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Funny, since a moment ago, after the administrative assistant’s loud objection, thethudof something I couldn’t puzzle out, and another heavierthudbefore the door opened, I’d gone from corner-office modeto time-to-take-someone-down mode.
And then she’d burst into the room.
First thought: I hope Idohave to take her down because that body underneath me would make my day. Second thought was: Sucked to be wearing a damn monkey suit because this is a woman of action. The third thought as she’s introduced and her eyes sweep my body: There are no thoughts.
Her mischievous dark gaze and the fan and flutter of those thick eyelashes have swallowed every decent thought from my mind and replaced them with open admiration.
Indigenous, she has the cheekbones of an American goddess, sleek black hair, pert breasts under a cream silk blouse, long legs, and a boldness that has me paying careful attention.
“Jordan?” she asks again. “Sandesh, you’ve aroused my interest.” She pauses, and I feel the wordarousedtug at my insides. “Tell me more about your organization. IPT?”
Dear God. If her eyes are direct and aware, her voice is the promise of sex and the slipping of silk sheets against hot skin. My entire body catches fire.
Her eyes slide over me in a lazy, feline way. Her smile kicks up at the edges.
With effort I drag my thoughts back to IPT, the whole reason I’m here. The cause I’ve devoted my life to for nearly a decade.
Giving her a smile I pray isn’t laced with lechery, I answer her. “The IPT is run and staffed entirely by former soldiers. It’s designed to aid victims of war and disaster globally. We’re focused on creating self-sustaining businesses. Giving options to people in difficult regions other than starve, flee, or fight. Die or be subjugated.”
Her pretty smile fades, then turns downward. “But why soldiers?”
“Soldiers are skilled and adaptable. They’re used to discomfort. Used to keeping calm and navigating through difficult situations. Used to assessing problems, implementing strategies in challenging places. Not having to habituate civilians saves us time and money, but I also wanted to give those soldiers having a problem going from warrior to Walmart a way to recover the compassion they may have shut down to get the job done.”
Those fine gemstone eyes—onyx black and hot as pitch—widen with curiosity. Or doubt.
“A soldier is highly-trained for action and fighting, right? Aren’t you afraid your volunteers will get bored and create more problems than they solve?”
That puts the fire out.Thanks.
Unable to help the surge of annoyance, I clear my throat. Her point is too close to one I’ve heard again and again—soldiers need aggression to keep them interested. It annoys the hell out of me. “No, I’m not. Are you?”
“I guess I am. It seems unrealistic to expect soldiers trained for war and action to be satisfied handing out water bottles.”
“Unrealistic?” My voice rises before I can help myself. Seriously? She acts as if she has first-hand knowledge of the situation. I run a hand under my collar, massage my neck. “Soldiers are humans, capable of a range of emotions, including self-control and compassion. Is it so hard to believe they aren’t mindless militants?”Or mindless fucks.That last part I have the good sense not to say.
“Mindless, no? Trained for—”
Mukta Parish laughs, cutting Justice off, and taking the conversation down a degree. She moves closer, her astute brown eyes framed by her rose niqab, her powder-pink business suit showing off a determined-shouldered, Hillary Clintonesque form. She claps her hands, heavy bracelets jangling. “Justice, I hope you’ll be more supportive of Sandesh’s charity when you’re doing PR for him in Jordan.”
Justice’s eyes widen, as if this is the first she’s heard of it. I wonder if it is, because I only heard the suggestion moments before she came inside.
“Of course,” Justice says, giving me a coy smile that makes my mouth go dry. “I’m simply playing devil’s advocate, so I know how best to defend the charity. When do we leave for Jordan?”
Now, she wants to go to Jordan after putting down the people working on my entire mission? Nope. I have enough issues with organizing things, I don’t need to add her to the list.
Mukta steps forward. “We were just discussing your role when you arrived, and the fact that Sandesh wouldn’t need to worry about transporting weapons for his own security. He could use one of our private jets and, of course, take off from our private airport.”
Oh, that’s right, these people are scary rich and have the ability to make my job a whole lot easier. Plus, the IPT is in dire need of capital.
Leland—he of the five a.m. phone calls and scratchy voice-grabs Justice by the forearm. “That’s our cue, Justice. Let’s leave them to the details.”
Her eyebrows rise and those dark eyes twinkle. If mischief had a color, it would be the color of Justice Parish’s eyes, fathomless black and able to swallow thoughts.
“Sure,” she says, all knowing smile. “Let’s leave them to the details.”
She’s cocky as hell, and I’m certain that comes from being rich as hell. I’m not a fan of rich as hell and cocky as hell, no matter how beautiful the package.
Leland guides Justice out of the room. Silently, I watch her walk out with growing concern. This woman is supposed to do PR for me in the Middle East, a place not known for its love of Western women. That job requires tac and, subtlety, and I’m beginning to worry those dare-me-to dark eyes are going to get me killed.
