She gritted her teeth, wanting to say something capable of extricating her from this mire of humiliation, but he was already in the speedboat, and Lamar was coming up.
“Ms. Abdal,” the other man said, doffing his cap, his smirk nowhere near as endearing as she wished Christian’s wasn’t.
Great, now Christian was in the boat, where he would have no problem looking up her skirt. Her stomach did warm acrobatic tumbles, sending liquid tickles like warm summer’s honey, slipping down through the slit of her folds.
Holding the speedboat steady against the ladder, he beckoned to her. “Get a move on, Princess. I haven’t got all day.”
Maybe she could get NATO to just blow her brother’s yacht up with the lot of them still on board. No, that was wrong. The yacht’s staff—chef, sommelier, housekeeper, captain, etc.—were just honest, hard-working people, trying to make a living. They likely hadn’t a clue the monster they were working for.
Damn it. Annoying or not, upskirt Peeping Tom or not, Christian was her only way off this boat.
Mindful of her heels, she climbed onto the top rung of the ladder and with every descending step, did her best not to think about the full-on panty shot she was treating him to under her dress. She was glad she’d worn one of the two pairs of lace panties she’d been able to acquire. At least he wouldn’t see her in those dreadful, child-like briefs, Fariq liked to purchase.
Maybe Christian was being a gentleman. Maybe he wasn’t looking.
A whisper of cool sea air caressed up the backs of her thighs, the skirt of her dress billowing gently as she finally neared the bottom. Taking her arm, Christian held her steady as she dismounted from the ladder into the bottom of the boat.
“Good girl,” he said, letting go of her hand. “Nice panties, too. Personally, I’d prefer you in a thong… or nothing at all. Still, it’s hard to blame Lamar for taking advantage of such a lovely view.”
Her brother had no gentlemen in his employ.
She rounded on him, wobbling on her heels as the boat rocked with the waves rolling beneath them. She quickly caught her balance. So did he, for that matter. He grabbed her elbow, steadying her long enough for her to get her feet back under her, then she yanked free again. He let her go with nothing more than a lift of his eyebrow.
“Ladies,” she told him in her best imitation of her brother’s withering tone, “do not wear things like that. They especially don’t go about in nothing at all!”
She couldn’t count the number of times she’d have killed for a pair of pants or better yet jeans, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. She swore when she got free of here, the first things she was going to buy were sexy lingerie and a pair of skin-tight jeans. She wasn’t about to tell him that, either.
“I know a few who’d happily argue that point with you,” he scoffed. “But fine if that’s the hill you want to die on. Put on shorts.”
She’d have killed for a pair of those, too.
“Never!” she hissed.
“Come on,” He fed her a knowing smile. “I’ve seen you through the rails on the uppermost deck. You’re not wearing a burqa or even a dress when you’re swimming in the pool. Are you seriously going to tell me that hot pink number I’ve glimpsed through the rails is all proper and respectable?”
“Of course, it is,” she snapped back. Her brother had bought it for her. He’d bought all her clothes. She wouldn’t have it if it hadn’t passed his quality inspection. “It’s not something I wear in the presence of others. You’re not supposed to be looking at me! Men should never look at ladies outside their family!”
So, why did the idea of Christian watching her while she wore nothing more than a swimsuit—better yet, her pink bikini—flood her with such intense, tingling heat? Her face grew hotter still.
“If that was true,” he snorted, “we’d be one hell of an inbred society.” While he didn’t exactly roll his eyes, he did let the argument drop.
Letting go of the ladder, Christian bent down and before she could react, reached between her legs. The caress of his knuckles against her knee sent fizzles of excitement, light and airy, racing like carbonated water through her veins. She wanted him to run his hand up the inside of her thigh until he could cup her mons and tear away the delicate lace underwear. She yelped as he caught the back of her skirt and pulled it through her thighs to tuck it into the belt around her waist.
“There.” In just a few startled seconds, he’d turned the skirt of her sundress into an impromptu pair of shorts. “Now, you don’t have to worry about anyone seeing something they shouldn’t… unless you want them to.”
That fizzle of excitement turned into an electrified jolt. Shock, fear, arousal—all leapt under her skin, attacking every part of her from her achingly needy nipples to her tight-curling toes.
Yanking her skirt back out of her belt, she slapped the fabric until it was back down in its proper place around her legs again. Heat scalded her face. Her breath kept catching, her too-tight throat choking her. She scoured the yacht railing above for any sign of her brother, terrified he might have seen.
Christian was smirking when her gaze returned to his.
“Ibn haram!” she hissed at him.
Snapping around, she tried to storm away, but his hand connected with her bottom in a slap sharp enough to make her whole-body jump. She spun back around, one hand dashing back in belated defense of her tingling backside.
“Watch your mouth, Princess,” Christian said with a smirk. “Little girls shouldn’t swear.”
She threw herself in the passenger seat, knees locked tightly together, hands clasped in her lap, so he wouldn’t see how badly she was shaking. Her heart battered at her ribs, refusing to calm. And that throb—that hot, needy, inappropriate pulse of desire—kept pounding between her legs, impossible to ignore.
Laughing under his breath, Christian pushed the speedboat away from the yacht, started the engine, and away they went.
The cool, salty sea air did little to cool the mortification from her cheeks as her brother’s floating fortress grew smaller in the distance while the mainland of Morocco, and her safety, loomed ahead.
The man was nothing but the world’s biggest, smirking asshole, she told herself. He meant nothing to her. He was as much a criminal as her brother. He was beneath her contempt.
So, why was every fast-firing nerve in her body trying so hard to convince her she could still feel the slow caress of his hand sliding between her legs? Worse still, why was that ache in her heavy breasts begging to feel his touch next?
Chapter 3
Christian shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the illicit images he had of Aliya and his nose of her aroma, but it was no good. The longer he trailed in her shadow, weaving through the bazaar crowds, the more he became convinced the scent he kept catching was the unmistakable perfume of a woman’s arousal—sweet and spicy.
What the hell was he doing here? Apparently, the duties of being Fariq’s second-in-command were as varied as the day and the man’s mood. He was used to doing everything—overseeing the books, keeping inventory, and making sure the ship was fully stocked with anything that might be needed. He bought guns, negotiated deals with warlords, drug cartels, and the secret agents of one ruling country, only to betray them at Fariq’s whim to another. He hired, fired, and buried the mercenaries they lost when they had a run-in with either their enemies or the Wild Mustang Security Firm. In other words, he managed the minutia. And now he was walking through a third-world bazaar with the pampered baby sister of the world’s most-wanted criminal, wishing she was his woman, and they were on vacation, so he could take her back to their hotel room, strip her naked, and have at her until she was screaming his name in need and surrender.