Sebastian Ford scanned the club, his gaze landing on the woman he was searching for. He’d recognized her the moment he spotted her in Savannah James’s office. What the hell was Princess Prime doing at Camp Citron hanging out with the base spook?

He’d questioned James, but she was her usual secretive self and refused to even confirm the woman’s name, but an internet search confirmed Bastian’s initial suspicion. Not that he’d doubted his own memory. He would never forget those pretty lips that had spewed terrible lies. Or those wide mocha eyes that feigned sympathy all while she calculated how to cheat people of their land rights.

He felt stares as he crossed the room and wondered who in the club had been here last night when he’d stupidly triggered a fight with Pax, a member of his own A-Team. It had been a dumbass move, and he would have happily stayed away from Barely North for the rest of this deployment, but instead he’d returned to the scene of his idiocy to pick a fight with an oil company shill whose daddy was one of the richest men in the world.

His XO was going to flip, but he wanted to know what the hell Gabriella Prime was doing in Djibouti. What atrocity did she intend to inflict on people who had even less than the tribal members on the reservation she’d attempted to screw over ten years ago?

He dropped onto the empty barstool next to her and ordered a beer while he figured out how to open the conversation.

The ten years that had passed since he last saw her looked good on her. She had a maturity about her that had been missing before. But then, she couldn’t be much older than he was, meaning she must’ve been all of twenty-two or twenty-three when she’d been made Vice President of Screwing Indian Tribes for Prime Energy.

He cleared his throat to speak.

“I’m not here to get laid,” she said before he could get a word out. “So you can save your breath.”

“Don’t worry, Ms. Prime, I’m not interested.”

She startled at his use of her name and studied him. She raised an eyebrow. “I think you have me mistaken for somebody else.”

“Not at all. Gabriella Stewart Prime. Only child of Tatiana Stewart and Jeffery Prime. With two older half brothers, you’re the youngest of Prime’s three children. Your daddy is the CEO of Prime Energy, and your great-granddaddy was the founder of the company. I’m good with names and faces, and I’d never forget you.” His gaze swept her from head to toe. She was memorable, and not just because she was a Prime. She’d even done some modeling when she was really young, but that had been before she was on his radar.

“And you are?”

“Princess Prime, I’m your worst nightmare.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t call me that.”

“Fine, I’ll call you Gabriella.”

She scanned his body with the same degree of assessment he’d just given her. She paused on his face, her brow furrowed. “Did we have sex or something a long time ago?” She bit her lip, then said with a wince, “If so, I’m sorry, I don’t remember you.”

That startled a laugh out of him. Unexpected and strangely pleasing. “Sweetheart, if we’d had sex, you’d remember it.”

She snickered. “One would hope.” She picked up her drink and took a slow sip, completely unfazed by him. She set the glass down and smiled. “So if you aren’t here to rehash or initiate a night of passion, why are you pestering me?”

“I want to know what you’re doing in Djibouti.”

“I don’t believe that’s any of your business. You haven’t even told me your name.”

“Chief Warrant Officer Sebastian Ford. Bastian to my friends.”

“I think it’s safe to assume I’m not one of those. What do your enemies call you?”

“Bastian the Bastard, but that’s usually behind my back.”

“And what do they call you to your face?”

“Asshole.”

She smiled. “I like the straightforwardness of your enemies. Cuts right through the bullshit. But my dear granddaddy would be distressed at my using such foul language, so we’ll have to come up with something else.”

“We wouldn’t want to have the old oil baron rolling over in his grave.”

“Oh, not him—Grandpa Prime was a foul-mouthed sonofabitch. I was talking about Grandpa Stewart.”

Bastian shook his head at how she was controlling this conversation. Plus, she still hadn’t answered his question. “Those who are neither friends nor enemies but who must tolerate me nonetheless call me Mr. Ford or Chief Ford. Mister is the official address for a warrant officer, but chief is acceptable.”

“Chief Ford it is, then. Friends call me Brie. You may call me Ms. Stewart.”

“Stewart? Not Prime?”

She shrugged. “I legally changed my last name to my mother’s maiden name.”

“Like Prime Petroleum changed to Prime Energy a dozen years ago? Obvious and unconvincing greenwashing.”

“I wasn’t greenwashing, I simply no longer wished to be associated with Prime Energy, and the decision to change my last name sent a clear message to Jeffery Senior.”

“You call your father by his first name?”

“He insisted upon it when I worked for the company. Plus, it fit him more.” She paused, then smiled. “But mostly, I called him asshole to his face.”

Bastian couldn’t help but laugh. She still hadn’t come close to answering his burning question, and yet he couldn’t resist a follow-up. “And your granddaddy wasn’t bothered by your language?”

“Grandpa Stewart made an exception for Jeffery. He called my dad names that would make a sailor squirm.”

“Why are you here at Camp Citron?” he repeated.

“Why are you here?”

Fair enough. He’d even get specific if it would elicit an answer from her. “I’m US Army Special Forces. My A-Team is teaching Djiboutians to be guerilla fighters.”

“Special Forces. I’m impressed.” Her gaze swept down his body again. “I shouldn’t have been so quick to say I’m not here to get laid.” She ran her fingertip around the rim of her glass. “But then, it’s not like you’re a SEAL.”

He snorted, irritated his body had responded to her perusal. She was a viper, even if she did amuse him.

He wasn’t interested.

He nodded toward a table in the middle of the room, where Lieutenant Fallon and a few other SEALs were gathered. A glance showed they—not surprisingly—were checking her out. She was pretty, in Djibouti, and likely leaving in a few days—the perfect prospect for a no-strings screw. “If you’re looking for a hookup, a few SEALs are over there.”

“I’ll keep that in mind after I ditch you.” She took another sip, then asked, “How did you recognize me? It’s not like I flaunt who I am. It’s been years since someone recognized me.”

He would imagine anonymity was important, given that her father was CEO of one of the world’s largest oil companies and ransom payments made up a large percentage of the economy of Somalia, which was just ten miles away.

It was insane for her to be here, really. Her dad was a billionaire. She probably had her own millions—even billions—tucked away. Alarm registered. It would be foolish for her to be in this part of the world without a subdermal tracker. He took her hand and slid up her sleeve to study her arm, looking for a cut or bandage indicating she’d been chipped. But what he saw were track marks. Very old track marks.

She jerked her arm back and pulled down her sleeve. “I’ve been clean for eight years,” she said, defensive. Angry.

“I wasn’t looking for that.” Guilt trickled down his spine. He’d invaded her privacy without meaning to. “I was looking to see if you’d been chipped by Savannah James.”

“No. It would be a waste of resources.”

She knew exactly what he was talking about, which was telling in itself. Trackers were top-secret technology, and Savannah James wouldn’t have told Gabriella about her favorite spy gadget if she didn’t think it was warranted, which meant Gabriella had refused the chip.

“How so?” he asked. “You’re a prime target.” The pun wasn’t intended. He grimaced and let it stand without comment.

“One, because I’ve been in South Sudan for over six months and there hasn’t been an issue because no one there knows who my dad is—changing my name to Stewart had multiple benefits. Two, I’ll be there for at least another six months, which is far past the tracker’s expiration date, and I can’t fly back to Camp Citron every two months to get a new tracker. Three, there aren’t any cell towers where I am, rendering a tracker useless. And lastly, there is no way in hell Jeffery would pay any sort of ransom for me, so why bother?”

Bastian’s brain froze the moment she said “South Sudan.” Princess Prime was hanging out in South Sudan? What kind of con was she pulling here? There was no reason for an oil baron’s daughter to be in the war-torn country unless her plan was to steal their oil.

Brie grimaced as she confessed to a total stranger that her dad didn’t give a crap about her. But hell, he’d just seen the scars that were her greatest shame, so it wasn’t like she could go any lower in his estimation. She picked up her soda and sipped from the straw until it made a loud slurping noise, then caught the bartender’s eye and ordered another ginger ale.

She’d changed. She’d pulled herself back from the brink. Chief Bastard could judge her all he wanted, but she knew who she was now, and she was proud of herself. Lord knew she had to take pride in her accomplishments, because no one in her family had kind words for her.

“What the hell are you doing in South Sudan?” Chief Bastard asked, his voice angrier now than it had been earlier. Where did his anger come from?

Maybe she really had slept with him back when she’d been using. He could have denied it simply because she didn’t remember him. The male ego was more fragile than a soap bubble.

But damn, it was a shame if she didn’t remember that body. Or that face. Eyes so dark they were almost black, slightly hooded, indicating Asian or Native American heritage. Given his other features, she’d bet Native American. She studied his mouth. His lips looked just right for kissing and other pleasures.

Seated as he was, she couldn’t be certain of his height, but guessed he was an inch or two shy of six feet. His build was perfectly proportioned, muscular, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. He wore a T-shirt that hugged his pecs, and she’d be sure to check out his ass in those jeans when he walked away.

He was the Goldilocks of men. Just right. Or was he Baby Bear? It was Baby Bear’s things that were just right. Goldilocks was the entitled white thief. But then, he probably wouldn’t appreciate being called Baby Bear anymore than he’d like Goldilocks.

“What are you hiding, Princess Prime?”

The hated nickname pulled her out of her whimsy and rooted her firmly in the here and now, facing down a badass Special Forces operator who didn’t like her very much. And it was entirely probable she’d earned his animosity in her Princess Prime days.

“I said don’t call me that, Chief Bastard.” The bartender set a fresh ginger ale in front of her, and she took a sip. “I’m not hiding anything. I work for the US Agency for International Development, better known as USAID. I’m an aid worker. I’ve been helping South Sudanese people who’ve returned to their villages after being displaced by the civil war prepare for the rainy season, which, by all accounts, is going to suck elephant dicks this year.”

She dreaded the coming rainy season. She’d thought the last six months had been tough? That was nothing compared to what was around the corner.

“You’re an aid worker?” He said the words with an unflattering amount of incredulity.

“Yes, Chief Ford. You can run a background check if you’d like. Tell Savvy I gave you permission to see my file. Brie Stewart is my name. And when you’re done, let me know what intel she’s gathered on me. I’m curious to know if she found out what happened in Denmark twelve years ago.” Not that anything bad had happened—at least she didn’t think so—Brie just didn’t remember.

His shock that she had a real job was rather insulting given that she’d always been a hard worker, even when she made a few minor headlines for the exploits of Princess Prime. She’d worked sixteen-hour days for Prime Energy back then. She’d self-medicated over the soul-sucking job with drugs and sex, but no one could call her a slacker.

She regretted the drugs but missed the sex. Hell, she’d take up sex as a hobby again, if South Sudan wasn’t such a terrible place for it. The three men she worked with were great guys—she’d most definitely be interested in them in the first world—but she wouldn’t screw around with a coworker, not when the job was one hundred percent stress. It was a recipe for disaster.

She cast her gaze in the direction of the SEALs. Maybe she should try to get laid while she was at Camp Citron.

“Oh, I’d love to know what Savannah James has on you,” Bastian said, pulling her attention back to him. “I bet she has the same suspicions I do.”

Brie rolled her eyes. “And what would that be?”

“You were sent there by your father to ensure Prime Energy locks down the oil rights. You’re the closer for a deal certain to screw starving people out of the only valuable resource they have.”

She sighed. “Your Google skills are weak if you think I still work for my father. I quit my job at Prime Energy when I started grad school over nine years ago.” She cocked her head. “How the hell did you recognize me?”

“Ten years ago, I attended a community meeting for an oil pipeline proposal PE was ramming through the environmental impact process in eastern Washington. I sat in the front row as you defended PE’s plan to destroy an important Traditional Cultural Property to build a pipeline that would bisect the state from the Canadian border to the Columbia River. You had no respect for the sovereignty of tribes over their land. Your plan lacked even basic environmental protection for air and water, but you defended it because you didn’t give a fuck about air Indians breathe or water Indians drink.”

Well, that answered her question about his ethnic background, and it also explained why he hated her. Plus, she had no defense, because he was right. It was projects like that one that had set her on the merry path of self-medicating.

How ironic that it was that very project that triggered the decision for her to go to grad school to study cultural anthropology. After the National Historic Preservation Act and National Environmental Policy Act had been used to kill yet another major pipeline project, her father had deemed it necessary to show that someone at the top of the company hierarchy had the credentials to address NHPA and NEPA compliance in-house. He wanted her to find ways to skirt doing the necessary remediation, to be an expert witness who could refute evidence of Traditional Cultural Properties. He’d wanted her to be the cultural resources version of a climate change denier.

But in the end, her father had gotten more than he bargained for. Graduate school had been her escape route.

Her fellow grad students had helped her clean up and find the strength to turn her back on her family and Prime Energy. In grad school, she’d found purpose and a path to redemption.

But none of this could be shared with a stranger in a club on a US military base in Africa. While she knew she owed Bastian an apology for her actions as Princess Prime, she also knew nothing she could say would mean a damn thing to him. His goal here was to shame her, not find a reason to forgive her.

“PE lost that battle. The Corps of Engineers never granted our permit. You won.” She dropped a twenty on the bar to pay for her two sodas, leaving a far bigger tip than she could afford, but she didn’t want to wait for change. “Now, as lovely as it’s been strolling down memory lane with you, I have an early flight back to the mud pit I call home. Good luck and have a good life, Chief Ford.”

Bastian watched her leave, utterly confused as to why he felt like a shit for hurting her feelings, when she’d been the one who’d tried to undermine a Washington tribe’s treaty rights so her daddy could add to his billions.

The Kalahwamish Reservation, his tribe’s land, was on the Olympic Peninsula. Their land hadn’t been in jeopardy, but tribes from across the state had all come together, much like tribes across the country had rallied to stop the Dakota Access Pipeline.

His belly churned, as it always did when he thought of DAPL. He was in Djibouti, serving his country, and that same country he loved and risked his life for had screwed over the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe. For months now, he’d been asking himself if it was time to get out of the Army and go home to take up the fight to preserve freedom for his tribe and all Native Americans. How could he continue to risk his life for a country that didn’t give a crap about his people?

But damn, he loved being a Special Forces operator. After Cece burrowed her way into his family until there was no room left for him, his A-Team had become his family. Who would he be without the uniform? Without his brothers?

He loved his country. He loved his tribe. And sometimes it felt like they were still at war with each other.

He paid the bartender for the beer he’d barely touched and left the club. Night had descended while he spoke with Gabriella, or Brie, or whatever her name was now. It was full dark. The air was muggy and hot, and escaping into his air-conditioned Containerized Living Unit—CLU—held no appeal. He was restless. Antsy. Pissed off.

He walked out, beyond the buildings that clustered around the club, beyond the rows of containers that made up CLUville. They couldn’t see the Gulf of Tadjoura from this part of the base, but there was an open area that offered prime stargazing.

He’d been stupid last night in attempting to hit on the woman Pax clearly wanted for himself. Pax was on his team, one of his brothers. But it hadn’t felt that way since Yemen, and Bastian knew his own pride was the major issue. Just like with Gabriella, he’d held a grudge against Pax. But unlike with Gabriella, both he and Pax had made mistakes.

Princess Prime had crumpled under the shame he’d applied, while his attempts to shame Pax only made the soldier stand taller. But then, Pax knew he wasn’t alone in the guilt department. Bastian shared equal blame.

He was such a bastard.

Ahead of him, he could see the silhouette of a woman. She stood in the open with her face toward the night sky, her long dark hair glinting in the yellow glow of a nearby light post. He stepped closer and caught the shine of tears on her cheek.

He shouldn’t feel guilty for calling Gabriella Prime—or Brie Stewart—on what she’d done, but somehow, he did.

She was the embodiment of everything he despised. But damn, that body. She wore simple clothes that hugged her slight curves.

The jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt were nothing like the tailored suit she’d worn all those years ago. He’d been a senior in college and had known nothing about women’s clothing, and yet he could tell her suit had cost big bucks, as had her hair and makeup. Ten years ago, she’d looked like a glossy business fashion ad in the flesh. From his front-row seat, he could practically smell the money on her and it had never occurred to him that money could smell so damn good.

Cece had noticed his fixation and called him on it, claiming he had white-girl fantasies, and that he wanted to fuck the daughter of big oil.

He’d been trying to break up with Cece for nearly a year at that point and had wanted to tell her, no, he wasn’t having white-girl fantasies, he was having anyone-but-Cece fantasies, and the women he dreamed about came in all colors.

Gabriella Prime just so happened to be the latest and whitest.

When he finally managed the breakup a month later, Cece accused him of wanting to track down the bitch from the oil company and become her Indian boy toy. Gabriella had made a strong impression on Cece too, apparently.

Staring now at the woman who’d played a role in some rather hot relationship escape fantasies, it was amazing he’d recognized her. Brie Stewart bore only the slightest resemblance to the polished Gabriella Prime, but she was every bit as compelling. More so now, because she looked real.

She wasn’t Oil Company Barbie anymore.

She was a little thin—likely due to living in South Sudan, not because she’d relapsed into heroin addiction. He believed her when she said she’d been clean for years. If she’d been using in South Sudan, she’d look like a junkie. Drugs combined with the place would’ve hollowed her out.

He’d witnessed the combination of poverty and addiction first-hand. Princess Prime might’ve been able to maintain a polished façade while supporting a heroin addiction, but there was no way that could be done in a place like South Sudan. He’d also seen enough to recognize when someone was an addict, when they were recovering, and when they relapsed, and he was certain Gabriella Stewart Prime had gotten her shit together.

“Are you just going to stand there and stare at me, Chief Ford, or did you follow me out here to tell me more about why you suspect me of wanting to harm the people I work my ass off to help?”

“I didn’t follow you. But if those are the only choices, I guess I’ll go with continuing to stare at you.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You’re a beautiful woman, it’s a simple fact.”

She laughed softly. “No, I’m not. I mean, I clean up well—I’m not being falsely modest—but you don’t live in my world and get to maintain the illusion you’re anything special, not when everyone is so eager to point out that my eyes are too wide, my face too round, and that I should have a surgeon take care of my unfortunate nose.”

“Unfortunate nose?” He’d never even noticed her nose. It was just a nose. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s giant, obviously.”

“White people are weird.”

“I’m sure that’s true, but in this case, you might mean rich people.”

“They’re the weirdest white people of all.” He cocked his head. “So, you still rich? I mean, should I make a play for you because you’re loaded?”

She pressed her hand to her heart. “You’d be willing to overlook my unfortunate nose?”

He shrugged. “If you’ve got money, sure. I can work around the beak.”

Her laugh was genuine, and she wiped her cheek, erasing her tears. “Thank you. I needed that.” Then she approached him, stepping farther from the streetlight and into the darkness that separated them. She came to a stop in front of him and placed her hand on his chest.

He knew this was nothing more than a tease, and yet his heart rate kicked up, which was insane. Worse, she could feel the rapid beat, and there was just enough light to see her smile.

Damn, she had a smile. Sweet, sexy. He didn’t notice her unfortunate nose because he was too busy looking at her perfect lips.

She placed her other hand on his chest and rose on her toes, sliding both hands over his pecs, giving every sign she was impressed by what she felt through the thin layer of his T-shirt. She brought her mouth to within an inch of his. “Do you want to kiss me, Bastian?”

“Strangely, I do.”

“You’ll end up disappointed.”

“Why is that? Are you a terrible kisser?”

“Oh no. I take kissing very seriously. Like everything I do, I give it my full hundred and ten percent. I’m a magnificent kisser.”

He laughed. She had a certain crazy appeal. “Then why would I be disappointed?”

“Because then, of course, you’ll want to have sex with me. And you’ll probably fall in love with me, because I’m also very good at sex.”

“I could be willing to take that risk. I don’t fall in love easily.”

“But in the end, you’ll be terribly disappointed to learn that I am completely and thoroughly cut off from my family. I live paycheck to paycheck on my USAID salary.”

That was the most appealing thing she’d said so far. As if mesmerized, he found himself leaning down and pressing his mouth to hers, unsure if she’d really intended things to go this far. But even that edge of uncertainty turned him on.

Forbidden fruit had always been an aphrodisiac for him, and she represented the ultimate enemy in his world.

Her lips opened under his, and the sweltering night grew hotter as their tongues mingled. She tasted sweet, and she hadn’t been kidding about her kissing skills. The bold stroke of her tongue announced she’d absolutely intended this, and the soft sounds she made told him she enjoyed it as much as he did.

Her fingers gripped his T-shirt. His hand slid around the back of her neck. He could get lost in her mouth. He wished there was a wall to back her up against. He wanted to pin her and grind his erection against her spread legs.

His lips left hers to trail along her jaw and neck. He reached her collarbone and licked the salt from her skin, sweat put there by the humid night. He paused, closing his eyes, breathing her in.

Even her sweat smelled good. He wanted to take her back to his CLU and fuck her against the container wall, just like he’d imagined all those years ago, when he’d fantasized about banging Oil Company Barbie.

All at once, the shock of what he was doing came to him. He was making out with Gabriella Prime.

Some spank bank fantasies were never meant to become real. He’d lusted after Gabriella when he was twenty-one because she was the ultimate taboo. His parents would never approve of her in the way they did Cece. At twenty-one, it had been mental rebellion. At thirty-one? It was just stupid.

He pulled back and fixed a smile on his face. “Well, I think I survived that without suffering great disappointment. But I’m sorry to say I don’t want to have sex with you and won’t be falling in love with you. But thanks for giving me the chance to find out. Nice seeing you again, Gabriella.” With that, he turned his back on her and walked away.