Bastian didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when Brie’s bath turned all business. Relieved. He should definitely be relieved. But that didn’t mean that was how he felt.

How the hell could the woman be so damn sexy even now, in this situation?

This was the most bizarre mission he’d ever been dropped in. He was guarding an oil heiress who wasn’t an heiress anymore, and they were stranded like castaways in the middle of a brutal civil war.

Special Forces training really didn’t cover this.

After she bathed, he scouted the area where he intended to write his note to SOCOM. He needed a big field to present a readable message. He didn’t have bright orange signal panels—they’d been in the second pack in the back of the truck—so he had to work with materials at hand, which meant he’d have to come up with his own symbol or words. Something that could be seen by satellite and that would signal who had written it. He debated what would be the most effective, and in the end decided to use the same code that had rescued Morgan a month ago.

It was simple Morse code and would be easy to press into the flooded grasslands: three dots, three dashes, three dots. Better known as S-O-S.

He’d stack the symbols. Dots above dashes above dots. The whole message would be contained in one neat square.

Morse code would be easier to see via satellite than the curve of the letters, and his role in Morgan’s rescue would be remembered by SOCOM. They’d know it was him.

He did the math to determine the area required to be visible, how large the dots had to be versus the dashes. Now he just needed to wait for the rain to abate. Satellites couldn’t see through the thick cloud cover, and he didn’t want to mark the field before the food drop flyover.

It went against his nature, but caution was the rule here. So he was stuck with Brie for a few more days at least, stranded in a remote village. Time stood still, and sex felt more inevitable with every moment, but it wouldn’t happen here. Not while he was on duty.

He had honor to maintain, but more than that, he wasn’t a dumbass to drop his guard.

He took his turn in the bathing hut, and if Brie watched, that was her own problem, because he was all business. Rinse, soap, scrub, rinse.

He emerged from the hut to find Brie with her back to the doorway, his M4 in her hands like he’d showed her. She took her guard duty seriously, but then, she knew what failing meant. Bastian would be killed, but Brie would be taken and sold again.

“I was thinking of heading out into the grasslands and seeing if I can shoot up some dinner. We’re probably going to be here for several days if the rain keeps up.”

“You can hunt?”

He nodded. “I’m Special Forces. Living off the land is part of our training. If I get something big, we can set up a smoker in one of the huts.”

She nodded. “I can help with that. Locals showed me how to process game.”

He smiled. He shouldn’t be surprised, but he was. She was so not the princess he once thought she was. He took his M4. “Let’s go.”

She nodded and followed him, using the cane to help her walk. “What about the noise of the bullet?” she asked. “Someone might hear.”

“I’ve got a suppressor.”

They settled in the damp grass and waited in silence. Eventually, a stork took flight, and he dropped it with one shot. Tomorrow, he would set up snares to catch game, but that took more time with less guarantee of success, and he was hungry after days on low rations.

The bird was large with enough meat to last two days. He plucked the feathers while Brie built a fire and spit. They cooked in one of the decaying huts, so the flames wouldn’t be seen in the dark.

While the bird roasted, Brie flipped through the playlists on his iPhone, which she’d found when she dug through his pack for matches. “You are such a Seattle boy. Nirvana. Pearl Jam. Soundgarden. Heart. Seriously, Heart?”

“Heart is kickass women singing kickass songs. I love Heart. Who doesn’t love Heart? I think the problem here is you.” He crossed his arms. “They were my first concert.”

“How old were you?” she asked.

“Nine.” He smiled at the memory. His mom had been a fan and had taken him to Seattle for the show. When he was sixteen, he’d gone to see them again with friends. “‘Magic Man’ is hot. And their version of ‘Stairway to Heaven’ is a fucking religious experience.”

She laughed. “I’m more of a ‘Barracuda’ person myself.”

He couldn’t help but smile. “I bet you are.”

Goddamn, but he wanted her. Here. Now. With the phone playing Heart’s greatest hits. Instead, he turned the spit and listened to the sizzle as fat from the skin dropped onto the coals.

She glanced down at his phone. “Nothing you have here fits South Sudan.”

“What’s the problem? Were you planning a dance party?”

“You, me, and the ibex.”

“I’m not sure ibex dance.”

“Not to Pearl Jam, anyway. They prefer a different beat. Where is the Hamilton soundtrack? Or Adele.”

“You can’t dance to Adele. But there are some danceable tunes on there.” In a flash, he imagined putting on headphones and engaging in a different sort of dance.

Just like that, he had a new bucket list item. He wouldn’t feel like he’d lived until he’d had sex with her to music.

After they finished their dinner of stork breast and iodine-flavored water, Brie dug out a cracked glass bowl in the garbage that littered the village. She washed it and dropped Bastian’s iPhone in it to magnify the sound, then set it in the middle of the open area between the huts. “Let the dance party begin,” she said as she queued up a mixed playlist and sat on the chair he’d repaired for her shower.

Even with the bowl, the music wasn’t very loud and was drowned out just a few feet away by the sound of crickets and frogs chirping the night away. South Sudan had its own soundtrack.

“You really want to dance?”

“I’m not dancing. You are.” She pointed to her leg. “Ankle.”

“So basically, you expect me to perform for you.”

She rested her chin on her fist in anticipation. “If only I had popcorn.”

He laughed and pulled her to her feet. “No way. You can at least sway.”

“I’ll fall.”

“I’ll hold you.”

The first song was hip hop she was unfamiliar with, and Bastian planted a hand on her hip as he began to move, but as he got into the rhythm, he released her and grinned as he did a solid impersonation of Channing Tatum in Magic Mike. It was more performance than dance. A show just for her.

He had moves and rhythm and a sexy-as-hell body. She just wished he’d strip like Tatum did in the movie. His moves were uninhibited and unabashedly erotic in the sultry South Sudan darkness. If she blocked out everything beyond their tiny moonlit village, she could enjoy the buzz in her belly, the attraction that went both ways.

She’d always been a firm believer in chemistry, and she was convinced that she and Bastian would be a combustible combination.

The beat changed, and Bastian returned to her side, slipped a hand around her waist, and pulled her into some dance moves that didn’t put stress on her ankle. She laughed and leaned into him, enjoying the humid night, and the firm body that held hers as they danced to “Radioactive” by Imagine Dragons.

The song ended and she started to pull away, but the next song was “Kissing a Fool” by George Michael, and Bastian pulled her tight against him.

Her body rocked with his, and he sang the words into her ear as they danced. His voice was smooth and sexy, just like George.

Jesus, was there anything this guy wasn’t good at?

How had she missed the perfection of the song in the thirty-three years she’d lived on this earth? It was big band, jazzy smooth, and utterly mesmerizing on the muggy, starlit night.

She could be wearing an evening gown and four-inch heels and he could be in a tux, instead of her in an old tobe and him in the stained and dirty T-shirt and jeans he’d worn in the market.

It was probably the most romantic moment of her life, dancing with Bastian in the moonlight as George Michael sang to them in haunting, sexy tones.

The notes of the song wound down, and her lips found his, and she wasn’t entirely sure which one of them was the fool, but they were definitely kissing, and she never wanted the stroke of his tongue against hers to end.

But eventually, it did, and he lifted his head to stare down at her, his eyes hot with desire, his breathing heavy. She’d made him breathless, and she could feel exactly how aroused he was against her belly.

After a long moment he said, “You’ll take the first sleeping shift tonight.”

She held his gaze, then nodded. He was right, and there was nothing else to say, really.