Short Fuse: Elite Operators, Book 2

by Rebecca Crowley

  The glitter of gold drew them together…but danger might blow them apart.

  Elite Operators, Book 2

  As Nicola Holt, head of social and corporate responsibility for Garraway Gold, takes her seat on a flight to central Africa, she’s excited about making a real difference in a country recovering from civil conflict.

  And a blood-pumping bonus? The hot guy she spotted at the gate isn’t just her seatmate, he’s her ride to Garraway’s Hambani mine. He’s also a gentleman, as she discovers when he deftly takes care of a couple of unruly passengers.

  Explosives expert Warren Copley is headed for a private contract job in his least favorite industry—gold mining—thanks to a temporary suspension from South Africa’s elite tactical police division, the Special Task Force. But even the darkest clouds have a silver lining, and this one comes in the form of the easy-on-the-eyes redhead who turns out to be his coworker.

  As soon as they touch down they realize Hambani isn’t on an even keel. In fact, it’s balanced precariously on the machete-edge of complete destruction. And before they can discover the combustible attraction between them, they’ll have to escape with their lives.

  Warning: Contains two strong-willed individuals, a country on the brink of collapse, and a powder-keg attraction with sensual, explosive results.

  Short Fuse

  Rebecca Crowley

  Dedication

  To my husband and technical consultant, Kevin, whose writing about mining will actually change something someday.

  Chapter One

  Nicola pressed the power button on her phone and leaned back in her seat. She loved her job, but this was her favorite moment of every business trip—disconnecting from the office and spending the whole flight reading. Now all she needed was a glass of wine. Or maybe a mimosa, considering it wasn’t quite nine o’clock in the morning.

  She stowed the phone in her purse and pulled out the thick paperback she was already a third of the way through, then dropped it on her seat as she stretched to shove her purse into the overhead compartment. Her short stature meant she didn’t usually bother trying to store items above her seat, but since she was on the bulkhead in business class she knew the flight attendants wouldn’t allow her to keep her purse by her feet during takeoff.

  She was pushed up on her tiptoes, angling the purse over her head so the contents wouldn’t fall out when she felt a warm, solid presence at her back.

  “Let me get that for you.”

  Please let it be that hot guy from the lounge. She turned with hope tightening her throat, then grinned at discovering her prayer had been answered. The same man she’d been ogling from behind her laptop screen took her purse and slid it deep into the overhead compartment.

  He looked even better than he had from ten feet away, as she confirmed that his hair was black, not dark brown, and he was in fact as tall as the legs extended under the table had suggested. As she met his eyes to say thank you, she noted they weren’t light blue, as she’d thought, but a peculiar, true gray. Like brushed steel. Or graphite. Or the kind of cloud that creeps in over the horizon and then hangs, heavy and powerful, promising thunder and rain and lightning beyond belief until—

  “I think that’s my seat.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. Thanks for putting my bag up, I appreciate it.” An unfamiliar heat rose in her cheeks as Nicola scooted out of the way, too flustered by the intensity of her interest in this man to be excited that they’d be sitting together for the next four hours.

  He shoved his Army-green duffel into the overhead compartment, leaned in to retrieve a hardback book before zipping it shut, then slid past her into the window seat. She sat down beside him, and when she finished buckling her seatbelt and glanced over he was reading his book, which she took as a conversation-precluding signal.

  Oh well, at least she had a little eye candy for the journey. She snuck a glance at the dust jacket. He was reading God Created the Integers, a collection of essays on landmarks in mathematics.

  Beauty and brains, on top of that sexy South African accent. She opened her own book and ducked her head, wondering what kind of a job had brought him onto this flight from Johannesburg to August Town, the capital of Latadi. The small, central African nation had only recently stabilized following a violent coup, so it wasn’t exactly a popular tourist destination. She knew most of the big players in the gold-mining industry, and she doubted an NGO would splash out on a business-class seat, but maybe he worked for that oil-exploration company she’d heard was considering a venture in Latadi.

  She peered at him from beneath her lashes, pretending to tilt her head to read the right-hand page of her book. He certainly wasn’t dressed like an oil exec, in jeans and work boots and a black military-style jacket, and the honed length of him suggested he didn’t spend much time behind a desk.

  There was a lot of dense forest in Latadi—maybe he was from a timber company. Or maybe he was a defense consultant, on his way to advise the newly installed Latadi military. That felt right—he had that certain toughness about him, that air of impenetrability she’d seen before on former soldiers who went to work for military industrial firms. He couldn’t be much older than thirty, so he was too young to have served in any of South Africa’s major military engagements. Had he been a private contractor in Iraq? Had he escorted charitable expeditions through Somalia or the Côte d’Ivoire? Or was he a mercenary, hiring himself out to whichever regime was on top?

  The loud, braying laugh of an approaching passenger jerked her out of her reverie, and she rolled her eyes as she identified the two men taking the seats across the aisle, the only other travelers in the nearly empty business-class cabin. On last night’s red-eye flight from London to Johannesburg she’d been two rows away from the Scottish commodities traders who, according to the top-volume conversation they’d held over bottle after bottle of complimentary wine, were on their way to August Town to “bribe the shit” out of the newly appointed mining minister. The unsteadiness of their movements and the volume of their giggling suggested they’d spent the three-hour layover taking advantage of the free alcohol in the business-class lounge. She sighed down at her book, hoping they fell asleep.

  Soon the cabin crew shut the door and completed the safety demonstration, and then the plane was up and away, the seatbelt sign chiming off as soon as they were in the air. Nicola accepted a mimosa from the flight attendant, felt mildly guilty about that decision when the man next to her asked for a black coffee, then settled back and began to read in earnest.

  It was less than an hour into the flight when she sensed it, the lingering gaze of one of the traders across the aisle and the creak of the wheels in his mind as he realized who she was. She stiffened. Being the only young female executive at one of the world’s largest gold-mining companies came with built-in attention, and her job leading corporate social responsibility and advocating for ethics over profits meant it wasn’t always positive. She was used to the whispers and jeers and jokes at her expense, but that didn’t make them any more pleasant.

  “Mate, look.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw the trader in the aisle seat elbow his colleague. “That’s Nicola Holt.”

  “The eco bitch from Garraway Gold? No way.”

  “I’m serious. See for yourself.”

  With all the subtlety one might expect from the orangutan his reddish hair brought to mind, the second trader arched up and around and then flopped back in his seat. “Holy shit, you’re right. She must be going up to Hambani.”

  Aisle Seat snorted. “It’ll take a hell of a lot more than one quota-filling
loudmouth to sort out that mess of a mine.”

  Orangutan hushed him, making an effort to lower his voice but evidently too drunk to manage anything quieter than a mutter. “She obviously slept her way into that job. I bet she’s as loose as Latadi’s airport security—this could be our lucky day. Buy her a couple of drinks, dinner in the hotel, and tomorrow morning we’ll know every number on Garraway’s balance sheet.”

  Nicola angled herself slightly so her back was to the aisle, though she had a feeling it was going to take a lot more to deter these two. The man beside her shifted in his seat, and her cheeks heated as she realized he’d probably heard them too.

  Aisle Seat leaned over and drummed on her armrest like he was knocking on her office door. Bracing herself, she leveled him with a cool, disinterested gaze.

  “Can I help you?”

  “You sure can.” Aisle Seat grinned to reveal crooked canines while Orangutan sniggered behind him. “Are you Nicola Holt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you on your way to Hambani? I’m sure Garraway must’ve been glad to get their hands on that mine once all the fighting died down in Latadi. Great vein, supposedly, but the infrastructure’s practically collapsed. Is Garraway planning to put a lot of capital toward refurbishing it? Or are they trying to—”

  “I really can’t say.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Both. Enjoy the rest of the flight.” She smiled tersely and propped her book up on her knee, staring hard at the same page she’d been rereading since the two traders started talking about her.

  “Stuck-up cow,” Orangutan muttered into his plastic wine glass. She could feel the dark-haired man’s attention sharpening next to her. Aisle Seat crossed his arms.

  “Whatever you think of me, you’re wrong,” he bellowed, the words even more slurred at the higher volume. Nicola startled at his sudden aggression but kept her posture firm, refusing to look his way.

  “You’re sitting there, casting aspersions, and you’re wrong,” he continued. “You’re thinking just because you’re ten years younger than me and you’re pulling in all this money that you’re better than me, that I’m a loser. Well, you know what? You’re wrong.”

  Aisle Seat’s accusations grew louder and more nonsensical, and it was only when the man beside her put his hand on her forearm that she realized she was trembling. She lowered her book and met unyielding gray eyes.

  “Would you like me to have a word with our friend over there?”

  She knew it was a Hollywood stereotype, but she loved how much more threatening that phrase sounded in his South African accent. She shook her head. “Thank you, but I think I should get a flight attendant. These two may not make it through immigration in Latadi if they carry on.”

  She made her way to the back of the cabin on unsteady legs. She hated how those men had made her feel—intimidated, powerless, targeted—and she hated that she’d let them get to her at all, that she couldn’t shake her head and roll her shoulders and laugh them off. Almost a decade in the male-dominated mining industry had toughened her skin into leather. Snide remarks in boardrooms and patronizing site managers were all in a day’s work, and now she was rattled by an irrational drunk on an airplane.

  But I shouldn’t have to put up with this. It’s not right, and it’s not safe, her brain whirred in the background as she found a flight attendant and explained the situation, then followed her back into the business-class cabin. He’s out of his mind—he could’ve done anything. And what would be the consequences? We’re a few hours from landing in a country that until six months ago was utterly lawless. A few wrinkled bills could probably buy a murderer’s way out of the August Town lockup, never mind a businessman accused of harassing an American woman. A few hundred to buy his release, a few hundred more to hire someone with a gun, a printout of my photo from the corporate website, a map with the Hambani mine circled in red, and the next thing you know—

  “Oh my goodness, what happened here?” The flight attendant stopped so abruptly Nicola nearly ran into the back of her. She leaned around the woman’s stout figure to find a tableau so surreal she had to blink several times before she could process it.

  Orangutan and Aisle Seat were bound and gagged, their red silk ties securing their hands at the wrists, belts buckled around their ribs to pin their arms to their sides, mouths stuffed with airline cocktail napkins and socks knotted around their bare ankles. They squirmed and moaned and shot wide-eyed glances toward her dark-haired seat companion, who was calmly reading his book.

  He placed his bookmark reluctantly, as if the flight attendant’s appearance had interrupted a compelling paragraph. Then he reached inside his jacket and produced a gold, eight-pointed metal badge.

  “Sergeant Warren Copley, with the Special Task Force of the South African Police Service. These men were creating a disturbance so I took them into custody.”

  For several shocked seconds the business-class cabin was silent, except for the muffled, indignant groans of the two traders. Warren’s expression shifted from indifference to mild exasperation.

  “Do you want me to speak to the captain? Otherwise I’m happy to supervise these two until they can be transferred to the Latadi authorities.”

  The poor flight attendant barely retrieved her jaw from the floor in time to stammer a response. The haze of disbelief began to fade from Nicola’s thoughts, and suddenly his name resonated with recognition.

  The flight attendant hustled away to speak to the captain, the traders stared at her with pleading eyes and she burst into laughter.

  “Warren Copley.” She extended her hand as she resumed her seat, still chuckling at the absurdity of it all. “You’re the security consultant Garraway hired to evaluate the Hambani mine.”

  His handshake was warm and firm. “And you are?”

  “Nicola Holt, Garraway’s emissary in charge of safety and social impact.” She grinned. “I believe we’ll be carpooling.”

  Chapter Two

  Warren swore under his breath as the fifth and final pen ran out of ink, leaving a blank imprint of his signature at the bottom of the piece of paper. He clenched it in his fist and closed his eyes, resisting the urge to rip the form into shreds, yank the pen off its chain tether, snap it in two and shove the whole lot down the shirtfront of the bored-looking Latadi police officer who had refused to slide a pen under the Plexiglas screen, gesturing instead to the battered ledge lining the opposite wall.

  Breathe through it, he counseled himself, recalling the advice of the psych geek he’d been ordered to see after racking up one too many references to “excessive force” in his personnel file. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that although dragging that officer out from behind his desk and pocketing every pen in his drawer would be satisfying, it would not resolve the situation. He’d spent the last two hours in August Town’s sweltering, stuffy, disorganized police station, and all that stood between him and his departure was his signature on his statement about the incident on the flight.

  The signature for which he needed just one functioning fokken pen.

  With the form clutched in one hand he crossed back to the window and knocked sharply. The officer raised one palm as he continued to type on his computer, his index finger finding one key, then another, then another, with such agonizing slowness that Warren had to grip the seam of his jeans to keep from smashing his fist into the Plexiglas.

  When the officer finally deigned to look up at him, he raised the paper and spoke through clenched teeth.

  “I need a pen. None of the ones along the wall have any ink.”

  The officer shook his head. “Je ne comprends pas.”

  “A pen.” Warren mimicked writing in the air, ruing the decision to take Latin instead of French. “I need a pen to sign the form.”

  “Votre nom.” The officer mirrored his gesture.

  Wa
rren smoothed the form on the edge of the desk, trying to pull his temper into check. He could easily ask for a pen in Afrikaans, in Zulu, in Tswana, he could even make an attempt at Portuguese. But no, he had to come halfway up the continent to a country colonized by the goddamn French.

  “Okay. We’ll let technology sort this out for us.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and unlocked the screen, congratulating himself on the decision to use a translation app instead of—what had the HR report called it?—“intimidation tactics”. The officer’s gaze wandered back to his computer and Warren held up his hand to hold his attention, loath to have to sit through another round of typing.

  The app wouldn’t load. He had no signal.

  “Dammit,” he muttered, anger rising afresh as he slapped the form against the Plexiglas. “I need a pen to sign, to write my name here. Can I please just borrow a pen?”

  “Le monsieur a besoin d’un stylo,” Nicola called from the doorway. Daylight spilled in behind her, illuminating every variation on copper and gold in her fiery-red hair, framing her lusciously curved body and shading her heart-shaped face until she looked like an avenging, French-speaking angel descended from on high.

  The officer’s face lit up with comprehension. He slid a pen across the desk, Warren wrote so fast he barely managed a W, a C and two squiggles, then stuffed the paper through the gap in the window and turned to his savior.

  “Language barrier?”

  “And a critical failure of office supplies. Sorry to make you wait.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s my fault you had to file a report at all.”

  “It’s those traders’ fault,” he corrected. “I did what any decent man would.”

  Her smile sparkled all the way into her bright blue eyes. “I’m not sure most men would’ve gagged them with cocktail napkins.”

  “I thought about using their socks, but I needed something for their feet, so I—”