Nicola’s smile was subdued. “Welcome to Hambani.”
Chapter Three
Nicola stretched her arms above her head as she got out of the Land Cruiser. Two uniformed security personnel had guided them to the central modular unit that served as the corporate office and canteen, and she looked around as they waited for the site manager.
Her initial impression was reassuring. Everything was clean and orderly, and they’d passed rows of long bunkhouses for miners’ accommodation, as well as a series of storage sheds housing equipment ranging in size from light bulbs to backhoes. Hambani seemed modern, professional and secure. Maybe Warren’s job here would be over before it began.
Warren. Her initial assumption that he was just another chauvinist meathead had proven so off the mark she felt guilty for having even thought it. He was quiet, thoughtful, yet he practically vibrated with untapped strength and power. At times during the stuffy journey she’d been swamped by the heady, masculine scent of him, which had flooded her consciousness until she was practically inarticulate. It was a fresh, woodsy fragrance, underscored by something else—something solid. Something unyielding. Something a little bit wild.
This sudden, intense captivation was uncharted territory for her. She was used to gradually progressing from joking banter to flirtation to sincere affection, gravitating toward the boy-next-door type, men who were friendly and kind and leaning into the nerdy side of intelligent. Almost every guy she’d dated had started as a friend and remained one after the breakup. She liked that slow burn—comfortable, predictable, controllable.
The raging, escalating fire of lust Warren had lit with one look was unfamiliar and disarming and slightly terrifying.
And so exciting.
The office door burst open to reveal a beer-bellied, white-mustachioed man who was probably younger than he looked. In tan cargo trousers, a vividly printed shirt and a khaki fishing hat, he was every inch the old-school mining manager she’d been told to expect.
“You must be Roger Nel.” She gave him her best winning-hearts-and-minds smile and extended her hand, which he shook vigorously. “I’m Nicola Holt, from the London office.”
“Here to make sure we’re all safe and sound.” His South African accent was thick and clipped, a striking contrast to Warren’s lilting inflection.
Roger treated Warren to the same eager handshake, adding a manly slap on his upper arm. “And you must be the copper come to bring a little order to proceedings. SAPS, is it?”
“Special Task Force.”
“Even better. We could use some of that Marikana vibe around here. Put the fear into these local okes.”
Nicola’s breath caught at Roger’s callous reference to the platinum-mine massacre, but Warren’s cool expression never flickered.
“I’m based in Cape Town. I had nothing to do with that.”
“Sure you didn’t.” Roger winked. “Sorry, bru, I don’t think I caught your name.”
“Warren Copley.”
Roger’s grizzled jaw dropped. “So it’s true, hey? You’re Peter Copley’s son.”
Nicola snapped to attention at the mention of the CEO of Copley Ventures, one of the most formidable diamond-mining companies in the world. It never occurred to her that Warren could be any relation—it was family-run, and all the Copley scions went to work for the business. Or so she’d thought.
Warren was unmoving as Roger clapped his hands together in delight. “Gosh, boy, you were a big story back in the day—what was it, ten, twelve years ago now? Heir to the South African diamond throne comes home from England, everyone’s waiting for him to jump into Dad’s office, and girls all over the country are gearing up to throw themselves at Johannesburg’s most eligible bachelor. Never happened, though, did it? He goes off the grid, and these rumors start to circulate that he’s joined the police. I swore up and down it was a cover story, that you’d found your inner queer in Europe and Daddy wanted to hide you away so you didn’t embarrass him.” He grinned. “If any of my old colleagues get wind of this I’m going to owe thousands in lost bets.”
Nicola glanced between the two men, one laughing, the other stony-faced, unsure which reaction was winning—her horror at Roger’s homophobia or her shock at Warren’s personal history. She thought she’d gotten a lot out of him on the drive from August Town, coaxing him to open up about where he was from, his tenure in the UK, the catamaran sailboat he spent his weekends racing in False Bay. But he hadn’t said a word about growing up in one of South Africa’s most famous mining families.
What other secrets did he have?
Thankfully a slim, smiling black man chose that moment to emerge from the office, disrupting their uneasy tableau. He wore jeans and a button-down shirt and shook their hands eagerly.
“I’m Cedric Kasula,” he greeted them in the slightly French-intoned accent of a northern Latadian. “I look after all our mining staff, liaise with relevant stakeholders in the local community, ensure the—”
“Cedric’s our fixer,” Roger interrupted dismissively. “And he’s going to show you to your accommodation. Dinner is every night at seven, so you’ve got just enough time to clean up before we eat. I’ll see you both in half an hour. Great to have you here.”
Roger disappeared through the door, and as it banged shut Cedric offered them both an apologetic smile. “Roger can be a bit gruff, I hope he didn’t—”
“Let’s go.” Warren pulled the car keys from his pocket. “We can talk on the way.”
Nicola could hear every step Warren took through the thin wall that divided the porta-cabin into two halves. She knew when he left his side and locked the door behind him, and she knew he hesitated in front of hers before deciding to knock. She paused before answering, offering him the illusion that she hadn’t been keeping track of his every move.
His back was to the door when she opened it, and at the sound he turned, flashing one of his rare, fleeting smiles.
“Ready?”
She nodded, and they fell into step for the fifteen-minute walk from where their accommodation was situated near the edge of the site to the corporate building at the center. There was little light left in the sky this close to seven o’clock, and the absence of surrounding illumination from a town or a city meant each star stood out crisp and clear. Warren held a flashlight but he didn’t turn it on, and she wasn’t inclined to ask him to. The darkness felt private, permissive, and although she knew mining operations hissed and clanked twenty-four hours each day on the other side of the site, at the moment it seemed like they were the only people around for miles.
An insect chirped in the grass, and when it stopped she realized how complete the silence was. Now that he was off the hollow flooring of the porta-cabin, Warren’s footsteps were inaudible, his movements disarmingly smooth and soundless for a man of his size.
She thought of leopards and jaguars, and was compelled to interrupt the quiet. “What do you think of our luxury housing?”
“It has a roof, which is good enough for me. How about you?”
“It’s new, which is a bonus. That type of cabin doesn’t tend to age well.”
“And the mine itself? What’s your impression so far?”
“It looks normal, but it feels different. It feels like something’s wrong.”
The too-honest response was out of her mouth and hovering uncertainly between them before she could stop it. A twig snapped somewhere behind them and an almighty shudder ran up her torso, jostling her joints and rattling her teeth until she wrapped her arms around herself and held on tight.
“Are you cold?” Warren touched three fingertips to her lower back, so faintly it should’ve barely registered, but her response was as ferocious as if he’d plunged them between her legs. Her ears roared, her nipples hardened, and she was sure that she could orgasm right there on the spot if he so much as flattened his palm against her spi
ne. She swallowed hard, and again, struggling to get her racing heart under control.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? Do you want my jacket?”
I want every sexy, scary inch of you on top of me right now. “We’re nearly there. I’m sure I can make it.”
He said nothing further, and in a couple of minutes the yellow-lit windows of the office came into view, leering at them through the darkness like a jack-o’-lantern’s eyes. They circled around to the back, where the doors to the makeshift dining room were flung open. Nicola heard Roger before she saw him, seated at the head of the long, wooden table laid with cheap plastic dishes and dented silverware.
“Here they are, our new arrivals.” Roger gestured for them to take the two empty seats at one end, then commenced with a rapid-fire round of introductions. “You’ve met Cedric, and these are the other two members of our esteemed executive committee. Alex Johnson, our finance manager. He’s a Yank like you, Nicola.”
The young, glasses-wearing African American waved shyly.
“And this is Dan Carmine, our head of operations. He worked in the Calgary office until they seconded him down here. He’s still coming to terms with all the sunshine.”
The chubby, fifty-something man smiled beneath his goatee and nodded. The slow focus of his eyes and the row of empty beer bottles lined up next to his plate gave some indication as to why Dan found himself moving from one of Garraway’s largest offices to this small, remote operation.
“Boys, this is Nicola Holt from headquarters. She’s an important lady, so I’ll expect you to keep your hands off her…bonus.”
He winked. No one laughed.
“And this is the Warren Copley, black sheep of the esteemed diamond miners. Seems he’s not gay after all.” Roger turned with brows raised. “Unless you are? I guess being a homo and being a cop aren’t mutually exclusive, but—”
“Nice to meet you all,” Nicola interjected, pulling out her chair. “We appreciate the warm welcome.”
The meal proceeded the same way it began, with Roger enjoying the sound of his own voice as he made one offensive, unfunny comment after another. Dan’s slurred remarks became increasingly irrelevant, and Alex watched him and Roger with such bald contempt it was clear he couldn’t wait to get promoted out of Hambani. Cedric kept his head down, offering Roger the occasional feeble smile but looking for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere else.
At her side Warren was also silent, but instead of the subjugated muteness of Alex and Cedric, his quiet radiated power. His wordless presence insisted on itself, promising that when he had something to say, you’d hear it.
She watched his hands out of the corner of her eye, long fingers dexterously maneuvering the silverware, positioning and slicing and stabbing the dry chicken on the plate. She tried to imagine those same fingers counting out ammunition, tightening the straps on a Kevlar vest, hoisting a shotgun. He’d held death between those palms, armed and disarmed explosives, pulled triggers and thrown punches. What would it be like to have them on her body, on her cheeks, exploring her most private curves and angles? Would it feel different? Would it feel dangerous?
She sensed his gaze. He’d caught her looking. She raised sheepish eyes to his, expecting reproach. Instead she found curiosity, surprise and the faintest hint of a reticent smile.
“Maybe you should try to talk to them, Alex. They’re your people too,” Roger bellowed from the end of the table, interrupting Cecil’s soft-spoken explanation of the cultural prohibitions that made the miners reluctant to use the communal showers, and that it was a problem easily solved by installing a few dividing curtains.
“You mean they’re from Ohio?” Alex asked dryly.
“I mean you’re all—”
“I’m done.” Warren shoved his plate away and stood up, leaving plenty of room for ambiguity in his statement. “Nicola, if you’re ready, I’ll walk you back to the bunk.”
“I’m ready. Excuse us, we had a long journey today, but we’ll see you all at breakfast.” She offered her cocktail-party smile as she crumpled her paper napkin and dropped it on her plate.
They carried their dishes to the sink despite Roger’s insistence that the “kitchen girl” would take care of it, then crossed through the empty, dark series of desks and cubicles to leave through the front. The whole modular unit smelled like an office-supplies store, and the nighttime air seemed extra fragrant as Warren shut the door behind them.
Without asking, he shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. Without protesting, she pulled it closed, inhaling the cool scent of him that clung to the fabric.
They walked for ten minutes, following the beam of his flashlight, before he spoke. “Now what do you think of this place?”
“You mean now that I’ve met the so-called team?” She shrugged. “Par for the course. An old hardhead who’s been promoted to incompetence, an alcoholic who’s easier to hide than fire, an up-and-comer who’s taken a challenging assignment to climb up the ladder faster, and a local liaison who’s just doing his best to keep everything on an even keel. You’d find a similar bunch running most of Garraway’s mines, from Alaska to Guyana to Australia. Remote sites are a great place to stash misfits and eccentrics who are good at their jobs, keep production up and their staff in line, but are too embarrassing to allow into networking events.”
“You sound like my sister.”
Shoving aside the nonsexual implication of that comparison, Nicola decided to broach what they still hadn’t discussed and named the corporate affairs director at Copley Ventures. “Your sister being Laura Copley?”
“That’s her. She refers to people as stallions or donkeys. She always says you can’t have two stallions in the same stable because they’ll fight, so you have to pair hot tempers with even ones.”
“I met her once. Two years ago, at an industry conference in Zug. I’m sure she wouldn’t remember, but she certainly made an impression. In this business you don’t get many young women who manage to be shrewd and gracious at the same time.”
It was too dark to see his smile, but she could sense it was rueful. “She got all the personality genes.”
“I don’t know about that,” she replied softly. “The resemblance is obvious now that I think about it. I’m not sure why I didn’t make the connection earlier.”
“Same reason no one else does. Who would believe that a diamond heir would swap the family fortune for a policeman’s salary?”
“People who understand the importance of following your own path.”
He was definitely looking at her now. She could feel his attention in the darkness. “Does that include you?”
“My dad cycles through three feet of snow to reduce his dependence on fossil fuels and my mom washes the house with apple cider vinegar to so she isn’t rinsing toxins into the water supply. I work for a company that digs miles into the earth to find gold. What do you think?”
“Fair point.”
“The thing is, Warren, we all have to make our own—”
The words died in her mouth as he stopped short, extending his arm to keep her from taking another step. She followed the direction of his gaze, her breath catching when she saw it.
Her cabin door hung open.
“Don’t move.” He pulled out the gun she hadn’t even realized he carried and slowly advanced on the cabin, the flashlight raised in his other hand.
With lethal silence he slipped inside the open door and when the single bulb’s illumination disappeared inside the cabin, her calm went with it. She began to shiver uncontrollably, alone in the impenetrable darkness, taking her phone from her pocket but too afraid to use it in case the lit screen revealed her position.
Get it together, she told herself sternly. Anyone watching will already know exactly where you are. Pull up the number for site security and tell them to
get their asses down here.
The phone was on its second ring when Warren reappeared in the doorway, motioning her forward. She was halfway to the cabin when a man with a thick Latadi accent answered in the security office.
“This is Nicola Holt. There appears to have been a break-in in the guest porta-cabins east of the office. You need to get a team down here now.”
She hung up without waiting for an answer. Warren’s expression was stony. “Have a look around, see if anything’s been taken. I’ll check my half.”
She’d barely moved the zipper on her suitcase when Warren reappeared in the doorway, evidently satisfied that his cabin was undisturbed. A minute later two noisy engines announced the arrival of Hambani security vehicles, and then the porta-cabins were shuddering on their raised foundations as booted, heavily armed guards piled inside the small space with Roger bringing up the rear. Nicola had to press herself against the wall to avoid being trampled. Warren positioned himself in front of her. He hadn’t fixed the hem of his shirt, and she could see the handgun holstered at the back of his belt.
“Is everything all right? What was taken?” Roger demanded. “I swear to Christ, if I get my hands on whoever—”
“Nicola was just starting to look. I’ve checked the room—it’s clear. Let’s wait outside while she inventories her belongings, so we don’t disturb what hasn’t been touched.” Warren ushered everyone out with the calm authority of someone used to telling others what to do.
Roger lingered as everyone else filed out, reluctant to miss out on the action—or maybe hoping she’d discover her underwear was gone, justifying a manhunt for a perverted thief. Warren dispatched him with an expectant look, then glanced at her over his shoulder.
Short Fuse: Elite Operators, Book 2 Page 3