Burned (Vanessa Pierson series Book 2) by Valerie Plame, Sarah Lovett Page A

wait . . . we shouldn’t, it’s wrong. I made a promise . . .”
    “Why is it wrong?” Khoury whispered softly. “I love you, and I’m pretty sure you love me.” He pulled her body tightly against his. “Do you love me?”
    “David . . . it’s not that simple . . .”
    “Vanessa, do you love me?”
    “Oh . . .” She’d been through the pain of missing him, aching for his touch, the grief and the loss of him—and now he was asking her to open up again, to risk everything again.
    A shudder ran through him . . . into her.
    She breathed her answer. “Yes.”
    All she heard in reply were his very faint words, “Love you . . .”

17
     
    The hush of breathing invaded the murky waters of Vanessa’s dream and she tried to swim her way to the surface. She reached out—
David?
—feeling for her lover’s warmth, feeling the heaviness of desire throughout her body even as she realized: He’d left her bed hours ago.
    Her eyes shot open and she stared up at someone standing just inside the doorway.
    That someone muttered, “Sorry.”
    “Hays?” She grabbed the covers, pulling them to her throat, and bolting halfway up. “What’s happened? The dirty bomb—is there something new?”
    “No, no, all status quo, didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, looking rumpled and caffeine-fueled—and was he blushing slightly?
    “Then what?” She tugged the sheet around her bare shoulders. “Why are you in my room?” she asked, keeping her tone nice but firm.
    “We’ve got something on the bomber—and mostly black holes on True Jihad—and Chris called to say he’ll be running late because ofan exchange with Headquarters and he wants you to greet Team Viper and get them settled . . . so . . . well”—he barely glanced at his large red wristwatch—“0619 hours. You should get dressed.”
    “Got it. Thanks.” This time she let the sarcasm show, but he didn’t even notice.
    Wait. Where did David toss my T-shirt and boxers? And why did I let myself fall back asleep once he left?
“Okay, I’m grabbing a thirty-second shower.”
    “Sure,” he said, stumbling over his own feet as he backed out the door.
    “But Hays”—she stopped him—“what about the bomber?”
    His eyes flitted toward the bed’s brass headboard, and she caught a glimpse of her boxers inside out and flagged on a post.
    He tried to look serious, but his mouth curved briefly into a crooked smile.
    She kept her expression flat. “Gary Martin Hays,” she prompted, enunciating each syllable of his name. “The bomber?”
    “Right. Remember Abdul Hasib al-Attas . . .”
    “Yes . . .”
    “Remember he married an American woman before he found his calling to move back to Yemen and climb the ranks of Al Qaeda?”
    “C’mon, Hays, get to the point—Abdul’s been dead for more than a year.”
    Hays shrugged. “And now it looks like his son Omar is dead, too, following the call of jihad. We haven’t confirmed DNA, but—”
    “The bomber was Abdul’s American-born son? Shit.
Shit.
” She pulled the sheet with her as she almost jumped out of bed. “So he was recruited? By True Jihad? Are they even a part of Al Qaeda in Yemen?”
    “We still need DNA confirmation, but we’ve got a solid match via facial ID,” Hays said slowly. “The weirdest thing, True Jihad, they don’t show up on anybody’s radar until about ten days ago when a bare-bones website launched. So we haven’t connected the dots yet—between Abdul al-Attas and Al Qaeda and Omar—but they might be there. We’re looking through every haystack.” He frowned so hard the skin on his forehead creased into a knot. “But you know, Shia-Sunni-wise, why would Al Qaeda insert itself into something that really concerns the Iranians?”
    Bhoot’s words whispered through Vanessa’s thoughts:
“. . . what is mine has been stolen . . .”
    A chill stung her skin. “So they can get their hands on a prototype of a miniaturized nuke,”