“I assume our Israeli friends filled you in already,” Julian says.
Holding my breath, I listen intently, not wanting to miss anything. I don’t know why Julian decided to let me learn this way, but I’m not about to quibble.
“I don’t have much to add,” Julian continues. “As you already know, the operation was a success, and I now have a couple of detainees that I’m milking for information.”
“Yes, so we’ve heard.” There is silence for a second, then the man says, “We would appreciate hearing this kind of news first next time. It would’ve been nice if the Israelis had heard about the bus from us, rather than the other way around.”
“Oh, Frank . . .” Julian sighs, wrapping his arm around my waist and shifting me slightly to the left. Feeling off-balance, I clutch at Julian’s arm, trying not to make any sounds as he settles me more comfortably on his leg. “You know how these things work. If you’d like to be the one spoon-feeding the Israelis, I need a little something to sweeten the deal.”
“We already wiped away all traces of your misadventure with the girl,” Frank says evenly, and I tense, realizing he’s referring to my abduction.
A misadventure? Really? For a second, irrational fury spikes through me, but then I take a calming breath and remind myself that I don’t actually want Julian punished for what he did to me—not if it means being separated from him again. Still, it would’ve been nice if they had at least acknowledged that Julian committed a crime instead of calling it a fucking ‘misadventure.’ It’s stupid, but I feel disrespected somehow—like I don’t even matter.
Oblivious to my stewing over his word choice, Frank continues, “There’s nothing more we can give you at this point—”
“Actually, you can,” Julian interrupts. Still holding me tightly, he strokes my arm in a proprietary, soothing gesture. As usual, his touch warms me from within, takes away some of my tension. He probably understands why I’m upset; no matter how you slice it, it’s insulting to have your kidnapping talked about so casually.
“How about a little tit for tat?” Julian continues softly, addressing Frank. “I let you be the heroes next time, and you let me in on some back-channel action with Syria. I’m sure there are a few tidbits you’d like to leak . . . and I’d love to be the one to help you out.”
There is another moment of silence, then Frank says gruffly, “Fine. Consider it done.”
“Excellent. Until next time then,” Julian says and, reaching forward, clicks on the corner of the screen to disconnect the call.
As soon as he’s done, I twist around in Julian’s arms to look at him. “Who was that man?”
“Frank is one of my contacts at the CIA,” Julian replies, confirming my earlier supposition. “A paper pusher, but one who’s quite good at his job.”
“Ah, I thought so.” Beginning to feel restless, I push at Julian’s chest, needing to get up. He releases me, watching with a faint smile as I back up a couple of steps, then prop my hip against the desk and give him a questioning look. “What was that about Israelis and the bus? And Syria?”
“According to one of my Al-Quadar guests, there is an attack planned on a tour bus in Tel-Aviv,” Julian explains, leaning back in his chair. “I notified the Mossad—the Israeli intelligence agency—about it earlier today.”
“Oh.” I frown. “So why did Frank object to that?”
“Because the Americans have a savior complex—or would like the Israelis to think they do. They want this information to be coming from them instead of me, so that the Mossad owes them a favor.”
“Ah, I see.” And I do. I’m beginning to understand how this game works. In the shadowy world of intelligence agencies and off-the-record politics, favors are like currency—and my husband is rich in more ways than one. Rich enough to ensure that he would never be prosecuted for petty crimes like kidnapping or illegal arms dealing. “And you want Frank to give you some info to leak to Syria, so they owe you a favor, right?”
Julian grins at me, white teeth flashing. “Yes, indeed. You’re a quick study, my pet.”
“Why did you decide to let me listen in today?” I ask, eyeing him curiously. “Why today of all days?”
Instead of responding, he rises to his feet and comes toward me. Stopping next to me, he bends forward and places his hands on the desk on both sides of my body, trapping me again. “Why do you think, Nora?” he murmurs, leaning closer. His breath is warm against my cheek, and his arms are like steel beams surrounding me. It makes me feel like a small animal caught in a hunter’s snare—an unsettling sensation that nonetheless turns me on.
“Because we’re married?” I guess in an uneven voice. His face is mere inches from mine, and my lower belly tightens with a strong surge of arousal as he nudges his hips forward, letting me feel his hardening erection.
“Yes, baby, because we’re married,” he says huskily, his eyes darkening with lust as my peaked nipples brush against his chest, “and because I think you’re no longer as fragile as you seem . . .”
And lowering his head, he captures my mouth in a hungry, possessive kiss, his hands sliding up my thighs with familiar intent.
* * *
Over the next few days, I learn more about Julian’s dark empire, and I begin to understand how little most people know about what goes on behind the scenes. None of what I hear in Julian’s office ever shows up on the news . . . because if it did, heads would roll, and some very important people would end up in jail.