Short Fuse: Elite Operators, Book 2 (9 page)

“
Allons-y
,” the woman demanded, tightening her hold.

Warren was in motion before Nicola could even turn to look at him, wrapping his arm around her waist and inserting himself between her and the crowd. “Enough. We’re leaving.”

She didn’t object as he ushered her away, pressing into his side when a handful of people began jogging to catch them, still making adamant requests in broken French. Gripping her more tightly, he marveled at how small she was, how slight and delicate. Her petite frame didn’t seem capable of producing the authority with which she’d addressed the community. Her presence was so strong, he’d practically forgotten her diminutive stature.

Their pursuers fell back as they neared the entrance to the settlement, their expressions transforming from urgent to dejected to resigned as they slowed, then stopped altogether.

He held open the door of the Land Cruiser so Nicola could climb in. He took his own seat behind the wheel, put the old four-by-four into gear, and soon they were hustling back down the rutted road toward town.

He glanced into the rearview mirror. The same children who had stared at them on arrival were still crouched by the entrance, their game of marbles unaffected by all this uproar over a couple of visitors from Garraway Gold.

They were halfway down the looping road back to Hambani when Nicola spoke.

“Thanks for your help back there. I felt like Whitney Houston in
The Bodyguard
. Except you’re much better-looking than Kevin Costner.”

He shot her a sidelong glance. “Thanks?”

“Any time.”

“I saw that man again,” he announced, ending his internal debate on whether or not to tell her. “With the green eyes.”

“From the site of the explosion?”

“That’s him. He said we shouldn’t be in Latadi. That this had nothing to do with us.”

She frowned. “That what has nothing do with us?”

“I’m not sure,” he replied grimly, mentally replaying the encounter. “And I can’t say I’m all that keen to find out.”

Chapter Eight

“Dammit.” Nicola swore under her breath as she opened the door to the canteen, which was pitch-black and deserted this late in the evening. She’d been too preoccupied by her trip to the informal settlement to manage more than a few bites of dinner, and by midnight her growling stomach wasn’t helping her restless insomnia. Her flashlight died ten minutes into her walk to the office, at which point she realized wandering around the mine at night probably wasn’t the brightest idea. Calculating that she was closer to the canteen—and a fresh flashlight battery—than she was to her cabin, hyper-alertness hurried her steps the rest of the way.

Now she hesitated in the doorway, unable to make out even the hulking white refrigerator in the total darkness. The light switch was on the opposite side of the room.

“Too stupid to live,” she muttered, plunging into the canteen with her hands extended in front of her, praying that a shin-bruising chair was the worst threat she faced.

She’d managed three steps inside when she sensed movement ahead of her. She froze, every nerve on high alert as she stood absolutely still, listening intently.

A shoe squeaked on the linoleum, closer than she expected, but before she could scream a hand clamped over her mouth, strong arms twisted her hands behind her back and she was shoved face-first against the wall, breathing in the irremovable stink of fried onions buried deep beneath the scent of cleaning products.

“Oh, shit.” All at once the pressure eased, and she was free. She spun to face the figure behind her, and as her eyes adjusted she could just make out Warren’s upheld palms.

“Sorry, I heard someone come in and instinct took over. Are you okay?”

She nodded, then realized that was a useless gesture. “Can you turn on a light?”

His steps were so quiet, if it wasn’t for the faint rush of air she wouldn’t have known he moved. With a click the overhead lights flickered, then shone. She blinked at Warren, then registered the whiskey bottle and half-full glass on the table.

“What are you doing in here?”

“Having a drink.”

“In the dark?”

He shrugged, dropping into a chair and motioning for her to join him. She grabbed a second glass from the cabinet and took the seat opposite his.

“Let me guess, you have night vision because you’re secretly a shape-shifter who turns into a leopard.”

He filled her glass and slid it across the table. “I wish. I didn’t want to turn on the light in case Roger stumbled by and wanted a heart-to-heart. Then my flashlight died and I couldn’t be bothered to get up.”

“Really? My flashlight cut out too, on my walk over here.”

His attention sharpened. “The flashlight that was in the cabin when we arrived?”

She nodded.

“We’ll buy new ones tomorrow, in town,” he muttered darkly.

She raised the glass and tilted it to study the amber liquid inside, then raised it to her nose to smell it. As she lowered it to her mouth she looked over the rim to see Warren watching her, his half-smile bemused.

“It’s the real deal, I promise—you can check the label. I brought it from Cape Town. Figured I might need it.”

“It could be homebrew from a shebeen and I wouldn’t know the difference. I’m not nearly as sophisticated as I pretend to be.” She took a sip, letting the fiery liquor burn down her throat and into her stomach.

“I don’t believe you.” He stretched his legs beneath the table, his jeans brushing against hers. “You certainly knew what you were doing at the settlement today.”

Uncharacteristically, she reddened at his praise. “It was good PR, that’s all.”

“It was sincerity, honesty and grace under pressure.”

“All I did was listen. Nothing changed for those people today. They still went to bed on dirt floors without electricity or running water.”

“Listening is the first step. Things will change for them, thanks to you.”

She swallowed a second gulp and looked up sharply. “Hang on, I thought the gold-mining industry was an irredeemable evil. I’d love to think I’ve sold you on the power of corporate social responsibility, but I’m struggling to believe you’re that easily swayed.”

He leaned back in his chair. “I still think profit will always trump people. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have faith in you, specifically.”

She ran her finger around the rim of the glass, unable to acknowledge his flattery. “How’d you become such a cynic, anyway? It’s not like Copley Ventures is any worse than the rest of the diamond miners.”

“It’s not any better, either.” He shrugged. “Moments accumulate over the years. Overhearing my father and grandfather congratulate each other on the insanely cheap price they’d paid to a chieftain, taking lifetime mineral rights on his land. Seeing my uncle on television, testifying in a bribery scandal. All those years of boarding school, never having the right accent in the right place at the right time, too English for South Africa and too South African for England. When I came home I wanted to live on my terms, not stuffed into some corporate matrix where my surname guaranteed annual promotions no matter how badly I performed. I’d been complicit my whole life, fed and housed and educated by diamond money. Accepting it in paycheck form was a step too far.”

“So you have nothing to do with it now? No shares, no income?”

He shook his head. “My sister bought me out when she turned eighteen. She says she’ll sell my shareholding back to me if I ever want it. Market rate, of course.”

“Fair enough.” She smiled. Warren was sexy as hell when he was in high-alert danger mode, and his brooding, intense silence in the face of Roger’s offensive banter had become the highlight of every dinner. But this was her favorite side of him, she decided. Relaxed, thoughtful, hard-won self-disclosures slipping off a whiskey-loosened tongue.

In fact, now that she thought about it, she would very much like to lick the lingering flavor of barley off his lips. And his teeth. And his tongue, for good measure.

She spun the glass on the table, took a bolstering but unneeded sip. She’d never been afraid to go after what she wanted.

Right now, she wanted him.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“I wouldn’t be in the habit of kissing meddling corporate types if I did. Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Like you, I’m not really the unfaithful type.”

“Tell me about the last guy you dated.”

“That would be Anton, the Swedish wealth manager working in London. Interests included rock climbing, fusion cuisine and political memoirs. Tendency to wax lyrical on whatever he’d read in the paper that morning, but the dry sense of humor and killer blue eyes made up for it.”

He arched a brow. “What did he do to get relegated to the ‘ex’ pile?”

“Nothing, really. I was traveling a lot, he was house hunting, we both worked long hours. Neither one of us was ready to get serious, so we parted over the phone and had a fun, friendly dinner the very next week. I feel like my breakups have always been pretty amicable—isn’t that the case for most people, at our age?”

He laughed, a sound as rare and thrilling as spotting a rhino deep in the bushveld. “No, it’s not.”

Before she could reply he reached for the whiskey bottle, replacing the cap. “It’s late. I have to finish the risk-assessment report on the settlement tomorrow, and you have that videoconference with Roger and the regional director first thing in the morning.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“I could’ve sworn you were about to yank me out of my chair, shove me against the wall and kiss me.”

His hand froze over his glass, gray eyes shining as they met hers. “Really.”

“Maybe I misread you.”

“Maybe I didn’t think you’d appreciate such an aggressive approach.”

“Aggression I can handle. It’s timidity I hate.”

“And I hate being told what to do.” Briskly he stood, gathered up the bottle and carried the empty glasses to the sink.

Nicola fought to keep her jaw from hitting the table as she watched him rinse the glasses, stow them in the dishwasher and dry his hands on a folded tea towel. Had he just blown her off?

She was halfway through her list of reasons why Warren wasn’t really as hot as she’d first thought when he turned around, arms crossed.

“Come on, I’ll walk you back to the cabins. I’ve got a pack of spare flashlight batteries in my suitcase. Take a couple.”

She stood with deliberate nonchalance, pushing her hair over her shoulder as she crossed the room. If he thought she was going to make her move a second time, he had her all wrong. He missed his chance, and he would just have to—

He was on her before she realized he’d moved. Her back hit the wall, his hands gripped her shoulders and her gasp of surprise was lost to the pressure of his mouth.

Even though she’d invited it, the swiftness and extent of Warren’s response surprised her. In an instant his palm found her waist, and his lips moved against hers with a pent-up passion she hadn’t imagined he harbored. She returned the contact avidly, parting her lips and then suppressing a moan as his tongue urgently sought hers.

He pulled back for a moment, raising his fingers to touch her cheek as he regarded her, eyes glazed and dilated with desire. “You taste like whiskey.”

There were too many questions, too many words lapping at the edge of her mind, and she knew if she spoke they would all come tumbling out. Instead she surged back into the kiss, willing herself to block out everything and truly inhabit the moment. She let her hands explore his body, traveling the widening breadth of his torso from his narrow, denim-clad hips up the hard, muscled contours of his chest, finally reaching up to thread her fingers through the thick black hair at the base of his skull.

He spread his hands on either side of her ribcage, and as his thumbs brushed the undersides of her breasts she couldn’t stifle her pleased exhalation and pulled him in tighter. An urgent, guttural sound rumbled in his throat, and she brazenly slid one hand down to the tight curve of his rear end, angling him even harder against her.

He pulled back again, more firmly this time, holding her at arm’s length. She sighed her exasperation.

“You’d better not be about to tell me we should call it a night because you really have to write your risk assessment.”

“I was going to suggest we make our way back to the cabins. Although, now that you mention it, that report won’t—”

“Let’s go.” She linked her arm through his and started toward the door.

Back at the cabins, Nicola paused to peer at him over her shoulder, the door half-cracked. “You’re not getting lucky, you know.”

“I already have.”

“No kidding.” She nodded him inside, then closed and locked the door behind them.

Warren’s breathing quickened as he took in the few yet endearingly feminine touches that distinguished her room, which was otherwise identical to his. Cosmetics in pastel packaging clustered on the desk. A purple sweatshirt draped over the back of a chair. Impossibly small shoes poking out from under the bed. And the scent that hung in the air, a whole host of summer fruits with a hint of vanilla, as sweet and alluring as any he could remember.

“You should know that my vetting process is usually much longer; however given the circumstances, I’m willing to negotiate.” She dropped into the only chair in the room and crossed her legs, giving him a cool, assessing glance he bet she normally reserved for hiring interns.

“What circumstances are these?”

“A gold mine in the middle of nowhere. Threats of violence from unknown corners. The sexiest man I’ve met in a very long time standing inches from my bed.”

“I thought you said I wasn’t going to get lucky.”

“I said we could negotiate.” She folded her hands on her knee and he could picture the tight pencil skirt and tailored blazer that would usually accompany that posture. He shifted his weight, futilely trying to relieve the sudden pressure in his jeans.

“Since it’s your first time, I’ll make the opening bid.” Without dropping his gaze, she unbuttoned her long-sleeved linen shirt and shrugged it off, exposing the black tank top she wore underneath.

She watched him expectantly. “What’s your counteroffer?”

“Is everything a transaction with you?”

“Only the important stuff.”

He hesitated. This whole situation was too strange, too dangerous in its unfamiliarity. Occasional losses of temper aside, his life was a series of one closely examined, calculated decision after another. He wasn’t spontaneous, and he sure as hell didn’t take unnecessary risks—in his line of work that quickly equaled a blown-off leg, or worse. The same was true when it came to dating, where his innate skepticism meant he evaluated potential relationships even more meticulously than he examined ticking time bombs.

So why was he giving serious consideration to which article of clothing to remove?

Because Nicola was like an explosion, an unforeseen, unstoppable flare of energy and light and heat from which he couldn’t look away. He barely knew her, yet he knew all he needed to. She was clever, she was brave, and she wasn’t afraid of him, not even a little bit. She robbed his vocabulary and left his jaw hanging slack. She thrilled him into recklessness, into utter abandon.

He began to unbutton his shirt.

The overconfidence left her expression as her eyes tracked his fingers, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. He suppressed a satisfied smile as he slapped his holstered Glock on the desk and let his shirt hit the floor. Finally, he’d recovered some ground.

“Your turn.”

“You’re catching on. But you need to raise the stakes.”

He held out his arms. “This isn’t enough?”

“We’ll see.” She grabbed the hem of her tank top and yanked it off in one swift jerk, then tossed it behind her and leveled him with a challenging gaze.

At least, he thought it was challenging. It was hard to be sure considering he couldn’t stop staring at her perfect, luxurious cleavage.

He swallowed. Tried to speak. Couldn’t remember a word in any language.

Nicola laughed, and when he managed to look at her face he found a playful smile.

“Sergeant Copley,” she remarked, “are you shy?”