A girl had needs, and Chief Warrant Officer Sebastian Ford could fulfill every one.
As a recovering addict, she knew how to face temptation head-on. But she hadn’t always won those battles.
Kissing Bastian had been the ultimate inebriant. His lips against hers, his tongue delving deep, taking, giving. Hot and sweet and sensual. It had been exactly like that first moment of a new high.
All rush and adrenaline. The sheer ecstasy of knowing in her soul that the next hit would take her even higher.
Except the next hit never delivered. There was no way to hit that high. It was the ultimate letdown, every high being lower than the one before, until eventually, there was nowhere left to go but a negative gain. A high so low, it was buried.
And yet, here she was again, watching Bastian and wanting that hit. Craving a pinnacle that didn’t exist.
She knew better than that. Being with him made her into a junkie again. That it happened in South Sudan was both bitter and ironic. It was easy to deal with her addictions here: there was zero opportunity to use. In this war-torn, battle-weary, fledgling democracy, she hadn’t needed to fight temptation at every moment.
But now she’d fixated on Bastian, and if she knew what was good for her, she’d let this craving go unfulfilled before she found herself in another destructive addiction spiral, this one leading to a devastated heart.
17
The sky had cleared, giving hope that satellites would see Bastian’s message, but they had no way of knowing when the message was received and wouldn’t know until a team arrived.
There was no “if” in this scenario. His plan would work. But Bastian had to admit it was time to consider a backup plan. Brie’s ankle was better, and the infection in her foot was improving thanks to the antibiotics. Another two or three days, and she’d be able to walk for longer stretches.
This was their fifth day in this village. How long should they wait before it was time to move to plan Bravo?
He completed a dozen push-ups, the hot sun shining down on his bare back. He’d had to ditch his body armor to enter the market, and it had been lost with the truck. It was strange to be without armor while on a mission, but he enjoyed the freedom from the weight and heat.
He flipped to his back and did a hundred sit-ups, then rose to his feet and grabbed the clothesline he’d cut to jump rope length and did a rotation of double unders. He couldn’t do his daily five-mile run, so jump rope would have to do for cardio. The workout burned energy and kept him from losing his mind from boredom and sexual frustration.
He did five more reps of push-ups, sit-ups, and double unders before dropping the rope and stretching for the warm-down. A noise behind him told him Brie had finished in the shower hut, and he turned to face her.
The sarong clung to her wet skin, adhering to her soft curves, and just like that, all the good the workout had done to dampen his libido was lost.
He knew she wasn’t trying to be sexy and seduce him. She had two thin cloths to wear for clothing, and she washed and dried one while wearing the other. She didn’t even have underwear.
He hoped to hell she didn’t get her period while they were stranded, although given that she’d lived here for months, and was adept at improvising with the supplies they’d salvaged from the abandoned village, he had a feeling she could manage.
She was resourceful and strong in ways he’d never imagined. Women had to deal with so much crap that men could never endure—and he wasn’t simply referring to menstrual cycles, but those were on the list.
“Is my sarong on backward, Chief Ford?”
He lifted his gaze to hers to see her raised eyebrow, and he realized he’d been staring.
He’d been frozen mid-stretch with his leg extended. He shifted to the other leg and shook his head. “No. It’s just that with the dirt washed away, your unfortunate nose really stands out.”
She laughed. “You were staring at my hips, not my face.”
His gaze had dropped lower to avoid seeing the wet fabric clinging to her breasts, but he wouldn’t offer up that excuse. They needed no more reminders of the attraction that wouldn’t go away and couldn’t be acted upon. Not here. Not now.
He met her gaze as he continued stretching. “I was wondering—what will you do if you get your period while we’re stuck out here?” Might as well ask. It was stupid that the subject was taboo when it was a basic fact of life that half the world’s population menstruated for a large portion of their lives. “In fact, what do women here do? The villagers have next to nothing.”
She cocked her head, clearly surprised but not the least bothered by his question. “Actually, that’s one of the reasons I was hired by USAID in the first place, and why aid organizations need to hire women to work abroad—because we address issues men don’t even realize are a problem. Did you know that a large percentage of girls in sub-Saharan Africa drop out of school when they start menstruating, because there are no toilets and no running water at the schools?
“Water, sanitation, and education are all interconnected, and for decades, water and sanitation specialists were male engineers. It never occurred to them that girls were dropping out of school around the age of twelve because puberty meant periods. Many put it down to societal barriers to girls getting an education. But it was the girls making the choice, because there was no way for them to manage their monthly cycle in a sanitary way in the classroom.”
From the light in her eyes, he could tell he’d stumbled onto her passion without even realizing it.
She spread her arms to indicate the abandoned village. “Famine is our core concern for the moment, but as you can see, South Sudan needs more than food. One of my jobs was distributing underwear to women and girls—it has a waterproof bottom under a crotch pocket that can be filled with cotton, torn-up fabric, grass. Anything absorbent.”
He furrowed his brow. “But I thought anthropologists just studied Native Americans as if we’re lab rats so they could pass on what they learned about our culture for white people to appropriate?”
She let out a soft laugh. “That’s in the first-year grad curriculum. Second year, we delve deeper and look for ways to appropriate cultures on other continents.” She settled on the ground, leaning her back against their hut wall. She pulled her knees to her chest, tucking the bottom of her sarong beneath her knees so she didn’t flash him. “And to answer your initial question, my period isn’t due for another week—but stress could bring it on sooner, or delay it. If it starts, I’ll cut up one of the tarps and make myself a pair of panties and fill it with grass. If you don’t have a needle and thread, I’ll use an acacia thorn and fibers.”
It was in moments like this that he found it hard to believe he was talking to Princess Prime. “I’ve got a needle in the first aid kit. But why don’t you make underwear now?”
“Have you ever worn underwear made out of an old, dirty tarp? I’ll wait and see if I need it, thanks.”
He nodded. “Fair enough. And if you have a need, you can adapt my underwear.”
“Awww. I’d finally get in your pants.”
Her voice had taken on the soft, seductive quality it had held that first night they’d lain together on the hilltop. He shifted his position to both try to contain and hide his thickening penis. He reacted to her far too easily—but then, that had been true from the first moment he’d seen her when he was twenty-one.
At the time, Cece had accused him of lusting after white girls, claiming he wanted to escape his Indian heritage. He’d known her logic was bullshit, but he’d felt guilty for his white-girl lust just the same.
Of course, after the breakup, he made it a goal to sleep with women of all races and colors and had been successful in that regard. One thing he’d learned about himself—he had no preference. Women—he liked them all.
And right now he liked Brie Stewart. A lot.
“I have a favor to ask,” she said.
He cocked his head in question.
�
�Will you teach me how to fight?”
He frowned. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“That’s what you do, isn’t it? You were in Djibouti to teach locals how to be guerilla fighters. You’re training soldiers.”
“Guerilla tactics aren’t just about hand-to-hand combat. We deal with weapons. We improvise. It’s about a small force taking on a bigger army with surprise, targeted attacks on infrastructure.” He was deflecting, he knew.
“But you do know how to fight hand-to-hand. And you teach others.”
“Yes.” So much for deflecting.
“Why won’t you teach me? It’s not like we’re pressed for time.”
“Because I can’t hit you. Not even in practice.”
“That’s stupid. If you were sparring with Savvy, could you hit her?”
He had sparred with Savannah James. Dammit. “Yes. But even with sparring, sometimes a real blow slips through. She’s trained. You aren’t. If I hurt you, I’d lose it.”
“You can’t possibly hurt me with a stray punch more than the whip hurt. More than the degradation of being stripped and chained.”
Aww. Hell. She had a point. “It will require us to get close to each other. You can’t spar in a sarong.”
“What if I have to fight in a sarong?”
“It’d probably split open.”
“And in the moment—trying to defend myself, I wouldn’t give a damn if I’m flashing my attacker.”
He sighed. She was one hundred percent right, and he needed to get rid of his hang-ups. “Tell you what—you can wear my boxer briefs and T-shirt.” He frowned, remembering her attempt to fight the slaver when she was chained. “We should probably work on tactics like head butting and other techniques that work when you’re bound.”
Brie tied a knot in the side of the underwear so it wouldn’t fall off her hips. She’d lost weight during her months in South Sudan. Her diet at home had always been rich in milk and cheese fats, and she had a fondness for bacon and sausage that had rounded her belly and thighs. But here, eating was sustenance and nothing more. There was no dining out for pleasure, and she’d lost her extra pounds months ago. This week had seen even more weight loss, but she had a long way to go before she reached the alarming levels the locals faced on a daily basis.
She still had some curves, but she wasn’t sculpted like the Green Beret who’d rescued her. Watching him do push-ups and jump rope shirtless had become her new favorite pastime.
What did Bastian think of her body? His gaze had dropped from her breasts to her hips damn fast after she’d showered.
Even though nothing could happen between them, she wanted him to desire her, to believe that the lust between them flowed both ways. It would be disappointing to feel this intense pull and be alone in her desire.
She’d spent most of her life wanting the people she cared about to care about her in return. This was nothing new. Rejection hurt—whether it was her brothers not giving a damn about her unless she could seal a business deal by flirting with the creepy old guys, or simple unrequited lust.
In her work, she’d moved on and found her soul again. But she couldn’t help but wonder if the attack on the facility had been about her. Was it her fault the food was lost?
Her fault people had died and would starve?
No wonder she wanted to escape into lust-filled fantasies. She was supposed to be here to help, but it was possible she’d made everything worse for a group of people who were already desperate.
And now Bastian was stranded with her. Separated from his team, who could have been injured—or worse—in her rescue.
Shit. She was spiraling. She could see it. Feel the vortex. Guilt pressed in on her. Her breathing turned shallow.
She had much to make up for in her life, but this wasn’t her fault. She didn’t ask for this, couldn’t have guessed her family was so far gone, they’d come after her here. And she’d had no proof they’d come after her. The man she’d seen in the market worked for Druneft now and the other man she’d recognized had been a henchman for General Lawiri. Lawiri’s man couldn’t have anything to do with her.
She took a deep breath. She’d learn how to fight. She and Bastian would be rescued. And when all this was over, she’d make sure the village was loaded with food and restored.
Her family would pay for it, or she’d make sure every nasty secret they had was exposed, starting with their dirty deals with Viktor and Nikolai Drugov. Price fixing was only the tip of that iceberg.
A determined light had entered Brie’s eyes. In spite of the fact that she looked hot as hell in his T-shirt and boxer briefs, there was nothing about her that exuded sexuality. She stood before Bastian, feet spread and arms raised.
She was ready to learn how to kick ass.
Well, teaching that just so happened to be one of his specialties.
Guerilla fighting might be more about tactics than hand-to-hand, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know how to fight. The Army had honed his skills, but the truth was, he’d learned brawling on the reservation. His rez wasn’t as tough as some—the Kalahwamish had new affluence once they’d gotten the sawmill property back. The tribe even ran tours that were similar to a West Coast version of Williamsburg. But when Bastian was a teen, they’d been as poor as any of the remote reservations. Poor meant there were some bastards on the rez who’d made sure the brats like him grew up just as tough as their predecessors.
On the rez, fights broke out for the slightest insult. It wasn’t about winning. It was about pride, and he’d known how to take a beating and still hold his head high. When his mom became tribal chairwoman, that meant fighting to defend his dad’s honor. Indians were capable of being just as sexist as their white counterparts.
Bastian had been a shitty fighter, but when his mom became chairwoman, he got tired of getting his ass kicked. A Warren—the most powerful extended family in his tribe—with an ax to grind against the Fords, owned the only reservation gym, so he joined an off-reservation gym in the town of Coho. There, Bastian spent all his free time and learned how to fight. When his biceps thickened to near-superhero proportions, the boys on the rez stopped calling him a whitey-wannabe. They didn’t dare. And later, when he joined the Army, they’d showed respect. In spite of the bad history between tribes and the US Army, most tribes were proud of their members who served.
Bastian loved both his countries—the Kalahwamish Tribal Nation and the United States of America. He fought for both. Bled for both. Would die for both.
Since he was fourteen, he’d pushed his muscles and honed his tactical skills. Now, seventeen years later, he was second-in-command of a Special Forces A-Team with an eye on the top spot. The ultimate warrior, who would bring honor to both his tribal ancestors and Army predecessors.
The end result: Bastian could fight, and he had no qualms about fighting dirty, which was exactly what Brie needed to learn.
He stood before her, bare-chested and primed for the coming lesson. “Ready?” he asked, no longer seeing her as anything other than his assignment. He was a soldier with a job to do.
She smiled and gave a sharp nod. “Bring it.”
Bastian came at her hard, fierce, and one hundred percent professional. He slammed her to the ground countless times, but he always managed to cushion her landing, both protecting her and showing her how to roll with the blows.
He showed her how to kick, punch, block, head-butt, and evade as the hot sun scorched their skin and dried the muddy ground. The heat and exertion worked together to exhaust Brie, and she missed a block. His leg swept hers, and she went down into the dirt, no cushion this time, just hard, painful ground.
“Shit! Sorry!” Bastian said as he dropped to her side, too late to roll and take the brunt of the fall.
She gasped, struggling to take a breath as the wind rushed from her lungs. She managed a shallow inhalation, followed by a slightly deeper one.
Bastian’s face pinched with worry. “Shit. I never should have
agreed.” He cupped her face. “Breathe, sweetheart. Please. I’m so sorry.”
She shook her head. Another puff of air managed to reach her lungs. “S’okay. My fault. Fine.” A deeper breath. “Will be. Fine.”
He stroked her cheeks, staring into her eyes. She focused on his dark irises, relaxing her esophagus and diaphragm. Finally, a slow but full breath filled her lungs.
His eyes no longer held the guarded gaze of a teacher. They were liquid black and full of heat that had nothing to do with the burning sun.
She smiled. She’d have a few choice bruises but was otherwise okay. And she’d learned a lot from the private self-defense lesson. She’d been holding her own until exhaustion tripped her up. If stamina was her biggest problem, she’d be okay. It was unlikely any fight would ever last the ninety minutes or so they’d been sparring. She’d never be able to go that many rounds.
“You have the most beautiful smile.” The words slipped from Bastian’s mouth soft and low, like he didn’t want to say them but they escaped on their own. “It was the first thing I noticed about you. Ten years ago. Your smile reached your eyes. It wasn’t cold, like everyone else on the panel. It never made sense to me. How someone so warm, so vibrant, could do something so soulless.”
“I was blindsided at that public meeting. I didn’t know about the TCP,” she said, referring to the Traditional Cultural Property that had rightly halted the project. “I really thought there would be no tribal issues, that what we were doing was a win-win for Washington, the tribes, and Prime Energy.” Her smile had been real at the start of the community meeting, but by the end, she’d been screaming inside. She’d been set up and thrown to the wolves by her brothers. Again. She’d stepped into the project late in the game, when Jeffery Junior dropped it in her lap, claiming he had a meeting in Moscow he couldn’t miss.
She’d always wondered if JJ really had gone to Moscow.
Bastian’s lips flattened. “There is no such thing as win-win when it comes to tribes and Prime Energy.”
Catalyst: Flashpoint #2 Page 14
