Page 39 of Hidden Justice
Momma. She doesn’t mess around.
“Justice, we have some time. Walid will surely mourn his brother and lick his wounds. You’ve done well. Our informant tells me their operation has already ground to a halt in Za’atari.”
That’s something—a bit of relief—since the pleasure I’d thought I’d feel after killing the man who’d killed Hope hasn’t materialized. And, in fact, the regret of destroying Salma’s and Sandesh’s good work and putting Salma’s family in danger overrides most everything right now.
“Are Salma and Amal okay?”
“Yes. Victor, has taken care of them. He mobilized his volunteers at a speed that I envy. They’ve replaced her truck, and seen them and Salma’s family to safety.”
Amazingly, Victor managed to locate and organize two former soldiers fighting with the Kurds. Even now, they’re protecting Salma and the women she’d rescued in a secure location while they wait for the volunteers from the States to arrive in Jordan. Sandesh managed to get his buddy to help while keeping my secrets—which is why I’m not giving Momma anything on him. Plus, I owe him my life.
“How long until you arrange to get me out of here?”
“A few days. I’m working on covering up your abrupt departure.”
“Am I a suspect?”
“No. You did good going to Za’atari. There is no one to connect Justice Parish with what happened at the hotel.”
The running shower stops. “Okay. Thanks for all your help. Got to go. Love you.”
“Love you, daughter.”
Lying back on the bed, I tuck the phone under my pillow and listen. I can hear Sandesh moving in the bathroom, hear him grab a towel and dry off. There’d been only one towel, so he’s using the one I used.
Strange, but I can’t help smiling at the idea of him wiping himself down with a towel that has been against my body. I imagine him all sexy, wet, and naked, moving the towel across his chest, biceps, and abs. Lower.
I close my eyes and force myself to stop the mental ogling. The guilt over involving Sandesh in all of this, risking so much, so many, makes me want to deprive myself of every little pleasure. Even the ones only in my head.
Facing the surprisingly elaborate, wooden bathroom door, I curl up into a fetal position and remind myself Aamir is dead.Idid that.
The door opens. Sandesh walks into the room, bringing the smell of hotel soap and warm steam. He’s wearing only boxers and has the abs and pecs of a man who needs no help getting laid. Damn.
Seeing me checking him out, a grin spreads across his handsome face. “‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely.’”
Snort. He left out the “more temperate” part of that line.
“So, in addition to being smoking hot in boxers and providing expert cover fire, you also recite Shakespeare. Guess that’s not something you learned in the military.”
He strolls to the bed. His eyes jump along my body, the curve of my hip and up. He shakes his head, stops before sitting on the bed. “As a kid, my mom read poetry and Shakespeare to me.”
“Was she okay when you called?”
“She’s doing the same. Victor goes over nearly every night and reads Shakespeare to her
while she eats dinner. He says sometimes she likes it.”
“Victor of the many contacts sounds like a good guy.”
“He is. Most of the time. He’s a bit of a flirt.” That last seems almost like a warning. His eyes wander again down my body, then back up to my face. “He would like you.”
“What about you? Doyoustill like me?”
The bed dips with his weight as he finally sits, close enough I can feel the moisture and heat on his skin, see the sky-blue of his eyes grow serious, detect a subtle tightening along his sharp, kissable jaw. This can’t be good.
“You’re a vigilante and you’ve started a war that risked my life, my charity, and the lives of many good and hardworking people.”
Okay. We’re going there.