I Am Justice Read online

  Walid stood without even knowing he’d stood. He waited, still and dumbstruck.

  Aamir rushed forward, the way a child rushes toward their favorite toy. He embraced Walid with big, welcoming arms. Warm. Sincere. With the subtle scent of sandalwood.

  Oh, he’d forgotten. He’d forgotten the smell of him, the look of him, the feel of him. Perfect Aamir.

  Walid’s heart, an organ he had not realized had been plodding along with a listing beat, fitted together, healed, and found its true pace. Ah. His brother’s arms.

  For a moment, he regretted his choices, hated with a bitterness that coated his tongue that they could not be together at all times. And he hated the assassin. The reason he would have only two weeks with his brother, and not their usual month. Just a precaution, but an annoying one.

  Aamir stepped back, brought two bejeweled hands to his brother’s biceps, and clapped them twice against his arms. “Look at you, Walid! A man of excellent taste who has taken the world for his own.”

  Walid smiled despite the bitter thorn that had lodged in his throat. He felt like such a man, full of excellent taste, only when Aamir used those words and smiled at him. He felt love only when his brother bestowed love on him.

  Walid swallowed his emotions. “It is good to see you, Aamir. Now we are as we should be.”

  Aamir’s dazzling smile, like pearls pulled right from the soft lining of an oyster, widened. “We are better. See here, I have brought you a guest.”

  He pointed back at someone who’d entered. Walid had not noticed the woman or Aamir’s security guards standing behind her.

  What was a woman doing here? He frowned. He’d thought to have time with his brother, time to catch up. Who was this creature? She was covered from head to toe in the traditional veil and abaya.

  Walid instantly disliked her. “Who is this? Why is she here?”

  Aamir tsked. “Is this any way to treat our business associate?”

  Walid cleared his throat. Business associate? A woman? Here?

  Annoyance flashed in his chest. He straightened. Aamir always kept him on his toes. He acknowledged the woman with a tilt of his chin but did not reach out to shake her hand. She was not western. Would not accept such a greeting. And, honestly, he was grateful. He had no desire to touch her even for a moment.

  “Walid, this is Fidda.”

  Walid doubted her name was Fidda, but she obviously did not wish to share her real name. “Welcome, Fidda.”

  Though Walid had put the exact amount of disrespect and disbelief on her name as he felt, the woman nodded back as if honored.

  “Fidda is from Syria, the wife of an ISIS commander. She will serve as our go-between.”

  Go-between. Why was there even a need for this meeting? This was a connection he had no desire or need to be involved with. A dirty woman with a dirtier mind. “From Syria? So you sell your own people? How typically female.”

  Aamir laughed. “True, dear Brother, but she is selling them to us.”

  The woman, Fidda, shook her head. “Not all are Syrian. And those who are, are infidels. At least this way their lives serve a higher cause. And these women will go to North America and Europe. Places where their sins will be as meaningless as a speck of mud in dirty bathwater. I am doing them a favor.”

  Walid didn’t really care what her reasons were. He’d seen women like this his whole life. Piranha. “Why is she here?”

  “She is here to discuss the transportation of a truckload of product across the border. It is good for both of us to know all aspects of the operation. Even if you will not be involved at this end.”

  The last was meant to be an admonishment. Walid shook his head. He knew his brother better than that. The transport of the girls had always been the plan. Meeting Fidda, bringing her here to their hotel, had not.

  Did he not see that this woman was trying to gain something? Did his brother not see how her eyes swept the room, assessed what they had, assessed them and their capabilities? To allow a befouled creature such as this into the sanctity of their suite made Walid’s stomach turn. “Again, Brother, why is she really here?”

  Aamir waved his hand as if he were a magician’s assistant revealing the obvious. “She has brought us a sample product. See, they are not all dark haired. And she speaks English.”

  Walid took a step back, noticing the girl half-hiding by the woman’s side. She had blond hair and almost comically wide, blue eyes. Aamir was out of his mind.

  “What is this?”

  Aamir smiled, wicked and clever. “This, dear Brother, is my wife.”

  Chapter 16

  Giving a big “fuck you” to the fact that she’d had to hide in an abaya all day, Justice sat at the hotel bar in a short silk dress. Good thing Jordan was a lot less strict than other parts of the Middle East.

  She tapped her fingers against the lip of her espresso cup as she imagined Walid dying. She felt her hand slicing the blade up and under his ribs. The sharp point puncturing his heart as that boom-boom beat slowed.

  She pictured his large body—he had to be six feet tall—jerk back, fall to his knees. Pictured his hands reaching out a second too late.

  Take that. You fuck. She was so fucking mad. He had looked so damn ordinary. He was in a fucking suit. Fuckedy fuck. How dare he prosper? It wasn’t his hands that had denied the breath to Hope, even as Justice had screamed and begged him to let her breathe.

  No. That had been his brother, Aamir. But Walid was the other half of the organization. He was just as guilty.

  And the people working at that hotel had showed him deference. Did they know? Did they care? She cared. She fucking cared. It mattered to her. She had to do this. She could not screw up. Fuck. She needed a distraction. A way out of her head for two fucking minutes.

  “Justice, are you going to drink that?”

  Huh? Her eyes refocused on the dim bar’s polished dark wood. She looked at her espresso. Her taps had caused the dark liquid to spill onto the white ceramic saucer. She put a finger on the edge of the small plate and pushed it toward Sandesh. “You’re welcome to it. It’s a little cool now.”

  He took the cup and the seat beside her. “Are you okay? You looked a little intense.”

  Gawd, she would happen to be traveling with a man who had been instructed how to pay attention—and not just regular attention, military-detail attention. She could feel the laser of his observation as if it were a shiny, red light pointed between her eyes. “I’m fine.”

  He snorted. God, he was hot when he was skeptical. She doubted he could get more skeptical. Hmmm, maybe he needed a distraction too.

  Oh, she was not a good person.

  She really shouldn’t. Then again…

  He was on break now, right? So it wouldn’t distract him from his mission. And it wouldn’t be taking time from her mission.

  Oh, she really needed a few hours of not thinking. He probably did too. She pumped her eyebrows at him, swung her chair toward him. “Let’s dance.”

  Chapter 17

  Standing in the ornate bar, only half-full of patrons, with music playing softly, Sandesh felt Justice’s sultry invitation to dance run down his body like a hot finger. He couldn’t control the hungry leer that traveled the silky, blue dress that spanned her body, her hips, and the satisfying curve of a great ass like a warm hand.

  Damn, he wanted to rest his own hand against that fine ass, pull her to him. The short, midnight-blue dress showed off sun-drenched legs. Her nipples pressed against the deep-blue hue and stood at attention under the drape of fabric that swooped and rested against her breasts.

  And, ah, her lips.

  So full.

  So damn sure.

  A grin that announced the game was won and dinner was ready all in one lazy, long predatory stretch. Part of his body throbbed in response. The rest of him was pretty damn ann
oyed.

  Wasn’t she the one who had suggested they keep it PG? Was she playing games?

  Justice’s eyes, soaked in velvet onyx and framed by midnight lashes, narrowed. “Okay, I give. You eat me up with your stare and then you hesitate. What is it with you? Do you have something against strong women?”

  Sandesh snorted. “For someone so direct, you are seriously clueless.”

  “I’m clueless? Buddy, you have no idea of the opportunity for friction and fun you are passing up right now.”

  He had to laugh. Had to. Not just because she was quick and funny, but because she was all of that—not afraid to speak her mind, heat and energy, and the promise of friction and fun.

  His fingers left the edge of the cold espresso and sought out her hand. He needed to feel all of that energy and fire pressed up against him. “Okay. Let’s dance.”

  She didn’t resist. Another surprise. She’d taken his hesitation personally. He’d thought she’d make him pay for that. But she didn’t. She simply bequeathed him with a that’s-more-like-it smile. Seriously, this woman was scorching hot.

  “At this Moment” by Billy Vera and the Beaters played through the speakers. Not what he would’ve expected here.

  He pulled her to him as they hit the empty dance floor. She curved into him, drawing a sound from his throat that was as involuntary as breathing. She purred into his ear.

  “That’s one.”

  His hand slid along the silk fabric of her dress, down her back to her smooth, round, and hot-as-hell ass. And there he went. Zero to sixty. He cleared his throat. “One?”

  She ran a tongue over his earlobe and inside his ear. That warm, wet stroke sent tremors zinging low into his body. Her sultry voice meshed with that teasing tongue and vibrated through him. “I’m counting how many different ways I can get you to moan.”

  He growled, a raw, desperate sound that even to his own muffled ears sounded like raging intent.

  She laughed. “Two.”

  Okay. Definitely time to divert the conversation. Complex math, anyone? Or a subject destined to slow down any hot moment. “Have you spoken to your mother about our progress here?”

  She laughed, as if she could see him wrestling control from the moment. She moved her mouth close enough that he could feel her breath on his neck. “No. But I’d like to meet your mother. You’ve met mine. It’s only fair. What’s she like?”

  “You’d like her. At least who she used to be.”

  “Used to be?”

  “She’s been sick for a few years. Early-onset Alzheimer’s. She’s at a care center. I have friends and family scheduled to sit and read with her every night I’m away.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” She looked past him for a moment, then returned her gaze to his. “So what you’re telling me is that while you’re away on your humanitarian mission, you’ve organized it so your mother will always be watched over by a close friend or family member. You do realize I already want to sleep with you. You don’t have to sweeten the pot.”

  He laughed. Only this woman would think talking about his mom—meant to cool things off—was sexy.

  “Sandesh, I’m serious.” She began to roll her hips. His eyes rolled back in his head.

  That. Felt. So. Fucking. Good. Nothing like a violent hard-on to give a woman the upper hand. Her hand. His hard-on. Settle. Settle.

  Fuck it.

  His lips came down on hers. There was an instant and overwhelming zing of electricity. Mindless of where he was, he tasted her, tickled, and teased her mouth open. Her wet response, the moan against his lips as his tongue played back, caused fire to erupt down his body.

  Dubdubdub, dubdubdub, pulsated through him. He couldn’t tell what throbbed faster—his cock or his heart. He deepened the kiss. She opened wider, accelerated the roll of her hips.

  Time to go. Time to get her off the dance floor and into his bed. Or her bed. Which room was closer?

  The phone in his pocket buzzed. Justice stiffened in his arms. She pulled her sweet mouth away. “You should answer it.”

  He tightened his grip on her. He ran his nose down her face, inhaled her lavender-warmed-by-the-sun scent.

  “Ignore it.” Please. God. Ignore it.

  “Your mission.” Justice shook her head. “I can’t do that.”

  Oh. Shit. Not happening. He looked into her eyes, her endless depths, midnight-and-mystery eyes. She was serious.

  She stepped back.

  Fuck.

  He answered the phone. It was Salma. The tremor in her voice doused the fire in his body. A tsunami would’ve had less impact.

  “Sandesh, please, I need your help.”

  Chapter 18

  Salma pulled Sandesh from the trailer that served as the training facility for the refugee women. He entered the connected, smaller tent filled with a gurney and medical equipment. This was where Salma, a doctor, had originally started helping refugee women.

  She’d created Salma’s Gems after finding medical intervention wasn’t enough. That was shortly before he’d reached out to her.

  Salma pushed some medical equipment out of her way and sat on a steel stool. “We have a problem. Word is spreading that we have a place here for abused women rescued from ISIS. Your funding has made it possible for us to take in many more women. I have already negotiated a larger place, one left by departing aid workers. There, the women can sleep and work, receive therapy and care.”

  “That’s a problem? It sounds good.” Not such a big deal to drag him back out here, refusing to even tell him why. “Except I don’t want you being overwhelmed with requests. We’re not set up for volunteers yet, and I’m worried the expansion might bring about threats.”

  He’d already seen the attitude of a few people, mostly men, toward the former sex slaves, and he didn’t know how it would go when more women were brought in. “Do you think you can hold off for a few weeks? Until I get my volunteers here?”

  Salma shook her head. “This is out of our hands now. This is blessed by God. Not a coincidence.”

  The woman was getting to a point, he was sure of it. “What do you mean?”

  Salma grabbed her right hand with her left and squeezed. Nervous? “I have word from some friends in Syria. A large group of women, Syrian and Yazidi, were being sold to an international criminal organization.”

  “Were being sold?”

  “Kurdish and resistance fighters intercepted the bus. Even now, they are hiding from their pursuers. They need a safe place to send these women. More importantly, someone with pull, with backing to bring them here.”

  Sandesh nodded. The pull and backing was the sudden and generous donation of Mukta Parish. It didn’t matter where you went—Wall Street or a tent in Zaatari—money moved mountains. “When?”

  “They are doing evasive maneuvers and plan to meet us later tonight at an abandoned village. In addition to your support, I was hoping you could help me to pick up the women. Would you be willing to drive a truck into Syria?”

  He had no idea what Mukta or Justice would think about him diverting their humanitarian cause. But he’d started this charity and he wasn’t going to start asking for approval now.

  “Yeah. Let’s get organized. But can we keep this between us? I don’t know how my backers would feel about the risk.”

  Chapter 19

  Even a few hours after sunrise, the day was sweltering hot. In Jordan. Go figure. Didn’t help that Justice had gotten no sleep. Her hair was plastered to her skull in thick strands of sweaty goo. Her clothes looked like she’d been living in them for two years. Her face was smeared with dirt.

  Good thing Sandesh had gotten that call. Justice doubted that what had been going to happen between them would’ve left her much time to get into position here.

  Until the produce had arrived at dawn, she’d been hiding in the alley, under th
e black bumper on the squat loading dock. Now she hid among the produce crates stacked outside. She had to pee. Her bladder felt like it weighed ten pounds.

  Might’ve been all that water she drank.

  The laundry-service truck backed up to the loading dock with a slow bEEp, bEEp tune that sounded somewhat off to her American ears.

  The stench of oily exhaust mixed with the nearby kitchen odors of cumin and bread saturated the loading dock. Justice moved farther back among the crates. Hopefully, no one from the kitchen would choose this moment to get the produce.

  Her hands fingered the small electronic device that would cut off the stream from the security cameras. She only needed a minute. Not enough time to really send up a security flag.

  The driver, dressed all in white, clambered onto the loading platform. He was a young man, lean. He arm-wrestled a white handle and pulled. The rumble of steel wheels against pockmarked steel treads echoed as the door slid open. The driver disappeared into the truck and strolled out a moment later, pushing a dry-cleaning rack filled with staff uniforms draped in plastic. He stopped as someone from the hotel came out with an electronic pad.

  They greeted each other. They chatted. About Jordan. About the violence in Syria. About the increasing violence in Iraq. And the heat.

  While they spoke, Justice pressed the device that shut off the cameras and slipped from between the crates. She crept forward. Silently, she found and unhooked the correct staff uniform, balled it up, and shoved it up under her abaya.

  The driver took the e-pad, signed, and handed it back.

  She slipped backward as he reached for the rack. Her foot hit the edge of a crate. She stumbled, grabbed for leverage, and knocked over a stack of peppers.

  The reverberation of the crate hitting concrete faded. There was silence on the platform. The men rushed to the area, stopped, and stared at her.