Chapter 1
Justin Miller had reached his limit. He’d been sending messages to his boss in Germany from here in Morocco. The charity, the missing shipments, incorrect manifests, the drop-offs that were light on food and supplies—something wasn’t right and Justin needed answers.
Today was the day for a showdown. Alec Drummond would touch down and come see him. They’d worked together for almost seven years. Alec, the aloof businessman who owned and ran a billion-dollar international agricultural business. Justin, the guy paid to run the ground operations of the business’s charitable arm.
Justin was the one in the field. When things went wrong, when people died, it fell on him. That meant he spent a good portion of the day shouting and issuing orders, which worked for him, because ten years in the army had honed those skills.
Oliver Jacobsen, his second-in-command, stepped up beside him at the open double-door entrance of the twenty-foot octagonal tent—just one of many. This one served as his office and included both emergency sleeping quarters for him in the form of a cot and a place for his executive staff to work and meet.
Justin watched a nondescript black sedan drive into camp, kicking up dirt and rocks on the unpaved road. He bit back a curse. The last thing he needed was an annoying billionaire poking around, but this had to be done. The good news was Alec tended to be smart about these things. He traveled without fanfare and blended in. He didn’t use a chauffeur or flash his wealth around. He also didn’t like being summoned, and Justin had basically done that, so this should be an interesting meeting.
The front passenger door opened. A long leg encased in olive cargo utility pants appeared first, then the rest of him. No suit. No insisting on someone opening the door for him.
So far, so good.
Justin’s eyes traveled up to a trim waist, over an impressively flat stomach for a guy who sat at a desk all day and . . . crap. Justin froze. It had to be eighty outside and every muscle tightened to the point of snapping.
That wasn’t Alec. The guy didn’t even turn fully around before Justin identified him. The light brown hair and broad shoulders. The high perfect ass that even practical pants couldn’t hide. The newcomer shifted and that smile came into view. The one with the dimple Justin couldn’t quite make out from this distance but knew was there.
Six foot one of pure walking sex. Big brown eyes and the chiseled face. Justin didn’t have to search his mind for the memory. Finn Drummond occupied a permanent space there, no matter how hard Justin tried to shake the vision free.
Then Finn moved. With each step his brown boots crunched against the gravel path. He might be the youngest Drummond brother in a family of socially aloof overachievers, but determination and self-confidence pulsed off him. Yeah, he knew his place in the world; he’d staked a seat at the very top of the food chain.
Justin decided to fall back on his general hatred of entitlement. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“What’s wrong?” Oliver asked, not bothering to lower his voice or whisper in that polite British accent of his.
“That’s the wrong Drummond brother.” The right one in so many ways. The one Justin fantasized about. Not as much recently, but nonstop a few years back after they first met. Six years, two months ago, but who was counting. The wrong Drummond brother because this guy should have off-limits tattooed on his forehead.
Finn showing up amounted to a big damn problem. Justin had been prepared to talk the cargo supply issue out with Alec. To stay calm and reasonable, if possible, and present evidence that shipments weren’t getting here as scheduled.
Alec appreciated people being blunt and prepared. Justin had no idea how to deal with Finn. He’d failed every time they’d met over the years. It didn’t happen often, only once a year, but there was that one time with the odd vibe that felt like flirting. Every other time Justin had kept a mental distance while deep inside he imagined touching Finn, knowing it couldn’t happen because Justin had tried the straight guy thing once and never again.
He waited until Finn stopped in front of him. When the younger man started to say something, Justin jumped in first. “Alec sent you?”
Justin’s smile didn’t waver as he turned to Oliver. “Salaam.”
“You speak Arabic?” Oliver sounded more than a little surprised.
“Probably just the one word he heard on a television show,” Justin said, getting the first shot in.
“Not quite.” Finn nodded in greeting to some of the men and women bustling around him before turning back to Oliver. “Being multilingual is a requirement of the job, though I admit it’s a work in progress.”
There was that damn smile again. It made Justin want to punch the guy.
Oliver nodded. “Impressive.”
No way was Justin admitting even that much. “Not really.”
“I agree. It’s the least I can do.” Finn spared Justin a quick glance then held out his hand to Oliver. “Finn Drummond.”
“Oliver Jacobsen.”
The smiles, the greetings . . . Justin hated all of it. Seeing his usually hardworking staff and volunteers roaming around carrying what looked like empty boxes and pretending to work just to get a peek at the hot rich boy pissed Justin off. He understood being curious about the big boss, the billionaire who could afford to fly in for a one-day meeting then out again, but Finn was not that boss.
Copyright © 2018 by HelenKay Dimon. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
