good man, that he could redeem himself by sacrificing for his country. Byron Hawkins had always been better at taking life than saving it. He’d been a fuckup for as long as he could remember; nothing was ever good enough. So he’d stopped trying, and life was easier when he didn’t care—when he didn’t bother to try to fit himself into a box that was labeled “supposed to” or “should have.”

When he didn’t give a damn, he didn’t have responsibilities he couldn’t handle. No one trusted him, and no one paid for his inevitable mistakes.

It was a mercenary’s life for him. No attachments. No responsibilities. A way for him to channel all the destruction that roiled inside him like a hurricane.

The voices were especially loud tonight—the screams—they always were before a mission, but here in the darkness, he could silence them. He could shut off the outside world and hone all his highly trained senses on one target—the mission. As an “independent contractor” for the Department of Defense, he never had to be responsible for another life again.

Unless he was ending it.

He silenced the howls of his fallen brothers. He drowned out that song in his head as he moved through the darkness toward his target—the Jewel of Castallegna.

The Jewel was being kept in the Carthage National Museum in Tunisia. It would be no easy feat to get in and out with a national treasure, but breaking and entering was a skill he’d acquired during his delinquent youth.

He didn’t ask his betters how a gemstone could serve the DOD. That wasn’t his job. His job was to acquire the item and bring it home. He didn’t give a damn what they were going to do with it.

Byron entered through the front door. Security rolled in staggered shifts and there were only three officers since the museum was closed to the public. He’d tranqued an officer in his car before he’d come on duty, and taken his keys. Easy as his granny’s pecan pie.

Until he heard voices coming from the first chamber. He flattened himself against the wall and peered through the door.

Two men had cornered one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. She was petite, but he could tell from her stance that she could hold her own. She’d been trained. Krav Maga, perhaps. She was poised for a fight. Her eyes were a most curious shade of blue, and her skin was dusky and golden. It was too bad so much of it was covered by her black fatigues. She looked ready to do battle, and Hawkins had to admit it didn’t get much hotter than a gorgeous woman with a thigh holster and a utility belt.

“You know the Jewel should never leave Castallegna,” one of the men said.

He swore under his breath. There would be bodies to dispose of. Byron wouldn’t be much of a ghost if he couldn’t get in and out without a trail of blood a mile wide in his wake, and he could tell this guy wasn’t going to let the Jewel go without a fight.

He hoped he wouldn’t have to dispose of the woman, but he would if she stood between him and his mission. He wasn’t just a trained killer; he was a born killer.

“The Jewel isn’t going back,” the woman answered defiantly.

“I can’t kill you yet,” the man said, sadistic glee lighting his cruel face. “But I can hurt you.”

Byron knew he had to act. The woman had the Jewel or she knew where it was. He launched himself from his hiding place and snapped the big man’s neck with a single fluid motion. He dropped like a stone, and the other would-be jewel thief sprang to action. He hurled himself toward the woman. Hawkins would’ve saved her, but she saved herself. As he watched her seamless movements taking the other man down, he realized he’d been right in his assessment: Krav Maga.

Hawkins was impressed.

Even though she’d subdued the other man instead of killing him, he wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating her.

She didn’t seem afraid of him. In fact, she looked almost happy to see him.

That didn’t bode well, not at all. It was almost as if she were expecting him, but if that were the case, that would mean his cover had been blown. If she thought he was someone else, maybe he could use that to get her to hand over the stone.

“Thanks for the assist,” she said.

Her voice was melodic and sweet with an accent he couldn’t place. She wasn’t Tunisian—it was almost Greek. The dossier said the culture and the people of Castallegna were a blend of the two. He wondered if she was a rebel or a patriot. He could tell from the fire in her eyes that she burned with one cause or another.

It would be easier if she was just a jewel thief, an unscrupulous antiquities dealer. Those could be bought off—not so much when it was a cause.

“Don’t thank me yet, sweetheart. I’m here for the Jewel.” He flashed a slow, lazy grin that belied the urgency of the operation.

She smiled, baring all of her straight white teeth at him. “You’re looking at it.”

“You’re shitting me.” There was no way, no way that this woman was the Jewel of Castallegna. His eyes narrowed, and he assessed her with a particular intensity.

“No, Mr. Hawkins. I would never do that. I’m Princess Damara Petrakis, also known as the Jewel of Castallegna. We better get moving. The last thing we need is to get caught with a dead body on our hands.”

She knew his name. She had been expecting him. Damn it. This screwed all of his plans. “That’s going to be a problem. I only made provisions for one.”

“They didn’t tell you the Jewel wasn’t a stone?” She arched a dark brow.

“No.” And Hawkins knew why. As a private contractor, he could decline an assignment. His handler, Daniel Renner, knew that Byron would decline this one if he had all the information. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—be responsible for another person’s life. Renner didn’t seem to understand that anyone under his care was more likely to die than be rescued.

Damn him. Damn him straight to hell. Renner knew what he’d been through in Uganda. Knew why he’d left the army. He knew it, and he hadn’t cared. The DOD wanted this woman on American soil whatever it took, whatever the cost to Byron.

He swallowed hard. Hawkins was a soldier to the marrow. He knew how this worked. The sacrifice of the few for the many, but this wasn’t what he’d signed up for. He was willing to give his own life, and some nights when the screaming in his head wouldn’t stop, he prayed it would be his turn to give it. He owed his team that.

But he couldn’t be responsible for someone else’s safety. Not again. Not after Uganda. If Renner had dispatched him to kill the two men on the floor in front of him, he would’ve accepted that gladly, but this... He couldn’t do it.

The petite woman seemed to know his inner turmoil. “Whatever is going through your mind, you can’t leave me here.”

Her hand was so small, so delicate on his arm, but he knew she was fierce.

“You don’t understand. I planned a water exit in a small fishing boat that’s only big enough for one. It’s hours from Tunis to Marsala by water. How long before there are others looking for you? Before they start watching the airports in this region? I only have papers for one.”

“Your Mr. Renner already provided me with documents. I won’t complain about the accommodations.” She looked down for a moment. “Please. My country—”

“I can’t be responsible for you. That’s how people die,” he confessed. He didn’t want to lay himself bare like that to someone he didn’t know, but he’d never see her again. And, for some reason, he needed her to know that he wasn’t leaving her behind to be cruel. It was the only kind thing he could do for her.

“I’ll die or worse if you don’t take me with you.” She cocked her head to the side and one lock of her hair came free from her long braid. “And of course you’re not responsible for me. I’m not a child. But you can help me. That’s what you do, isn’t it?”

“What I do is kill people,” he said, as if that wasn’t clear.

“And for that, I am grateful.” She nodded, wearing an earnest expression.

He scrubbed his hands over his face. She wasn’t giving up; she wasn’t afraid. So why was he? He’d only ever failed one mission before. His last one—and he’d failed because no one came home. Not even their bodies for their families to mourn.

Byron couldn’t help but insert her face into the macabre tableau. The burning, the screaming... Or even her pretty face made stark in death, framed by the black wings of a body bag. God, he was sick. So sick and rotten inside. He couldn’t help her. Help from him was no kind of help at all.

If he left her behind, this fearless princess, it would be Uganda all over again. He kept seeing her beautiful face bloody and beaten.... He’d heard her attacker: I can’t kill you yet, but I can hurt you.

Byron Hawkins supposed there was some decency left in him yet, some goodness that had hidden itself away from the shadow that lurked inside him. The tactician part of his brain said he had to leave her. Their probability of survival was cut in half without a clean escape. But he knew with a certainty that if he left her, there would nothing clean about his escape. His hands would be covered in one more person’s blood.

Only logic told him they might be anyway. By taking her with him, he was accepting responsibility for her. She’d said she wasn’t a child, but she was an innocent, no matter how fast or hard she could punch. He was the one with combat experience; he was the one who’d be making the calls. And he was the one who had to live with her voice in his head if he failed.

Even as he debated with himself, he knew what his answer would be. Dread curled like a poisonous snake in his gut, ready to strike.

* * *

FOR ONE HORRIBLE MOMENT, Damara thought her savior was going to leave her behind. She could see his eyes harden with what must have been resolve; then they were filled with so much pain. Something awful had happened to this man and sliced him so deep there was nothing to cauterize the wound. It was obvious in his every movement, but most especially in the darkness in his eyes. It struck Damara as strangely beautiful.

Yes, he was definitely a killer. He’d snapped Sergio’s neck with the swift and easy brutality of a predator. She hadn’t been lying when she’d said she was grateful—Sergio was her brother’s head security adviser. A pretty title for what amounted to head torturer. She needed this Byron Hawkins to make her escape, and, in doing so, to save her country from Abele.

And she knew there was more to Hawkins than this machine he’d made of himself.

Damara found herself intrigued by him, by his pain. It didn’t hurt that he was handsome and strong. He dwarfed her, a giant, deadly wall of lethal power. What woman wouldn’t find that attractive?

Damara had to remember she wasn’t just a woman. She was a princess. In her heart, there was only room for her people—her country. She understood what it was to live a life in service. She also understood that she’d do whatever was required to get herself out of Tunis.

“It’s ten minutes to the port of La Goulette, but I plan to make it in five. Let’s go.”

Relief flooded her. He would help. She followed him outside and he led her through some well-groomed shrubbery to where he’d hidden a Ducati.

He handed her the single helmet, and she took it gratefully.

“It’s a 1199 Panigale R. Wish I could take it with me,” he said, a certain amount of wistfulness in his voice.

“Did you steal this?” She eyed him.

“What do you think?” He mounted the bike, swinging one long, powerful leg over the side.

She supposed that didn’t matter. Damara had more pressing problems. The seat was tiny, and he dwarfed the machine the same way he dwarfed her. She didn’t think there was any way she was going to fit on the thing, but Damara had said she wasn’t going to complain about accommodations and she wouldn’t break her promise.

Especially not when he could still change his mind and leave her behind.

If she didn’t fly off the back end of the bike. She was very certain that on this bike lay the path to some horrible maiming.

“Don’t be shy now, Princess.”

She’d never heard anyone say princess in that way before. It made her shiver. It wasn’t reverent or at all proper. In fact, it was rather intimate. As if she was his princess to do with as he pleased rather than a head of state he’d been contracted to escort. She wasn’t sure if she liked it or not.

His arm snaked out and wrapped around her waist as he hauled her onto the front of the bike. As he revved the engine, he said, “Hold on.”

She was barely aware of the speed or even the scenery as it melted into swirling colors at the edges of her vision.

The man holding her dominated all her senses.

He was a solid wall against her back—his body was immovable like a marble statue, but he exuded heat like a bonfire. Even when she’d been surrounded by bodyguards in the royal palace, she’d never felt as safe as she did right at that moment. It was insanity. They were tearing through the streets, barreling toward even more danger. Damara was about as far from safe as she could be.

Only she was almost out of Abele’s reach, and that felt amazing, too. It made her giddy, a false sense of freedom. She knew she’d never be truly free—she had a duty—but it would be a gift to be able to serve without being under his cruel thumb.

When she tried to stop thinking about the strong man who held her, she couldn’t help but focus on how fast they hurtled through the air. She’d swear that the bike wasn’t even touching the road. It was either the bike or him.

She breathed deeply, centering herself and pushing down her fear. Damara could smell the salt and the sea, something that never failed to ground her. Strangely enough, it seemed to be coming from him more than the air around them.

Their bodies swayed and twisted with the bike as it shot through the streets and alleyways, and for a moment, Damara could swear she was riding the wind. That thought somehow made it better. The wind was her friend, or so she’d thought as a child. It reminded her of the time she’d launched herself off the small cliff at the summerhouse, leaping into the wind so it could carry her safely to the lagoon with the bright blue fish below. Her nanny had almost had a stroke, but Damara had been so confident that her friend the wind would cradle her gently until she slipped into the clear waters. And she supposed she was lucky that it sort of had.

The colors and scenery slowly untangled into recognizable things as Hawkins decelerated the machine. They emerged on a small hidden beach that stank of fish guts and gasoline. Damara had been to Tunis and La Goulette numerous times, but she’d never known anything like this was here.

Well, what had she expected? To leave a secured international port from a monitored dock?

She saw the boat that would be their mode of transport. He wasn’t kidding—it was going to be a tight fit. She bit her lip. It was true that she’d trained hard for the skills that she had, but she wasn’t used to hardship or discomfort.

You can do this.

She would do anything she had to do to stop Abele and save Castallegna, she reminded herself.

“Get in and lie down. I’ll cover you with the tarp until we’re clear.”

Damara did as she was told. The boat stank like old fish and must, and she pulled her shirt up over her nose. The roar of a small motor soon rattled the hull, and Damara didn’t know how long she lay there under the tarp as still and quiet as she knew how to be until he pulled it back from her face.

The first thing she noticed was the sky. The stars were big and bright, like glittering holes burned out of the pitch—breathtakingly beautiful. She could smell the salt in the air again, and the ocean around them seemed so black and fathomless, except for the pale ribbon of moonlight the shone down like a winding road over the inky waves.

“There’s no way we can make it together to Marsala in this. There’s a cargo ship anchored just over there that’s headed to Marseille. It’ll be close quarters, dirty and dank for about twenty hours, but I think it’ll do the job.”

Twenty hours? She could do this. Damara was used to sitting in on political dinners, parties and other things where she had to be still and quiet. This was just more princess training. She turned her attention from the sky to where he gestured. “How are we going to get aboard?”

“Captain is a friend. I got in touch with him before I dumped my cell. You’re not carrying any electronics, are you? Phone, iPod...”

She shook her head. “No, I knew they’d be able to track me.”

“Smart girl.”

Pride swelled and bloomed at his praise. She didn’t even know him, and after this she’d never see him again. It didn’t matter what he thought of her as long as he got her to the States.

“He’s going to linger there for the next twenty minutes, and we have to get aboard and down in the cargo hold before any of his crew sees us. So I need you to do exactly as I say when I say it. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes,” she agreed easily.

He maneuvered the boat up next to the cargo ship, and the sound of the small motor was drowned out by the idling growl of the giant engines of the ship. A rope ladder had been left hanging down the side for them.

She grabbed hold of the ladder, the rope abrasive on her palms. For all of her training, she still had the hands of a princess. Damara wouldn’t complain; instead she would just do as he instructed. She tried to be as quiet as she could, remembering her ballet lessons and balancing her weight so she didn’t flail and clang against the side like some alarm alerting everyone to their presence.

When she pulled herself to the top, she heard voices and she ducked her head, still clinging to the rope ladder. She looked down at Hawkins.

What’s wrong? he mouthed.

She made a talking motion with her hand, and then held up three fingers to indicate the number of voices she’d heard.

He put his head down for a moment, and then he began to climb. She would have shimmied back down the ladder and into the boat, but she saw it had already been set adrift. They were well and truly stuck.

Damara made herself as narrow as possible while still holding herself steady, and he started moving up the ladder behind her, his feet and hands on the outside of hers.

Even though Damara was used to warm temperatures and to heat, she wasn’t used to his heat. His body was so hard and hot—even with the layers of clothes between them, his skin seemed to burn her.

She tried not to think about it—the way she fit against him, the way the hard planes of muscle pressed against her, how small and safe she felt, even dangling off a rope ladder hanging over dangerous waters.

As he moved higher, she became very aware of another part of his body that was just as hot, hard and insistent as the rest of him. Her cheeks ignited, and she knew that even in the dark, her face would be scarlet.

He didn’t stop to apologize or make excuses or even acknowledge all the intimacies that were now between them. This was just a job to him and his arousal was just another bodily function.

Damara didn’t know him, but she knew his kind. He may be there to help her, but he was still a mercenary. Still a man paid to kill. She rather imagined a man like him would have to be cut off from attachment to anything. Even himself.

She exhaled heavily and pushed all of those thoughts out of her head. She didn’t have the time or the luxury to think about anything but escape, if the muffled sounds of a struggle were any indication.

Damara bit her lip to keep from calling out to him.

Every second dragged on for what felt like hours as doubt and fear filled her until he reached over the side and grabbed her arm to help her up. His knuckles were bloody, but he was otherwise unharmed.

The image of his hands, though—it burned itself into her brain like a brand. They were broad and strong, scarred, purposeful. They were the hands of a man who’d had to fight for everything he had. The way he moved, helping her, still using those hands even though he’d split his knuckles open, it was as if he didn’t even notice the pain, if there was any. It was as if he’d simply chosen not to feel it.

Damara found that impossibly noble.

And it made her blush hotter.

She had to stop thinking of him as a man and think of him as what he was—a means to an end.

Another echo of voices spurred him to action, and he lifted the cover off a lifeboat so they could crawl inside.

She could barely see him in the darkness, but the moon was bright enough overhead that a tiny bit of light shone through the canvas tarp. He held a finger up to his lips to indicate she should stay quiet.

Something sharp needled her back and hip. Damara wanted to stay still and silent, but it quickly became agony. Hawkins seemed to know and he pulled her tight against his body.

Time stopped again, just as it had on the ladder. She was stiff and frozen, but this time his fingers pushed her hair out of her face.

Those same bloody, damaged hands touched her gently, soothed her. This man said so much without saying anything at all. It was all there in that one simple gesture.

You’re safe.

I’ll protect you.

And she believed he would.

There was a part of her that didn’t want him to protect her. Part of her that wanted him to be a bastard. She didn’t want to get caught, but she couldn’t stop thinking about his hands. What they’d feel like on the rest of her body, what they’d look like on her skin.

Her face was so hot now she was sure that her cheeks would explode. She was embarrassed by the direction of her thoughts. It was all just fantasy anyway. She’d read too many forbidden books and been denied reasonable human contact for too long all in the name of purity. Her body might be untried, but her mind certainly wasn’t.

Damara shifted carefully to make herself more comfortable, but she was at a loss for what to do with her arm. If this was a lover’s embrace, she’d have clung to him, but he was a stranger. It was as if her own arm was this awkward part of her that didn’t belong on her body.

“It’s okay.” His breath tickled against the shell of her ear. “You can touch me. There’s nowhere else to go.” His voice was so low, she could barely hear it.

Heart hammering against her chest, she did as he suggested and wrapped herself around him.

The hard length was still there and it occurred to her that it might be a gun instead of— She was such a silly girl. She’d been so caught up in the fairy tale of being a princess he had to save, she’d imagined this whole attraction between them like some stupid movie. She’d even romanticized his indifference. Another reason why she had to get her head back in the game. She couldn’t afford to be a princess now. She had to be a leader. Damara had learned there was a big difference.

Except, he went through the motions of pushing her hair out of her face again. It was a caress, a touch for the sake of touch.

“Sleep, Princess. It’s a long ride to Marseille.”

She didn’t bother to tell him that there was no way she’d be able to sleep. Not with his nearness, his heat, the adrenaline still coursing through her veins from the events of the day. Or the possibility of being discovered.

Damara tried not to notice how strong he was, tried not to think about how good he felt under her hands, his strength wrapped around her. No, she was certain she’d never sleep. Especially when he’d said, It’s okay, you can touch me. It made her think about touching him. A lot. Being touched by him.

What if his hand strayed just a bit, and what if she arched into his touch. What if— No, there was to be no sleep for her.

But she was wrong, because it was some time later that she was startled awake by gunfire.

CHAPTER TWO

THE SOUND OF SEMIAUTOMATIC gunfire launched Byron into high alert. He’d been enjoying the feeling of holding Damara in the dark and the quiet. It was as if there were no other people in the world but them. She’d been pliant and warm, and she smelled of things like hope, things he dared not name. She’d quieted that buzz of guilt that played almost constantly in his head.

He heard yelling now but no return fire. They were being boarded.

They’d been at sea for several hours and piracy was more common in the waters to the east of them. The shipping lane they were on was largely unmolested. He’d made sure of that.

Stomping, banging on the side of the ship and loud voices echoed through the tiny space. He recognized the language as Russian. Byron only had a rudimentary knowledge of the language. But there was a heavy presence of Russian mob on Cyprus and in Greece, so he’d encountered several factions in his work for the DOD.

But as of yet, he didn’t have any intel that they were involved in piracy—at least not outright. They were subsidizing some of the Somali crews but not Russian crews. Shit, this was about to get dicey. The imagery of her face peering out from the body bag haunted him.

Just let me keep her safe. Just let her live through this.

When she started awake, he pressed his palm over her mouth gently to keep her from shrieking. “We’ve been boarded, but everything is going to be fine. Just remember to keep quiet and do as I say,” he reassured her.

Her eyes were wide and luminous, still so trusting.

He started processing their situation from every angle—each scenario that was within the immediate realm of possibility. He strategically moved them around the chessboard, trying to figure out the safest and most expedient course of action.

Until he heard Castallegna.

Renner had told him there were international and unsavory buyers for the Jewel.

For Damara.

He’d kill them before he’d let them touch her.

A calm came over him. His heartbeat slowed and the peace he’d been seeking filled him. Because this was his purpose; this was what he’d been born to do. And in this, he could keep her safe.

“Don’t leave me,” she whispered. It was the second time she’d sensed what his actions would be before he took them.

“I’ll be back.” He shifted carefully, hoping to make his exit from the lifeboat unseen.

“What if you’re not?” Damara asked.

“Then stay here. And when you dock, get to the American Consulate. Ask them to get in touch with Renner.”

She grabbed his hand.

He smiled in the darkness. “This is what I’m for, remember?”

“There’s too many of them to kill them all,” she pleaded.

“I like a challenge.” He didn’t say “trust me” because that was the last thing she should ever do, but this, this he could handle. Byron slid out onto the deck and crouched behind the boat, watching. No matter what he decided to do, he had to do some recon to see what exactly they were dealing with.

He saw the captain of the ship—his contact Miklos Sanna speaking with one of the boarders.

“Ah, Grisha! You should have told me you were coming. There was no need for the display of firepower,” Miklos said as he clasped the man’s shoulders.

The man he’d called Grisha, a hulking beast with narrow eyes, grinned. “I need to let my dogs run free now and then. Or they will get soft.” He shrugged. “But I don’t have time for pleasantries. Do you have the Jewel?”

Miklos nodded to the stairs that led to the hold—where they would’ve been hiding had the deck been clear when they’d boarded. “They should be below.”

That bastard, Byron thought, even though he wasn’t surprised.

“They?” Grisha arched a simian brow.

“You didn’t think the princess escaped Tunisia alone, did you? A hardcase mercenary helped her. American.”

“A cowboy?” Grisha said the word as if his mouth were full of marbles, as if his tongue couldn’t wrap around the syllables.

“A real John Wayne motherfucker,” Miklos agreed genially. “He won’t be bought. You’ll have to kill him.”

Again, Byron wasn’t surprised at the betrayal—that’s what people did. The only person that could be counted on was oneself. And even that was sometimes sketchy. He thought about their options again.

Damara was right. He couldn’t kill them all—at least not while he still had to keep her safe, and that was his number one priority. It would be a dangerous game of cat and mouse to hide until they made port. It was possible Miklos would weigh anchor until they were found.

The Russians had several smaller boats that were unmanned while the crew was aboard the Circe’s Storm.

He had enough C-4 he could create a diversion and disable the cargo ship, but that wouldn’t stop the other boats from pursuit. From the position of the stars, Byron judged that they were about ten hours away from Marseille.

There was one other option.

He could let Grisha take Damara.

As soon as the thought entered his head, everything in him screamed in protest—except for his logic.

Grisha wanted her to control Castallegna. She was a princess schooled in diplomacy. She could keep herself safe for however long it was until they made port and they could escape. Byron didn’t see any other way that didn’t put her life at risk. Grisha wouldn’t kill her.

That’s not to say it wouldn’t be uncomfortable for Damara. But they were outgunned and outnumbered here. A firefight on open water could lead to her injury or her death. It was like when an animal had locked its jaws on you, you didn’t pull away because the animal would just bite harder. You pushed yourself into its mouth to force its jaws wider until you could break them.

He didn’t like his options, but they were all they had.

Byron had to make decisions with his head, not his feelings. His rage had gotten his men killed in Uganda, and he hoped that this would save her.

If not, he’d die trying.

Byron crept back to the lifeboat and found Damara gone.

A string of profanity hovered on his tongue, but he didn’t dare speak for fear of raising alarm and alerting them to his presence.

Where was she? Had they caught her already?

What if she was afraid?

But what he really meant was what if he had to add the sounds of her screams to the loop in his head.

“You don’t have to kill anyone,” he heard her say. Pride and anger swept through him. He was so proud of her for being strong and brave, but he was angry that she’d revealed herself to protect him.

Byron knew he was completely at odds with himself. That it was okay somehow for her to face Grisha only if he told her to, but the fact that she’d done it on her own made it foolhardy.

He watched her. Even in dirty fatigues, she had a regal bearing.

“I think I do. You belong to me, you see.” Grisha grinned.

She flashed him a look that made the temperature around them drop several degrees. “No, I don’t. You haven’t paid my brother for the privilege. Until you do, anything that you do to me could be considered an act of war on Castallegna.”

“A tiny country with no allies.” Grisha shrugged.

She smiled. “Perhaps. Or perhaps my brother has had other offers for my hand from stronger, more powerful men than you. There are sheiks and princes who would marry me for Castallegna’s diamond mines.”

Grisha was still smug. “Then why are you not with them?”

“Don’t underestimate what I will do if you make me angry.” Damara may have been small, but she’d positioned herself in such a way that she appeared to be squaring off with the big Russian.

“Where is your guard dog? The American?” Grisha demanded.

“How should I know? I paid him to get me passage out of Tunisia. I don’t need a keeper.”

“If he comes for you, I’ll kill him.”

Miklos scanned the area. He seemed to sense Byron’s presence. “I think you should stay aboard the Circe until Marseille.”

“Why is that?” Grisha asked.

“I know the American is still on board. I feel it in my bones. Here, we control the situation. There would be a lot of, shall we say, opportunities for him between here and Italy on a smaller craft.”

“I see your wisdom. If the princess is dead, I can’t very well marry her. We’ll take your cabin, Miklos.”

* * *

DAMARA HADN’T SEEN any possible way out of the situation that didn’t involve revealing herself. Maybe it was naive of her to trust Hawkins as she did, but she knew in her gut that he’d come for her.

She could stand a few hours of Grisha’s company—she’d had to endure it at home all the time. Of course, she’d always had her bodyguards and her brother and it had always been in a formal environment. But she was sure she could maneuver him to treat her gently at least until Hawkins could get to her.

Damara followed behind Grisha, wondering exactly how hard she’d have to hit him in the back of the head and with what to slow him down—if such action became necessary. She was thankful she’d asked her bodyguards to train her and even more thankful they’d agreed.

Abele would’ve had them put to death if he’d known. He’d thought it unfeminine and a sin for a woman to know such things. Of course, it had suited his purposes when hiring a contingent of female bodyguards to keep her secluded from men.

The captain’s berth was small, but it had been outfitted with every luxury. Damara knew immediately that the cargoes transported on this ship weren’t always on the manifest. If the Russians knew Miklos well, then he must have been transporting people, as well.

One of her objections to Grisha was that he’d been linked to sex-trafficking rings and she found that repulsive. How long before the young women of Castallegna began to disappear with him as their crown prince? No one would ever be safe.

It was times like this she wished she had more power. She wished she was more than a princess.

“Plotting my death?” Grisha asked conversationally.

She studied him for a moment. “Of course not. It’s no secret I don’t want to marry you, but I don’t wish you dead.”

“Why don’t you want to marry me, Damara? I have money and power. I can trace my lineage back to Catherine the Great.”

She doubted his royal lineage, but she wasn’t going to say so. “You’re a bad man, Grisha.”

“All great men are.”

She shook her head. “I must marry for my people. You know that. What would you bring to Castallegna? Convince me.” If she could keep him talking, maybe she could buy some time.

He grabbed her and pushed her up against the wall, but she shoved at his shoulders. “I said convince me for Castallegna. My body may come as a gift with the responsibilities of my people, but it has nothing to do with the decision of who will lead them.”

She prayed he heard her. His hands were just as strong and just as damaged as Byron’s, but they were not noble and they turned her stomach. Damara held her body stiff and immobile. She didn’t close her eyes, and she didn’t look away from him. Not even when he dipped his head to kiss her.

Grisha paused when they were eye to eye. Damara didn’t flinch, didn’t hide from what was about to happen. Something he saw there caused him to pull back. “Perhaps you are not as useless as your brother says.”

“Perhaps not,” she agreed.

“How is it that you make even your acquiescence sound like a challenge?”

“I assure you, it’s not. You’re obviously the one with the power. You’ve caught me. I have nowhere to go and no one to turn to for help,” Damara said calmly.

“But you’re not afraid of me.”

“Should I be? Would you like me to be?”

“You said I was a bad man.” He studied her.

“Just because you’re bad doesn’t mean I should fear you. Fear is a waste of imagination. You will do what you must and I will do as I must.”

He eyed her, hard. “I meant what I said about the mercenary. I will kill him.” As if she’d somehow said otherwise.

“I’ve no doubt. Which is another reason I can’t marry you. You kill someone because they disagree with you? My father had a dream for Castallegna.”

Grisha snorted. “A dream of democracy?”

“Yes. Being born into a family doesn’t make a person any more fit to lead than any other.”

“I did not expect to drag you to the captain’s quarters to talk politics.” Grisha scrubbed a hand over his face.

“No? What did you expect? To haul me down here, make me cower in fear and then force yourself on me so I’d be so humiliated that I would have no choice but to marry you? If my brother told you that would work, you are sadly mistaken.”

“And yet if we were on Castallegna, we would be legally married if I did.”

“That’s another thing that’s gotta go.” Tendrils of fear unfurled in her belly, but she ignored them. It didn’t matter what he did to her. She was still the Jewel of Castallegna. But her brother and men like him were convinced that her only worth lay between her legs. No man would want her if she wasn’t a virgin.

“What if I agreed to all these things you wanted?” Grisha surprised her.

“In writing? A contract that would be for all the world to see?”

“No, not in writing.” He unbuttoned his shirt and she gritted her teeth, fear blooming like a rancid flower. But he didn’t pounce on her. Instead, he showed her the tattoos on his chest, his belly. His arms. His shoulders. “I already have a contract in writing, you see. Bratva. If I am ever found unworthy of the ink on my skin, it will be removed for me.”

She found herself looking at the art on his skin. The stars on his chest. The church with the spires on his belly. “I don’t understand.”

“These are what mark me as a bad man.” He pointed to a marking in Cyrillic she didn’t understand. “The first man I killed for The Brotherhood.”

“And you want to sit on the throne?” She was incredulous as to why he would think she’d choose him to lead her people. To be her husband. He’d admitted to killing a man. Not just one, but the first of many.

“It could be good for both of us, Damara. When you lead men, you must make choices, hard choices, and sometimes people die. If you order your army to war or you set your people against me, you’re sentencing them to death.”

“You can’t offer me peace with one hand and threats with another.” Why didn’t anyone understand that?

“It’s how things are done.”

“No.” It would not be how things were done. She’d never agree to marry him. Never. No matter what he did to her.

“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.” His voice was a growl, low in his throat.

“As I said,” she said, her mouth dry as the desert, “do as you must.” Damara tried to focus her mind, find her center and remember her training. He was bigger than she was, but she had speed and strategy on her side.

She studied her surroundings surreptitiously looking for a possible exit and weapons.

He lunged for her, and she grabbed the lamp on the nightstand, but it had been secured to the table in case of rough waters. So she used the table and the desk as leverage to deliver a roundhouse kick to his head.

It stunned him long enough for her to do it again, but he still didn’t fall. The man’s head must have been fashioned from concrete.

The door to the room swung open, and a flower of blood bloomed on his chest where Byron shot him with a .38.

Grisha clutched at his chest and staggered forward, but Damara didn’t stay to watch him fall. Byron grabbed her hand and pulled her out into the hall.

“This was not how this was supposed to go down.” His hand was warm and strong; his very presence made her feel as though everything was going to be okay. “But next time I tell you to stay put, stay put.”

“It was the only way.”

“I know that. But I had a plan.” He yanked her up the stairs toward the deck.

“What’s the plan now?” she asked as she hurried up the stairs behind him.

“Run like hell.”

She didn’t like that plan very much, but it seemed that it was all they were left with. An explosion rattled the ship and she screamed, but alarms drowned out the sound.

“Don’t worry. It’s forward aft. We’ll be exiting toward the rear.”

“What did you do?”

“Answers later. Running now,” he commanded.

The sun was overhead by this point, and the crewmen who saw them were too busy responding to the emergency and keeping the ship afloat to bother with them.

When they got to the side, he started to climb over. “I’m going to jump and then you’re going to jump, okay? I’ll catch you.”

Damara froze.

“Don’t bail on me now, Princess. You’ve faced down ruthless thugs like you were at a cotillion. A little leap is nothing.”

He landed on the deck of one of the Russian’s boats. Then he emptied the .38 into the rear of the boat ahead of him, damaging the rudder. Hawkins held out his arms for her. “Hurry. They can still use the lifeboats, and they might catch us. You have to jump now.”

Damara’s brain screamed at her to keep moving, but her feet were rooted to the spot.

Castallegna. She had to do this for Castallegna. If she was caught... She couldn’t finish the thought. They’d blame her for Grisha’s death. They’d punish her for it, and she knew from what her bodyguards had told her that Abele’s head torturer had nothing on the Russians.

She remembered again from when she was little—the wind would carry her safely. Like it had then, like it had on the bike...and it was Hawkins. He’d kept her safe before. If he said he’d catch her, he’d catch her.

She jumped. Time stopped, and for Damara, it was as if she’d flung herself out into nothingness rather than over the side of a boat down to waiting arms on the deck of the small yacht. Terror froze her limbs, but he caught her easily and deposited her on the deck. She didn’t want to let go of him; her arms stayed around his neck even as Byron started the boat. Soon, Circe’s Storm grew smaller in the distance behind them, as did the smoke billowing up from her. So far, no one was in pursuit, but the captain knew where they were headed and a radio or a satphone would be much faster than a boat.

“You know we’ll still have to be on our guard. It’ll be best if we choose another port. Maybe Barcelona. It’s closer. If the fuel doesn’t hold, the wind will.”

She leaned against his shoulder, knowing she should release him but unwilling to just yet. “Thank you for everything that you’ve done.”

“You’re not safe yet.”

“Safer than I was.”

“You did good in there, Princess. You’re going to be okay.” He pulled her closer for a minute. When he released her, she finally let him go.

Again, his praise shouldn’t have been so warm, like basking in the sun, but it was. She’d never been good for anything but getting her brother what he wanted. Pride swelled at the notion that a man like him thought she could handle herself.

But she remembered the look of surprise on Grisha’s face. The sound of the gun as the bullet exploded out of the barrel and into the man. She knew it had to be done, but that didn’t make it any less horrific.

Damara shivered.

“Are you cold?” he asked, wrapping his arm around her again.

How quickly this physicality came to be normal between them, this touching. She leaned into his warmth and let him shelter her there for just a moment. Perhaps it was the stress of the situation, but she liked how easily he touched her, how he allowed her to touch him. This sort of intimacy was unheard of for her.

But as much as she enjoyed it, guilt swarmed her. “A man died. Because of me.”

“Are you sorry he’s dead?” He didn’t look at her, but out at the water as he guided the craft.

“Of course. He was a living being. I don’t want anyone to die because of me, but he was going to hurt me. And if he had the chance, he’d hurt Castallegna. He told me he was Bratva.”

Byron nodded. “Russian mob. They have a heavy presence in the Mediterranean. With the state of geopolitics, it makes sense.”

“I can’t believe my brother would align himself with these kinds of people.” No, she supposed that wasn’t true. She could believe it, but she didn’t want to. Abele had loved her once, when she was very young. Before he’d gone power mad when their father had died.

Before the Council of Lords had tried to have him declared illegitimate.

She tightened her arms around Hawkins’s waist and just buried her face in his chest. It was safe there. The outside world didn’t exist, only his warmth and strength.

Why couldn’t a man like him want her?

He was fierce and strong as all good leaders must be, but he was noble, too, self-sacrificing.

“Castallegna is small. This seems like much trouble to go to simply to have a base and consulate on Castallegnian soil.” She sighed.

“It would be good to have a government that was receptive to our operatives. Safe houses, if you will. Priceless, really. The Russians are trafficking in people, arms, munitions, and a lot of it is filtering through Greece, Cyprus and Italy.”

“Won’t that make Barcelona too dangerous because of the proximity to the Mediterranean?”

“No, I have contacts in Barcelona. We may have to lie low for a few days, but we’ll get you on U.S. soil soon.”

“I don’t mean to look a gift horse, Hawkins, but wasn’t Miklos a contact?”

“He was an associate.” Hawkins laughed. “Contacts. U.S. government. They’ll get us stateside safely. I promise you.”

“Then what will happen to me?”

“I’ll turn you over to Renner, the guy you spoke with. Then he’ll take it from there.”

“What will you do?” She didn’t want to be handed over to anyone else. But she had to remember that to him, she was just a job. A package that had to be delivered. Something he hadn’t wanted to take to start with.

“I’ll have to go back to Italy. I’m still on assignment there.”

“I hope I didn’t blow your cover.”

“No, it’ll be fine. Miklos doesn’t run with the same people. We’ve never had any transactions anywhere that was well lit, and I have a different name. Different social circles. They think I’m in finance. It’s not a bad gig, really.”

“So if I asked you how the yen was doing in comparison to the dollar, you’d be able to tell me?”

“Yes. Do you want to hear it?”

“Not really.” She laughed. “I’ve acquired many skills, but finance and global trends all turn to gibberish when I try to make sense of them. I understand spending money, and I understand budgets and taxes. But crude investments versus pork bellies because of the rise in gold? Nothing.” She’d always felt as if she should know more about international finance, but her brain just didn’t work that way.

“Whenever anything else was going wrong in my life, numbers always made sense. They’re irrefutable. Math is a universal language. Even though people say money is cold, hard and unfeeling, it’s not. It’s a tool. The stock market is attuned to feelings. When people don’t feel safe, the numbers drop. When they do, they rise.” He shrugged.

She liked that view of things. It made sense to her.

“I wish you could come with me after we’re stateside. I don’t know Renner. I know you.” It was the closest she could come to asking him without actually saying she wanted him.

“You don’t. Not really. I’m not a good guy, Princess. It’s nice that you see me that way now. But it’s like I said, I’m not really good at this protection gig. Killing is more my speed.”

“Then why do I feel so safe?” She was still tucked against his body, shielded by his heat and his strength.

“Because you haven’t learned any better.” His tone wasn’t quite condescension, but it was close.

“I’ve learned what you’ve taught me.” She looked up at his hard profile. “And what you’ve taught me is that I’m safe with you. That you’ll protect me. Even at the cost of your own life.”

“I work for the good guys, but don’t let that fool you into thinking I’m a good guy.” He turned away from the controls and stared down at her, his gaze focusing on her mouth.

For one second, she hoped he’d be what he thought was a bad guy and kiss her. He probably thought she was some sheltered girl with no experience. She supposed that was true, but it didn’t mean that she didn’t know what she wanted or wasn’t capable of making her own choices. She trembled and wanted to ask him if he was going to kiss her, but she knew that would shatter the moment. She wanted him to slam his mouth into hers and kiss her with no thought of where they were, who she was or what it meant.

His eyes were even more intense, his pupils dilated and his breathing was rough and hard, as if he exerted some superhuman effort just standing there. Maybe he wanted to kiss her, too. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she tilted her head up slowly.

“This can’t happen,” he said, his voice as low and guttural as Grisha’s had been when he’d demanded to know why she didn’t want him.

It occurred to her then that she wanted Byron Hawkins with the same intensity with which she’d despised Grisha.

CHAPTER THREE

SOME PEOPLE WOULD think that because Damara was a princess, she didn’t understand the word no. She understood it plenty. She heard it so often that yes was more of a surprise. So rather than be upset, she asked, “Why not? Am I not pretty?”

“You know you’re beautiful.”

“Am I?” She lifted her chin, wondering if that’s actually what he thought of her or if he was just being polite.

“Now you’re fishing for compliments and you’re not going to get them. You know how you look.”

“I don’t. Not really. My suitors all tell me I’m beautiful, but all they want is the power that comes with being married to me. I have maids. I have servants. They all tell me I’m beautiful, but they all must. What is it you don’t like?”

She dared to ask the question, but she was actually afraid of the answer. She didn’t want to be told that she wasn’t enough—that she had nothing to offer him since he didn’t want a crown.

“Your innocence.”

“I see.” Damara didn’t. Not really. “Because you’re a bad man?” She turned the conversation back to familiar territory.

“A very bad man.”

“A bad man wouldn’t care. Had I offered myself to Grisha, he wouldn’t have waited.” She shivered, both with fear and anticipation.

“You deserve better than a man like Grisha.”

“I know that. That’s why I picked you. But you’re not cooperating.”

Damara Petrakis wasn’t sure who was more surprised by what came out of her mouth. The expression on his face looked like she’d kicked him somewhere unforgivable. She wasn’t sure what strange maggot had burrowed into her brain, but she suddenly realized that this was the answer to half of her problems. Not only would it eliminate many of Abele’s contenders for her hand; on a more selfish note, it was something she wanted to experience. She wanted to know what it was like to be wanted for herself, not her position. She had a feeling that Hawkins didn’t care if she was a princess or a beggar.

His eyes widened. “You have lost your mind.”

She scowled. “That’s not what a lady expects to hear from her chosen beau.”

“This ain’t a cotillion, Princess.” He sneered.

This wasn’t the reaction she’d expected. “No, it certainly isn’t.” She pursed her lips and decided to appeal to his logic. “But my brother is going to have a hard time marrying me off if I’m not a virgin, isn’t he?”

“That’s still a thing?” He wrinkled his nose.

Still a thing. Damara closed her eyes for a second as the emotion threatened to overwhelm her. The whole of her self-worth had been wrapped up in the slight veil of flesh. It had been drilled into her head that it belonged to her country and she owed it to her people to keep herself chaste until she was married. But now, getting rid of it seemed like only way to give them and herself some measure of protection until Abele was captured and tried for treason.

Of course, this soldier wouldn’t understand. She knew that. It was part of why she’d chosen him. So she couldn’t be angry at him or hurt that he didn’t understand. His culture was different.

She took a deep breath. “It’s very much still a thing in Castallegna and in many parts of the world. I was under armed guard for most of my life. If I’m worthless to him, maybe he’ll stop killing people to get to me.”

“Sweetheart, I don’t know if anyone told you, but he could lie.”

She swallowed. “He could, but the kind of men he wants an alliance with would demand an examination before we were married.”

“How about I just kill him for you?” Hawkins said as if he were asking her permission to do something as mundane as trimming the hedges below her window. Hope surged in her chest for all of a single millisecond. Life would be so much easier. So many people would be saved. One life for many—one of the founding principles on which she was raised. His death would mean she’d be free to dissolve the monarchy, to bring true democracy to Castallegna, just as her father had always dreamed.

But she couldn’t do it on the back of an assassination.

“I can’t ask you to do that.” She swallowed the hope that had turned to bile in her throat.

“You’re not asking. I offered. See, like I said, killing is what I’m good at.”

She wet her lips, as if that would help ease her next words into the world. Damara may not have been experienced in the ways of the flesh, but she did know people. Politics and manipulation had been part of her extensive education, as well. “So are you saying that you’re not good at making love?”

“Fucking, little girl. It’s called fucking,” he snarled.

Damara found it so telling that he could speak of killing—of death—without blinking an eye, but when the discussion turned toward softer things, it made him angry and defensive. At first she’d thought intimacy was the problem, but it didn’t get much more intimate than taking a life.

A million retorts came to mind. She wanted to tell him she was no little girl, she was a grown woman, but she didn’t need his validation to know that. It didn’t matter if he wanted to use those words to push her away, to keep her from whatever it was he didn’t want her to see.

“You still didn’t answer the question.” Damara was proud of how steady her voice was, how she met his regard with unflinching resolve.

“I’m warning you, Princess. Steer clear of this and me.” His eyes raked over her with an intensity that made her feel exposed, naked.

He didn’t have to answer the question. She sensed that if he touched her, she’d never be the same.

But she supposed that would be true of experiencing this with anyone. Maybe it was because he seemed reluctant that she wanted it to be him so very badly. Men always wanted something from her, and this one didn’t want anything. How perverse of her.

She responded before she had time to think it through. “Steer clear of you or what? You’ll do what I’ve asked? What exactly do you think is going to happen to me? Do you have some hideous disease? Are you malformed?”

“I am formed very well, and clean, thank you,” he growled. “How do you propose we do this, Highness? Hmm? Here in the boat? With no condom?”

She blushed.

“Oh, for— You demand I service you, but you blush when I mention condoms? If you can’t say the word, you shouldn’t be using them. And if you’re not using them, you definitely shouldn’t be having sex.”

“I can say the word.” Damara brushed some imaginary bit of something from her pants so she could get away from his scrutiny. “I just...I hadn’t thought about the geography of where. Obviously, this boat isn’t very practical for such things.” She couldn’t fight the heat that suffused her cheeks.

She was very aware of his proximity. Of his scent, of his strength.

Of her reaction to him.

And how what she’d said couldn’t be unsaid. He didn’t want her. Her tutors and trainers all made sure to tell her that any man who got her alone would try to “ruin” her. As if all men were ravaging beasts who couldn’t control their baser urges. Even without a crown she did nothing to inspire his “baser urges.” If her tutors had been wrong about that, what else were they wrong about?

She shook her head as if the action would rattle those thoughts out of her brain. Damara always said she wanted to be just a girl. Now he treated her like one and it rocked her worldview. Damara wanted to be strong; she wanted to be fierce and brave. Only she was alone and on unsteady ground. She felt incredibly weak and small.

At the core of that, what cut her the most was that she felt useless. She was a princess who’d escaped from her tower but didn’t know how to do anything to care for herself.

She couldn’t even seduce a man.

“Are you crying?” he asked her in a low voice, but with the same inflection as if he’d asked her if she had the plague.

“No.” She wasn’t. She wouldn’t. But she wanted to.

“You think I don’t want you,” he stated in a monotone.

“You don’t.” If he did, why wouldn’t he take what she offered?

He turned off the motor and dragged her against him. She went willingly, pliant in his arms. That was when she realized that he did want her. His erection was pressed against her intimately, which both thrilled and terrified her.

“I— Oh. I thought that was your gun.”

He’d wanted her the whole time. Her whole body tingled.

Byron glanced heavenward as if she were the very definition of a cross to bear.

“As a princess, aren’t there things that you want but can’t have? Aren’t there things that you know better than to reach for because you might lose the hand doing the reaching?”

His shoulders were so wide and hard. She found her hands wandering of their own volition down his broad back, his biceps. He was like one of the statues at the museum.

She understood what he meant, but Damara was much too distracted by his physicality.

“Oh,” she said again breathlessly.

His fingers tightened and released around her hips before tightening again, finally drawing her even closer against him.

Damara burned in a way that she didn’t know was possible. Every nerve ending was awake and wanting—this was desire.

She rose up on her tiptoes slowly—this was madness. He said he couldn’t—they couldn’t—but she needed his lips. She had to know what it was like to kiss him. She might never have another chance.

Hawkins didn’t turn away from her, and he could have. He was bigger than she was, stronger. He was the one who’d hauled her against him, who kept touching her. One hand slid up her spine to cradle her neck and angle her for his pleasure.

His mouth crashed into hers with all the intensity she’d expected. It was a furious heat, but there was a need there, too. He gave as much as he took. His mouth was so hard but soft at the same time. Her blood turned to molten lava, and Damara was sure she’d burn up from the inside out. Just when she thought she’d incinerate to ash, he broke the kiss. But he didn’t release her.

“Please,” she whispered.

He touched his forehead to hers; their breath mingled in the aftermath of the kiss. He said with a ragged exhale, “If you still want this when we reach the safe house in Barcelona, God help you.”

* * *

THAT MOMENT WAS everything that kissing a beautiful woman should be, Byron realized.

In a word, it was awful. The expectation, the hope—and the difficult truth that he could never fulfill any of those higher needs.

Her kiss made him want, made him remember what it was like to need something he couldn’t have. She tasted of all things sweet and pure, and it roused something animal in him—something primal that wanted to claim her and mark her as his own. Hawkins wanted to touch all that lovely honey skin that he knew would taste just as good as her kiss.

But she was a princess, a regular damsel in distress.

And he was no knight, no prince and certainly no champion. He was Byron Hawkins, fuckup extraordinaire.

There’d been a time when he would’ve tried to seduce her just to see if he could get away with it. Part of him was tempted, sorely tempted, to see just how far the lovely princess would take this. He couldn’t believe the way she pressed herself against him, so innocent but so wanton at the same time.

He tore himself away from her and concentrated on the task at hand. Where to stay once they got to Barcelona and the fastest way to get her on United States soil. Just as he’d promised.

But instead of focusing on those issues, his thoughts kept wandering back to how good she felt pressed up against him and the jasmine scent of her hair.

The things he wanted to do to her.

Her innocence should’ve been a mood killer—he broke fragile things and dirtied the pristine. Instead, it only stoked the flames hotter. He wondered what she’d look like writhing beneath him, what sounds she’d make from those luscious lips while he tasted her—pleasured her.

Hawkins steeled his mind to chill the heat of his arousal and shut down his imagination.

“You keep telling me that you’re a bad man, but you’re a better man than you think.”

Perhaps she was the one who was dangerous. The sooner he could get away from her and that fragile hope he saw in her eyes, the better. “And sometimes, people who believe they’re good have tunnel vision and can’t see the destruction they leave in their wake,” he answered.

“A bad person wouldn’t care.”

“Are we really having a philosophical discussion in the middle of the Mediterranean?” He tried to change the subject before he proved to her just what kind of man he was.

“Why not? What else is there to do?” She arched a brow and put a hand on her hip.

Hawkins wondered if she meant to dare him to take what she’d offered. If she meant to tease him. The expectant look on her face told him that she actually wanted an answer. She wasn’t just taunting him—and he was a twisted bastard to think that she was.

“I’m not here to entertain you, Princess,” he said more sharply than he meant.

She was contrite. “I’m sorry to pry. I won’t do it again, but don’t shut me out. I’ve never had anyone who talks to me like you do. Like I’m a real person rather than a dress-up doll.” Damara put her hand on his forearm. “Please?”

It took everything in him to walk the line between jerking away from her as if he’d been burned or crushing her against him and drowning in her sweetness.

It was the please that was his undoing. He supposed that he’d be able to say it was Damara herself that was his undoing. He knew if she didn’t get away from him, all his noble intentions would be shot to shit.

All it would take was a glance, a touch, and he’d do anything she asked—even ruin her. It wasn’t that he thought a woman was ruined after she lost her virginity, but she’d be ruined if she lost it to him.

“You’re not a doll, but you are a princess.”

“That doesn’t make me any better or any worse than anyone else. All it means is that I was born into a certain family.”

“Don’t be so quick to shed the protection that affords you, Highness.”

“Don’t call me that. Just Damara.”

But he had to call her “Highness,” because it reminded him of all the reasons—no matter her words—why she wasn’t for him. He flexed his fingers around the controls, wanting to reach out for her, but he knew better.

When he got ahold of Renner, he was going to punch him in the dick. Maybe until he couldn’t raise his arms. That would only be half of what this felt like for him. There were any number of operatives who would’ve been a better choice for this gig.

Part of him was ready to hand the man his resignation the next time he saw him, but then where would he be? A killing machine with no purpose. What would he do? Where would he go? And what would happen to him once he had no outlet for the darkness inside of him?

No, Byron had no other options. This was where he belonged; this was what he was for. He had to believe that.

She sat quietly for a long time. It could have been hours, or it could’ve been minutes. Time lost its meaning when he was around her. He hated that. It made him ineffectual.

“Will you talk to me now?” she finally asked.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“Anything. Where are you from?” She looked down at her hands. “I wasn’t going to pry. Right. Seems I can’t help myself.”

He cocked his head to the side. It wouldn’t hurt to tell her where he was from. That was nothing. It was in his jacket. He could share those things. They weren’t intimate; they weren’t where his demons had hidden themselves.

“We lived in Virginia Beach when I was a kid and we had a boat. My dad would take us out at night and we chased what he called the Moonlight Road. He always said Blackbeard’s treasure was at the end.”

“That’s how you know your way around the sea. I bet you could tell me all about the stars, too.” She smiled. “Don’t the stars inspire wonder and curiosity?” Her eyes were bright, and there was a kind of excitement on her face.

Hawkins hadn’t thought about it in a long time. Not since he was a kid chasing moonlight ribbons across the water. They were maps and signposts for navigation, burning masses so far away that the light they were looking at was from something long dead and dark. They weren’t hopeful or inspiring. They were pale remnants of what had once been.

“Not so much anymore, Princess. I see constellations and stories made up to make sense of a world a primitive people didn’t understand. Andromeda, Perseus—myths that, like starlight, aren’t real.”

She laughed. “What do you mean it’s not real? I can see them. The shapes they take, the stories behind them.”

“Wishing on stars is like pinning your hope on the past and expecting it to change.”

“I didn’t say anything about wishing, although it’s a nice thought. I used to wish all the time that I was just a girl instead of a princess. I know how far wishing gets you. That doesn’t mean that they’re not awe inspiring.”

For the first time, it hit Byron that she had her own pain. He supposed that was a stupid thing to think. Of course she had her own pain, her own demons. Everyone did.

The wonder on her face was suddenly snuffed, like turning off a light. “Where do you live now?”

“Everywhere, really. I don’t have a home base. I haven’t since my parents shipped me off to a military boarding school my junior year in high school.”

“But surely you’re from somewhere? Virginia Beach, then?”

“No, we lived there until I was seven. Then we moved to Glory, Kansas. What about you, Princess? Did you spend your whole life on an island?” He turned the conversation back to her, shutting down all the memories, all the emotion that flooded over him whenever he thought of Glory.

She smiled and looked down at her hands. “I did. I’m the Jewel of Castallegna. I’m never supposed to leave the island. Going to Tunis was the farthest I’ve ever been from my home.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Like missing part of myself.”

They were dangerously close to touching things he’d buried deep and dark. Like wanting to belong, knowing that there was place that was always his—always part of him.

“Do you miss Kansas?” She interrupted his thoughts.

“Not hardly. The last view I had of that place was from the back of a police car.” He hadn’t been back since then and never would, if he had his way. He hated the faux piety of small-town life, the shiny picture they painted on the town’s facade to outsiders who didn’t understand there were no opportunities for anything better and there was definitely no forgiveness for your sins. Everyone in a small town lived in a glass house, but they all threw rocks.

“You were really a little hoodlum, weren’t you?” She laughed, the sound light and happy. If she was anyone else, he’d have thought she was laughing at him. But he could see that she found delight in his delinquency. “All the better for me, I suppose. You wouldn’t have the skills to do your job without it, I imagine.”

Again they veered too close to things he’d rather not disturb. Hawkins didn’t know what it was about her that dredged every unholy thing to the surface, but she was like a magnet.

A wise man would decide that it was time to face those things, but Hawkins had never been accused of being a wise man.

She seemed to sense his discomfort. “I’ve never been to Barcelona. What’s it like?”

He shrugged. One port was much the same to him as any other. He tried to think of the city with the unabashed awe that the princess would feel. From her questions when they were first at sea to now, she seemed to find joy in the smallest details, fascination with the most banal of things.

“It’s a major economic center. My cover takes me there often.” He flashed her a grin, thinking of how much she would enjoy a particular hotel. “I know exactly where we can lie low until we can get a flight. I stay at the ABaC sometimes when I’m in town. I have a safety deposit box in the hotel and the staff are discreet.”

She grinned. “See? My questions were helpful. I’m not just a nuisance.”

He wanted to tell her that she wasn’t a nuisance, that it wasn’t that at all. But he knew once he started talking, he wouldn’t be able to stop—it would be a tidal wave of confessional bile and she didn’t need to hear all of that. There were things that once they were seen, once they were heard, they lived. They breathed. And they were eternal.

Like screaming.

Like blood.

Like death.

“I’m sorry we won’t be able to sightsee.”

“Maybe someday, I’ll be able to travel and see the world. When my people are free, I’ll be free.”

“My offer still stands.” That would take care of everything. The threat would be neutralized and Damara would be safe.

“To kill my brother?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t. He’s my brother.”

“Even though he hates you? Even though he’d do any number of things that could be worse than dying to get what he wants from you?”

She looked up at him, her eyes bright. “Even so.”

He vowed at that moment that if her plans failed, that was just what he would do. She deserved to be safe. If she hated him for what he’d done, well, so be it. It occurred to him again that was what he was for. He did the jobs that no one else would—or no one else could. And bearing her hate, he could do that, too.

Resolve hard as stone, he changed the subject again. The port was in sight. “Look over there. It’s Barcelona.”

She perked up like a tiny wren who’d spotted a succulent worm. The closer they got, the wider her eyes were. “It’s so beautiful, even from here. Are we just going to dock and walk into the city like we didn’t just escape pirates?”

“Yeah. Why not?” He shrugged and flashed a smirk. “Half of my job requires balls.” There was a slim chance there’d be some of Grisha’s men stationed at the port to watch for them, but he’d have to take that chance. He’d burn that bridge when he had to cross it.

“Excuse me?” She arched a brow.

“Balls. You know...guts? Half of it is fake it until I make it. I fake a lot of things a lot of the time. Most of the time, if I act like I know I belong, I’m not questioned.”

“Even dressed like a guerilla from hell?”

“Even then. We’ll get a taxi and have him drop us off a few blocks from the hotel. I’ll check in to the penthouse, if it’s available. You need a special key to get on to that floor and that will help with our security.”

“From a stinky fisherman’s boat to a penthouse suite. This has been an adventure.”

Her smile didn’t meet her eyes. He could see that she was scared. She’d have to be stupid not to be. Everything was uncertain, and it was likely the Russians were still after them. Even when she got to the States that was possible—even likely.

“That’s the way to look at it, Princess. An adventure.”

He maneuvered the boat through the port, dodging larger ships and other crafts until he found an abandoned slip and docked.

“You ready to go?”

She bit her lip and nodded.

“Just think about the room service. It’s exquisite.”

“I am hungry. I could eat a goat.”

“I don’t think they have any goat.”

“Lamb?” she asked hopefully.

“Most definitely.” He thought of the garlic-roasted lamb he’d had on his last trip. It had been so good his mouth watered even now. “But it’ll make your mouth stink like a dead—well, it will give you bad breath.” His comparison to a dead body wasn’t exactly fodder for royal ears.

“Good to know. I’ll brush my teeth before I kiss anyone.”

The idea of her kissing anyone but him didn’t sit well. Not at all. But it wasn’t his place to say anything about it.

Things happened just as he’d said they would.

They disembarked from the small boat and walked up the dock and through the marina and no one said a word to them. It was as if people did such things all the time. It wouldn’t be too long, though, before they found the boat and discovered its owners were nowhere near Barcelona. The boat would be impounded and dusted for prints; there would be an investigation.

Although by then, Byron hoped they’d be long gone.

He had no trouble getting a taxi, and it dropped them at the hotel. He always kept a variety of monies on him, and he had just enough euros to tip well without being overly generous.

As soon as he walked into the hotel, the staff recognized him.

“Mr. Hale. What brings you back to Barcelona? Business or pleasure?” the desk clerk asked him in unaccented English.

“Pleasure. Most definitely.” When he noticed she was examining his attire, he said, “Cave exploration. Been wanting to do it since my first visit.”

“I would have been happy to set that up for you.” She made a show of wetting her lips. “And anything else you need, Mr. Hale.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for my next trip.” He gave her an easy smile. Part of him wanted to take her up on it now. He could just bend her over the couch in the office and slake his lust. Something, anything, to ease his body before more hours of confinement with the beautiful but innocent princess.

Except he wasn’t actually interested in anything this woman had to offer him. She was beautiful, accomplished and he was sure from the way she moved she’d be great in bed.

But she wasn’t Damara Petrakis.

He had to get those thoughts out of his head—he didn’t know how, but it would be so much easier once he’d put some distance between them.

“The penthouse suite is available. Shall I charge it to the card you have on file?”

“Yes, thank you. Double the room service order from my last visit, please. And I’d like to access my box while I’m here, as well.”

“I’ll let security and the kitchen know. Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Hale? Anything at all?” She smiled and leaned over the desk, emphasizing her ample and lovely cleavage.

“Not at the moment.” He accepted the key and winked at her.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Hale?” Damara said in a sickly sweet voice as he took her up to the penthouse.

Byron laughed. “Are you jealous?”

“No, of course not. But that was just pathetic.” She rolled her eyes. “Even I know that a man won’t buy the cow if he can get the milk for free.”

“I don’t want to buy the cow.” He snorted.

“Glad you see it my way.” She harrumphed.

He laughed again. “Call me Brian while we’re here. It’ll most likely be for only a few hours, but just in case, okay?”

“Yes, Brian.”

“And what’s your name?”

“I get to play, too?” Her pique seemed forgotten. “I want to be Holly Golightly, like Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”

“You know she was a prostitute, right?” He raised a brow.

“It’s not a bad profession. It’s not unlike being royalty.”

“How’s that?” He couldn’t wait to hear how she’d managed to work that out in her head. Byron opened the door to the suite.

“Pay to play, right? I have to trade myself to my husband for his resources. It’s basically the same thing. He gets to sleep with me, but he has to pay for it.”

“I think that’s just being married.”

“So she gets to be married to a lot of men, doesn’t have to stay with any one of them and still gets to utilize their resources. I like this idea. Maybe instead of freeing my country, I should just go home and have a harem?”

“I’m not calling you Holly Golightly.”

“I’m surprised you even know who I was talking about. My brother said it was a movie for women to make themselves feel better about being powerless.”

“We’ve established that your brother is an asshole.” He studied her for a moment and tried to imagine any scenario where he’d ever think of Damara as powerless. There wasn’t one.

“Did you order food?”

“Yes, Highness.”

“Don’t call me that.” She bristled.

“Why not?”

“I already told you why not. I’m a woman, the same as any other.”

“Who talks about having harems of men to do her bidding.” He could admit, the thought was like rubbing sandpaper on his face. Byron didn’t want anyone to touch her but him. It was good that he needled her. Maybe she’d get tired of him and stop engaging. Maybe she’d want to get away from him as much as he needed to get away from her.

He had a burner phone in the deposit box, and he hoped he could make contact with Renner and work out an end to this soon.

If he had to spend more than one more night with her, and she offered herself to him, he didn’t think he’d be able to turn her away.

CHAPTER FOUR

TREPIDATION AND EXCITEMENT were tangled up like vines in Damara’s belly.

This wasn’t what she’d expected at all. It was definitely better than a lifeboat or being chased by men with guns.

When he left to access his security box, Damara took stock of the room. It was a master suite with every luxury, from a wet bar to a king-size bed. She sat on the bed, running her fingers over the purple duvet.

For a brief moment, she wondered if she was being selfish. Maybe she should look for another royal to marry, someone strong enough to defeat Abele— No. No. Her father had wanted to bring democracy to Castallegna and if she married another royal, he wouldn’t want to give up a crown for her father’s dream.

Even though it was the right thing, it still felt wrong and strange to go against what she’d been told was her duty her whole life.

Damara told herself that her duty was to protect her people, to do what was best for them. And this was it. A monarch was a law unto himself, and Abele took that to the extreme. She was the only one who could stop him.

She exhaled heavily. She couldn’t wait to get into the shower. Maybe it could wash away the dirt and that feeling of guilt.

Probably not, because she’d decided.

Even after everything, Byron Hawkins would be the one. She wanted to experience him, and what did it matter anyway? They’d never see each other again after this.

Sometime later, when he reentered the room, their eyes met and it was as if they’d both been caught in some high-voltage current they were helpless to stop. She moved toward him, unable to direct her steps anywhere else.

He welcomed her into his arms but did nothing more. The tension between them was thick and heavy, like a weight pressing them down.

Her breath caught in her throat. “Are you going to kiss me?”

“No.” Only his head dipped toward her anyway.

“Oh.” She was disappointed. “Then I guess I’ll have to kiss you.” Damara arched her back, twined her arm around his neck and mashed her lips against his.

He wrapped one arm around her, his palm splayed on her waist, and he became the aggressor. She held her lips stiff and rigid, but gradually, under his guidance, she opened for him.

He tore his mouth from hers and pushed her away. “This can’t happen,” Hawkins said raggedly.

“Why not? You already said that if I still wanted this when we got to Barcelona, then God help me. So maybe he is.” His parted lips were swollen and even more inviting. “After you hand me over to your Mr. Renner, we’ll never see each other again.”

“What is it you want from me?” He met her regard, but his eyes seemed so tired, a deep well of sadness.

She almost lost her nerve. “I thought that would be obvious, Mr. Hawkins. I want you to make love to me.”

For the briefest moment, Damara thought he was going to deny her. Especially when his expression became guarded and closed, his mouth a tight line. “Then take off your clothes.”

This wasn’t what she’d expected, either, but she wasn’t turning back now.

* * *

SHE TOOK OFF her utility belt and hung it on the bedpost.

“That’s where I put mine.” He smirked.

With shaking hands, she undid the clasp on his utility belt and hung it over her own. She wet her lips, and she couldn’t quite bring herself to look up at his face. Her heart pounded against her ribs like a thousand butterflies looking for an escape.

He took her hands in his own, and the weight of his stare drew her gaze upward like a magnet.

“You can still change your mind.”

“No, this is the path I’ve chosen and I’ll see it through to the end.” She searched his eyes. “It’s what I want.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The softness of his voice was at odds with the fury of his kiss. Heat incinerated her and she melted against him. His hands were everywhere—rough and calloused, but sparks burst in their wake.

“Can I touch you?” she asked against his mouth.

“Anywhere you want.”

For some reason, his words made her feel powerful. She pushed her hands under the soft cotton of his shirt, and she marveled at the way he felt. His skin was smooth, but it was like velvet wrapped around steel. She supposed that was a stupid comparison, but she had nothing else to liken it to.

Damara loved the way his muscles rippled under her caress, the way he held her tighter when she touched him in a way he liked. It was hard to concentrate on what she was doing, though, because he’d filled his hand with her breast.

It was a decadent sensation, his thumb stroking over the peak of her nipple. It was no wonder people did such things to have more of this.

“Boots,” he whispered in her ear. “They have to go before we can take this any further.” He released her, and she felt his absence acutely. All the places on her body that had been hot were now cold.

He sat down on the bed and began unlacing his boots.

Damara blinked at the sudden change. It was like a light switch for him, it seemed.

“Do you need help?” he asked her.

“Uh, no. I got it.” But she didn’t want to have it. She’d imagined when this happened, it would be some great unveiling, that he’d undress her tenderly— Enough of that. Dreaming and reality were two different things. He was the one who knew what he was doing, and if he said to take off her boots, she’d take them off.

“Hey.” He lifted her chin so she’d look at him. “There is no way to take off combat boots that’s sexy.” Hawkins winked at her.

And suddenly all the cold fled and she was hot again. She wondered how he did that, how he could change the barometer of a situation with almost no effort.

Damara kicked her boots off and started on her shirt.

“Ah, no. Don’t take away all my fun.” He pushed her back on the bed and pulled her shirt up just over her rib cage before pressing his mouth to the dip of her belly.

She shivered at the contact—the warmth of his mouth a contrast to the cool temperature of the room. His hands made short work of her bra, and he tugged off her shirt, divesting her of both garments.

He didn’t give her a chance to feel vulnerable or self-conscious.

“You’re so damn beautiful.” Hawkins dipped his head to her breast, taking her nipple in his mouth, and whirled his tongue over the tight bud. Then he kneaded both breasts in his strong hands as his mouth traveled south down toward her belly, down farther still to the waist of her fatigues.

He pulled them down her hips, taking her knickers with them.

And his mouth continued its descent.

The proper girl who’d been raised as a princess and cut her teeth on propriety wanted her to stop him, to tell him that people didn’t do such things. But the newly awakened woman in her wanted more. And it was the woman who was in charge. Damara trembled when he peeled the last of her clothing down her legs, but she wouldn’t tell him to stop. Not now. Want and need had become indiscernible from one another.

“No one has ever touched you here? Not even yourself?”

She bit her lip.

“Tell me, Princess. I want to know. I want to picture your pretty little fingers right here.” He touched his mouth to her womanhood.

His taboo words—for they were indeed taboo as no one had ever spoken to her in such a way—stoked her fire so hot she thought she’d erupt with it.

Once his mouth was on her, his lips, his tongue delving into places she’d never imagined a tongue should go—all rational thought fled. There were no more questions of what she should do, of what a princess would do, of what was proper. Only what she could do to get more of this sensation.

She arched her back and pushed herself toward the source of her pleasure.

He was committed to his task, a devotee of ecstasy. He knew exactly what he was doing, what she needed as he pushed her ever higher toward some unknown peak—and then her senses all narrowed to one small pinpoint until it exploded outward, thrusting her into the stratosphere.

Damara had never felt anything like it.

He pulled away from her, and she watched in a bliss-shrouded haze as he removed his shirt and fatigues. She’d wanted to do that, unwrap him like a gift she was giving herself.

“Nightstand drawer. Open it.”

She didn’t want to look away from him, but she did as he demanded and saw the box of condoms inside. She supposed the hotel concierge had thought of everything. Damara pulled one out and held it up for him.

“Oh, no, Princess. You’re putting it on me.”

The idea of touching him so intimately intimidated her, which was completely stupid given what they were about to do.

“How?” she asked.

He tore open the package and rose above her. Hawkins took her hand in his and drew it between them down to his erection.

“Roll it down the shaft, like this.”

She followed his lead and pushed the condom down the length of him. But he moved her hand back up and back down again, acclimating her to the feel of him.

Trepidation was dominant as her excitement quelled. She knew this was going to be uncomfortable.

He braced himself on his elbows and kissed her softly. “It’ll hurt at first, but the pain will pass.”

She didn’t care if it hurt; she wanted this. Damara locked her legs around his hips. “Just do it.”

“As you wish, Princess.”

She steeled herself for pain, but it was his tenderness that was her undoing. He pushed inside her slowly, giving her time to adjust to his girth. He cupped one cheek, and his thumb stroked her face as he filled her.

When she opened her eyes to look into his, Damara thought that action spoke of something more intimate than the act itself. She knew she’d never forget him, but this had been an act between strangers who had to remain just that. Only this small thing, this tenderness, it bound them together.

Byron pushed past her veil, and her nose prickled the way it did before she was about to cry. Not because of the pain—it was fleeting—but because it had only taken a second to rid herself of what made her the Jewel of Castallegna. In a single instant, she’d rendered herself worthless.

She refused to cry. This was what had to be done and it was good.

Damara shut out the doubts, the fears, everything, and flung herself into the moment. She clung to him with the kind of abandon that could only be felt when an ending loomed above like a storm cloud. This was a memory that would have to last her a lifetime, because, after today, she’d never see Byron Hawkins again.

She was frantic to feel everything. “More.”

He increased his speed and drove himself deeper into her, but it still wasn’t enough. She wanted him closer, tried to memorize the way his body felt working in tempo with hers. The scent of him, the way his lips tasted.

Damara wanted everything.

Even if she fell in love, even if she married, no one could ever be first, and she was determined to make this a good memory.

“If we had more time, I’d do this to you for hours. I’d stop and bring you off with my mouth again, my fingers. I’d taste and touch every inch of you, Damara.”

She shivered and clung tighter, dug her nails into his back as if that could anchor him there and keep the outside world from ever intruding.

A strange sensation fluttered inside her when she clenched herself around him. He stilled, his muscles tense and taut. With a groan, he started moving again, pushing deep.

“Is that right?” she asked shyly. She wanted to make him feel as good as he made her feel.

“It’s more than right.”

Damara did it again, and he buried his face in her neck, clung to her as she clung to him and rocked them both toward another culmination.

This one was different; rather than an explosion it was a fluttering that originated deep in her core and radiated outward. Not like fireworks—more like the concentric circles of a stone dropped in a pond.

Hawkins reached his completion after her, hips jerking and tensing before his whole body stiffened and then he went still. For a moment, she wondered if she’d killed him. He was so still and the look on his face had been so intense she couldn’t tell if it was pleasure or pain.

Then he rolled off her and lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

She felt as though she should say something, but she didn’t know what. So she lay in silence until the blurry aftermath of pleasure faded. Damara was torn between thanking him and asking if they could do it again.

She didn’t know what she expected from him, but it was as if he’d never touched her. Never kissed her.

Never made love to her.

She didn’t care what he said. What they’d done together wasn’t fucking. He’d been so gentle, so reverent. Damara didn’t think all men were that way with every partner. It meant something to him. Not love, they barely knew each other, but there was a connection.

“You can have the shower first.”

So it wasn’t at all like the novels she’d read. They wouldn’t lie together, holding each other. She’d go shower as if it was just another day, another thing that had happened.

Okay. She could do this.

When she got out of the bed, she saw the tiny stain of blood on the sheets. Wars had been fought over something so insignificant. It seemed incredibly stupid. Not that the experience wasn’t magnificent—it was. But a little splash of blood for king and countries?

Damara walked gingerly toward the door and was reminded of her activities with every step. She was incredibly sore, but each twinge of discomfort brought back a memory of a touch, a caress. It made her sigh. She wished she could linger and they could do it again.

But her father had a saying about wishing in one hand and holding goat crap in the other. The wishing hand was always empty.

She stepped under the spray of the hot water, and, just like she’d wanted it to wash away the guilt, she let it wash away any possible regret. This was what she’d wanted, and she’d gotten it. Damara wouldn’t complain now.

She’d focus on the next step of their journey. He’d done everything she’d asked of him and more.

Damara relaxed into the water, letting it pour over her. An array of little bottles were lined up for her to try, and she sniffed each one until she found one that smelled vaguely of home. Jasmine.

When she was done, she bundled herself up in a fluffy towel and wondered what she should put on. She didn’t have any other clothes. The thought of putting her dirty fatigues back on was less than appealing.

She should’ve known Byron would take care of it.

A brand-new T-shirt lay folded on her side of the bed. The sheets had been changed as well, and he lay sprawled on one of the chaise couches at the end of the bed, eyes closed.

She couldn’t tell if he was sleeping, but she knew he hadn’t slept at all in the past twenty-four hours. If he was, she didn’t want to disturb him.

Their food had arrived, too.

Damara shimmied into the T-shirt and panties that were folded discreetly beneath it and attacked her food with gusto.

She didn’t know if it was because of the adrenaline or everything else that had happened to her, but the lamb was the best she’d ever tasted. It melted on her tongue. She didn’t realize how decadent it really was until Byron spoke. His eyes were still closed.

“Woman, if you keep making those sounds, I’m going to have you flat on your back again in about five seconds.”

Damara shivered, delighted at the thought. “With lamb breath and all?”

“Lamb breath, dog breath, I don’t care.” He’d flung an arm over his head; his eyes were still closed.

“You don’t look like you’ll be doing much of anything to me,” she teased.

“I’ve been up for thirty-six hours.”

Of course he hadn’t said anything. As if it was unmanly to sleep or something. “So go to sleep.”

“I’m trying, but you’re having mouthgasms with your lamb,” he said drily.

“I’m sorry.” Her apology was sincere.

“It’s all right—I was only teasing. I never sleep well anyway. Insomnia.”

“After thirty-six hours, I imagine you’d have to pass out sometime.” She thought about the pain she’d seen in his eyes. Damara would bet anything he had nightmares and that was why he didn’t want to sleep. She thought about the way he’d watched over her while she’d slept on the Circe’s Storm. He’d stayed awake to make sure she was safe. She could do the same for him.

“Now that I’m full, I’m tired, too.” She got up from the table and made sure the door was locked, all the shades were closed and the lights were off. “Come to bed with me, Hawkins.”

She made sure to use his last name so it wasn’t too intimate. So he didn’t think she expected or was trying to give anything more than what he wanted.

“I’ll feel safer knowing you’re in bed with me,” she prodded.

“I’m dirty.”

“And I have lamb breath.” She grabbed his hand, and he hauled himself up from the chaise and followed her the short distance to the bed.

He flopped down on the bed, shirtless, his fatigues half-unbuttoned and his feet hanging off the side. A gun had somehow managed to make its way to the nightstand.

She studied him in the dimly lit room. His chiseled body, his scarred hands, the enticing way his fatigues looked like a half-wrapped present. Then back up to his face.

“Are you going to stare or get in bed? Thought you were tired,” he grumbled.

“You really don’t ever sleep, do you?”

“Certainly not when I’m being stared at. I feel like a hare being stalked by a wolf.”

She blushed. Her comportment tutor would probably have apoplexy if she could see her now. Damara wondered if there was even protocol for this. “You’re pretty to look at. What do you want from me?”

“Pretty?” He cracked an eye open. “How’s that?”

“Never mind. Go to sleep. I am.” She slipped under the covers and curled against him and pretended to sleep.

“No, you’re not, but I’ll let you get away with it this time.” He wrapped an arm around her and held her close.

With his arm around her, Damara felt as if she’d been hidden away from the world at large. Nothing could find her and nothing bad could touch her.

* * *

BYRON HAWKINS HAD fallen asleep breathing in the scent of jasmine with a soft woman in his arms.

He awoke with a strangled scream in his throat and a cacophony of suffering in his head.

His team.

His whole team.

Christ, the way they screamed.

And it was his fault. His fault they screamed. His fault they never came home. Barnes with his easy smile and the dog-eared picture of his three-year-old daughter. Foxworth and his dreams for a life after his service.

“There’s more to life than this, hoss.” Foxworth’s Texas twang thudded behind the noise of death.

But there wasn’t. If Hawkins could go back and exchange himself for them, he’d do it. He never wondered what it would be like if he’d never given the order, because if it hadn’t been this, it would have been something else. He knew that.

No matter what Renner told him. All his talk about PTSD, and therapy... He didn’t have PTSD. He was just born bad, and he knew it.

Gentle fingers cupped his cheek. “Are you okay?” she murmured.

He looked down at her, eyes half-lidded and sleepy but concern plain on her face. “Fine. Go back to sleep.”

Somehow it was more horrible because she was awake. She’d become a witness to his shame. He had to get away from her, away from the forgiveness on her face, especially when it wasn’t hers to give.

He untangled himself as quickly and gently as he could and went outside to stand on the giant balcony.

They’d slept for the remainder of the day, and dusk had fallen. The city lights of Barcelona lit up the landscape like thousands of twinkling stars, and he thought of their conversation about starlight and stories to soothe children.

That’s what she’d give him if he let her—a story to soothe everything that ached in him. But he deserved to suffer, deserved his pain.

He scrubbed his hand over his face, sat down and dipped his feet into the Jacuzzi tub that was on the balcony. The hot water gurgled around his ankles and over his toes, giving him another sensation to concentrate on besides the buzzing in his head.

The princess sat down next to him and dipped her feet in, as well. He didn’t want to look at her, talk to her, but his eyes were drawn to her dainty ankles.

They were a gateway drug, because from there, he appraised her slim legs up to where the T-shirt brushed the tops of her thighs. Her nutmeg skin looked warm and smooth, so perfect. He remembered what it was like, running his hands all over her. The soft cries from her full lips.

Fucking and killing—all he was good for.

“Did you have a nightmare?” she asked.

“Don’t want to talk about it.”

He thought she’d pick at the scab, but she didn’t. “I didn’t even know this was out here. I’ve always wanted to try a Jacuzzi tub.”

He arched a brow. “Seriously? You’re a princess. You didn’t have six or seven of these?”

She laughed, the sound light. “No, my brother thought they were immodest and invited sin.”

“They do.” Yes, they most certainly did, he thought, as his eyes raked over her.

“You seem to be doing fine. I’m sitting here with my legs exposed all harlotlike, and yet you’re controlling yourself,” she teased.

“It wouldn’t take much to push me over the edge.” He kept his tone light.

“Oh, really? What do you define as ‘much’?” She slid one leg deeper into the water, watching him as she did so.

Now she taunted him, dared him.

He liked it.

“You’re just about there.” He gave her a half grin.

She slid all the way into the water, heedless of her T-shirt and panties, and moved to stand between his legs. Damara braced her hands on his thighs and leaned in close to his mouth. “Am I there yet?”

He laughed, not because he thought she was funny but because she delighted him.

In that moment, with his hands on her hips and her mouth only a breath away from his, she wasn’t a princess and he wasn’t a fuckup extraordinaire. They were just Byron and Damara.

“Do you wanna be?”

“Most definitely.”

“Aren’t you sore?”

“Sure, but I can be sore later, too. You and I won’t get later.” She brushed her lips against his carefully. “I don’t get to explore any of the new places I’ve been, the things I’ve seen. But I can explore you.”

It was official. She was killing him.

And it was a glorious death. He’d drown in her, be lost in her, anything she wanted from him so long as she kept touching him. He forgot everything when he wrapped himself in her.

Damara ran her hands up his thighs and hooked her thumbs around the belt loops in his fatigues.

“You don’t need these.”

He obliged her and let her peel them off him. Then he sank down into the Jacuzzi tub and pulled her into his lap so she was astride him.

The wet T-shirt was even sexier than if she was naked. Her dark skin was a contrast beneath the white of the shirt and her nipples were hard dusky peaks that begged for his attention.

Byron loved the way she felt against him in the water, soft, wet and slick. She braced her palms on his shoulders and bit her lip as she rolled her hips experimentally against him.

The moonlight was a slash of light that knifed through the darkness and fell like a fey ribbon on her hair. Just like it would on the open dark sea. He wanted to bury himself in it, and her. It would be so easy to push her panties aside and drive home deep into her heat.

Byron liked teasing them both a bit, too, dragging it out, making the sensation last. It had been a while since he’d been with a woman, and he’d never been with a woman like Damara Petrakis.

He let her grind on him, work her hips and cleft against him and crank herself higher. Byron liked the way her lips parted and her intake of breath, the way the soft material of the tee clung to her. He liked everything about this.

“Tell me what you like. Tell me how to make this good for you,” she whispered against his ear.

He thought of every deviant thing he’d imagined doing to her, every fantasy he’d had in the past twenty-four hours, and none of them compared with what was happening to him right now.

“It’s already good for me. Like you said, you don’t get to tour the cities we’ve been to, but you can tour me.”

Her hands slid over his shoulders, his biceps, her fingers pausing to explore the muscle there. Testing his bulk, his strength. Damara scored her nails lightly down his chest, and his eyes fluttered closed at the sensation. So she did it again.

Down his pecs, his abdominals and down lower still until she wrapped her hand around him.

“What about this? Do you like it?” She moved her hand slowly.

He curled his fingers around hers and applied more pressure, just a bit more speed. “Like this.”

“I like how powerful your body is. How strong.”

Her words were as intoxicating as her touch.

His hips moved up to meet her caress and when he would have told her to stop, to slow down, she kissed him.

“It makes me feel powerful to do this to you,” she said against his mouth before kissing him again.

Her kisses were sweet and had been almost chaste at first, but she learned quickly—tasting him, darting her tongue against the edge of his lip, making the same motions with her tongue against his in time to the strokes of her hand.

She was almost too good to be true.

Any minute he’d wake up and find it had all been a dream and he’d be spilling into his hand thinking about a woman who wasn’t real.

Wave after wave of pleasure rolled over him in great swells until he was swept out to a sea of bliss.

She was still kissing him even though her hand had stilled and he found he didn’t want to stop. When he did, he’d have to fall back to earth, be slammed back into a reality where he knew being with her was wrong.

Damara felt so good in his arms—so right. The thought kept playing over in his head, as if that would make it all okay.

It didn’t.

He finally broke the kiss. “There’s a car coming for us in a few hours. We should be ready.”

“Okay.” She seemed so fragile now, so breakable.

Her lips were swollen and raw from his kisses and it made him want to kiss her more. Byron had to find the line again and remember that he couldn’t cross it.

Yes, in just a few hours, he’d hand her over to another operative and she’d go stateside. He’d go back to his house and manufactured life in Marsala. Even though he’d never see her again, he’d think about tonight and the princess for a long time.

“What should I put on?”

She turned away from him and trudged up out of the Jacuzzi tub.

“There are clothes in the closet.”

Her shoulders were squared, back straight, and she walked dripping, but regal, back inside their room.

He looked up at the sky and then to Damara’s profile as she dressed. Byron couldn’t believe that she didn’t know how beautiful she was. Maybe he should’ve told her. He’d already complicated things enough as it was.

Byron grabbed his fatigues and walked naked into the bathroom, where he showered quickly, rinsing the chlorine from the Jacuzzi tub from his skin and hair. He noticed an open bottle on the ledge, and he brought it close so he could smell it.

Jasmine, just like Damara. He inhaled the scent and closed his eyes, committing the scent along with the memory of her to stone in his mind.

After he’d dressed in the slacks and shirt he’d had the concierge purchase along with Damara’s clothes, he saw she’d curled up on the chaise.

After all her talk of being powerful and strong, and after how fierce she’d been fleeing both Tunis and the pirates, she seemed so vulnerable now and very much in need of protection.

In need of him.

It wouldn’t hurt to comfort her now, to hold her for a few more hours. He’d trespassed already by being with her. He owed it to Damara to keep her safe, even from himself.

He sat next to her and put his arm around her slim shoulders.

She melted into him as if they were two pieces of the same whole.

Byron couldn’t let himself make that comparison—not now, not ever. He pushed it out of his head.

“Everything is going to be fine, Damara.”

“Do you swear?”

It seemed like such a little-girl thing for her to ask him. So full of trust and promise, brimming with hope. Byron knew it would be kinder to be honest, but he found he couldn’t. He’d have promised her the moon would taste like peaches if that was what would make her happy.

“I swear.”

She sighed and leaned her head against his chest, wrinkling his shirt.

Byron didn’t care about wrinkles. He just wanted her to feel safe.

“I wish you were going with me.”

“I have to stay here. I’ll make sure you get on the plane safely. Then another operative will get you to Renner.”

“I don’t know the other operative,” she said, her voice small.

“You don’t know me, either.”

“I know enough.”

The part of him that was infected with guilt wanted to confess to her why she was wrong. It wanted to tell her every bad thing he’d ever done, and it wanted her to hate him for it.

“Don’t trust anyone but yourself, Princess.”

CHAPTER FIVE

DAMARA MANAGED TO KEEP herself poised and collected until she stood with Byron on the tarmac in front of the steps up to the plane that would take her so many miles away. She knew he had his reasons for maintaining his distance.

Damara was embarrassed to admit that she wanted him to try to find some way to stay in touch, to write letters, emails, something to acknowledge this thing that had happened between them. If she were being wholly honest, she’d say that she wanted him to decide to stay with her because he needed her, he wanted her.

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