Operation Lipstick , livre ebook

Random House Publishers India Pvt. Ltd. - Pia Heikkila

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110 pages

English

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Anna Sanderson is not your average thirty-something. She's a war journalist based in one of the most troubled countries in the world-Afghanistan. Sexy, tough as nails, and ballsy as hell, she won't stop at anything to get her scoop or the man she wants. But the game changes when she meets Mr Delectable-handsome, aloof, and secretive, he frustratingly keeps Anna guessing if he's into her or not. Things take a nasty turn when Anna's best friend Kelly discovers that her boyfriend, Rich, has been cheating on her and Anna unearths a series of secrets which tie in her man. The mission-Operation Lipstick-takes Anna on a journey into the heart of the Helmand Province and the lair of the most feared movements of the world-the Taliban. Will Kelly get her revenge? Will Anna survive to tell her story? Will she get her man?

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Romance

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Publié par	Random House Publishers India Pvt. Ltd.
Date de parution	01 octobre 2012
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9788184003376
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0420€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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RANDOM HOUSE INDIA
Published by Random House India in 2012
Copyright Pia Heikkila 2012
Random House Publishers India Private Limited Windsor IT Park, 7th Floor, Tower-B A-1, Sector-125, Noida-201301, U.P.
Random House Group Limited 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road London SW1V 2SA United Kingdom
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author s and publisher s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
EPUB ISBN 9788184003376
For
Joe and my Kukki

1
We are about to land, folks, announced a cheery mid-Western voice.
Say your prayers and fasten your belts. I m turning off the lights now.
Two weeks in bloody Helmand Province and I was ready to come home. Covering a story that turned out to be yet another bombfest was getting tiresome. The plane plunged into darkness but my head felt light and I was full of the joys of spring.
Kabul-dream base for a single female war correspondent. Not because it s beautiful, scenic, or otherwise culturally significant, but because there are so many single men. And so many parties to meet them in. Aid workers, embassy staff, private contract workers, and, of course, journalists congregate at guesthouses, makeshift bars, or embassies where the booze is free and about ninety percent of the partygoers are men. It is an intoxicating mix of international people-reckless, carefree boozing, with an added danger element. Want a taxi ride across town to a party? What you get on the way is a dozen checkpoints manned by armed men, and you re not quite sure whose side they are on. Want to get legless in a bar? Sure, but aside from a fiery tequila, you might also get blown up in it, since it s been the insurgents number one target for a while.
It s a recipe for success, if you ask me-Anna S, thirty-two, single, and horny beyond belief.
After an uneventful landing at the Kabul military airport, I strolled out of the plane accompanied by about fifty battle-weary soldiers. My step was light despite the fact that I was still wearing my dusty blue body armour, which weighed a ton, and a rucksack full of camera equipment and survival kits. And a few pairs of frilly knickers.
Everyday life for a single girl in Kabul is the same as it is in London, Reyjavik, or Mumbai. We work, go out, and look for love. Admittedly, in a war zone there are challenges. Fashion is one of them. Sometimes we have to wear big padded blue vests and unflattering helmets. Not a good look if you ask me, but worth it if you like staying alive.
Everything looked as it should on my way back from the airport. Out of the taxi s window, the scene was soft focused and seemed far away okay, so the window was filthy. Shabby little kiosks selling almost anything-from car engines to chewing tobacco; women hurrying around in their burkhas, with a gaggle of children trailing behind; an endless parade of gun-toting soldiers. This city was anything but easy, even its roads were like dirt tracks-bumpy and unyielding. The taxi inched past the sandy coloured walls which lined the street. Someone once said that Kabul is a city of walls and behind them, many stories lay hidden. It couln t be more true.
Now, curfew or not, us single girls have to do a lot of mundane things, like going to the supermarket. So I instructed my taxi driver to stop outside the A1 Top Shop. All supermarkets in this town were aimed at the expat community and usually had fancy names, like Chelsea or Number One , or Bestest . Sadly, the locals could never afford their ridiculously inflated prices so they shopped in the bazaars instead.
A1 wasn t bad. The shelves were densely stocked with tinned Russian vegetables, chickpeas from Lebanon, and a breast enlargement cream called Lovely Bosoms . It was clean, well lit, and the staff was always friendly. And it had only been bombed a few times.
Inside, Pakistan s top ten from 1988 was blaring. As I looked around, I was tempted to buy a tin of out-of-date Polish dried meat and Taschen-off upper lip hair removal cream. Instead, I opted for a chicken that may only have been defrosted twice. Power cuts were commonplace. Try using your hairdryer with dodgy electricity and you ll be guaranteed a free perm.
I was picking up stuff from the shelves and had accidentally wandered off to the household items section when my tired eyes spotted something far more interesting than America tan popsocks at the shaky makeshift counter. Hunched over the counter was a tall, good looking guy with a bad mullet and a quizzical look on his face. I quickly did the math-mid-to late thirties, ex-army (perhaps a contractor), very fit, completely yummy, and no wedding ring.
How. Hot. Was. He.
He turned around, as if sensing my stare.
Excuse me, could you help me with something? What does denier mean? he asked, as I stood there, rooted to the spot.
Among everything else, being a single woman alone in a war zone meant finding a man wherever you could. Even if it was in the household items section of A1.
Breathe, I told myself.
It means the thickness of the tights, I replied. So, for example, 20 denier is sheerer than, say, 50 denier. But if I were you, I wouldn t buy any tights from here, I rattled on, searching for smart words that would snare this man.
Those eyes! Deep, brown, mystical, yet warm. Full of firm promises of things to come.
And why is that? he looked at me quizzically.
Think of something witty, Anna. Come on!
Um, because they create a drop crotch you know, the sort that hangs low in the middle, because they are not good quality.
He thanked me politely and walked off with two pairs of Lovely Legs 20 denier black tights.
I felt like an idiot. Drop crotch? Jeez. No wonder I was single.
Feeling disappointed, I watched his marvellous, firm backside disappear down the aisle. I realized that I must have looked like a mad woman with my greasy hair, dusty face, and filthy clothes. To top it all, I was wearing a pair of ancient, fraying jeans, which should have been thrown out long ago because a bootcut that hung low on the hips looked so last millennium! But they had been with me on several tough assignments, and I was superstitiously attached to them. I could only hope Mr Delectable didn t know his skinny jeans from his boyfriend cut .
I walked out into the busy Kabuli street clutching my shopping bag, and jumped into my waiting taxi. The English house, Share-e-now, please, I muttered in my basic Dari.
A1 used to be a good place to meet men. There were always the random NGO boys in their multi-coloured hemp trousers and contractors in utility wear wandering around with shopping baskets. But it didn t seem to be the case today. How will I ever find a man when even my trusty pulling places were no longer delivering the goods? Hell, I was even prepared to make small talk about processed Iranian cheese.
But then again, come to think of it-thin black tights? Not a good look on anyone, if you ask me. Mr D can keep his tacky girlfriend.
My crawling taxi came to a sudden stop. The driver, a friendly looking man in a white turban, turned around and pointed at a convoy of armoured cars blocking the road ahead. A soldier jumped out of the first car and started to flag us down.
Ma am, the road is blocked, security alert. You must turn around, no taxis allowed past this point.
I swore out aloud. I was tired after the long trip and wanted to get back home. A detour, which would add at least another hour to my trip, was not the thing I wanted now.
The driver started to reverse the car rather quickly. I didn t have a good feeling about it so looked behind to see if he was going to hit anything. And sure enough in another moment there was a screech of tyre and the car jerked and tilted on to its right, throwing me along with it. The car hung precariously over an open sewer.
Perfect! This was all I needed.
The driver had a look of panic on his face. Ma am, I will have to call my cousin to come and help.
I sighed and nodded. Judging from the traffic, it would be midnight by the time his cousin got here.
I tried to open the left passenger door, but it was stuck. The driver gesticulated for me to jump onto the front seat so that I could get out.
Now, Afghan taxis are small and I m not. I am over 5 feet 10 inches and have wide hips. Hauling myself to the front seat would require serious acrobatics. The other option was to get out of the right door and jump into the sewer. Even though I was wearing my desert boots and not my Miu Miu platforms, the thought of wading through the sewer was enough to make my stomach churn. I guessed the sewer must have been at least knee deep, if not more. I could have made the jump, however, the brown layer of scum floating on the surface made me stay put in the car. The stench was unbearable.
A group of Afghan men had already gathered around us, to gawk at the foreign woman in a taxi. Anything foreign always attracted attention in Kabul, and a woman stuck in a car was a definite crowd-puller. Some even tried to help and pull the taxi out, but it seemed to be stuck good and proper. I m sure many of them would have wanted to help me out too, but in this city men do not touch women in public.
It was time to act before the crowd got any bigger. I gestured to the driver to step out, and then slung my leg over the front seat. I then tried to flatten myself so as not to get stuck between the seat and the ceiling. I had planned to twist my body so that I would land on the driver