At that moment, with her pulse hammering wildly and her knees shaking, she realized that extracting Armand Magliore from the dark, treacherous jungles of Muwaiti had been the easy part.
Resisting her attraction to him would test the very limits of her endurance.
Dinner, as Armand discovered that evening, was everything Lia had promised it would be.
The lavish meal—prime rib, lobster, herbed potatoes and exotic pasta dishes he’d never heard of before—was far more palatable than anything he’d eaten in the past year during his self-imposed exile to the jungles of Muwaiti. And being seated at a table draped in fine linen made him feel almost civilized again.
The only thing that would have made the meal perfect, in his opinion, was having Lia as his only dinner companion.
He’d wanted her all to himself, but she’d made sure that they were joined by the other three Secret Service agents—no doubt to serve as a buffer between her and Armand. He didn’t know whether to be offended or encouraged by the fact that she thought she needed a buffer from him.
After she put him in his place earlier, he couldn’t help wondering if he’d only imagined the attraction between them, the powerful connection he’d sensed back at the cabin in Muwaiti.
But then he’d watched her reaction when he had asked her whether she would be guarding him while he took a shower. It was an outrageous question, one he’d fully expected to receive another tongue lashing for. But she hadn’t berated him. Instead he’d watched as a telltale flush spread across her cheeks, as those luminous, dark eyes turned smoky with desire while she tried her damnedest not to imagine him naked.
He’d grown instantly aroused.
And he’d reveled in the knowledge that she felt it, too. An explosive chemistry between them that promised unparalleled heights of ecstasy.
Now, as he watched Lia laughing and conversing with the other three agents, his irritation grew. It was the same way he’d felt that morning when he had watched one of her men, the big one they called Dutch, pick her up and swing her around the briefing room. Armand had been seized with a fierce, primal urge to march over and snatch Lia out of his arms, then give the man a vicious left hook that would have made him wish he were back in the jungle fending off Biassou’s mercenaries. Armand knew he had no right to feel so damn possessive over Lia, but he couldn’t help himself. She’d haunted his dreams for so long, he felt that she already belonged to him.
Never mind that, until about a week ago, she hadn’t even known that he existed.
The sound of her soft, smoky voice pulled him out of his reverie. “Would you like more potatoes?”
Armand looked at her. She held the serving spoon, poised to give him another helping of potatoes. Oddly touched by the simple gesture, he nodded, though he’d already stuffed himself and couldn’t conceive of swallowing another bite of food.
“Do you like sports?” asked the agent to his right, a black man with a smooth, bald head who’d introduced himself earlier as Will Cosgrove.
“I don’t follow American football, if that’s what you’re asking,” Armand replied, because they’d been talking about their favorite football teams throughout dinner. Lia, Armand noted, not only watched football, but was an avid fan who could hold her own when it came to analyzing and discussing the various teams’ strengths and weaknesses.
“You must like soccer,” Cosgrove said to Armand, determined to engage him in conversation. “Isn’t that the most popular sport in Muwaiti?”
“It is.” Armand hesitated, then, making an effort to be sociable, he added, “But basketball’s catching on there, too. There’s been talk about forming an Olympic basketball team.”
“No kidding?” Cosgrove and the other two agents exchanged vaguely amused glances. “No offense, but it’ll be a long while before your team could compete with ours. We’ve still got the best players in the world, I don’t care what anyone says.”
“I applaud your confidence,” Armand said blandly. “If nothing else.”
The others laughed at the subtle barb.
“Yeah, well, we’ll see who’s laughing after the Olympics,” Cosgrove grumbled.
“I’m sure Mr. Magliore has better things to do with his time than watch sports,” Lia said quietly, meeting Armand’s steady gaze across the table. “Like doing his part to ensure a better future for the people of Muwaiti.”
“Good point,” Cosgrove said sheepishly.
When they finished eating, Lia invited Armand and the other agents to join her in a friendly game of poker. Recognizing the ploy for what it was, Armand politely declined. Before he retired to his bedroom, however, his eyes met hers in a look that silently communicated to her that she couldn’t run from him forever.
She glanced away quickly.
Now, as Armand lay in bed, staring up at the darkened ceiling, a slow, satisfied smile curved his mouth.
Lia Charles challenged him like no other.
And nothing fueled Armand more than a challenge.
But pursuing her was more than a game to him. Contrary to what she believed, he wasn’t looking for a meaningless diversion or merely passing the time until the United Nations hearing. He wasn’t interested in having just any warm, willing body in his bed.
He wanted Lia because she aroused and captivated him, and he knew that they could bring each other indescribable pleasure.
He wanted her because she’d been embedded in his soul ever since he had first laid eyes on her.
He wanted her because he no longer knew what it was like not to.
Armand was a patient man. He’d dreamed about Lia for eight long, torturous years, never imagining that he’d see her again.
Eight years.
He could definitely wait a few more days—hell, even a week—to break through the barrier she had erected between them.
He knew that what awaited him on the other side would be nothing short of paradise.
Chapter 4
Saturday, September 6, 2008
0100 hours
Muwaiti
Presidential Palace
Day 2
Alexandre Biassou could not sleep.
He paced up and down the vast marble floor of his private sanctuary—the only section of the palace that servants dared not tread without his permission.
It had been nearly two hours since he’d received word that the mercenaries he’d contracted to assassinate rebel leader Armand Magliore had been killed.
All but one man had been annihilated by the Special Forces unit sent by the American government.
Even after ordering the beheading of the lone survivor—who’d whimpered and pleaded for his miserable life—Alexandre was still seething with fury. According to the information he’d obtained from the sniveling man, the American extraction team had been led by a woman, of all things.
A woman.
The very notion that he’d been thwarted by a mere female curdled Alexandre’s stomach. That’s what was wrong with the godforsaken country in the first place. It was run by women!
First they had allowed one of them to serve as secretary of state. But they hadn’t learned from that mistake, promoting yet another woman to the same position nine years later. As if that weren’t grievous enough, they’d allowed two successive women to preside on the nation’s highest court for nearly thirty years. And then, to add insult to injury, the country had elected a woman to become president!
Imbeciles.
And they considered themselves a respectable superpower? Nonsense!
With less than two years remaining in her current term as president, the old shrew had trained her sights on Muwaiti. To strengthen her bid for reelection, she’d had the unmitigated audacity to petition the United Nations to impose tougher economic sanctions on the country if Alexandre did not end what she called his “bloody reign of terror and violence.” Like the ceaseless harping of a fishwife, her shrill demands for justice for the people of Muwaiti had finally gotten the attention of the internati
onal community. Within the last year, exportation of Muwaitian goods had declined drastically as a result of aggressive trade sanctions imposed by spineless leaders who sided with the American president. Muwaiti’s economy was suffering, and tourism was at an all-time low.
All because of one interfering woman.
And now, to learn that he’d been foiled by yet another female was almost more than Alexandre could stomach. Thanks to that whore, Armand Magliore had made it safely out of Muwaiti—the very thing Alexandre had wanted to prevent!
“She fought like a warrior,” the wounded mercenary had whispered before he died. He had been with the men who pursued Magliore and the warrior-woman through the jungle. Six had been on foot, six had arrived minutes later in a jeep. And then there were the eight men who’d stayed behind at the cabin to fend off the Americans.
How had twenty assassins been taken out by an army of six?
Merde!
Jaw clenched, Alexandre stood at the windows with his hands clasped tightly behind his back and surveyed the dense jungle canopy that stretched for miles beyond the impenetrable walls of his fortress, a sprawling palace built of stone and glass and furnished with all the trappings of wealth. Far grander than anything inhabited by even the richest man on the island.
The thought brought him no consolation on this dark night.
Armand Magliore had been a thorn in his flesh for the past two years, ever since he’d defected from the Muwaitian army and formed an underground resistance movement to oust Alexandre from power.
For as long as he lived, Alexandre would remember the day of Magliore’s treacherous defection. It was the same day Alexandre had nearly lost his own life.
Long before Alexandre was introduced to Armand Magliore, he’d heard of the brash young warrior. The other soldiers had grumbled about his brooding intensity and maverick ways, while infatuated young girls whispered about his dark good looks every time he passed them on the street. Magliore, the firstborn son of a tobacco farmer, had joined the Muwaitian army at the age of seventeen to help support his family, whom he’d looked after since his father’s death. Though he possessed the keen intelligence of a scholar, Magliore had lacked the means to pay for an education. Fortunately for him, Francois Seligny, the former Muwaitian president, had believed in overcompensating soldiers for serving their country. Magliore had received a degree in engineering from the local university and kept his family afloat with the generous stipend he earned from the military.
Seligny, Alexandre later learned, had taken the promising young soldier under his wing, treating him like the son he’d never had. It was even rumored that Magliore would eventually marry the president’s eldest daughter, a match undoubtedly conceived by Seligny himself.
When Alexandre had stopped to consider all that he had taken from Armand Magliore, he realized it was no wonder the rebel leader despised him so much. Not only had Alexandre killed the man Magliore regarded as a mentor, but in so doing, he had ruined Magliore’s chance at happiness with the beautiful young woman he’d reportedly loved. After Seligny’s assassination, his wife and daughters had fled the country, vowing never to return. Magliore, Alexandre had assumed, must have been heartbroken.
He’d known all of this on the day he had ordered Magliore to drive him into the village on a personal errand. He’d wanted to exercise his authority over the surly young man, teach him that no matter what he thought of his new president, he had to honor, respect and obey him—or suffer the consequences.
But more than anything else, he’d wanted to break Magliore’s spirit.
When they had arrived at his mistress’s home that afternoon, Alexandre had forced Magliore to stand outside in the sweltering heat while he entered the inviting coolness of the house. After making love to his mistress several times and enjoying a sumptuous meal fit for a king, Alexandre had emerged hours later to find Magliore standing in the same spot where he’d left him—his posture erect, his uniform still dry, his face expressionless.
Alexandre had been enraged.
Watching from the open doorway, his mistress—that faithless whore!—had laughed and joked that Magliore, who’d demonstrated remarkable stamina, should join them in bed the next time.
Alexandre had wanted to strangle her. If he hadn’t thought Magliore would intervene, he would have.
During the long ride back to the palace, he’d deliberately taunted the young soldier, denouncing everything from his family to his blind devotion to Francois Seligny. Throughout the vicious verbal attack, Magliore had kept his eyes on the road and his hand steady on the steering wheel. The longer he remained silent and aloof, the more abusive Alexandre had become.
But no matter what he had said, no matter how offensive the slur, he could not goad Magliore into retaliating.
So he’d let down his guard.
Filled with good food and wine, and drowsy from hours of kinky sex with his mistress, he’d eventually dozed off in the backseat of the limousine.
He had been awakened by the cold, razor-thin blade of a knife pressed against his carotid artery. And the demon eyes that bored into his had been filled with lethal retribution.
It had been like something straight out of Alexandre’s worst nightmare.
He’d swallowed convulsively, feeling the sharp blade of the knife dig deeper into the soft folds of his flesh. “W-what are you doing?” he had demanded.
Magliore had smiled, cold and deadly. “Je vous déteste,” he had said, his voice a silky, dangerous caress that razored along Alexandre’s nerve endings. “I could slice your throat right now, from ear to ear, and not think twice about it. You deserve no less, you filthy son of a bitch.”
“You would never get away with it,” Alexandre had said with an implacable calm that disguised the shameful trembling in his knees. “My men would find you and kill you, then hang your rotting corpse from a tree in the town square.”
Unfazed, Magliore had arched an amused brow. “Before or after they pillage your palace and make off with all your riches?”
Alexandre had clamped his lips together, not even bothering to defend his militia. He knew all too well about their reputation as “gun-toting hooligans masquerading as soldiers,” as one acerbic American journalist had described them. Lawless, undisciplined men, who strutted around town brandishing their big weapons, lording their authority over everyone, stealing whatever they pleased and terrorizing poor farmers and merchants who were merely trying to provide for their struggling families.
Alexandre had known that his soldiers’ loyalty to him was based on fear, not respect or admiration. He had also known that if Magliore killed him and installed himself as de facto leader, the Muwaitian soldiers would fall under his command as easily as they’d fallen under Alexandre’s in the wake of Seligny’s assassination.
All this had gone through his mind as he stared into Magliore’s cold, feral eyes and saw the promise of his own death mirrored there.
Through the window to his left, Alexandre could see that they were parked along a narrow, deserted road flanked by dense jungle, miles from his estate. Magliore could have cut his throat and dumped him out here and no one would have ever found his body—at least not before the wild animals did their work.
Had that been Magliore’s plan? Had he been plotting this all along? Had Alexandre unwittingly facilitated his own murder by ordering Magliore to drive him into the village that afternoon, leaving himself alone and at the complete mercy of a madman?
After what had seemed an eternity, Magliore had finally spoken again. “I’m leaving your godforsaken militia,” he said, low and icy. “If you try to stop me, or if you harm a single member of my family, I will hunt you down and kill you. If you think for one minute that I could never make it past your armed guards, think again. Recognize this knife?”
Alexandre’s gaze had dropped to the pearl-handled knife at his throat, and his stomach plummeted sickeningly. He had recognized it. It had once belonged to Francois Seligny—one of many thin
gs Alexandre had stolen from him.
The irony of him being murdered with Seligny’s weapon had not been lost on him, nor on Magliore.
A malevolent gleam had filled the young rebel’s eyes. “I took the knife from under your bed last night—while you were sleeping.”
Alexandre had felt a chill at his words. The knowledge that Magliore had been prowling around in his bedroom while Alexandre slept—oblivious to the presence of an intruder, oblivious to the mortal danger he was in—had sent fear lancing down his spine, along with a healthy dose of outrage.
How had Magliore invaded the palace so easily? Where had the palace guards been? If Alexandre survived this terrible ordeal, he had vowed, heads would roll!
Magliore had leaned down and whispered softly in his ear, “Remember this every time you lay down to sleep, diable. I spared your life not once, but twice. I promise you that the next time we meet, I will not be so generous.”
Alexandre had closed his eyes, refusing to give Magliore the satisfaction of seeing the immense relief he felt reflected in his eyes.
When he opened them again, Magliore had vanished. Taking Seligny’s knife—and Alexandre’s false sense of security—with him.
To this day, he could not climb into bed without hearing Magliore’s threat whispering through his mind, taunting him. He’d never breathed a word of his near-death encounter to anyone. It sickened him to realize how close he’d come to losing his life, simply because he’d underestimated the extent of Magliore’s hatred for him.
He would not make that mistake again.
Not that it really matters anymore, he thought bitterly. If Magliore were allowed to testify before the United Nations on September fifteenth, Alexandre would be ruined. Not only would he be removed as president of Muwaiti, but he’d also be imprisoned—possibly executed.
He couldn’t let that happen.
He wouldn’t.
Alexandre had worked too hard to get where he was to have it all snatched away by some traitorous dissenter. He had no intention of relinquishing control of Muwaiti.
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