Short Fuse: Elite Operators, Book 2 (3 page)

“He’s an old guy. Terrible memory.”

“South African police aren’t exactly known for their good behavior. What does it take to get suspended?”

“A lot.”

Her grin was disarming and surprisingly infectious, considering the words that accompanied it. “Did you want to play the strong, silent type? Because I’m happy to sit here in intense silence, but as it’s a four-hour drive I think it might get a little boring.”

“You Americans love the sound of your own voices,” he grumbled, flashing her a quick, joking smile. “Go on, then. Tell me your life story.”

Three hours later he knew all about her New Hampshire childhood, her mother’s organic soap business, her father’s job teaching biology at a high-end private school she got to attend for free, the decision to translate her Harvard degree in geology into a globetrotting career as a mining safety expert.

Compelled by an alien impulse to self-disclose, he told her more about himself in those few hours than he told most people in a year. He kept the level of detail to a minimum, but when she asked about the unusual cadence in his accent he confessed that his Johannesburg origins were muddled by ten years of boarding school and university in the UK.

She leaned back in her seat. “Technically I’m based in London, but I haven’t spent more than forty-eight hours in my apartment there in months. What did you study?”

“Electrical engineering. At Cambridge.”

She arched a brow. “And you became a cop?”

“I’m an explosives expert. Not many other jobs let you blow stuff up.”

“So the Special Task Force is like the bomb squad?”

He shook his head. “It’s the elite operations unit. More like the SAS.”

He felt her gaze linger on him in the pause that followed, could practically hear the wheels turning in her mind. What was she reading in his profile, in the jaw he hadn’t bothered to shave before the early flight this morning, in the bump on the ridge of his nose from a misaimed riot baton, in the badly stitched scar on his forehead he’d given up being self-conscious about? Did she think he was a macho wannabe, inflating his power and skill to impress her? Did she think he was a violence-hungry bully who lived to hit and force and intimidate and only joined the police so he could do so with impunity?

Or was there a remote possibility that she saw him for exactly who he was—a man who’d rejected the privilege that reared him, who’d built a life around his penchant for action and danger, who was more cautious than people assumed, more introverted than they expected and harder on himself that anyone knew?

She smiled. He cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable.

“We’re almost to Namaza, and then the mine is about half an hour beyond it. Do you want to stop in town or carry on through?”

“Let’s stop.” She stretched her arms above her head, thrusting those glorious breasts ahead of her. “It’ll be good to take a look at the local area before we get out to Hambani.”

The discovery of gold at Hambani had led three thousand people—almost all of them Matsulus from the south—to flood into the tiny village of Namaza looking for mining work. The impact on the former farming outpost’s infrastructure was obvious as they turned onto the main road, which was so badly riddled with deep, jagged potholes that Warren had to drive at less than half the speed limit.

“This road wasn’t built to support heavy industrial trucks carrying tailings,” Nicola remarked. “That’s a project to think about.”

But Warren was more concerned by the obvious poverty pervading the dilapidated village, the young men clumped in doorways drinking cheap cans of beer, the attention their car seemed to be attracting as he pulled into Namaza’s lone gas station. Theirs was the only car on the forecourt, but the cracked pavement was crowded with men in coveralls lounging on the ground, probably mine workers blowing twelve hours’ wages on booze and cigarettes and rigged card games.

The custom in Latadi was for gas station attendants to pump the fuel, but no one approached the Land Cruiser. The one man wearing a gas-station uniform sat unmoving in a folding chair beside the door to the shop. He raised a hand-rolled cigarette to his lips and took a long pull, steadily regarding the vehicle.

“Stay in the car,” Warren instructed, but it was needless. The concern in Nicola’s expression told him she was fully alert to the eerie atmosphere. He shoved the Glock into its holster and tugged his jacket down over it.

Conversations died as he stepped out of the car. Men stared, and he stared right back. There was plenty of noise nearby—traffic barreling past, kids playing on the sidewalk across the street, a group of women loading sacks of maize into a wheelbarrow—but the gas station was so quiet the click as he lifted the fuel nozzle was practically deafening.

He filled the tank with his back to the car, regarding each man in turn, letting them know he would remember their faces. No one smiled or scowled or looked away—just watched. Patiently. Unafraid. They’d remember him, too.

When the nozzle clicked off and Warren withdrew it from the car, the man in the gas station uniform rose from his chair and slowly made his way over. Two other men stood up during his approach, as four more wandered out of the shop to join the crowd on the forecourt. Warren watched them over the man’s shoulder, ignoring the attendant’s wry smile as he quoted, in English, a price way above what appeared on the pump.

He glanced down just long enough to pull the right combination of bills from his wallet. When he looked up, another five men were on their feet.

Warren got back in the car without waiting for his change, turned the key and put the Land Cruiser into gear. When he pulled back into the main road his attention was on the rearview mirror and the attentive gazes of the men watching them depart.

“That was creepy.” Nicola frowned into the mirror. “What was up with those guys?”

“I don’t know.”
And I don’t like it.

“Did they seem sort of hostile to you? Or am I reading too much into it?”

“You’re not. Let’s carry on to the mine. Something’s not right around here.”

She nodded, leaning back in her seat. Within minutes the town’s tiny commercial center gave way to once-upmarket colonial houses, then a series of hastily erected pre-fabricated homes, followed by a long stretch of crude tin shacks. Warren steered around a crater-sized pothole and they were in the countryside again, uninterrupted stretches of rich green grassland extending on either side of the road.

They passed the next twenty minutes in silence, the atmosphere in Namaza having put an end to their amiable conversation. Warren was all too familiar with the social ills that tagged along behind industrial booms, and he speculated that the gas station was doubling as a center for loan sharks, or gambling, or drug dealing.

But in South Africa, crime tended to be all-or-nothing. If you blundered into somewhere that was a front for illegal activity, you were either served with a smile to maintain the façade or assaulted outright. Just two weeks ago in Cape Town he’d unwittingly gone into a liquor store that was apparently a hub for students buying weed, as he discovered when the cashier asked how much
dagga
he wanted with his bottle of single-malt Scotch. He wasn’t in the business of messing with people’s livelihoods, so he’d kept the badge in his jacket, and the cashier wished him a nice evening as he left the store.

On the other hand, there was that time he ran over a nail on the way back from a training exercise and pulled into what looked like a mechanic’s, only as soon as he opened the door, three guys—

“There it is,” Nicola murmured beside him.

The mine jutted up from the horizon, a hulking industrial interruption in the bucolic vista. A high, barbed-wire-topped fence encircled the complex, hugging the edges of heaped tailings. Groups of low-slung buildings stood out against the late-afternoon sky, punctuated by skeletal, slanting conveyor belts protruding from the ground. At the center was the shaft, a colossal rectangular cement tower that loomed over the site like a keen-eyed jailer, patient, alert, merciless.

Nicola’s smile was subdued. “Welcome to Hambani.”

Chapter Three

Nicola stretched her arms above her head as she got out of the Land Cruiser. Two uniformed security personnel had guided them to the central modular unit that served as the corporate office and canteen, and she looked around as they waited for the site manager.

Her initial impression was reassuring. Everything was clean and orderly, and they’d passed rows of long bunkhouses for miners’ accommodation, as well as a series of storage sheds housing equipment ranging in size from light bulbs to backhoes. Hambani seemed modern, professional and secure. Maybe Warren’s job here would be over before it began.

Warren.
Her initial assumption that he was just another chauvinist meathead had proven so off the mark she felt guilty for having even thought it. He was quiet, thoughtful, yet he practically vibrated with untapped strength and power. At times during the stuffy journey she’d been swamped by the heady, masculine scent of him, which had flooded her consciousness until she was practically inarticulate. It was a fresh, woodsy fragrance, underscored by something else—something solid. Something unyielding. Something a little bit wild.

This sudden, intense captivation was uncharted territory for her. She was used to gradually progressing from joking banter to flirtation to sincere affection, gravitating toward the boy-next-door type, men who were friendly and kind and leaning into the nerdy side of intelligent. Almost every guy she’d dated had started as a friend and remained one after the breakup. She liked that slow burn—comfortable, predictable, controllable.

The raging, escalating fire of lust Warren had lit with one look was unfamiliar and disarming and slightly terrifying.

And so exciting.

The office door burst open to reveal a beer-bellied, white-mustachioed man who was probably younger than he looked. In tan cargo trousers, a vividly printed shirt and a khaki fishing hat, he was every inch the old-school mining manager she’d been told to expect.

“You must be Roger Nel.” She gave him her best winning-hearts-and-minds smile and extended her hand, which he shook vigorously. “I’m Nicola Holt, from the London office.”

“Here to make sure we’re all safe and sound.” His South African accent was thick and clipped, a striking contrast to Warren’s lilting inflection.

Roger treated Warren to the same eager handshake, adding a manly slap on his upper arm. “And you must be the copper come to bring a little order to proceedings. SAPS, is it?”

“Special Task Force.”

“Even better. We could use some of that Marikana vibe around here. Put the fear into these local
okes
.”

Nicola’s breath caught at Roger’s callous reference to the platinum-mine massacre, but Warren’s cool expression never flickered.

“I’m based in Cape Town. I had nothing to do with that.”

“Sure you didn’t.” Roger winked. “Sorry,
bru
, I don’t think I caught your name.”

“Warren Copley.”

Roger’s grizzled jaw dropped. “So it’s true, hey? You’re Peter Copley’s son.”

Nicola snapped to attention at the mention of the CEO of Copley Ventures, one of the most formidable diamond-mining companies in the world. It never occurred to her that Warren could be any relation—it was family-run, and all the Copley scions went to work for the business. Or so she’d thought.

Warren was unmoving as Roger clapped his hands together in delight. “Gosh, boy, you were a big story back in the day—what was it, ten, twelve years ago now? Heir to the South African diamond throne comes home from England, everyone’s waiting for him to jump into Dad’s office, and girls all over the country are gearing up to throw themselves at Johannesburg’s most eligible bachelor. Never happened, though, did it? He goes off the grid, and these rumors start to circulate that he’s joined the police. I swore up and down it was a cover story, that you’d found your inner queer in Europe and Daddy wanted to hide you away so you didn’t embarrass him.” He grinned. “If any of my old colleagues get wind of this I’m going to owe thousands in lost bets.”

Nicola glanced between the two men, one laughing, the other stony-faced, unsure which reaction was winning—her horror at Roger’s homophobia or her shock at Warren’s personal history. She thought she’d gotten a lot out of him on the drive from August Town, coaxing him to open up about where he was from, his tenure in the UK, the catamaran sailboat he spent his weekends racing in False Bay. But he hadn’t said a word about growing up in one of South Africa’s most famous mining families.

What other secrets did he have?

Thankfully a slim, smiling black man chose that moment to emerge from the office, disrupting their uneasy tableau. He wore jeans and a button-down shirt and shook their hands eagerly.

“I’m Cedric Kasula,” he greeted them in the slightly French-intoned accent of a northern Latadian. “I look after all our mining staff, liaise with relevant stakeholders in the local community, ensure the—”

“Cedric’s our fixer,” Roger interrupted dismissively. “And he’s going to show you to your accommodation. Dinner is every night at seven, so you’ve got just enough time to clean up before we eat. I’ll see you both in half an hour. Great to have you here.”

Roger disappeared through the door, and as it banged shut Cedric offered them both an apologetic smile. “Roger can be a bit gruff, I hope he didn’t—”

“Let’s go.” Warren pulled the car keys from his pocket. “We can talk on the way.”

Nicola could hear every step Warren took through the thin wall that divided the porta-cabin into two halves. She knew when he left his side and locked the door behind him, and she knew he hesitated in front of hers before deciding to knock. She paused before answering, offering him the illusion that she hadn’t been keeping track of his every move.

His back was to the door when she opened it, and at the sound he turned, flashing one of his rare, fleeting smiles.

“Ready?”

She nodded, and they fell into step for the fifteen-minute walk from where their accommodation was situated near the edge of the site to the corporate building at the center. There was little light left in the sky this close to seven o’clock, and the absence of surrounding illumination from a town or a city meant each star stood out crisp and clear. Warren held a flashlight but he didn’t turn it on, and she wasn’t inclined to ask him to. The darkness felt private, permissive, and although she knew mining operations hissed and clanked twenty-four hours each day on the other side of the site, at the moment it seemed like they were the only people around for miles.

An insect chirped in the grass, and when it stopped she realized how complete the silence was. Now that he was off the hollow flooring of the porta-cabin, Warren’s footsteps were inaudible, his movements disarmingly smooth and soundless for a man of his size.

She thought of leopards and jaguars, and was compelled to interrupt the quiet. “What do you think of our luxury housing?”

“It has a roof, which is good enough for me. How about you?”

“It’s new, which is a bonus. That type of cabin doesn’t tend to age well.”

“And the mine itself? What’s your impression so far?”

“It looks normal, but it feels different. It feels like something’s wrong.”

The too-honest response was out of her mouth and hovering uncertainly between them before she could stop it. A twig snapped somewhere behind them and an almighty shudder ran up her torso, jostling her joints and rattling her teeth until she wrapped her arms around herself and held on tight.

“Are you cold?” Warren touched three fingertips to her lower back, so faintly it should’ve barely registered, but her response was as ferocious as if he’d plunged them between her legs. Her ears roared, her nipples hardened, and she was sure that she could orgasm right there on the spot if he so much as flattened his palm against her spine. She swallowed hard, and again, struggling to get her racing heart under control.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? Do you want my jacket?”

I want every sexy, scary inch of you on top of me right now.
“We’re nearly there. I’m sure I can make it.”

He said nothing further, and in a couple of minutes the yellow-lit windows of the office came into view, leering at them through the darkness like a jack-o’-lantern’s eyes. They circled around to the back, where the doors to the makeshift dining room were flung open. Nicola heard Roger before she saw him, seated at the head of the long, wooden table laid with cheap plastic dishes and dented silverware.

“Here they are, our new arrivals.” Roger gestured for them to take the two empty seats at one end, then commenced with a rapid-fire round of introductions. “You’ve met Cedric, and these are the other two members of our esteemed executive committee. Alex Johnson, our finance manager. He’s a Yank like you, Nicola.”

The young, glasses-wearing African American waved shyly.

“And this is Dan Carmine, our head of operations. He worked in the Calgary office until they seconded him down here. He’s still coming to terms with all the sunshine.”

The chubby, fifty-something man smiled beneath his goatee and nodded. The slow focus of his eyes and the row of empty beer bottles lined up next to his plate gave some indication as to why Dan found himself moving from one of Garraway’s largest offices to this small, remote operation.

“Boys, this is Nicola Holt from headquarters. She’s an important lady, so I’ll expect you to keep your hands off her…bonus.”

He winked. No one laughed.

“And this is
the
Warren Copley, black sheep of the esteemed diamond miners. Seems he’s not gay after all.” Roger turned with brows raised. “Unless you are? I guess being a homo and being a cop aren’t mutually exclusive, but—”

“Nice to meet you all,” Nicola interjected, pulling out her chair. “We appreciate the warm welcome.”

The meal proceeded the same way it began, with Roger enjoying the sound of his own voice as he made one offensive, unfunny comment after another. Dan’s slurred remarks became increasingly irrelevant, and Alex watched him and Roger with such bald contempt it was clear he couldn’t wait to get promoted out of Hambani. Cedric kept his head down, offering Roger the occasional feeble smile but looking for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere else.

At her side Warren was also silent, but instead of the subjugated muteness of Alex and Cedric, his quiet radiated power. His wordless presence insisted on itself, promising that when he had something to say, you’d hear it.

She watched his hands out of the corner of her eye, long fingers dexterously maneuvering the silverware, positioning and slicing and stabbing the dry chicken on the plate. She tried to imagine those same fingers counting out ammunition, tightening the straps on a Kevlar vest, hoisting a shotgun. He’d held death between those palms, armed and disarmed explosives, pulled triggers and thrown punches. What would it be like to have them on her body, on her cheeks, exploring her most private curves and angles? Would it feel different? Would it feel dangerous?

She sensed his gaze. He’d caught her looking. She raised sheepish eyes to his, expecting reproach. Instead she found curiosity, surprise and the faintest hint of a reticent smile.

“Maybe you should try to talk to them, Alex. They’re your people too,” Roger bellowed from the end of the table, interrupting Cecil’s soft-spoken explanation of the cultural prohibitions that made the miners reluctant to use the communal showers, and that it was a problem easily solved by installing a few dividing curtains.

“You mean they’re from Ohio?” Alex asked dryly.

“I mean you’re all—”

“I’m done.” Warren shoved his plate away and stood up, leaving plenty of room for ambiguity in his statement. “Nicola, if you’re ready, I’ll walk you back to the bunk.”

“I’m ready. Excuse us, we had a long journey today, but we’ll see you all at breakfast.” She offered her cocktail-party smile as she crumpled her paper napkin and dropped it on her plate.

They carried their dishes to the sink despite Roger’s insistence that the “kitchen girl” would take care of it, then crossed through the empty, dark series of desks and cubicles to leave through the front. The whole modular unit smelled like an office-supplies store, and the nighttime air seemed extra fragrant as Warren shut the door behind them.

Without asking, he shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. Without protesting, she pulled it closed, inhaling the cool scent of him that clung to the fabric.

They walked for ten minutes, following the beam of his flashlight, before he spoke. “Now what do you think of this place?”

“You mean now that I’ve met the so-called team?” She shrugged. “Par for the course. An old hardhead who’s been promoted to incompetence, an alcoholic who’s easier to hide than fire, an up-and-comer who’s taken a challenging assignment to climb up the ladder faster, and a local liaison who’s just doing his best to keep everything on an even keel. You’d find a similar bunch running most of Garraway’s mines, from Alaska to Guyana to Australia. Remote sites are a great place to stash misfits and eccentrics who are good at their jobs, keep production up and their staff in line, but are too embarrassing to allow into networking events.”

“You sound like my sister.”

Shoving aside the nonsexual implication of that comparison, Nicola decided to broach what they still hadn’t discussed and named the corporate affairs director at Copley Ventures. “Your sister being Laura Copley?”

“That’s her. She refers to people as stallions or donkeys. She always says you can’t have two stallions in the same stable because they’ll fight, so you have to pair hot tempers with even ones.”

“I met her once. Two years ago, at an industry conference in Zug. I’m sure she wouldn’t remember, but she certainly made an impression. In this business you don’t get many young women who manage to be shrewd and gracious at the same time.”

It was too dark to see his smile, but she could sense it was rueful. “She got all the personality genes.”

“I don’t know about that,” she replied softly. “The resemblance is obvious now that I think about it. I’m not sure why I didn’t make the connection earlier.”