Captive of the Desert King

Captive of the Desert King Donna Young Captive of the Desert King Donna Young www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) Table of Contents Cover (#uf7866d45-9e49-562e-9098-ba714b33454a) Title Page (#uad00942c-50ee-5a74-95f5-9dbb050cc781) About the Author (#ulink_495304b8-376e-5eef-86df-6de967a2f3df) Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#ulink_88908d6a-d341-55df-a71f-124a2afec0ae) DONNA YOUNG, an incurable romantic, lives in beautiful Northern California with her husband and two children. Chapter One (#ua08d5ad9-3e83-5c26-8e6a-bf67d2c9e7d0) They rose from the sand. Crimson vipers ready to strike. They called themselves the Al Asheera. The Tribe. Blood-red scarves covered their treacherous features. Machine guns filled their fists, missile launchers lay at their feet. They were the enemies of Taer. And the time had come for the resurrection of their traitorous souls. King Jarek Al Asadi focused his all-terrain binoculars on the army of revolutionaries clustered between the slopes of sand dunes. They’d been bred among the brush and rock. Weaned on the grit of the earth and the blood of their enemies. Their prized possession? Not life. Nor faith. Not even family. They valued only the land beneath their feet and the swords—honed from generations of butchery—strapped to their backs. They believed Taer was their territory, their hunting ground. That was their first mistake. The Al Asheera armed the missile launchers, their movements clipped with military precision. It had been five years since they’d last surfaced. Five years since they killed Jarek’s parents, kidnapped his son. That had been their second mistake. Fury exploded in Jarek’s chest, burned the back of his throat until he nearly choked. He shifted on his belly, burying himself deeper behind the ridge. Grimly, he scanned his enemies’ horses corralled by rocks a few yards from their masters. No added supplies hung from the saddles. Only water. Once bloated, the goatskin bags lay nearly depleted against their horses’ haunches. That meant the bastards hadn’t traveled far. And they weren’t worried about drying out. It also meant their prey was in the vicinity. The palace and city lay south behind Jarek less than a half day’s ride. The nearest village lay more than forty miles east. He followed the horizon just past the Al Asheera, searching for an outlining camp. Nothing. But he was a patient man. The wind gusted, kicking up sand and dust. Jarek ignored the slight irritation. He was a man born from the Sahara, carved from the wind, sand and heat—taught at a young age to endure. The blood of kings ran hot in his veins, set the steel in his broad shoulders, the granite in his dark, chiseled features. Tradition, integrity and responsibility were his companions long before he’d understood his destiny. Long before he understood the pain of betrayal. Without warning, three gunshots burst from the western ridge. Below, the signal brought the Al Asheera camp to life, their movements now more animated than precise. The drone of an engine drifted over the wind. Jarek followed the sound, then swore. A four-seater plane came into view. The white, sleek bird rode low against a clear, blue sky. He didn’t have to focus the binoculars to know the Royal Crest, his family’s crest, was imprinted like a target on its belly. Sarah. Two missiles exploded from the Al Asheera encampment. On their heels came another burst of gunfire. Frustration and helplessness edged the fury, forced Jarek to draw deep, harsh breaths. “Come on, Ramon,” he whispered, silently encouraging his pilot to evade the attack. As if hearing him, the plane banked, drawing up hard. A second later, the Al Asheera missiles rushed past its right wing, harmless. But the maneuver cost the pilot distance. The plane faltered, then dipped over the camp, exposing its underbelly to the revolutionaries below. A small cry of surprise exploded from behind Jarek. He swung around on his knee, his rifle leveled. “Papa?” A boy, nearly six years in age, tugged a gray mare’s reins—almost three times the boy’s height—urging the animal forward. “Rashid.” Jarek swore and lowered the rifle. Trepidation raked his gut, cutting clean through to the anger, then deeper to the fear. “What are you doing here?” A sudden burst of gunfire ripped through the stomach of the plane. A cheer rose over the wind as the engine smoked and shuddered, the aircraft struggled to maintain its altitude. Almost instantly, the plane changed direction, heading away from the Al Asheera and toward Jarek. This time a cry of alarm rose from the camp. In mass, the revolutionaries scrambled toward their horses. But Jarek barely noticed. The plane lost its struggle and tilted into a nosedive. His gaze followed the white blur until it crashed beyond the horizon. “Stay, Ping.” The boy dropped the reins—confident his horse would stand near his father’s. The small prince scrambled up next to Jarek. Rashid Al Asadi stopped less than a foot from his father. Jarek noted the black eyes—intense, sharp like a well-polished, well-cut onyx. His wife, Saree’s, eyes. The rest was Al Asadi. Beneath the soft, round face lay the promise of Jarek’s square jaw and high cheekbones. And if one looked closely enough, the suggestion of a high forehead and the sharp features of Jarek’s father, Makrad Al Asadi. Jarek glanced away, unwilling to look that close. The boy had been born with an old soul and a clever mind, Jarek’s cousin, Quamar, had stated years before. A combination that equaled nothing less than an insatiable curiosity. “Ramon?” The little boy’s gaze darted past Jarek to where the plane had disappeared. Purpose was there, in the set of the boy’s shoulders. “What are you doing here, Rashid?” But his tone lost its angry edge because fear was there, too. A fear that he also saw lurking in the darkest part of his son’s eyes. “I heard you tell Uncle Quamar that you were taking a ride in the desert on Taaj before Miss Kwong arrived today,” he whispered. “I thought you might want company.” Jarek had actually told Quamar that he wanted to distance himself from the American reporter, but he did not correct his son. “You were wrong to follow me, Rashid.” Jarek understood disciplining his son would have to wait, but the words would not. “And don’t tell me you didn’t understand that before you rode Ping out here. I imagine your tutor has Trizal searching for you as we speak. You must have worried him a great deal when you did not show up for your studies.” As Jarek’s personal secretary, Trizal Lamente, had dealt with Rashid’s impulsive behavior too many times in the past to react with fear but not without urgency. Quamar, too, would be searching for them soon, if not already. “I left Trizal a note explaining what I had done.” Jarek believed him. His son was high-spirited and headstrong, but he did not lie. “And you think that because you told my secretary you were skipping studies, it is better?” Jarek admonished. “And your Royal Guards? Where were they?” Before his son could answer, Jarek pulled Rashid with him to the horses. “We will discuss your disobedience later. Now we must help Ramon.” “Do you think they are dead?” Rashid’s bottom lip trembled, reminding Jarek just how young his son was. “I don’t know,” Jarek answered truthfully, but tempered the words with a softer tone. Sarah’s image flashed before him. The long, black hair, the vibrant green eyes, the delicate lines of her face. Fear raked his gut. Icy and razor-sharp. He helped his son onto Ping’s back. “But if they are not, they might be injured and need our help.” The logical thing to do was to take Rashid back to the palace, then send soldiers to rescue those in the plane. But as soon as Jarek thought of it, he brushed the option aside. The soldiers would arrive too late. Even for his son, he could not leave people to die at the hands of the Al Asheera. “We’re going to ride fast.” Jarek swung up onto Taaj. “Can you stay with me?” Jarek had no doubt his son could, having spent more time riding Ping than in the classroom studying. It was the vulnerability and the realization that his son might have to deal with yet another death in his short life that made Jarek wonder what else the young boy could handle. “Yes.” The word cracked but didn’t weaken the underlying resolve in Rashid’s voice. “I can stay with you.” After a short, firm nod, Jarek ordered, “Let’s go then.” They had very little time to reach the plane before the Al Asheera. With grim determination, he prodded Taaj to a full gallop, making sure his son’s horse stayed abreast. He just prayed he wasn’t risking Rashid’s life in a race toward the dead. Chapter Two (#ua08d5ad9-3e83-5c26-8e6a-bf67d2c9e7d0) She felt the pain, thick and hot. It rolled through her head and down to her chest—forced her to inhale deep. But with the oxygen came the stench of death, clouded with dust, tinted with blood. It caught in her throat and clogged her lungs. She gagged, coughed, then gagged again before she pushed it all back with a shudder. Blinking hard, Sarah Kwong focused through the blur and grit that coated her eyes. The pain was still there, jarred free with her short, jerky movements. She touched her temple, felt the wet, sticky blood against her fingers. Slowly, she lifted her head and took in the damage surrounding her. The nose and cockpit were no more than gnarled steel buried deep under sand. The pilot, Ramon, lay slumped against the instruments of the plane. The windshield had shattered on impact. Shards of glass covered the pilot’s head and upper body. “Ramon?” Blood matted his gray hair and coated his forehead and face in a wide, crimson mask. She hit the release button on her seat belt and slid to the space between their seats. Vertigo hit her in waves. She stopped, caught her breath, calmed the nausea. At sixty, Ramon had three decades on her. But with a forthcoming smile and easy banter, the pilot formed an instant rapport with her on their flight from Morocco. She scooted forward and placed her fingers against his neck. His pulse was weak and fluttery. Still, he had one. Carefully, she pulled him back into his seat. Blood soaked his polo shirt, turning the navy blue a crimson black. A shard of glass, the size of her forearm, protruded from his chest. Sarah’s gut tightened in protest over the bits of bone and jagged skin that clung to its toothed edges. The sun beat down on the plane, thickening the air to a rancid oven heat. Sweat stung her eyes. Impatiently she wiped it away, then glanced around for something to stem the flow of his blood. Fear tightened her chest, forcing her to exhale in a long, shaky breath. “Don’t you dare die on me, Ramon,” she threatened, hoping her words would jar the injured man awake. She’d dressed in cream-colored cotton pants, a matching long-sleeved blouse and—aware of convention in a foreign country—a camisole beneath for modesty sake. Quickly, she unbuttoned her blouse, slipped it off, then ripped the material down the back and into two pieces. She placed the first half under his head and pressed the second against the flow of blood from his chest. “Don’t touch it.” The command was weak and raspy with pain. But her relief came swift, making her voice tremble enough to draw the pilot’s gaze. “Don’t talk,” she warned, while her fingers probed lightly, judging the depth of his chest wound. “Save your strength.” Ramon struggled to keep his leather-brown eyes on her. Blood ran from his mouth, dripped from his chin. “It doesn’t matter now.” “Don’t talk like that,” she snapped, the harshness more from fear than irritation or anger. “I just need to stop the bleeding—” “It’s too late.” The words struggled past the moist rattle that filled his chest. Ramon’s hand slid to his side. He pulled his gun from its holster. “Take this. Protect yourself,” he gasped. He shoved it at her until she took the pistol. “Grab the survival kit. Run.” “Run from who?” “Roldo.” He grasped at her arm. Blood made his fingers slick, while the loss of blood made his grip weak. “Go now.” “I can’t leave—” “Tell the king I’m sorry.” Before Sarah could answer him, Ramon’s hand fell to the floor, limp. Sarah had seen death before. Many times. But always behind yellow crime scene tape with a microphone in her hand and a camera over her shoulder. Her fingers fluttered over his cheek, then closed his eyes. Never had death brushed this close, or been this personal. The finality left her cold and empty. Sarah swore and pressed her fingers into her eyes, averting the prick of tears, easing the throb of pain. Suddenly, a horse whinnied to the right of the plane. Sarah grabbed the gun and thumbed the safety off. “Ramon.” She aimed the pistol at the door. “Come through that door and it will be the last thing you do,” Sarah yelled. “Don’t shoot, damn it. It’s Jarek, Sarah.” The sharp voice came from the outside—a command not a question. Only one man had a voice like that—the deep, haunting timbre, the edges clipped with a hint of a British accent. When the passenger door slammed open, she was already lowering the pistol. “Your Majesty, this is a surprise.” Coal-black eyes swept over her, taking in her slender frame, the pale skin. She knew what he was thinking. Delicate. Reserved. Harmless. That’s what most people thought. What he’d thought all those years ago. Before he got to know her. “Are you injured?” He nodded toward the blood-soaked camisole. “No.” She lied without qualm, her eyes studying the man. He hadn’t changed much over the past eight years. Leaner, more rigid, maybe. He dressed casually in tan riding breeches, a white linen shirt and black riding boots. The clothes were tailored and fit snugly over his broad shoulders, lean hips and long, masculine legs. He certainly had the look of a desert king: an indigo scarf wrapped around his head, his sharp angled features, his skin bronzed from the sun and slightly grooved from the elements. His eyes narrowed as they met hers. Something shifted inside her. Fear? Relief? “Ramon is dead.” Jarek glanced over at the pilot, but the king’s features remained stiff, emotionless. Only the slight tightening of his jaw gave away the fury beneath the indifference. Sarah realized she would have missed it if she hadn’t been studying his features so intently. Then quickly, before she could react, he caught her chin, turned her head and examined her wound. “Any dizziness? Nausea?” “No,” she lied again, resisting the urge to touch her temple. Telling Jarek about her headache wouldn’t change the situation. She looked beyond his shoulder and through the door to the empty desert. “Any others coming?” “No.” He released her. “Just myself. And Rashid.” “Rashid?” Sarah repeated, surprised. “The prince is here?” “Yes.” His mouth flattened to a hard, almost bitter line. A mouth, she remembered, that heated with passion or curved wickedly with humor. “We have very little time. I didn’t see any jeeps with the Al Asheera. Only horses. But that doesn’t mean they don’t have them,” Jarek added. He took Ramon’s gun from her grip, then pulled her from between the seats. “Behind you is the survival kit. Water, rations, first aid. On the floor…” he pointed under the seats “…flares.” “Got it,” she answered, but the first thing she snagged was her purse—a brown, leather hobo bag that had seen better days. “Forget your purse. Take what’s important. Water first.” “My purse is important. It won’t get in the way.” Quickly, she slipped it over her neck and one shoulder. She grabbed the survival kit and the extra sack of water. It took her a moment to find the flares hidden under a broken passenger seat in the back. She shoved several into her purse, along with a loose flashlight and gloves. Jarek leaned over and checked the pilot’s pulse. After a moment, he cupped the older man’s cheek. “May Allah keep you always, my friend.” Sarah turned away, uncomfortable with her intrusion. She stumbled from the plane, nearly landing face-first in the scrub and sand. “Great,” she muttered. Impatient, she reached down and broke the heels off her shoes, trying not to think about how much the cost of the tan slingbacks had set back her budget a few months earlier. “Miss Kwong?” All boy. That was Sarah’s first thought as she looked at Rashid. His eyes were big and wide and black as midnight. Almost too big for the small body, the baby-soft features. “Your Highness.” He dressed like his father in the riding pants and boots. His scarf, just a tad off center, revealed sooty black hair spiking in sweaty strands against his cheeks and ears. “I am glad to see you are unharmed,” the little boy greeted her in a quiet voice. Those big eyes looked past her shoulder to the plane even as he helped her with the supplies. “Is Ramon safe?” Sarah knelt down in front of him and laid her hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Sarah explained, gently. “Ramon did not survive.” “I see,” he whispered. His throat worked spasmodically against tears. “My father?” “He’s saying goodbye.” Jarek stepped out to the sand. In one hand, he carried a scarf—Ramon’s head scarf—filled with more supplies. In the other hand, he carried Ramon’s pistol. “Rashid—” “I know, Papa. Miss Kwong explained.” The words were quiet, but resolute. Sarah saw the tears swell in the young prince’s eyes and how he bit his lip to keep them from falling. Sarah stood, but left her hand on the boy’s shoulder long enough for a gentle squeeze of encouragement. “There is nothing we can do for Ramon,” Jarek added, his gaze narrowing over her gesture. “Please let go of my son, Miss Kwong.” The emotions punched hard, an angry swipe at her solar plexus. Resentment. Humiliation. Rage. She fought them all as she dropped her hand. Eight years of denial fell away, lying like broken chains at her feet. She’d come three thousand miles to see. To finally know. And now she did. Nothing had changed. “Miss Kwong, have you ridden?” Jarek asked briskly, his gaze now on the horizon. “Yes. But it’s been a long time.” Too long, she added silently and resisted the urge to rub her temples where the pain was centered. “You’ll ride Ping.” He nodded toward the gray mare. “Give me the backpack. You can keep your purse.” He tied the scarf and supplies to Ping’s saddle. “Rashid, come hold the horse steady.” “It’s okay, girl.” The little boy held the bridle and stroked the horse’s nose. “Grab the pommel,” Jarek ordered Sarah, then glanced down at her foot. Noticing the broken heels, he raised an eyebrow in question. “They’re styled to make a great impression, not for an afternoon hike in the sand.” “I assure you. You’ve always made an impression. Without the shoes,” he murmured, then motioned her to lift her foot. She placed her heel in his palm, felt the slight dusting of his thumb against her ankle. Her toes curled, but her back stiffened. “Don’t,” she snapped, low and mean. “Don’t what?” “Don’t tell me not to touch your son one minute, then stroke me the next.” “Rashid and Ramon were very close,” Jarek replied, his answer matching the hushed tone of hers. “If you had comforted him for much longer, the tears would’ve taken over and made things more difficult. My priority is his protection. We will have time for grief, but only after we are safe.” Then, almost deliberately, his thumb grazed her ankle again. “Now. Are you ready?” Before she could reply, he boosted her into the saddle. Ping bristled against the weight, stomping her front foot for a moment before a few murmured words from Rashid settled her down. Quickly, Sarah adjusted her purse across her back and out of her way. “Here you are, Miss Kwong.” Rashid handed her the reins. When the boy turned away, Ping took a step forward, causing Sarah to lock her thighs on the saddle. “Whoa, girl.” “Are you going to be all right?” Rashid asked, his small brow knitted with concern. “I’ll be fine, Your Highness. It’s like falling off a horse, right?” Sarah winked. The little boy smiled. A big smile that revealed a dimple in each cheek. A small rubber band of emotion snapped inside her chest. She knew in that moment, if she wasn’t careful, she’d be a sucker for those dimples. “Ping will follow Taaj, Miss Kwong. So all you have to do is stay in that saddle,” Jarek ordered. “If you hear gunshots, don’t look back. Do you hear me?” “Yes.” “And keep up.” Jarek lifted Rashid onto Taaj, then swung up into the saddle behind him. “Papa, look,” Rashid shouted. A long line of dust clouds rose over the horizon behind them. Sarah raised her hand to shield the sun. “What is it? A sandstorm?” She’d read about the dangers of the desert—scorpions, vipers, raging winds of sand, but didn’t think she would ever experience any firsthand. Jarek swore and reached for his binoculars. “The Al Asheera. The same who gunned down the airplane. They’ve spread out and are approaching at a full gallop.” Suddenly the sand exploded no more than fifty feet in front of them. Ping reared back and spun herself away. Sarah grabbed the pummel and held her seat. “Whoa!” “Rockets,” Jarek warned and pointed to the west. “Head toward those cliffs. We can hide in the caves.” “Away from the city?” Sarah exclaimed, her head still ringing from the explosion. “They’ve blocked our route back to the palace. Go!” Another blast hit fifty feet to their side, narrowly missed the king and his son. In an instant, both horses raced across the dunes. Sarah leaned close to Ping’s neck. The horse was breathing hard but Sarah didn’t dare slow her down. “They’re deliberately driving us farther into the desert,” Jarek shouted. Gunshots burst through the air, causing little explosions that nipped at the heels of their horses. The Al Asheera’s cries shot across the sand. Their red robes brazen in the sunlight, the rifles raised against their shoulders. “They’re gaining on us, Ping,” Sarah warned the horse, then gripped the saddle tighter to keep her seat. Suddenly, Jarek pointed toward an outcropping of jagged, black stones jutting up from the sand. “Head for the rocks!” “Come on, girl!” Sarah urged. The horse raced through the dunes and scrub to the field of rock. Jarek pulled Taaj to a halt at the edge and checked the wind. “It’s blowing in the right direction. Let’s hope it stays that way.” Sarah offered a brief prayer of thanks when Ping stopped alongside Taaj. “They’re coming, Jarek.” Without realizing it, Sarah said his name. He stiffened beside her, but otherwise didn’t say anything. He slid off Taaj and gave the reins to Rashid. “Get as far into the field as you can, then wait for me. Go slow enough so the horses can find footing. The last thing we need is for them to break a leg.” Bullets strafed the rocks a few yards behind him. “Did you grab the flares from the cockpit?” Jarek asked. “Yes.” “How many?” “Four.” “Give them to me.” She dug into her purse until her fingers touched plastic caps. “Here.” He tucked the end of the scarf over his face, then snapped the lids off two flares and struck the ends against a nearby rock. “Go!” Sarah followed Rashid over the broken bits of stone. “What is he doing?” Sparks shot from the flares. Jarek tossed one, then another toward the edge of the rock bed. “Look.” Rashid pointed to the edge of shale. Almost instantly, a fire fluttered over the ground in an orange haze of heat. “That’s not big enough—” “Watch,” Rashid responded, cutting her off. Within moments, smoke rose from the flames, dense with sulphur, black with oil, until it stood twenty feet high—and more than thirty times that in length. “The smoke is too thick for them to see the ground,” Rashid explained, but the young boy’s eyes never left his father. “They can’t bring their horses in over the rocks without risking injury.” “They could walk them through,” Sarah answered, her eyes never wavering from Jarek. “It would take too long. They would pass out from the fumes.” The dark cloud gathered strength, rolling over the rocks as it grew in girth. Jarek scraped the last two flares against the stone, turned and was swallowed whole. Sarah held her breath. The fumes stung her nostrils, coated her lungs. In the distance they could hear horses scream. Men yelled obscenities. Gunshots bounced behind them, too far to cause damage. Jarek. Sarah’s mind screamed his name, willing him to reappear. Suddenly, he broke from the darkness, running after the horses. Within moments, he swung up behind his son. His scarf was gone from his face. Black streaks smudged his cheek, across his forehead. But otherwise he appeared no worse for the experience. “That was close.” She exhaled slowly, hoping to settle the pounding in her head, the queasiness that slapped at the back of her throat. He was safe. They were safe. “You think we’re safe?” Startled, she realized she’d spoken the words out loud. “Yes.” She glanced back. The river of fire and smoke had widened the distance between them and the Al Asheera. “Safer than we were a few moments ago.” Jarek’s gaze flickered over her. “Do you know how to pray, Miss Kwong?” “Yes.” Hadn’t she just done that very thing for him? “Then I suggest you start,” Jarek answered grimly. “Because this only delayed them. Next time, they’ll be more prepared.” Chapter Three (#ua08d5ad9-3e83-5c26-8e6a-bf67d2c9e7d0) “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?” Jarek glanced at the woman beside him, fought the irritation that she provoked just with her presence. “Oil shale.” It wasn’t the answer she was looking for, but the only one he was willing to give at this point. His gaze swept over her face, in spite of himself. It had been awhile since he’d seen her. A lifetime since he tasted her, felt her give beneath him. Since then, Sarah Kwong had become a household name—less here than in America—but recognizable nonetheless. At thirty, she was the most recent rising star in the news correspondence business. Unaware of the adult tension, the little boy grew excited over the topic. “I’ve never seen the shale burn like that before, right, Papa?” Jarek gave Rashid a reassuring squeeze but didn’t answer him. He wasn’t about to have any kind of personal conversation with his son while a reporter looked on. “But you’ve seen it burn before?” Sarah asked, with a hint of a smile. Her lips were full, her mouth just short of wide, but with enough curve to leave one wondering if she understood some hidden secret. A secret that reached the feminine arch of her brows, the deep green of her irises. Heat curled deep in his gut, stroked the base of his spine. Jarek recognized the sensation for what it was, cursed it for what it meant. “Many times—” “Here in the desert, you can’t always find brush or wood for a fire, so people use the shale for heat and cooking,” Jarek interrupted his son. Undeterred, Rashid continued, “They also use camel dung. I’ve seen Grandpa Bari’s people use it.” “Do you mean Sheik Bari Al Asadi?” “Yes,” his son replied. “He isn’t my real grandpa, but I call him that, anyway. My real grandpa died before I was born.” “Do you visit him often—” “Is this an interview, Miss Kwong?” Jarek interrupted. “No,” she answered slowly, her tone cold enough to blast the heat from his words. “It’s a conversation with a little boy.” “I didn’t realize with reporters there was a difference,” Jarek responded, his words sharp with warning. Rashid tensed against him, but in confusion, not fear, Jarek was sure. “There is, Your Majesty. Maybe when we have time, I can explain the difference,” she answered, impressing him with how she controlled the edge of sarcasm in her voice. “I look forward to it.” Jarek deliberately took the sting from his words for Rashid’s sake. Still, he took some male satisfaction in the momentary confusion that flashed across Sarah’s features and the sudden awareness that widened her eyes. “Once the palace realizes your plane went down and that I’m missing, they’ll send out a search party.” “How long will that take?” Absently, she brushed a thick lock of black hair back over a bare shoulder. Pink flushed the tips of her shoulders, spotted the soft curve of her cheeks. Around her neck, she wore a simple jade pendant, the same deep green of her eyes. Its shape oval, the chain, a fine gold rope. A gift, she’d told him once, from her grandmother. A kindred spirit. The white camisole did little to protect her from the elements and only emphasized the slender bones, the delicate, almost fragile, frame. But it was the blood, a long streak that had crusted from her temple to her earlobe, that had sniped at him since they’d left the plane. Jarek bit back a curse. Delicate or not, she had hung on, with a fierce determination that hiked her chin, set her spine ramrod straight. No tears. No hysteria. Plenty of courage. He pulled a long, white scarf from his saddle bag and handed it to her. “Put this over your head. The scarf will keep you from burning.” She put the scarf over the top of her head, crisscrossed it at the front of her throat before placing the ends back over her shoulders. Years of need and longing tightened inside him, threatening to snap his control. He remembered the way she’d softened in his arms. Warm. Pliable. The brazen boldness that always gave way in a shudder of sweet surrender. “Did Ramon radio a distress call?” Jarek asked, more to divert his thoughts, since he already suspected her answer. “No. We had no time.” “Then the rescue will not happen before tomorrow. We’ll need to find shelter for tonight.” THE SAHARA WAS DRY AND SPITEFUL. The wind slapped at them, its edges sharp with grit and heat. “We’ll stop here and rest the horses,” Jarek ordered, and dismounted Taaj with Rashid. Sarah grimaced and swung down from Ping, her movements jerky and stiff. They’d left the shale field hours earlier, heading farther west through scrub and rock. “If you are sore, stretch out your legs or they’ll cramp,” Jarek suggested, his tone rigid. “I’ll just do that,” Sarah answered, noting that Jarek had already walked away. He was tall with the arrogrant stance of a warrior, and with it, the confidence that comes with royal blood. “I thought camels were the preferred mode of transportation here,” Sarah murmured. The man walked in long, steady strides. His breeding set every muscle, every bone, every motion. The wind whipped the end of her scarf against her face. Giving into impulse, she rubbed the soft cotton against her cheek and inhaled the scents of spice and saddle leather. “Camel riding would make you no less sore,” Rashid whispered as he maneuvered under Ping’s neck. “You’re just out of shape.” Sarah smiled at the boy’s candor. “All that money I spent at the gym has gone to waste.” “You should buy a horse like Ping.” Rashid stroked the mare’s nose. “No, thank you, sport. I’ll keep my membership at the gym, even if it isn’t helping.” Rashid grinned, dimples flashing. “My Aunt Anna calls me ‘sport,’ also.” “I’m sorry, Your Highness, I didn’t mean—” “That’s all right. You have my permission to do so in private. I like the name. It’s very American.” He glanced around Ping’s neck and spotted Jarek watering Taaj. “Just don’t use the name around my father. It will be our secret.” “Our secret,” Sarah agreed, unable to resist the young boy’s charm. She just wondered how much that secret was going to cost her in the future. No more than she’d paid in the past, she mused and wondered if they guillotined their enemies in Taer. Sarah hated small planes, hated job restrictions more, but she would have flown the whole three thousand miles in a cardboard box—with dozens of hoops to jump through—for a chance at this interview. A chance to see Jarek and put the past to rest. There were rules attached, of course. No cell phone. No cameras. No personal questions about his son, or his late wife or any other family member for that matter. In consideration of his requests she hadn’t brought much with her. Jarek had allowed nothing more than a miniature recorder for interview notes. Which meant only questions about Taer, now that Taer had agreed to deal with the United States over the small country’s crude oil supply. The picture restriction, she could handle. Even the cell phone restriction. The personal questions were going to be tough. No fuss, no obstacles. In and out before their Annual Independence Ball, Jarek had insisted. Or no admittance. “Sarah, what happened to your purse?” Sarah followed Rashid’s finger to a hole in the side of her bag. “I don’t know.” Quickly, she unzipped the purse and dug through its contents. “It’s a bullet,” Rashid exclaimed. “Your purse stopped a bullet.” Her fingers touched her wallet. A brand-new vintage, slim envelope wallet that she’d bought for the trip. But when she pulled it out, the leather nearly fell apart in her hand. Tucked between shattered credit cards and a ripped checkbook, was the slug. “I guess it did,” she agreed, then dug through the rest of her things until she found her digital voice recorder. One side showed a small dent but no other marks. She pressed the record button. “Does it work still?” “Let’s see.” Sarah pressed the playback button. Does it work still? A smile tugged at the prince’s lips. “You are very fortunate. If you hadn’t had your purse, you’d have been shot in the back.” “I’d have to agree, Your Highness.” Sarah fished through the rest of her things and after a few minutes decided only her wallet had suffered any real damage. She tried not to think about how close that bullet had come to severing her spine. As if reading her mind, Ping snorted and shook her head. Sarah laughed, very much aware her reaction was more nerves than humor. “You can say that again.” “She does that for attention,” Rashid admitted. “My father says she is vain. But she is allowed to be since she is a beautiful horse.” “She is very beautiful,” Sarah agreed. “May I pet her?” Rashid considered the request for a long moment. “Yes. But know that sometimes she bites the grooms when they handle her.” Sarah ran her fingers over Ping’s nose, making sure the horse would catch the scent of Jarek’s scarf. “She likes you,” Rashid commented, obviously impressed. “She doesn’t like anyone except me. And my father, of course.” “I think she only likes me because you are standing here,” Sarah assured him. “But I’m glad she didn’t bite me.” Feeling her muscles tighten, Sarah stepped back and bent over sideways to stretch out the stiffness. “Do you ride often, Your Highness?” “Everyday, if I can. Taaj and Ping are Arabian horses. So they are conditioned for the desert,” Rashid replied, watching Sarah with an idle curiosity. “They enjoy it, too.” “Do you and your father ride often together?” “No,” Rashid admitted slowly. “He is far too busy. So I try not to bother him.” Rashid’s statement came out with a practiced, almost robotic ease. “Is that what your father told you?” “No. Not really.” Rashid pretended to straighten Ping’s bridle and didn’t say any more. Sarah decided to change the subject. “You know, I used to ride a long time ago.” She shifted, then stretched to the opposite side. “You haven’t forgotten,” Rashid commented with six-year-old diplomacy. “You held your seat well enough.” “Gee, thanks,” Sarah murmured, then straightened. Rashid laughed. “You did look funny bouncing around, though, Sarah.” He froze, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.” “That’s all right. I’m sure it was funny. And I prefer to be called Sarah,” she replied, winking. “Our secret?” “Yes.” Rashid tried to wink, but succeeded only in making both eyes flutter. Jarek approached, effectively cutting off Sarah’s laughter. “Rashid, water Ping over by Taaj, please.” His words were even and contained no censure, surprising Sarah. He handed his son a feed bag filled with water. “Make sure you drink some water, too, Rashid.” “Yes, Papa.” Rashid paused, noting the rifle Jarek held in his other hand. “You think the Al Asheera are close?” “No. But I want to be sure,” Jarek replied, solemnly. “I’m going to the nearest ridge. I want to check our tracks and get my bearings. We cannot risk mistakes.” Jarek waited until Rashid led his horse away, before he turned to Sarah. “I realize we are caught in unusual circumstances. But don’t think for a moment my demands have changed.” Sarah’s smile thinned into a tight, angry line. “You mean the big, bad reporter might churn up your son a bit emotionally, just to get some inside information?” “Exactly. I will not tolerate any infringement upon my son’s privacy,” Jarek remarked. “You don’t have to worry. I only eat little boys on Mondays and Wednesdays,” she retorted, jabbing at his arrogance. “Today is Thursday, Your Majesty.” “Be careful, Miss Kwong.” Jarek advanced, crowding her, forcing her head back to meet his eyes. Sarah slapped her hand to his chest, dug her heels into the sand. The black eyes flickered over her hand, then back to her face, telling her what he thought of her stand against him. “I eat female reporters every day of the week,” he warned, each syllable a low, husky rasp that sent awareness skittering up her spine. Pride stopped her fingers from curling into his shirt. But it was the flash of desire in the deepest part of Jarek’s gaze that made them tremble. Jarek swung away, leaving her to watch him in stunned silence. She crossed her arms over her chest, knowing the self-protective move wouldn’t have helped her one bit if he’d followed through on his threat. “You shouldn’t make him angry,” Rashid admonished, coming to stand at her side. “It won’t help our situation.” Sarah raised an eyebrow. “How old are you?” “Six.” “Sure you’re not thirty?” she commented wryly and watched Jarek crest the dune. If anyone was comfortable in their skin, it was Jarek Al Asadi. His muscles were well-defined and fluid, his stride purposeful. “My Uncle Quamar said I have an old soul with new bones,” Rashid said, shrugging. “Whatever that means.” “It means you are smart for your age.” Sarah pulled him to her side for a quick, reassuring hug. “Sarah, can I tell you something?” Rashid’s tone turned serious. “Sure, sport.” “Papa didn’t know I had followed him from the palace into the desert this morning,” Rashid confessed. “I snuck past my guards and the horse handlers.” “You snuck past…into the desert…” Sarah stopped and closed her eyes for a moment. All the scenarios of what could have happened to the child raced through Sarah’s mind. “Sweet Lord,” she whispered. “He didn’t find out until after you and Ramon crashed.” Rashid stepped away from her, his little body stiff, his face set. “So if my father seems angry, it’s because of me. I’m sorry.” THE ANGER RODE HIGH on Jarek’s shoulders, put the rigidness in his long, quick strides. But it was desire that constricted his gut, left him aroused. And made him run, damn it. For the second time in one day. Jarek stopped just short of the ridge top. Anything higher would make him a target. The Al Asheera were out there. Not far behind them, he was sure. Scowling, Jarek narrowed his eyes against the sun’s glare, peered through the rippling heat waves that floated above the desert floor and shimmered against the sandstone cliffs just beyond. The wind had died hours before. Sweat trickled from his temples, down his cheeks, itched the scarred skin of his back. He sat back on his haunches, snatched off his head scarf and hit it against his thigh. Laughter drifted toward him. Hers. His son’s. Both light, both a little hesitant—as with any budding friendship. Jarek grit his teeth. The last thing he wanted was his son to befriend an ex-lover. Especially a woman reporter with heavy-lidded cat eyes and a smart mouth. Forcing his frustration back, Jarek studied the terrain. The Sahara was little more than a vast, empty void of beige, spotted here and there with tufts of brittle brush, cracked earth and broken rock. He searched for movement—a stirring of dust, a glint of steel, branches that had no business moving in the thick, oppressive air. At one time Jarek had been military. A necessary vocation for the royal. A man could not lead, unless he also served, his father always said. Training and instincts told him there would be trackers sent through the smoke. Men who understood the barest scratch against stone, the slightest swirl of sand that was once a footprint. He slid his rifle across his thighs, let the weight of it remind him he had killed before and would likely kill again before they reached safety. With a hiss of displeasure, a lizard scurried from its shaded cover beneath a nearby saltbush. Jarek hit the sand sideways, his rifle ready, his finger tight on the trigger. A flash of red cloth—no more than a millisecond of warning—and Jarek fired. The rifle exploded, on its heels came a cry of pain, the thud of a body against the ground. He crawled on elbows and knees, ignoring the burn of the sand beneath him. Within moments, he reached the Al Asheera soldier. Jarek’s nostrils flared at the scent of blood and soured sweat. The rifle bullet struck the rebel’s face, leaving torn skin and shattered bone in its place. Quickly, Jarek searched his pockets but found only a few dollars and a small bag of hashish. A buzzard circled above, his screeches marked his territory for those who needed warning. “Don’t worry,” Jarek muttered, but already his gaze scanned the immediate perimeter. The Al Asheera always traveled in pairs. “Where’s your partner?” Jarek asked the dead man. “Running for help?” Jarek blinked the sweat from his eyes, allowing a moment for the sting to fade. If he tracked the soldier, he’d leave Rashid and Sarah vulnerable. And that was unacceptable. Instead, he scrambled down the slope, cursing fate with each step. It was time to run. Again. Chapter Four (#ua08d5ad9-3e83-5c26-8e6a-bf67d2c9e7d0) The man woke. Tense. Alert. Ready for an attack. He laid quietly for a moment, listening for the rustle of the tent, the footsteps on the ground outside. A habit he’d developed from childhood. A habit that had saved his life more than once over the years. “Master Baize. Your guest is here.” The voice pierced through the curtain, its tone deep and heavily accented. Oruk Baize forced his muscles to relax. “Give me a minute, Roldo, then send him in.” A quiet sigh caught Oruk’s attention. Slowly, he slid the silk sheet from the warm body beside him. The material hissed over a supple white shoulder, down the slender curves and smooth back to round, naked buttocks. For a moment, he thought about opening the window flap, allowing the sunlight to pierce the darkness—maybe burn off the stale scent of sex and sweat that still hung heavy in the air. It’d be worth the tongue lashing he’d receive, to see her pale skin heat in temper. Besides, he might be up for a good fight, he mused, silently. Something he’d grown accustom to over the months, and now actually anticipated. He threw the sheets back over the woman and stepped from the bed. Seduction, domination. A little of both. The thought made him hard, then annoyed. Business before pleasure. Oruk pulled on a pair of dark, silk trousers and zipped them enough to cover his hips. No need to exert too much energy. After all, this associate would be dead soon. He stepped through the curtain opening and into the main part of the tent. Oruk was a big man, with wide shoulders and a deep, barreled chest. His features were that of a soldier—broad, flat and unyielding. But attractive enough to have his bed warmed most nights. He was the son of a camp follower. Most were, in the Al Asheera. He’d never known his father and barely remembered his mother—a whore who had deserted him when he was nine. He’d survived like most of his kind. At ten, he’d learned to shoot a gun, throw a knife. By eleven, he’d killed with them. Oruk walked to the opposite side of the tent and stopped by his teakwood coffee table. Some comforts he refused to give up, even when he was forced to act as a nomad. That included good whiskey. And even better, a smoke. He opened a nearby humidor and selected a cigar. Cuban. Expensive. And the only brand he smoked. The tent rustled. He felt a short gust of wind, heard the hard step of man in a hurry. “Hello, Murad.” He clipped off the end of the cigar and lit it with a match. “We had a deal, Baize.” Oruk ignored the slight tone of contempt in the other man’s voice. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the office?” He took several deep puffs, but didn’t offer the businessman a cigar. Why waste a good cigar? Oruk thought with derision. “They escaped from the plane wreckage.” Murad Al Qassar was a businessman by trade, an accountant by looks. With short trimmed hair and long, thin features, he was the only man Oruk knew who wore a pinstriped suit and a tie to an Al Asheera camp. “I know,” Oruk finally answered. “Roldo told me.” Roldo Costo threw himself onto the pile of pillows in the corner of the tent and shrugged. “Things happen.” Roldo was a little man with greasy hair and rotted teeth. Still, Oruk did not keep him employed for his looks, only for his talents. “The king decided at the last minute not to meet the reporter in Morocco. There is little we can do about that,” Oruk pointed out. “I disagree,” Murad snapped. “The king won’t get away from my men again, Murad.” Roldo took out his knife and began cleaning his fingernails, a habit Oruk knew Murad found disgusting. It was the exact reason why Roldo did it whenever the businessman came around. “Luckily for us, he was there in the desert,” Roldo added. “He watched Ramon’s plane go down. We’re tracking them to the caves.” “Who?” Murad demanded. “Ramon and Jarek?” “The reporter, the king and his son,” Oruk inserted. “So you see, Murad, things are working out in our favor.” “The prince?” Murad took a moment to digest that bit of information. “What about Ramon?” “He’s dead,” Oruk explained. “Roldo found him in the cockpit. Or what was left of him.” “That’s not good enough, Oruk.” Murad eyes narrowed. “We had a deal. One that’s cost me a tremendous amount of money.” Oruk studied the red tip of his cigar. “There is nothing to worry about. Instead of being on the plane, the king was in the desert with his son. An outing of sorts. Fate placed him and the boy in the vicinity of the crash site.” “I don’t believe in fate.” “Destiny, then.” Oruk smiled at his own joke. “Either way, it is good luck for us.” Murad swore. “And yet the king is still alive.” “Like I said.” Roldo shoved his knife back in his boot and stood. “My men have staked out the caves and are waiting to move in at daylight. The cliffs are too risky in the dark. I’ll lose good men.” “Take the risk,” Murad snapped, his lips curling back on his teeth in anger. He stepped up to Roldo, going toe-to-toe with the mercenary. “We had an agreement. The king and his son dead. They’ve accommodated you by being together, don’t mess it up. We haven’t been able to get this close to him or his son in a long time. Understand me?” “I understand that you will take care of the buyers and the shipments,” Oruk answered for Roldo. He walked to the bar cart to pour himself a shot of whiskey. “And I will take care of the Royals and your gambling debts once we have control of Taer.” “I also provided the weapons,” Murad reminded him. “And I provided the Al Asheera,” Oruk countered, then signaled Roldo to step away from Murad. When the little man moved, Oruk continued. “We are all doing our part.” “I’ll believe that, Oruk, when Roldo takes care of the king and his son.” “In my time, Murad.” Oruk’s tone hardened. “Not yours.” “Time is running out,” Murad warned. “Soon Jarek will sign the agreement with the Americans.” “Agreed.” Oruk flicked his ashes, let them fall to the rug. “But once we control the throne, it will not matter. The death of the reporter will only widen the rift with the Americans.” “What about his cousin, Quamar? And Sheik Bari?” “I imagine Quamar will be searching soon,” Oruk reasoned. “It will take time for him to notify Bari. By then, we’ll have the king and his son.” “You had better.” Murad pulled back the tent opening. “I have a meeting in the city. Notify me when you have them.” Roldo spat on the ground after Murad left. “He whines too much.” “And you screwed up.” Irritation scraped at Oruk’s nerves, but he forced the emotion back. Understanding the mentality of the mercenary, made it easier to control him. “Bring me the Royals and you will have the pleasure of killing Murad when its time.” “I would like that.” The bed curtain flickered and Oruk’s loins grew heavy. He finished the shot of whiskey, then put down his glass. “Screw up again, Roldo, and I will punish you myself.” Oruk held one side of the curtain open and stepped partway through before turning back to the little man. “Do you understand me?” “Yes. I understand.” Roldo waited until Oruk disappeared, then he spit again. This time in front of the curtain. “WE’LL REST FOR A MOMENT and let the horses breathe a little,” Jarek ordered, then pulled on Taaj’s reins. He leaned down and whispered in his son’s ear, then pointed to a small niche in the wall a few feet away. “It cannot be too much farther, Sarah,” Rashid told her as he slid off his father’s horse. “Once the path widens, I’m sure we’ll find shelter.” Jared had stopped mid-height of the sandstone cliffs—a monument of jagged stone and sheered walls, all striped in burnt hues of rust and beige and black shadows. The evening wind skittered across the dunes, now washed in golden hues from the fading sun. “It really is beautiful, isn’t it?” Sarah murmured. “Uncle Quamar says that for those who learn to respect the Sahara, her true beauty is revealed,” Rashid explained. The little boy had dozed for most of the two-hour trip, leaving nothing but a tension-filled silence between Sarah and his father. “Your Uncle Quamar seems to say quite a bit, doesn’t he?” Sarah slid from her saddle, happy to give her backside the respite. “He certainly does,” Jarek commented wryly, then jabbed a thumb at the long wall of cliffs. “There are caves in between the rocks and crevices. We’ve only a little farther to go before we find shelter in one of them. But from here on, we’ll need to travel on foot,” Jarek instructed. “I’m beginning to think, I’m more of the ‘wave down a taxi with air conditioning’ type of person, Your Highness. No offense to your horse, Prince Rashid.” “I’m sure she isn’t insulted.” Rashid patted Ping’s neck, just to be sure then nodded toward the niche. “I have to…” He paused, then grinned. “Take care of business.” “Oh, you do, do ya?” Sarah asked, totally charmed. “An expression my aunt uses,” Rashid admitted. Sarah glanced at the small crevice. “Very American, too.” “Yes. It’s a good one.” This time when Rashid winked, he managed to flutter only one eye. Sarah felt the familiar bump in her heart. “You surprise me, Miss Kwong.” “How?” she asked, her eyes locked on the little boy as he walked a few feet away. “Rather than a taxi, I thought you’d be more of the ‘jump in the fire-red sports convertible’ type of person.” The fury whipped through her, split-second fast and razor wicked. She caught the speed, throttled the anger back. But the wicked broke free and curved her lips. “Actually, I drive a hedonistic black sports convertible. My father’s words, not mine. “But when I step out with it—usually in a fire-red dress—I wear them both with class. Something my father said comes from good breeding and even better manners.” She heard the hiss, a rasp of air caught between clenched jaws but she didn’t turn, simply because she didn’t care. Maybe it was the fact he’d come close to the mark, or the fact that she’d already spent the day surviving a plane crash and dodging madmen with machine guns. Or maybe she just couldn’t understand how a jaded man like Jarek could have such a wonderful little boy like Rashid. In the end, none of it mattered. Even the possibility of being sent home on the next available flight out of Taer. “I deserved that,” Jarek admitted on a sigh. “I apologize, Sarah. My father raised me better also.” The sincerity caught her, another nudge, but unlike Rashid’s remark, Jarek hit her deeper, in the pit of her stomach. “Apology accepted.” “Thank you,” Jarek replied softly, simply. But his gaze, one that had the darkest part of his eyes flaring with awareness, wasn’t simple. And suddenly, being sent home on the next flight from Taer didn’t sound so bad to Sarah. STONES, some the size of adult fists, others small boulders, sprung free from the ledges and tumbled down the walls to the chasm below. But most stayed on the trail, little enough to make their way into Sarah’s shoes, dig in her heel and, after an hour or two, rubbed her toes raw. “We’ll stop here for the night.” Jarek halted the horses in front of a shallow crevice. It was identical to many others they had passed along the path. “Here?” She picked a particularly sharp stone free from beneath the arch of her foot and decided distance was a relative term when traversing rocks and narrow trails. He gestured just beyond one side of the crevice to a rock that jutted from the cliff wall. Sarah looked closer and whistled. The stone lip curved back, hiding a cave entrance wide enough to fit each horse. “My first secret passage.” “Mine, too,” Rashid said with awe. “Ali Baba and his thieves could have lived in a cave such as this.” “Let’s hope they aren’t in there now.” Jarek took one of the glow sticks from the survival pack. “Sometimes there are lions in the caves, as well as vipers and scorpions. Stay here while I check to make sure it is safe.” Sarah heard the snap of the stick and suddenly the entrance was dimly lit with neon green light. “So you like Ali Baba, do you?” “The story is my Aunt Anna’s favorite. She reads it to me and my cousin Kadan when we are sick.” “It’s clear.” Jarek stepped out of the cave and gestured them in with the horses. Eight foot in height, the crevice opened into a cave more than thirty feet deep and ten feet wide. “This is huge,” Rashid murmured, leading Ping through. “I don’t know about huge,” Jarek mused, tugging Taaj forward. “But it will provide protection from the cold.” The scent of stale earth and dust caught in Sarah’s throat, making her cough. But it was the dankness of the rocks that made her rub her bare arms. “Why is it damp?” Sarah forced her eyes to focus through the shadows. “Is there water in here?” “Yes.” He led her to the rear of the cave. A small stream trickled down the back wall into a natural basin of rocks at the floor. “You’ve been here before.” It was a statement, not a question, but Jarek chose to answer Sarah anyway. “Quamar and I spent quite a bit of time out here exploring when we were younger.” Jarek took a few more of the glow sticks out of the pack, snapped them, then tossed them onto the floor. “This will have to do for light. We cannot start a fire. The rocks at the entrance would conceal the flames, but not the smoke.” “We should have energy bars or something in the survival kit.” “Rashid, we’ll leave the horses saddled, just in case. But I want you to help me bring them back here to drink some water. After, we’ll return them to the front of the cave. They’ll give us warning if anyone approaches.” “Yes, Papa.” While father and son took care of the animals, Sarah grabbed the backpack and sat down on the ground. Laughter caught her attention. A rich, deep chuckle that made a woman’s breath hitch, her heart beat just a tad faster. Deliberately, she turned her back to the pair and sorted through the survival kit. After a while, Rashid joined her at the wall. “Papa’s finishing Taaj’s feeding bag.” “Are you hungry?” “Not really,” Rashid said, his voice rough with fatigue. He rubbed his eyes. “I had oat cakes while we rode on Taaj.” “Want a place to sleep?” She scooted back, until her back bumped the wall, then patted her legs. “I’ve heard my lap is pretty comfortable.” Jarek watched from a distance as Rashid snuggled against Sarah. He was almost too big for her slight frame, but she wrapped her arms around him and managed to tuck his head under her chin. Within moments, Rashid’s body relaxed and his breathing deepened. “Asleep?” Jarek crouched next to her. His knuckles brushed his son’s cheek. “I want to check the perimeter one more time. When you get tired, I’ll take him from you.” Surprised at the gentleness in Jarek’s voice, Sarah glanced at him. “You’re not going to order me to put him down right now?” Jarek nearly smiled at the suspicion in her voice. Sarah Kwong was no pushover. “No, not right now.” “What happens next?” “We wait to see what morning brings.” He sat down next to her, stretched his legs out and leaned back against the wall. His muscles flexed, trying to shed the fatigue and the strain from the constant vigilance that had kept them tight for the last twelve hours. “If we have to, we’ll circle back to the city or head toward my Uncle’s caravan. Either way, I will get us there.” “Can I ask how? The Sahara is almost as large as the continental United States. We can go days without seeing anyone.” “You forget, this is my backyard.” “A backyard that has been infested.” “That’s a very good analogy,” Jarek replied. “The Al Asheera have scattered, then hide in the sands, like vermin. It makes it difficult to flush them out into the open.” “Have you ever tried rat poison?” “No, but I might.” “Will your cousin look for you?” “Yes,” Jarek laid his forearm across his eyes. “But still it will take time. Until then we must keep safe.” For the first time that day, she realized she actually did feel safe. “Who is Roldo, Your Majesty?” “I have no idea.” Jarek didn’t open his eyes. “Why?” “Just before he died, Ramon told me to run from Roldo.” She shifted Rashid just a bit to look at Jarek. “He also said to tell you he was sorry.” “Did he say why?” “No. Actually, he didn’t say anything after that. Those were his last words.” Jarek said nothing for a moment. Only the tightening of his fist indicated he’d heard. “Could Ramon have been delirious when he spoke the name?” “He was aware enough to hand me his gun for protection.” Her eyes lingered over his profile while his eyes remained closed. The green hue of light didn’t detract from the carved features, but somehow it softened the line of his mouth, the line of his jaw. Just enough to give her a glimpse of where Rashid’s boyish features came from. “Did the Al Asheera think you were on the plane?” “It’s highly likely,” Jarek answered. “But even if they didn’t. The death or torture of an American reporter would not go well with Jon Mercer’s and my diplomatic efforts. The fact that you are his daughter’s friend only adds to the prize.” “I didn’t get this job because I was Lara’s friend,” she pointed out. “If I thought you had, you wouldn’t be here,” Jarek retorted. This time his mouth twitched with amusement over her quick defense. She was a woman with pride, and maybe a little vanity. Both were fine if well deserved. And from what he’d seen of Sarah Kwong’s files, both were deserved. “The president holds a tremendous amount of respect for you.” The primness in the tone, made Jarek open his eyes. “But you don’t.” Jarek turned his head until he faced her. Without thinking, she rubbed her cheek against Rashid’s temple. “My opinion isn’t the question here.” It had been a long time since a woman had held his son. Even Anna didn’t come near as much anymore, Jarek realized. Emotion raced through him. “No. Just my integrity, it seems,” Jarek responded. “Tell me, is your low opinion simply because I did not meet you in Morocco?” “No,” she admitted. When her hair fell in a curtain over his son’s shoulder and neck, she automatically brushed it back. “I tend not to trust people who keep secrets. It comes with the job.” “And you believe I have a secret.” “No, Your Majesty. I believe you have many secrets.” “You’re wrong.” Jarek gave into his urge and captured several strands of hair from her shoulder. He rubbed them between his forefinger and thumb, enjoying its cool, silky texture. “You see it’s not what I am hiding. It’s what I am protecting.” He glanced down at his son. “Although it seems I haven’t done a good job with that, either.” Chapter Five (#ua08d5ad9-3e83-5c26-8e6a-bf67d2c9e7d0) Roldo Costa sat on the jeep’s hood, anger twisting his insides into a vicious knot. It wasn’t his fault the king and his brat slipped past Oruk’s men. He dug into his pocket for his paper and bag of weed. Hell, it wasn’t his job to search and destroy. It was only to destroy, Roldo thought with contempt. But then, the Al Asheera leader never appreciated the beauty of Roldo’s expertise. Effortlessly, he rolled the joint and licked the paper closed. The desert chill had settled in, making his mood even fouler. He wanted to be at the city’s brothel, a place called the Cathouse, drinking and whoring. The women liked him there. They thought he was a big shot because he got them booze from Milan and drugs from a cousin in Columbia. They thought he was tough, too. He lit the joint and took a long drag. The smoke was harsh, spurred by the cocaine he’d added to the mix. It bit at the back of his throat, burned its way to his chest. While he waited to catch his buzz, Roldo pulled his Glock from his shoulder holster, enjoying the weight of it in his hand. Since the jeep had no roof, he reached over the windshield of the jeep and flipped on the headlights. A buzzard squawked, its wings flapping against the stark beams. But it didn’t fly away. It wasn’t willing to give up its meal of rotted flesh unless it was absolutely sure there was danger near. Roldo leveled his pistol at the bird. “Take off, you dumb son of a bitch. Fly while you can.” The bird stared at him for a moment, then settled back into his meal. “Stupid bird.” Roldo squeezed the trigger. Laughing at the puff of feathers, he watched the vulture flop dead. He shoved his gun back into its holster, took another hit off his joint. “Let’s see if the Royals are as stupid as you, bird,” he yelled. He left the joint hanging from the corner of his mouth and walked around to the back of the jeep. From the boot, he pulled out C-4, a detonator and wire. “This is the difference between smart and stupid, bird,” he muttered. Like the vultures, Oruk’s men tracked their prey, and then waited for it to drop dead in front of them. Stupid. Roldo, on the other hand, set the trap, added the right bait, then let the prey come to him. He flicked the joint nub into the sand and ground it under his heel. Smart. Confident, he counted off paces from the jeep to the plane. If he hurried, he’d still have time for a few drinks at the cantina. Smiling at the thought, he stepped over the bird and got to work. “HOW HAVE YOU BEEN, Sarah?” The question broke through the silence that had filled the cave for the past hour. “Good,” she said cautiously, unsure from where the question came. They had just put Rashid down on a makeshift bed of the emergency blanket and Jarek’s robe. “And your father and mother, how are they?” Slowly, Sarah finished tucking the robe around Rashid’s shoulders and straightened. “They are doing well. “My father has retired from the university,” she added. “They are currently traveling in a motor home somewhere in Yellowstone National Park. I get e-mails when they have access to the Internet, and postcards when they don’t.” She paused for a moment. “But I assume you already know that, since the president sent you my file.” “He told you?” “The first time I met with him over the possibility of flying to Taer, he told me his intentions,” Sarah mused. “Should I be flattered that you took such an interest in me after all these years?” “Before I made an agreement with Jon Mercer, I had your background checked.” “And you’re telling me this, why?” Sarah asked. “Considering you’re a king and run your own country, I don’t think you need to reach for the intimidation card. So why share this information with me now?” “I will not let just anyone into my home, Sarah. Even on the recommendation of a president.” “Especially past lovers,” Sarah added. When Jarek didn’t respond—didn’t deny her statement—Sarah brushed the hurt aside. “Fair enough,” she said and meant it. After all, she’d researched him, too. “So you’re telling me, I’m on probation.” “I’m telling you that just because we are in this situation here, it will not change the situation once we reach the city again.” “Okay,” Sarah replied slowly. “I stand warned.” “Come sit over here.” Jarek dug into the backpack and retrieved the first aid kit. “We need to clean the cut on your forehead. And your feet. Infection sets in relatively easy in the desert.” “I can do it.” “How? When I can see it better than you?” he mused, his lips tilting, challenging her reluctance. “You’re not afraid, are you?” Of you, yes. “Of a little pain? No,” she retorted, deliberately misunderstanding his question. She sat cross-legged on the ground. But when he crouched in front of her, she tensed. “Relax,” he murmured, in the same even tone he’d used on the horses. While her features remained passive, she could do very little to ease the tension in her shoulders. For the first few minutes, Jarek worked in silence, cleaning the cut with an antiseptic wipe. “This will sting.” Sarah hissed at the sharp slice of pain. “You weren’t kidding.” Gently, he blew across the wound, taking the sting away from her temple. “I never realized you had graduated from the University of Nevada.” “Forty-eight hours doesn’t allow much time for much personal history.” But was plenty of time to fall in love with a king, she thought. “The file said you graduated at the top of your class. Majored in journalism. Minored in history.” Jarek brushed away a few strands of hair, tucked them behind her ear. “That must have made your father happy.” “It did.” The brush of his finger against the shell of her ear touched off a ripple of goose bumps down her neck. “But I happen to enjoy history. So it made me happy, too.” “You are quite brave, Sarah,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. His fingers worked efficiently. His feather-light touches were gentle, almost soothing as he applied the medicated cream. “Not really.” Without realizing it, her voice dipped low to match his. “I’ve had worse injuries.” Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/donna-young/captive-of-the-desert-king/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.