Most of the dust from the landslide had settled, the sun was gone, and night had fallen. In developing countries like Turkey, electricity was not readily available everywhere or to everyone. The farther a man got from the cities, the fewer amenities. In mountainous altitudes and narrow canyons like this one, the sun went down extra early, night was a helluva lot darker, and it would only get colder.
Not that Princess Banks was cold yet. She couldn’t be, not wedged under him and into the rut like she was, not with his massive body providing enough body heat to melt ice and keep her warm. But they couldn’t stay where they were much longer. Hiding in plain sight was only good in small doses. Plus, the miracle of the boulder still attracted plenty of attention. Too soon, these wild men would start drinking and dancing around that big rock, praising Allah with gunfire and song. Therein lay the real problem—how to get the hell out of Dodge before this op turned into a bigger clusterfuck than it already was.
He doesn’t remember me. After all these years, he’s forgotten that night in Paris. The revelation shouldn’t hurt, but it did. Of all the men in the entire United States who could’ve, should’ve been sent to rescue her, why on earth did it have to be Kruze Sinclair? Not that Bree cared. He’d certainly had no trouble leaving her before, and she’d bet her bottom dollar, he’d do it again.
About the Author
Irish Winters…
…is a best-selling author who, when she isn’t writing, dabbles in poetry, grandchildren, and rarely (as in extremely rarely) the kitchen. More prone to be outdoors than in, she grew up the quintessential tomboy on a dairy farm in rural Wisconsin, spent her teen years in the Pacific Northwest, but calls the Wasatch Mountains of Northern Utah, home. For now.
She believes in making every day count for something, and follows the wise admonition of her mother to, “Look out the window and see something!”
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