Badass: Jungle Fever (Complete): A Billionaire Military Romance Read online

  Jungle Fever (Complete Series)

  Leslie Johnson

  Elle Dawson

  Copyright © 2016 Leslie Johnson & Elle Dawson

  Published By: Atrevida Publishing

  Table of Contents

  Newsletter

  Jungle Fever (Book 1)

  Jungle Fever (Book 2)

  Jungle Fever (Book 3)

  Havana - The Ambassador’s Wife ( Book 1) Sneak Peek

  Also By Leslie Johnson

  About the Authors

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are all made up in my mind. In other words, nothing is to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  © 2016 Leslie Johnson & Elle Dawson

  Published by: Atrevida Publishing

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  ... and you will be notified by email when the next book is available. Don’t miss a single installment of Leslie Johnson’s captivating romance series.

  Book Description

  No one is safe. Not when someone wants what you have.

  As an heiress to the family fortune, Camille Duffy lives the perfect life. She does work that she loves and travels anywhere she pleases. Beautiful and independent, she makes her own choices – in love and life. At least that’s what the tabloids say.

  Tate Rodgers is an ex-Green Beret turned owner of one of the most sought after security firms in the world. He’s hyper diligent and honest to a fault. If you don’t want the truth, don’t ask him. And don’t get on the wrong side of him. He will rip your tonsils from your throat.

  They’ve been hooking up for a couple years now. Hot sex. Good friends. But busy schedules keep the hook ups far and few between.

  Then a perfect day leads to disaster which leads to a fight for their lives.

  Can one man stop an army?

  Or will the jungles of Columbia claim another victim?

  You may want to read Badass: The Complete Series as well to better understand the history of Tate and Camille.

  Jungle Fever (Book 1)

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  Chapter One – Tate

  “You suck!”

  I can’t hear the words, but they’re easy enough to read on Link Duffy’s lips. So is the scowl he’s shooting at some teeny bopper who just threw her underwear in his face.

  Before I can say ‘suck it up’ for the hundredth time, some little shit tries to get past me and I grab him by the scruff of the neck, hauling him back into the crowd of screaming teenagers, giving him a look so hard the kid nearly pisses his pants. Then the kid turns his attention back to the stage behind me, and his eyes grow soft and saggy with deep, unrequited puppy love as Ainslee Abraham, the hottest pop princess to ever hit the universe, gyrates her barely covered ass on the stage directly behind me.

  When I feel the pop queen running her hand through my hair, I don’t react. It’s the third time it’s happened tonight. I look over at Duff again, and the bastard is smirking. Ainslee leaves my hair alone and skips over to the other side of the stage.

  Son of a bitch.

  I’m the damn owner of Black Shield, one of the most respected security companies in the world. I’m a former Army Ranger, former Green Beret, and was heavily recruited for special forces and the CIA. I’ve killed men with my bare hands and can snipe a perp from nearly a mile away. I’ve jumped from a plane at thirty-thousand feet multiple times. I can fly anything that goes into the air. Dammit to hell, I survived sixteen bullets plowing into me at the same fucking time. I came back to life after I died on the table … twice.

  And here I am providing personal security to an eighteen-year-old who, to her credit, can at least carry a tune, but whose special advantage is that she has a body that is every boy’s wet dream.

  To my left, I pin a look on a barely dressed girl who seems on the verge of rushing the stage and she swallows before giving me her best ‘pleeeeease’ look. I shake my head and she pops out her lower lip, then pulls her damn little shirt up to expose her tits. I don’t lose eye contact with her. Don’t allow my eyes to flick down. I stare at her, giving her the same face I’d use on a terrorist I was extracting information from. Carefully blank. So blank the girl shudders and pulls her little top back down.

  What the hell is wrong with kids these days?

  Feeling exceedingly old-fartish, I scan the crowd again, searching for anyone whose eyes aren’t on the screeching star and her band behind me. Scan for the ones seeking to rush the stage. The ones about to throw something. The ones acting different than the hormone-induced teens around them. The idol worshipping little shits who are screaming at the top of their lungs.

  The music in the arena changes and the crowd goes ballistic in front of my eyes. I try to recognize the tune, but my mind is blank. I don’t listen to this pop shit unless it’s forced upon me in an elevator somewhere.

  “Princess in wardrobe,” a voice sounds inside of my ear. I’ve received that information six times tonight.

  “Roger that.”

  With each change, the princess’ outfits have gotten smaller and smaller, revealing more of her sweat slicked flesh to the clambering crowd. These fuckers paid eighty dollars a ticket to see this show and the Maracan Stadium in Rio de Janeiro is at near capacity, seating seventy thousand of these little pop worshipers. That’s over five and a half million dollars for one show.

  “Princess out.”

  I didn’t need to hear the words to know the girl was back onstage. The crowd communicated that quite clearly. So did the long, drawn out note coming out of the speakers in every direction. For one so tiny, the girl did have some lungs on her.

  To my right, I see a boy crawling on the floor, trying to get to the stage under the radar. I pretend not to see him when he sticks his head out from between the legs of a pair of screaming girls. Then the damn kid looks up and sneaks a peak under the girls’ skirts. In the two strides it takes me to get to him, he’s lifting up his damn phone to take a few pictures.

  The girls squeal as I reach between them and haul the pubescent leech up by the throat, the little fucktard’s eyes bugging out of his head. I grab his phone and hand it to one of the girls. “You might want to delete those last photos,” I shout at them. The girls look at the phone, then start hitting the boy with it. I let them get in a few good licks before I jerk him away and haul him up until we’re eye to eye.

  “You don’t do that to women, hear me?”

  He looks like he’s going to cry. “I’m … I’m sorry.”

  I drop him to his feet and turn him around to face the teenagers he so casually violated. “I’m not the one you need to apologize to.” He hangs his head in shame and I give him a little shake. He looks up and apologizes before bursting into tears. With a last shake, I hand him down to the next man on my security team for him to be escorted away.

  Turning back to my position, I find that puppy love boy from earlier has taken advantage of my distraction. The little twat is over the rail and swinging his legs on the stage. I’m right behind him. He rolls just out of my reach and is on his feet and heading straight toward my client, arms out in a ‘hills are alive’ greeting.

  Ainslee, who has just turned her butt toward the crowd and is wagging her ass cheeks at them while singing �
��touch me everywhere’, must have noticed movement in her periphery because she turns and her eyes grow large and the word ‘baby’ coming from her mouth ends in an ear piercing shriek.

  Two feet from her, I catch puppy love boy by the back of the shirt, snatching him back so violently his feet come flying up and nearly kick the princess in the face. I long to tackle him, to crush him between the wood of the stage and my two hundred and fifty pounds, but this is a pimply faced teenager and I’d probably kill the skinny squirt.

  Ainslee gives me a ‘thank you’ look and turns away, picking back up where she left off. Another small point to her credit — she barely missed a beat.

  “I love you, Ainslee,” the boy is screaming with what bit of breath he has left in his lungs. Considering I’m carrying him tight under my arm, I’d guess his lung capacity is greatly reduced.

  Tossing the boy to another security member, I head back to my spot in front of the stage. By the time I hop down, the crowd in my section is giving me roaring cheers and the girls are giving me sultry glances.

  I look over at Duff, who is laughing his ass off. I flip up a middle finger and mouth, ‘Fuck you.’

  An hour later, six of my security team and I are escorting Ainslee down the hall and to her dressing room. Duff looks like he’s ready to kill someone — probably me. And I can’t blame him. I’d rather be in the middle of a pack of enemy with nothing more than a pea shooter for defense than to ever … ever … ever … step in for security at a concert ever … ever … ever again.

  Early this morning, I’d gotten the call that eight of my team had gone down with food poisoning and were stuck with either their asses or heads in a toilet. Of the nearly hundreds of security experts I employ, all but six were on missions. I’d scrambled those six, then called in a favor of my best friend.

  I look at Duff again and correct that. Former best friend.

  As if he is reading my mind, he scowls at me again.

  Outside the door of the dressing room, I nod for Duff to follow me in for a security sweep before the princess enters. On the ‘all clear’, Ainslee blows in, shutting the door firmly behind her.

  She looks from me to Duff and back to me. “Thanks for taking such good care of me tonight,” she says in a sex kitten tone of voice that matches the sex kitten look on her face. Shit. My balls tighten. Not with lust, but in warning.

  She steps up to Duff and gives him a sultry smile. “It’s a hoot that billionaire playboy Link Duffy is one of my bodyguards. And, by the way, your pictures don’t do you justice.”

  “Happy to help Tate out,” is all he says in return. He’s in military at-ease stance, his eyes firmly to the wall.

  She turns her head to me, looking up through her fake eyelashes. “Bet I’m the only person in the world grateful for food poisoning. I like you two much better. You’re both incredibly hot. Will you stay and play with me.” She smiles and gives an ‘oops’ look. “I mean, stay and protect me the rest of the tour?”

  Her massive heels click on the marble floor as she walks over to stand in front of me. Even in the six inch stilettos, she barely comes to my shoulders. She runs a finger down my chest, stopping just above the button on my chinos. “I’ve always had this fantasy, you know.” She looks at me from under her lashes. “And I think the two of you would fill it nicely.”

  Beside me, Duff snorts out a breath that causes his nostrils to flare. She turns to him, noticing his glower. “What?” she asks innocently. “I promise I won’t tell your little wife. It’ll be our secret.”

  He opens his mouth to speak and I intercept whatever is about to spew from it. “We’ll give you privacy to change, Miss Abraham.” Before the full sentence is out of my mouth, Duff has turned on his heel and is out of the door.

  Ainslee pouts, but recovers quickly by saying, “I thought I wasn’t to be left alone, ever.”

  “That’s true, but as you know, Rita became ill. A female guard while you change is more appropriate and…”

  Before I can get the rest of my sentence out, Ainslee’s dress is over her head. Her young, very young, lithe body is exposed down to a scrap of material covering what is clearly a completely waxed mound.

  Fuck. I turn my eyes to the wall.

  “As you can see,” she purrs, her voice pure feline and sex. “Appropriate isn’t a word I care much for.”

  “I’ll be just outside the door,” I tell her. “Knock if you need…”

  “My contract says I can’t be left alone,” she reminds me and she takes a step so close I can smell her. “And I know, deep inside you don’t want to leave.”

  “This isn’t happening, Miss Abraham,” I growl out, eyes on the wall even as her fingers begin to pull up my shirt.

  “I thought you had to do as I say.” Her voice has taken on a little whine.

  “You thought wrong. I’m here to protect, not to be your fuck toy.”

  “Why? Do you have a wife or girlfriend?”

  “Negative on both counts.”

  One corner of her mouth lifts. “A boyfriend then?”

  “Negative.”

  “Then why won’t you fuck me?”

  I meet her blue eyes. “Because I don’t fuck little girls.”

  Those pretty blues narrow, but she’s clearly heard that line before because she takes a step back and cups her breasts, running her thumbs over the nipples. “Do little girls have these?”

  I don’t answer, just put my eyes back to the wall.

  She backs up another few steps, and bends to slink out of her panties. Then she sits down in a chair and spreads her legs, sliding a finger down her center then brings it to her mouth to taste herself. “I’m not a little girl, Tate. I’m eighteen. Perfectly legal. Come play with me.”

  I feel the muscle in my jaw twitch, but my dick remains flaccid in my pants. It would be easy to say yes, to feed her my cock and fuck her until she bleeds. But I’m on a job and my reputation is more important to me than an easy piece of ass.

  Plus, I’m simply not interested. I’m sick of women who play games. And it’s every single damn last one of them.

  I fasten my eyes on hers again. “Look, Miss Abraham, I can’t even imagine how all this fame and sudden fortune has screwed up your head, or the level in which you think you’re superior and can have anything you want. I’m not a thing. And I don’t play games.”

  For a glorious moment, she looks embarrassed and brings her thighs together, but that moment doesn’t last nearly long enough. She recovers her composure and the sex kitten is back. She stands and comes toward me, like a lioness stalking her prey, her blonde mane of hair trailing behind her.

  “I don’t play games either, but I do like to play, Tate,” she says as she slides a finger down my chest. “Fuck me. I want to see how big your cock is, feel it inside me.” Her finger continues a path down my abs and the front of my pants until her hand is cupping my balls through the material.

  “No.”

  She traces the length of my dick with her fingers. “See, you’re hard for me. You want me.”

  “Trust me, I’m not hard and the answer is still no.”

  Her eyes widen and her attention is diverted to see if I’m lying. Upon further inspection, what I’d hoped would be cold water splashed on this little encounter instead cranks up her challenge. “You’re this big soft?” She steps close enough to rub her tits on my arm. “Please, let me see you hard.”

  “No.”

  The little hellcat isn’t thwarted even the slightest and her fingers move up to the button of my pants. That’s it. I’m done. Done with her. Done with everything. “Take your hands off me.” When she doesn’t, I grab her wrist and twist until it’s behind her back.

  She cries out softly, then she damn smiles again. “You like it rough? So do I.”

  I lean down and growl in her face. “I like it when two consenting adults make a mutual consenting decision. You ever told a guy no and he didn’t respect it?”

  In a flash, her face goes from su
ltry to mortified before slipping into what could be dismay but feels like fear. I let go of her wrist and she steps backward so quickly that she totters and almost falls backwards, but I catch her, my hands firmly around her upper arms.

  “I … I’m so sorry,” she stutters and bursts into tears. “I didn’t mean … it didn’t occur … I’ve never thought …”

  She’s full on sobbing now, a naked, shivering little mess less than a foot in front of me. Her make-up is everywhere; snot is running from her nose. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen someone cry this hard.

  Shit. A. Hundred. Bricks.

  Looking around, I find a robe and pull it around her shoulders before forcing her arms into the soft sleeves. Tying the front, securing it tightly, I lead her to a small sofa and press her into the cushions. I sigh, then sit down beside her and curve an arm around the young girl’s shoulders and essentially let her ruin a very good shirt with mascara.

  “Have you told anyone?” I ask her and she shakes her head, crying harder.

  “No,” she says after a while. She’d been silent so long I’d almost forgotten the question I’d asked. “Too ashamed. Thought my parents would blame me. They say I dress like a whore.”

  I hate people. Bet no one would ask her what her rapist was wearing.

  “So instead you blame yourself?” I ask.

  Wiping her nose on her sleeve, she lifts a shoulder, then nods.

  I begin the process of untangling her from me. “You and another million girls besides you. Do yourself a favor. Use your celebrity for good. Let girls know they aren’t alone. Write a damn song about your experience, your reaction and how you began to heal. Share it with the world. Maybe if more girls didn’t feel isolated, they’d stand up to the dicks who try to hurt them.”

  She sniffs. “You don’t think my parents will hate me?”

  I consider the question. “Don’t know. They’ll deal however they deal.”

  She nods and looks at the clock.

  “I’m supposed to meet fans backstage in ten minutes. Is my make-up totally screwed?”