Kylie Brant: Born In Secret

Jasmine hesitated outside the door of Walker’s temporary quarters in Sheik Kamal’s palace. She’d faced the leaders of an international smuggling ring with far more equanimity than she felt right now. She’d known those men were dangerous, that her life had been in jeopardy. She’d been comfortable relying on her own skills to ensure her safety. It was telling that she regularly risked her life without a qualm, but had to summon the courage to approach Walker in his bedroom.

The man was every bit as dangerous as any she’d brought down, but it wasn’t her life she feared for around him, it was something far more fragile. He’d bruised her heart once with his callous dismissal of her. She’d never allow herself to be that vulnerable again.

The silent vow made it a bit easier to raise her hand, to rap on his door. She was disconcerted when he pulled open the door and she was confronted by his partially nude body.

Her gaze skated over his bare chest, then lowered to the jeans that rode low on his lean hips, unbuttoned to reveal his hard flat belly. Averting her gaze, she scrambled to summon a steady voice. “I can come back later.”

“No, come on in. I could use your help.”

Reluctantly she followed him into the room. It was a moment before she noted the fresh angry-looking scar running down the center of his back, only centimeters from his spine. A gasp escaped her before she could prevent it. “What happened?”

He didn’t halt on his way to the adjoining bathroom. “After setting the explosives on the last job, a member of my team caught a bullet as we were pulling out. I dropped back to give him a hand, and we were still a little too close when it detonated.”

His succinct summary was all the more chilling for its casual delivery. “You went back into a building that was set to explode?”

One large shoulder lifted in a shrug. “I’m responsible for my team.”

Yes, she thought, nausea curling through her stomach, he would be responsible. Whatever else she thought of Walker James, she’d never doubted his skill. His dedication to the men who worked with him. Her eyes shifted back to the raised, puckered wound on his back. It wouldn’t be the only physical reminder he carried of the danger he routinely courted. His body was a map of faded scars acquired in the act of carrying out various missions.

He was something of a legend in the shadowy world they shared. The Ghost, he was called, for his ability to slip in and out of seemingly impenetrable places. His skill with security was matched by a cunning that kept his services in high demand. Certainly his reputation had been part of her admiration for him, her pleasure when he’d shown an unmistakable interest that time in Venice.

She’d learned the hard way that he was just as skilled at slipping under personal defenses, as well. Of using his looks and personal magnetism to defuse normal wariness and invite intimacy far too quickly, far too blindly. She may not have completed a formal education, but she never needed to review the same lesson twice. And if she did, she had only to remember their parting in Venice. The memory still throbbed like a wound.

“Will you come here a minute?”

From the slight edge in his tone, she realized he’d had to repeat himself. She poked her head in the bathroom to find him standing in front of the sink, his hair freshly doused.

“Put this ointment on my back, would you? It’s harder than hell for me to reach.”

Jasmine hung back, strangely loathe to comply. “Where are the bandages? We could put the ointment on them and then cover the injury.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was doing, but I’m not going to wear the bandages anymore. Too much trouble.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. It would do no good to argue with him. She’d learned long ago that he had a will of iron. There was probably no real danger even if the wound didn’t remain sterile. Against the stubborn blood that flowed through his veins, an infection wouldn’t stand a chance.

Aware that he was watching her in the mirror, she approached and took the tube he held. With more concentration than the act required, she squeezed out a generous amount and applied it to his wound.

His muscles tensed under her touch. It was an effort to keep her mind firmly in the present and away from the time when her hands had roamed his body freely, with an eagerness that still had the power to embarrass her. She struggled to keep her face impassive as she completed the task, then stepped away. Noting a bowl beside the sink filled with an unfamiliar substance, she asked him about it.

“It’s coloring.” Even as he spoke he scooped up some of the stuff and rubbed it over his wet hair carelessly. “I’m going to lighten my hair for the assignment. It washes out in less than two weeks. That should give us enough time.”

Studying the glop he was working into the strands, she said, “Perhaps I should do the same.”

“It isn’t necessary. You’re expected to pass as a native of Tamir. Your coloring is perfect for this job.”

He was right, of course. It also made it difficult for her to change her appearance for each assignment. She had to rely on discreetly applied makeup to add subtle lines, to alter her jawline. Maloun was a highly conservative society with little evidence of western influence. The traditional dress she would be required to wear lent ample opportunity to alter her body type. She’d have to rely on those techniques to mar an accurate description of her.

“I mean, I could change my hair. Perhaps cut it before we leave.”

“No!”

The vehemence in that single word startled her. Her gaze met his in the mirror. But his voice was nonchalant enough when he explained, “Women have the advantage of being able to just pull their hair up to achieve a different look. Believe me, sweetheart, your hair is going to be the last thing any man concentrates on.”

While she struggled with his meaning, Jasmine watched Walker cover the hair on his arms with the same mixture, then apply it to his chest. The matching color would make his alteration all the more convincing. She noted the face he made as he rubbed the stuff on his torso. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just shave the hair off?”

One side of his mouth lifted. “Easier? Yeah. But the only time I tried that I almost went nuts while it was growing back. It itched like crazy. I’ve decided this is more work, but much more comfortable later.”

He bent over the tub that was easily large enough to host a small dinner party, and turned on the gold-plated taps. With his head shoved under the faucet he said, “Get me a couple towels and washcloths, will you?” She did so, then returned to the bedroom. There was something much too cozy about watching the man engage in his preparations. Their assignment was complicated enough by their previous brief relationship. There would be no place for emotion in this job.

She distracted herself by studying the quarters he’d been given. It was opulent, like the rest of the palace, with a huge lake of a bed covered with rumpled satin sheets. Pillows lay strewn around it. Walker liked to sleep sprawled out, she recalled. At least he had in the little time they’d spent sleeping their one night together. Although she’d awakened to find herself close to the edge of the bed, she’d been in no danger of falling from it. He’d been holding her much too closely for that.

To shake the memories from her mind, she crossed to the large desk. Its top was strewn with papers and maps. When he rejoined her minutes later she was absorbed in them.

Without turning around she folded a map over to reveal the one beneath. “How will we travel to Maloun?” While she’d spent every hour they’d been in Tamir trying to learn as much of that country’s history as possible, Walker had been taking care of the physical details of the assignment.