Seducing the Mercenary

Before she could even think of grabbing her sarong and getting up, the door splintered open and crashed back against the wall.

She shrank back against the headboard as soldiers armed with Kalashnikovs burst into her room.

“What…what do you want?” she demanded.

They said nothing. One tore back her mosquito netting, motioned with the barrel of his weapon for her to get out of bed. Another scooped up her phone, computer and camera—all her communication equipment. Without it she was totally cut off.

“Allez!” The big soldier pointed his weapon to the door. “Go!”

Emily was suddenly horribly conscious of the fact she was wearing only provocative lace panties and a sheer camisole that stuck to her breasts with perspiration. She held up her hands. “Just…just one second, okay? Please? One second. Comprends? S’il vous plaît?” She reached cautiously for her sarong, watching their eyes as she spoke. She covered herself as she slid awkwardly down from the high bed. She tied the sarong tightly over her hips with shaking fingers as she mentally scrambled for where she’d left her sandals and knife.

“Allez!”

“Okay, okay. My…my shoes—”

They grabbed her arms and shoved her barefoot toward the door, through the hotel and out to a waiting battery of Jeeps. That’s when she knew she was in trouble—serious trouble.

02:03 Zulu. Saturday, November 9. Ubasi Palace

Laroque paced slowly round the massive eboyawood table that sat squarely in the center of his cavernous war room. There was still no electricity—the room was lit by flickering torches that sent shadows to shiver and crouch in corners.

Thunder boomed in the distance, making his dog growl and edge nervously up against his leg. Laroque reached down and patted Shaka’s head, studying the wood pieces he’d laid out on the table in the style of old generals to mark the positions of his allied rebel troops, and pockets of resistance fighters—pockets that were growing mysteriously.

He frowned. His spies had informed him that Souleyman had set up camp in the jungle beyond Ubasi’s eastern border. He was once again amassing power, but where his weapons and financing were coming from was an enigma.

At first Laroque had suspected the CIA. He knew Washington—along with the rest of the world—would be eyeing the massive oil reserves he’d recently discovered. And because of his rebel alliance, they would be seeing him as a serious threat in the region.

But if it was the U.S., and if those dead men were in fact CIA agents—their murders made no sense. Something else was at play here.

Anger bubbled through Laroque’s blood. Again he cursed himself for not killing Souleyman when he’d had the chance.

His father would have.

His father would have seen Laroque’s mercy as a mistake. And it was.

Souleyman had overthrown Ubasi’s King Desmond Douala in a violent coup eight years ago. The king and his family had fled to France, the former colonial power, and Souleyman had declared himself leader-for-life, running the country by a process of extortion, bribes, torture and corruption, instantly silencing any political opposition with his notorious death squad.

It was how he had silenced Laroque’s sister, and her children.

Laroque clenched his jaw. The mere notion that someone might be helping that bastard back into power filled Laroque’s mouth with bitter repulsion.

He swore violently, strode to the huge arched windows, and glared out over the black jungle. Thunder rumbled again, and a gust of hot wind lifted the drapes.

It was for the love of the women in his life, the women he’d lost, that Laroque was doing this. He owed it to them. To his sister. This was her dream. And now that he’d started down this road, there could be no turning back.

But as he stared into the stormy blackness, it was the image of another woman that crept into his mind—the one he’d seen in Basaroutou. A strange hot frisson ran through him.

His general had told him that a U.S. national who had entered Ubasi with the science team had defied his orders to leave the country by curfew. Laroque had an odd feeling that the woman he’d seen in the street might be that person.

The hot wind gusted again, and anticipation rustled through him as he caught the scent of the coming rainstorm. He checked his watch. It was just after 2:00 a.m.

He’d find out soon enough who she was. They were bringing her to him this very moment.

02:17 Zulu. Saturday, November 9. Ubasi Palace

The soldiers threw open a set of heavy studded doors and thrust Emily into a dimly lit, cavernous room. The doors thudded shut behind her, and she heard an iron bolt being dropped into place.

She blinked, trying to adjust her eyesight to the coppery torchlight. She could sense another presence in the room, but couldn’t see anyone.

Then he stepped from the shadows, his famous black dog moving at his side.

Emily’s heart stalled.

Laroque.

He said nothing, just raked his eyes over her from head to foot and back again, making her feel even more naked than she already was.

Her palms turned clammy, and her throat tightened.

He appeared even taller than the six foot three indicated in the FDS dossier she’d memorized. He was wearing the military fatigues she’d seen him in earlier, except now his hair hung loose to his shoulders. His ice-green eyes glinted in the light.

Emily choked down a rush of fear and awe as she forced herself into professional observational mode. She was being handed a rare opportunity here—face time with Le Diable, a tyrant in the making, right inside his lair. This man was her subject. She was here to study him.

But he was clearly appraising her.

She tried to tamp down the hot flare of déjà vu, the uncanny sense that she’d woken up in her own erotic nightmare.

Focus, Emily. You know the dominance psychology here. You can do this. You’re still in control.

She cleared her throat. “I’d like to know why you brought me here like this?” she demanded in French. “And I’d like my clothes.”

Laroque angled his head ever so slightly and the light played over his mouth. Was that a twitch of a smile—or anger—on his lips?

Emily straightened her spine, her movement instantly drawing his eyes to her breasts. She felt her cheeks grow warm.

He took a step toward her. “And I would like to know why you are in Ubasi.” He spoke in perfect but beautifully accented English, his voice rolling out from somewhere low in his chest.

“I’m with the Geographic International—”

“No.” He cut her short. “Why are you still here? Why did you not leave when ordered?”

She felt herself bristle. “I couldn’t leave. Your customs official confiscated my documents and cash.”

His eyes narrowed sharply, the chemistry in the room suddenly becoming darker, edgier.

“Why?” He said the word very quietly.

She swallowed. “He…maintained there was an irregularity with my currency declaration form.”