The Princess And The Mercenary

by Victoria Paige

  The Princess and the Mercenary

  Victoria Paige

  Contents

  Copyright

  About the book

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Connect with the Author

  Also by Victoria Paige

  THE PRINCESS AND THE MERCENARY

  By Victoria Paige

  Copyright © 2019 Victoria Paige

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9906796-9-1

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, names, places, events, organization either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, places or locale is entire coincidental. The publisher is not responsible for any opinion regarding this work on any third-party website that is not affiliated with the publisher or author.

  Cover Design by: Covers by Robin

  Edited by: edit LLC

  Proofreader: Judy’s Proofreading

  Photographer: R+M Photography

  Model: Guy Michael

  Illustrator: Josh Lowe

  About the book

  It was hate at first sight.

  She is the daughter of rock royalty.

  He is a scarred, grumpy former Green Beret.

  She thinks he’s an amoral, uncouth soldier of fortune.

  He thinks she’s a limelight-grabbing goody two-shoes.

  When Yara Emerson embarks on a humanitarian mission to Yemen, her company hires a security team for her protection.

  Everything is business as usual until she meets Kade Spear.

  Kade wants nothing to do with daddy’s spoiled princess, but he needs the cover of the humanitarian mission to hunt down a terrorist.

  Wills clash.

  Tempers flare.

  But their unwanted attraction burns hotter than the Yemeni desert.

  Trust fractures.

  Friendships break.

  The aid mission unravels and danger comes after Yara from every corner.

  Could the man who betrayed her be her only hope for survival?

  Reference map available online

  1

  Fingers of lightning clawed through the dark, heavy clouds, the impending storm a churning threat in the distance.

  From the cockpit of the Cessna 210, Yara Emerson clenched the flywheel and adjusted the rudder as the atmosphere’s turbulence rattled the plane.

  “Dammit.”

  When she left the airport in Chicago for New Jersey, bad weather wasn’t expected until later in the evening. If Yara didn’t land her plane in the next thirty minutes, she’d be in deep shit.

  “TEB tower, what’s the status of my runway?” she asked the Teterboro flight traffic control.

  “A3D, I’ll have your runway in five minutes. Stand by.”

  She wiped each clammy hand on her pant leg and stared at the approaching darkness. The day Yara decided to learn how to fly a plane was the day she almost died. The aircraft was similar to the 210. She and Jeff were delivering vaccines to a village in the Serengeti. It was her first experience with humanitarian aid. Little had she known it would also be her first brush with death.

  Yara couldn’t remember much after that, but she’d made three discoveries that day.

  Uncle Jeff was her hero.

  She wanted to learn to fly a plane.

  She never wanted to feel so helpless again.

  The traffic controller’s voice crackled through her headset. “A3D, you are cleared to land. Expect visual approach, Runway 24 left.”

  “Any problems on the downwind?”

  “No reported microbursts, but conditions will deteriorate in the next twenty minutes.”

  “Thanks, TEB.”

  “Roger that, A3D.”

  We’re going to make it. Jeff’s words that day echoed in her head. Their pilot’d had a heart attack, but Jeff knew how to fly and took control of the aircraft, preventing them from smashing into the vast fields of Tanzania. After being thrown around in the death trap, the aircraft skidded, cutting through a large swath of grassland as a herd of zebras and gnus scrambled to get out of its way.

  Since she’d earned her pilot’s license, she had logged many flight hours with Jeff at her side, but this was only her fourth solo flight.

  Teterboro Airport appeared on the horizon, but her gaze was drawn behind it, to the lightning flickering inside a gray and black swirling mass of water vapor hovering over Long Island Sound. Giving her head a shake, she focused on the guiding lights of Runway 24. She prepared her approach, checking her altitude and air speed and other instruments.

  “TEB, this is A3D, getting ready for final approach.”

  Slight crackle and then, “Looking good, A3D. Advise left downwind. Maintain seventy knots.”

  Yara exhaled a long effusive breath to release the weight in her lungs. Guiding the plane at a steady descent and with landing gear lowered, she adjusted the engine’s power to accommodate the wind gust. As the landing markers grew closer, she shifted her eyes to the end of the runway, making sure she maintained her angle of approach and speed.

  The Cessna jolted as it hit pavement. Yara winced at the less than graceful landing, but she was thankful to be on the ground.

  “Good job, A3D.”

  She thanked the air traffic controller and guided the Cessna around the taxi way to the private aviation facilities. Minutes later, as she emerged from the hangar, rain drops started pelting her face. She sprinted to her Porsche SUV parked in front of the structure and managed to get into the safety of its soft leather interior. Despite being on the ground and being inside the comfort of her car as the storm rumbled overhead, a tightness lingered in her chest.

  Yara pulled out her phone and checked the message that called her back to New York.

  “Blockade lifted. It’s a go.”

  Yara peeled one eye open.

  The Spinners jolted her into consciousness.

  Usually, their song Rubberband Man had her hopping out of the bed.

  But not today.

  The glass of wine and a hot soak in the tub the night before failed their promise to deliver a good night’s sleep. She tossed and turned, falling into a fitful slumber only to dream of crashing the Cessna in the midst of a thunderstorm.

  She leaned over, stretching her arm, finger hovering over the snooze button, before changing her mind and stopped the alarm. A lot rode on her shoulders; it was not the time to wimp out. Dragging her unwilling body to the bathroom, she stared at the mirror and touched the back of her hand to her neck. Nope, she was fine. No fever. Her gritty eyes and sore throat were not a product of an oncoming virus.

  Yar
a went on autopilot for the next forty minutes. Shower. Blow dry. Makeup.

  She changed into a button-down silk blouse and a pencil-cut skirt and checked the time, noting with satisfaction that she had time to enjoy a cup of coffee.

  Flipping on the switch of her coffee brewer, she picked up her phone to check any new messages or news alerts.

  A strange rattling noise called her attention and her gaze lifted in the direction of the sound.

  “No!”

  Yara ducked, squeezing her eyes shut as her coffee station sputtered and spewed hot brew all over her. She yanked the cord of the machine, backing away, her gaze not knowing where to look—at her ruined blouse, at the machine, at the floor where her morning lifeblood lay in a puddle.

  It taunted her, as if daring her to fall to her knees and lick the mess off the floor.

  Coffee was one of her life’s luxuries, one indulgence where seeking the perfect cuppa was a religion. Sadly, the mess in the kitchen reminded her that top-of-the-line could turn out to be a piece of crap.

  “Time to go old school and get a percolator,” she muttered as she walked back to the bedroom and rummaged through her closet, selected a cream turtleneck, and put it on. She checked her watch and grumbled. No caffeine and she was running late. Pausing at the hallway mirror, she fixed the hastily applied eyeliner that smudged into the concealer she used to hide her restless night. The last thing she needed was looking like a raccoon junkie heading into this meeting. Then her eyes fell to her shoulder.

  A pink stain.

  “Oh, come on!” Shoulders slumping, she decided to roll with it and put on her trench coat, flicking her dark chestnut hair from out under the collar as her mind refocused.

  She had bigger problems.

  The long-awaited humanitarian aid into Yemen was finally pushing through.

  All the critics of foreign aid would have their eyes on their every move.

  Every logistical step in their organizational plan was about to be set in motion.

  Today was her least favorite part of said logistics—meeting the security team.

  At least Jeff would be there. So would her father.

  Sullivan Emerson was the lead singer of Sullivan’s Creed and known to millions of fans as Sully. It spoke of the importance of the mission since he was supposed to be in Europe for his Phoenix Rising tour.

  Yara stepped out of her Upper East Side apartment building and scowled at the double-parked Bentley and then at the man leaning against it. Len Whitlock was more bodyguard than driver. The bald former Army Ranger was in his usual attire of black jeans and a black tee and, in this brisk late Autumn weather, a leather jacket.

  “You’re parked illegally,” she informed him, wincing as a cab screeched around their car and the driver yelled at Len along with a crisp middle finger salute.

  “New Yorkers,” he muttered, opening the door for her.

  “Hey! I am one.”

  Her dad’s bodyguard merely smiled before closing the door. Yara scrolled through her messages again, noting with irritation the ones from several reporters. God, they were like vultures. Her annoyance spiked further when one name caught her eye … why was Elliot Denton calling her?

  Shouting from outside drew her attention and she scooted to the left side of the vehicle in time to hear Len curse at a driver before he got into the Bentley.

  “Len, what time did you arrive?”

  He glanced at her in the rearview mirror before pulling the vehicle forward. “Forty-five minutes ago.”

  “Mom?”

  “Mrs. Emerson flew to Pakistan.”

  Yara nodded. She figured that would happen. Relief items had been amassing since two months before when the peace talks and an end to the blockade became possibilities. Their foundation had been scrambling to get the pieces together. Once the ship left the Port of Karachi, it would make a brief stop in Oman for more containers and get to Aden, Yemen by the sixth day.

  Zareen Emerson, formerly Zareen Palavi Carter was an American-Iranian supermodel who fell in love with a rock star.

  Her mother used to be the face of their foundation.

  Now it was time for Yara to follow in her footsteps.

  The Earth Rescue & Aid Foundation (ERAF) had their offices in SoHo, located on the eighth floor of a swanky Second Empire façade cast-iron building, typical of the 1870s.

  Yara found her dad pacing in her office. He was on the phone, presumably with her mom.

  The other person in the office was Uncle Jeff—Jeffrey Kennedy, ERAF CEO.

  “There she is!” Jeff said brightly, stepping up to her and enveloping her in a bear hug. Uncle Jeff, as she called him, wasn’t really her uncle. He was Sully’s best friend since high school. Her dad skipped college to pursue his rock and roll dreams while Jeff continued on to Ivy League universities, finishing up at Harvard Business School. Twenty years before, with the success of Sullivan’s Creed and Sully’s star power, they formed ERAF—an advocacy organization that battled global poverty and hunger.

  Aside from leading ERAF, Jeff had his own corporation—Kennedy Holdings. The majority of his business was mining in the Congo, shipping vast amounts of coltan—a metallic ore heavily used in electronic devices—to China.

  “Yara’s here … okay …” Her father handed the phone to her as she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “Mom.”

  “How was your flight?” Her mother’s husky voice came on the line.

  “S’okay. Beat the bad weather coming back. Are you okay? Are you in Karachi?”

  “Yes.” There was a heavy sigh. “Didn’t get your voicemail until this evening.”

  Jeff signaled Yara to end the call and pointed to his watch. “I gotta go. Are you going to the port tomorrow?”

  “Yes. It’s going to be a full day.” Her mother sighed again.

  “Take care then. Love you!”

  “Love you too, Azizam.”

  She ended the call.

  “Well, glad that didn’t take five minutes to say hello.” Jeff smirked, making fun of her mother’s penchant of asking “how are you” over and over.

  Yara rolled her eyes and turned to her dad. “Sully.”

  “How many times have I told you to call me ‘Dad’?”

  Her lips quirked into a smile as her father dragged her into a hug and kissed her temple. She started calling him by his nickname during her rebellious teen years and it stuck.

  She stepped back and observed the bags under his eyes. Sullivan “Sully” Emerson had a muscular medium build on his five-ten frame. For a man one year shy of sixty, women younger than her twenty-eight years swooned when they saw him clad in faded denims, scuffed boots, and a tee. Sully swept his unkempt salt-and-pepper hair away from his angular face, his days-old scruff almost thick enough to be a beard.

  Her dad glanced at his watch. “I can’t stay long, but this needs to be discussed face-to-face. Where are we on the Yemen mission?”

  “I’ve forwarded the manifest of the shipment to Zareen and her assistant,” Jeff said. “Our relief goods have been in warehouses for months in Karachi and Oman and I gave the team the go-ahead to load them into the crates.”

  “How many containers, you reckon?” Sully asked.

  “Eight forty-foot containers.”

  “Wouldn’t it make more sense to put them on pallets?” Yara asked.

  Jeff chewed on his lip. “The shipping company is taking this last minute. Better to have it in modular containers for stacking. Your mom agreed.”

  Sully turned to Yara. “How about our people?”

  “I pulled a team out of Darfur before I left Chicago,” she said. “I gave them mobilization orders to head to Ankara. Also booked our rooms to stay a couple of days for the inter-agency orientation and workshops.”

  Her father rubbed the scruff on his chin. “Do we have the latest status from the UN and State Department?”

  She nodded. “Ceasefire is holding. There’s a transitional council meeting next week
in preparation for the peace talks in Sweden.”

  “What does Tariq say?” her father asked.

  Tariq Haddad was Yara’s close friend. They’d met at University of Leeds where they both pursued research degrees—Tariq in applied geoscience, Yara in sustainability research. Her friend was recalled to Yemen three years ago when the civil war broke out. His uncle, Nasir Haddad, was the leader of the rebel faction, the Nasir Rebels as they were popularly known.

  “He says the situation is tolerable.”

  Sully narrowed his eyes.

  “Okay, it’s volatile,” Yara admitted. “He’s not going to sugarcoat what’s going on.”

  “Maybe you should rethink going along, pumpkin.”

  “We can’t afford to waste this opportunity,” Jeff said.

  Sully glared at Jeff. “My daughter’s life is not an opportunity. Maybe we should let the crates go first with our aid workers. It’s more dangerous than I’m comfortable with.”

  His CEO raised his hands in a placating gesture. “We’ve hired top-notch private military contractors. Kade Spear of Spear & Stein Retrieval and Recycling.”

  Yara snorted. “Nice company name.”

  “That’s a front.”

  Of course, she knew that. She had conflicting opinions about private military contractors (PMC) but agreed they were a necessary evil. They were called mercenaries for a reason. Their aid workers complained to ERAF about the appalling behavior of the previous PMC company they’d used. Callous, brutish, and reckless disregard for human life were only a few grievances that were filed with their HR department.