Seducing the Mercenary. Лорет Энн Уайт

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СКАЧАТЬ remained measured, calm. “What was the official’s name?”

      Emily’s stomach tightened. She didn’t yet know where this man’s trigger points lay, and she didn’t like the way his cold eyes and level voice clashed with the invisible anger that seemed to be rolling off him in disquieting waves. This man was barely leashed violence. He was dangerous.

      “His name,” he insisted, even more quietly.

      “I…I didn’t get his name.”

      Laroque spun on his heels, reached for the communications device on his desk and punched a button. He issued orders in rapid Ubasian, his tone completely unemotional. Emily didn’t understand a word, but there was something about his concealed tension that said it all—the customs guy was done for.

      He released the button, turned to face her, the muscles in his neck still bunched tight. Silence descended on the room. It was then that Emily realized she was shaking.

      “I’m sorry,” he said, taking a step toward her, his voice suddenly as smooth and rounded as cream liquor over ice. “I do not condone extortion in any form, especially concerning a woman. I’ll have your passport returned by dawn.”

      She lifted her shoulder in part shrug, part nervous reaction, his sexist comment not escaping her. “It’s the way of this continent—”

      “Not in Ubasi.” He took another step toward her. “We will not manage to attain a democracy unless we root this sort of thing out now. I need my people to trust authority. Not fear it.”

      She felt her eyes widen.

      He smiled, a quick and piratical slash against his dark skin, so fleeting she almost missed it. “You did not expect an apology?”

      “Honestly? No…no, I didn’t.”

      He pursed his lips, the light of flames shimmering in his eyes. It was an unexpectedly intimate look, a trick of the firelight. It reminded Emily of her state of undress, and the fact that he still had not offered to make her comfortable in any way. He still wanted something from her.

      And he wanted her on edge to get it.

      “What…what’ll you do to the customs official?” she asked, wanting to probe his character, to use her limited time with him as best she could. But at the same time she was wary of pushing him.

      “He’ll be punished.”

      “How?”

      He arched a brow. “You’re interested?”

      “Well…I…” Tread carefully here, Emily. “I’ve heard about the Laroque legacy on this continent, and I—”

      “I am not my father. I will never be like him.” Although spoken quietly his words were terse.

      Emily noted his reaction. His father was a sensitive point. “I’m sorry,” she said gently. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

      He regarded her intently. “You don’t believe the customs official should be punished?”

       Watch yourself, Emily. He’s assessing you, just as you are him.

      “It appears,” she said, selecting her words with care, “that this man broke the law. Certainly justice should be done. But perhaps you could define the Ubasi version of ‘punishment’ before I can offer a considered opinion.”

      “Ah, a diplomat?” He smiled quickly, turned, strode away, then spun suddenly back to face her. “As well as a scientist.”

      He was closing in, yet giving her the illusion of physical space by walking away. This man was good. He understood people, psychology. And he knew how to use it. Most tyrants did.

      “Your name is Emma Sanford—Dr. Emma Sanford. You’re from New Jersey. You’re both a sociologist and a psychologist.”

      Emily nodded. “That’s correct.” He’d gotten those details from the papers she’d had to file with the palace before joining the G.I. expedition. He was probably having her background checked this very minute.

      She knew the identity Jacques had given her would hold. They always did, whether she went in as a nun, aid worker or reporter. Yet she felt as though Laroque could see right through her.

      She folded her arms over her stomach as she spoke, and his eyes followed the movement of her hands. Damn. He was reading her defensive body language. The movement had come so instinctively in response to his question that she’d covered herself before she’d even realized it.

      She didn’t make mistakes like this. Laroque had managed to throw her way off center, just as he’d intended by bringing her here half-dressed in the dark of night.

      And there was something in his penetrating gaze that made her intimately aware of her own femininity. He was all male. All in control. A very real and personal panic suddenly sliced into Emily. It caught her off guard and she fought to regulate her breathing.

      She needed to stay focused. Professional.

      “So what is a sociologist-psychologist doing with a team studying a volcano?”

      She swallowed. She’d known this was coming next. Jacques’s idea had been for her to play as close to her identity as was comfortable so that she could legitimately ask questions about Laroque’s mental state without drawing suspicion.

      “It’s not just the volcano,” she said. “We also wanted to look into the sociology of the villagers who live on the flanks of an active volcano. My specific role is to examine the psychology associated with dwelling on the shoulders of a geological monster that could erupt at any moment.” She hesitated, watching for some kind of reaction in his eyes, but he gave away nothing. “I’m professionally intrigued by what rationalizations a society uses for remaining in that kind of danger. I also want to examine the mythology and religion that has evolved around living on a live volcano.”

      A genuine interest crept into his eyes. It was the first real sign of emotion in him, and it emboldened her a little. “That’s basically my goal here in Ubasi—to do that research and to compile a series of articles for our sponsor’s magazine.” She allowed her eyes to flicker briefly to the side, feigning a touch of coyness. “I was also hoping to examine life in Ubasi under the new leader. I’m told things are improving in the country,” she said, forcing a soft smile.

      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. СКАЧАТЬ