Seducing the Mercenary. Лорет Энн Уайт
coppery torchlight. She could sense another presence in the room, but couldn’t see anyone.
Then he stepped from the shadows, his famous black dog moving at his side.
Emily’s heart stalled.
Laroque.
He said nothing, just raked his eyes over her from head to foot and back again, making her feel even more naked than she already was.
Her palms turned clammy, and her throat tightened.
He appeared even taller than the six foot three indicated in the FDS dossier she’d memorized. He was wearing the military fatigues she’d seen him in earlier, except now his hair hung loose to his shoulders. His ice-green eyes glinted in the light.
Emily choked down a rush of fear and awe as she forced herself into professional observational mode. She was being handed a rare opportunity here—face time with Le Diable, a tyrant in the making, right inside his lair. This man was her subject. She was here to study him.
But he was clearly appraising her.
She tried to tamp down the hot flare of déjà vu, the uncanny sense that she’d woken up in her own erotic nightmare.
Focus, Emily. You know the dominance psychology here. You can do this. You’re still in control.
She cleared her throat. “I’d like to know why you brought me here like this?” she demanded in French. “And I’d like my clothes.”
Laroque angled his head ever so slightly and the light played over his mouth. Was that a twitch of a smile—or anger—on his lips?
Emily straightened her spine, her movement instantly drawing his eyes to her breasts. She felt her cheeks grow warm.
He took a step toward her. “And I would like to know why you are in Ubasi.” He spoke in perfect but beautifully accented English, his voice rolling out from somewhere low in his chest.
“I’m with the Geographic International—”
“No.” He cut her short. “Why are you still here? Why did you not leave when ordered?”
She felt herself bristle. “I couldn’t leave. Your customs official confiscated my documents and cash.”
His eyes narrowed sharply, the chemistry in the room suddenly becoming darker, edgier.
“Why?” He said the word very quietly.
She swallowed. “He…maintained there was an irregularity with my currency declaration form.”
“Was there?”
“Of course not. The man didn’t even look at my form. It was extortion, pure and simple. He cut me from the crowd because I was female and had become separated from my group. He said if I want my documents back I must pay a fifty-thousand-franc fine. I don’t have that kind of money on me. That is why I’m still here.”
Muscles corded visibly along his neck, yet his voice 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