by Rachel Grant
“You’re an aid worker?” He said the words with an unflattering amount of incredulity.
“Yes, Chief Ford. You can run a background check if you’d like. Tell Savvy I gave you permission to see my file. Brie Stewart is my name. And when you’re done, let me know what intel she’s gathered on me. I’m curious to know if she found out what happened in Denmark twelve years ago.” Not that anything bad had happened—at least she didn’t think so—Brie just didn’t remember.
His shock that she had a real job was rather insulting given that she’d always been a hard worker, even when she made a few minor headlines for the exploits of Princess Prime. She’d worked sixteen-hour days for Prime Energy back then. She’d self-medicated over the soul-sucking job with drugs and sex, but no one could call her a slacker.
She regretted the drugs but missed the sex. Hell, she’d take up sex as a hobby again, if South Sudan wasn’t such a terrible place for it. The three men she worked with were great guys—she’d most definitely be interested in them in the first world—but she wouldn’t screw around with a coworker, not when the job was one hundred percent stress. It was a recipe for disaster.
She cast her gaze in the direction of the SEALs. Maybe she should try to get laid while she was at Camp Citron.
“Oh, I’d love to know what Savannah James has on you,” Bastian said, pulling her attention back to him. “I bet she has the same suspicions I do.”
Brie rolled her eyes. “And what would that be?”
“You were sent there by your father to ensure Prime Energy locks down the oil rights. You’re the closer for a deal certain to screw starving people out of the only valuable resource they have.”
She sighed. “Your Google skills are weak if you think I still work for my father. I quit my job at Prime Energy when I started grad school over nine years ago.” She cocked her head. “How the hell did you recognize me?”
“Ten years ago, I attended a community meeting for an oil pipeline proposal PE was ramming through the environmental impact process in eastern Washington. I sat in the front row as you defended PE’s plan to destroy an important Traditional Cultural Property to build a pipeline that would bisect the state from the Canadian border to the Columbia River. You had no respect for the sovereignty of tribes over their land. Your plan lacked even basic environmental protection for air and water, but you defended it because you didn’t give a fuck about air Indians breathe or water Indians drink.”
Well, that answered her question about his ethnic background, and it also explained why he hated her. Plus, she had no defense, because he was right. It was projects like that one that had set her on the merry path of self-medicating.
How ironic that it was that very project that triggered the decision for her to go to grad school to study cultural anthropology. After the National Historic Preservation Act and National Environmental Policy Act had been used to kill yet another major pipeline project, her father had deemed it necessary to show that someone at the top of the company hierarchy had the credentials to address NHPA and NEPA compliance in-house. He wanted her to find ways to skirt doing the necessary remediation, to be an expert witness who could refute evidence of Traditional Cultural Properties. He’d wanted her to be the cultural resources version of a climate change denier.
But in the end, her father had gotten more than he bargained for. Graduate school had been her escape route.
Her fellow grad students had helped her clean up and find the strength to turn her back on her family and Prime Energy. In grad school, she’d found purpose and a path to redemption.
But none of this could be shared with a stranger in a club on a US military base in Africa. While she knew she owed Bastian an apology for her actions as Princess Prime, she also knew nothing she could say would mean a damn thing to him. His goal here was to shame her, not find a reason to forgive her.
“PE lost that battle. The Corps of Engineers never granted our permit. You won.” She dropped a twenty on the bar to pay for her two sodas, leaving a far bigger tip than she could afford, but she didn’t want to wait for change. “Now, as lovely as it’s been strolling down memory lane with you, I have an early flight back to the mud pit I call home. Good luck and have a good life, Chief Ford.”
Bastian watched her leave, utterly confused as to why he felt like a shit for hurting her feelings, when she’d been the one who’d tried to undermine a Washington tribe’s treaty rights so her daddy could add to his billions.
The Kalahwamish Reservation, his tribe’s land, was on the Olympic Peninsula. Their land hadn’t been in jeopardy, but tribes from across the state had all come together, much like tribes across the country had rallied to stop the Dakota Access Pipeline.
His belly churned, as it always did when he thought of DAPL. He was in Djibouti, serving his country, and that same country he loved and risked his life for had screwed over the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe. For months now, he’d been asking himself if it was time to get out of the Army and go home to take up the fight to preserve freedom for his tribe and all Native Americans. How could he continue to risk his life for a country that didn’t give a crap about his people?
But damn, he loved being a Special Forces operator. After Cece burrowed her way into his family until there was no room left for him, his A-Team had become his family. Who would he be without the uniform? Without his brothers?
He loved his country. He loved his tribe. And sometimes it felt like they were still at war with each other.
He paid the bartender for the beer he’d barely touched and left the club. Night had descended while he spoke with Gabriella, or Brie, or whatever her name was now. It was full dark. The air was muggy and hot, and escaping into his air-conditioned Containerized Living Unit—CLU—held no appeal. He was restless. Antsy. Pissed off.
He walked out, beyond the buildings that clustered around the club, beyond the rows of containers that made up CLUville. They couldn’t see the Gulf of Tadjoura from this part of the base, but there was an open area that offered prime stargazing.
He’d been stupid last night in attempting to hit on the woman Pax clearly wanted for himself. Pax was on his team, one of his brothers. But it hadn’t felt that way since Yemen, and Bastian knew his own pride was the major issue. Just like with Gabriella, he’d held a grudge against Pax. But unlike with Gabriella, both he and Pax had made mistakes.
Princess Prime had crumpled under the shame he’d applied, while his attempts to shame Pax only made the soldier stand taller. But then, Pax knew he wasn’t alone in the guilt department. Bastian shared equal blame.
He was such a bastard.
Ahead of him, he could see the silhouette of a woman. She stood in the open with her face toward the night sky, her long dark hair glinting in the yellow glow of a nearby light post. He stepped closer and caught the shine of tears on her cheek.
He shouldn’t feel guilty for calling Gabriella Prime—or Brie Stewart—on what she’d done, but somehow, he did.
She was the embodiment of everything he despised. But damn, that body. She wore simple clothes that hugged her slight curves.
The jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt were nothing like the tailored suit she’d worn all those years ago. He’d been a senior in college and had known nothing about women’s clothing, and yet he could tell her suit had cost big bucks, as had her hair and makeup. Ten years ago, she’d looked like a glossy business fashion ad in the flesh. From his front-row seat, he could practically smell the money on her and it had never occurred to him that money could smell so damn good.
Cece had noticed his fixation and called him on it, claiming he had white-girl fantasies, and that he wanted to fuck the daughter of big oil.
He’d been trying to break up with Cece for nearly a year at that point and had wanted to tell her, no, he wasn’t having white-girl fantasies, he was having anyone-but-Cece fantasies, and the women he dreamed about came in all colors.
Gabriella Prime just so happened to be the latest and whitest.
Staring now at the woman who’d played a role in some rather hot relationship escape fantasies, it was amazing he’d recognized her. Brie Stewart bore only the slightest resemblance to the polished Gabriella Prime, but she was every bit as compelling. More so now, because she looked real.
She wasn’t Oil Company Barbie anymore.
She was a little thin—likely due to living in South Sudan, not because she’d relapsed into heroin addiction. He believed her when she said she’d been clean for years. If she’d been using in South Sudan, she’d look like a junkie. Drugs combined with the place would’ve hollowed her out.
He’d witnessed the combination of poverty and addiction first-hand. Princess Prime might’ve been able to maintain a polished façade while supporting a heroin addiction, but there was no way that could be done in a place like South Sudan. He’d also seen enough to recognize when someone was an addict, when they were recovering, and when they relapsed, and he was certain Gabriella Stewart Prime had gotten her shit together.
“Are you just going to stand there and stare at me, Chief Ford, or did you follow me out here to tell me more about why you suspect me of wanting to harm the people I work my ass off to help?”
“I didn’t follow you. But if those are the only choices, I guess I’ll go with continuing to stare at you.”
“I’m flattered.”
“You’re a beautiful woman, it’s a simple fact.”
She laughed softly. “No, I’m not. I mean, I clean up well—I’m not being falsely modest—but you don’t live in my world and get to maintain the illusion you’re anything special, not when everyone is so eager to point out that my eyes are too wide, my face too round, and that I should have a surgeon take care of my unfortunate nose.”
“Unfortunate nose?” He’d never even noticed her nose. It was just a nose. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s giant, obviously.”
“White people are weird.”
“I’m sure that’s true, but in this case, you might mean rich people.”
“They’re the weirdest white people of all.” He cocked his head. “So, you still rich? I mean, should I make a play for you because you’re loaded?”
She pressed her hand to her heart. “You’d be willing to overlook my unfortunate nose?”
He shrugged. “If you’ve got money, sure. I can work around the beak.”
Her laugh was genuine, and she wiped her cheek, erasing her tears. “Thank you. I needed that.” Then she approached him, stepping farther from the streetlight and into the darkness that separated them. She came to a stop in front of him and placed her hand on his chest.
He knew this was nothing more than a tease, and yet his heart rate kicked up, which was insane. Worse, she could feel the rapid beat, and there was just enough light to see her smile.
Damn, she had a smile. Sweet, sexy. He didn’t notice her unfortunate nose because he was too busy looking at her perfect lips.
She placed her other hand on his chest and rose on her toes, sliding both hands over his pecs, giving every sign she was impressed by what she felt through the thin layer of his T-shirt. She brought her mouth to within an inch of his. “Do you want to kiss me, Bastian?”
“Strangely, I do.”
“You’ll end up disappointed.”
“Why is that? Are you a terrible kisser?”
“Oh no. I take kissing very seriously. Like everything I do, I give it my full hundred and ten percent. I’m a magnificent kisser.”
He laughed. She had a certain crazy appeal. “Then why would I be disappointed?”
“Because then, of course, you’ll want to have sex with me. And you’ll probably fall in love with me, because I’m also very good at sex.”
“I could be willing to take that risk. I don’t fall in love easily.”
“But in the end, you’ll be terribly disappointed to learn that I am completely and thoroughly cut off from my family. I live paycheck to paycheck on my USAID salary.”
That was the most appealing thing she’d said so far. As if mesmerized, he found himself leaning down and pressing his mouth to hers, unsure if she’d really intended things to go this far. But even that edge of uncertainty turned him on.
Forbidden fruit had always been an aphrodisiac for him, and she represented the ultimate enemy in his world.
Her lips opened under his, and the sweltering night grew hotter as their tongues mingled. She tasted sweet, and she hadn’t been kidding about her kissing skills. The bold stroke of her tongue announced she’d absolutely intended this, and the soft sounds she made told him she enjoyed it as much as he did.
Her fingers gripped his T-shirt. His hand slid around the back of her neck. He could get lost in her mouth. He wished there was a wall to back her up against. He wanted to pin her and grind his erection against her spread legs.
His lips left hers to trail along her jaw and neck. He reached her collarbone and licked the salt from her skin, sweat put there by the humid night. He paused, closing his eyes, breathing her in.
Even her sweat smelled good. He wanted to take her back to his CLU and fuck her against the container wall, just like he’d imagined all those years ago, when he’d fantasized about banging Oil Company Barbie.
All at once, the shock of what he was doing came to him. He was making out with Gabriella Prime.
Some spank bank fantasies were never meant to become real. He’d lusted after Gabriella when he was twenty-one because she was the ultimate taboo. His parents would never approve of her in the way they did Cece. At twenty-one, it had been mental rebellion. At thirty-one? It was just stupid.
He pulled back and fixed a smile on his face. “Well, I think I survived that without suffering great disappointment. But I’m sorry to say I don’t want to have sex with you and won’t be falling in love with you. But thanks for giving me the chance to find out. Nice seeing you again, Gabriella.” With that, he turned his back on her and walked away.
2
South Sudan
One month later
By all accounts, the rains had started early this year. The roads were still passable, but in a few more days, they might disappear. Brie lay on her cot and stared up at the metal roof, listening to the musical tap of the mild storm. The roof magnified the sound. A slight sprinkle sounded like a deluge. Was it the rain that had woken her at—she hit the button to illuminate her wristwatch—just after three a.m.?
She was lucky to have a metal roof and walls. The locals only had thatched-roof huts. The storm was light right now, but they’d get worse.
Who would’ve thought it could feel hotter when it rained? This close to the equator, it was hot to begin with, but now, with the need to close the windows against the storm, it was sweltering. The thatched-roof huts breathed, at least. But they also let in water and mud.
Every time she adjusted to the…uniqueness of living here, the conditions changed. At least now she could use more than six cups of water to wash her entire body every few days. Maybe she’d grow her hair long again. She’d chopped it all off the day after she returned from Camp Citron, giving herself a super-short cut in a fit of depression.
Chief Bastard never would have recognized her as Princess Prime without the long dark hair she’d been known for. Cutting her hair had been a stupid rebellion, directed at a man she’d never see again.
Not that she wanted to see him again.
That was a definite no. He’d reminded her of the person she’d been. The woman who’d hurt people for company gain. Business first, humanity second. He believed she still was that person.
Then he’d kissed her. Soft and sensual and hot at the same time. He kissed like a man devoted to the art form, only to turn and walk away in cold, flagrant rejection.
What had she been t
hinking to let it get that far? What had she been trying to prove to him? To herself?
If she’d wanted to prove she wasn’t the woman she used to be, it would have been smarter to point out she’d worked in several developing countries over the last five years, South Sudan being only the most recent and most dangerous. She had no part in what her family did. She gave back to the world instead of taking. Not that he’d have believed her.
Kissing him had been very much the old Gabriella. His harsh reminder that she couldn’t atone for her past had her throwing herself at him to convince him to like her, to see her as something other than Jeffery Prime’s daughter and first-class oil industry shill.
But life didn’t work that way. Men didn’t work that way. Screwing him wouldn’t improve his opinion of her, and she damn well knew it. But still, in a fit of insecurity, she’d gone for the ego boost but crashed and burned on liftoff.
Pathetic to realize four weeks had passed and she was still thinking about Chief Warrant Officer Sebastian Ford and that kiss. There was something wrong with her that one conversation, one kiss, could set her so far back in her self-esteem.
But then, it probably wasn’t her self-esteem that obsessed over him. It was her body. It had been a year since she’d gotten laid, and he was a fine male specimen with his thick biceps and dark eyes.
She wondered what he looked like in his uniform, sweaty and dirty after a day of training locals in the desert sun. She’d peel off his clothing, layer by layer, and then things would get really dirty…
The crack of a bullet sounded, jolting her from her ridiculous fantasy. What the hell?
A second burst of fire sounded, then a third. Three shots in each burst.
Shit.
It was the signal. Invaders had breached the outer perimeter. They didn’t have much in the way of security at this facility. Just two guards whose job was to sound the alarm, because they lacked the ability to take on an assault force.
The list of suspects for this was endless. Boko Haram? Troops representing the current president? The former vice president’s rebel forces?