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.”
“Stay in my palace, be my guest for the night while we sort out your passport issue.”
Hope fluttered in her chest.
“You will then leave Ubasi before noon tomorrow.”
Her heart sank right back down. “So…there’s no chance of an interview, then?” she asked, trying to push her luck.
He held her eyes for several long beats, as if deciding whether to even answer.
“What good would a book do me, Emma?” he said.
She decided to play her wild card. It was dangerous, and she knew it, but she’d glimpsed the little chink in his walls, and being bold enough to go for those barely perceptible vulnerabilities was what had made Emily the uncanny success she was at psychological analyses—so successful, in fact, her peers often joked about her being psychic. Plus, she was running out of face time with Laroque. If she didn’t move now, she’d lose her window completely. She’d fail her mission.
“A book could show people that you are not like your father, Your Excellency.”
His mouth flattened and his eyes narrowed to slits. He took a step closer to her, and she felt herself tense.
“It’s not the truth the world wants to read, Emma,” he said darkly. “What is true is less important than what is widely believed. People prefer to believe in monsters.”
“Monsters like Le Diable?” She watched his eyes. “Or monsters like Peter Laroque?”
He came close to her, very close, and he lowered his voice to a soft murmur near her ear. “What if I am like him, Emma?”
Heat began to burn low in her belly. But she didn’t shy away from the penetrating intensity in his eyes, or from his closeness. “That’s your fear, isn’t it?” Her voice came out a whisper. “You’re afraid that deep down somewhere you are like him. But I don’t believe it.” And she didn’t. She was going on a raw gut feel here, taking one hell of a gamble. “Let me stay, Your Excellency,” she said gently. “Give me the interview time. Please.”
A muscle pulsed under his eye.
He leaned down farther, his mouth coming very close to hers. “What do you really want from me, Emma Sanford?”
She shivered at the sensation of his breath, warm against her skin, and for a nanosecond she wasn’t sure what she wanted. Her heart began to race so fast she could barely breathe. She tried to moisten her lips. “Just…the interview time.”
He studied her in silence that vibrated like electricity between their bodies, his eyes probing hers, searching for something. Emily felt herself begin to burn from the inside out.
“I need to know something first, Emma,” he said softly, his eyes lancing hers. “Do you understand just how dangerous things are in Ubasi right now?”
Oh, boy, did she ever. In more ways than one. She was in trouble. Every warning bell in her system was clanging for her to step away from him. Right now. Run. Flee! This was a man who could convince a woman to cross the line into sin with one little crook of his finger. This was exactly the kind of man she must avoid, the kind of man who got her into personal trouble.
Except this time she couldn’t flee. This time the man she feared on a very personal level was her professional mission. And this time, her life might be on the line.
Whether he was like his father or not, Emily had little doubt Le Diable would kill her if he learned she had come to destroy him.
“I do,” she whispered, eyes burning from the effort of sustaining his gaze without blinking. “I know exactly how dangerous.”
Chapter 3
A dark whisper of warning breathed through Laroque as her violet eyes held his steadily. “I saw you,” he said, watching her carefully. “In the street this morning.”
A nebulous look swam through her eyes. “I know.”
Something rich and dark slid through his stomach. She’d felt the same connection, he could read it in her eyes, hear it in her voice. Every last strand of primal DNA in his body fought to override rational thought at this moment.
He loved the way her hair fell in a dark tangle almost to her waist, the way freckles ever so faintly dusted the pale skin over her nose. And he was particularly attracted to the sharp intelligence that sparked in her unusual eyes. This woman presented challenge.
And nothing fired Laroque like a challenge.
It fueled a voracious appetite in him—for victory, dominance. It made him want to play the game.
There was no doubt in his mind that he’d take her physically, should she dare offer.
But he didn’t trust her.
He’d be damned if he didn’t want to, though. The notion of sharing his personal story with her was strangely compelling.
He’d never told anyone his life story before. He’d borne his scars solo since the age of thirteen, pretending the opinions of others never bothered him.
But they did.
Deep down, if he really was truthful, Laroque wanted people to understand that while he’d learned the art of guerrilla warfare and the techniques of torture and death from his father, while he’d been forced to follow, and depend