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Before she could even think of grabbing her sarong and getting up, the door splintered open and crashed back against the wall.
She shrank back against the headboard as soldiers armed with Kalashnikovs burst into her room.
“What…what do you want?” she demanded.
They said nothing. One tore back her mosquito netting, motioned with the barrel of his weapon for her to get out of bed. Another scooped up her phone, computer and camera—all her communication equipment. Without it she was totally cut off.
“Allez!” The big soldier pointed his weapon to the door. “Go!”
Emily was suddenly horribly conscious of the fact she was wearing only provocative lace panties and a sheer camisole that stuck to her breasts with perspiration. She held up her hands. “Just…just one second, okay? Please? One second. Comprends? S’il vous plaît?” She reached cautiously for her sarong, watching their eyes as she spoke. She covered herself as she slid awkwardly down from the high bed. She tied the sarong tightly over her hips with shaking fingers as she mentally scrambled for where she’d left her sandals and knife.
“Allez!”
“Okay, okay. My…my shoes—”
They grabbed her arms and shoved her barefoot toward the door, through the hotel and out to a waiting battery of Jeeps. That’s when she knew she was in trouble—serious trouble.
02:03 Zulu. Saturday, November 9. Ubasi Palace
Laroque paced slowly round the massive eboyawood table that sat squarely in the center of his cavernous war room. There was still no electricity—the room was lit by flickering torches that sent shadows to shiver and crouch in corners.
Thunder boomed in the distance, making his dog growl and edge nervously up against his leg. Laroque reached down and patted Shaka’s head, studying the wood pieces he’d laid out on the table in the style of old generals to mark the positions of his allied rebel troops, and pockets of resistance fighters—pockets that were growing mysteriously.
He frowned. His spies had informed him that Souleyman had set up camp in the jungle beyond Ubasi’s eastern border. He was once again amassing power, but where his weapons and financing were coming from was an enigma.
At first Laroque had suspected the CIA. He knew Washington—along with the rest of the world—would be eyeing the massive oil reserves he’d recently discovered. And because of his rebel alliance, they would be seeing him as a serious threat in the region.
But if it was the U.S., and if those dead men were in fact CIA agents—their murders made no sense. Something else was at play here.
Anger bubbled through Laroque’s blood. Again he cursed himself for not killing Souleyman when he’d had the chance.
His father would have.
His father would have seen Laroque’s mercy as a mistake. And it was.
Souleyman had overthrown Ubasi’s King Desmond Douala in a violent coup eight years ago. The king and his family had fled to France, the former colonial power, and Souleyman had declared himself leader-for-life, running the country by a process of extortion, bribes, torture and corruption, instantly silencing any political opposition with his notorious death squad.
It was how he had silenced Laroque’s sister, and her children.
Laroque clenched his jaw. The mere notion that someone might be helping that bastard back into power filled Laroque’s mouth with bitter repulsion.
He swore violently, strode to the huge arched windows, and glared out over the black jungle. Thunder rumbled again, and a gust of hot wind lifted the drapes.
It was for the love of the women in his life, the women he’d lost, that Laroque was doing this. He owed it to them. To his sister. This was her dream. And now that he’d started down this road, there could be no turning back.
But as he stared into the stormy blackness, it was the image of another woman that crept into his mind—the one he’d seen in Basaroutou. A strange hot frisson ran through him.
His general had told him that a U.S. national who had entered Ubasi with the science team had defied his orders to leave the country by curfew. Laroque had an odd feeling that the woman he’d seen in the street might be that person.
The hot wind gusted again, and anticipation rustled through him as he caught the scent of the coming rainstorm. He checked his watch. It was just after 2:00 a.m.
He’d find out soon enough who she was. They were bringing her to him this very moment.
02:17 Zulu. Saturday, November 9. Ubasi Palace
The soldiers threw open a set of heavy studded doors and thrust Emily into a dimly lit, cavernous room. The doors thudded shut behind her, and she heard an iron bolt being dropped into place.
She blinked, trying to adjust her eyesight to the coppery torchlight. She could sense another presence in the room, but couldn’t see anyone.
Then he stepped from the shadows, his famous black dog moving at his side.
Emily’s heart stalled.
Laroque.
He said nothing, just raked his eyes over her from head to foot and back again, making her feel even more naked than she already was.
Her palms turned clammy, and her throat tightened.
He appeared even taller than the six foot three indicated in the FDS dossier she’d memorized. He was wearing the military fatigues she’d seen him in earlier, except now his hair hung loose to his shoulders. His ice-green eyes glinted in the light.
Emily choked down a rush of fear and awe as she forced herself into professional observational mode. She was being handed a rare opportunity here—face time with Le Diable, a tyrant in the making, right inside his lair. This man was her subject. She was here to study him.
But he was clearly appraising her.
She tried to tamp down the hot flare of déjà vu, the uncanny sense that she’d woken up in her own erotic nightmare.
Focus, Emily. You know the dominance psychology here. You can do this. You’re still in control.
She cleared her throat. “I’d like to know why you brought me here like this?” she demanded in French. “And I’d like my clothes.”
Laroque angled his head ever so slightly and the light played over his mouth. Was that a twitch of a smile—or anger—on his lips?
Emily straightened her spine, her movement instantly drawing his eyes to her breasts. She felt her cheeks grow warm.
He took a step toward her. “And I would like to know why you are in Ubasi.” He spoke in perfect but beautifully accented English, his voice rolling out from somewhere low in his chest.
“I’m with the Geographic International—”
“No.” He cut her short. “Why are you still here? Why did you not leave when ordered?”
She felt herself bristle. “I couldn’t leave. Your customs official confiscated my documents and cash.”
His eyes narrowed sharply, the chemistry in the room suddenly becoming darker, edgier.
“Why?” He said the word very quietly.
She swallowed. “He…maintained there was an irregularity with my currency declaration form.”
“Was there?”
“Of course not. The man didn’t even look at my form. It was extortion, pure and simple. He cut me from the crowd because I was female and had become separated from my group. He said if I want my documents back I must pay a fifty-thousand-franc fine. I don’t have that kind of money on me. That is why I’m still here.”
Muscles corded visibly along his neck, yet his voice remained measured, calm. “What was the official’s name?”
Emily’s stomach tightened. She didn’t yet know where this man’s trigger points lay, and she didn’t like the way his cold eyes and level voice clashed with the invisible anger that seemed to be rolling off him in disquieting waves. This man was barely leashed violence. He was dangerous.
“His name,” he insisted, even more quietly.
“I…I didn’t get his name.”
Laroque spun on his heels, reached for the communications device on his desk and punched a button. He issued orders in rapid Ubasian, his tone completely unemotional. Emily didn’t understand a word, but there was something about his concealed tension that said it all—the customs guy was done for.
He released the button, turned to face her, the muscles in his neck still bunched tight. Silence descended on the room. It was then that Emily realized she was shaking.
“I’m sorry,” he said, taking a step toward her, his voice suddenly as smooth and rounded as cream liquor over ice. “I do not condone extortion in any form, especially concerning a woman. I’ll have your passport returned by dawn.”
She lifted her shoulder in part shrug, part nervous reaction, his sexist comment not escaping her. “It’s the way of this continent—”
“Not in Ubasi.” He took another step toward her. “We will not manage to attain a democracy unless we root this sort of thing out now. I need my people to trust authority. Not fear it.”
She felt her eyes widen.
He smiled, a quick and piratical slash against his dark skin, so fleeting she almost missed it. “You did not expect an apology?”
“Honestly? No…no, I didn’t.”
He pursed his lips, the light of flames shimmering in his eyes. It was an unexpectedly intimate look, a trick of the firelight. It reminded Emily of her state of undress, and the fact that he still had not offered to make her comfortable in any way. He still wanted something from her.
And he wanted her on edge to get it.
“What…what’ll you do to the customs official?” she asked, wanting to probe his character, to use her limited time with him as best she could. But at the same time she was wary of pushing him.
“He’ll be punished.”
“How?”
He arched a brow. “You’re interested?”
“Well…I…” Tread carefully here, Emily. “I’ve heard about the Laroque legacy on this continent, and I—”
“I am not my father. I will never be like him.” Although spoken quietly his words were terse.
Emily noted his reaction. His father was a sensitive point. “I’m sorry,” she said gently. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
He regarded her intently. “You don’t believe the customs official should be punished?”
Watch yourself, Emily. He’s assessing you, just as you are him.
“It appears,” she said, selecting her words with care, “that this man broke the law. Certainly justice should be done. But perhaps you could define the Ubasi version of ‘punishment’ before I can offer a considered opinion.”
“Ah, a diplomat?” He smiled quickly, turned, strode away, then spun suddenly back to face her. “As well as a scientist.”
He was closing in, yet giving her the illusion of physical space by walking away. This man was good. He understood people, psychology. And he knew how to use it. Most tyrants did.
“Your name is Emma Sanford—Dr. Emma Sanford. You’re from New Jersey. You’re both a sociologist and a psychologist.”
Emily nodded. “That’s correct.” He’d gotten those details from the papers she’d had to file with the palace before joining the G.I. expedition. He was probably having her background checked this very minute.
She knew the identity Jacques had given her would hold. They always did, whether she went in as a nun, aid worker or reporter. Yet she felt as though Laroque could see right through her.
She folded her arms over her stomach as she spoke, and his eyes followed the movement of her hands. Damn. He was reading her defensive body language. The movement had come so instinctively in response to his question that she’d covered herself before she’d even realized it.
She didn’t make mistakes like this. Laroque had managed to throw her way off center, just as he’d intended by bringing her here half-dressed in the dark of night.
And there was something in his penetrating gaze that made her intimately aware of her own femininity. He was all male. All in control. A very real and personal panic suddenly sliced into Emily. It caught her off guard and she fought to regulate her breathing.
She needed to stay focused. Professional.
“So what is a sociologist-psychologist doing with a team studying a volcano?”
She swallowed. She’d known this was coming next. Jacques’s idea had been for her to play as close to her identity as was comfortable so that she could legitimately ask questions about Laroque’s mental state without drawing suspicion.
“It’s not just the volcano,” she said. “We also wanted to look into the sociology of the villagers who live on the flanks of an active volcano. My specific role is to examine the psychology associated with dwelling on the shoulders of a geological monster that could erupt at any moment.” She hesitated, watching for some kind of reaction in his eyes, but he gave away nothing. “I’m professionally intrigued by what rationalizations a society uses for remaining in that kind of danger. I also want to examine the mythology and religion that has evolved around living on a live volcano.”
A genuine interest crept into his eyes. It was the first real sign of emotion in him, and it emboldened her a little. “That’s basically my goal here in Ubasi—to do that research and to compile a series of articles for our sponsor’s magazine.” She allowed her eyes to flicker briefly to the side, feigning a touch of coyness. “I was also hoping to examine life in Ubasi under the new leader. I’m told things are improving in the country,” she said, forcing a soft smile.
He said nothing.
She tilted her head, met his eyes and deepened her smile, fully aware of what she could do to a man, if she wanted. “You’re an enigma,” she ventured. “A French soldier of fortune who came out of the blue to take an African country for himself. It’s a bold and fascinating story.” She stepped closer to him. “That’s more than an article, Your Excellency,” she said, using his official title. “That’s a book.”
His eyes flared briefly. “I gave no sanction for a book.”
“I know. A book is my personal interest, an adjunct to my work with the Geographic team. I’d been hoping to request an interview while I was here.”
This is where feminine flattery should work on an autocratic personality. This is where the Alpha Dog should be seduced into talking about himself. But Emily had just succeeded in unsettling herself—because not only was she physically ruffled by this man’s proximity, the idea of a book on the warlord-turned-tyrant was something she actually wanted beyond this FDS mission. She was hewing too close to her own desires.
He studied her quietly, shadow and light playing over his features. For a moment she thought she glimpsed a softening in his eyes, a shimmer of sadness, even, a small window opening to the real man inside.
“I see.” A ghost of a smile tipped the corners of his lips. “For a moment there I thought you were going to compare living on an active volcano to life in Ubasi under my rule.”
Emily wasn’t sure whether she was expected to laugh, or if he was playing her, just as she was playing him.
Confusion coiled inside her. Thunder crashed, right above the castle this time, unleashing the full brunt of the storm. Rain lashed against the walls, and wind howled, billowing curtains and ferrying a mist of fine droplets into the room.
He held out his hand in a sudden gesture of magnanimity. “It’s late. Allow me to offer you accommodation, Emma—may I call you Emma?”
“I…yes, of course.”
