The romantic part of Laroque actually wanted to believe that this woman had been dropped into his life like an angel.
But he wasn’t a fool, and he did not believe in coincidences. He also had trouble believing her science crew would just abandon her like this.
He needed to check her out. Thoroughly.
In the meanwhile, he needed to be sure she was safe. His castle was the best place for her tonight.
“You’ll agree to the interview, then?” Her voice was midnight velvet, soft and powerful at the same time. It was the kind of voice that made a man aware of his sex. And that made her potentially dangerous.
“You’re welcome to stay the night,” he said bluntly.
Surprise showed in her eyes. “Is that all?”
“That’s all. I’ll have my men show you to the guest quarters. They’ll escort you to the airport before noon.”
He stepped back and summoned his guards.
Langley, Virginia. CIA headquarters
CIA director Blake Weston pored over the reports on his desk. The death of his men in Ubasi ate at him like acid.
He rubbed his face, inhaling deeply.
He had what appeared to be an extremely serious intelligence breach on his hands. His agents in West Africa had been deep, deep cover. The exposure of their identities indicated an information leak, and it could only have come from the inside. At least this is how it would be viewed in Washington. He pinched the bridge of his nose.
Blake was new to this top job, and the White House was watching carefully to see how he handled his first major crisis. His agency had to be seen to be acting swiftly, decisively and ruthlessly to root out any possible mole. Blake was also aware that his career depended not only on his actions at this critical juncture, but on the political perception of his actions.
Which is why the Laroque-Ubasi situation had been instantly outsourced to the FDS, an objective organization, while the CIA could be seen to be dealing with its own internal security issues. Blake had no doubt the FDS would effectively eliminate Jean-Charles Laroque and pave the way to stability in the Gulf of Guinea.
But that didn’t solve the disclosure of his men’s identities. That was the problem that burned him. That was what would come back to haunt him.
He shoved his chair back, stood, unscrewed his bottle of pills, popped two into his mouth. This clandestine cooperation with the Pentagon only confounded things. He’d been put hands-on in charge of the new joint task force, and any failure would reflect directly on him. He chewed his medication slowly, thinking. This business was full of mirrors and shadows and smoke—one never really knew who or what one was dealing with. Or what the agenda was. He could use this to his advantage.
But getting off this particular tiger was going to be tricky. Maybe impossible. It could even cost him his life. If Blake was to have any chance of actually riding this one out, Laroque had to take the fall for the agents’ deaths.
If Laroque died with Washington believing the tyrant had somehow discovered the CIA agents’ identities on his own, the mystery—all the niggling questions—would die with him. Then Blake’s problem would simply disappear.
There was just one little hitch—the profiler. The FDS had insisted on this approach. Blake had been dead set against it. He didn’t need some academic from New York declaring the tyrant fit for capture, he needed him dead.
He glanced at the calendar on his desk.
The FDS profiler had less than one week to make her move. It had damned well better be the right one.
03:17 Zulu. Saturday, November 9. Ubasi Palace
Emily lay on the king-size bed staring at the impossibly high ceiling. The door had been bolted from the outside. When she’d protested, the guards had said it was for her own safety. The balcony was too high to climb down. She’d checked.
She was imprisoned like a damn princess in a castle tower.
Her bags had been delivered to the room, but her computer, phone, camera and knife were all still missing. Emily had little doubt Laroque was going through her things with a fine-tooth comb, checking out her story—her identity.
She told herself she shouldn’t worry. It was state-of-the-art military issue, and everything was encrypted. The FDS techs were among the best in the world. They’d have been careful not to leave digital clues. Laroque wouldn’t find a thing.
So why didn’t she feel more secure?
She figured the only reason she was still here in his castle boudoir was so that he could thoroughly check her cover story. Perhaps he hadn’t believed a single word she’d said. She wondered if she’d even see him again.
Emily tossed irritably on the Egyptian cotton sheets as the wind moaned up in the parapets and rattled at the French doors on her little stone balcony.
The more she thought about it, the more she really liked the idea of a book. Laroque exhibited classic Alpha Dog pathology, yet he’d only recently become a dictator, which meant she had an opportunity to witness a monster-in-the-making. Scoring a one-on-one interview with Le Diable would not only secure her FDS mission, it could earn her academic prestige down the road.
It would give her something to take back to New York.
Emily desperately needed some sort of professional—and personal—validation after being so thoroughly humiliated by her ex and her peers. Anger surged through her at the memory. She sat up abruptly in the bed, forced out pent-up breath with a puff of her cheeks.
She did not want to go back to New York a failure.
The fiasco she’d left at home had forced her to question everything about herself, every choice she’d ever made in life—from her career to the men she dated. And she really didn’t want to face those questions. Not now. Not yet. Maybe never, if she could help it.
She wanted excitement, adrenaline, something big to focus on right now, other than herself.
This wasn’t running, she told herself. Sometimes you just needed distance.
She slid off the bed, snagged the water jug on the dresser and poured herself a glass. She took a swig but the liquid balled in her throat.
Her eyes began to burn and hurt tightened her chest.
She’d trusted her ex.
Hell, she’d even thought she loved him. But it had just been a game—a bet he’d taken with his colleagues that he could not only bed the brainy ice queen, but make her fall for him.
She plunked the glass down, shoved her hair back from her face and cursed viciously.
She had fallen for him. His name was Dr. Anthony Dresden. He was much older, an esteemed university professor who did consulting at her clinic. Not only had he made a mockery of her, but he’d lured her across a line she should never have dared cross—that line between personal and professional. A vital line in a field like hers.
What made it worse was the fact she’d once confided to Anthony that she was concerned about her consistent attraction to dominant and physically powerful males—men like her dad. She’d told Anthony she was beginning to think she subconsciously found ways to sabotage her relationships with men like this as soon as they showed signs of getting serious. That’s why her relationships never lasted more than eighteen months. She invariably grew afraid that if she