Seducing the Mercenary

Seducing the Mercenary
Loreth Anne White

Seducing the Mercenary

Loreth Anne White

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Table of Contents

Cover Page (#u3848fd28-994b-5b0d-adac-9d3affc742b2)

Title Page (#u3262eed1-477e-5cad-8be2-6acfd21114bc)

About the Author (#ud8bccc8a-cc67-5bfa-93df-3d7320873750)

Prologue (#u7eb68ea6-dbd3-53d4-b3b8-10b66bef8ac6)

Chapter 1 (#u43e79411-c796-534e-8a91-2c8afd972c89)

Chapter 2 (#u1f3c9b3c-f105-5dcd-8a71-98d5ef43340d)

Chapter 3 (#ub2c8096a-89fb-5675-bd8a-baed6da49804)

Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Loreth Anne White was born and raised in southern Africa, but now lives in a ski resort in the moody British Columbian Coast Mountain range. It is a place of vast, wild and often dangerous mountains, larger-than-life characters, epic adventure and romance - the perfect place to escape reality. It’s no wonder it was here she was inspired to abandon a sixteen-year career as a journalist to escape into a world of romantic fiction filled with dangerous men and adventurous women.

When she’s not writing, you will find her long-distance running, biking or skiing on the trails, and generally trying to avoid the bears - albeit not very successfully. She calls this work, because it’s when the best ideas come. For a peek into her world visit her website at www.lorethannewhite.com.

“Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man’s character, give him power.” - Abraham Lincoln, 16th American president (1809-65)

Prologue

15:00 Zulu. Friday, November 8. Ubasi Palace. West Coast of Africa

“The American embassy is being evacuated—all

U.S. citizens are being advised to leave the country at once.” The general paused. Silence permeated the room and hung heavy in the equatorial heat.

Jean-Charles Laroque nodded at his aide and walked slowly over the vast stone floor of his war room, toward the long arched windows cut into the walls of the palace he’d called home since he’d taken Ubasi by force just over a year ago. His leather boots squeaked softly, and his black dog, Shaka, moved like a shadow at his heels.

He clasped his hands behind his back and surveyed the dense jungle canopy that undulated for miles beyond the walls of his fortress, toward distant mountains shrouded in afternoon haze.

Four Americans had been killed in Ubasi, allegedly geologists with a Nigerian oil concern.

The killings had occurred simultaneously in different parts of Ubasi. The bodies had been gutted and strung from trees, left in the steaming sun for predators, exactly the same way his father used to exhibit his kills as warning to his foes.

Laroque’s mouth turned bone-dry.

This had clearly been a coordinated operation, and it had clearly been intended to frame him.

As hard as he’d tried to shed the stigma of being the son of infamous South African-born mercenary Peter Laroque, the notoriety of his late father proved impossible to shake. And it followed him now with this gruesome display of bodies.

He pursed his lips in concentration.

On the heels of these murders had come even more disturbing news. His rebel allies who controlled the northern reaches of the Ubasi jungles had crossed into neighboring Nigeria, where they had raided the barracks of a U.S. oil corporation security outfit and captured five employees. Laroque’s rebels maintained these captives were the killers of the Americans. They also maintained that the four dead geologists were in fact CIA agents who had been poking around Laroque’s oil concessions in the north.

Laroque had been given nothing to prove this, just the word of his rebel leader with whom he had now lost contact as the cadre had entered the dense jungle at the foothills of the Purple Mountains. When the rebels reached base camp in a few days, word would be sent to Laroque and he could go and interrogate the captives himself. But until then, he had nothing.

He cursed softly in his native African-French.

Ubasi had just been welcoming back tourists. The U.S. embassy had recently reopened with two officers offering basic emergency service. Foreign currency was trickling in again. Telecommunications were gradually being restored. Even the electrical supply was becoming slightly more reliable. The war-torn economy was actually picking up for the first time in fifty years.

Now those same tourists were being told to evacuate.

And if those dead Americans were indeed CIA operatives, and if Washington thought Laroque was personally responsible for their deaths, that he had killed them as some kind of warning to the superpower to stay out of “his” country, and away from “his” oil, then some major form of retaliation was certain.

Ubasi was set to blow.

Adrenaline hummed through Laroque’s blood as he turned to face the general, his dark mahogany skin gleaming in the equatorial heat. He touched Shaka’s fur as he spoke.

“Contact every single foreigner who obtained a visa from the immigration office within the past six months,” he commanded his general. “Order them all out. Shut the borders. I want as few innocent lives lost as possible.”