Page 308 of Wild Mustang Security Firm

“No?” Leaning back against the door, he folded his arms across his chest. “That doesn’t answer my question. You know you’re grounded until morning. The pitter-patter of your tiny feet never should have ventured beyond this threshold. I wouldn’t have thought I’d need to punish you again so soon, or perhaps I should let Reid do it. His discipline did seem to make an impression.”

Her skin prickled, her stomach twisting into knots. God, what if Christian’s spanking had left its own evidence—handprints or redness and swelling? Her own throat choked her, killing her voice until it was nothing but a ghost of a whisper.

“I’m sorry.”

“Does sorry tell me where you were?”

“I w-wanted to go swimming.” It was a terrible excuse, but the only thing her racing mind could latch onto. She didn’t know what she’d do if he didn’t accept it. She was a terrible liar. He always knew whenever she tried—always.

Looking her over, he shoved off the door and lazily stalked.

Don’t look away.

Like a mongoose with a cobra, she kept her eyes riveted on him. He’d know she was lying if she couldn’t hold his stare. She held herself frozen until he was close enough to reach up and cup the back of her head. His fingers trailed through the dark hair at her nape, not unlike Christian had done just before he seized hold of her there. The experience now, however, was completely different, without so much as a shred of pleasure.

“Your hair isn’t wet,” he commented.

She barely managed not to look away.

“I changed my mind.” A corner of his mouth quirked up when she added, “I didn’t want to get in more trouble.”

“Such a good girl.” He stroked the back of her neck, then her hair, following the flow of it down the small of her back to her waist. Finally, he took his hand away. “To bed with you. I’m sorry, my love, but I must be strict. You are grounded until morning, no swimming. Would you like a cup of warm milk and honey brought from the kitchen to help you sleep?”

She nodded faintly, praying he wouldn’t notice how badly she was shaking.

“To bed with you,” he said again and walked out of her room.

The strength left her legs the moment he was gone. Grabbing onto the corner of her dresser to keep from falling, the air whooshed out of her. She covered her mouth before it could become an audible sob.

Eventually, she was able to make it back to her bed, where she sank down, just trying to breathe. Christian was right, shewas a terrible spy, and she was absolutely going to get herself killed, if she hadn’t already. She wasn’t going to be able to leave this room again, not tonight, not unnoticed. Sometime tomorrow morning, someone was going to find Fariq’s broken laptop and the paper she had dropped.

The best she could hope for was a sudden wave might catch them sideways, knocking things askew. Fariq might believe his laptop had broken that way.

Maybe.

But the note.

Please, oh please, let her have dropped it outside his office, somewhere on the deck where a stray night breeze might somehow catch it, whisking it out to sea.

That wasn’t going to happen. Trapped as she was on this ship, she already knew she’d never get that lucky.

Chapter

Eight

Christian looked at the piece of paper he’d found on the floor by Fariq’s broken laptop, and it was all he could do not to charge his way to Aliya’s room, grab her by the shoulders, and shake her until her common sense rattled free from whatever corner it was stuck in. She’d brought the written list of NATO’s requested information onto Fariq’s ship? Hell, she’d brought it into his office. Where she could just as easily have been caught by anyone other than him, and if they had found this paper… Dear God.

Digging a matchbox out of Fariq’s cigar drawer, he went into the bathroom, flipped on the exhaust fan, and set the list on fire over the toilet bowl. He held it for as long as possible, letting it burn all the way down to his fingers before dropping it into the water and flushing. Trusting the fan to take care of the smoky smell, he replaced the matchbox in Fariq’s desk, exactly as he found it—tucked in the corner, right side up, with the letters face backward into the drawer. The man was nothing if not observant and liked to make traps out of the most mundane things. He’d found a pen out-of-place once, and it had set him off like nothing Christian had ever seen. For three days, the man had brooded—or at least, that’s what Christian thought he was doing—right upuntil he walked up to two men having dinner in the mercenaries’ mess and shot them both.

“If anyone else desires to know what’s in my desk,” he’d announced to the silent room, “feel free to ask.”

After that, Christian had taken great pains if his moments of subterfuge took him into Fariq’s office or quarters to make sure either he didn’t touch anything or put it back exactly as it had been.

There was no way to do that with Fariq’s laptop. The screen was broken. He scoured the room, looking for any other sign he or Aliya had been in here, but there was only the laptop, and there was just nothing he could do about that except hope they had rough seas before morning.

He left it on the floor where Aliya had dropped it. The whole way back to his quarters, he went over and over it in his mind, wondering who to direct the inevitable witch hunt toward.

Shit. He shook his head.

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