Mission Of Desire Part 1

Mission of Desire.

Terri Richards.

Quiet and introverted graduate student Nicole Kennedy has always longed to do something far more adventurous than study politics from used textbooks. But when she spontaneously sets off for Africa to volunteer as a teacher over the summer, she gets more excitement than she could have ever imagined. Within hours of arriving in Kenya, Nicole finds herself at the center of an international conspiracy involving millions of dollars and being rescued by beautiful but infuriatingly arrogant government agent Kira Anthony. Despite her suspicions that Kira may not be who she claims to be, Nicole can't seem to fight her growing attraction to the beguiling blonde. Could it be the thrill, the danger, the close proximity that explains her feelings-or is it a glimpse of something she's never known and can't bear to lose?.

About the Author.

Terri Richards lives in Tampa, Florida, and loves the outdoors, international travel, eating organic, and keeping fit.

Synopsis.

Quiet and introverted graduate student Nicole Kennedy has always longed to do something far more adventurous than study politics from used textbooks. But when she spontaneously sets off for Africa to volunteer as a teacher over the summer, she gets more excitement than she could have ever imagined. Within hours of arriving in Kenya, Nicole finds herself at the center of an international conspiracy involving millions of dollars and being rescued by beautiful but infuriatingly arrogant government agent Kira Anthony. Despite her suspicions that Kira may not be who she claims to be, Nicole can't seem to fight her growing attraction to the beguiling blonde. Could it be the thrill, the danger, the close proximity that explains her feelings-or is it a glimpse of something she's never known and can't bear to lose?.

Acknowledgments.

Thank you, Radclyffe, for the opportunity to become a member of the BSB family.

Thank you, Greg Herren, for your gentle approach to editing and lending your incredible talents to this story.

And much appreciation to Sheri, who created the cover artwork. You read my mind.

For Coram, circa 1986.

Chapter One.

Nicole glanced at her watch again. Was this bus ever going to move? According to the schedule posted outside the ticket office, they were supposed to have left Nairobi at noon. The departure time was also boldly stamped in English, as well as several other exotic languages on her ticket, but it didn't appear that anyone from the bus company was the least bit concerned about their delay.

She cast a weary gaze out one of the cracked windows. Two men wearing blue vests emblazoned with the company's bright red logo playfully kicked a soccer ball back and forth, laughing. Though she'd been sitting here for over an hour breathing in hot, stale air that reeked of unwashed bodies, she was reluctant to search out another means of transport. She'd read one too many articles on the Internet about the dangers of wandering alone in Kenya's capital. Even in broad daylight, the city's smoggy, gridlocked streets were said to be teeming with savvy pickpockets and con men. Becoming a statistic wasn't part of her travel plans.

She lowered her head onto the back of the torn vinyl seat, fanning her face with an advertis.e.m.e.nt for an expedition into the Serengeti, and smiled. Despite the heat, the funky smells, and severe case of jet lag, Nicole had never felt more alive. For the first time in her twenty-two years, she was traveling beyond the boundaries set by her mother years ago.

Finally.

She could still hear her mother's emotional outburst when she'd announced her plans to volunteer as a teacher in Kenya over the summer.

"Oh, Nicole, must you try my sanity so?" her mother had moaned, wringing her hands and shaking her graying head. "Have you even looked at yourself lately? A pretty young American girl traveling all alone is a prime target for kidnapping and who knows what! Like it or not, you can't blend into the background like you used to anymore. And why of all the places in the world-Africa? Who do you think are, Angelina Jolie?"

"I'm not planning on adopting any kids while I'm there, Mom," she'd responded to her mother's melodrama with restraint. "I'm just going to go teach a few and come home. Alone," she'd added.

When one of her language professors informed her she could earn credits toward her graduate degree if she taught English over the summer to children in a developing country, she knew the time had come to sate her long-suppressed wanderl.u.s.t. Not only could she use the experience as research for her graduate thesis, the program provided her with the perfect excuse to escape from her monotonous life in Maryland for six splendid weeks.

"That part of the world is uncivilized and barbaric." Her mother had waved her hand dismissively, repeating the cliched query she always posed whenever Nicole dared entertain the idea of venturing somewhere she didn't approve, as if the simple inquiry was all the rationale needed to end the discussion immediately: "Do you remember what happened to your father?"

Nicole banished those memories before they could even take shape inside her head. She was leaving that baggage back in America. This was a new chapter in her life.

After taking a long swig from the bottle of water she'd purchased outside of customs, she reached for her canvas bag and pulled out the itinerary the nonprofit teaching organization had e-mailed her last week. A wave of renewed excitement trickled down along the insides of her belly. She'd be staying overnight at a hostel in the city of Nanyuki, just north of the equator. After breakfast, each volunteer would be a.s.signed a village where they would spend the next six weeks teaching tribal orphans basic English grammar and vocabulary.

"Kuna mtu hapa?"

A big, black shape stood in the aisle, its stance expectant, almost threatening.

"Kuna mtu hapa?" the soft voice repeated in what Nicole guessed must be Swahili. It was a language she couldn't speak. Besides English, she'd only studied French and Arabic. Whether or not she would actually be understood in either language in the real world remained to be seen. There was a big difference between conjugating verbs in front of a cla.s.s of twenty-year-olds from the suburbs and actually talking to someone in their native language.

She looked up. The wide shapeless form was completely cloaked in an enveloping black burka. She tried to make out the image of a face through the dark, gauzy shroud, but the woman was now looking down, her demeanor suddenly deferential.

Nicole was aghast.

Of course she'd seen pictures of women dressed in the concealing garment in the news and in textbooks, but seeing someone actually wearing the oppressive robe in person was even more disturbing. Sadly, it reminded Nicole how females were still viewed in some religious cultures. If a woman revealed her face, or simply exposed her arms, she could be accused of being a seductress. And if convicted, she faced the possibility of being stoned to death.

"She want to know if she can sit with you!" an old man with skin the color of warm caramel snapped impatiently from across the aisle, jolting Nicole from her thoughts. "Stupid Western boy!" he added under his breath.

Boy? Chagrined, Nicole looked down and a.s.sessed her own version of a burka while sliding over to make room for the religious woman's girth.

Perhaps it had been all of her mother's chiding admonishments about traveling alone in a third world country known for terrorist attacks, drug trafficking, and violent political protests. As soon as her plane landed, she'd run to the nearest restroom to tuck most of her unruly shoulder-length chestnut hair up under a baseball cap and hide her wide, tilting brown eyes behind a pair of men's dark sungla.s.ses she'd purchased at one of the airport's overpriced gift shops. Hoping to conceal her curves, she'd changed into a large, loose-fitting olive-green hoodie.

Pulling the bill of her ball cap low over her flushed cheeks, she turned to face the street. She should be pleased her disguise worked, but the old man's unintentional insult wrought a flash of remembered pain.

Nicole had spent most of her life being compared to her older sister and had invariably come up short. Having big b.o.o.bs and long blond hair, Liz had been the proverbial bombsh.e.l.l since she'd turned fourteen, whereas Nicole spent those agonizing teenage years as a shy, geeky nerd hiding in the shadows, hoping no one would notice her.

Throughout her adolescence, the physical differences between her and Liz had always caused her uncertainty and angst, but something astonis.h.i.+ng had happened to her appearance over the past few years. Though she still wouldn't dare compare herself to her sister, she was quite satisfied with some of her body's transformations.

A belated growth spurt when she was seventeen not only added three inches to her plump, p.u.b.escent five-foot-four frame but also purged the ten pounds of unflattering baby fat that had been clinging to it since the seventh grade. Not long after, her face suddenly stopped breaking out. Even her eyes took on a deeper mahogany hue and her hair a healthier s.h.i.+ne.

"A late bloomer," her mother had gushed approvingly when Nicole donned her first and only dress for college orientation.

Although grateful to whatever magical hormone her ovaries finally started secreting, Nicole had yet to shake her shyness or overcome her inability to stand up for herself. Sadly, telling her mother she was going to Kenya had been her second boldest move to date. The first had been moving out of the house and into an off-campus apartment with Danielle last year.

"Dis bus goin' to Nanyuki! All aboard for Nanyuki!"

Finally, someone from the bus company clambered on board to drive them to Nanyuki. He was a very tall black man wearing the same blue vest as the other men kicking the soccer ball. He didn't appear to be the least bit apologetic about being so late. Rather, he stood grinning at all the pa.s.sengers as if he were waiting for applause before turning and fiddling with the ignition and clutch. After several false starts, the rickety vehicle's engine churned to life, releasing a bone-jarring blast from the exhaust.

Public transit in this part of East Africa consisted mostly of matatus, Swahili slang for taxi. Someone from school had warned her against employing one, as the minibuses tended to be little more than rusting heaps of soldered metal resurrected for use from junkyards. She was glad she hadn't. Downtown was filled with the brightly painted jitneys zigzagging recklessly through the midday traffic, pa.s.sengers tightly crammed together alongside crates of chickens and random farm animals, rap music blaring loudly from open windows.

Nairobi's modest skyline gradually receded into the distance as the bus sped through the city. Here and there, she would catch sight of little shelters made from sc.r.a.ps of corrugated tin or see dirty children scurrying over piles of rubbish while gaunt, ragged-looking men mingled amongst the traffic selling wares such as potato peelers and socks. She knew most of these horrifying conditions could be blamed on Kenya's educational system. Only recently had the government begun providing free schooling to its citizens, and the illiteracy rate was still high, especially amongst young children in rural villages like the one she was heading toward. Most of the kids were orphans, their parents killed by HIV and AIDS. The nonprofit teaching organization's core belief was that literacy could not only provide information on how HIV/AIDS is transmitted but also start a process of questioning that could lead to changes in att.i.tudes and behavior. She was going to find out firsthand if their efforts could make a difference.

"Murang'a! Murang'a! Murang'a!"

An hour into the trip, the driver sang out their first stop in a rich, melodious accent before turning off the highway of rutted asphalt onto a narrow track of dark red dirt. The urban blight of the city had slowly given way to rolling hills of rich, fertile farmland ripe with acres of tea plants as Mount Kenya materialized on the horizon. There were no other cars or people about and no towns.h.i.+p in sight. Nicole discreetly unfurled the small map she'd torn from the pages of her tour book. They still had at least another two hours of travel time before reaching Nanyuki. She wished she'd had the foresight to remove her camera from her duffel bag before allowing it to be stowed in the luggage rack atop the roof. The raw beauty of the land was breathtaking.

She was admiring the splendor of a dense thicket of fruitless mango trees when something peculiar amidst the lush greenery growing along the side of the road caught her eye-two dark figures on motorcycles, both identically dressed in black leather gear and matching helmets with tinted face s.h.i.+elds. Something about their presence in this impoverished region of the country just didn't fit. And why did the other pa.s.sengers on board seem to choose that very moment to stop talking to one another? A needling apprehension p.r.i.c.kled her nape. For the next mile, all was unnaturally quiet, so quiet Nicole could hear the high-pitched whine of the motorcycles accelerating as they raced to catch up with the bus. A cloud of rusty earth billowed up from beneath their tires as they roared past, coating all the windows with a fine layer of brown dust. Her view was blurred but Nicole could still make out what was happening. The motorcycles had slowed, pulling parallel with the bus driver's window. The riders were now gesturing frantically but with authority, pointing to the side of the road with their gloved fingers.

"Look like we have us a hijacking!" the bus driver shouted in calm, halting English as if such an encounter was a fairly common occurrence. Ignoring the bandits' wordless demands, he jerked the bus sharply to the right.

Whack!

Nicole was slammed against the aluminum framing encasing the dirty window gla.s.s. Hard. Her teeth rattled inside her head. If she lived to see morning, there would be a black-and-blue mark where her shoulder and the metal had collided. Another jerk, this time to the left, sent her cras.h.i.+ng into the bulk of the burka-wearing woman. It registered somewhere in the back of her terrified brain that something was awry; there were no soft, squashy rolls of padded flesh beneath the Muslim woman's voluminous garment to cus.h.i.+on her tumble. Before she could waste another second contemplating the incongruity, she gripped the bottom of the vinyl seat with knuckles that were now a bright bone-white, struggling in vain to keep her balance as the bus bounced and heaved. Her heart was now in her throat, her thoughts as scattered as the pieces of luggage falling from the roof. In some weird way, she was comforted by the fact that this sort of thing seemed to be routine to the bus driver. But what should she do if the hijackers wanted something other than the few hundred American dollars she had in her wallet?

Instinctively, she reached for her cell phone to call 911, but came up empty-handed. She'd been fairly certain that if she'd taken her mobile with her, her neurotic mother would have been calling twenty times a day to check on her. The bill would have been horrendous.

A few years back, she'd purchased a can of Mace and a pocketknife for the rare nights when she had to walk the campus parking lot alone. The Mace had long ago been lost, but it had become her habit to carry the blade with her wherever she went. With a less than steady hand, she searched every pouch in her canvas bag for the tiny weapon's hard nylon sheath, her heart pounding wildly against her rib cage. To her dismay, her fevered groping turned up little more than a few dimes and pennies, sticks of gum, lip gloss, and a slip of paper detailing her seating a.s.signment on the connection from Brussels. She recalled placing the knife inside her checked duffel bag so that it wouldn't be confiscated by airport security. So fatigued from traveling halfway around the world, she'd forgotten to collect it when they'd landed.

The bus sped up. Faster. Then it slowed down. Nicole could see bus driver's reflection in the mirror above the steering wheel. He was grinning, apparently enjoying the game of cat and mouse. Once more he turned the wheel to the left and again to the right until one of the motorcycle riders pointed a gun into the sky and fired.

"Oh s.h.i.+t!" Nicole cursed out loud, causing the cloaked shape sitting next to her to turn her way. A pair of intelligent, blue eyes framed by inky black lashes stared out at her from the only opening in the dark hood, but before Nicole could ponder the incongruity, the bus driver slammed his foot down on the brakes, causing the rear end of the vehicle to careen forward. They skidded across the dust and dirt for almost a full minute before finally coming to rest dangling precariously over a small embankment overlooking a deep ravine. The eerie silence that followed was swiftly invaded by the approaching drone of the motorcycles. The noxious odor of diesel and burning rubber turned her stomach.

As she always did when stressed or scared, Nicole reached for the necklace her father had given her when she was a little girl. She tugged nervously at the long silver chain.

"Let's go, Nicole! Hurry!"

Nicole slowly lifted her head, dazed.

"We don't have a lot of time! Get up!"

The woman in the flowing black robe and mask towered over her and was shouting her name. Nicole watched as the burka was yanked off and cast away. It sailed through the air like a parachute, landing in a balled heap in the middle of the aisle.

She gaped in open-mouthed confusion. A tall, exceptionally fit and slender twenty-something female with a blond ponytail curling around a Kevlar-vested shoulder stood before her, looking cool and calm, despite the situation.

"What the-?" Words failed her.

"I'm with the United States government. I'll explain later. Right now we have maybe thirty seconds to get you the h.e.l.l out of here."

The woman withdrew a small firearm from the inside of her bulletproof vest and proceeded to fire several shots from one of the broken windows in the direction of the motorcycles. The frightened pa.s.sengers huddled low in their seats, whispering amongst each other.

"That should stall them for a minute," she boldly proclaimed before lifting a shapely, jean-clad leg and kicking open the latch that sealed the emergency exit door at the back of the coach. "Let's go!"

"What about them?" Nicole questioned with a wave of her arm, indicating the others aboard the bus. "We can't just leave them here to die!"

"They won't die unless we stay. The bad guys on the bikes are after you, not any of them. Now follow me! Quickly!"

Nicole hesitated. There was at least twelve feet of empty s.p.a.ce between the rugged soles of her new hiking boots and the ground. The athletic woman jumped nimbly into the air and landed lithely on both feet.

"Hurry!"

Alarm and panic were giving way to reason and doubt. What did she know about this situation other than what this mysterious woman was telling her? Why would anyone be after her? She was just a grad student on her way to a village in Kenya to teach for the summer.

"d.a.m.n it, Nicole Kennedy, do you want to be killed just like your father was? Jump! Now! They're coming!"

Nicole went weak in the knees. How did this woman know about her father?

"Jump now or you're going to be shot!"

Whether it was the hum of the advancing motorcycles or the frantic impatience in the government agent's tone, she finally jumped from the bus without preparing for the impact of her body hitting the ground.

Unlike her agile predecessor, there was very little grace in her awkward plummet and ungainly roll into a copse of p.r.i.c.kly thorn bushes. Before she could take an inventory of her limbs, her arm was nearly yanked from its socket as she was pulled to her feet and then dragged down the ravine into the dark African wilderness before she could even lick the dirt from her lips.

They ran for nearly fifteen minutes without pause until she couldn't take another step.

"Wait, please," she pleaded, trying to catch her breath. "My-my sweats.h.i.+rt's too long. It keeps getting caught around my legs."

Nicole was wearing a plain white V-necked T-s.h.i.+rt underneath the hoodie, and was grateful the fabric was so light. They were much closer now to the equator than back in Nairobi, and the temperature had risen. Adding to her discomfort, she had a severe st.i.tch in her abdomen from running so fast. She jabbed the tips of her fingers under her rib cage in an attempt to impede the pain.

"Cramp?"

Nicole nodded her head reluctantly. The woman looked at some electronic gadget strapped around her narrow wrist, then back up toward the sky in the direction they'd been running from, then yet again back to her wrist.

"I suppose we can spare a minute."

"Who are you?" Nicole gasped out between breaths, still not able to get enough oxygen into her greedy lungs. Her mouth was dry and tiny grains of sand clung to her tongue.

"Kira Anthony," came the curt reply. She removed the Kevlar vest and held it out to Nicole. "Take off your hat and those ridiculous gla.s.ses and put this vest on." Her eyes returned to the device around her wrist. "We need to get moving."

"Sorry I'm slowing you down." Nicole bristled. Her hands were shaking and her heart had yet to find its normal rhythm. "It's been a while since I've been attacked by motorcyclists with AK-47s and chased across Africa. And what's with the body armor?"

"We'll be leaving the cover of the trees in a minute. Do I need to remind you one more time that they're after you, not me?"

Nicole wiped the sweat from her brow. "Me? What do I have to do with this?" she asked, obediently removing the baseball cap and sungla.s.ses before grabbing the vest. "And how do you know about my father? How do I know you are who you claim to be?"

"No time for questions." Kira shook her head and looked toward the southern sky.

Nicole followed her focused blue stare. Flocks of disturbed birds fluttered in the skies above the tree line as whoever was following them on the ground below the concealing canopy of branches and leaves gained on them.

"Leave the sungla.s.ses and sweats.h.i.+rt. They can obviously follow our tracks, so leaving the garments behind won't cause us any harm. We have to go. Now!"