Spies, Lies & Naked Thighs

JINA BACARR

To my husband, Len. Nobody does it better.

When I was a little girl I wanted to be an archaeologist and go on digs. Later when I had the opportunity to explore the catacombs outside Rome, I strayed behind the group and got lost. I wandered around alone in the underground caves with only a small flashlight to guide my way, marveling at the bones buried in the crypts. That was the first time I heard the bones “whisper” to me. I never forgot that. It became part of my story when I wanted to write about an archaeologist-turned-spy in the Near East.

In the world of covert ops, a spy works alone. So does a writer, weaving her tale in front of her computer, dreaming, planning, writing. What no one sees is the world behind them. Our backup. And I have the best backup in the biz. Thank you to my fabulous editor, Susan Swinwood, whose editorial guidance helped me bring my story full circle. And as always, thank you to my dear friend and wonderful agent, Roberta Brown.

Prologue

Somewhere in the Syrian Desert

A virgin moon caressed her ivory buttocks against a black basalt sky, stimulating him. Stars sparked their celestial approval, pleasing him. And a beautiful blonde lying nude in his tent aroused him.

Allah is good.

He rubbed the girl’s taut brown nipple between his thumb and forefinger, evoking a succulent sigh from her that made him smile. Then he pulled on both her nipples faster and faster until she began gasping for air. She trembled under his touch, subjecting herself to his will, though he sensed she fought against her desire. That resistance would disappear once she opened up under his stroking, her honey-sweet juices seeping down her thighs, a testament to his skill.

Empowered by his dominance over her more than his craving for her flesh, he gazed down at her like a sly jackal salivating over its prey. He reveled in what he saw. Her mint- green eyes ached for him, peering over the transparent veil covering her mouth moist with her hot breath.

“Now?” she whispered.

He shook his head. “Not yet, my beauty. I’m anxious to take you, but first I must complete the ritual.” He felt her shiver, but she didn’t resist when he spread her legs and rubbed rose oil on the smooth skin of her inner thighs. A preliminary stimulation before receiving his gedheeb, his rod. Underneath the loose white caftan covering his nude body, his need swelled, his glans tinted a deep crimson and red lines streaked from either side of his groin to converge at his navel. The sign of a primeval sect that reviled women and vowed to sacrifice their semen only during the heat of day. He emptied his passion when the mood suited him, but like the ancients, he believed the sun was man, its scorching, burning heat penetrating the desert sands with energy. The moon was woman, a cold, arrogant and selfish being, forcing the beauty of the desert to vanish into a hellish darkness between her legs.

Outside, a petulant night wind kicked up a powdery cloud of sand, dragging its long tentacles along the outer boundary of the tent in a noisy guffaw and reminding him of his oath. Wiping the sweat off his face, he shook off the ominous tingling up and down his spine. He was working himself into a sensual state, something he’d sworn against, yet he couldn’t help himself. Her burning eyes enslaved his will, forcing him to admit she’d upset the delicate balance of his being. The wind wailed its warning, a sibilant sound that grated on his nerves, but he ignored it. He was past listening. He observed the girl as a lover would, inspecting her, admiring her, his enjoyment of her physical beauty as much a part of the ritual as riding her to final abandon. Her face shone with an eerie whiteness in the candlelight, her gentle moans crawled over his skin like ghostly fingers arousing him.

He yearned to delight in the dewy moistness between her thighs, pussy softer than silk with wiry rays of sunshine encircling it, buttocks smoother than golden cream, hard bud plump and rounded, protuberant. His nerves taut, his fists clenched, he made his decision. He’d indulge in a quick coupling with the girl, then be done with her.

He lifted her nose veil and touched her warm cheeks flushed pink, then raked his fingers through her long, burnished hair braided with sweet-smelling white flowers. He knew she observed his every move from under lowered eyelids smeared with antimony to give them a silvery-white crystalline sheen. Yet she remained so still the swinging blue- glass pendants hanging from her earlobes lay flaccid against the silk pillow under her head. She reclined on a low pile of perfumed mattresses covered with a white counterpane, gold-and-purple silk pillows scattered at her head and feet. Dim saffron-colored candlelight caressed her curves.

How could he resist such beauty? Full breasts, smooth and pure as white sand, and a narrow waist rounded out into firm buttocks tempted him to devour her like a flame. At his request, she’d smeared henna on the palms of her hands and on the soles of her feet, then fastened a low-swung belt made of gold ribbon around her waist. The belt sparkled with tiny copper bells that sounded when she undulated her hips toward him in a teasing manner. He frowned. This charade could only end in the girl’s misfortune, but what choice did he have? The blonde was beautiful, but dangerous to the jihad. In a few hours, she would know her karma and he’d have what he wanted.