Ten hours after Wyatt Savage
received Sophie Baylor’s call, he stepped off a direct
flight from
Atlanta Hartsfield to Comalapa International Airport south
of San Salvador,
El Salvador. It probably should have been, but it turned
out that ten
hours wasn’t nearly enough time to prepare himself to face
a past
he’d been trying to outrun for twelve years.
Twelve years and one phone
call from Sophie had managed to reach out, grab him by the
throat and
knock him on his ass.
Twelve years … yet
one look at Sophie - who was waiting at the arrival gate
fifteen yards
away – damn near sent him to his knees. Sophie Baylor Weber
was the
reason he’d let more than one good women walk away.
Jesus. He was thirty-seven
fucking years old and his heart was slamming so hard it
felt like a
bass drum pounding against his ribs.
He’d experienced this gut
knotting, heart-clenching, visceral reaction the first time
he’d met
her. What he felt when he saw her now was just as pure,
just as primal
and just as it had been then, one hundred percent
involuntary. If it
was only about desire, he could handle it. But it was more.
It was hunger.
It was craving. It was an overwhelming need to protect and
possess her.
To be possessed by her.
And damn it, it was still love.
He was so screwed.
She hadn’t spotted him yet
and as he advanced by inches in the slow moving line of
disembarking
passengers, he took advantage and looked his fill. Fact
was, struck
by the notion that this sudden, close proximity had reduced
twelve years
to a heartbeat, he couldn’t look away.
She still had that same endearing
little head tilt, the same pinch between her arched brows
when she concentrated,
the same gentle curve of her slender neck that had always
made him long
to press his lips there … right there, where he knew a tiny
strawberry
birthmark stained her nape just below her hairline.
Yeah. Okay. He needed to rein
himself in because damn, he was way out of line. But she
looked so amazing.
Like she always had. Hell, she could wear a sweat suit and
look sexy.
In the plain cream-colored tank top, slim brown Capri pants
and leather
sandals she wore today, she managed to look like she’d just
stepped
out of a fashion magazine. Style. Sophie had always had it
in spades.
Nothing had changed on that front over the years.
Years that had matured her
yes, but not aged her. Years that had been damn kind.
Benevolent even.
She was stunning.
She still wore her dark brown
hair long and straight and chic. Even though her expressive
brown eyes
were wide with worry and her slim curvy body stood tall and
rigid with
tension, her bearing told him what he needed to know about
her state
of mind. She was scared. Her fear had cracked but not
broken her spirit.
She looked a little lost yet brave and strong and even more
beautiful
than Wyatt remembered.
Desire hit him like a comet.
Hot and fast. God, he still wanted her.
But if desire was the comet,
guilt was its tail. He had to pull it together. She was
married. Not
just married but married to a man who had once been his
partner and
his best friend. If that wasn’t enough to feel guilty
about, the gravity
of her problem was. He’d come to her because she had
trouble, big
trouble, and that had to be his priority.
A commotion to his right drew
his attention away from her. Half a dozen uniformed guards
carrying
AK-47’s – not your garden variety airport security rent-a-
cops
– marched toward their line then formed a makeshift barrier
to
hold them all in place.
What the hell?
He glanced around then saw
the reason for the security detail. A private jet with the
seal of The
United Kingdom on the fuselage had landed just behind his
commercial
jet. A UK embassy big wig, most likely. When he saw four
watchful men
flank a very aristocratic looking gentleman disembark then
walk across
the tarmac toward the terminal, that pretty much soaked it.
The men
were clearly personal security. They all had the look of
Secret Intelligence
Service. The SIS was the British equivalent of U.S. Secret
Service which
meant that nothing and no one was leaving this section of
the terminal
until their guy was clear of any possible threat and tucked
safely inside
an armored car.
Must have been a snafu, he
decided or there would have been a car waiting on the
tarmac. That kind
of screw up made him uneasy; it reeked of either
incompetence or a set-
up. Since SIS didn’t screw up, that left door number two.
And that
could mean problems.
He swept the terminal, looking
for signs of trouble. Saw nothing – which he knew from
experience
meant exactly jack shit. He glanced past the guards to
Sophie, felt
another jolt of awareness slam inside his chest when he
realized she
was staring at him. The look in her eyes told him that
she’d been
watching him for several moments. The catch in his breath
told him he
had to get his act together.
She lifted a hand, offered
a tentative smile. He forced a return smile then reading
the frustration
and desperation on her face at the delay, mouthed, "hold
on."
She nodded, understanding he
was stuck for a little while longer.
Finally the exterior door to
the tarmac opened and the Brit, smelling of expensive
cologne, and his
SIS guards, smelling of gun oil and the sharp edge of
vigilance, filed
into the terminal and walked swiftly past them. The guards
with the
AK’s relaxed the perimeter. Not the SIS. They stuck to the
diplomat
like armor on a tank – as they damn well should until they
could get
him safely out of the terminal and into an armored
transport of some
type.
Wyatt didn’t like this. Couldn’t
wait to get the hell out of here because just being in the
same building
with the Brit held way too much promise of things going
FUBAR. El Salvador
was like the wild west on steroids with no Marshall Dillon
in sight.
Violence, drugs, abductions were standard fare – which,
sadly, was
why Wyatt was here. Didn’t matter that he was weary of the
violence
and pushing his capacity to bear witness to yet one more
horrific instance
of man’s inhumanity to man. It was what he did. He fought
the bad
guys. And because it was what he did, his sixth sense told
him he needed
to get Sophie out of here ASAP.
Finally, their line started
moving. On a deep breath, he broke out of the pack and
headed for her.
She reached out a hand as he approached and then folded her
arms around
his neck. Digging deep for restraint, he wrapped a single
arm around
her, determined to maintain a professional distance. But
when she turned
her face into his throat and whispered, "Thank you," he
thought,
fuck it.
He dropped his go bag on the
floor and embraced her. She needed a shoulder; hell, he’d
been one
for her before.
Old habits. Old feelings. Old
needs. Seemed every damn one of them was stronger than his
resolve.
"I wasn’t sure you’d
come."
He breathed deep of the fragrance
of her hair – fresh, female, and after all these years,
still
familiar.
Not come? She’d had
little reason to worry. Sure, he’d considered saying no.
For about
five seconds, sanity had ruled and he’d told himself to
stay the hell
put. It was kind of like hoping for a bomb not to go
boom.
He reluctantly released her.
They had to make tracks. Too much time had passed already.
The first
forty-eight hours in an abduction situation were the most
critical;
they’d already burned eighteen hours since the child was
abducted
yesterday afternoon.
"Let’s get out of here."
"This way." She took his
hand, following the British entourage as they headed for
the main exit.
The terminal was small, less
than twenty gates total which meant they should be outside
and heading
for short term parking in no time. And they would have been
if a barrage
of AK-47 fire hadn’t cracked through the terminal just then
and sent
him diving for the floor, jerking Sophie down with him.