Seducing the Mercenary
Loreth Anne White

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

About the Author

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

Copyright

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.”

Innocent lives like his sister’s. Like her small children.

Bitterness filled his throat. It was always the innocent who suffered in this business of war. His business.

“There is also that science team sponsored by Geographic International—”

The image of the woman he’d seen in the street earlier that day once again took haunting shape in Laroque’s mind. She’d stood out like a siren among the crowds that had gathered to greet him. Something about her had unsettled Laroque deeply. It was the way her violet eyes had looked at him, right into him. Cool fingers of warning raked through him, indistinct like mist over a jungle swamp. He blew them off sharply.

Perhaps she was part of the science team, perhaps not. It didn’t matter. Either way she and every other foreigner would be out of his country by nightfall.

Laroque checked his watch. “The team should have landed in Ubasi nine hours ago. Turn them round, tell them they no longer have my sanction for their study.”

“If they refuse?”

“Anyone who has not left for the airport by curfew hour tonight is to be brought here to the castle. Tell them it’s for their own safety—Ubasi could turn into a war zone at any moment.”

Laroque watched the heavy doors swing shut behind his general, and he clenched his jaw.

Someone was trying to manipulate him into a violent confrontation with the United States. He needed to know who and why, and he needed to know ASAP. If anyone defied his orders to leave Ubasi, he wanted them in his palace and under his watch, because it might just give him a lead, some small clue as to what the hell was going down.

And God help anyone trying to undermine him. Laroque would sacrifice nothing for his dream of freedom now. Because he had nothing left to lose.

And that made him the most dangerous kind of man.

Chapter 1

Nine hours earlier. 06:02 Zulu. Friday, November 8. Ubasi airport. West Coast of Africa

Perspiration dampened Dr. Emily Carlin’s blouse as she neared one of two customs checkpoints.

There was no electricity in the cramped Ubasi arrivals room this morning. Fans hung motionless from the ceiling, the only light in the terminal coming from doors flung open to white-hot sunlight. Even at this early hour everyone was already dulled into slow motion by the rising temperatures and humidity.

The line of passengers shuffled slowly forward and Emily moved with it, people jostling her on all sides. She’d been informed Ubasi possessed no X-ray equipment and the additional lack of power made it even less likely they’d find the knife strapped to her ankle under her jeans.

It was small protection, but she didn’t expect much trouble. Her mission was simply to get into the beleaguered war-torn country wedged between Nigeria and Cameroon and assess the sociological situation. Most importantly, she was to compile a psychological profile of notorious mercenary Jean-Charles Laroque, known on this continent as Le Diable, a fierce and deadly guerrilla war expert, master military strategist, and now, a dictator.

She had exactly one week to do her job. Laroque’s life depended on her assessment.

Just over twelve months ago the Parisian-born Laroque had sailed into Ubasi on a Spanish boat with a scruffy black Alsatian at his side, a rough band of mercenaries under his command, and a cache of black market weapons in his hold. After putting up a weak fight, the beleaguered Ubasi army had surrendered to Laroque.

Xavier Souleyman—the despot who had overthrown Ubasi’s King Douala eight years previously and ruled the country with a bloody hand ever since—had escaped Laroque’s capture and fled the country with the aid of a small band of loyalists.

Laroque had wasted no time moving into the royal palace, installing himself as de facto leader, and after negotiating with the rebels who had seized control of the northern jungles of Ubasi during Souleyman’s reign, Laroque had assumed personal ownership of massive tracts of land where his geologists had proceeded to strike oil—enough to potentially rival production in both Nigeria and Equatorial Guinea combined.

That fact alone had catapulted the once-forgotten country and renegade warlord instantly onto the world stage.

In less than a year Laroque had managed to broker unheard-of treaties with disparate rebel factions over the border in Nigeria and Equatorial Guinea—radical militants who opposed their own corrupt governments’ financial ties with Western corporate interests in the Gulf of Guinea.

This placed Laroque in an exceedingly powerful anti-status-quo position. He now had the power to spark a major civil war in the region that could cut off oil supply to the rest of the world for decades to come—oil that had recently become critical to U.S. foreign policy, given the current tensions in the Gulf of Arabia.

On top of this, four deep cover CIA agents in Ubasi had just been slaughtered, their bodies displayed using the same gruesome signature technique once employed by Laroque’s mercenary father as he’d cut an increasingly bloody swath across the continent before meeting his own violent end two years ago.

Laroque seemed to be sending a message to the U.S.: Get out. Stay out. Or else.

And here Emily was going in.

She mopped her brow with a damp and tattered tissue as the queue inched forward again and heat pressed down.

Emily was a Manhattan-based expert in tyrannical pathology with a military background of her own. The minds of dictators, organized crime bosses, renegade warlords and murderous despots were both her passion and her professional specialty. Alpha Dogs, she called them.

She’d been contracted by the Force du Sable, a private military company based off the West Coast of Angola, to profile this particular Alpha Dog. The FDS in turn had been retained by a CIA-Pentagon task force in a clandestine bid to control the Laroque “situation.” His threat in the region was becoming too great for corporate and political comfort.

The U.S., however, could in no way be overtly involved in a bid to oust the new Ubasi tyrant. Nor could the CIA trust its own at the moment—the source of the intelligence leak that had resulted in the deaths of the four CIA agents represented a grave internal security breach, which was why the FDS had been brought in.

Emily’s assessment of Le Diable would be used by the FDS to formulate strategy. She needed to identify where the tyrant’s psychological weaknesses lay—and in her experience, they always lay somewhere—and she had to pinpoint what fired him. While much was known about Laroque’s military exploits in Africa, virtually nothing was known about the man himself.

No one knew what made him tick.

Emily’s job was to figure out what did.

She also needed to ascertain whether taking him captive would exacerbate an already volatile situation in the Gulf. To do this, she’d have to determine how his subjects viewed him—as evil despot, or charismatic leader. Tyrants wore both stripes, and the last thing the U.S. wanted was to make the man a martyr.

If taking Laroque prisoner was not an option in Emily’s opinion, the result would be death by assassination before midnight on Thursday, November 14.

Meanwhile, a team of FDS operatives was infiltrating Ubasi from the north. They would gauge the power of the exiled Souleyman faction, and start negotiations to back Souleyman in another coup to overthrow Ubasi. The FDS team on the ground would also get Emily out of Ubasi if she ran into trouble.

Emily didn’t like the idea of swapping one murderous tyrant for another, but the U.S. did. Souleyman was easy to control. Laroque wasn’t.

The oil business made strange bedfellows, she thought as she removed her water bottle from her bag, but politics was not her concern. Her sole interest was the Alpha Dog.

But while Alpha Dogs like Laroque were her intellectual thrill, they were also highly unstable—and dangerous. And she hadn’t been on a mission for a while.

A combination of anticipation and anxiety shimmered through her stomach as the queue inched closer to the customs checkpoint. She uncapped her water bottle and took a swig of the warm contents.

She could not afford to screw this one up.

She couldn’t afford to screw anything up. She’d left enough of a personal mess in Manhattan as it was. She needed this job. And she needed to do it right—for both professional and personal reasons.

Her nerves tightened as she glanced at the line of passengers on her left, the one with the rest of the Geographic International science crew—her cover. It was moving much faster.

She’d been separated from them by a soldier who called himself the “document man” and roughly shunted to the line on the right. Emily wondered if she’d have been assigned to the faster queue if she’d given the “document man” cash. But she was saving her two hundred dollars in bribe money for the big important-looking guy manning the customs booth ahead. She had another two hundred dollars U.S. stashed in her Australian-style bush boots as backup.

Perhaps she should have brought more.

She was uncharacteristically hot and edgy this morning, and it was not a sensation she enjoyed. Emily liked to stay cool and in control—always. She tried to shrug off her uneasiness, putting it down to the pathetic mess she’d left in New York. She was tired, emotionally drained, still reeling from her recent relationship fiasco.

The angry heat of humiliation once again flushed her cheeks. She’d been lured over the boundary between professional and personal, made to look like a fool. It had been a damn stupid mistake, and it would never, ever happen again.

She irritably swiped the sweat off her lip with the base of her thumb. This FDS contract could not have come at a better time. She wanted to put as much physical distance between herself and her ex—if she could even call him that—as humanly possible.

She needed to focus on someone else’s pathology, not her own.

Emily was almost at the customs booth now, and her pulse quickened. She shot a look at the other line, saw the last of the science team leaving the terminal, and cursed silently.

While FDS leader, Jacques Sauvage, had hastily cobbled together a deal with their sponsors that allowed her to tag on to the Geographic International team, the scientists themselves had no idea why Emily was actually here, and they were under no obligation to coddle her. In fact, they’d been instructed by their sponsor to ask no questions at all. She cursed herself again. She should have forked over the damn bribe.

The customs official motioned for her to approach.

“Passeport?” he commanded in heavy African bass.

She handed it over along with her currency declaration form.

He flipped open her passport, glanced at her photo, looked up and met her eyes.

Her mouth went dry.

He smiled, teeth bright against gleaming ebony skin. “And what have you got for me today, Dr. Sanford?” he asked in deeply accented English, using her alias.

She slid a hundred dollar bill across the counter, watching his face. He stared at the money, his smile fading.

She pushed another note slowly across the counter. “It’s all I have,” she said in English.

“Vous êtes Américaine?”

Her heart beat faster. It was patently obvious from her passport what her nationality was, and now he was refusing to speak English. “Oui, je suis Américaine.”

“Raison de visite?”

A ball of insecurity swelled suddenly in her throat. “I’m here with the Geographic International science team,” she said firmly, in English, wishing to hell the crew hadn’t left without her. She unfolded and handed him another piece of paper that had the Ubasi palace stamp on it. “See?” She pointed to the signature. “We have permission from the Laroque government.”

The official didn’t even pretend to look at the piece of paper. His eyes continued to hold hers. “Currency declaration form?”

“I gave it to you, with the passport.”

“Non—”

“I did! Look, it’s right there,” Emily said, pointing.

The man shook his head, raised his hand high above his head and clicked his fingers sharply. Two armed guards left their station at the exit doors and started making their way toward his booth. Emily’s heart pounded wildly against her rib cage. “What’s going on?” she demanded.

“There is a problem with your currency declaration,” the customs official said in French, before turning to the next person in line. “Passeport, s’il vous plaît?”

“No, there isn’t. Wait! You haven’t even looked at my form. You—”

The guards took her arms roughly. “Venez avec nous.”

Emily jerked back. “Why? Why must I go with you? Where to?”

But the guards hauled her briskly away.

“What about my luggage?” she snapped, dangerously close to losing her temper. “I haven’t collected my bags yet.”

But they remained mute as they forced her through a crushing crowd of people, all of whom studiously averted their eyes. The reaction of the crowd wasn’t lost on Emily. She saw it as a blatant sign of fear of government authority. These people were terrified of Laroque’s goons, she thought as the guards forced her into an interrogation room. She whirled round as they shut the door and locked it.

Stay calm. Breathe.

But no matter how Emily tried, she couldn’t. The room was airless. The temperature had to be more than 100 degrees, humidity making it worse. Her jeans clung to her legs, her hair stuck to her back, and rivulets of sweat trickled between her breasts. Emily shoved the damp strands of hair back off her face. She refused to let this man or his country get the better of her!

She refused to let any autocratic male make a fool of her.

The heat of humiliation burned into her cheeks again. Damn, she was displacing her anger and she knew it. She needed to focus on this tyrant, not her ex. That’s why she was here. She was a profiler for God’s sake. She could do this.

She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to take stock. She still had her knife, her traveler’s checks, her satellite phone, camera and, most important—her computer.

Anything she typed or downloaded into her laptop would be relayed via satellite to a monitor on the FDS base on São Diogo Island. It was state-of-the-art military communications technology, and it was how she would file her daily briefs, along with her final report on Laroque.

Just as she was thinking she’d be okay, the door banged open against the wall. Emily jerked in fright, heart pounding right back up into her throat.

The customs official loomed into the room. “I will see your checks and francs.” He held out his hand, palm up.

“I…beg your pardon?”

He didn’t budge.

Emily reluctantly opened the pouch strapped to her waist and forked over the wad of traveler’s checks and francs she’d had to declare on the form.

The man thumbed through the wad slowly, mouthing the amounts as he did. He looked up sharply. “There is a discrepancy. The amount here is not the same as you declared on the form.”

“It is. I—”

“This is illegal. You are smuggling currency. You will pay a fine of fifty thousand francs.”

“What! That’s ridiculous. That’s…almost ten thousand dollars. I don’t have that kind of money on me!”

“But you can get it, yes? You will have your passeport confiscated until you return to the aéroport with the francs for me personally, ça va?”

Emily looked at him, stunned. Without her passport she was a prisoner in Ubasi. And illegal. She wouldn’t be able to obtain the visa all tourists had to buy in Basaroutou within twenty-four hours of landing. This was pure corruption. She cursed viciously under her breath. These men had targeted her because she was American, female, separated from her crew, and because she possessed expensive equipment. She was, in their eyes, a perfect candidate for extortion. And who the hell could she complain to? Their dictator, Jean-Charles Laroque?

She cursed again as the customs official abruptly departed, leaving the door swinging open. A guard waited outside with her bags, which no doubt had been searched.

Emily grabbed them from him as the guard took her arm, marshaled her toward the exit doors, and dumped her and her belongings unceremoniously onto the dusty streets of Basaroutou.

A riot of colors and sounds slammed into her, and for a second she just stood blinking at the chaos. People jostled her on all sides, dressed in everything from swaths of brightly colored fabric to tattered western dress and stark white tunics. Women carrying baskets on their heads hawked the contents, and on crumbling sidewalks vendors peddled everything from exotic fruits and strangely shaped vegetables to mysterious oils in brown bottles and weird-looking shriveled animals.

Poverty was clearly evident, as was a mélange of cultures. But the faces Emily saw were not ones of milling discontent. Her first impression was an air of industry and purpose.

She hadn’t expected this, but then virtually nothing was known about Ubasi under Laroque’s rule.

She shaded her eyes, sun burning down hot on her dark hair. Most of the buildings were dun-colored and flanked by impossibly tall, dull-green palms that rustled in the hot wind. Cerise bougainvillea clambered up walls pockmarked by years of war and roads were dusty and cratered with disrepair.

Emily squinted into the light as she searched for something that vaguely resembled a roadworthy cab.

Thankfully she still had what was left of her bribe cash in her boots. Passport or not, she had a job to do. She’d contact the FDS from the hotel and see what she could do about getting her papers back.

But as soon as she tried to elbow her way through the people thronging the sidewalks, she sensed a shift in energy that made fine hairs at the base of her scalp stand on end. She stilled, suddenly acutely cognizant.

There was a strange tension in the air. The mass of humanity around her was growing tighter, quieter. A dark anticipation began to throb tangibly through the crowd.

Emily’s pulse quickened.

Soldiers were beginning to clear the street and line the road, holding people back with automatic weapons.

The air literally began to crackle with a mounting expectancy. Then the crowds grew suddenly hushed, and now she could hear only the rattle of palm fronds in the wind. Something was coming.

Emily’s heart beat faster.

She began to look for exit routes. She knew from experience situations like this had a way of rapidly flaring into extreme violence. But anything vaguely resembling a cab was a good hundred yards off, and the crowds were closing her in even as her brain raced to comprehend what was going on. She was trapped, being wedged and jostled down toward the curb that edged the main street. She gripped her bags tight against her body and peered down the road, trying to see what was happening.

A burst of automatic gunfire suddenly peppered the air, and she jerked back as a convoy of military Jeeps rounded the corner at the bottom of the road. Soldiers triumphantly brandished AK-47s high above their heads, firing with abandon, the sound ricocheting between buildings as the convoy roared up the street.

Emily ducked as the vehicles neared her vantage point, but to her surprise, instead of fleeing in terror, the crowds around her surged forward, singing, ululating, chanting in such a strangely harmonious and resonant chorus it chased shivers over her skin.

Emily slowly stood, awestruck by the elemental effect of the primal sounds on her body.

The first set of Jeeps raced past in a cloud of fine dust. Then the haunting hush returned, silent anticipation thrumming in the humid air. Emily’s heart began to pound like a drum as she leaned forward, trying to see all the way down the road.

A large open-topped military vehicle flanked by smaller Jeeps rounded the corner and crept slowly up the street. The crowd was so deathly silent that the only sound above the growl of engines was of the government flags snapping on the hood. As the big Jeep drew closer, Emily saw what they’d been waiting for.

Their leader.

Adrenaline dumped into her blood. She was seeing Le Diable in the flesh for the first time.

Jean-Charles Laroque sat high in the back of the vehicle, regal, utterly confident. Everything about him telegraphed power.

The sleeves of his camouflage shirt had been rolled back to reveal gleaming biceps. His shoulder-length black hair was drawn back into a ponytail of dreadlocks that accentuated the aggressive angle of his exotic cheekbones. He wore pitch-black shades under an army beret cocked at a rakish angle over his brow.

At his side sat his faithful Alsatian, Shaka. The dog’s fur glistened in the sunlight, its teeth starkly white against a pink tongue as it panted in the heat.

A hot thrill slid sharp and fast through Emily’s stomach.

The Jeep drew close, coming right up alongside her, and a strange primal awareness prickled over her skin. Emily could not have looked away if she tried.

Laroque turned his head, slowly scanning the crowd, then his gaze collided with hers. His body tensed visibly. He raised his dark glasses slowly, looked right at her, into her, isolating her from the crowd, cutting her from the herd like prey. He was close enough for Emily to see that his eyes were ice-green against burnished mahogany skin, and just as cold, devoid of any humor or glimmer of kindness.

She could barely breathe. Her own eyes watered as she met his gaze, unable to blink. Not wanting to. The crowds around her faded into a distant blur, the silence becoming a deafening buzz as her world narrowed to focus solely on him.

Laroque shifted around in his seat, watching her as his convoy crawled up the road…then he was gone.

Emily stood rooted to the spot, dust settling around her as the crowd erupted in a riot of sound. She tried to catch her breath.

What in hell had just happened here?

This man clearly had the adulation of his people. She hadn’t expected that. Nor had she expected the effect he would have on her.

She swallowed, suddenly gravely uneasy with what she was about to do, with the very real impact her profile would have on this country, these people and that powerful man.

Because Emily wielded a power of her own.

Her professional judgment could kill him.

In less than one week.

Chapter 2

18:00 Zulu. Friday, November 8. Hotel Basaroutou, Ubasi

“They’re gone, Jacques. The entire science team had left by the time I arrived at the hotel about two hours ago.” Emily spoke in low tones on her encrypted satellite phone from her hotel room, hot wind whipping through the ragged banana leaves outside her window. “Le Diable’s militia has ordered all foreigners out of the country before curfew.” She glanced at her watch. “Which is now.”

It was already getting dark out, night descending like clockwork so close to the equator. There was also a thunderstorm brewing. “He seems to have shut down the borders in retaliation to the U.S. State Department advisory issued earlier.”

“The State Department is worried about hostility against U.S. citizens,” said the FDS boss. “No one has any idea those murdered Americans were operatives. They were deep cover.”

“You think he’s preparing for some kind of military strike?”

“Could be. I’ll keep you posted. Our men can extricate you within two hours from when you sound the alarm.”

“Apparently there were also five hostages taken from Nigeria by his rebels early this morning. That’s the word here at the hotel,” Emily said softly.

“We’re on to that,” Jacques said. “Looks like three of those hostages are U.S. nationals, and two Nigerian. They were taken from the security barracks of an oil outfit. Apparently Le Diable’s rebels are transporting them into the Purple Mountains and heading toward the Ubasi border. No ransom demands. Not yet.”

“Unrelated incident?”

“I never assume anything on this continent, but it could be. It’s a common enough occurrence. In the meantime, it’s fortuitous your papers were confiscated—it gives you a legitimate excuse to stay in Ubasi and defy the evacuation orders. See how long you can play it, and keep us updated.”

“Gotcha.”

“And, Carlin…stay safe.”

Emily signed off, and bolted the louvered shutters against the hot storm wind, anxiety tangling with emotional fatigue in her body. Perhaps she wasn’t ready for this after all.

01:27 Zulu. Saturday, November 9. Hotel Basaroutou, Ubasi

The night was intensely humid and close. Tattered leaves slapped at her shutters while Emily tossed and turned in fitful sleep. She’d swapped her T-shirt for a skimpy camisole, and still she was soaked with sweat.

Her dreams that night were of Le Diable—dark, sultry images full of smoke and heat and pulsing drums, his green eyes piercing the blackness, his hands touching her in ways she shouldn’t even begin to imagine. Her body was hot with desire—and panic. She was breathless. Running. Trying to escape. Someone was yelling at her, screaming that she must flee, that she was in danger. She awoke abruptly, confused, drenched.

She opened her eyes, trying to gather her senses, and realized with shock that the screaming was real. Emily jolted upright in bed, heart slamming against her breastbone.

Someone was banging on her door!

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.”

“Was there?”

“Of course not. The man didn’t even look at my form. It was extortion, pure and simple. He cut me from the crowd because I was female and had become separated from my group. He said if I want my documents back I must pay a fifty-thousand-franc fine. I don’t have that kind of money on me. That is why I’m still here.”

Muscles corded visibly along his neck, yet his voice remained measured, calm. “What was the official’s name?”

Emily’s stomach tightened. She didn’t yet know where this man’s trigger points lay, and she didn’t like the way his cold eyes and level voice clashed with the invisible anger that seemed to be rolling off him in disquieting waves. This man was barely leashed violence. He was dangerous.

“His name,” he insisted, even more quietly.

“I…I didn’t get his name.”

Laroque spun on his heels, reached for the communications device on his desk and punched a button. He issued orders in rapid Ubasian, his tone completely unemotional. Emily didn’t understand a word, but there was something about his concealed tension that said it all—the customs guy was done for.

He released the button, turned to face her, the muscles in his neck still bunched tight. Silence descended on the room. It was then that Emily realized she was shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he said, taking a step toward her, his voice suddenly as smooth and rounded as cream liquor over ice. “I do not condone extortion in any form, especially concerning a woman. I’ll have your passport returned by dawn.”

She lifted her shoulder in part shrug, part nervous reaction, his sexist comment not escaping her. “It’s the way of this continent—”

“Not in Ubasi.” He took another step toward her. “We will not manage to attain a democracy unless we root this sort of thing out now. I need my people to trust authority. Not fear it.”

She felt her eyes widen.

He smiled, a quick and piratical slash against his dark skin, so fleeting she almost missed it. “You did not expect an apology?”

“Honestly? No…no, I didn’t.”

He pursed his lips, the light of flames shimmering in his eyes. It was an unexpectedly intimate look, a trick of the firelight. It reminded Emily of her state of undress, and the fact that he still had not offered to make her comfortable in any way. He still wanted something from her.

And he wanted her on edge to get it.

“What…what’ll you do to the customs official?” she asked, wanting to probe his character, to use her limited time with him as best she could. But at the same time she was wary of pushing him.

“He’ll be punished.”

“How?”

He arched a brow. “You’re interested?”

“Well…I…” Tread carefully here, Emily. “I’ve heard about the Laroque legacy on this continent, and I—”

“I am not my father. I will never be like him.” Although spoken quietly his words were terse.

Emily noted his reaction. His father was a sensitive point. “I’m sorry,” she said gently. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

He regarded her intently. “You don’t believe the customs official should be punished?”

Watch yourself, Emily. He’s assessing you, just as you are him.

“It appears,” she said, selecting her words with care, “that this man broke the law. Certainly justice should be done. But perhaps you could define the Ubasi version of ‘punishment’ before I can offer a considered opinion.”

“Ah, a diplomat?” He smiled quickly, turned, strode away, then spun suddenly back to face her. “As well as a scientist.”

He was closing in, yet giving her the illusion of physical space by walking away. This man was good. He understood people, psychology. And he knew how to use it. Most tyrants did.

“Your name is Emma Sanford—Dr. Emma Sanford. You’re from New Jersey. You’re both a sociologist and a psychologist.”

Emily nodded. “That’s correct.” He’d gotten those details from the papers she’d had to file with the palace before joining the G.I. expedition. He was probably having her background checked this very minute.

She knew the identity Jacques had given her would hold. They always did, whether she went in as a nun, aid worker or reporter. Yet she felt as though Laroque could see right through her.

She folded her arms over her stomach as she spoke, and his eyes followed the movement of her hands. Damn. He was reading her defensive body language. The movement had come so instinctively in response to his question that she’d covered herself before she’d even realized it.

She didn’t make mistakes like this. Laroque had managed to throw her way off center, just as he’d intended by bringing her here half-dressed in the dark of night.

And there was something in his penetrating gaze that made her intimately aware of her own femininity. He was all male. All in control. A very real and personal panic suddenly sliced into Emily. It caught her off guard and she fought to regulate her breathing.

She needed to stay focused. Professional.

“So what is a sociologist-psychologist doing with a team studying a volcano?”

She swallowed. She’d known this was coming next. Jacques’s idea had been for her to play as close to her identity as was comfortable so that she could legitimately ask questions about Laroque’s mental state without drawing suspicion.

“It’s not just the volcano,” she said. “We also wanted to look into the sociology of the villagers who live on the flanks of an active volcano. My specific role is to examine the psychology associated with dwelling on the shoulders of a geological monster that could erupt at any moment.” She hesitated, watching for some kind of reaction in his eyes, but he gave away nothing. “I’m professionally intrigued by what rationalizations a society uses for remaining in that kind of danger. I also want to examine the mythology and religion that has evolved around living on a live volcano.”

A genuine interest crept into his eyes. It was the first real sign of emotion in him, and it emboldened her a little. “That’s basically my goal here in Ubasi—to do that research and to compile a series of articles for our sponsor’s magazine.” She allowed her eyes to flicker briefly to the side, feigning a touch of coyness. “I was also hoping to examine life in Ubasi under the new leader. I’m told things are improving in the country,” she said, forcing a soft smile.

He said nothing.

She tilted her head, met his eyes and deepened her smile, fully aware of what she could do to a man, if she wanted. “You’re an enigma,” she ventured. “A French soldier of fortune who came out of the blue to take an African country for himself. It’s a bold and fascinating story.” She stepped closer to him. “That’s more than an article, Your Excellency,” she said, using his official title. “That’s a book.”

His eyes flared briefly. “I gave no sanction for a book.”

“I know. A book is my personal interest, an adjunct to my work with the Geographic team. I’d been hoping to request an interview while I was here.”

This is where feminine flattery should work on an autocratic personality. This is where the Alpha Dog should be seduced into talking about himself. But Emily had just succeeded in unsettling herself—because not only was she physically ruffled by this man’s proximity, the idea of a book on the warlord-turned-tyrant was something she actually wanted beyond this FDS mission. She was hewing too close to her own desires.

He studied her quietly, shadow and light playing over his features. For a moment she thought she glimpsed a softening in his eyes, a shimmer of sadness, even, a small window opening to the real man inside.

“I see.” A ghost of a smile tipped the corners of his lips. “For a moment there I thought you were going to compare living on an active volcano to life in Ubasi under my rule.”

Emily wasn’t sure whether she was expected to laugh, or if he was playing her, just as she was playing him.

Confusion coiled inside her. Thunder crashed, right above the castle this time, unleashing the full brunt of the storm. Rain lashed against the walls, and wind howled, billowing curtains and ferrying a mist of fine droplets into the room.

He held out his hand in a sudden gesture of magnanimity. “It’s late. Allow me to offer you accommodation, Emma—may I call you Emma?”

“I…yes, of course.”

“Stay in my palace, be my guest for the night while we sort out your passport issue.”

Hope fluttered in her chest.

“You will then leave Ubasi before noon tomorrow.”

Her heart sank right back down. “So…there’s no chance of an interview, then?” she asked, trying to push her luck.

He held her eyes for several long beats, as if deciding whether to even answer.

“What good would a book do me, Emma?” he said.

She decided to play her wild card. It was dangerous, and she knew it, but she’d glimpsed the little chink in his walls, and being bold enough to go for those barely perceptible vulnerabilities was what had made Emily the uncanny success she was at psychological analyses—so successful, in fact, her peers often joked about her being psychic. Plus, she was running out of face time with Laroque. If she didn’t move now, she’d lose her window completely. She’d fail her mission.

“A book could show people that you are not like your father, Your Excellency.”

His mouth flattened and his eyes narrowed to slits. He took a step closer to her, and she felt herself tense.

“It’s not the truth the world wants to read, Emma,” he said darkly. “What is true is less important than what is widely believed. People prefer to believe in monsters.”

“Monsters like Le Diable?” She watched his eyes. “Or monsters like Peter Laroque?”

He came close to her, very close, and he lowered his voice to a soft murmur near her ear. “What if I am like him, Emma?”

Heat began to burn low in her belly. But she didn’t shy away from the penetrating intensity in his eyes, or from his closeness. “That’s your fear, isn’t it?” Her voice came out a whisper. “You’re afraid that deep down somewhere you are like him. But I don’t believe it.” And she didn’t. She was going on a raw gut feel here, taking one hell of a gamble. “Let me stay, Your Excellency,” she said gently. “Give me the interview time. Please.”

A muscle pulsed under his eye.

He leaned down farther, his mouth coming very close to hers. “What do you really want from me, Emma Sanford?”

She shivered at the sensation of his breath, warm against her skin, and for a nanosecond she wasn’t sure what she wanted. Her heart began to race so fast she could barely breathe. She tried to moisten her lips. “Just…the interview time.”

He studied her in silence that vibrated like electricity between their bodies, his eyes probing hers, searching for something. Emily felt herself begin to burn from the inside out.

“I need to know something first, Emma,” he said softly, his eyes lancing hers. “Do you understand just how dangerous things are in Ubasi right now?”

Oh, boy, did she ever. In more ways than one. She was in trouble. Every warning bell in her system was clanging for her to step away from him. Right now. Run. Flee! This was a man who could convince a woman to cross the line into sin with one little crook of his finger. This was exactly the kind of man she must avoid, the kind of man who got her into personal trouble.

Except this time she couldn’t flee. This time the man she feared on a very personal level was her professional mission. And this time, her life might be on the line.

Whether he was like his father or not, Emily had little doubt Le Diable would kill her if he learned she had come to destroy him.

“I do,” she whispered, eyes burning from the effort of sustaining his gaze without blinking. “I know exactly how dangerous.”

Chapter 3

A dark whisper of warning breathed through Laroque as her violet eyes held his steadily. “I saw you,” he said, watching her carefully. “In the street this morning.”

A nebulous look swam through her eyes. “I know.”

Something rich and dark slid through his stomach. She’d felt the same connection, he could read it in her eyes, hear it in her voice. Every last strand of primal DNA in his body fought to override rational thought at this moment.

He loved the way her hair fell in a dark tangle almost to her waist, the way freckles ever so faintly dusted the pale skin over her nose. And he was particularly attracted to the sharp intelligence that sparked in her unusual eyes. This woman presented challenge.

And nothing fired Laroque like a challenge.

It fueled a voracious appetite in him—for victory, dominance. It made him want to play the game.

There was no doubt in his mind that he’d take her physically, should she dare offer.

But he didn’t trust her.

He’d be damned if he didn’t want to, though. The notion of sharing his personal story with her was strangely compelling.

He’d never told anyone his life story before. He’d borne his scars solo since the age of thirteen, pretending the opinions of others never bothered him.

But they did.

Deep down, if he really was truthful, Laroque wanted people to understand that while he’d learned the art of guerrilla warfare and the techniques of torture and death from his father, while he’d been forced to follow, and depend on, and fight with Peter Laroque for his very survival, he was not at all like him.

Yes, he’d become a mercenary, because it was what he knew, and he’d become very good at it. But he had his boundaries. His game was always an ethical one. And what he wanted for Ubasi—for the entire region—was good. Bold, yes. Overambitious, perhaps. But it was for the benefit of the majority who lived in increasingly abysmal conditions in contrast to the rapidly growing oil wealth of a few corrupt leaders.

The romantic part of Laroque actually wanted to believe that this woman had been dropped into his life like an angel.

But he wasn’t a fool, and he did not believe in coincidences. He also had trouble believing her science crew would just abandon her like this.

He needed to check her out. Thoroughly.

In the meanwhile, he needed to be sure she was safe. His castle was the best place for her tonight.

“You’ll agree to the interview, then?” Her voice was midnight velvet, soft and powerful at the same time. It was the kind of voice that made a man aware of his sex. And that made her potentially dangerous.

“You’re welcome to stay the night,” he said bluntly.

Surprise showed in her eyes. “Is that all?”

“That’s all. I’ll have my men show you to the guest quarters. They’ll escort you to the airport before noon.”

He stepped back and summoned his guards.

Langley, Virginia. CIA headquarters

CIA director Blake Weston pored over the reports on his desk. The death of his men in Ubasi ate at him like acid.

He rubbed his face, inhaling deeply.

He had what appeared to be an extremely serious intelligence breach on his hands. His agents in West Africa had been deep, deep cover. The exposure of their identities indicated an information leak, and it could only have come from the inside. At least this is how it would be viewed in Washington. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

Blake was new to this top job, and the White House was watching carefully to see how he handled his first major crisis. His agency had to be seen to be acting swiftly, decisively and ruthlessly to root out any possible mole. Blake was also aware that his career depended not only on his actions at this critical juncture, but on the political perception of his actions.

Which is why the Laroque-Ubasi situation had been instantly outsourced to the FDS, an objective organization, while the CIA could be seen to be dealing with its own internal security issues. Blake had no doubt the FDS would effectively eliminate Jean-Charles Laroque and pave the way to stability in the Gulf of Guinea.

But that didn’t solve the disclosure of his men’s identities. That was the problem that burned him. That was what would come back to haunt him.

He shoved his chair back, stood, unscrewed his bottle of pills, popped two into his mouth. This clandestine cooperation with the Pentagon only confounded things. He’d been put hands-on in charge of the new joint task force, and any failure would reflect directly on him. He chewed his medication slowly, thinking. This business was full of mirrors and shadows and smoke—one never really knew who or what one was dealing with. Or what the agenda was. He could use this to his advantage.

But getting off this particular tiger was going to be tricky. Maybe impossible. It could even cost him his life. If Blake was to have any chance of actually riding this one out, Laroque had to take the fall for the agents’ deaths.

If Laroque died with Washington believing the tyrant had somehow discovered the CIA agents’ identities on his own, the mystery—all the niggling questions—would die with him. Then Blake’s problem would simply disappear.

There was just one little hitch—the profiler. The FDS had insisted on this approach. Blake had been dead set against it. He didn’t need some academic from New York declaring the tyrant fit for capture, he needed him dead.

He glanced at the calendar on his desk.

The FDS profiler had less than one week to make her move. It had damned well better be the right one.

03:17 Zulu. Saturday, November 9. Ubasi Palace

Emily lay on the king-size bed staring at the impossibly high ceiling. The door had been bolted from the outside. When she’d protested, the guards had said it was for her own safety. The balcony was too high to climb down. She’d checked.

She was imprisoned like a damn princess in a castle tower.

Her bags had been delivered to the room, but her computer, phone, camera and knife were all still missing. Emily had little doubt Laroque was going through her things with a fine-tooth comb, checking out her story—her identity.

She told herself she shouldn’t worry. It was state-of-the-art military issue, and everything was encrypted. The FDS techs were among the best in the world. They’d have been careful not to leave digital clues. Laroque wouldn’t find a thing.

So why didn’t she feel more secure?

She figured the only reason she was still here in his castle boudoir was so that he could thoroughly check her cover story. Perhaps he hadn’t believed a single word she’d said. She wondered if she’d even see him again.

Emily tossed irritably on the Egyptian cotton sheets as the wind moaned up in the parapets and rattled at the French doors on her little stone balcony.

The more she thought about it, the more she really liked the idea of a book. Laroque exhibited classic Alpha Dog pathology, yet he’d only recently become a dictator, which meant she had an opportunity to witness a monster-in-the-making. Scoring a one-on-one interview with Le Diable would not only secure her FDS mission, it could earn her academic prestige down the road.

It would give her something to take back to New York.

Emily desperately needed some sort of professional—and personal—validation after being so thoroughly humiliated by her ex and her peers. Anger surged through her at the memory. She sat up abruptly in the bed, forced out pent-up breath with a puff of her cheeks.

She did not want to go back to New York a failure.

The fiasco she’d left at home had forced her to question everything about herself, every choice she’d ever made in life—from her career to the men she dated. And she really didn’t want to face those questions. Not now. Not yet. Maybe never, if she could help it.

She wanted excitement, adrenaline, something big to focus on right now, other than herself.

This wasn’t running, she told herself. Sometimes you just needed distance.

She slid off the bed, snagged the water jug on the dresser and poured herself a glass. She took a swig but the liquid balled in her throat.

Her eyes began to burn and hurt tightened her chest.

She’d trusted her ex.

Hell, she’d even thought she loved him. But it had just been a game—a bet he’d taken with his colleagues that he could not only bed the brainy ice queen, but make her fall for him.

She plunked the glass down, shoved her hair back from her face and cursed viciously.

She had fallen for him. His name was Dr. Anthony Dresden. He was much older, an esteemed university professor who did consulting at her clinic. Not only had he made a mockery of her, but he’d lured her across a line she should never have dared cross—that line between personal and professional. A vital line in a field like hers.

What made it worse was the fact she’d once confided to Anthony that she was concerned about her consistent attraction to dominant and physically powerful males—men like her dad. She’d told Anthony she was beginning to think she subconsciously found ways to sabotage her relationships with men like this as soon as they showed signs of getting serious. That’s why her relationships never lasted more than eighteen months. She invariably grew afraid that if she committed wholly to the alpha guy in her life she’d be trapped. That he’d undermine her independence and ultimately quash her. Like her dad had quashed her mother.

To death.

Emily was deeply afraid of not being in control, always. Because in her heart, Emily was terrified that she was really just like her mom. Weak.

Dr. Anthony Dresden, a man she’d once respected on so many levels, had used her secret fears against her.

He’d taken a substantial monetary bet one very drunken night over dinner with a group of his—and her—male colleagues. He’d wagered he could seduce the brainy ice queen—that’s what they called her—and make her fall for him. He’d bet he could date her longer than any of her previous relationships. He’d told his friends that it was more than sex for Emily, you had to get her at her own game, a mind game.

It was pure betrayal.

When their relationship had gone over that eighteen-month hurdle, Emily’s heart had begun to feel light, as if a huge weight had been lifted from her. She thought she might be truly in love, that Anthony was the one.

Tears slid hotly and angrily down Emily’s face.

He hadn’t collected on the bet.

When she’d found out about it via the grapevine, she’d been devastated. Anthony told her he’d called the bet off because he’d come to care deeply for her. He said it had been a lark, something he should never have allowed to happen. He’d pleaded with her for the relationship to continue. That’s what made it worse—the fact that he said he really did love her.

All he’d done was reinforce her deep-rooted pathological fears. Because in a powerfully intellectual and physically subtle way, Anthony was an alpha himself. She’d fallen for his calculated seduction, and he’d used her own mind against her. And everyone who mattered in her career knew about it.

Emily threw herself back onto the pillow and closed her eyes tight. No, she could not go home.

Not yet.

Not until she’d proved something to herself.

05:45 Zulu. Saturday, November 9. Ubasi Palace

A soft peach bled into the ink sky. Monkeys stirred in the branches below, and the sound of birds rose in a soft chatter. Laroque stood on his balcony, hands flat on the balustrade, surveying the dark jungle canopy.

The storm had blown through, and he was enjoying the rich scent of fecund earth. In a few hours the forest would be an oppressive place, steaming under the sun’s fire. He liked these predawn hours best.

He hadn’t slept, but he was used to not sleeping. He’d learned since a boy how to push, and keep pushing, to rest only when the battle had been won. He wouldn’t be alive otherwise.

“Sir?”

He spun round to face Mathieu Ebongani, the technician who’d been busy with Emma’s equipment.

“Mathieu, did you find anything?”

The tech stepped onto the balcony. “Her ID checks out.”

“What about her equipment?”

“It’s beyond my scope, I’m afraid. Her satellite phone and computer are fitted with highly sophisticated GPS and encryption technology,” he said. “We’re going to need Ndinga if you want to try to decode it.”

“Is the technology consistent with a science mission of this nature?”

The tech’s mouth twisted. “It looks more state-of-the-military to me.” He paused. “It’s her laptop that worries me. It appears to be communicating at a low-level-signal strength with another off-site station, even when turned off.”

“GPS?”

“No, this is something different.” He hesitated. “I haven’t seen anything like this before. We’d learn more by opening the hard drive up in a forensic environment, but again, we’ll need Ndinga and his team for that.”

Laroque’s pulse quickened. “What about her computer files?”

“Encrypted, but she does have a photo in there that I could access.”

“Photo?”

“From the Parisian Press archives. The caption says it’s you at age thirteen being taken from the hospital by your father.”

A band of muscle tightened sharply across Laroque’s chest.

His mind was yanked instantly back to a day he’d rather forget. His mother had been famous. She was always in the tabloids, and by default, so was he, the young boy hanging on to the skirts of the glamorous African model, or so it had looked to the world. It was logical Dr. Emma Sanford would have dug one or two of those out, especially if she wanted to work on a book. Yet it made him feel strange. Vulnerable. Especially that specific image.

Did she know it represented the turning point of his life?

“Anything in her e-mail?” he asked, his words unnecessarily clipped.

“Only correspondence with Geographic International headquarters.”

“Thank you. Keep her equipment for Ndinga’s return,” Laroque said, dismissing his tech.

He turned to watch the peach sky deepen to burnt orange, then blood-red as the fiery ball of sun crashed over the Purple Mountains in a wild symphony of color. He breathed in deep. He loved the African sky. It was bold. Confrontational. Always changing.

It defined him.

He hadn’t been born here, yet this place pulsed rich through his blood. His mother was an Ubasi native, his father a third-generation South African of Dutch heritage. Laroque himself had been born and schooled in Paris, but from the age of thirteen this continent had been his heart and soul.

People from other parts of the world didn’t understand the differences, the laws of this vast and elemental land. They couldn’t. The things that happened here just weren’t in the lexicon of the West.

It made him mad…and, strangely, glad. He was as conflicted about this place as it was conflicted itself.

But he did know that if Ubasi and the rest of the Niger Delta was to survive, thrive even, he needed to bridge that vast gap between Western ideology and African. The rebel oil alliance was the starting point, the foundation of something big, a local OPEC and an army with some real negotiating power for the people of the Delta.

He wondered just what part in this unfolding melodrama Emma Sanford was to play, if any. There was a chance she was telling him the truth, but things weren’t adding up well enough to make Laroque comfortable.

Her computer equipment had only raised more questions.

If she was broadcasting he wanted to know to whom—and why. He needed to hang on to her gear long enough for Mano Ndinga, his top IT genius, to return and look into it.

Laroque checked his watch.

Mano and his team were busy installing a network at the Nigerian base of one of Laroque’s allied rebel militias. They’d be back in roughly four days. Laroque couldn’t hold Dr. Emma Sanford prisoner until then. It would cause an international outcry.

He could just ship her out of the country. However, if she was some kind of informant, she might be a vital link to whatever was going on behind the scenes in Ubasi. He’d be a fool not to milk that angle—it was the only lead he had. And if worse came to worst, she might end up a valuable negotiating tool.

She’d have to stay on her own volition.

He’d have to make it her choice.

He drew the morning air deep into his lungs again, and breathed out slowly. If the lady was playing a game of deception, she was good. But he’d show her that he was better.

And keeping one’s enemies close—very close—was never a bad idea.

8:07 Zulu. Saturday, November 9. Ubasi Palace

A loud rapping on the door ripped Emily from sleep. She jolted upright, squinting as she tried to focus. Bright bars of sunlight streamed through shutters, throwing slatted patterns on the walls. Her head felt fuzzy, her mouth dry.

The banging continued, louder.

She stumbled out of bed and headed toward the door, belting the silk robe she’d found behind the bathroom door tightly around her waist as she went. She pulled on the brass handle, and it gave—the door had been unlocked from the outside. She drew it open cautiously, shoving her tangle of hair back from her face as she did.

Muscled pecs under a snug-fitting crisp T-shirt greeted her at eye level. She stared numbly, her brain trying to kick back into gear. She lifted her eyes slowly and met his clear, penetrating gaze. Her stomach somersaulted, and she grounded herself by reaching for the door handle, his eyes instantly tracking her movement. Did this guy not miss a damned thing?

“Good morning,” Laroque said in his exotic African-French accent, a smile reaching right into his luminous green eyes, making them sparkle with unspeakable mischief.

The effect rocketed through Emily like dynamite. And damned if her cheeks didn’t flush. She reached up to smooth down her hair.

“You slept well?”

“I…yes. Thank you.” It sounded trite. She’d been abducted and locked in a turret, for goodness’ sake. “I was tired. I was dragged here at 2:00 a.m.,” she added defensively. “What…time is it, anyway?”

He held up her passport. “Time to leave Ubasi.”

She stared at her passport in his hand, her ticket to freedom.

She reached up to take it from him, but as she tugged at the passport, he held tighter, his fingers connecting with hers, the sensation electric. Emily’s breath caught and her eyes whipped to his face.

“I have a proposition,” he said. “Take the passport, and leave Ubasi before noon. Or—” He paused, watching her way too intently for comfort. “I keep the passport, and you stay and interview me. Your choice. My terms.”

Her heart was now racing so fast she could barely breathe. “Your…terms?” Her voice came out thick.

“Stay in my palace, under my constant guard. If we do venture beyond the fortress, you do not leave my side. Understand? Not for one instant. No exceptions. It’s for your own protection, of course.”

Emily appeared to be incapable of disconnecting from his touch, of letting go of her passport, her ticket to freedom. Her mind reeled. She should leave, for her own good. Perhaps she wasn’t yet mentally ready to handle this man and the strange seductive power he had over her.

Then she recalled the mission, why she needed to succeed. She thought of New York, of her ex, of the utter humiliation and pain that awaited her.

She’d be Laroque’s voluntary captive. She’d have exclusive access to Le Diable in his inner sanctum, an extremely rare opportunity to watch one of her Alpha Dog subjects at work. She’d have access to information that could help the FDS.

This was an opportunity that might never present itself again.

This was what she wanted—wasn’t it?

A dark, sensual excitement tangled with rising adrenaline as conflict raged through Emily. He was making it her decision. He was making her a partner in her own captivity. It was a power play.

Laroque could destroy her if she stayed. He would kill her if he found out who she was working for.

This is life and death, Emily. This is the real thing. Wake up, here, think straight.

Logic screamed at her to leave, screamed that she was basing decisions on flawed reasoning, on personal issues, not professional ones. Logic told her that at some level she was dangerously attracted to this subject, and it reminded her of all the trouble she’d ever gotten herself into when she’d tangled emotionally with A-types. And those men in her past didn’t even begin to hold a candle to the kind of power and sexual charisma Laroque possessed.

Neither were they killers.

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