The rain came down in waves, and Brie was thankful for the repairs Bastian had made on the hut. At some point in the past, the roof interior had been lined with plastic sheeting. Bastian had used duct tape to repair gaps, and between the added thatching and mended sheet, the roof did a decent job of keeping the rain out.

Brie had insisted Bastian take the first sleep shift. He’d slept a scant four hours the previous night and needed it more than she did at this point. Plus, it was hard to imagine anyone would be out in this storm if they could avoid it. Given that no one knew where they were, this was as safe as they could possibly be.

As day slipped into night, she leaned against one of the thick wall posts, clutching his M4 rifle, which he’d showed her how to use, on guard duty for six hours while he slept.

She’d offered to guard for eight. They’d settled on six. Staying awake wasn’t a problem for her, given the pain in her foot. She’d skipped the ibuprofen for just that reason. She’d take it at the start of her sleep shift.

She watched the rise and fall of his chest, glad he’d left his shirt off and she could get a closer look at his tattoo. It was the traditional red, black, and blue of Coast Salish art. A beautiful design on a beautiful body.

Watching him, she was grateful she hadn’t met him ten years ago. Back then, she’d have wanted to use him as she did Micah. Slipping him information that could be used against PE to kill the project.

Micah had never known the information he so conveniently found in her condo had been left where he’d be certain to find it, that she was feeding him the information because she wanted the oil pipeline to fail. Instead, he believed he’d seduced her and she was too much of a twit to guess he was committing corporate espionage. When, in fact, she was the seducer and spy.

In the end, she’d let him believe his version, and she’d played the part of the deceived woman. She’d cried real tears in their last fight, not because she felt duped, but because she’d grown to care for him, and it was over. It had to be over.

Had she met Bastian back then, she might have pulled the same stunt. Lord knows she’d have wanted to screw him. The guy could be a model, with his dark, hooded eyes and piercing looks. Even his beard was hot, and she’d never been a fan of beards.

She wanted to trace the lines of his tattoo with her tongue. To go from ink lines to the grooves that defined his muscles. She wanted to follow those grooves south with fingers, lips, and tongue.

He’d saved her. First in the market, then when they were pursued, and finally from the mud. She’d been attracted to him a month ago—before he’d been the least bit personally heroic—and now that attraction had magnified to epic proportions.

With the heavy rain, tomorrow they’d have enough water collected in the bins for washing, and she’d break out the precious bar of soap. For now, she fantasized about lathering his skin. Washing the sweat and dirt from his hard body.

She released a quiet breath. She had no doubt Bastian found her attractive, but there was no way he would ever see her as anything other than the embodiment of everything he hated. He might screw her, but he’d never respect her. And while she was a fan of the string-free lay, respect was a key component. She wouldn’t share her body with a man who didn’t respect her.

She might be the embodiment of corruption and greed, but to her, he was the embodiment of heroism and redemption. The very things she craved for herself.

Her mental take was obvious: if she could win the respect of this one man, she would prove to herself she’d changed. That she didn’t have a black soul. That she wasn’t the horrible thing she’d been raised to be. It was a ridiculous test to hinge her self-worth on. He was practically a stranger, and he had every reason to think she was a fraud.

But she couldn’t help it. She wanted to win him over. She felt it like a craving. A compulsion. As a recovering addict, she knew about resisting cravings. She could resist this need.

Given their current situation, resistance was the only option.

Breakfast on their second morning together consisted of a handful of trail mix for each of them and as much water flavored with iodine they could drink. In the years she’d worked for USAID, Brie had gotten used to the taste of the purification tablets. She’d also adjusted to smaller meals. USAID provided enough for them, but she hadn’t consumed more calories than needed. Exceptions were made for birthdays and holidays, but otherwise, she and her coworkers had been careful, self-rationing to make their own supplies last.

Of course, even that food was gone now. Lost in the fire. Raising the question of whether or not it was aid workers in general who’d been targeted. Ezra, Alan, and Jaali couldn’t work without food any more than the locals could survive without it.

This breakfast shared with Bastian was only slightly smaller than she was used to, and she’d be fine for several days on the low rations. Bastian was probably prepared for this sort of thing through training—like the way he could fall asleep at the drop of a dime—but given his muscular build, he needed far more calories than she did. She tried to get him to take more of her portion.

He was stubborn and refused.

The first half of the day was spent inside, avoiding the rain. Bastian taught her Arabic curse words, and she taught him a few words in the various local dialects she’d managed to pick up. He told her stories about the Army and she told him about her months in South Sudan.

They played the drinking game “quarters” using a South Sudan pound and an old cup. They didn’t have beer for the penalty, which was fine because Brie didn’t drink, so instead, whenever one of them managed to drop the coin into the cup, the other had to answer a question.

Fortunately, the coin didn’t bounce well on the dirt floor, and there were more misses than hits until they both found their groove.

“Who did you lose your virginity to?” Brie asked after making her shot.

“My first girlfriend. Cece.”

“How old were you?”

Bastian shook his head. “You don’t get follow-up questions without sinking the coin.” He took a shot and made it. “Who did you lose your virginity to?”

“Alejandro, the gardener’s son.”

“Isn’t that a little cliché?”

She raised a brow. “No follow-up questions without sinking a coin.”

He laughed. “Touché.”

She sank another one. “How old were you?”

“Nineteen. I was a sophomore in college.”

She cocked her head, surprised he hadn’t been younger. But she refrained from asking. She had to earn it.

His next shot landed flat on the rim, wobbled, then dropped into the cup. “Yes!” He curled his fist and pumped his arm in the international teenage boy symbol for victory. “Why Alejandro, the Mexican gardener’s son?”

She laughed. “Who said he was Mexican?”

“Gee, I don’t know how I figured that out, Ms. Cliché.”

“For your information, he was Costa Rican. And oh, so very perfect.”

“I think I hate this dude.”

“But not as perfect as you.”

“That’s more like it. But you still haven’t answered my question.”

“I was eighteen and”—she held up her fingers in air quotes—“‘dating’ the son of one of my dad’s business associates who was ten years older than me. And by”—more air quotes—“‘associate’ I mean the dad was a Russian oligarch, and the son an oligarch-in-training. I was expected to make the young asshole son happy so our families would be joined in unholy kleptocracy.”

“At eighteen, you were expected to marry the guy?”

“Not marriage, not yet. It was clear blowjobs were expected, though, to keep him on the hook. His family had a home near ours in Palm Beach and another next door to ours in Morocco. I was friends with his little sister when I was thirteen. Then when I was eighteen, things changed, and it was assumed I was cool with the arrangement.

“We were at the Palm Beach house one evening, and my dad and brothers were out for the night. I realized this was supposed to be the night, the one where I blew him or screwed him to seal the deal. But he was the kind of guy who tortures small animals—his little sister told me stuff when we were girls that freaked me out. There was no way I would ever put my mouth on his dick.

“I still had stupid romantic notions back then and believed sex could mean something. But at the very least, I wanted to like the first guy I let in my pants. I knew he might get violent, so I faked food poisoning. When he was in the bathroom, I stuck my fingers down my throat and vomited all over the bed. He was so grossed out, he couldn’t get out of the house fast enough. As soon as he left, I crossed the yard to the gardener’s apartment and jumped Alejandro, who’d been my friend for a while.”

Bastian just stared at her, openmouthed, so she picked up the coin and dropped it in the cup. She didn’t even bounce it in the dirt first, but he didn’t seem to notice. “So, did you love her, when you had sex with your first girlfriend?”

Bastian’s jaw snapped shut. “You cheated. There was no bounce.”

She flashed an innocent smile and batted her eyes.

He laughed. “Does that always work for you?”

“Usually.”

He plucked the coin from the cup. “Yes. I was in love. It took a long time for me to fall out of love with her, but once I did, love turned to resentment. Damn, your eyes are effective. If it wasn’t for your unfortunate nose, you’d probably have my social security number already.”

She licked her lips. “Your social security number isn’t what I’m after.”

Bastian’s eyes flared with heat, and he shifted on the floor in a way that made her suspect his pants were binding at the crotch. “It’s one thing to play a silly game to pass the time in a rainstorm, but sex would distract us both, and we can’t afford that.”

“I know. Plus you smell like moldy swamp.”

He laughed. “Moldy? I’ll have you know I only swim in the freshest of swamps.”

She plucked at her sarong. She still wore the dirty one, because she hadn’t wanted to don the clean cloth she’d gotten yesterday until after she’d washed. One of life’s small pleasures. She glanced at the roof. “We should have more than enough water to bathe and drink now.” He’d replaced the full galvanized bin with an empty one under the water-collecting tarp several times in the last hours. They had enough water to see them through days if needed.

“I’ll set up one of the huts for you to bathe in once the storm lifts.”

Her whole body lit at the prospect of being able to get clean again, and she smiled and resisted the urge to kiss his bearded cheek in thanks.

The rain was a double-edged sword. It erased their tracks—unless someone had followed them closely yesterday, there was no way they’d be found here now—and provided them with water to drink and bathe. But it also trapped them—inside, off the roads. Even walking to Juba would be impossible. Not that she could walk two hundred miles on her ankle anyway.

Fourth-world problems.

“The food drop is tomorrow. The plane might fly over us on the way to the drop site in the north. The pilot might see us if we’re outside.”

Bastian’s gaze snapped to hers, all flirtation gone. “Who handles the food drop?”

“The UN provides the food, plane, and pilots. They have an agreement with the government so the plane isn’t shot down, but the president has blocked other food aid, so it’s not without risk. I wouldn’t be surprised if government forces grilled the pilots after the run, demanding updates on the condition of rebel forces. Not that they’d reveal anything, but still, if they saw us, something could slip.”

Bastian’s gaze unfocused, telling her he was lost in thought. Then he leaned forward, wrapped a hand around her neck, and pulled her face to his. Right before his lips met hers, he said, “I know how we’re going to phone home, without forcing you to walk on that ankle.” Then he kissed her, hard and fast.

She closed her eyes as the kiss went on a beat longer than she suspected he intended, but not long enough. He released her and said, “Thank you,” then relaxed back against the support post.

“For what? How are we going to make like ET?”

“That’s just it. We’re going to skip the radio and talk to the stars—or rather, satellites.”

“And?” she asked, knowing he was drawing out his answer on purpose, making her want to both jump him and strangle him.

“Crop circles. SOCOM must have satellites searching for us. I’m going to write a note big enough for the satellites to see, but we’ll have to wait until after the food drop.”