Desert Ice Daddy by Marton, Dana (best motivational novels .txt) 📗

Then she collapsed into his arms, and he held her, spent in passion, wondering if this was the right time to tell her that he was never going to let her go again.

They were pressed together so tightly, as if fused at the core. Her heart beat wildly against his.

And she still had her T-shirt on.

She lifted her head after a few minutes and looked at him with a dazzled look about her. “What happened?”

“Fate,” he said, and savored the feel of her body entwined with his own, wanting to soak in every second of the reprieve he had a feeling might be very short-lived.

Chapter Eight

“Anything?” Taylor asked once Akeem had pulled back from surveying the area below. She was ignoring the fact that her body still hummed with pleasure. She hadn’t said two words to him since they had dressed.

And putting clothes on had been quite the trick up on top of a storage tower, in the dark, on a two-foot-wide ledge. How they’d manage to…What had happened before the getting-dressed part was another question. Which she was not going to think about. And was definitely not going to talk about with him.

“Don’t do this,” he said.

“See that cloud of guilt?” She pointed above her head. “It can’t be too easy to miss since it’s darker than Hell’s Porch at midnight and twice as large.”

“Don’t do this to yourself.”

She couldn’t address what had happened between them. Absolutely not. Not now, and possibly not ever. “What did you see down there?”

He kept his gaze on her face as if hoping for something else, then let it go after a moment. “They’re still watching. Still in hiding.”

Which meant he couldn’t do a thing to disable them, so she was stuck on the roof with him. Climbing down with the enemy waiting in their secure positions would have equaled suicide. Still, she couldn’t help the guilt that ate at her for forgetting about her mission even for a short while, for giving in to her own need for comfort. She was a mother. She should have no needs. Should not be scared. Should not be exhausted.

“So your grandfather didn’t like this place?” Akeem was examining their hideout on the inside now. “Can’t blame him.”

Something teased the edge of her memory, danced out of grasp before she could snatch it. “He didn’t like the way they treated their employees. Saved a lot of money on safety.” She’d been pretty young back then, didn’t remember much of those conversations among adults.

Her grandfather had been blue collar all the way. Short stints at various refineries, working as a day laborer on the megafarms of the area in between. A decent man if dirt-poor. Akeem’s grandfather had been a sheik. Royalty. According to Flint, he had oil pumps in Beharrain.

But to Akeem’s credit, never once had he let their differences be felt between them. He had, in fact, chosen to make his own fortune instead of taking his share of his grandfather’s billions. She had a feeling there was something other than money he might have wanted from the old man, but never gotten. At least her grandfather had loved her. That was more precious to her than any financial heritage. Her mother had been a cook—and part-time quilter—and her father a poor ranch hand, but she was proud of them both.

One particular summer night behind the barn floated into her mind, talking about old times by a fire, the whole family lounging around. And she remembered now the story of her grandfather’s best friend’s accident, and the rescue that had come too late for the man. And then it all clicked.

“I know! There’s a ladder somewhere on the inside, too. There’s a maintenance door near the bottom.”

He took her face in his hands and kissed her soundly on the mouth, but she pulled back, then looked away from his searching gaze. An awkward moment passed between them. Then they were moving along the ledge.

“You could stay here until I find a way down,” he said.

She couldn’t have stayed still for all the treasure in the world. She needed to be moving, doing something, anything, that took her closer to Christopher. “I’m going with you.”

To his credit, he didn’t argue. He simply said, “Be careful where you step.”

He was right to be cautious. Judging by the condition of the rest of the structure, stepping on a weak spot and falling straight through was a real possibility.

“What did they keep in these things?” he asked. “Crude oil?”

“No idea.” She followed close behind so she could grab him if he slipped. “All Gramps ever talked about was tar.”

They moved ahead in silence, their full attention on their next step.

“How is your shoulder?” he asked after a while.

All but forgotten. “Okay. How is your leg?”

“Ready for the Texas two-step, anytime you are.” His response was light, but she could see his limp in the moonlight.

Even if the bandage was tight enough to prevent serious blood loss, infection was a distinct possibility. For the both of them. They needed to grab Christopher then get out of here.

“Here we go,” he said as he stopped.

And she could see the open metal trapdoor and the top of a ladder careful not to make too much noise. The smell of gasoline was much stronger here. The space was pitch-dark below them, no telling what they were getting into.

“What if there’s oil or tar or something nasty down there?” Her idea of reaching the ground this way seemed risky and foolish all of a sudden.

“I doubt they’d leave anything valuable behind. But if we hit something sticky, we’ll climb back up. We won’t be any worse off than we are now.”

That made sense. She watched him reach down and shake the ladder. It held. “Might work.” He swung his good leg over first, wouldn’t let go of the opening until he tested that the ladder would hold his weight.

She moved closer.

“Wait until I give some kind