Chapter Thirty-Six

Red

Red began dreaming the dream again. No helper-woman was pointing Red toward the rollercoaster train. This time, the dream jumped right to the car crash, the holding of hands, and the blood.

In her semi-awake state, she wondered if this was all just a metaphor for what had happened to Moussa.

Trying to rouse herself, Red found her face tucked into the curve of Nomad's neck. She must have woken him because he wrapped her in his arms and pulled her against the length of his body.

Tears ran thick and hot and silent down her cheeks.

He didn't ask her for anything—not an explanation, not that she move back to her own side of the bed. He stroked her hair and held her tightly against him with enough force that she knew that not only did he want her there, but it felt like he needed her there.

She remembered this feeling. He did this when she moved from the hotel to the shore, from the shore to the sea.

The strength of his arms meant she could relax and allow. That she didn't have to be strong all the time. He not only could care for her, but he chose to.

And she remembered the devastation of losing the feeling of comfort when he placed her in the rescue basket and let go. Relief flooded through her when his voice was in her ear, and she knew he was back beside her on the helicopter.

Relief, that's what Nomad's arms brought her.

In the dark, her lips sought his. Her hands painted over his skin. Her fingers worked his clothes free, then hers.

Nomad's kisses traced her tears from lid to cheek down her neck to her breasts.

The ease of him, the utter rightness of this moment, was what struck Red.

For the first time, she felt like she was the focus of someone who intuited her desire. Red hoped Nomad felt the same because everything that felt natural to her seemed to bring him pleasure.

Was intimacy really this easy?

That was the thought she took with her when, wholly sated, she fell back asleep.

A dreamless and restorative sleep.

Red and Nomad, still holding each other, woke to the call to prayer intoned from the minaret with a rich baritone.

Sliding off the end of the bed, Red wanted to avoid any discussion of last night. She didn't have a neat place to file all of this and didn't want words to get in the way of her feelings. She pointed to the bathroom.

"Yeah, you go first," Nomad said huskily.

Gathering her clothes, Red went in to get ready for the day. After showering, Red covered herself respectfully from collarbone to ankle, the long sleeves covering her to the wrists. Marrakesh could go either way. There were tourists in shorts and spaghetti string tops, and women dressed conservatively to follow Muslim traditions. Red often chose the traditional route, especially when moving through airports and places where she might be confronted with authority figures. Culturally mindful and respectful were important.

When she came out, ready for the day, Nomad was still in bed. The sheet covered him from the hips down. He had his hands laced behind his head and looked like he'd been deep in thought.

He caught her gaze and waited for Red to set the tone.

"If you'll monitor Elena's phone, I'll get us breakfast."

Nomad agreed.

And now she was out in the paths of the Medina. Where there had been a crush of humanity the night before, there was little movement in the first signs of light. Here, Red would have privacy to call Black and file her report on having sex with Nomad.

It was all part of her security protocols, and it was one of the reasons Red's sex life was in the shape it was. This report sucked any romance from a physical encounter. Even the thought of "calling it in" and having the event cataloged in her file meant that Red would often just take any desire to bed with her and her plastic, packable boyfriend.

"Where do you think that's going?" Black asked.

"Nowhere," Red's response sounded deflated.

CIA preferred that their employees have sexual relationships within the agency. Their second preference was that their employees have sex with others of equal security status. Nomad, of course, would have top-secret clearance, or he wouldn't know her name.

"I approve your continued sexual contact."

"Thank you, sir." It was like getting approved for a car rental.

That wasn't at all what Red was feeling.

She had a lot of feelings, and one of them was oddly grief. She was in anticipatory mourning.

When had that ever happened with a lover before?

A Turkish coffee shop was opening its front shutters, and Red walked over. Sitting at a little café table, she held up two fingers and, in French, asked for coffees to go. She'd grab some pastries as well.

As the man went through the ritual of mixing warming seasonings into the coffee—cardamom, cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg, fennel, a bit of anise—and swirling his pot in the heated sand, Red mused over the way Black responded over the phone this morning. There might be clues there as to Nomad's affiliation. Red had speculated that Nomad was a Delta Force operator.

He could be FBI CIRG. Definitely not CIA or Black would have told her.

Nomad did have tradecraft, though, very good tradecraft.

Having worked with Delta Force before, Red knew the operators all had FBI and CIA training—some were better at fieldwork than others. Nomad was as smooth in the field as on the dance floor.

And she spent the rest of the time enjoying memories of the night before, startled when the man placed the cups on his counter and called to her.

Red paid with colorful Moroccan dirham and went back to make a plan for the day.

A day of work.

A day of saving people from terrorist threats.

Honestly, Red, focus!