Act of Passion

Chapter One

MALIK NASSER STOOD in the center of a giant warehouse that he and his teammates had taken control of nearly an hour back. The lighting was low, the number of rats in the facility was high, and the smell of urine was present, as if the bad guys who owned it really wanted to commit to the evil villain aspect of it all. To top it all off, the warehouse lacked anything beyond large cooling fans, which were currently off, so it was a lot like standing in an oven. He was hotter than hell, tired of the smell, and annoyed with the entire mission thus far.

It didn't help that he'd foolishly agreed to undergo voluntary testing at PSI (Paranormal Security and Intelligence) headquarters Division B back in the States before he'd deployed. The test was simple: try out a new drug that was supposed to help supernaturals with control issues better manage their condition. It was given to a set number with control issues and an equal number without. Since Malik never before had issues with his lion side, he figured it was a no-brainer to possibly help others who suffered.

The suppression drugs would be in his system another month or so and then he could report the effects and feel as if he'd done his part to help out.

But something felt off.

The warehouse belonged to an arms dealer who was rumored to be in possession of new weapons that could cause serious damage to supernaturals. The paranormal underground had been abuzz about it all for some time, and PSI had been chasing down leads for months. Somehow, the bad guys always managed to be at least two steps ahead.

Like now.

Crates full of weapons were packed into the warehouse. Huge, floor-to-ceiling metal shelving units filled one end, each stuffed full of crates, while the other end of the warehouse looked more like a hangar, with vehicles and freestanding crates. While everything housed in the warehouse could be deadly in the wrong hands and needed to be removed from the streets, there was nothing specific to supernaturals that had been discovered.

From all the information they'd gotten before the mission, there should have been a buttload of supernatural-threatening weapons.

So far, none had been uncovered.

They'd also encountered little in the way of security at the facility, which was extremely odd considering the number of weapons they'd found. All of which would fetch a pretty penny on the black market. It was rare that a big player in the arms game left a cache of weapons this large to be guarded by a small number of relatively inexperienced men.

Captain Garth Ingersson (head of Team Eight) came around the corner with his teammate Rurik Romanov. Garth, a six-and-half-foot-tall shifter male who hailed from the Viking Age of Scandinavia, was armed to the teeth. It looked as if the man had acquired additional guns and explosives since their arrival. Knowing the Viking as well as he did, Malik assumed Garth had probably lifted whatever he wanted from the reserve of weapons upstairs. The longer they stayed in the warehouse, the more likely Garth was to start loading their vehicles with whatever he could fit to take it home with him.

The man loved guns and weapons of any kind. He'd once spent the greater part of a day showing Malik his sword collection that dated back centuries. There was a high likelihood that the Viking liked weapons more than people.

Malik seriously worried about the man's state of mental health.

Garth was lethal unto himself. The weapons added another layer to it all. He motioned to the upper level that he and his teammate had just finished going through. "Nothing up there that should raise an eyebrow for us. Just your average, everyday asshole arms dealer bullshit."

It didn't matter that Garth had lived in the United States for centuries; he still had a Scandinavian accent that only increased when he was worked up or angered. Often, Malik found he couldn't understand the man. Garth's twin brother, Grid, had been far worse. It would have taken less time to learn the man's native language than to try to understand his English. Malik hadn't seen Grid since the brothers had a falling-out over a century ago.

Malik nodded to Garth's new toys. "But cool enough to keep a few."

"Hell yes," said Garth proudly, his grin saying he knew something everyone else didn't. "One doesn't walk away from neat toys. Find anything down here?"

Malik glanced around. "Nothing above the norm. This whole thing smells fishy to me."

"Smells like dead rats and piss to me," said Rurik, his Russian accent thick. He moved closer to Garth.

The pair began double-checking the open crates as if Malik and the other members of Team Five were incapable of telling the difference between a normal weapon and one made to harm a supernatural in a big way.

Garth pulled out an AK-47. "Oh, look. Favored by black markets everywhere."

Rurik scowled. "Do not make fun of it. It is a work of art that my country is proud of. And what I prefer to take on most missions. Reliable. Trustworthy. All you need."

"If he breaks out in song in honor of Mikhail Kalashnikov I'm going to think he's as nutty as you are," said Malik to Garth.

"Mikhail Kalashnikov was ahead of his time," supplied Rurik, standing tall as he stroked an AK- 47 lovingly. "The AKM, the AK-74." A dreamy look came over him.

Malik snorted. "You need us to turn around a moment to give you some alone time with that?"

Garth moved to another crate and pulled out an MTAR. As he withdrew the 9mm suppressor made for it, he looked to Malik. "So many weapons, but so few guards."

"Agree," added Malik, surveying the endless rows of crates

"Trap?" asked Garth.

"Probably," returned Malik. "I really hate it when they try to lure us to our deaths. You'd think it would get old for them after a while."

"I've found the enemy often lacks originality," said Garth, still looking the MTAR over.

Rurik paused in his admiration of the crate of AK-47s. "Should we go?"

Malik shook his head. "And leave all this here to possibly end up on the streets and in the hands of drug dealers and criminals? Or to be used to help launch a war? No. We need to stay until a clean-up crew arrives."

"And if it is a trap?" asked Garth.

Malik grunted. "Then we do what we always do —survive and kick the shit out of them."

While Garth technically outranked Malik, they'd been friends far longer than they'd been with PSI. There was an unshakable level of trust between them. And Garth was nearly as old as Malik, which was saying something, considering Malik was old as dirt. The men had worked together too many times to count over the years and trusted one another fully.

The same could not be said for Garth's former second-in-command, Gram Campbell. Gram was a stubborn Scotsman with a huge chip on his shoulder who fancied himself a cut above the rest of the shifters in PSI because he was part wolf- shifter and part Fae.

He was also one hundred percent asshole.

Rurik wasn't winning any personality competitions, but the man was far better to deal with than Gram had been. Malik was happy Gram had gone over to the Shadow Agents side of PSI nearly twenty years ago. It made being around Garth and his unit so much easier. Before Gram's transfer, things always ended in a fight between Malik and the outspoken male. And it wasn't as if Malik lacked patience with Scotsmen. He'd worked with Striker, who was as Scottish as they came, for over a century now and hadn't wanted to actually kill him—yet.

Rurik pried open the crate nearest him with nothing more than his hand. He lifted a rocket launcher. "They aren't playing around," said the Russian bear-shifter, sounding like he was fresh out of the Kremlin. "I hate arms dealers. They always go for the easy money. They are probably American."

Malik hid his laugh under a cough.

Rurik had a lot in common with Malik's teammate Duke Marlow. The two pretty much hated everything and everyone. Though, Duke was an all- American man. Born and bred in the States, the man bled red, white, and blue. Rurik still missed the Cold War and the "glory days" of the U.S.S.R, reminiscing about it often. Each still viewed the other as a possible threat, and neither would admit they were just alike.

Duke came up behind Malik holding a large rocket launcher of his own. A passing glance was all he gave Rurik. "Mine is bigger."

Rurik's lips pressed together in a white slash. "Americans. And for the record, yours is not bigger. You just think it is."

Duke used his free hand to grab his belt. "One way to settle this."

Rurik faced Duke and began to undo his black cargo pants, still holding a launcher as well, a line of Russian falling free from him in the process. While Malik's Russian was rusty, he was fairly sure the man had just called Duke a dickhead before insinuating that Duke's dick was the size of a pencil.

"I hear you talking there, Ivan Drago, but the proof is in the pants. There is nothing pencil-like about my wood," returned Duke, undoing his belt fully while he still held the launcher over his right shoulder.

Rurik appeared baffled. "My name is not Ivan Drago."

Miles "Boomer" Walsh came around a set of stacked crates. While he was technically dressed in ops gear, he somehow managed to look as if he was headed to a rave, not raiding a warehouse owned by a big-time arms dealer. "Dude, it's from the movie Rocky. Man, even Duke has seen it and he's a damn Luddite. You should have seen how long it took me to teach him to use a DVD player."

Confusion covered Rurik's face.

Boomer shook his head, his long blue-black hair hanging to his mid-back. He narrowed his catlike violet eyes on Rurik. "We've had this talk, Romanov. You can't understand pop culture references if you don't bother to learn about pop culture. I sent you DVDs talking about the last few decades and popular references from each. Let me guess, you didn't watch them."

"I hate DVD players," returned Rurik, undoing his pants more. "They're unnecessarily complicated. The last time I tried to watch one, strange voices played over the movie the entire time, telling me about the scene."

Duke stiffened. "That happened to me too."

Boomer pressed a fist to his mouth. "Seriously? You two realize you were watching them with the director commentary turned on, right?"

Duke growled. "Fuck you. And no, I didn't know that was what it was. I hate technology. Pointless. Plus, you're a shit teacher."

Boomer paused and glanced between the men. "Why are you guys undressing?"

Malik folded his arms over his chest. "They're about to whip out their dicks. Apparently, there is some debate on which country produces the biggest one. And how much, if anything, Duke and a pencil have in common."

Pursing his lips, Boomer put his hands up and stepped back. "Sounds like they need a private moment here. I don't want it coming out later that I was alone in a dark warehouse with a bunch of guys who had their dicks hanging out."

"Asshole," Rurik and Duke said together, both glaring at Boomer.

"Yeah, you two are nothing alike." Malik stared at them.

"This is going nowhere fast," added Boomer, drawing more of their ire. He flashed a mocking smile. "And besides, you're both wrong. I'm the biggest."

"Fucking cats," snapped Duke, gaining him a nod of approval from the Russian.

"You guys are a lot like taking preschoolers on a field trip," said Malik, feeling like he was turning into his team's captain—Corbin Jones. Corbin often referenced how dealing with them all was like handling small children. He was starting to see the guy's point, and considered issuing a nap time mandate before writing a lengthy apology letter to Corbin for having ever judged him before.

Garth shrugged, seemingly unconcerned with the possibility that pants were close to dropping around him. "I say we allow them to see who is bigger. Maybe then it will shut them up."

"What a fine role model you are," returned Malik, reaching out and touching a grenade fastened to Garth's vest that wasn't PSI issued. It was obviously an item he'd acquired since their arrival at the warehouse. "Tell me again who thought you should head your own team?"

"Somebody whose dick was actually pencil- sized," supplied the Viking with a smile.

Malik looked up, silently willing himself to another location. Unfortunately, he was stuck with a bunch of testosterone-driven alpha males. If Corbin wouldn't have split off and gone to a secondary location with the other portion of Garth's team, he could have dealt with the giant man-children.

"Och, if I knew we were taking a break I'd have stopped going through boxes that smell like they were soaked in rat piss and shite thirty minutes ago," said Dougal "Striker" McCracken. The exceedingly tall Scotsman had given up shaving not long back and had a face full of scruff. His long hair was pulled up and he had thankfully left his kilt behind for the mission. It was hard enough for the man to blend in with his height (not that any of the PSI-Ops were considered short); adding a kilt was like adding a blinking sign. Not that Striker would have minded a blinking sign above his head. He was something of an attention whore.

He strolled up and leaned against a crate full of C-4, crossing one ankle over the other. He reached into the front pocket of his vest and withdrew a cigar.

"Bad idea," said Duke, pointing to the crates near Striker.

The Scot shrugged. "Och, I've had worse ideas. And there is no blasting cap so where is the harm?"

Boomer motioned to the barrel behind the crate. "My Arabic is so-so but I'm pretty sure that one says gunpowder."

Duke nodded. "It does, which is why I told him the cigar was a bad idea. Let's leave him here to smoke it and blow himself up. Serves him right."

"We are taking a break then?" asked Striker, biting the end of the cigar off and spitting it onto the floor.

"It's not a break so much as a dick-measuring contest," said Boomer, taking the cigar from Striker.

"I'm in!" Striker had his pants undone and down before anyone could comment. He stood there with all his manly glory hanging out for the men to see. He put his hands on his hips, puffed out his chest, and jutted out his stubble-covered chin. "Och, there is no competition. I win."

"For fuck's sake, put that away!" shouted Duke, covering his eyes with one hand while supporting the launcher over his shoulder with the other. "My brain needs bleaching now to get that image out of my head."

"I agree with the American," said Rurik, curling his lip as if he might be sick at the sight of Striker's full-frontal.

Garth ignored Striker's antics and began to remove weapons from the crate nearest him. He lifted out a Stuart Mitchell survival knife and ran his fingers over it gently. "Oh, I don't have one of these."

Boomer laughed. "Is it me or is Garth handling that like it's a woman? He might need a private moment too."

Garth's eyes crinkled with mirth. "Gentle strokes bring out the best in everything."

Malik reconsidered the nap mandate. Not that it would do any good. They'd all ignore him anyway. They obeyed orders when they felt like it. He missed the good old days when he'd issue a mandate and thousands obeyed.

His comm unit made a light noise before Corbin's voice came through.

"Anything of interest discovered there yet?" asked the Brit.

"Not unless you count seeing Striker's junk as interesting," said Malik as he gave Striker a stern look.

"Do I want to know?" asked Corbin, sounding as English as ever. "Wait. I am quite positive I do not want to know."

The Scotsman finally pulled up his pants, looking as if he didn't have a care in the world. He then reached into a pouch in his tactical gear meant for additional ammunition and pulled out a flask.

Malik rubbed his temple, a low-grade headache setting in. At least the flask was better than smoking a cigar while standing near explosives. "Captain, how is it you haven't killed Striker yet?"

"Pretty much a daily challenge," replied Corbin.

"Och, I heard that," said Striker before taking a swig from his flask.

He then handed the flask to Duke, who took a sip too.

"There is a hell of a lot of firepower here, but nothing noteworthy. The clean-up team hasn't arrived yet so we're just holding down the fort until they get here, all the while waiting for it to come out that this is a trap. Find anything where you are?"

Corbin sighed over the line. "No. But we did find a large quantity of peculiar medical supplies. They're all stamped with Donavon Dynamics. We're finding more and more here, but nothing that sticks out as what we were searching for. I put a call into a contact I have on the human side of things. He said no reports of missing shipments have come in from the company."

"Maybe they don't realize it's missing yet," said Malik.

"Possibly," replied Corbin before going silent for a bit. "We'll be here for a couple of hours yet and then we can meet to discuss our findings. Be sure there isn't any threat there before leaving the clean- up team. They may be trained operatives but let's be honest, the majority of them aren't really fighters."

"Will do," he said, having long since given up on proper radio communication. He was too old to bother.

The flask was now with Rurik, who handed it back to Striker with a nod.

"Corbin wants us to hang here a bit and be sure the clean-up team doesn't require a clean-up team," said Malik.

Striker groaned. "I'm sweating my balls off in here. Can we wait outside?"

"Your balls were just aired out. You'll be fine for a bit." Malik was about to sit on a crate when he heard the sound of approaching vehicles. His shifter senses homed in and a feeling of unease came over him.

"Sounds like the clean-up team is here," said Striker, capping his flask.

Malik gave the hand signal for silence and Duke grunted.

"I really don't like your hinky vibes, Tut. They never lead to anything good," said Duke.

Garth went to a side window and peered out. He then chambered a round in the weapon he was holding. "Want the good news or the bad news?"

Boomer laughed, finding humor in odd situations. "The bad."

"We're standing in the equivalent of a giant powder keg and that isn't the clean-up crew out there, armed and ready to start shooting in here," said Garth evenly.

Duke eyed the man. "There is a good side to this somewhere?"

"Yes. We have more firepower," said Garth, motioning to the crates. "If we don't blow up first. Anyone here able to survive being blown to bits?"

They all looked at Malik as if awaiting his answer to the question.

"What?" he demanded.

"Well, can you survive that?" asked Boomer. "Inquiring minds want to know. When you're as old as time, does it give you extra superpowers?"

With a roll of his eyes, Malik joined Garth near the window to survey the situation. When he saw eight vehicles forming a barricade of sorts with men standing behind them, aiming at the building with more than just guns, he rubbed his temple again. "Sure. Why not? Garth?"

Garth flashed a wide smile, clearly loving the fact they were going to get into a firefight. "Rurik and I will take the east corner."

"Och, I'm ready to be done with this shite and find a bonnie lass to bed up with for the night," said Striker, taking the rocket launcher from Duke. He then stood behind a crate full of explosives and lined up to take a shot at the side of the building. His intention clearly was to shoot through the thin metal wall of the warehouse and out at the men.

Boomer tackled him and rolled, taking the launcher with him. Since Boomer's nickname had been born out of his love of blowing things up, he rarely was the voice of reason when it came to anything that went boom. "Dude, no. Just no."

Striker grumbled. "Kitty, you suck all the fun out of everything."

"Guys, try to act like trained professionals here," said Malik as the sound of a rocket being launched at them came from outside. The men shared a look and then ran in the direction of the exit, each one knowing they needed to get out of the area with the explosives.

They only just made it out of the building when there was a loud noise followed quickly by a series of explosions. The force of them blew Malik up into the air as flames licked past him. He struck something massive and it moved with him. He and the object tumbled, taking turns skidding against the ground before finally coming to a stop. Disoriented, Malik tried to figure out why he didn't feel ground beneath him and what the smell was that now surrounded him.

Garth was suddenly there, beating out the flames on Malik with his shirt, his vest, and gear discarded. Someone was yelling at him but he couldn't make out what they were saying. It took him a second to realize that someone was Duke, who was under him and pissed.

"Get the fuck off me, Tut," snapped the surly wolf-shifter, using a nickname Malik barely tolerated. He was born in ancient Egypt and had been alive for thousands of years. The men enjoyed teasing him because of it. They didn't know the half of it. If they did, they'd never let him live it down.

He wouldn't have minded the nickname so much but he'd never really cared for Tutankhamun. He'd found the boy king to be spoiled. But it could have been worse. The guys could have decided to call him Amenhotep, or Akhenaten, as the pharaoh later referred to himself. That pharaoh had been so full of himself that one would have thought him an actual god.

He wasn't.

Not by a long shot.

Malik would know.

Malik rolled off Duke and groaned, the smell of burning flesh filling his nose. Lifting his arm, he saw just how much of his flesh was burnt. He lifted his head partially and spotted Striker meandering over to them. The man still had a rocket launcher over his shoulder, which meant the Scot had delayed escaping the warehouse to grab the thing.

"I wish I had a camera. That compromising position you were both in was Asshole of the Week worthy," said Striker, his Scottish accent thicker than normal, indicating he was worked up.

The Asshole of the Week Award was one no one really wanted to be the recipient of. While it wasn't official, it was an award all the men had won at least once. It basically commemorated anything exceedingly stupid or funny that the operatives did. Often the men tried to find creative ways to set up situations in hopes they could catch another operative in a situation that was award worthy. Not that anyone needed help doing something stupid.

"Son of a bitch!" shouted Duke as he came off the ground with a huge snarl. "That hurt!"

"You smell like a roasted pig," said Rurik with a grin before turning and firing at the row of vehicles as well.

Malik sprang to his feet and did the same, ignoring the bite of pain in his arm. He didn't need to look to be told the flesh was burnt away and pieces of his shirt were stuck to him. It wasn't his first brush with fire. It wouldn't be his last. The arm would heal within an hour. The shirt was pretty much toast.

He shot at the bad guys, taking three out in succession.

Boomer lifted his weapon and doubled-tapped it in the direction of the vehicles. Another bad guy fell to the ground.

Rurik sprayed gunfire in the direction of the dicks who had nearly blown them all to bits.

Boomer snorted. "Romanov, you missed one."

"My count has to be like fifty," said Striker proudly. "To your one, kitty."

"I took out that guard team at the point of entrance when we first got here," returned Boomer.

The two then launched into an argument over who had killed more enemy combatants.

Malik glanced at Duke and shook his head. "They make me tired."

"Join the fucking club, Tut," said Duke.

Striker fired a rocket at the vehicles, blowing up one and starting a chain reaction. He flashed a smile. "I win, yet again."

Duke watched as the last bad guy fell. "Corbin is going to be pissed. He says we need to learn to be more low-key."

Malik noticed the giant plume of black smoke rolling high into the air from the burning warehouse. It would more than likely be seen from miles and miles away. "Oh, this is totally low-key."

Boomer grinned. "Yeah, I'm sure this is no way signaling to more asshole dick arms dealers to head this way."

"At this rate, we'll be here all night," snarled Duke. "I fucking hate arms dealers. Also, I do smell like barbeque. Dammit!"

Chapter Two

BROOKE LARNER STARED out the window of the white limo that had picked up her and her best friend at the airport. The limo had a full bar in it and snacks even. As if riding in a limo wasn't enough of a treat all by itself. She'd never been in one before. There had been a lot of firsts for her as of late.

The last three weeks had been something of a whirlwind. The two women had obtained master's degrees and were now on the trip of their lifetimes.

It was as if she were living a fairy tale.

She turned and touched her best friend's leg as the resort they were set to stay at appeared on the horizon. "Look. That's it."

Edee slid up alongside Brooke and peered out the window as well. "It's like its own city. It's huge!"

It was, and it was beautiful.

Brooke smiled. "I really don't understand how we got this lucky."

The girls had won an all-expenses-paid trip to Egypt yet neither one could remember entering to win said trip. Despite explaining as much to the travel agency that had sent them all the information, they were still awarded the trip. Since it coincided with them finishing grad school, the women had given in and decided to make the trip a celebration. It wasn't as if they could afford something so lavish any other time.

No.

The two had busted their butts working odd jobs while going to school full time in order to get their master's degrees. They had big plans and good jobs lined up. Of course, they'd just be starting out in their chosen fields but still, it was the path they'd always talked about. They'd made it a reality and it looked as if the universe was rewarding them for their efforts.

The limo pulled under the giant fully lit sign for the resort, and Brooke and Edee shared a look before bursting into an excited fit of giggles. They hugged each other and then squealed some more. It didn't matter how silly it was. They'd been best friends for years and were on the adventure of their lifetimes.

Brooke twisted in the seat. "I'm having a hard time wrapping my mind around this all being real."

"You and me both, sista," said Edee, pushing her long dark red hair behind her ears, her white dress was short, barely covering everything she had. "If we're dreaming, do me a favor and don't wake me up."

"Deal. Do the same for me, okay?" Brooke sat back in the seat and smoothed down her royal-blue dress. "Operation Have a Good Time has officially commenced."

Edee winked, her blue gaze holding a glimmer of mischief. "Funny, I could have sworn it was a mission to get you laid."

"Stop," said Brooke, pushing her friend lightly.

Edee liked to joke about Brooke's missing sex life. Brooke had spent so much time focused on studying and working various odd jobs that men just hadn't been something she'd been able to schedule in—and she loved her schedules.

Edee was far more of a free spirit. She wasn't exactly extremely experienced in the ways of men either, but came off as being worldly on the matter. The woman just naturally oozed sex appeal. All Brooke oozed was awkwardness around the opposite sex. And she always went from fine one second to two left feet the next.

Brooke found comfort in computers and anything technology related. Human interactions tended to be something she avoided. Thankfully, Edee had become something of a spokesperson for Brooke. How they'd become friends was still a mystery. They were almost total opposites when it came to their personalities. Though, under all the siren qualities, Edee was a giant science nerd. It surprised everyone who met her.

Looks-wise, the woman didn't have a lot in common except for their height. They were nearly matched in height, with Edee standing just a smidge taller at five-ten. Edee had skin that at times Brooke could swear was translucent, it was so pale. And Brooke's skin was sun-kissed with a natural glow. Edee's eyes were a deep blue and Brooke's were olive green. Both had long hair, though Brooke's was brown and had slight curl on the ends, where Edee's was dark red and straight.

When they'd met their freshman year of high school, they'd just hit it off from the word go. Edee had taken Brooke under her wing socially and Brooke had appreciated it. Edee loved to get lost in music and dancing, and Brooke always found comfort in cross-country and swimming.

Edee eyed her. "Are you ready for this?"

"I am," she said and then bit her lower lip. "At least I'm pretty sure I am. I'm ready for us to have fun. We've done nothing but study and work for years. We've earned this, right?"

Edee put an arm around her. "You worked your butt off. I was not as dedicated to it all as you. And I was fired from different jobs too many times to count. You worked the same three jobs for six years."

"In your defense, how many of your bosses were total douchebags who thought hiring you meant you'd be offering them special favors?"

She groaned. "Too many to count. That's it. I'm going to find a super-rich Egyptian guy and use him as my sex slave before he buys me a palace or something and makes me his wife."

Brooke laughed hard as the limo pulled to a stop in front of the luxury resort.

Edee snorted. "Was it the bit about making him my sex slave that was so hard to believe or the part about a palace?"

"Neither. The you being married was the hysterical part," said Brooke. It was true, Edee always talked about how she hated the idea of ever getting married. And the woman never committed to any level of a relationship with a man. She dated and that was it. No boyfriends, no special someone.

Edee grinned. "Yeah, I threw that in to make you worry less about my actions for the next two weeks."

"Good luck with that," said Brooke as the limo driver opened the back door. He put his hand out to her and she took it—instantaneously feeling cold and empty inside. She'd felt the same thing when he'd helped her into the limo at the airport. She hadn't thought much of it at the time, but now that it was happening again, she jerked her hand from his.

He reached for Edee. Brooke nearly knocked his hand away from her friend but didn't. She was being ridiculous. The man had been nothing but professional and nice to them since greeting them at the airport. He'd even had a sign with their names on it that looked professionally done. Not handwritten.

Edee took his hand and her gaze narrowed slightly before she pressed a smile to her face. She eased close to Brooke and they stepped back as men from the resort appeared and spoke with their driver. Neither of the women spoke Arabic despite their best efforts to study a guidebook with helpful phrases and tips. Turns out there were different forms of Arabic spoken in different regions—as if learning the basics from one wasn't hard enough.

The men from the resort took their bags and smiled at her. All were pleasant to look at, yet there was something that felt…off. She couldn't put her finger on it, but it was there.

"Oh, look at those hotties," said Edee, pointing to a group of men in designer suits. They were each tall and built and most of them had short hair that was styled with ample amounts of gel. They all seemed a bit too flashy for Brooke's tastes. And all of them were staring at Brooke and Edee.

The men looked away quickly.

Edee began talking about all the things she wanted to do after they got to their suite. Brooke didn't pay attention; her focus was still on the men in the suits. One of them touched his ear, and it was then she noticed an earpiece like something a Secret Service agent would wear.

Were the men the resort's security detail?

That would make sense.

The brochure said the place catered to the rich and famous. It stood to reason security would be important. That being said, she couldn't seem to look away from them. Like the limo driver and the men who had grabbed their bags, the men in suits felt off to her. She couldn't explain why, but kept her eye on them.

Get a grip. You had a long flight.

Edee hooked her arm through Brooke's and the two walked towards the resort's entrance, their heels clicking as they went. Edee had insisted they dress up for travel when all Brooke had wanted to wear was a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt. Edee wouldn't hear of it, citing the fact they were headed to a luxury resort.

There was a giant fountain that had water shooting at least twenty feet in the air while colored lights shined on it. The colors changed from gold to white and back to gold.

"Awesome!" Edee pulled away. "I'm going to get some pictures really quickly. Can you check in for us?"

"Sure thing," said Brooke.

Something caught her attention from her left, and she looked over to see a different large group of males walking in the direction of the resort. Unlike the men in suits, these men were in black from head to toe. Their hair wasn't gelled in any way. In fact, most of them had long hair. Longer than she saw on most men. Then there was the fact that they somehow managed to make the men in suits seem short and ugly, when in truth, they were anything but.

One man in particular held Brooke's interest. His long dark hair was pulled up in a messy way off his neck. He had short stubble on his face and down his neck, though it looked to be groomed to be that way, making her instantly think he was into fashion and his appearance, despite the fact the black long- sleeved shirt he had on looked as if someone had set the arm of it on fire. The skin showing under the scorched shirt was smooth and unblemished, but covered in a variety of black tattoos. His pants and belt reminded her of something men from military movies wore. He was as built as the men around him and walked in a way that screamed suave with an undertone of badass.

A taller redhead was near him, talking and using his hands in an animated fashion. The man who had caught Brooke's eye rubbed his temple as if the other male was making him tired.

When Brooke realized she was standing in front of the resort staring at a stranger, she blinked and then hurried into the resort, happy the man hadn't noticed her.

As she entered the lobby, her breath caught at just how ornate it was. No expense had been spared in its creation. Not to mention, the place was massive. She knew it had more than one nightclub, numerous bars and restaurants, not to mention a spa that had rave reviews.

Edee was right. It really was like a small city.

And it was where they'd be hanging their hats for the next two weeks. She had to resist putting her arms out wide and spinning as if she were in a scene from The Sound of Music. Since Edee would never let her live it down, she held back.

It was harder than it should have been.

Brooke turned and bumped into a man dressed in an all-white suit that looked to be custom-made to fit him. He wore a black dress shirt under it. Instantly it felt as if spiders were crawling all over her skin. The man was handsome but there was something in his eyes that said he was ugly on the inside. He had expensive-looking rings on every finger and was surrounded by men who reminded her of the group out front—the ones with earpieces.

Mr. Rings said something to her but she didn't catch any of it as she didn't speak the language.

"Excuse me," said Brooke, pressing a smile to her face, attempting to walk around him.

Mr. Rings invaded her personal space in a big way, setting off all her inner alarms. He leaned in, putting his face close to hers. "I see no point in this charade. You will come with me."

"W-what?" she asked, barely able to think.

"Come," he said.

She shook her head and took the smallest of steps back. He grabbed her arm, squeezing to the point it hurt. Her jaw dropped as a gasp came from her.