by Rachel Grant
That they would meet with the engineers on a Sunday wasn’t a surprise in a Muslim country where they observed Friday prayer, but he was surprised Armando had organized it, as he’d been quite drunk when they left him at the party last night.
Brie’s face lit up at the invitation, and she sprang from the bed. “If it doesn’t interfere with meeting Ivan, I’d love to go to the lab.”
Excited, she grabbed the sheet and stepped into the pool to cross to the door. As she waded, she wrapped the sheet around her like a towel. The bottom of the long satin cloth dragged in the knee-deep water.
She emerged from the pool, and he chuckled at the sight of her wearing nothing but a ruby necklace and soaking-wet sheet. She regally exited the hammam, leaving her gown, underwear, and shoes behind.
She redefined the morning-after walk, making it proud and magnificent.
As she was. Always.
Bastian grabbed a towel, draped it around his hips, and plucked his guns and knife from the bar, then followed her out the door. She passed the elevator and headed for the stairway, leaving a water trail as she climbed the stairs and crossed the front hall to the main staircase. She grinned and said good morning to the butler as she passed him. They climbed the two remaining flights and arrived at her room to find the coffee delivered and curtains parted to admit the morning sun.
Brie dropped the wet sheet just inside the door, took Bastian’s hand in hers, and continued into the bathroom. “We can shower together, to save time.”
With the time saving that afforded, they were able to linger in the hot spray and play, but they didn’t have enough time to make love. At least, not in the way he wanted. “Later,” Bastian promised as he kissed her, the steamy water cascading down her back.
She stroked his erection and said, “Later, you’re going to come in my mouth.”
He grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”
She kissed him one more time, then turned off the water and stepped from the shower.
One hour after he’d kissed her awake, they were on their way to the lab in the back of Armando’s limousine. The Spaniard was cheerful and energetic in spite of his late night, making Bastian wonder if he either had a supermetabolism or had popped a pill.
From Brie’s discomfort, she seemed to share his concern, and given that she knew Armando better than Bastian did, that didn’t bode well. But she was excited about the excursion and maintained a determined, optimistic air.
“Nikolai has opted to meet us at the lab instead of sharing a ride,” Armando said after they’d been on the road for ten minutes. Armando’s accent was heavier this morning, and it took a moment for his words to register to Bastian.
Brie was quicker to question the statement. “Nikolai will be there? Why?”
“Because of his investment in the project,” Armando said, as if Brie were slow.
“Nikolai has invested in the underwear project?” Brie’s tone held alarm.
Armando cocked his head, confused. “Yes. Of course. I texted you about it.”
“We didn’t have cell coverage in South Sudan except when I traveled to some of the bigger towns. I didn’t receive any texts from you after I asked you about the project last November.”
“Oh. Perdonar. I thought you knew. No importa. Nikolai was pleased to contribute. He was looking for a charity project in South Sudan for his company. This was a perfect fit.”
It was logical. Drugov wanted the drilling rights. But still, the arrangement didn’t sit well with Bastian.
“There are any number of charities that provide food and other aid to ease the famine,” Brie said.
Armando’s brow furrowed. “I’m sure there are, but he is investing in this.”
“I don’t trust Nikolai,” she said flatly.
Armando sat back and smiled. “You worry too much. There is no need for trust. My company is creating the product; his company will pay for manufacture; you and your family will raise money for distribution. Girls will get underwear for free. Everyone wins.”
Bastian took Brie’s hand and pressed her palm against his stomach. He understood her upset. Drugov had forced his way into the charity project of her heart.
The sick asshole had been obsessed with Brie since she was thirteen. How much of her life had been shaped by that photo shoot?
At two years younger than her, Bastian hadn’t been aware of the buzz surrounding the ad campaign at the time. He’d been too busy playing laser tag and skateboarding to pay attention to inappropriate lust by men old enough to know better.
And why the hell had her parents allowed it? Her father was a shit bag. He knew that. But her mom? She should have protected Brie. Put the kibosh on allowing the campaign to publish once she saw the photos. Brie didn’t talk about her mom any more than she’d spoken of her brothers, and Bastian figured the ill-advised modeling career had something to do with that.
Now, twenty years later, Brie was still paying the price, in the form of a sick Russian oligarch who’d fixated on her when she was a child and even purchased her virginity from an equally sick father.
Bastian cleared his throat. “Drugov is out.”
Armando looked at him, confused. “What?”
“Drugov can’t have anything to do with this deal. He’s a sick motherfucker. He’s after Brie.”
Armando stiffened and sat up straighter. “I don’t believe you have any say in this.” His eyes flattened, and the congenial air disappeared. “Who the hell are you, besides her fuck of the week? You have no role here.”
Bastian sat up to his full height. He wasn’t tall, but he knew how to intimidate. He had Special Forces attitude and bearing. A pampered pretty boy like Armando Cardona didn’t scare him in the least. “Drugov is out, and you will apologize to Brie for your disrespect.”
Armando’s eyes flared with hostility. “It is not her I disrespect. Just her choice of companions. You are a nobody. She will tire of you soon—”
Bastian snorted. “Like she tired of you? You fail to see I’m giving you good business advice here. Nikolai Drugov will be poison to your company.”
Armando’s gaze flicked over Bastian. “What do you know of business? A soldier. El indio. Go back to the reservation and drink your firewater and leave business to the men.”
Bastian lunged for him at the same moment Brie shouted for the chauffer to stop the car. Bastian gripped the man’s shirt. “Of the two of us, you’re the drunk who’s been popping pills. You ever insult Brie or me again, and you’ll be crapping into a colostomy bag for the rest of your fucking life.”
“Brie, stop him!” Armando said, his eyes wide with fear now that reality made it through his drugged-up haze.
“Fuck you, Armando,” Brie said. “Apologize. Now.”
Bastian moved his grip to Armando’s throat but didn’t squeeze. The Spaniard looked like he was about to crap his pants already, and Bastian didn’t want to deal with the smell.
Armando started weeping as the limousine finally pulled over. Interestingly, the driver said nothing. It appeared the chauffer wasn’t Team Armando either.
“¡Lo siento! Mierda. Are you fucking loco?” Armando said, his accent thicker than ever. “I had no choice. Nikolai will cut off my balls.” His gaze flicked from Bastian to Brie. “No one says no to Mafioso.”
Bastian released him. Armando’s fear could explain his drugged state. He might be bracing himself to face Drugov, much like he’d gotten wasted at the oligarch’s party the night before. The guy was a shit, a snob, and a racist, but this project was important to Brie and could be important to thousands of girls. Bastian would set aside his hostility for the good of the girls who would benefit. They’d figure out how to boot Drugov from the program later.
He turned to Brie. “Do you still want to see the lab?”
She sighed and glared at Armando. Finally, she said, “Yes. For the girls.”
Bastian nodded and, in Arabic, commanded the chauffer to drive.
Brie felt sick. Armando was high a
nd had shown he was a sexist, racist pig. She wasn’t one to judge on the self-medicating front, but his words to Bastian were unforgivable. And dammit, he’d brought Nikolai into the project that was closest to her heart, which meant blood money would pay for manufacture of underwear desperately needed by girls in developing countries.
Her stomach churned.
She simply couldn’t do it. Drugov could have no part in this. He would get no benefit. No good PR. No tax write-off. She would raise money elsewhere—like she’d planned from the start. “Bastian is right, Armando. Drugov is out. His money is tainted. It would be stealing a life from one girl to give sanitary underwear to the next. It’s twisted.”
“There is no choice,” Armando said. “The deal is done. Nikolai Drugov is owned by the Kremlin. People who say no to him are killed with mysterious poisons. I won’t die because you don’t approve of where the money comes from. We’re talking about fucking bragas. Panties for poor niñas. No one cares.”
“I care. These are people. Not just girls. Not only Africans. People. They count. They have as much value as you or I.” Her stomach knotted at his casual dismissal. “They’re poor and black and girls, so you think they don’t matter? Are they somehow inhuman? Where is your empathy? Your humanity? They’re Christian, Muslim, Animist, or they believe in nothing at all, and every single one of them is a fucking human being who has as much value as a sexist, racist piece of shit like you.”
The girls she’d met in South Sudan had suffered so much. They deserved a life and education as much as any boy or girl in developed countries.
That the shallow, scared man before her couldn’t see that was a reminder of everything she’d escaped from. She’d been a version of him once. Someone who made excuses for horrible actions. But she wasn’t that person anymore. “Why did you even tell Nikolai about the underwear project?”
Armando crossed his arms and pouted. Seriously, how had she ever found him attractive?
“After he learned we’d been lovers, he threatened me. Said he’d cut off my balls if I touched you again.” Armando glanced at Bastian and smirked. “Good luck, amigo.”
Brie glared at Armando. “And how did he find out? Did you take out a fucking billboard? Blab at the neighborhood barbecue?”
He shrugged. “I might have said something to him. I don’t remember.”
“You’re such a gentleman, Armando.”
“I didn’t know he wanted you for himself! That he already considered you his property.” He cleared his throat. “He demanded I tell him if you contacted me. So I did.”
Rage stole her breath. Finally, she managed to say, “I’m no one’s property. No one.”
“So what did you do?” Bastian asked. “You went to his house and said, ‘Yo, Brie called me’?”
“Perhaps.”
“Last November? Right after I contacted you?” Brie asked.
“Maybe. I didn’t mark my calendar.”
“Shit. Did you tell him I was in South Sudan and working for USAID?”
His brow furrowed. “I believe so. Yes.”
Brie exchanged glances with Bastian. “Savvy said the first trickle of intel on the market forming came in in late December.”
“Who is Savvy?” Armando asked, with far too much interest.
Shit. She was a crappy spy. Really, the very worst. “My cousin,” she snapped.
A sickening thought hit her… Could she be the reason Drugov and Lawiri formed the market? Because Drugov knew she was there?
Surely he wasn’t that obsessed and insane?
She met Bastian’s gaze and knew he was thinking the same thing. It was nutty—and some would say egotistical—but she couldn’t help but think the idea might have merit. Drugov wasn’t normal, and it didn’t have anything to do with her. It was all about his psychosis. Like John Hinckley’s obsession with Jodie Foster. Hinckley’s shooting of President Reagan had nothing to do with the actress and everything to do with unchecked mental illness.
Drugov could be very much the same, but he also had millions of dollars at his disposal, was a sociopath, and in deep with Russian organized crime and the Kremlin. There were few men in the world who were more dangerous.
And as he’d said last night, Brie had defied him and was the only woman who’d ever managed that feat.
At last they pulled up in front of an older building in the industrial part of Casablanca, to see that Nikolai had already arrived and was waiting in his silver Aston Martin.
At least he was alone. She wouldn’t be comfortable touring the lab if he had any of his henchmen with him. She clenched her jaw and climbed from the limousine. They’d meet the engineers, check out the prototypes, then get the hell out of here. She and Bastian would call a cab. She wouldn’t get back in a car with Armando ever again.
Bastian slipped an arm around her waist and held her tight against his hip as they approached the front of the building. He pressed his lips to her temple and whispered, “We’ll keep this quick.”
She nodded, so grateful he was with her.
The building showed its age. Armando’s grandfather had originally built this facility—a development lab fronting a large manufacturing plant—sometime in the sixties. It had been upgraded and expanded in the fifty-plus years since, but the façade remained the same. Blocky and modular in design, it looked like something from a 1950s movie predicting what the future would look like. White-painted concrete, it was composed of rectangular segments without a single arch or other feature that looked anything like present or past Morocco. But it did look industrial and retro-modern. If that was a thing.
The front lot was empty except for Armando’s limousine, Nikolai’s Aston Martin, and another vehicle that likely belonged to the security guard standing by the entrance. Morocco worked Monday through Thursday, with shorter hours on Fridays for prayer, but there was the rare business that operated Sunday to Thursday, which was what she’d expected to find here when Armando set the tour up, but clearly that wasn’t the case.
Brie and Bastian passed Nikolai without greeting him, and entered the building to find a walk-through metal detector in the front vestibule.
“You will have to surrender your weapons, Bastian,” Armando said.
“No,” Bastian said.
“Then you will wait here while I escort Brie inside.”
“No,” Brie said in chorus with Bastian.
“You cannot enter the lab with weapons,” Armando said. “We have strict security rules.”
“Bullshit. And sure as fuck, Drugov is armed.” Bastian nodded toward the Russian, who had followed them inside.
Armando glared at him.
“Forget it, Armando,” Brie said. “Forget all of it. We’re leaving.” Brie turned back toward the door, her hand on Bastian’s arm, to find the exit blocked by Nikolai and the security guard.
“But you just got here, my dear.”
“Fuck off, Nikolai, and get out of my way.”
“We’re going to tour the lab. There is something here you will want to see.”
Brie didn’t like the way he said that.
A noise behind her caused her to turn, and two men entered the room from the back of the vestibule. They wore body armor and helmets like riot police, and their guns were trained on her and Bastian.
“What the fuck?” Armando asked, his voice laced with alarm. “Who are these guys?”
“Shut up,” Nikolai said in an offhand manner. He turned to Bastian. “Get your filthy hands off Gabriella and put them behind your head.”
Brie couldn’t breathe. Her body felt like it had turned to liquid. In a flash, she knew giving in to the faint was exactly what she needed to do. She released all tension in her body and collapsed to the floor.
Bastian caught her on the way down, and she slid along his leg, keeping her body limp, her head flopped to the side like a rag doll. Her hand brushed Bastian’s calf, not the one with the ankle holster, the one with the tracker. He shifted position, hopefully hiding her
hand from Nikolai’s view. She pressed on the tracker with her knuckles, so her hand appeared slack. Bastian leaned into the pressure, moving his leg to massage the spot for faster activation of the beacon.
“Get away from her!” Nikolai said.
“She’s not breathing!”
This wasn’t a lie. She held her breath, any excuse to keep Bastian by her side, to give them time to trigger the tracker. Plus he still had his weapons.
Had it been ten seconds? Was the tracker active? There were plenty of cell towers, and she and Bastian had working cell phones. A team could be mobilized from Rota in minutes. They would be here in less than an hour.
And Nikolai had no idea.
A thump and a bang, and Bastian was no longer above her. She let her hand fall to the floor and released a slow breath, feeling Nikolai above her.
Pain slammed across her cheek and jaw, an open-palm blow delivered with enough force to snap her head to the side. She sucked in a breath, and her eyes popped open.
“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty,” Nikolai said with a sneer.
Bastian broke away from the guards and lunged for Nikolai, but he was caught, slammed to the ground, and stripped of his weapons. One of the guards punched him, a hard blow across the face, while another guard held his hands behind his back.
Bastian fought against the hold, and another blow came, a hard right to the cheek followed by a left to the belly. He dropped to his knees, blood trickling from his mouth.
Brie screamed. “Stop!”
Nikolai stepped forward and kicked Bastian in the groin, and he fell over, gasping for breath.
Brie crawled over to him, protecting him with her body. Nikolai would certainly hurt her, but he wouldn’t kill her. That would defeat the point.
“Leave him alone, and I’ll do what you want,” she said, barely holding back the sob from her voice.
“No!” Bastian shouted even as he gasped for breath.
“Stop hurting him, and you can have me, Nikolai.” Her voice was pleading.
Nikolai shrugged. “I get you anyway.”
