Page 78 of Locked and Loaded

"You've been barefoot since we escaped the riad. I should have thought of it sooner."

"I've been fine."

"The desert isn't fine. Sand gets hot enough to burn. Rocks. Scorpions."

"Scorpions?" She immediately looked down at the bottom of the shower.

Dragan grinned. "You'll want shoes."

He kissed her forehead, quick and casual like he'd been doing it for years instead of hours, and then he stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel. She watched him go, water still running down her back, and tried very hard not to think about how natural it felt to have him in her space.

Sunscreen first. She found it in a small basket by the sink, next to a bottle of something that smelled like almond oil and a comb still wrapped in plastic. Hassan really did think of everything.

She dried off, twisted her hair up, and slathered sunscreen on every inch of skin she could reach. Then she wrapped herself in one of the cotton kaftans hanging behind the door and stepped back into the main room.

Dragan was gone. He'd left a pair of loose cotton pants and a white linen shirt on the bed for her, the same kind of thing he wore. She pulled them on. The pants were a little long. The shirt was soft against her skin. She looked like a woman who'd spent the night in the desert and woken up somewhere else entirely.

She sat on the edge of the bed and let her thoughts rove.

Last night had been a choice. She'd needed comfort, needed to feel something that wasn't fear or guilt or grief, something fast and hot and physical. And Dragan had been there. That was the simple truth of it. She didn't regret it because he hadn’t let her feel like she was using him for even a minute. She wasn't going to let herself regret it.

But she couldn't let it happen again. Not because it was wrong. Because it was too good. Because when she was with him, the rest of the world went quiet, and she couldn't afford quiet right now. She needed the noise. The urgency. The constant drumbeat of find Chloe, find Chloe, find Chloe that had been driving her since Ibiza.

She'd let herself rest. She'd let herself feel something good. She’d used those delightful orgasms to center and balance her.

Now it was time to get back to work.

The tent door opened, and Dragan ducked inside. He was fully dressed now, loose pants and a fresh shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and he was carrying a pair of sneakers.

She stared at them. "Where did you get those?"

"Magic of the desert." He winked.

"They're sneakers."

"Yes,” he agreed with a grin, “and they're your size."

Lennox frowned. "How do you know my size?"

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “I’ve been with you for days. I know all your sizes.”

She willed the heat out of her face as she took the sneakers from him. They were white canvas, simple, the kind of thing you'd buy at a market stall. They looked like they'd fit. "Hassan just had these lying around?"

"Magic of the desert."

"You keep saying that."

He nodded. "It keeps being relevant."

She sat down and pulled the sneakers on. They fit perfectly. She looked up at him. "How?"

He shrugged. "I told you. The desert provides."

Lennox snorted. "The desert provided sneakers in my exact size?"

"Hassan's been running this camp for twenty years. People leave things. He keeps everything. You'd be amazed what's in his storage tent."

"That's not magic. That's hoarding."