Authors: Jane Harvey-Berrick
But everywhere were signs of war: bomb-blasted buildings; walls wi
th bullet holes; and ugly, burned out patches where cars had been used as weapons, exploding to shower hot fragments of metal over the unlucky ones who had been too close.
The bullet
proof car that collected me from the heavily guarded airport now dropped me in a secure parking compound at the Mustafa Hotel. I was escorted inside by a burly Marine sergeant who answered to the name of Benson. I didn’t know if that was his first name or last, but his comfortable bulk made me feel safer.
The hotel was a favorite with correspondents, as was the owner, a regular Mr
. Fix-it. And, even better, I’d heard from Liz before I’d left Geneva: she was still in Kabul, waiting on a ride out to Camp Bastion, to report on how British troops were training the Afghan National Army, with a view to a complete handover by 2014. There were few who didn’t think ‘the sooner the better’, but it was hard to see how the country would ever be ready to rule itself. Perhaps democracy didn’t suit a land where decisions were traditionally made at a tribal level. But I was there to report, not have an opinion, or look for solutions – thank God.
Liz had
sent me a message saying that she’d happily share her twin-bed room at the Mustafa Hotel, which was just fine with me. There was safety in numbers, especially for women traveling alone. She’d also ensured that the room was not on the ground floor (too unsafe, for obvious reasons), and no higher than the third floor, as the fire escapes in Kabul were notorious for their shoddy construction.
I checked in
, and was then escorted to my room by a cheerful boy in dirty white robes whose only English seemed to consist of ‘Hello’, ‘yes’ and ‘jolly good’. I suspected Liz had taught him the latter phrase.
The room was eye-wateringly colorful, decorated in a discordant array of oranges,
yellows and reds. But it was comfortable and reasonably clean. Better still, it had its own bathroom. A luxury I’d be doing without once I was at Leatherneck.
I heaved off my
gear, grateful to drop the heavy bags, and read the note that Liz left me. She informed me that we’d been invited to a dinner party being held by the UN for local military, Press, and important Afghan government officials. It was taking place at the Intercontinental Hotel – and I had 40 minutes to get my ‘arse’ over there.
So much for having a rest.
The shower sputtered intermittently, but it was nearly hot, and washed away most of the yellow dust that seemed to coat every part of me.
Formal functions in some Muslim countries could be a cultural minefield.
Since this dinner was including women, it wasn’t going to be truly orthodox, so I wasn’t too worried about what to wear. I had my tried and trusted black cocktail dress, and planned to match it with the black ballerina flats that Sebastian bought for me. My ring was on the necklace hidden beneath my dress, but I could feel it, and that was important.
The dress had long sleeves,
a high neckline, and a knee-length skirt. It passed in more conservative circles, and Liz had thoughtfully informed me that there would be a number of Muslim guests tonight. And although they were likely to be of the more liberal persuasion as women would be present, I didn’t want to risk giving offence. I had my plain, black headscarf in my purse to cover all eventualities.
It was lucky I was dark haired and dark eyed, because once I
’d donned my headscarf, I attracted little interest. If I’d been blonde haired and blue eyed, it would have been a very different story. As soon as my sweet Sergeant Benson escorted me to the Intercontinental, I went straight to the restroom, to take off my headscarf and brush out my hair.
My attention was caught by a stunning woman in a jade-green, designer gown, with plunging neckline and
exposed back. She would have been perfect for a glitzy LA premiere, but here she was jaw-dropping – and not in a good way.
I suspected she was with the UN
– certainly no journalist would be so ridiculously overexposed and underprepared, and I was surprised that no one had warned her to dress more appropriately. In the spirit of sisterhood, I decided to give her a heads-up.
“Excuse me, hi. My name is Lee
Venzi, I’m with the Press. Forgive me, your dress is really beautiful, but it might give you some problems here tonight: for Muslims, green is Mohammed’s favorite color – they might find your choice, as a Western woman, disrespectful. And a more… conservative style usually goes down better.”
“Oh, I never bother with formalities like that,” she sneered, rolling her eyes up and down my simple
, black dress with obvious contempt.
I was left speechless by her arrogant attitude. I seriously considered jamming her head under the
faucet to see if her heavy mascara really was waterproof.
She left me standing
, and turned to her friend who was applying an indecent amount of lipstick, although at least her dress was more respectful and less revealing.
“You
’re dressed to impress, Natalie,” said the second woman, in a heavy, German accent. She gave her friend’s designer gown the same visual appraisal as my own, but with less honesty. “I wonder if I can guess who you’ve got your eye on – seeing as you mentioned you’d bumped into him again.”
The woman called
‘Natalie’ smiled coolly. “What can I say, Hanna? He’s a five-star fuck: stamina and expertise, with fabulous packaging. Paris was memorable: I’m planning on having another night to remember; who’d have thought Kabul could be so entertaining.”
I follow
ed the two women out of the restroom, shaking my head.
“What a bitch!” I
muttered to myself.
“You don
’t know how right you are,” said a familiar voice.
I whirled
around, beyond thrilled.
He looked dashing and so handsome in his Dress Blues; my
heart leapt with joy, reveling in the fact that he was here, that I was here – that we were together so much sooner than either of us could have hoped.
“Sebastian! What are you doing here?
I thought they were sending you to Kandahar?”
“
Change of plan,” he said, his eyes dancing with happiness. “I’ve had a two-day stopover and I’d heard the Press would be here tonight, so I wangled an invite. I wasn’t sure when you were arriving.” He grinned at me wickedly. “But now that you’re here, I’m planning on seducing you behind the potted palms.”
“Or somewhere a little more private, I hope,” I breathed out.
His eyes flared with excitement. “Yes, ma’am.”
“By the way, do you know that tramp?”
I said, jerking my head in the general direction of the slutty woman.
He smirked. “Her
name is Natalie Arnaud. French. She’s a PA for some guy at the UN: but she likes people to think she’s important.”
“And you know her because…?”
He didn’t answer, looking away.
“One of your Parisian conquests.”
‘He’s a five-star fuck.’ Oh no.
“
It was just a warm body, Caro,” he said, correctly reading the expression on my face.
“I understand that,”
sort of
, “but she’s going to get herself into a lot of trouble; she’s only dressing like that to impress you, Sebastian, so you’d better speak to her.”
I felt proud of m
yself for taking the moral high ground. Sebastian scowled at me, clearly unhappy with the mission I’d just given him.
“Suck it up, Hunter
,” I smirked at him. “You created this situation; you’ve got to deal with it. And then find somewhere private for us.”
He shook his head
in irritation at my insistence he deal with the slut-fest going on in the main room, but smiled and threw me a cocky salute.
“Yes, boss.”
Then his smile faded and his eyes darkened in a way that made me long to run my hands over his strong body, and push my tongue between his soft, sensual lips.
I knew he was on the same page, because h
e glanced around him quickly, took my hand and tugged me down the corridor. We were clearly in the staff area of the hotel, because we passed several cramped rooms full of desks and crammed with filing cabinets.
But when Sebastian found
an empty office that was larger than a closet, he pushed me inside, slammed me against the door, and kissed me roughly, the buttons of his uniform pressing painfully into my breasts.
His hand was under my
dress, dragging the skirt up to my waist, his fingers circling the edge of my panties, and then he ran one long finger under the material and inside me, making me cry out.
“
Fuck, you’re wet,” he hissed.
I moaned in reply.
“I am so fucking hard right now,” he growled into my ear. “Here and now: yes or no, Caro?”
“Yes!”
He unzipped his fly quickly, rolling a condom over his erection, while I shimmied out of my panties.
“
Bend over the desk,” he ordered, as he gripped my hips.
“Sebastian, the door!”
“Fuck,” he snarled, spinning around and wedging a chair against the handle.
I leaned over the desk, completely aroused by the unexpected and illicit nature of the moment.
He hauled my dress up over my ass, forced my feet apart with his, and plunged inside me: I heard his breath hiss out through his teeth. He pulled out slowly, then pushed back in, making me feel every inch of him.
He angled his body and rolled his hips, making me clutch hold of the edge of the desk.
My insides quivered in response, and I could hear his soft grunts as he continued to thrust deeply.
I pushed my hips backwards to meet him and he groaned loudly, picking up the pace and pounding into me, frantic
ally, almost desperate in his desire and need.
I couldn
’t take any more – I thought my legs were going to buckle when I came – but he didn’t stop: pounding on and on and on, in a way that would leave bruises across my hip bones from the wooden desk.
I felt his body shudder and empty into me, and his chest rested on my back for a
brief moment, before he pulled out. I sank to my knees, and collapsed onto the floor. He lay down next to me, his breath hot on my neck. I twisted around to gaze into his eyes, softly brushing the tips of my fingers over his face.
I didn
’t need to ask why he’d fucked me like that, with such desperation: it was an adrenaline rush – the heightened sense of awareness that came from being in a war zone and close to death. It was an intense need to prove that you were still alive, to reaffirm life.
“Fuck, that wasn
’t enough, Caro. I want you again.”
“We can
’t, Sebastian,” I panted. “As it is, we’ll be missed if we don’t hurry.”