“Okay. Don’t get sentimental on me, though. This is nothing more than it is.”
His lips twitch, hands picking up a napkin to wipe them down, and he turns fully on his seat to look at me. “Funnily enough, I got that.”
The abrupt vision of him standing and saying something to the waiter causes a volley of actions that have nothing to do with me. The food is put into small containers, a bag handed over to him, and he’s looking at me again before I can blink. “You ready?”
I slide off the seat, feet dropping down next to his. “Lead the way.”
I follow, oddly happy to let him take control of whatever this is turning into. It’s not like I don’t know, but his sudden shift in attitude is making my knees a little weaker than they already were. He's gone into commando mode again, all shoulders and grit. In fact, I’m staring at them as we walk out of the bar, watching the way they twist and turn under the tight shirt. And lord help me if I dare look down at his muscular arse bouncing around in his jeans. I do, which immediately makes what was simply a little weak bloody pathetic.
Squaring my shoulders, I hurry to get beside him and try to deal with my internal thoughts. Ridiculous. He might be some sort of God to me at the moment, not surprising given my clear saviour complex, but he’s nothing but a wall of muscles to have a good time with, on, or under. That’s all. It’s all it could be anyway. I’ll be back on a plane tomorrow and dropping everything to find out what’s going on there. This—my eyes snatch another glance at his hard frown line, legs quivering again—is fun. Nothing more. A night of illicit amusement. Playing at something which means nothing more to either of us other than what it is.
As if I’ve got time for anything other than that. More flights are already booked. More stories to keep myself occupied with. And then there’s Asif. I need to deal with that at some point. Frankly, he was damn rude to even consider my name would mean spy. Although, the Broderick name is currently being seen as deceitful and conniving because of that bloody dead author and all the other papers spewing vitriol and sarcasm. Another thing that needs dealing with.
“Ivy?”
My gaze whips up to him, only to realise he’s not there. I turn and look back to find him standing at the entrance to a small hotel. “Sorry.” I walk back, joining him as he opens the door for me and ushers me through.
“Where did you go?”
“What?”
“In your head?”
“Oh. Nothing. I was just thinking of things I’ve got to deal with.”
The lift pings open as we wander towards it, and we both walk in.
“I’m glad I’m that stimulating.”
I look at him again. “No. I didn’t mean that. I just …go off. It’s what I do. If you’d grown up in my household, you’d have a million and one things to think about as well. I wasn’t being rude.”
He chuckles and leads us out of the lift after the short journey up a few flights, and, once again, I watch him striding through the corridor like he owns it. I’m not even sure how he does that. He’s not even noisy or bolshie. He’s just large, and possibly intimidating to others, and most definitely attractive enough for the world to consider him model material. But it’s none of that really. It’s his quiet authority of a situation. He's cool. Even if he is laced with undercurrents of blazing heat.
The eventual clink of a key in a door makes me smile. Keys? When was the last time I used a key in a door? Places don’t have keys anymore. I’m so fascinated by that, or him, or the situation I’ve been in for the last few days that I hover in the corridor rather than follow him in.
“Ivy?” My gaze refocuses on him. “Are you going to get your arse in here?”
Yes.
I frown at my weird headspace and walk in, taking in the simple room. I don’t care about that particularly, but it does make me question myself for a second, and then I get a visual of the table against the far wall. A few photos are spread across it, with a manilla folder stacked to one side and a bag with camera equipment. His jacket is hung on the back of a chair next to it, dusty and tattered.
“Do you mind?” I ask, pointing at the table.
“Not at all. That’s the thing I’m happier to talk about.”
My gaze drifts over the pictures on display, and my fingers sneak open the folder and slide more pieces out into the open. They’re astounding. All of them. Perfect angles. Perfect colours. Perfect imagery and focus. One of him with some children makes me smile a little. It’s a selfie taken out here somewhere, presumably in one of the refugee camps. Ragged clothes on the kids, a wide smile on his face as they eat some chocolate he probably gave them. He’s dressed like he is now rather than the military wear he was in last night. Must have been a safe zone.
“They were cute kids,” he says over my shoulder.
I drop that picture and pick up one of the sunset. Looks like it was probably taken after he’d waited out there all night for it. It’s full of romanticism and power, as if the person taking it knows all too well what that kind of imagery can do to the eye. “Looks like you’re a nice guy, Blake.”
Two large hands land on my upper arms, one of them delivering enough pressure that I’m swung around to look up at him.
“Are you looking for a nice guy, Ivy?” I don’t know, but even if I was, he isn’t it. I stare, my mouth parted and ready for whatever’s coming next. “Not sure I was thinking about being very nice for the next few hours.”
His tongue rolls over his lips, eyes grazing over me in front of him. One hand comes up to my face, his thumb dragging over my bottom lip until it goes up to the side of my head and he grabs a handful of hair. My neck jerks a little, chin being tipped upwards.
“Are you up for that?” he murmurs.
