I stretched out on the cot, wondering where Caro was right now. Fuck, if I hadn’t screwed up her papers, chances were that she’d have been at the UN event tonight. It would be fucking ironic if I’d cockblocked myself. No, I had to stop thinking about that shit. I had a job to do.
Stay safe, Caro. For fuck’s sake, stay safe.
Two hours later, I’d read and absorbed as much as I could. I closed the file, deciding I’d test myself later, and stretched out on the cot, setting my phone to wake me at six. Fuck, I was tired.
I woke up bleary-eyed and short-tempered. Being here brought back some of the nightmares. Anyone who’d served had them. We all saw shit that never left our brains. Caro had nightmares. She wouldn’t tell me what they were about, but I could guess. I hoped I was wrong—I didn’t want that for her.
I shook it off, did some stretches and crunches to get the blood flowing, then staggered off to find somewhere to shower. I ran my hand over my light stubble. Yep, definitely needed a shave. That was one thing I hated about being a Marine: it got old having to shave every day—some days I just wanted to let the scruff build up and grow my hair longer than a quarter of an inch. One day, when I was out, when I had a home with Caro. Maybe only two years from now. Being back in theater, it felt more like an impossible dream than ever. My stomach turned over and I hoped like fuck that she wouldn’t change her mind now that we were apart again.
I showered quickly, scraped a razor across my chin, cheeks and upper lip, then pulled on the Blues. The standing collar always rubbed. Bastard. The coat was midnight blue with red trim and a white web belt with my rank of Warrant Officer denoted by the gold waist plate. The pants were sky blue, worn with black socks and black dress shoes. White barracks cover and white gloves finished my outfit. I pinned my medals on the left chest of my coat; it was the only time I ever looked at them.
But I was proud of my uniform, I’d earned it, but yeah—it wasn’t the most comfortable thing to wear, especially in the Afghan heat.
My driver was a Lance Corporal who looked about 15 but must have been in his early twenties, and drove the armored SUV like he’d graduated from NASCAR instead of boot camp.
I half-listened to a monologue about the highlights of his tour and stared out the window. There were more men dressed in Western clothes on the streets than I remembered. The women still looked the same, all covered by flowing blue burqas, their faces and figures hidden as they haggled at the markets. Barefoot kids tried to earn a few bucks washing cars or selling whatever crap they could get their hands on.
There were a lot more Mercedes than there used to be. It’s like that here—Rolexes on guys whose fathers herd goats. It was heart-warming to see all those aid dollars being put to good to use.
Kabul was more prosperous, but that only highlighted the signs of war: bomb-blasted buildings, walls with bullet holes, and burned out patches where cars had been turned into bombs.
My driver skidded to a halt in a cloud of yellow dust and grit outside the Intercontinental, Kabul’s premier hotel for Westerners; an ugly building of white blocks that looked like something out of the Soviet era.
The kid said he’d be waiting for me, and went off to hunt down some chow. A uniformed doorman held the door, looking for all the world like he could be outside the Four Seasons and not in one of the most dangerous cities on earth.
I was directed to the ballroom where the dinner was being held. I kept an eye open for any Marine Captain—chances were he’d be my new skipper.
It quickly became apparent that I was the lowest ranking person around; everyone else was a commissioned officer. No skin off my back, but it sure reminded me of my place in the food chain.
A splash of bright green caught my eye. It was unusual to see that color in a Muslim country because green was supposed to be Mohammed’s favorite color and mentioned in the Qur’an. I cursed under my breath when I realized I recognized the woman. Shit, a ghost of past fucks: Natalie Arnaud. I dodged behind a pillar and wondered if I’d manage to avoid her for the entire evening. Smart money said no.
She disappeared into the ladies’ bathroom, and I decided that the safest option was to stay where I was … doing recon. At least I’d have a chance of avoiding her if I kept her under surveillance.
A long five minutes later, she reappeared with another layer of red lipstick making her look like a vampire’s hard-on. That sort of shit used to appeal to me, but not anymore. I thought she might have gone into the bathroom to cover up her tits, because the UN were pretty strict about their staff behaving appropriately, especially in a Muslim country, and Natalie’s behavior and dress was … not.
But then she was followed out by Caro.
How? What? Holy fuck! She was here! She was really here!
Her papers must have been cleared more quickly than I’d expected. Suddenly Kabul had redeeming features after all.
She looked beautiful. Her long dark hair was glossy, and her simple black dress showcased her hotter than hell figure. Then I saw that she was wearing the shoes I’d bought her in Salerno. My heart lurched and started beating to the rhythm that was all for Caro.
I waited until Natalie had sashayed out of shot, and I caught the irritated expression on Caro’s face as she muttered, “What a bitch!”
“You don’t know how right you are,” I whispered in her ear.
She jumped, then whirled around, a huge smile making her beautiful face glow.
It was so fucking hard that PDA wasn’t allowed in uniform. I was aching to kiss her, touch her, but I couldn’t. It would be dangerous for both of us.
“Sebastian! What are you doing here?” she whispered. “I thought they were sending you to Kandahar?”
“Change of plan,” I said, unable to rein in the ridiculous smile I was wearing. “I have a 24 hour stopover and I heard the Press would be here tonight, so I wangled an invite.” Not strictly true, but I couldn’t tell her my real reason for being here. “I wasn’t sure when you were arriving. But now that you’re here, I’m planning on seducing you behind the potted palms.”
I was joking. Sort of. But then her eyes darkened and her lips tilted upward, a sexy smile playing on her beautiful lips.
“Or somewhere a little more private, I hope,” she breathed out.
My dick twitched in response. “Yes, ma’am.”
“By the way, do you know that tramp?” she asked testily, jerking her head in the direction of my former fuck.
And was that jealousy I could hear?
I smirked a little.
“Her name is Natalie Arnaud. French. She’s a PA for some guy at the UN, but she likes people to think she’s important.”
“And you know her because…?”
Oh shit. Of course she’d ask me that.
“One of your Parisian conquests,” she finished when I didn’t respond.
“It was just a warm body, Caro,” I said quietly.
“I understand that, but she’s going to get herself into a lot of trouble; she’s only dressing like that to impress you, Sebastian—I heard her in the bathroom—so you’d better speak to her.”
Was she serious? Fuck me, she was—and she was enjoying it, if the expression on her face was anything to go by.
“Suck it up, Hunter,” she said, a small smile teasing her lips. “You created this situation; you’ve got to deal with it. And then find somewhere private for us.”
I shook my head, pissed at having to deal with Natalie. I also wasn’t happy that she’d somehow heard I was going to be here. Fucking military intelligence—what part of ‘need to know’ gave them a problem? But I smiled at Caro and threw her a salute. I was about to get laid—so I didn’t care if she gave me orders.
“Yes, boss.”
Then I glanced around, took her hand and tugged her down the corridor that I knew led to the staff area of the hotel.
I had to try a few doors before I found an empty office, pushed her inside, slammed her against the door, and kissed her with all the urgency that 24 hours away from her had given me. She kissed me back, her tongue driving into my mouth, her teeth nipping at my lips, and sucking them hard. Her breasts pressed against my uniform and my dick was trying to punch an emergency evac route through the buttons on my pants.