“Might not be the best time to bring up those other hostages again, either,” Sam said in an expressionless undertone as they mounted wooden steps to the veranda.

Cory wanted to glance at her to see if she was needling him, but he didn’t, and made do with a noncommittal snort instead. Yeah, breathe again, he told himself. And think about other things.

Once again Sam was taken to a room segregated from the men-not that she minded; the privacy was welcome, and she’d reconciled herself to these people’s attitude toward women. It was just that-and oh, how she hated to admit it-she was beginning to feel annoying twinges of anxiety whenever she had to let Cory out of her sight.

Childish. The hated word whispered derisively in the back corners of her mind. Maybe he was right about you, Sammi June.

Except she knew he wasn’t. Never had been, really, and especially not now. It wasn’t for herself she felt anxious, but for him-for Cory. For Tony, too, of course, but Cory was…well. Face it, Samantha June, you still love him. Okay, she did-but even if that wasn’t true, she’d have plenty of cause to be worried about two civilians running around in the middle of a fire-fight, getting caught in the crossfire. Not that both Cory and Tony weren’t experienced when it came to being in battle zones; they were war reporters, after all. But they hadn’t had the training she’d had. Not by a long shot. And if anything happens to him out here…how will I live with that?

Anyway, for better or worse she was alone again, in a room that looked less like something out of the Arabian Nights and more like your basic primitive jungle hooch, with a sleeping mat on the floor and a lashed-bamboo table and chair shoved against the wall under an open and unscreened window. A patterned curtain drawn across one end of the room hid the pre-indoor-plumbing equivalent of a private bathroom: a basin of water sitting on a low bamboo bench, and on the floor, an empty pail. There were towels on the bench, too, and a folded garment that turned out to be a robe, the wraparound kind that closes with a belt tie, made of a heavy white cotton material that reminded her of martial arts uniforms.

She stripped and made use of both the basin and the bucket, then dried herself and put on the robe. It felt stiff and unforgiving against her skin, and chafed her unprotected nipples. When, she wondered, had they become so sensitive? The time of the month, maybe? Hormones, or her mind wandering where it had no business being, poking into long-buried memories and reawakening old yearnings?

She’d just finished folding her dusty sweat-and grass-stained clothing into an untidy pile and was considering whether to ask someone for enough water to rinse them out with, when there came a discreet knock on the door. She opened it to find a young girl of maybe twelve or thirteen, dressed in a patterned wrap skirt and long-sleeved tunic, with her head covered by a scarf and a single long braid hanging down her back. She was holding a tray on which were several covered dishes and the usual teapot, bowls and eating utensils. With eyes carefully averted, she entered, crossed the room to the table and set the tray down, then turned and, before Sam could even thank her, bent and scooped up the pile of dirty clothes, gave a quick little bow and scurried out, all without saying a word.

“Huh-maid service,” Sam said aloud to herself as she went to close the door. Then she had to use all the self-control she had in her to keep from falling on the food tray like a starving wolf.

She felt much better after she’d eaten all she could possibly hold of the customary offering of rice and vegetables and fruit, washed down with several cups of tea. Well enough that her mind could begin functioning again on more than just the most primitive level.

She wondered if Cory and Tony had been given trays in their room-rooms?-or whether they’d been invited to dine again with their infamous host, Fahad al-Rami. She wondered if Cory would dare to ask again about the hostages-the Lundquists. She wondered whether it really was the Lundquists in that house the soldier was guarding.

She wondered if it was time to send another target-located signal. And if she did, whether this time the government forces would obey her order to stand by.

Ripples of anger coursed through her when she thought about what had almost happened back at the house in the ravine. If it hadn’t been for Fahad al-Rami’s sentries and a well-planned escape route, we might all be dead right now. Those idiots!

No. She wouldn’t send the signal, not yet. Cory and Tony were exhausted-so was she, though she hated to admit it. Tomorrow would be soon enough, after they’d all had a chance to rest. After they’d had a chance to find out whether the hostages were in that smaller house, and whether there was any chance at all Fahad al-Rami might be convinced to turn them over. Tomorrow would be soon enough to risk another government attack and headlong flight for their lives.

Though it was only midafternoon, a full stomach, clean clothes and sleep deprivation were beginning to have a predictable effect on her. The sleeping mat was looking a lot less austere-downright seductive, in fact. And she thought, Well, shoot, why not? Nothing was likely to happen today anyway, and she wasn’t going anywhere dressed in a damn bathrobe, so she might as well nap.

She lay down, expecting to fall asleep instantly, thinking as tired as she was, she ought to be able to sleep anywhere, no matter what-even on the floor. But instead she found that, now that she was lying down trying to sleep, she no longer felt sleepy at all. Her body felt hot and tense; her skin crawled and prickled, as though all her nerve endings had gone on full battle alert and, like nervous sentries, were overreacting to the slightest sensation. She felt her heart beating in remote parts of her body, and heard her blood whooshing through the arteries in her head. Her mind followed the path of each breath, through her nostrils, down into her lungs and back again; she was aware of every molecule of moisture that welled up through her pores.

The chafe of clothing was intolerable; she longed to throw off the stiff cotton robe and lie naked with only the caress of warm, humid air on her body…but there was no lock on her door and what if someone came in and found her like that? And anyway it wouldn’t be enough, because part of her would still be touching the mat. How wonderful it would be, she thought, to be weightless, if only for this moment…to float suspended, rocked by a gentle sea…and the cool kiss of water on her skin. She longed for…yearned for…

She sat up suddenly, then collapsed back onto the mat, arms over her eyes, writhing in chagrin. Oh, hell, she thought, I know what this is. It’s him I want. The caress I’m longing for…the kiss…it’s Cory’s.

It had been so many years since she’d felt like this, but she remembered it now-it all came back to her. The frustration…the yearning…the bewilderment. I want him so much…I know he wants me, too…why won’t he make love to me? And then the anger, too. I’m eighteen, damn it-a grown woman. Plenty old enough to know what I want!

Old enough, yes, but without the experience and confidence to take the initiative, to go after what she wanted. What if I fail? What if he turns me down? Her pride wouldn’t let her take that chance.

Until the day something awoke inside her-a voice scolding, Samantha June, your mama didn’t raise you to be a coward! If you want the man bad enough, you just might have to sacrifice a little pride.

She remembered it so well. It had been November, the weekend of her nineteenth birthday, her first birthday since her dad had come back from the dead. Her birthday was on Friday, and that afternoon Cory had driven over from Atlanta to pick her up from school and take her to Grandma’s house, where her parents were staying while their new house was being built over near Augusta. There’d been a huge party-naturally all the aunts and uncles and cousins and in-laws had been there, because any excuse for a family get-together, right? It had been great, though, having both her dad and Cory there, one of the happiest days she could remember in a long, long time.

The only cloud in Sammi June’s sky that day had been the knowledge that it was Cory’s last weekend in Atlanta. On Sunday he was catching a plane to New York, and after that he’d be going off on assignment, back to the Middle East-and hadn’t he had enough of that place? She knew it was his job to be where the danger was, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something terrible might happen to him over there, and if it did, she was never going to see him again. Never have a chance to know what it would be like to make love with him.

Or maybe that was just an excuse because she’d been wanting him to make love to her for months, and she was nineteen, now, and tired of waiting.

Whatever the reason, on Saturday afternoon when Cory was dropping her off at her dorm, she asked him to wait for her while she took her birthday loot up to her room, because, she said, she had a surprise for him. And boy, did she. When she came back downstairs she was wearing a little black dress that hit her about eight inches above her knees, and high heels made mostly of see-through plastic, and she’d put her hair up on top of her head. She even had on earrings, which she never wore. She’d spent most of the birthday money she hadn’t even gotten yet on that outfit, but it had been worth it, because the look on Cory’s face when he saw her in it was priceless.

She’d brought her soccer sports bag with her-which didn’t exactly go with her outfit, but it was all she had to put her overnight stuff in-and she told Cory, since it was his last night in Georgia for a while, she wanted to take him out and “do Atlanta.”