First Strike
Pamela Clare
FIRST STRIKE
The erotic prequel to Striking Distance
By Pamela Clare
FIRST STRIKE
The Erotic Prequel to Striking Distance
Published by Pamela Clare, 2013
Cover image by Jenn LeBlanc of Studio Smexy™
Cover design by Seductive Designs
Copyright © 2013 by Pamela Clare
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the author’s permission. Please do not encourage or participate in illegal file sharing or piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s copyright. No one likes to work at their job without being paid. Please purchase only authorized editions.
ISBN-10: 0983875979
ISBN-13: 978-0-9838759-7-0
FIRST STRIKE
The Erotic Prequel to Striking Distance
By Pamela Clare
This book is dedicated to the female orgasm.
The world would be a more just and beautiful place if women everywhere were free to enjoy their own sensuality and choose their sexual destinies, protected from the scourges of child marriage, sexual violence, and genital mutilation.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Let me warn you right now—First Strike ends with a cliffhanger. It’s the erotic prequel for Striking Distance (I-Team #6), which will be available on Nov. 5, 2013—hopefully not too long of a wait. Here’s the story of how this came to be.
Striking Distance was one of the most challenging books I’ve ever written. By the time I was done, I had easily two pages of discarded text for every page I submitted to my editor. Sometimes that’s how it goes.
Among those discarded pages was the first prologue I’d written. It introduced readers to Laura Nilsson, a broadcast journalist, and Javier Corbray, an active-duty Navy SEAL, and told the story of how they met. When I was many pages into that prologue, I realized I had a big problem. For starters, it was much too long. Also, I would have to have two prologues for the story to start where I wanted it to start. Together, the two prologues would span a period of four years. No novel should start with twenty pages of prologue. So, I reluctantly cut the initial prologue, only referring to the events as backstory in Striking Distance.
Sometimes writers have to make tough choices.
After finishing Striking Distance in June 2013, I went back through the material I had cut from the story, looking for fun “extras” to post on my blog, and I rediscovered how very much I had liked the story’s first, original prologue. I decided to take those pages and transform them into a prequel, telling not just the highlights of the weekend when Laura and Javier meet, but the whole story. I knew that diehard I-Team readers would want to know about the magical weekend that binds Laura and Javier together, and I thought it would give me a chance to do something I hadn’t done before—ratchet up the sensuality and write an erotic short story.
And that’s what you’re about to read—an erotic novella about the weekend Laura and Javier meet. I’ve taken the original prologue and expanded it, turning up the heat and allowing myself to play with language that doesn’t usually make it into my books. I hope you’ll enjoy the result.
As I mentioned, Dear Reader, this story ends with a cliffhanger. You won’t find a “happily ever after” here. I know people sometimes find cliffhangers irritating. Yes, I have seen those “I hate cliffhanger” Facebook memes. But, given the fact that this is a prequel, there really wasn’t any way around that.
Fortunately, First Strike is being released a couple of weeks prior to Striking Distance, so the wait won’t be long. Also, given that the final prologue to Striking Distance is available on my website at this very moment, you will be able to alleviate the cliffhanger stress by simply going to my website and reading what happens next.
Also, you can choose to read this after Striking Distance, in which case it will likely feel especially poignant to you. Yes, I know, that’s like asking a woman to save that piece of chocolate for later when she wants to eat it now. It’s just an idea.
Okay, fine. Forget I said that.
Regardless of when you read First Strike—before or after Striking Distance—I hope you enjoy the story of these two people who meet and enjoy a wild weekend of “no strings” sex that becomes the foundation for redemption and enduring love.
Happy reading!
Pamela Clare
September 17, 2013
CHAPTER ONE
Dubai City, Dubai
United Arab Emirates
July 14, 2009
Javier Corbray walked into the ICON Bar in the Radisson Blu Hotel, his gaze traveling over the dim interior, taking it all in at once—the upscale décor, the busy wait staff, the near-to-capacity crowd of expats enjoying Happy Hour. It wasn’t his scene. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing in Dubai. He’d be back in the States now if he hadn’t let JG talk him into playing tourist.
“You’ve got to see Dubai City,” JG had said. “The buildings, the expat nightlife, the luxury cars—that place will blow your mind. Did I mention the indoor ski resort?”
Only about five times.
The city was amazing. Burj Al Arab. The Jumeirah Emirates Towers hotel. Al Kazim Towers. The artificial island of Palm Jumeirah with its long central avenue. Burj Khalifa, soon to be the world’s tallest building.
The city dripped with wealth—oil dollars and foreign investment. But Javier would rather be putting together a barbecue with his dad in his folks’ backyard in the South Bronx or home in San Diego than wandering around Dubai City in the 105-degree heat staring at architecture. And when it came to the beaches, nothing here could compare to the beaches of Puerto Rico.
Still, being a tourist for a few days wasn’t a bad idea. He could use a little decompression time. It had been a long and rough deployment, one that had seen him and the other men of Delta Platoon caught between the mandate to win hearts and minds and their primary mission as SEALs—to kick ass and take names.
At least they hadn’t lost anyone this time around.
A young man approached him, menu in hand. “Just one tonight?”
Javier nodded.
“This way, please.” The man led him to a vacant table for two in the back of the restaurant not far from the emergency exit.
Javier sat with his back to the wall. It was instinctive for him—taking a defensive position, staying aware of his surroundings. He was no more conscious of doing it than he was of breathing.
He wanted a burger and a Heineken, but finding neither on the menu, he ordered steamed clams, a New York strip, and a pint of Vicaris Tripel instead.
A Filipino server quickly brought his beverage, the sight of the amber liquid and creamy, white head almost making Javier moan. He hadn’t had a beer since before Delta Platoon had deployed last November. He raised the pint glass to his mouth and drank, foam tickling his upper lip, beer sliding, smooth and cold, down his throat.
Oh, hell, yeah.
He lowered the glass, licked the foam off his upper lip, a longing he’d had for months finally satisfied. He looked up—and recognized her the moment he saw her.
Laura Nilsson.
The Baghdad Babe.
That’s what U.S. troops called her. They’d given her the nickname back in 2007 during The Surge, when she’d arrived in Baghdad and begun nightly live broadcasts from outside the Green Zone. Tall and slender with pale blond hair, big ice-blue eyes, a sweet face, and even sweeter curves, she had p
robably served as the fantasy for a thousand combat jacks, though not Javier’s. He preferred dark-haired women with a bit more meat on their bones, women who had something to shake when they danced bomba.
What Javier did admire about Ms. Nilsson was her reporting. She was absolutely fearless, traveling to places most journalists refused to go, tackling stories that other reporters wouldn’t touch or didn’t see, giving the people back home the big picture on this war, telling it like it was. It helped that she had a security team and knew a half-dozen languages, including Arabic, Farsi, German, and French.
Javier sipped his beer, watching as the host escorted her to a table marked “Reserved” just a few tables away from where he sat. She wore a sleeveless black dress that hinted at the curves beneath and showed off her toned arms and slender legs. Her long blond hair hung down her back, its gentle waves held in place by a barrette, a leather handbag over her shoulder, sandals revealing polished pink toenails.
Did you just look her up and down, cabrón?
Yeah, he had.
He couldn’t blame himself. Back-to-back deployments made it tough to have any kind of sex life. It had been more than a year since he’d gotten laid—something he was suddenly very conscious of.
Ms. Nilsson’s gaze passed over the room, connecting with his. And for one startling moment, he found himself looking into a pair of cool, blue eyes. He felt his body tense ever so slightly, the intelligence behind those eyes seeming to assess him before she looked away.
She sat and smiled up at the server, the same Filipino kid who’d brought Javier his beer. “Just the usual, Bayani. Thank you.”
If Javier hadn’t recognized her face, he certainly would have recognized her voice—soft and feminine, but with that undercurrent of steel that made millions of viewers take her every word seriously.
She drew one of those fancy iPhones out of her handbag, turned it on, and began to poke intermittently at the screen, probably checking her email. She glanced up and smiled at the server when he returned with a glass of white wine. “Thank you.”
Aware he was staring, Javier dug into his steamed clams the moment they arrived at his table, buttery goodness exploding in his mouth with every bite. He could live without the opulence and the fancy architecture that were such a part of Dubai City. But the food and brew?
Oh, yeah. He could get used to this.
He finished the clams just as his steak arrived. He ordered another beer, his gaze working its way back to Ms. Nilsson, who was eating a salad and sipping her wine. She was reading something on her smartphone, her attention focused. He willed himself to look away, turning his attention to the laughing crowd of Westerners, British accents mingling with Australian, Italian, and what sounded like German.
Then Javier saw something he didn’t like.
He wasn’t the only man in the restaurant watching her.
Laura Nilsson took another sip of her wine, relieved to see her investigation was coming together. It had taken months to make contact with the village elders, to earn their trust. At first, they had all refused to talk to her, fearing reprisals from the Taliban. But eventually one outraged father had come forward and told a heartbreaking story of how Taliban leaders had forced him at gunpoint to hand over two of his daughters. The girls, eight and ten years old, had been forced into marriage to two different men, raped over the course of a week, and then divorced and left behind. When the villagers had gone to the Afghan government for redress, the Taliban leaders had claimed that the farmer owed them money. Giving away daughters in payment of debts was a long-established tradition in Afghanistan, and so the government had done nothing.
Laura knew this was far from the first time such a thing had happened. Taliban fighters were using small villages as harems, abusing marriage and divorce laws for the sake of sex, preying on defenseless girls as young as eight and nine.
It made her sick.
She tapped out a quick email to Nico, the head of her security detail, asking for an update on her visa snarls and letting him know she had a date and time for her visit to the village. She would interview the girls and their father in hopes of exposing this abuse—and generating international pressure for the Afghan government to stop it.
A shadow fell across the table.
She glanced up, expecting to see Bayani with a pitcher to refill her water glass. Instead, she found herself looking up at two big men with heavy mustaches. Both appeared to be in their late forties or early fifties, their dark hair graying, their faces ruddy from sunburn and too much alcohol. One wore a blue short-sleeved shirt with black slacks and a black striped tie, the other a gray suit.
“You are Laura Nilsson.” The one in the suit held out his hand, his accent distinctly Russian.
Why did people think that because they recognized someone, they had a right to intrude on that person’s space?
Irritated but not wanting to be rude, Laura shook the man’s beefy hand. She spoke some Russian, but opted for English, afraid that speaking their language would only encourage them. “I’m sorry, but I’m working and not—”
“Yuri,” the other one said, interrupting her and extending his hand as well. “I always watch you in the TV when I am in America.”
She stood, shook his hand, too. “It’s nice to meet you both, but I’m afraid I don’t have time to talk now. I’d like to be left alone to—”
“You are very brave woman.” Yuri pointed to his companion. “Nikolai and I are petroleum engineers working on the big oil project here. We come from Russia.”
No kidding.
Nikolai sat, an aggressive gesture. “Maybe you want to know more about our project, report on it for your news?”
They weren’t taking the hint.
Laura looked for Bayani, saw that he was on the other side of the room. All she had to do was get his attention, and the men would be escorted out of the restaurant. If they caused a scene, they’d be arrested and deported.
She tried to keep things civil. “I’m sorry, but that’s not the kind of news I cover. I would like to have a quiet dinner, so I’m asking you to leave.”
“We join you, maybe buy you a drink?” Yuri started to pull out a chair.
A hand shot out of nowhere and held the chair in place.
“The lady asked you to leave.”
It was him.
Laura had noticed him the moment she’d walked in and had taken more than one covert glance. He stood out in a room full of men in suits—and not just because he was so tall. He was dressed differently, too, wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, the black cotton stretching over the muscles of his chest. His skin and eyes were brown, his dark hair cut short. He had high cheekbones, full lips, and a square jaw, the combination both masculine and exotic. She’d guessed he was from Latin America, perhaps Brazilian, but his accent told her he was from the States. Given his physique, she was pretty sure he was military—or an operative from a private security contractor.
Now he stood between her and Yuri, his expression hard.
Was he trying to rescue her?
She fought not to roll her eyes.
Men.
Not wanting this to escalate into chest-thumping and head-butting, she did her best to smooth over the situation. “They were just leaving.”
Nikolai got to his feet, he and Yuri glaring at the man. “Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m the one who’s going to kick your ass unless you do what the lady asks.”
So they’d reached chest-thumping already.
Helvete! Damn!
Laura found herself holding her breath, hoping Nikolai and Yuri weren’t so drunk and stupid as to start a brawl and get themselves or someone else hurt. They could all end up in jail on any number of charges—drinking alcohol, disturbing the peace, disrupting a place of business. An arrest would almost certainly lead to deportation, maybe even prison time. And that would have a devastating impact on Laura’s career.
Dubai was a nation of contradictions and il
lusions where everything was permitted, but nothing was legal. You could order alcohol, but if you got into trouble, you’d end up in jail for drinking it. You could walk around wearing the same clothes you’d wear at home, but if someone complained that you were dressed immodestly, you might be deported. Women could work and move freely throughout the city, but if they were raped and reported it, they—not the rapist—would likely go to jail for it. The difference between enjoying a peaceful stay and being arrested and deported sometimes came down to a single interaction with police.
She flew through Dubai a half-dozen times a year, the emirate serving as a kind of staging area for trips to Iraq, Pakistan, and Afghanistan. If she were deported and barred from re-entering, it would be very hard to do her job. She’d fought like hell to get where she was today, and she wasn’t going to let anything destroy what she’d accomplished—certainly not a couple of drunk Russians or some guy with a hero complex.
Laura watched Yuri’s face turn red, saw Nikolai’s nostrils flare.
Beside her, Mr. Chivalry hadn’t budged, but there was a tension about him that told her he was more than ready to take both men down.
Nikolai tossed back the last of his drink, glanced over his shoulder, and seemed to remember where he was. He spoke to Yuri in Russian. “Come. We don’t want to cause a scene. This bitch isn’t worth it. We don’t want to be deported.”
Still visibly angry, the two men turned and walked away.
Laura let out a breath, then looked up at her rescuer, tension turning to irritation. “You didn’t need to intervene. I didn’t need your help. What if you had provoked a fight? You’d have ended up in a Dubai jail.”
“I’ve been in worse places.” He held out a hand. “Javier Corbray. And you’re welcome, Ms. Nilsson.”
