Page 45 of Locked and Loaded

Dragan's footsteps faded back down the stairs, and Lennox sat on the edge of the bed and let the silence settle around her.

Breakfast. He'd said breakfast. Like he hadn't caught her trying to steal his key six hours ago. Like she hadn't kissed him and then stood there with her face on fire while he looked at her with that infuriating, amused expression that said he'd known exactly what she was doing the whole time.

She could still feel it. The way his mouth had moved against hers. The warmth of his hand on her hip through the thin fabric of her dress. The way he'd said the other part like he fully expected her to try again.

She wasn't going to try again. She was going to find another way.

She wasn't going to think about the kiss at all.

Lennox stood up, raked her fingers through her hair, and walked to the door. She was wearing the same blue sundress from last night. The one in the shop window with the white appliqué flowers that had made her smile. It didn't make her smile now. It was rumpled and stale and clinging to her skin in all the wrong places, and she was going to have to walk into that kitchen looking like she'd slept in her clothes.

Which she had because she had nothing else. She had to get back to the hotel to get her clothing, but the instant that thought came to her, she dismissed it. There was no way that Dragan would let her go, and if she were being honest, not letting her go was the smart move. They, whoever they were, had to have the hotel under surveillance on the off chance she was stupid enough to come back for her clothes.

Lennox swore. This whole thing was getting more complicated by the minute.

Stepping onto the upper gallery, she squinted in the glaring morning light. The courtyard below was fully bright now, the mosaic floor blazing with color. The pool at the center caught the sun and threw it back in a thousand small reflections that danced across the terracotta walls. Palm fronds rustled overhead. From somewhere below, she heard the clink of dishes.

She walked down the stairs, one hand trailing on the worn stone banister. The tile was slightly rough under her bare feet. She hadn't thought to bring her sandals. She hadn't thought to bring anything except her anger, which she was clutching like a shield.

Anger was so much better than embarrassment and defeat.

She found Dragan in the kitchen.

The low table was covered in food. Not just food. A spread. Small ceramic dishes filled with honey and yogurt and glistening olives. A basket of flatbread, still warm, draped in a cloth. Sliced cucumbers and tomatoes sprinkled with feta and za'atar. A dish of something golden and creamy she recognized as labneh. Soft white cheese floating in olive oil. Hard-boiled eggs dusted with cumin. Figs, fresh and purple and split open to show their pink insides. Dates stuffed with almonds. A copper pot of mint tea steaming beside two small, etched glasses.

Her stomach growled loudly, betraying her immediately. "Did you make all this?" she asked, and her voice came out sharper than she intended. She was aiming for cold politeness. She missed.

"The bread's from the bakery around the corner," Dragan said without looking up. He was pouring tea into one of the glasses, his movements unhurried but precise. "The rest was here."

"Of course it was." She lowered onto a cushion, folding her legs under her, and immediately wished she hadn't said it like that. Like she was annoyed that he'd provided breakfast. Which she was, but she didn't want him to know she was annoyed, because being annoyed meant she cared, and she didn't care. She was just hungry.

She reached for a piece of flatbread and tore off a corner. It was still warm. Steam rose from it, carrying the smell of flour and yeast and the faint char of a wood-fired oven. She dipped it in the labneh and took a bite before she could stop herself.

It was good. Creamy and tangy and perfect. She took another bite, then another, and then she was reaching for the olives and the cheese and the tomatoes, piling her plate with more food than she'd eaten in days, and she hated that she was enjoying it.

"Sleep well?" Dragan asked.

"No."

“The open door didn’t help?”

She gave him a cold look. “I didn’t open the door.”

"You should have."

She snorted, but shoved more food in her mouth before she said something she regretted. Screaming at him wasn’t going to help.

Dragan, for his part, just sipped his tea and watched her across the table with steady, dark eyes. This morning he'd changed into a clean shirt, white, the sleeves already rolled to his elbows. It showed off his tan. His hair was damp at the edges, like he'd splashed water on his face before coming down. He looked rested. He looked comfortable. He looked like a man who had not spent the night thinking about a kiss.

She hated that too. Almost more than anything else.

"We're staying here," he said.

Lennox's hand stopped halfway to the figs. "What do you mean?"

"The men from the restaurant are still looking for you. I ran facial recognition last night. Four of them. Ex-military, mostly. Professionals. The kind of men who don't stop until the job is done." He set his tea down. "The riad is secure. No one knows you're here. No one's going to find you here. So, we're staying here."

"For how long?" she demanded.