by Louise Dawn
The cake tasted incredible. A trace of cinnamon ran through the velvety frosting, melting on his tongue. Kids played in a yard nearby, their shouts carried over the neighborhood. A dog barked. A truck rolled past. Eventually, the surroundings grew quiet, and all that was left was a cool breeze blowing through the trees.
Max was almost done with his coffee when Abby finally spoke. “Thank you for fighting for me last night. For saving my life.”
“Don’t thank me. It’s what anyone would have done.”
“Bull. You risked your life—he had a knife and could’ve done some real damage.”
“Angel, I’m a big boy and I’d never turn my back on someone in need. It’s not in my DNA.”
They sat quietly for a moment more.
“Do you have any idea who would hurt you?”
She rubbed a bruised elbow. “I’m pretty sure it was random. You know, with the high crime rate in Johannesburg.”
That was a lie. Abby knew more than she was telling by the slight rise in her tone and her folded arms. Max was surprised to note that she was a pretty bad liar. Her tells weren’t at all subtle; he mentally recorded her body’s betrayal as he replied.
“You didn’t want to file a police report or go to the hospital. Are you on the run from the law?”
“I can’t do this.” Abby scooted her chair back.
Max touched her arm reassuringly. “I just want to know what I’m getting myself involved in. Whoever attacked you saw my face and may have followed us. They may even know where you live.”
Abby visibly blanched, pausing in her escape before sitting back down. “I can’t talk about this, but I doubt it has anything to do with last night.” She pinched the bridge of her nose as Max waited.
With a deep breath, she told him. “There’s an ex-boyfriend I’m avoiding. He’s a little unbalanced, but he has no idea where I live. He’s a powerful man and has connections, so if I go to the police or a hospital he might find me.”
Now that was an odd one. Looking at her body language, there was some truth wrapped up in there somewhere, but it still didn’t make sense. Abby had no history with ex-boyfriends. In fact, as far as he knew, she avoided men in general.
“What happened last night, before I got to you? What did the bastard say?” Max asked. “Did he say what he wanted?”
Abby shook her head. “I assumed it was a hijacking and asked if he wanted the car. He said no, he wanted me.”
Max sensed that Abby was telling the truth in this. It still didn’t make any sense as it wasn’t a lone attacker who saw a pretty girl and took a chance. There were two or more well-trained perps with a getaway vehicle. But why the sexual assault?
“It was really hard to pick up, but I think he had an accent.”
“What kind of accent?”
“I don’t know. He tried to speak with a South African accent, but it sounded off. Like he was trying too hard.”
A South African accent was notoriously hard to pull off. Most foreigners got it wrong. Most professional actors got it wrong, making it sound Australian when in fact the accent stemmed from original Dutch.
“Excuse me for a second.” Abby disappeared into the house. A short time later, music drifted through the doors. She played this piece often. It meant something to her. The song featured a Japanese flute with frogs croaking and chirping in the background. He’d googled it; the piece was called “Soliloquy to the Frogs.” Max settled into the chair.
The song was on repeat and halfway through the second round, when Abby emerged with a cup of what looked like chamomile tea. “If you want more coffee, help yourself.”
“I’m good for now,” Max said.
Sighing, she stretched out her legs and sank back into the cushions.
“Sore?” Max asked.
“A little. I just took something.”
“Good. I may need to apply more glue. Can I check your head?”
Abby shrugged, and Max scooted over. He ran his thumb gently over the injury. No sign of infection. It looked like it was holding, but he might add more Vetbond to the site just to be safe. The music floated in the breeze. Max decided that he liked the soothing melody. His phone buzzed in his pocket. An incoming text.
“Can I use your bathroom?”
Her head moved faintly towards the door. “Go ahead. You know the way.”
Max used the toilet break as an excuse to check his phone. A coded text from Johnny confirmed their meeting that afternoon with a South African contact named Mandla Nkosi.
Max knew of the contact and had a highly classified dossier on Mr. Mandla Nkosi and his intricate African network. Nkosi originated from the Xhosa tribe, one of the most prominent tribes in South Africa, and the ruling government majority.
His wealthy parents sent him to London for schooling. Like Max, he was a hyper polyglot—a student with a high language learning aptitude, he effortlessly took to new languages. At nineteen, Nkosi was recruited by British Intelligence. Undisclosed activities with MI6 and the Secret Intelligence Service had rounded Nkosi into a formidable operative. At thirty-two years of age, upon his return to Africa, Nkosi assisted the US in the capture of a number of elusive terrorists.
Mandla Nkosi was now a covert leader in an African partner nation, working together with the US and the United Kingdom. He conducted joint investigations and countered the growing threats of terrorism in the Southern African region. His web extended all the way up into Angola. There wasn’t much that got past Nkosi. Max hated to admit that he needed him. A clean, quick operation was preferable, without involving local parties, but Max required extra eyes and ears to defeat Khalid’s vast network. If Khalid or any of his minions snuck into South Africa, Max needed to know.
Abby was in the kitchen when Max walked up the passage. She loaded the dishwasher with precision.
“I apologize, I have a meeting to get to.”
Rising gracefully, she smiled. Max rarely saw her smile. Not on camera or off. The innocent gesture was an unwelcome surprise, and his stomach did a nasty flip in response. Her smile wavered, and Max internally shook himself. He wasn’t a player and his blunt attitude was getting in the way. Use it to your advantage, you dunce!
Abby wiped the sink with a damp dishrag. The damn kitchen sparkled with cleanliness, unless there were teeny tiny crumbs only visible to her X-ray vision.
“Thanks for the cake. It was delicious.” Arms folded, Max took a step towards her.
“It’s a pleasure. Anything made of chocolate is always delicious,” Abby said shyly. She pulled at a corner of the dishrag with her thumb.
Max stepped up. “Take a compliment. You’re a good cook, but yeah, chocolate does make everything better.”
Abby smiled again at that.
Emboldened, Max moved right up beside her. “I enjoyed the relaxing afternoon.”
Max traced the shell of her ear with his thumb before pulling her in with a tender kiss to her forehead.
“You’re a sweetheart, Abs, and damn brave. Hell, you’re also still shaken up. You need to rest.” Abby opened her mouth and Max cut her off. “How about lunch tomorrow? My treat, to make up for the incredible slice of cake.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Abby said huskily.
His proximity affected her. Max used that to his advantage by grabbing her hips and pulling her close. His hard body pressed her to the counter. Her widening eyes meant that she could feel his erection against her belly.
“I like you. Hell, I fucking want you, and I know you’re not looking for anything serious, so why not keep this light?”
“What do you mean?” she whispered.
“Let’s enjoy each other a little, have some fun. I’m leaving in a couple of months anyway so there are no strings and no complications.”
Uncertainty flashed, so Max pressed on. “I never do this. I haven’t been with a woman for a long while. I’m a workaholic and don’t have the energy for a complex relationship. I feel something with you, and it�
��s warm and delicious. Fucking delicious,” Max said, rolling his hips.
Her groaning response had him capturing her mouth. Max took his time, nibbling those full lips. When she opened for him, he plundered her warm wetness that tasted like chocolate. Abby’s hands slipped under his T-shirt, and his dick grew in response. If they kept this up, he was going to lose his load.
The incredible chemistry was not ideal for the job, but he could use that to their advantage. He’d use her to find the Sandpiper. The thought doused his desire like an ice bucket, and Max pulled away. It wouldn’t get that far. The quiet kitchen amplified their ragged breathing.
Resting his forehead against hers, Max said, “I’ll pick you up at noon.”
Abby’s hesitation had Max holding his breath. Finally, she replied. “This won’t be a couple of months, a couple of weeks maybe. I’ve got too much on my plate, and I don’t want anything getting in the way. I call the shots.”
Max grinned, nuzzling her neck. “Yes, ma’am.”
Melting into him, Abby sighed. “I mean it.”
Her words were muffled, as he nibbled the side of her mouth before giving her a final kiss. His other hand traced the bite mark. “Put some ice on this.”
◊ ◊ ◊
Abby’s legs felt like jelly as he walked out. Max Hansen’s intensity in the kitchen was suffocating. Hell, if he’d lifted her onto the counter, she would’ve opened herself up to him. Just thinking about those defined hips nudging open her legs made her want to squirm. Abby never squirmed. There was no way she was about to start now. So big deal, he was a hottie. Abby slammed the dishwasher door a little more firmly than was called for. So what if he kissed her like she was made of porcelain and hot lava at the same time. So what if she could imagine his thumb stroking something else besides her neck. Those languid, firm strokes. A cool shower was what she needed, and it would kill two birds with one stone. Soothe aching muscles and calm raging hormones.
Five minutes later, Abby was under the spray, about to close the shower door when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Rivulets of water ran over her breasts, running down between her thighs. She traced the stream from her lips to her neck where Max had touched her. Her hands drifted further down, imagining his lips running over her flesh. Her mirror image looked wanton. When had she last touched herself? Years ago maybe. Her hand slid between her thighs, nudging her folds apart. She swirled a finger over her clit.
◊ ◊ ◊
Donnie and Slater ran out to grab lunch and would be back for base duty by the time Max and Johnny left for the meeting. Johnny jumped in the shower, and Max replaced his friend at the monitors, grabbing the headphones. Glancing at the screens, Max saw Abby pulling clothes out of a drawer, before wandering into the bathroom. He’d give her privacy. The dossier before him had his attention. Mandla Nkosi was apparently competent, but Max had to ensure the team’s safety.
Max was playing a dangerous game with a suspect. Fucking a target was stepping over the line, and his team had never resorted to that. Yes, Johnny was dating Lizzy, but hadn’t taken her to bed and wasn’t planning to. Max was eager to play hardball with Abby, to ignore his moral code for a couple of reasons. They were running out of time. Khalid was becoming more elusive, and his suicide network was strengthening. Abby was the closest link they’d had in years. She was also hot for him and the pull was strong. Yanking her out of her comfort zone was the quickest way to get under her defenses.
The physical assault on her the previous night was ugly, and Max hated that she was injured, but it opened a normally bolted door. Her vulnerability would be exploited. Max felt like a shit but if she was a card-carrying jihadist terrorist, then he didn’t give a flying fuck. Playing with the big boys might just get her flayed.
Glancing up at the screen, Max stilled.
Abby was showering with the effing door open—wide open—as in “I can see her gyrating goodies” open. Holy freaking hell. The heavily frosted glass meant that all you would usually see was a blurred-out shape. When Abby changed in the bedroom or bathroom, Max always looked away. The rest of the team were good at not gawking, not that you could see a whole load of detail, as the images were generally grainy. But this…
The bathroom camera had an excellent view of the action, a fuzzy but beautiful angle, and Max was mesmerized. Abby ran her hands down her wet body. Her fingers found her pussy, and she stroked herself as round breasts strained upwards. Max was instantly hard, feeling like he could fell a tree with his dick. Shit.
Abby turned and rubbed her tits against shiny tiles while spreading her legs. Her ass raised up as her fingers worked her clit. His dick swelled even more, throbbing in time with her moans; he’d never wanted to fuck a woman so badly. A cold sweat broke out as she rubbed her nipples up and down the slippery wall. Rounded ass cheeks started to clench as her climax built. What he wouldn’t give to suck on those wet nipples, to shove his dick inside and slam her against the wall… Jesus. Stop.
Max swiveled the chair, about to rip off the headphones when she screamed his name. Over and over, coming with his name on her lips. Glancing back nearly made him come. Max cursed, knowing he’d never soon forget the sight of Abby orgasming in a shower, a glorious wet dream permanently stamped into his brain.
Chapter Six
A battered taxi blared its horn as it forced its way in front of them, ignoring the rules of the road and veering over the pavement in the process. Anton Vorster slammed on the brakes.
“Shee-it!” Johnny white-knuckled the door handle in protest.
TIA, buddy, this is Africa. Hell, this wasn’t just Africa. They were heading into Hillbrow, an inner-city neighborhood of Johannesburg riddled with gang activity. Hillbrow was known for high levels of population density, unemployment, poverty, and crime. Max glanced out the back window of the Jetta. It was a Saturday afternoon, and activity littered the streets. Gangs of men huddled on street corners, arrogantly watching over the scurrying locals. Anton pulled up at a light. Street vendors and beggars tapped at the windows, jostling for their attention.
“Fok off!” Anton yelled, waving an aggressive window washer away.
Anton was a neutral contact who would get them in Mandla Nkosi’s door. He worked for Nkosi on occasion, renting out his SF skills. Max was no stranger to working in dangerous cities—places that made Afghanistan look like utopia—and he bore physical souvenirs as proof. Hillbrow felt about the same, that keyed-up heightened awareness. Being surrounded by wolves waiting for any sign of weakness. Towards the end of Apartheid, Hillbrow was named a grey area where people of different ethnicities lived together. However, due to poor planning, its infrastructure could not cope with the rapid population growth. An exodus of middle-class residents in the eighties left in its wake an urban slum. Fast forward to present day, and it was a dangerous cesspool of drugs and poverty.
“Are you sure we can trust this Nkosi guy? He hasn’t exactly taken up residence in the best part of town.”
Anton glanced at Johnny. “Mate, he chooses to live here for that very reason. Nothing goes on without Mandla Nkosi knowing about it. Don’t worry, he has men watching our six on every street corner for the next five blocks.”
“No offense, buddy, the only one watching my six is my teammate.” Max reached over and squeezed Johnny’s shoulder.
“Want me to turn the air up?” Anton fiddled with the vents while swerving around a jaywalker. Jesus, that was close.
“Perkele. Just get us safely in and out of this damn ghetto.”
“Is there a reason we’re doing this on a Saturday?” Johnny asked.
“You sound like a bunch of girls, all pink on the inside. Mandla’s a busy man and this is the only time he’ll see you. Let me guess, Big John, you’re not a fan of crowds?”
“Which operator is a fan, you fucker?”
Anton laughed. He was enjoying this. Max would bet that the tough mother was a regular visitor to this part of town.
Anton Vorster’s hardness
resulted from the brutal life he’d lived as a South African Special Forces Soldier—also known as Recce—ruthless warriors who instilled fear in their enemies. For many years, Recce was ranked as the best trained unit worldwide. Now many of the Former SF men found themselves unemployed. Some turned to mercenary work. Max knew of Recce fighting the Boko Haram in Nigeria and had also run into them in Sierra Leone and Iraq. Others had been killed or captured in shadowy corners of the world. The lucky ones like Anton found work with consultancy firms, covertly aiding the government and wealthy clients by protecting their assets. Max didn’t entirely trust Anton—not many men earned that right—but he did respect the hell out of him.
His mind kept drifting back to Abby touching herself in the shower. He’d been with a fair number of women in his time, yet that was the most erotic moment he’d ever experienced. Abby’s throaty moans echoed through his brain. The way she’d shouted his name. Shit. There was no way he’d allow his dick to get his team into trouble and fucking a target would get them into a tank load of it. A target. A terrorist. A traitor.
“Heads up, we’re here.” Anton braked suddenly and swung into a parallel space with little room to spare. They exited the vehicle and immediately stood out like damn glow sticks. Although they dressed to blend in, the three tall warriors screamed operator. Max surveyed the urban chaos; hostile curiosity littered the street. He ignored the stares, scanning for potential threats.
Anton knelt to greet a street child. “Sawubona baba.”
Max recognized the tribal greeting spoken in Zulu. Anton handed the child a package, which Max presumed was food. Judging by the strung-out look in the boy’s eyes, if Anton gave money, he’d spend it on glue or weed.
The child replied, “Yebo, Sawubona.”
The rest of the conversation was lost to Max. The skinny kid was an informant and the exchange probably pertained to the meeting, so Max bit his tongue. Four men sized them up from across the street, gang-affiliated judging from the clothing. Street vendors yelled among each other. A family looking down on their luck scuttled by. A Bob Marley wannabe ambled past strumming at a guitar that had seen better days. Two stocky men chatted in Russian and Max eavesdropped.
