by Cherry Adair
The small marina curved to the left. On the right the dockyard, and in the middle the small curved beach and resort hotel. The hotel was a piece of shit. Old, run-down, badly managed. The marina had brand-new berths, but currently boasted one small yacht and several beat-up fishing boats.
Right on the beach, almost blocking the view from the hotel, was an enormous structure that looked like a German castle. Abi was proud as hell of the biggest church ever constructed on the African continent. Simon pulled up some numbers in his head from the intel dump he’d received before he came to the country. Only twenty percent or less of Mallaruzis were Catholic. Islam and indigenous animist religions made up the balance.
Where did Abi think the shitload of Catholics needed to fill that cathedral would come from when it was completed next week?
But that was Abi. Bigger, brighter, more expensive. That was just the way he liked it.
Simon did a visual scan of the docks. Two container ships rode low in the water. A third cut a frothy white line diagonally across the bay on its way out to sea. Mallaruza exported mainly crude oil, agricultural products like cassava, rice, and peanuts, and some exotic woods.
He wondered idly why the other two ships didn’t take off if they were full. He’d noticed them several days ago, before his and Kess’s little adventure, and the ships hadn’t moved since. If they were already loaded for export, they were wasting time sitting in dock. If they had imports, they should’ve been offloaded by now.
He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. Hell, he had bigger problems than the maritime snafus caused by the inept Mallaruzi longshoremen.
“Ready to rock?” Kess asked coming up beside him and putting her hand on his bare arm. He had an instantaneous primitive physical reaction to her touch, and this time was no different, despite their difference of opinion.
“All done?”
She shrugged, not understanding where Simon’s irritation came from. This was her job. And weren’t the two men longtime friends? Hard to imagine today. “The trucks are already on their way,” Kess told him reasonably. Maybe he was having sexual remorse. Like buyer’s remorse, only worse. Maybe in the heat of passion—literally—he’d forgotten that she wasn’t his future Stepford wife, and now he felt—God. Kess had no idea what he felt.
Was Simon a sulker? Was he jealous of her relationship with his pal? No, nothing so emotional. The logical explanation was that he had more important concerns, something deeper and totally unrelated to her. He was a professional, and so was she.
“I’d like to stay here and make sure this interview goes as planned, but he wants us to go. Please don’t make a big deal out of it, okay? He’s under a tremendous amount of pressure right now. He doesn’t need any more aggravation.”
Simon shot a frowning glance at the president, who was now talking to his aide in quiet under-tones across the room. “He’s a shoo-in, where’s the pressure? Fulami and Kamau don’t stand a chance, you told me so yourself.”
“Just because he’s going to win reelection by a landslide doesn’t mean he isn’t under pressure. Historically there have been more coups d’état than free and fair democratic elections in Mallaruza. The country’s been plagued by political instability and mutinies originating from development, security, and economic crises for years. All you have to do is look around to see the political climate is tense. The only way the current president can rule his country right now is by pursuing a military solution against the Hurenis and whoever else’s political agenda is to overthrow him.”
Kess searched Simon’s face for hints as to what he was thinking. “Do you have issue with his policy?” Simon wasn’t just a closed book; Mr. Counterterrorist operative deluxe was a closed, locked, book. The skin over his cheekbones was pulled taut, and his green eyes glittered like emeralds under fire. She didn’t like it.
“What’s wrong with you?” she burst out, totally bewildered that he could go from hot to frigid in one short drive across town. “Care to tell me why you’re so damn touchy? You and Mr. Bongani have been friends forever, so what’s got you in a snit?” You seemed to be a happy camper two hours ago when you had your tongue in my mouth.
“You forget that it’s been more than a decade since Abi and I spent a measurable period of time together. We’re friends.” Simon shrugged a broad shoulder. “Or at least we were. From what I’ve seen, government control and services outside of the capital of Quinisela range from minimal to nonexistent.” He brushed a finger up her frown line. “Don’t scowl at me, sweetheart. Abi’s doing his best. But this is a monumental problem added to an already monumental problem.”
Sweetheart? Kess blinked at the endearment. Simon didn’t seem to have noticed that he’d called her anything.
“Put it this way: Lacking the authority to govern and protect its borders, Mallaruza is an easy launching pad, training ground, or rest and relaxation spot for armed groups from neighboring countries. Worse, your president is inviting millions of people into a country already overflowing with refugees he’s been letting in for the last couple of years.”
“Which shows how compassionate he is.”
“Maybe.” Simon glanced across the room at the president and his aide for a moment. “The northeast province is a haven for irregular armed groups from Huren. Wasn’t last year’s attempted coup reportedly launched from that area? Plus foreign forces have also come into the country from its porous southern border with the Democratic Republic of Congo.
“So while I admire your dedication and loyalty to Abi, and don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying it isn’t warranted, there’s something—Hell. Call it a gut feeling. Instinct. Something is off and I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
“He’s scared! Wouldn’t you be with that kind of responsibility?”
“Yeah. I would. But there’s scared and then there’s scared.”
Kess decided not to pry into the psyche of a male unlike any she’d ever met before. If he wanted to tell her what had his boxers in a knot, he’d tell her. If not, then…then not. “You’re hungry.” Because she certainly was. “Come on.” She tucked her hand in his arm and gave a little tug. “There’s a little café down the street that serves the best BLTs, and we’re early enough to miss the lunch crowd. We can go and grab a bite to eat and then catch up with the trucks.”
He looked like he’d argue, but then her stomach rumbled and he gave in.
They ate lunch, Simon finding enough of an appetite to eat his sandwich and fries before finishing hers. They walked back to city hall to pick up a vehicle, not holding hands, but sharing a companionable silence. Simon was quiet and introspective the entire time. Since he wasn’t normally chatty as far as she knew, this wasn’t exactly a large leap from normal. But it was enough for her to notice.
“Are we going to teleport?” The idea thrilled her.
“No.”
The power outages, and what they might mean, scared her. “Because of the short circuits?”
“That and the fact that Abi wants us to take our time so he can join us near the end of our trip.”
“How could he possibly…do…that?” She spun around, walking backward as she realized what the subtext of Simon and the president’s early conversation had been. “He’s also a wizard?”
“You’re going to trip over something walking like that.”
Kess turned around, but she was looking at Simon as she walked. “Is he?” He hadn’t been kidding. There were wizards all around them.
“He’s a Half wizard.”
“Are you half or whole? What’s the difference?” Fascinated, she wanted to ask a million questions. But one glance at Simon’s closed expression told her he wasn’t likely to answer any of them right now. “Never mind.” She tucked her hand into his elbow. “We can talk on the way.”
Simon made a noncommittal sound as they headed to the car pool behind city hall.
“Are you feeling okay?” Kess finally asked as they headed north out of town in a brand-new, tri
cked-out, black Range Rover bearing the presidential flag on the hood.
“Yeah.” Simon put on a pair of dark glasses and adjusted the visor. “I’m good.”
He looked damn good. Which made her heart flutter, and instead of asking about his health, she blurted, “Do you want to tell me what’s going on in your head?” Like you’re sorry as hell you had sex with a non–wife candidate? Couldn’t be. Men weren’t that squeamish about having sex with a willing woman. “Does your mood have anything to do with us?” Crap. There, she’d said it. Her words hung in the air for a moment.
Simon’s jaw clenched, but he was all tough silence as he pulled the heavy car to the verge of the road. They were just outside the city limits, and the abandoned commercial buildings on either side of the road looked sad and depressed. He wasn’t going to answer. Kess glanced around. Junk cars, newspapers, and a mangy cat sitting on the burned-out skeleton of a car. Nothing moved.
Maybe now wasn’t the time or place to act like a girl. She checked the lock on the door. “Nice neighborhood.” She felt eyes on them from all around. Probably rats, or men with machetes, or drug dealers. Or gang members waiting to steal the tires off the car before murdering the two people in it.
The sun shone brightly, but a shiver ran up her spine at the urban decay and the absolute isolation of the place. She’d driven by this area dozens of times, but it wasn’t exactly a scenic place to park.
“Do do, te do do, te do—” she sang. “I’m just waiting for the Jets and the Sharks to come out snapping their fin—”
With a smothered laugh Simon reached over and slid his hand under her hair, then pulled her up against him and kissed her. Hard. Kess’s brain melted as his tongue swept into her mouth and his fingers slid up to cup the back of her head. “I’ve been wanting to do that for hours. I hate to be thwarted.”
She could taste his bad-boy smile. Sweet and salty and addictive. She was in such big trouble. Kess wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back. No confusion or second-guessing here. Simon wanted her as much as she wanted him.
He kissed her for an eternity, until Kess wouldn’t have cared if the rats carried them off to their lair, car and all.
They broke apart, both breathing heavily. “You’re a five-pound bass on a two-pound line, woman.”
She blinked, trying to regain her sense of balance. “You’re sort of smiling, so I’m guessing that’s not a bad thing.” Her entire body pulsed with desire. Holy Mother of God the man was potent.
Simon started the car and pulled back onto the road. There wasn’t another vehicle in sight. “Not a bad thing—a puzzling thing.”
A bright flash of sunlight highlighted the scars across his long, tanned fingers as he drove. Kess scooted closer to him, drinking in the smell of his skin, enjoying the heat emanating from his body. Reaching out, she touched a finger to the back of his right hand. “How’d you get these?”
“Had a hard time with spelling as a kid. One of the women paid to take care of me was a good speller. She thought the metal edge of a ruler would improve my learning curve.”
Kess felt sick. “That’s child abuse. How old were you?”
“Eleven.”
She sucked in a breath.
Simon chuckled. “It’s all right—go ahead, ask me how to spell onomatopoeia.”
“It’s not all right.” She bet he’d mastered all sorts of skills as a kid. Her eyes prickled and her heart ached with empathy. “Were all the foster homes that awful?”
“No. Some of them were worse. Some tolerable. Learn and grow. I did both. Have you noticed anything different in Abi’s behavior lately?”
God. She didn’t want to talk about the president, her heart ached for Simon. She could see by the tight line around his mouth that the subject was closed. Kess grabbed his hand and draped his arm around her shoulders. He didn’t resist, just brought the other hand up to steer. Kess leaned against him, tucking her body against his. They fit perfectly.
“He’s been the same as long as I’ve been here,” she answered. “Different how?”
“Tell me about his opponents.”
“Ffumbe Fulami got his law degree at the University of Cape Town. He was born right here in Quinisela. He’s forty-six, married to the same woman for twenty-four years. They have a twenty-two-year-old daughter, Efia, who’s attending the Sorbonne in Paris.”
“And he’d make a bad president of Mallaruza why?”
“Other than his series of underage girlfriends? Or his affiliation with the Russians? He’s weak, susceptible to bribes, and spends a lot of time in the South African casinos.”
“What about the other guy?”
“Jungo Kamau is single. Forty-two, likes to sail—that’s his fancy yacht in the marina, but he’s very low-key. Has a lot of money. Some of it family money from timber exports, but most of it was smart investing and a thriving export/import business as well as working as the minister of finance. I must admit that he’s done a pretty amazing job bringing the country—if not into the black, then reasonably close. No easy task.”
“Women?”
“He has a live-in lover. Male. I believe they’ve been together for something like twenty-five years.”
“That means married, not single. Does the fact that he’s homosexual impact how the voters perceive him?”
“I don’t think so. If he wins the election the country will get not only a savvy businessman, but the bonus of a first husband who’s a City Planner. Why?”
“I’m trying to figure out who would be the best president and why.”
“The current president will be the best president,” Kess told him firmly. Lightly she ran her fingers through the hair on the arm slung over her shoulder. She’d rather bury her face against it, but the man was driving and while there was nothing but grass and sky around them, they did have a destination. She wondered what he’d do if she started undoing the buttons of his jeans as he drove. Hmm.
Titillated and amused, she let the idea percolate. “Abi’s young, single, well educated, and, more important, he’s proven that he cares deeply for his people.” Simon’s legs were spread as he drove. One foot on the accelerator. His well-worn jeans stretched over the natural bulge of his penis as his foot pressed down on the accelerator.
“Ever heard that when something is too good to be true, it usually is?”
Kess placed one hand very deliberately on his hard thigh. “I’ve heard it, but it’s not always true. Abioyne Bongani’s a great man, and he’ll put Mallaruza onto the world stage.”
“Would you believe that if you weren’t his publicist?” Simon asked dryly.
“Yes.” Her cell phone rang and she hooked the handle of her new bag with her foot to grab ahold of it without letting go of Simon. She checked caller ID, then answered, “Hi, Nelson.” Nelson McKay was her attorney in Atlanta. This was only the second time he’d called her since she’d been in Africa. She crossed her fingers that he had good news.
“Sorry, Kess. The lead we had on Angela Sidel hit a dead end. Have you thought of anyone else we can call as a witness?”
Kess shifted out of Simon’s loose hold, sliding across the seat. The scenery whizzed past the window, and even though there wasn’t a freaking cloud in the sky, everything was suddenly overcast. “We’ve been through this, Nelson. No. No one. Angela was the one I was—No one that I can think of. I’m sorry.”
“Me, too. Look—this PI is costing you a bundle. Want me to tell him to keep looking, or have him stop?”
He only had to look for another couple of weeks. If Angie didn’t show up, Kess’s goose was cooked. “Keep looking. Please.”
“All right. See you in court. Two weeks.”
“I’ll be there. Thanks, Nelson.”
“Look after yourself over there,” he told her. Nelson had never been out of Georgia, let alone to another country. He’d thought she was certifiable for taking this job. He thought she should have accepted being fired, and if her assault charge was dropped,
sued the company for loss of wages, etcetera. Just thinking about it made Kess’s head ache.
“I will.” Kess disconnected and tossed the phone back into the open bag.
“What are you appearing in court for?”
She felt a sigh hovering inside her chest, but didn’t let it out. “Aggravated assault.”
Simon shot her a flatteringly amazed look. “You’re joking, right?”
“No. Because of who the victim was, the DA upped it from misdemeanor simple assault to aggravated assault. The sentence is three to twenty years if I’m convicted. The son of a bitch was over sixty-five, which carries a stiffer penalty.”
“I can’t begin to imagine you performing aggravated assault on anyone. Were you set up?”
Kess’s eyes welled. “Other than my family, you’re the only person to ask me that question. But no. I did assault someone. Before I came out here, I worked for Wexler, Cross, and Dawson in Atlanta. I was with them for four years. Loved the work and my clients, but my boss, Todd Wexler, was a sleaze. Fortunately I didn’t have much interaction with him, other than being able to see him through the wall of frosted glass between our offices.”
Simon reached out and hauled her back against his side, then wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “Cowardly piece of crap that he was—” Kess rested her head against Simon’s broad shoulder—“he’d target some poor woman in the office who needed the job and couldn’t report his improprieties. Someone like a single mother, or a recently divorced woman. Then he’d sexually harass them, forcing them to have sex with him or they’d be fired.”
“Jesus.” Simon squeezed her upper arm, his tone savage. “Did he rape you?”
“Me?” Kess lifted her head an inch. “Hell no. I gave him a black eye when he tried to grope me on my first day there. No. He pretty much left me alone after that. But his personal assistant—”
“Angela Sidel?”
“She came to work for him last year. She was in an abusive marriage, and has a six-year-old son with Asperger’s, she needed that job. Over time, she’d gradually opened up to the rest of us a little about her hellish marriage and abusive husband. The women in the office rallied around, and convinced her to report him, and get help. She was remarkable, and finally got a divorce.”