by Rachel Grant
“Nope. I’m your boyfriend. I’m in your room.”
“No one will know you aren’t sleeping in my room. The house has over a hundred thousand square feet of living space. We’ll take connecting suites.”
“Still no,” Bastian said. “You have servants. They’ll know. They’ll report to your brothers. And you won’t be safe unless we’re together twenty-four/seven. We sleep in the same bed. If a maid sees I’ve been sleeping on the couch, we’re screwed. And when we’re in front of your family, there will be public displays of affection. If your brothers get any hint there’s something off between us, the game is over.”
“I hate you,” she said sweetly by way of agreeing.
“I know,” he said, aiming for Han Solo nonchalant. He wished to hell Savvy wasn’t in the room.
“Excellent,” Savvy said. “Next item: Drugov. We want you to make contact with him as soon as possible after you arrive. I need a full report. His demeanor. How he’s changed since you saw him last. Anything and everything you can tell me.”
Brie smiled wickedly. “I could probably get him alone. I’m sure he’ll be eager to talk to me without Bastian looming in the background.”
“Fuck no,” Bastian said. “The guy is a sadist, and his victims don’t consent.”
“Agreed,” Savvy said. “You are not to be alone with Drugov, ever.”
“And my brothers?”
“If you can avoid it. I don’t recommend being alone with them either, but I know that will be trickier. They’ll be eager to separate you from Bastian from the get-go. You’re going to have to stick to your guns and keep him firmly by your side.”
Savvy glanced at a metal briefcase on the table. “Which brings us to the next item. The CIA wants you both injected with subdermal trackers. Just in case you’re separated.”
He’d expected Brie to receive a tracker and fully supported taking that precaution, but wasn’t so thrilled at the idea of being chipped himself. “Why me? That’s a waste of expensive technology. I’m not the target here.”
“Don’t get your ego in a twist, Chief Ford, no one is casting aspersions on your badassness,” Savvy said in an even voice. “You met Senator Jackson, and he was told you were part of Brie’s rescue team.”
Bastian nodded.
“Then they know you’re a Green Beret and how you met. They will almost certainly want to separate you at the first opportunity and they might not keep it legal. Drugov’s been after her for years. He’s going to be pissed you’re accompanying her. You’re getting chipped, for Brie’s safety and your own.”
Savvy reached for the box and punched in the combination after swiping her thumb across the scanner. “You both know the drill, right? Once activated, the chip will transmit for up to four hours; however, it needs a working cell phone within ten feet. It hijacks the signal and transmits your location. If there is no cell coverage, no active phone, you’ll end up draining the battery for nothing.”
Bastian knew all the weaknesses of the trackers but also knew they were the best hope if Brie should be taken hostage. For himself, he had no intention of being taken but also wasn’t so full of himself that he believed it was impossible.
After they went over the details of how to initiate the trackers—massage the spot for five seconds, or sustained pressure on the spot for ten seconds—they then identified the best place to inject the tracker on each of them. Brie opted for her left arm above the elbow, while Bastian went for his right calf, because if they each had a wound in the same location, it might be noted.
The calf location would make it harder to trigger the tracker if Bastian’s hands were tied above his head, but they all agreed it was more important that Brie’s tracker be in the easiest-to-access spot.
Savvy glared at Bastian when he told Brie the story of Morgan Adler’s abduction and how the tracker had saved her life, but she didn’t stop him. As a CIA operator, she couldn’t tell the story because it was classified on her end. Probably on Bastian’s too, but he didn’t give a damn. He wanted Brie to know why it mattered. If she needed to use the tracker, it would be a last resort but could damn well be the one thing that would save her life.
“Jesus, I swear, that hurt worse than getting shot,” Brie said after the tracker was inserted and tested.
Bastian raised an eyebrow.
She pouted. “Fine, I’m exaggerating, but still, my arm hurts.”
“While you’re in residence at the villa, I expect you to be armed at all times, Chief Ford,” Savvy said.
“I’m going to wear my Sig concealed, and I’ll have backup on my ankle, plus a knife.”
“Good.”
He looked at Brie. “If you were better trained with firearms, I’d want you to wear one too, but at this point, you’d be in more danger if someone took it from you. This afternoon, we’re going to resume the fighting lessons we began in South Sudan. We’ll pick up where we left off.”
Brie’s face flushed, and he considered his words. Where they’d left off—they’d been damn close to screwing in the hot South Sudanese sun. “No,” she said.
“You need to be prepared to fight, Brie,” Savvy said. “I’d spar with you, but I don’t have the time. And it’s Bastian’s job to teach fighting skills. So stop acting like a spoiled child and buck up.”
Brie turned her glare on the other woman, and Bastian knew exactly which nerve Savvy had stepped on. If ever anyone was sensitive at being called spoiled, it was Brie. And he knew better than anyone that while Brie had grown up in wealth that ninety-nine percent of people could only dream of, she hadn’t exactly been spoiled.
Sure, she’d had luxury items, but she’d been expected to maintain her stake in the family business with her body. “Back off, Savvy.” He turned to Brie. “I’ll keep it professional. Your safety is the most important thing here.” Hell, he didn’t give a fuck about anything other than her safety. If he had a say, she wouldn’t be going to Casablanca at all.
But Brie had agreed to go, and he would take her. He’d protect her.
Hell, he’d die for her.
It was that simple.
29
Because this was a covert operation, they flew commercial from Djibouti City to Cairo and from there caught a flight to Casablanca. Brie did her best to ignore her companion on the journey, but given the length of the flights—the first being over three hours and the second over five—it wasn’t possible.
Not long after takeoff from Cairo, Bastian reached across the armrest and entwined his fingers through hers. She jerked her hand away, and he responded by pressing his palm to her knee. “We’re going to have to touch a lot in front of your family. You’d better get used to it now, or we’re going to fail.”
She relented and took his hand, hating that the simple affectionate touch was comforting. Hating that just the smell of his skin did things to her, reminded her of how good it had felt when he’d methodically possessed every inch of her body. How safe she’d felt in his arms.
How her heart had opened and she’d gotten a glimpse of what it might feel like to fall in love. And even to be loved in return.
She hadn’t slept well the night before and leaned back in her seat and tried to doze. She turned in the tight seat in an attempt to get comfortable, but sleep remained elusive.
Even though she was going to a twenty-two-bedroom estate of which she was one-third owner, she remained broke. The government had paid for these plane tickets, meaning they were crammed into coach. She didn’t miss much about her family’s money, but when flying, she did miss first class. Now in her cramped seat, she drifted toward the warm body at her side and settled against his shoulder, hoping he’d believe she was napping and unaware that she gravitated toward him.
He chuckled and pressed his lips to her temple. “Sleep, sweetheart.”
She gave in to his offer and drifted off. She awoke with a jolt sometime later. A glance out the window showed they were just about to land. Extracting herself from Bastian’s shoulder,
she stretched to cover her flustered state. She’d been dreaming of Bastian—not surprising considering she’d been breathing his scent for hours—and in her dream, he’d been so sweet—like the night he’d crawled into her bed on the aircraft carrier.
She longed for the simplicity of that night, but of course, now she knew even that had been fake. Savvy had put him up to it. Nothing was ever simple. Except maybe the time they kissed while dancing in South Sudan.
Now she needed to act like touching him, being near him, didn’t break her heart. She needed to look at him like she was in love with him, and more than anything she feared he’d see it wasn’t entirely an act.
While he’d been working, she’d been…herself. She’d let him get to know both her Stewart and Prime halves, something she’d never dared with anyone else.
She turned to the window. They were low over the trees now, coming in to Mohamed V Airport. This had always been one of her favorite places—as a teen, she’d loved the sights, sounds, and smells of Casablanca and spent as much time as she could away from the villa, exploring the North African city.
She’d loved the souks, traditional marketplaces that were a maze of alleys and narrow streets where vendors sold spices, jewelry, food, and clothing. The colors, the scents, the language—she’d drunk it all in. It was in the souks that she’d begun to learn Arabic. She’d also spent as much time as she could on the public beaches and exploring the medina—the old walled city.
She’d last visited a year ago, not long after learning she owned one-third of the property. She’d financed the trip by ditching her Seattle apartment—using her rent money to buy her plane ticket—and upon her return, she’d crashed on a friend’s couch as she made arrangements for the South Sudan job. It had been worth it for the month-long break.
The wheels of the airliner touched down.
She was home. Sort of.
Bastian wasn’t thrilled to discover that Brie hadn’t been teasing about taking him clothes shopping first thing. She took him to a fancy mall with a giant fish tank that featured small sharks along with thousands of other fish species. After buying clothes for herself at Dior, she dragged him outside to catch the musical fountain’s hourly performance, then she took him to Armani to outfit him.
“My dress uniform will be enough.”
“It’s perfect for Nikolai’s party, but you’ll need suits to dress for dinner and other social functions.”
“You don’t really dress for dinner.”
“When business is being conducted, always. And we will if Drugov comes to dinner. You need to look the part.”
“The role I’m playing—the part I need to look—is your boyfriend, who is Army Special Forces, not some asshole who can’t sit at a table without flaunting his wealth by wearing a two-thousand-dollar suit.”
“I call the shots on this part of the op. I know my family, these people. This world. And to fit in here, you need overpriced clothes.” She patted his cheek. “Think of yourself as Cinderella, cupcake.”
The jab set his teeth on edge. “You think I’m not good enough for you, Brie? As I am? Kalahwamish soldier?”
She scowled at him. “Of course not. This isn’t about me or what I think. If anything, you’re too good for Gabriella Prime.”
There she was wrong, but he wouldn’t say it. She’d made it clear she didn’t want to hear the truth and he wasn’t one to try to shout down brick walls. To breach a brick wall, you take out the mortar, and that was what he would do with Brie. One brick at a time, he’d chip away at the surrounding grout. “Then why the hell do I need to play dress up when the point is I’m not from your world?”
“But you’ve got to act like you want a spot in my world. If you don’t, if you play the part of the rugged soldier who has no fucks left to give, they’ll fear you. But if you act like you want in, if you play by their stupid rules and pander to them, they’ll think they have leverage, and their guard will drop.
“These aren’t tech billionaires or others who’ve made their own fortunes. For the most part, everyone you’ll meet here inherited their wealth. With this particular crowd, it’s all about the money and letting everyone know where they rank in Forbes. I’m not saying everyone who inherits is this way. It’s just true of my father’s crowd. They have no time for or interest in the quietly wealthy. In this instance, they’ll see you as just another guy who is fucking me for my money—and the last laugh is on you because I’m broke.”
“You’re one-third owner of a palatial estate in Morocco.”
“But I can’t sell it. I can’t mortgage it. I can’t turn it into cash in any way, and I’m maxing out my credit card buying us both clothes today.”
“Which is why you shouldn’t buy the damn clothes.”
“No. It’s exactly why I need to do it. For the same reason. If my brothers think I want back in the fold so badly I’ll mortgage myself to fit in, they’ll think they’ve got game when it comes to pushing me toward Drugov. As far as my brothers know, what I saw in South Sudan scared the shit out of me and I want the luxury and comfort of being a Prime again. I’ll do whatever it takes to get back in the fold. That’s the game we’re playing here.”
“No one is selling you to Drugov,” he said quietly.
“No. But we want them to try. And they can’t feel threatened by you or it won’t happen.”
He let out a sigh. “Okay.” He stroked her cheek. “I’ll do anything to protect you. Even follow you into hell and buy a pretty suit to wear when I get there.”
She held his gaze, and for the first time, the sheen of hurt slipped away.
He’d loosened the first chunk of mortar.
“But I’m buying the damn suit,” he said. “I’m not Cinderella, and you aren’t going to bankrupt yourself for this op.”
“They’ll run a credit check. They’ll know you paid for the suit.”
“I’m counting on that, darling. That way they’ll know how much I want to play their stupid game.”
She smiled slowly, and he liked the look of respect in her eyes. “You’re good at this.”
“Honey, my people have been playing the white man’s games for hundreds of years. Your brothers are fucking amateurs.”
She rose on her toes and brushed her lips over his.
One brick down. A thousand more to go.
Bastian pulled the rental car—a basic Honda because he didn’t intend to waste more money on a ridiculous façade—into the circular driveway. Before he could climb out to get Brie’s door, the valet was on the job.
They had a full-time valet?
“Miss Stewart, it is a pleasure to see you again.” The olive-skinned valet couldn’t be more than twenty-one.
“Thank you, Tarek. It’s good to be home.”
Bastian was impressed she knew the guy’s name, but then remembered she’d been here a year ago. He stopped at the trunk to grab their bags, but Brie gave him a slight shake of the head.
Right. The valet or the butler or one of the other servants could get it.
Servants. It wasn’t even a dirty word here.
He met her under the arch of an elaborate entranceway and offered his arm. She looped hers through his, and they strode up twenty-five meters of red carpet that was flanked by columns and raised a step at five-meter intervals. An arched roof covered the long walkway, which ended in wide ebony double doors carved in bas-relief.
One column and step before they reached the finish line, the doors opened, and a dark-skinned middle-aged man who must be the butler greeted them. “Welcome home, Miss Prime.”
“Thank you. I don’t believe we’ve met?”
“Youssef, ma’am,” he said with a slight bow.
“Nice to meet you, Youssef. You must call me Ms. Stewart.”
“Of course, ma’am. Ms. Stewart.”
“Are my brothers in residence, Youssef?”
“Yes, ma’am. But they are out for the day. Golfing, I believe.”
“We will settle into my rooms
, then. Please have our bags delivered and unpacked. We’ll take tea in the pool garden in thirty minutes.” She cocked her head toward Bastian. “Cognac for Chief Ford. Hennessy.”
Bastian wasn’t a fan of cognac, but she must have other motives for ordering the drink.
“Yes, ma’am. Which room shall we have readied for Chief Ford?” There was a disapproving tone in his voice.
She laughed as if his question was a delight. “Mine, of course.”
With that, Bastian accompanied Brie into the most extravagant private home he’d ever seen. He couldn’t hold back a low whistle. “Shit, babe,” he said, intending for the butler to overhear. “We are not in South Sudan anymore.”
Seriously, the idea that she’d gone from this marble-columned foyer with triple archways and—he glanced upward—carved ceilings, to pit toilets and thatched-roof huts was astonishing.
Her laugh was light and bright, like a new penny. He doubted anyone else noticed it was fake. “Wait until you see our room.”
He slid a hand over her ass and turned her toward him. He kissed her lightly as he squeezed her butt. “Youssef, make it forty-five minutes.”
Brie had stiffened under his touch, but she recovered quickly and her body pressed to his, warm and sultry. Her tongue slid into his mouth, then withdrew, so fast he ached for a real taste. Her eyes were hooded and hot, but there was a hardness too that only he could see. Her voice was husky as she said, “Well then, we’d better hurry.”
They climbed the wide curved stairway to the third floor, and he learned she hadn’t been kidding about her room. It was at least eight hundred square feet with a curtained four-poster king-sized bed centered along the back wall. The room had three separate sitting areas with sofas and plush seats, a breakfast nook, and an office alcove. Double doors opened onto a large, lush private balcony that overlooked the Atlantic Ocean.
Brightly colored mosaic tiles decorated a deep sunken tub in the bathroom, which also had a separate shower with more masterful mosaic designs. He wanted to make love to Brie in that shower, in that tub, and on that bed. The sofas didn’t look comfortable, so he’d skip those, but the balcony…yeah. There too.