Undercover Sheik
Undercover Sheik
Dana Marton
POWERFUL SHEIK PROTECTS GORGEOUS DOCTOR IN THE DESERT HEATShe'd been stranded in the desert and held captive by a band of kidnappers. Then Sheik Nasir ibn Ahmad, one of the most menacing men she'd ever seen, promised to lead her to safety–Dr. Sadie Kaufman had little choice but to follow. Before long the sheik's promises of protection played a vital role. For once they arrived at his palace it seemed someone beyond the walls still wanted her dead. The sheik insisted on keeping her close or Sadie would become another bandit's bargaining chip. But could this sexy and indomitable man really be as good as he seemed…?
“I wouldn’t recommend running away.”
Nasir sat to block the tent’s opening, his rifle laid across his knees. “It’s safer here. Nobody will hurt you now.”
“Why?” Sadie asked cautiously.
“Because you’re mine.” The words fell from Nasir’s lips slowly, distinctly. “I claimed you in front of the others.”
“No.” She squared her body toward him, prepared to fight. If she could disable him, maybe she could stay hidden in his tent until nightfall, then take off.
“It’ll buy you time to find a safe way out. I’m here for some information. As soon as I have it, I’ll take you to the nearest village.”
Was he lying so he could catch her off guard later? She watched him and weighed his words. He hadn’t hurt her, not once. “Are you an undercover policeman or something?”
“Hardly. But you are safe in my tent.”
Undercover Sheik
Dana Marton
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
With many thanks to Allison Lyons and Maggie Scillia.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dana Marton lives near Wilmington, Delaware. She has been an avid reader since childhood and has a master’s degree in writing popular fiction. When not writing, she can be found either in her garden or her home library. For more information on the author and her other novels, please visit her Web site at www.danamarton.com.
She would love to hear from her readers via e-mail: DanaMarton@yahoo.com.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Nasir ibn Ahmad—The brother of the king of Beharrain, Sheik Nasir is determined to keep Majid from starting a civil war and killing his family to regain the throne. But when he goes undercover among bandits, he finds more than clues to Majid’s whereabouts.
Sadie Kauffman, M.D.—Sadie was kidnapped by bandits from a field hospital in Yemen. Can she trust the most dangerous among them, Nasir, to save her life?
Majid—He swears to regain the king’s throne and kill anyone who stands in his way.
Umman—He is the leader of a group of conscienceless bandits and one of Majid’s supporters.
Saeed ibn Ahmad—Beharrain’s rightful king and Nasir’s brother.
Dara Alexander—The American woman who made headlines around the world by marrying Beharrain’s king.
Ali—He works for the royal stables. Is he involved in something sinister or is he just at the wrong place at the wrong time?
Abbas—A clerk at the royal palace. He owes much to the king, but maybe he’s motivated more by greed than gratitude.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter One
Dr. Sadie Kauffman had been always skeptical of people who, as their death sentence neared, claimed to have changed and reformed. Now she believed it. Time made all the difference, being locked up with nothing to do but think. She’d had forty long days and nights to mull over what her life had been so far—a mad race for things that in hindsight didn’t matter. She would live differently. She rubbed her fingertips together. They tingled from nerves. Today was the day of her execution.
She watched one of the bandits as he plodded toward her makeshift prison, his rifle slung across his shoulder, his face wrapped in the trailing end of his headdress to protect him from the blowing sand. He opened the low door that had been nailed together from pieces of scrap wood, and swore at her as she stumbled out awkwardly, her legs numb from her cramped quarters.
“Move it,” the man said, and although she was limping forward as fast as she could, it wasn’t quick enough for him. He shoved his rifle barrel between her ribs to make her go faster.
She blinked toward the desert horizon. The sun had barely breached it. Her last sunrise. No, she wouldn’t think like that. She had to have hope. If the desert bandits killed her, what would they gain? They had to keep her alive to collect the ransom. She’d spent the night working out different ways to convince Umman, the camp’s leader, to extend the deadline.
It’ll work. They need the money.
She ran her fingers over her black headscarf and attached veil to make sure they exposed nothing but her eyes. The man kept shoving her at every few steps, toward the tents instead of the cooking fires as he would have on any other day.
“It’s as fast as I can go,” she snapped without heat. Did he even understand her? Other than Umman, the rest spoke no more English than the few words they used to order her around.
Her sandals sunk into the hot sand with each step. She still hadn’t learned to balance her weight just right, angle her feet so she could walk the terrain with ease like the men whose tents sprawled like giant, unworldly beasts on the sand ahead. Most had their flaps open—giant, yawning mouths getting ready to swallow their prey whole. She shivered despite the heat that had to be nearing a hundred degrees already.
She halted at the entrance of the largest tent, looked inside with quick, darting glances and kept her head down to make sure her gaze wouldn’t directly meet anyone else’s. Most of the bandits were in there, lounging on worn carpets and sipping spiced coffee.
“So your country cares not if you live or die.” The contemptuous voice was Umman’s.
As far as desert bandits went, they looked the part—Ali Baba and all that—missing teeth, savage faces, murderous weapons. They smelled the part, too.
“The money is coming,” she said with false confidence, knowing the U.S. never paid ransoms. She’d always thought that a reasonable policy—until now. “Today. It’s a lot of money.” Five million dollars.
The men didn’t appear to be impressed with her promise, nor did any of them look like they might be sympathetic to her cause. She was nothing to them, less than nothing—an annoyance, a reminder of a business plan that didn’t work out.
“You think me a fool.” The leader’s voice was low, yet it seemed to thunder across the tent. He was the oldest of the men, his face crackled with scars, his scraggly beard blending into gray as it fell to his worn brown robe.
She had no doubt he would cut her throat without thought, as he would cut a goat. As he had cut one of his own men not two weeks before for some minor insubordination.
“Your people show me great disrespect,” he said.
Her carefully crafted speech had sounded reasonable and convincing in her head in the quiet of the night, but now, faced with a tentful of bandits, the arguments she had prepared suddenly seemed laughably feeble.
“I’m a doctor. You might need me. A few more days—”
“Do not bargain with me.” Umman’s voice rose, thick with anger. “We do not need your kind of medicine. You think I would trust you?”
Apparently not. At first, when she had been kidnapped from the hospital, she’d been convinced they’d taken her to heal some bandit chief and would let her go once she was done. It had taken her days to realize the true severity of her situation.
There had to be words she could say to convince him to do just that. Think. Think!
Something shifted in the darkest corner—a man she hadn’t noticed, sitting away from the rest. She swallowed as she recognized the man she feared the most. Nasir. The sight of him scattered her few gathering thoughts.
Something in the man—an indefinable hardness, a dark purpose to his heart and murder in his eyes—made her get out of his way every time she’d found his gaze on her.
He was new to camp, had prodded in on his small camel two days after she’d been kidnapped from the field hospital. He had quickly gained the respect of the other men. There had been a fight or two at the beginning, testing the newcomer. Since then, most knew enough to steer clear of him.
His full attention was on her now, his dark gaze burning her.
Umman set down his cup and spoke in Arabic to the guard who’d brought her in while he dug through a wooden crate and tossed the man a new-looking digital camera.
He wanted her execution documented—probably so the next time they asked for ransom, everyone would know they were serious.
Her heart beat against her chest so hard it hurt. This can’t be happening. It isn’t real.
Things like this happened to other people, strangers on the evening news. Her hands trembled at the thought of her lifeless body on some Web site.
Run! her brain said, but before she could react, she was grabbed, rough fingers digging into her arm.
“Another day. The money will be here,” she begged, her lungs drowning in panic that seemed to swallow her whole.
“Out.”
The guard obeyed, pulling her from the tent into the merciless light, into the killing heat. He dragged her behind the tents, up the first dune, barely slowing as she struggled against him.
How much did she have left? Ten minutes? Five?
He held her tight, his gun aimed at her as he yanked her along. If she could pull away, how long would it be before a bullet slammed into her back? Even running couldn’t save her now. Nothing could. Her body went slack with resignation.
She’d chosen the wrong course of action, staying in her prison in hope of a rescue instead of trying to run away in the night. The realization made her light-headed, dizzy. She’d thought the ransom would come, that the bandits wouldn’t be so eager to discard their ticket to the money. She had no supplies. She’d been afraid the desert would kill her if she ran, but now even that seemed a preferable choice—death on her own terms.
“Let me go. Please.” Her voice was high-pitched, weak. She hated it. Now that she realized there was no way out, she wanted to at least die with dignity.
If he understood her, he showed now sign of it.
She glanced at his gun. He’d use that. It would be quick; she wouldn’t feel a thing. Almost over now. She didn’t think they would go far. Umman just hadn’t wanted the inconvenience of her blood on his carpets.
NASIR UNCLENCHED HIS FIST. In another five minutes the woman would be dead. Anything he could do to save her would jeopardize his hard-won cover, might make the other men realize that he was less than the ruthless killer he had purported himself to be.
And yet, he couldn’t sit still and allow her to be gunned down in cold blood.
“I take her.” He kept his voice hard, setting his face into an expression that bore no challenge.
A moment of silence passed, confusion underlining it. Most of the men were looking at him puzzled; Ahmed, the youngest, with burning hatred.
“I said she would die,” Umman said, reacting just as Nasir had expected. The leader could not allow his authority to be overruled, especially not in front of his men.
No time to wait for a better opportunity, though, or to try to manipulate the situation.
“She’ll be dead to her people. She’ll be mine.” Nasir stood, but inclined his head toward the man to make sure the action wasn’t interpreted as a challenge.
Umman looked at him with blossoming anger and suspicion. He had every right. Nasir had been the one who had argued against allowing the men to rape her, and now here he was, claiming her as his own.
“She has no place here, no usefulness. If you changed your mind and want to use her before she dies do so.” The camp leader glanced around, indicating that went for everyone.
“I claim her for my own. She’ll be taken by no other,” he said fiercely, then added on a more subdued voice the first good excuse he could come up with, “She might carry my child.”
A low murmur rose from among the men, some of amusement, some of outrage.
“She came to me.” Nasir went on with the lie, unperturbed. If words could save her, he was willing to make up a tale. He did not want to start a fight, not yet. “Maybe she thought it would gain her favor. It does not. But I would have her birth the child. After my son is weaned, you may do with her as you please.” He shrugged. “Once she’s no longer useful, I’ll kill her myself if you want.”
Thick silence hung in the tent as one second passed, then another.
“Are you certain?” Umman asked, his face dark.
Nasir nodded.
Even among bandits, children were taken seriously. Most of the men had families in one of the many villages at the edge of the desert.
“If the child lives, if it’s a boy, he would be my first son,” Nasir added for emphasis.
Everybody understood the importance of that.
Tension thickened the air in the tent.
He listened for any sound from outside, willing the silence of the desert to remain unbroken, aware of every second that passed as he waited.
“She is your trouble.” Umman gave his verdict after a few moments, visibly displeased.
Ahmed hissed. “She’ll run away if he sets her up in a village. She knows where we are. Who we are.”
The leader shot him a glance that shut him up and had him looking away, but did not berate the young man for his hotheaded outburst. He seemed to share Ahmed’s concern.
“She stays with us,” he said. “There’s fire in that one that’s not broken yet.”
One of the men made a suggestion as to how Nasir could manage that, and others laughed, the tension suddenly broken.
“Shukran.” Thank you. Nasir nodded to the leader and gave proper respect, then hurried out of the tent to save the American doctor’s life.
ANGER WAS SLOWLY replacing her fear.
Sadie tore her arm from the man’s grasp, nearly toppling to the sand before she caught her balance and swirled back, hoping to catch him by surprise and ram him hard enough to make him drop the rifle. Screw dignity.
She was too freaked to pull it off anyhow, to stand there in the middle of the desert looking all noble and unperturbed, to think of some profound parting words her executioner wouldn’t understand in any case. Following orders and being suitably submissive not to rouse anyone’s anger hadn’t gained her freedom. It was time she started to fight.
She wasn’t doing well at it, she thought as the guard knocked her to the ground.
Keep coming up.
That was the key. She struggled to her feet and charged at him again.
He wasn’t taking her too seriously, hadn’t even bothered to call out to the others. He seemed undecided on whether to be annoyed or amused. She rammed her head into his stomach, hard enough so he staggered back.
Then his rifle barrel was pressed to her temple as he shouted at her in Arabic. Game over. Looked like he’d had enough entertainment.
Another shout came from behind her, then was repeated in English. “Stop.”
She swallowed at the sight of Nasir striding over the sand, his long black robe billowing ominously behind him like a giant hawk descending on its prey. Fearsome. His face was unscarred, his nose straight, unbroken, unlike most of the rest of the men’s. He was the tallest and toughest bandit in camp, but that wasn’t what made him seem the most dangerous. He had something cold and hard within that showed in the set of his strong jaw, in his intense sable eyes. She found the overall effect chilling.
He yelled again, and she realized with surprise that he was yelling at the guard and not at her. Had the camp leader changed his mind? Hope rushed to her head.
Then Nasir reached her, and his long fingers closed around her arm. Without another word to the guard, he dragged her off—not back to the main tent, nor to her makeshift shelter-slash-prison… She slowed and dug her heels into the sand when she realized their destination was his black tent.
“No,” she said like she meant it, as if her knees weren’t trembling under the worn abayah they made her wear. “No, please.” She feared Nasir more than she feared execution. At least a shot in the head would have been quick.
Some of the men leaving Umman’s tent stopped to watch as Nasir dragged her on effortlessly, paying no attention to her struggles. One shouted something in Arabic. Nasir didn’t respond.
Then they were inside the tent he alone occupied—he did not share like the others—and he let her go so suddenly that she sprawled onto the carpets.
He stepped toward her, but she scrambled away, looking frantically for a weapon. She dashed for the rifle that hung from the tent pole.
He got there first.
Her breath lodged in her throat. Fear raked its sharp talons down her skin.
“Take it easy,” he said in near perfect English. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Her body went still as she stared. Other than a few grunted words, he’d never spoken her language before. A few seconds passed before she gathered enough courage to address him, moving slowly as far from him as the tent allowed.
“You’ll wait for the money? How many days?” Even if all they gave her was a single extra day, she’d have tonight to escape.
“I wouldn’t recommend running away,” he said as if reading her thoughts, and sat to block the tent’s opening, his rifle laid across his knees. “It’s safer here. Nobody will hurt you now.”
What part of her hostage-waiting-for-execution position did he consider safe? Surprised, she looked into his face, then quickly away when she realized her mistake. She’d been beaten by one of the other men for that in the beginning. She was to speak when spoken to and keep her eyes on her feet when not on her work.
But Nasir didn’t become outraged. After a moment, she glanced back, hoping to read his true intentions in his expression.
“Why?” she asked cautiously.
He held her gaze for a while, his sable eyes burning into hers, his features hard with a large dose of displeasure. “Because you’re mine.” The words fell from his lips slowly, distinctly.
“Ah… What?”
“I claimed you in front of the others.”
Mother of God, help me now. She could only imagine what he’d claimed her for.
“No.” She squared on him, prepared to fight. If she could disable him, maybe she could stay hidden in his tent until nightfall then take off—provided that he didn’t have any visitors in the meanwhile.
“It’ll buy you time,” he said mildly.
“For what?” Was he playing with her? Was it some sick game he wanted before he pounced?
“To find a safe way out. I’m here for some information. As soon as I have it, I’ll take you to the nearest village.”
Was he lying so later he could catch her off guard? She watched him cautiously and weighed his words. He hadn’t hurt her, not once. Her fear of him stemmed from watching him with the other men. Emotions ran high in camp, and the bandits were often at each others’ throats. Nasir hadn’t started any fights, but he finished many.
“Are you—” She sat back down, trying to put the pieces together. “Are you an undercover policeman or something?”
“Hardly.” He gave a rueful grin that softened his face.
She stared, a second or so passing before she said, “But you’re definitely not going to hurt me?” She wanted to make sure that was nailed down.
“You are safe in my tent.”
She would consider believing that if she was still alive and untouched by the end of the day. She eyed the curved dagger tucked into his sash. “So, who are you exactly?”
“Nasir.”
She’d been hoping for something beyond that.
“A spy?” The question slipped out as it occurred to her. He had said he was here to gather some kind of information.
“I’m here on my own business.”
And she would just bet his business wasn’t the good kind. She hadn’t been mistaken when she’d seen murder in his eyes. But as long as it didn’t involve her and he would help her out of here, she was willing to overlook it.
“How long before you leave?”
“As soon as I have the information I came for.” He stood, set down the rifle and pulled up an extra carpet, fastened it to the poles so it neatly divided the tent.
He moved like a warrior, unhurried, efficient. Who was he? Who had he been before joining the desert bandits’ camp?
In some ways, he was very much like the others, just as tough and better in a fight, but a thin veil of civilization clung to him that set him apart, which was especially noticeable now that he let his guard down in front of her.
“Where did you learn English?” she asked.
He worked on fixing the partition without answering. “You may use this side,” he said politely when he was done.
He was confusing the hell out of her. He would allow her out of his sight?
He surprised her further by handing her his dagger. “In case you need to defend yourself. Your continued stay does not make everyone happy.”
She pulled the sharp blade from its sheath with hesitation and stared at it. Why arm her? She could kill him in his sleep.
“You could try,” he said, guessing her thoughts again, and she could swear she saw a hint of a smile hover above his lips. “I wouldn’t recommend it,” he added before turning on his heels and ducking out of the tent.
She spent a couple of seconds staring after him before springing to action, realizing she was wasting a precious opportunity. For the first time in weeks, she was truly alone. Nasir’s tent sheltered her from prying eyes as her prison never had with its wide gaps between the rough boards. She took a quick inventory. Two large water skins hanging from the main tent pole, several bags that looked like they’d been made of carpet remnants and a few bowls that were neatly lined up by the tent wall next to a stack of clothing.
She went to the water first and drank as much as she could without making her pilfering obvious. Then she rummaged through the bags and found food, small canvas sacks that held dried figs and some kind of jerky, probably goat. She hurriedly ate a couple of each as she conducted a thorough search of the tent. She found a cell phone and hope shook her hands as she tried to turn it on, but the battery was dead. It would have been too good to be true.
Still, for the first time since she’d been kidnapped, she had free access to food and water. And she had a weapon. Here, in front of her, was everything she needed to escape.
The more she thought about trusting Nasir’s offer, the worse the idea of waiting for him to get her out of here seemed. She would be a fool to hang around to see if he would keep his word and take her to safety. He could change his mind. Umman could change his mind. Ahmed, who’d been after her from day one, could finally find an opportunity to do her real harm. She would never be safe as long as she was inside this miserable camp.
The only person she could trust was herself. She would save herself. As soon as night fell. Whatever she had to do.
I could kill if I had to. The thought came out of nowhere and took her by surprise. Yes, she could kill, although at a price to herself, both as a doctor and a human being. But she could. When backed into a corner, all living things fought for life.
She hadn’t realized that, not until today when she was dragged from Umman’s tent to be executed. Tonight she would do whatever it took to get away, even if it meant taking another life to save her own.
She tucked the dagger into the waistband of the pants she wore under her long robe. For the first time in her life, the presence of a weapon made her feel better. She stepped out of the tent with caution, intending to go no farther than the semisecluded spot behind the area where the dozen or so camels usually lounged, the place she’d been using to relieve herself.
She’d gone only a few yards from Nasir’s tent, dodging the men who were going about their business, when Ahmed spotted her and strode over, his fat mouth set into a thin line of displeasure. He marched his pudgy body through the sand with jerky steps, keeping his small, dark eyes on her, yelling from afar. “Woman! Whore!”
She stopped, hoping he wanted nothing more than to give her some small, humiliating task as usual, like scraping goat dung from his sandals. She would quickly do whatever he required. Tonight she’d be free. She couldn’t allow anything to get to her.
“You feed camels. Water camels,” he said.
Taking care of the animals was his responsibility—every man had his own task to keep the camp running. He was probably angry that Nasir had stopped her execution. He was probably looking to reassert his authority over her, to show her that as long as she was in camp, she would remain their slave.
Sadie nodded, the very picture of obedience, and cast a worried glance toward the camels, making sure she looked fearful, hoping that would be sufficient. Ahmed usually left her alone once he figured he had tortured her enough for one day. If he thought the task left her trembling, he might be satisfied with that and not think up any further ways to distress her.
The animals were twice the size of camels she’d seen in Yemen at the market where the local Doctors Without Borders liaison had taken the group of international physicians she was a part of the day after their arrival at the small field hospital.
The trip to the market had been the first and last that she’d been able to participate in. Three days later, the hospital was raided, the supply room robbed. She had the misfortune of being inside it when the bandits had come.
“Work,” Ahmed shouted at her and shoved her forward.
She moved obediently, semisecure in the knowledge that now that Nasir had claimed her, Ahmed could only demand work from her and nothing more. He had come to her during the night once before, insisting on another kind of service. By putting her body weight against the door of tightly tied branches, she’d been able to keep him out. Her prison, devised to prevent her from escaping during the night, had saved her.
He was yelling at her in Arabic, and she picked up the pace, walking toward the tent Ahmed shared with three others and the large bags of camel feed. She hadn’t seen Nasir’s shorter, leaner camel among the rest of the beasts. He’d probably ridden out of camp.
Her instincts prickled when instead of going off to enjoy having passed on his morning chores, Ahmed seemed intent on following her inside the tent.
“I feed the camels,” she said as she stepped through the flap, keeping her head down in an attempt not to anger any of the other men she’d expected to find inside.
The tent was empty.
She couldn’t step back. Ahmed was right behind her.
Get the work done, get out. Fast.
She went to the sacks, filled the bucket, moving purposefully, ignoring the bad feeling she was getting from the man who watched her.
He made his move as she was about to head back outside, blocking her way, looking at her with so much heat, so much hate.
“I’ll feed the camels,” she said and stepped forward to pass by him.
He wouldn’t have it.
She was close enough now to smell his breath, the sour sweat of his body. Several weeks’ worth of dirt was ground into his patched-up, faded camouflage uniform. She stole a glance at the look of determination in his face.
He was not going to let her go.
The dagger. Since she had the bucket in her right hand, she bent to set it down slowly, as if giving in to his will. But in a sudden move, he knocked the camel feed from her and had both of her hands pinned to her side. She struggled against him. He was strong, stronger than she’d thought.
“Stop.” She fought back with everything she had, kicking, trying to smack her forehead into his face, doing anything and everything to make up for not being able to use her hands. “Let me go!” Desperation gave strength to her voice.
The carpets tangled under their feet, making it harder for her to find her balance. She twisted and kicked backward, got him in the knee by pure chance. His hold loosened at last. Almost clear. Then she tripped on her robe just as he grabbed for her, and they went down together with a solid thud that stole the air from her lungs.
Chapter Two
“Civilian casualties will be significant.”
Majid glared at the man who dared to voice his ridiculous concern. When a sculptor created a beautiful piece of art, was he criticized for the marble chippings he left on the floor? “If anyone dies, it’s the usurper’s fault. The people will understand that.”
And once he was king again and the media was under his thumb, he would make sure everyone would see it his way. Casualties. Of course there’d be casualties. Bismillah! He was reshaping his country.
Those who committed treason should suffer. How quickly they had jumped to the usurper’s side, forgetting their lawful king. They should be punished. The leaders of the traitors would be rounded up and taken care of—certainly his cousin’s family. The others he would let live. He needed people if he wanted to collect taxes. He needed workers for the country he was even now preparing to birth.
“How many men do we have?” he asked his temporary council.
His secret advisors consisted of a few sheiks whose tribes were involved in weapons smuggling and as such benefited from his venture. Also those to whom he had promised land, and two semiinfluential industrialists who hoped for sizable oil contracts from his government once he was restored to the Beharrainian throne. All were enemies of the current false king, people he had angered by interfering with their business and limiting their income.
Today they all gathered to talk war in the large cave Majid was using as his headquarters at the moment.
“We have ten thousand men,” the oldest of the sheiks said.
“That’s enough.” Saeed had less than that when he’d stolen the throne four years ago from Majid. He would pay for that. “Once that devil’s spawn of a cousin of mine is dead and the palace is ours, the army will switch sides and follow their rightful king.”
That’s how it had been before—a lesson he had learned well. His entire army had deserted in a single day, seeing Saeed’s rising power, fearing for their worthless hides. They were disloyal to Majid before. They would be disloyal now to Saeed.
“The time is here, my friends,” he said as a calm settled over him. To rule was his destiny. “We will cut off the head of the snake and stomp out his nest.”
Saeed, the false king, would soon be executed and so would his whore, his American wife.
He would spare only Salah, Saeed’s son, eight years old now and fancied to be heir. For him, he had other plans.
His three-year-old twin daughters couldn’t be allowed to live, either—they might have sons when grown. Nobody who could ever claim any connection to the throne and come back to haunt him would be left alive. That included Nasir, the king’s brother. He was the more dangerous of the two. Had he taken any wives yet? Had he sired any children? He would have to be looked at carefully.
Majid took a sip of spiced coffee, then set the cup onto the stone ledge by his side. The first time he took the throne, he’d been lenient with his cousins. He would not make that mistake twice. This time when he was finished, they and everyone they held dear would be dead.
WHERE WAS SHE?
Nasir scanned the small camp. Her prison cell was empty. So was his tent. Of all the other tents, only one had its flap down. He strode toward that, fairly certain that he would find her inside.
She couldn’t have run away, not yet. The desert was void of life around them as far as the eye could see. She couldn’t have passed out of sight in the short time since he’d last seen her. And somebody would have noticed her walking away if she’d tried. Not that he didn’t think she would attempt to escape. But she wasn’t stupid. She would wait for a better opportunity.
The first sounds of struggle reached him when he was a few meters from the tent. He broke into a run, threw the flap open when he reached it and saw the desperate struggle on the floor.
“Ahmed!” Rage flooded him as he lifted the hefty bastard off the woman, threw him aside and stepped between the two, willing the man to fight.
“You had no right to her.” Ahmed spat the words and charged, his face red with effort and fury.
Nasir was ready for him, his body braced. Ahmed had the advantage of weight, but the disadvantage of inexperience. Nasir ducked his blow.
Ahmed would be trouble over and over again until dealt with. Over the past weeks, he had developed a deep-seated hatred for Nasir. The man was way too hotheaded. Nasir relaxed his limbs and focused on the fight. He could not allow anyone to put his mission in jeopardy. He watched his opponent, noticing the way he shifted his weight and planned his next attack to come in low.
The only way to stop him for good was to kill him, but Ahmed was a distant relative of Umman, and Nasir couldn’t afford to turn the camp leader against him until he got what he had come for.
“Son of a whore.” Ahmed charged again.
Nasir turned, twisted so the man missed with the second punch and stumbled outside through the flap, pushed by his own momentum. Nasir stepped after him, waited for the next attack and dropped the bastard, nice and clean—with admirable restraint—in front of plenty of witnesses.
Without checking whether Ahmed was getting up or not—he wouldn’t be…not for a while—Nasir stepped into the tent, grabbed Sadie by the arm and dragged her outside, making a show of it.
He couldn’t find a single look of disapproval among the men who were gathering around. Good. They understood his actions and accepted it.
“Come.” He pulled Sadie behind him roughly. They would expect that, for him to assume her guilt in the matter without questioning. Punishing her now for being in a tent alone with another man was his responsibility, his right, even if he deemed the necessary punishment to be death.
He shoved her inside his tent with great show but a gentle hand, then closed the flap behind them. Plenty of light filtered through the thinly woven side panels to see, the tent having been made to allow for the circulation of air.
“How bad did he hurt you?”
Her eyes brimmed with mistrust and fear. She pulled away from him a little too abruptly and backed into one of the tent poles, causing her headscarf and attached veil that had loosened in her fight with Ahmed to slip down now, coming to rest around her neck.
He was stunned by her short blond hair, barely covering her ears.
He didn’t like it.
It seemed indecent—long hair was Allah’s adornment for women. Still, for all that, the exotic color and shape suited her face.
She scrambled to cover herself, her eyes cast down, her fingers trembling.
“Leave it,” he said. She belonged to him now, his tent was her home—an odd and uncomfortable thought. But it meant that even according to the strictest customs she was allowed to go unveiled as long as it was just the two of them.
She hesitated in midmotion, the fear and mistrust on her fair face undiminished.
It annoyed him. Bismillah, he’d never given her a reason to fear him. “I had to act firmly.” He realized that he’d begun to pace, and stopped. “Umman’s men would expect you to be punished.”
Beharrain was on the path of progress, but in the outlying areas many people lived according to the strict rules demanded by Wahhabism. Majid’s supporters, in particular, claimed themselves to be staunch conservatives, although their backward ideas had little to do with old customs or the words of the Prophet. Because of them, one could still hear news of women killed for tarnishing the honor of their families. They considered rape a woman’s fault.
The American doctor lowered her arms and her head with them. And for some reason that defied logic, her supplication annoyed him.
“They expected me to be mad,” he said, wondering if she could truly understand. And he was mad, although not at her. He would have gladly strangled Ahmed. “Are you hurt?” he asked again.
She nodded and said after a brief pause, “Minor bruises. Thank you for getting me out.” But still, she wouldn’t look at him.
From a woman of his own culture that would have been a sign of respect. From her, that she was still afraid of him felt like an affront.
What did it matter? Whether she feared or despised him had no significance. He could and would see her to safety all the same. They had no business beyond that.
“The dagger?” he asked.
She fumbled with her robe and produced it after a few moments. “Couldn’t get to it.”
He could see why and cursed himself for not thinking of it before. The task was cumbersome. She had to gather up the folds of her long abayah first. He fixed the problem by stepping up to her and grabbing the black material, ripping a four-inch hole in the side where her hand could fit through if she needed to access the dagger in a hurry.
“That should do.” He hadn’t anticipated Ahmed to go this far this fast. At least the humiliation of his public loss should keep him in check for a few days. Nasir stepped back and prayed to Allah he wouldn’t need any more time than that.
In another day or so, the convoy they were all waiting for would be coming. He would do whatever it took to get Majid’s whereabouts from them. There was a connection between Umman and Majid, he was sure of it.
“Stay clear of Ahmed. As much as you can, stay in this tent.” He could not look away from the golden hair that curled at her nape and around her ears. He’d seen western women before—he’d been abroad on occasion and didn’t much care for it—but she was in his tent. “If you must step outside—” She would have to, if nothing else than to relieve herself. “Cover up.”
“How long before we go?” she asked, everything about her hesitant.
But he’d had a few glimpses of another woman, one that he suspected was the true Dr. Kauffman.
She’d been different when he’d first arrived to camp. And when she’d fought her executioner this morning, she’d fought like a tigress.
“A few days,” he answered her question.
Her gaze was cast at her feet, thick, dark-blond lashes shading her eyes. Perhaps so he wouldn’t see in them that she had no intention of staying that long. He said nothing, knowing it would be pointless to warn her.
She would do what she thought was necessary.
Then he would do whatever needed to be done.
NASIR LAY IN THE DARK and stared at the ceiling of the tent. It had to be past midnight.
The American woman, Sadie, had been gone for about two hours.
He didn’t blame her—he would have done the same—but neither could he let her go to her death. What did she know about the open desert?
He would wait another hour or two before he went after her—enough time for her to realize the mistake she’d made. She was on foot. She would be exhausted by then and lost. She would know she had failed. He had to wait that out—he couldn’t afford to watch her every second of the day. For her own sake, she had to accept that staying with him was her best chance for survival.
In general, he believed that the fewer foreigners in the country, the better. Most of them came to his part of the world for gain, at the expense of his people. He trusted only one, Dara, his brother’s wife, another American. Dara would want him to look after Sadie, but it wasn’t his only reason for doing so. He was Bedu and he lived by the code of the Bedu, the sharaf, part of which was protecting women.
There were some religious fanatics who considered only Arab women worthy of protection, not even the women, really, but their virtue. And if they deemed that lost, they thought it just and right that the woman should be killed, that they were worthless without it. Anger boiled in his blood at the thought. Never had the Prophet, blessed be his name, required the killing of the innocent.
He was conservative and proud of it. There was much in his culture he wished to preserve. But he had nothing to do with this new breed of religious devotees who sought to rule by terror, preach purity in the streets, then engage in the vilest acts of immorality behind their walls. And these fanatics who’d had free reign under the previous king were now plotting against the new ruler, Saeed, Nasir’s brother.
Nasir looked up to the ceiling of the tent and swore to Allah he would stop them. As long as there ran blood in his veins, he would protect his people and his family. And beyond them, he would protect all who needed his help. He was Bedu.
SADIE WALKED FORWARD in the sand, pulled her headscarf from her pocket and mopped her forehead that beaded with sweat from the effort. She’d decided to leave it off until the sun came up and grew hot enough to necessitate cover.
Her small pack of food and water seemed to weigh thirty pounds. She adjusted the sack over her back. She was thirsty, but was determined to ration what little water she had. She was tired, but resolved not to stop until sunup, to use every minute of cool air for walking. She moved forward toward a bright star she could not name. By keeping to it, she made sure she would go in a straight line instead of in circles.
Other than that one precaution, she was pretty much lost.
When she’d started out, she’d walked in the direction Nasir had rode in from a few weeks back. He had to have come from somewhere.
She hoped it wasn’t another bandit camp.
God, he confused her.
He was some grade A badass, to use an expression she’d learned from a ten-year-old boy she’d once treated for a broken leg in the ER. And yet, Nasir had saved her from execution, and then saved her from Ahmed. Why? For himself? He had claimed her. God, did he know what century this was?
He would see her to safety, he’d said. She wasn’t about to trust anyone who had anything to do with the people who’d kept her captive.
She glanced behind her as she had from time to time, although if the bandits came after her, she figured she would hear the motors of their pickups before she saw them. The moon provided enough light to walk by, but she could see only a fraction as far as during the day.
She yanked her right foot as it sank into the sand. The foot came up, her sandal didn’t. She leaned her weight on the other foot to search for it. The fine sand seemed to be crumbling around her, flowing like water. She tried to brace herself, waiting to touch solid bottom, thinking it a windblown spot where the soil was looser. She was in up to her knees before she realized the seriousness of her situation.
Quicksand.
“Help!” The terror-filled cry tore from her lips without thought, dousing her with desperation once it was out. Who could help her here? Nobody. There was none.
She tossed her bag clear, tried to tug her feet free, no longer caring about the sandals. But as soon as she made headway with one foot, the other sank deeper. She squirmed. No. She had to stop that.
Spread the bodyweight. She remembered some childhood advice on what to do if the ice cracked on the pond she and the neighbor kids had used for skating in the winter. The same principle should apply here. She lowered herself onto the top of the sand, hoping she could somehow crawl to safety.
But within minutes, she was in to her waist and knew there could be no way out.
Stop. Stop. She forced herself to stay still instead of madly scrambling like instinct pushed her. She held her breath, watched the sand. She was still sinking, but slower now.
How long did she have? She had sunk up to her chest in about fifteen minutes. If she hadn’t moved at all, could she gain another fifteen? What would be the use? What were the chances that someone happened along? Yet the instinct to survive would not let her give up. She grappled desperately for an idea as she held her body in iron control, utterly still, to buy herself as much time as possible.
Fifteen minutes.
She wouldn’t think of what would come after that. She was a doctor; she knew what it meant to die by suffocation.
She tipped her head to look at the stars.
The sand squeezed her, held her tight. She kept her arms above it, her neck stretched once she sank to her chin. A few more minutes. She took deep breaths to keep the panic at bay. Then the sand came over her mouth. The desert sand had the consistency of fine dust, unlike the gritty beach sand she’d known all her life, and it felt like drowning in talcum powder.
When the sand covered her nose, panic kicked in and she could hold still no longer. She thrashed, made it to the surface for another full breath, called out again, her subconscious mind flashing a name, “Nasir!” before she went completely under. She couldn’t stop struggling now even knowing each movement took her under faster.
Her lungs burned, stars growing and exploding behind her closed eyelids.
She clamped her mouth shut against the reflex to open and try to gulp nonexistent air.
As her hands, the last of her, went under, she clawed at the sand. She thought she heard a shout. Hard to tell over the blood that rushed loudly in her ears. Maybe the voice had been nothing but a trick of her oxygen-deprived brain. Then something solid brushed against the tip of her fingers, and she jerked to get back to it. She desperately searched around, clinging to the last few seconds of life she had.
A hand wrapped around her wrist and heaved hard. She started to come up little by little, her lungs ready to explode. She was barely aware now what was happening, focused with the last vestiges of consciousness on the strength of the hand that was pulling her back from death.
WHEN HE’D BEEN A CHILD, he’d had nightmares about quicksand—torturous dreams that had seemed to go on forever. He used to wake in terror, covered in sweat, gasping for air in the night.
Reality was worse, Nasir thought, and hung on to the slim hand, holding his breath under the sand. He jerked his right foot—he had dove in headfirst and his right foot was the only part still above ground—and yanked on the rope again, urging his camel to a faster walk. Ronu obeyed and pulled he and Sadie up, inch by slow inch.
Soon his head was free, and he took his first breath of air, coughed out the sand that had gotten into his mouth.
“Faster!” he yelled at the camel in Arabic and yanked the rope again.
The arm he held under the sand had gone limp.
He pulled with all his strength and once the hand was up, he let it go and reached below, hooked under her armpits. As soon as her head appeared, blue-faced and barely recognizable, he stopped and reached into her mouth with his fingers to clean out the sand.
He put his ear to her lips.
Nothing.
Ronu kept pulling. He paid little attention to the animal now, barely registering as they reached solid ground again after a few seconds. He called out to the camel to stop, then turned all his attention to the woman in his arms. He wiped his hand then reached deep into her throat with his fingers to clear it, flipped her over his arm, thumped her back to dislodge anything else that might be in there. When he turned her once more, he sealed his lips to hers and forced air into her lungs. He was probably blowing some sand into her air pipe, but he had to take that chance. If he succeeded in reviving her, she could cough that out.
He pulled away and pressed his ear to her chest. A second passed then another. He breathed for her again then swore as he waited for signs of life.
You should have come after her sooner.
He would have, but he had run into Ahmed, who’d been lurking around her old shack, and they’d had words. He had to make sure Ahmed was settled before he could ride off into the desert.
He pressed his lips to hers one more time, ignoring the sand between them, and pushed air into her.
And then she coughed, al hamdu lillah! Praise God.
“Sadie?” He called her name, shook out his kaffiyeh and used it to wipe her eyes, then pulled the flask off his belt and poured some water on her face. Drop after sandy drop rolled off her eyelashes, her cheeks, her lips.
Her eyelids fluttered and she raised a sand-covered hand on reflex to rub them. He held her down and used more water instead to keep her from rubbing in sand.
She was coughing in earnest now, a terrible, choking sound, but a sound of life nevertheless that filled him with relief.
He helped her sit. “Sadie?”
She drew wheezing gulps of air and looked dazed and lost. “What happened?” She could barely get the words out, but her face was turning a healthier color.
“You walked into quicksand.”
Her expression changed as she remembered. Her hand clamped on to his arm and wouldn’t let go.
He’d seen Dara like that with his brother, Saeed, when something was wrong with one of the children. Bedu women comforted each other. Western women seemed to require this also from men.
He considered putting his arm around her, but it didn’t seem honorable to touch a woman like that who was neither his sister nor his wife.
She solved his dilemma by having another coughing fit and collapsing against him.
His back stiffened in surprise, but he found himself reluctant to pull away. He tapped her slim back a couple of times, gently, awkwardly, giving thanks to Allah when her coughing quieted.
She didn’t have much of a body under the long, ample dress. He hadn’t realized that, her fragility. She had stood up to every hardship she’d encountered since he’d met her, endured whatever Umman and his men had thrown her way.
She pulled away after a few seconds—too soon. She wasn’t nearly steady. He hadn’t minded offering her comfort. The contact seemed to calm him, too. Having her that close, touching, was a good reminder that she hadn’t been lost. He had gotten to her in time.
He would never forget the sight as he rode over the last dune and saw her head break free from under the sand ahead, her last breath used to call his name.
He cleared his throat. “Rest. We have time.”
She rubbed the sand off her hands then did her best to clean it out of her neck, her hair.
“In a few days,” he said to reassure her, “I will see you safe. You can’t walk through the desert alone.”
“I think I figured that one out.” She coughed briefly, looking at him fully in the face again, for the first time since their short initial talk in his tent.
A long minute of silence passed, then another.
“Why did you save me?” she asked.
He looked back at the round indentation just a few feet away, the patch of ground that could have taken the both of them.
“My father was swallowed by quicksand,” he surprised himself by saying instead of trying to find an answer to her question.
She seemed to pale, although it could have been a trick of the moonlight. “I’m sorry. That’s— It must have been terrible.”
He untied the rope from his ankle at last, ignoring the burn on his skin, and stood. He unhooked the other end from Ronu’s saddle and rolled the rope up, put it away. He brought back more water for her, picked up his rifle from the sand and swung it over his shoulder, then stuck his handgun into his sash while she drank. He sat cross-legged in front of her, at a respectable distance.
“Can you not tell me who you are?” she asked between gulps.
“I’m not a bandit,” he said, and hoped she would believe him this time.
“THEN WHAT ARE YOU DOING with them?” Sadie shot back. “How do I know you’re not going to sell me for my kidney to some rich oilman on dialysis?”
She wasn’t entirely joking. She had treated just such a patient at the field hospital the day before she’d been taken by the bandits. The young man, not yet eighteen, had been kidnapped from the streets of his village, taken to a private clinic where one of his kidneys had been removed for an illegal transplant.
He was treated until recovery, then dropped back off at the same spot, his pockets stuffed with money.
Not that this kind of thing happened every day, but the point was, it did happen. Then there was the sex slave industry and other lovely possibilities she didn’t care to find out about up-close and personal.
“I’m Sheik Nasir ibn Ahmad ibn Salim ben Zayed.”
“Sheik? As in king?” Whatever she’d speculated about him over the past weeks, she wouldn’t have guessed that.
“No, no. Sheik of my tribe,” he said modestly.
His olive skin seemed darker in the moonlight, his black eyelashes speckled with sand. How far under had he gone into the quicksand to get her?
“My brother is the king,” he added.
She gaped. “King of what?”
“Beharrain.”
That explained a few things. Nasir’s excellent English for example. Beharrain’s queen was an American woman. Dara somebody. She would be Nasir’s sister-in-law.
“Are we in Beharrain?” The possibility occurred to her suddenly. Had the bandits crossed the border with her to the small kingdom to the north?
“As a Beharrainian, I would say yes. If you ask a Yemeni, they would say we’re in Yemen. If you ask a Saudi, they’d tell you we are most certainly in their country.”
Oh. They were in the desert where Beharrain, Saudi Arabia and Yemen met, a vast area where borders were sometimes fluid, sometimes nonexistent. To indicate this, they were drawn tentatively with dotted lines on the map.
“We’re in no man’s land—no army, no police—a haven for bandits, smugglers and the odd terrorist training camp,” he confirmed her thoughts.
She pressed her knuckles against her eyelids for a long moment. In hindsight, she might have been a tad optimistic thinking that she was just going to walk out of the place. She shook her head and muttered, “I suppose I’ve been embarrassingly naive.”
“Courage is never worthy of embarrassment.”
“How about foolishness?” She looked at him.
“You’re safest with me.” He held her gaze.
And she wondered if it might not be best to try to believe him. “So what are you doing with the bandits?”
“I’m looking for someone. It’s personal.” His face hardened into his fierce warrior look.
“And when you find him, you’ll kill him?” she asked, then added in a more subdued voice, “I’d prefer the truth, even if it makes me uncomfortable.”
“Yes.” He said the single word without looking away.
“You can’t leave him to the law?”
“The law had him. He escaped from prison.”
“What did he do to you?”
He took a slow breath. “He killed my father.”
Confused, she tilted her head. “I thought you said he was swallowed by quicksand.”
“He was shot. His horse, with him still in the saddle, was forced into quicksand to cover it up. Then my enemy stole the country and murdered my people,” he went on.
Was he talking about the previous king? She remembered something vaguely from the media. “Wasn’t he made to stand trial?”
“Once my brother took power, yes. But he escaped from prison and now he is gathering followers, planning on assassinating the rest of my family and taking back the throne.”
“So your brother sent you after him?”
His lips stretched into what might or might not have been a reluctant smile. “Saeed has infinite faith in the laws he restored, in the system, in his army. He still does not fully realize how far Majid will go to regain power. My brother thinks I’m on vacation in Paris.”
“Paris?” She blinked.
With his headdress and tattered black robe, a rifle slung over his back and a handgun tucked into the sash at his waist, he didn’t look like the typical sightseer around the Eiffel Tower.
He caught her glance skipping over him and tipped his head, the expression on his face, the look in his sable eyes hardening. “All Arabs are not thieves and murderers. We are like any other people. Sometimes, we even go on vacation.”
“I didn’t mean to imply—” Had she offended him? She forgot whatever she was going to say and came up with another question. “Why are you looking for the old king here?”
He watched her for a moment before answering. “Majid is using the area to recruit. I followed his trail. He has some connection to Umman. A smuggler’s convoy is coming in any day now. They will bring guns Majid is sending. I’m going to talk to the men on the convoy and find out where he is now. Then I’ll go to him. I will take you to safety on my way.”
“Thank you,” she said and shook the last of the sand from her hair, then realized her headdress wasn’t anywhere around.
The quicksand had swallowed it. A shiver ran down her spine as she glanced at the spot. “And thank you for coming after me, for saving my life again.” When she turned back to Nasir, she found him watching her.
“We should go,” he said.
She stood at once and went for her pack a few yards away while he called to his camel. Ronu, she remembered his name. He was sleek and beautiful, different from the camels Umman kept that were twice as tall and several times as bulky.
She petted the animal’s neck before Nasir talked him into lowering himself to the ground. She got on without trouble. She’d never had any fear of animals. In her experience, men were far more dangerous.
“Well done,” Nasir said when he was up behind her and Ronu was standing. He sounded surprised.
“I used to ride horses,” she explained.
“He usually spits at strangers who come near him.”
“Is he bad tempered?” She leaned forward so she could pet the animal’s neck again. “He seems nice to me.”
Nasir’s response was a single grunt as he nudged the camel to walking. After a few minutes, once she got used to the swaying caused by Ronu’s uneven gait, she settled into her spot and enjoyed the ride.
“He looks different from the others,” she said.
“A different breed. Umman’s camels have been bred for smuggling.”
“That’s why they look like tanks?”
“They can carry extreme loads over long distances.”
“What was this one bred for?”
“Racing.”
She could picture Nasir flying across the desert like some angel of vengeance, his dark robe billowing behind him. The sight would be fit for a movie screen. “How fast can he go?” She half turned in the saddle.
He looked at her with a dangerous glint in his sable eyes. “Would you like to see?”
She nodded, trusting him to know what he was doing.
He’d saved her from execution, from rape and from quicksand. Knowing who he was—the Beharrainian king’s brother and not a bandit—set her at ease. And that he spoke her language helped, too.
She was alive. The thought hit her out of nowhere and a sense of giddiness came with it. How many times had she faced death in the last twenty-four hours? She didn’t want to think of it. She was alive!
As Ronu gathered speed, she bobbed perilously, until she stopped fighting it and let her body slide against Nasir’s. His solid bulk behind her had a steadying effect. Many Arab men she’d seen so far had a slight build. Nasir didn’t. He was strong and tall, wide-shouldered. And he was on her side.
She was going to make it out of here. A few days, he had said. That was all his business would take. This time next week she would be home.
Chapter Three
“It’s amazing,” she shouted over the pounding of hooves.
He had thought she would be scared once they got up to full speed, but she seemed thrilled. By the ride, or simply happy to be alive. He had never ridden with a woman before and with a man only when he was a child. Camel saddles didn’t accommodate two people well. She was practically sitting on his lap. Nasir kept his eyes on the horizon.
“Do you ride horses?” she shouted back the question.
“Sometimes.”
His tribe bred some of the finest horses in the country. But there was a thrill in a good old-fashioned camel race that those who participated in found addictive.
The animals could take on long-distance races that lasted several days across the desert, arid terrains no horse could have handled. Not every contestant made it to the finish line, nor every animal. These races tried a man. There was something primal, uncivilized about them, and often made him imagine his grandfather racing madly on a raid.
And that image brought to mind the bandit camp and Umman, even though they were a far cry from the honest raiders of the past.
“Your people did not pay your ransom,” he said. “Why?”
“Policy. If one kidnapper got money, everybody would start hunting for Americans.”
He could see the truth in that. If someone close to him got kidnapped he wouldn’t pay, either. He would hunt down the kidnappers and kill them, take back what was his. “Your people are looking for you?”
“I’m sure they are, but Umman moved the camp after they took me. I kept hoping somebody would find me…”
“I found you,” he said. “You’ll be fine.” He would see to it.
Her body was covered in her black abayah, her head wrapped in his plain white kaffiyeh against the rising sun. When she half turned, he caught a glimpse of golden hair escaping at her temple. “Why are you helping me?” she asked.
He owed as much to his sister-in-law. Sadie was from the same country as Dara. “You are a woman in need, alone. In our culture, every man owes his protection to such a woman.” Both of those reasons were true, and yet even together they didn’t explain the protective urge he felt for her.
“Could have fooled me,” she muttered.
“Umman and his men are criminals.” He did not want her to think ill of the country and culture he was so proud of. He could explain, he supposed, about the honor of the Bedu, but he wasn’t sure she would care. “You do not have enough sick people in your own country?” he asked. “Why did you come to Yemen?”
“Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Dangerous.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “I underestimated that. I thought I knew the risks and that the probability that anything would happen was slim enough to be acceptable.”
“And your family?”
“No time for one. I don’t need a man to be happy,” she said.
Happiness was beside the point. “You need one to be safe,” he explained.
“Not in my country.”
That might have been the case, but she certainly needed one in this part of the world. He wasn’t married, but he had sisters. He knew what kind of responsibility that brought to a man. Sadie had no one in this country. “I will protect you while you are here.”
He should be able to do that—see her safe at a friend’s house while he hunted Majid. Then when he was done, he would come for her and take her back to the palace with him where she would be truly safe until her return to her own country. Dara would be happy to receive her, he was sure.
She stayed quiet for a long time before she said, “Thank you.”
He took a deep breath, satisfied in the knowledge that he was doing the right thing. For the next few weeks, Sadie Kauffman would be like a sister to him.
He fixed that thought in his brain and ignored the way her lithe body felt as she rode in the circle of his arms.
SADIE WATCHED THE CAMP and forced herself to stay on the camel that was taking her closer. Now that the tents were near, her euphoria of having been saved from sure death was wearing off quickly. Coming back went against all her instincts. She’d escaped. For a few hours, she’d been free.
And she would be dead by now if not for Nasir, she reminded herself. She had to trust him.
“We’ve got visitors,” he said and slowed Ronu to a walk.
A few seconds passed before she, too, spotted the beat-up Jeep that she hadn’t seen before. Once they were close enough, she could even make out the license plate—Yemeni.
She scanned the camp for strangers, but couldn’t spot any among the men who were out and about. One of them yelled over to Nasir.
She felt him stiffen in the saddle behind her. “What did he say?”
“The convoy is arriving today. A messenger rode ahead.”
The sudden hardness in his voice made her turn to him. He was looking toward Umman’s tent, the fierce intensity back on his face, darkness shadowing his eyes, tension tightening his mouth.
For a man who’d waited over a month for this very opportunity to gain information he needed, he didn’t look happy. Sadie, on the other hand, felt full of hope all of a sudden. As soon as he had his information, they could get the hell out of here. “You think we’ll be able to leave soon?”
“As soon as I can get my cousin’s whereabouts out of them.” Nasir made the camel lie down and slid off his back then helped her to the sand.
She stood aside, giving him room to unsaddle the animal. “How big do you think the convoy is?”
“I don’t expect more than a dozen men.”
She didn’t look forward to having more scary-looking, battle-hardened bandits and smugglers in camp. “Will they stay long?”
“A few days, probably. Long enough to rest for the return journey. It would be best if you stayed in my tent as much as possible while they are here.”
“No problem.” She wasn’t going to argue with that.
“Stay behind me,” he said, his voice laced with annoyance all of a sudden.
She soon saw the reason. Ahmed was strutting toward Nasir’s tent, derision on his face as he waited for them.
He said something in a hissing, hateful tone.
Nasir responded coolly and passed by him as if he weren’t even there.
“What was that about?” she asked once they were inside and Ahmed had strode off.
“Envy.” Nasir shrugged. “Because I have you and he can’t.”
She watched him in the dim light—his dark shape that dominated the tent, his noble features—and for a moment she wondered what it would be like to truly belong to a man like him. And then it occurred to her that there might be some woman somewhere who did belong to him.
“Do you have a family? Wife and children? Wives?” She corrected herself when she realized he might have more than one. The thought boggled her mind.
“I’m alone,” he said, and something in his voice made her think the statement went beyond his marital status.
“You have your sisters and your brother,” she said. At one point during the ride back, she’d asked him about the royal family.
“I have taken the path of revenge.” He tucked the saddle in the corner of the tent. “My brother will not understand it. He’s grown up with your western ideals, went to school in England. Forgiveness and reconciliation are his best friends, leaving the law to deal with the lawless.” He didn’t sound bitter as much as resigned.
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Dana Marton
POWERFUL SHEIK PROTECTS GORGEOUS DOCTOR IN THE DESERT HEATShe'd been stranded in the desert and held captive by a band of kidnappers. Then Sheik Nasir ibn Ahmad, one of the most menacing men she'd ever seen, promised to lead her to safety–Dr. Sadie Kaufman had little choice but to follow. Before long the sheik's promises of protection played a vital role. For once they arrived at his palace it seemed someone beyond the walls still wanted her dead. The sheik insisted on keeping her close or Sadie would become another bandit's bargaining chip. But could this sexy and indomitable man really be as good as he seemed…?
“I wouldn’t recommend running away.”
Nasir sat to block the tent’s opening, his rifle laid across his knees. “It’s safer here. Nobody will hurt you now.”
“Why?” Sadie asked cautiously.
“Because you’re mine.” The words fell from Nasir’s lips slowly, distinctly. “I claimed you in front of the others.”
“No.” She squared her body toward him, prepared to fight. If she could disable him, maybe she could stay hidden in his tent until nightfall, then take off.
“It’ll buy you time to find a safe way out. I’m here for some information. As soon as I have it, I’ll take you to the nearest village.”
Was he lying so he could catch her off guard later? She watched him and weighed his words. He hadn’t hurt her, not once. “Are you an undercover policeman or something?”
“Hardly. But you are safe in my tent.”
Undercover Sheik
Dana Marton
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
With many thanks to Allison Lyons and Maggie Scillia.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dana Marton lives near Wilmington, Delaware. She has been an avid reader since childhood and has a master’s degree in writing popular fiction. When not writing, she can be found either in her garden or her home library. For more information on the author and her other novels, please visit her Web site at www.danamarton.com.
She would love to hear from her readers via e-mail: DanaMarton@yahoo.com.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Nasir ibn Ahmad—The brother of the king of Beharrain, Sheik Nasir is determined to keep Majid from starting a civil war and killing his family to regain the throne. But when he goes undercover among bandits, he finds more than clues to Majid’s whereabouts.
Sadie Kauffman, M.D.—Sadie was kidnapped by bandits from a field hospital in Yemen. Can she trust the most dangerous among them, Nasir, to save her life?
Majid—He swears to regain the king’s throne and kill anyone who stands in his way.
Umman—He is the leader of a group of conscienceless bandits and one of Majid’s supporters.
Saeed ibn Ahmad—Beharrain’s rightful king and Nasir’s brother.
Dara Alexander—The American woman who made headlines around the world by marrying Beharrain’s king.
Ali—He works for the royal stables. Is he involved in something sinister or is he just at the wrong place at the wrong time?
Abbas—A clerk at the royal palace. He owes much to the king, but maybe he’s motivated more by greed than gratitude.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter One
Dr. Sadie Kauffman had been always skeptical of people who, as their death sentence neared, claimed to have changed and reformed. Now she believed it. Time made all the difference, being locked up with nothing to do but think. She’d had forty long days and nights to mull over what her life had been so far—a mad race for things that in hindsight didn’t matter. She would live differently. She rubbed her fingertips together. They tingled from nerves. Today was the day of her execution.
She watched one of the bandits as he plodded toward her makeshift prison, his rifle slung across his shoulder, his face wrapped in the trailing end of his headdress to protect him from the blowing sand. He opened the low door that had been nailed together from pieces of scrap wood, and swore at her as she stumbled out awkwardly, her legs numb from her cramped quarters.
“Move it,” the man said, and although she was limping forward as fast as she could, it wasn’t quick enough for him. He shoved his rifle barrel between her ribs to make her go faster.
She blinked toward the desert horizon. The sun had barely breached it. Her last sunrise. No, she wouldn’t think like that. She had to have hope. If the desert bandits killed her, what would they gain? They had to keep her alive to collect the ransom. She’d spent the night working out different ways to convince Umman, the camp’s leader, to extend the deadline.
It’ll work. They need the money.
She ran her fingers over her black headscarf and attached veil to make sure they exposed nothing but her eyes. The man kept shoving her at every few steps, toward the tents instead of the cooking fires as he would have on any other day.
“It’s as fast as I can go,” she snapped without heat. Did he even understand her? Other than Umman, the rest spoke no more English than the few words they used to order her around.
Her sandals sunk into the hot sand with each step. She still hadn’t learned to balance her weight just right, angle her feet so she could walk the terrain with ease like the men whose tents sprawled like giant, unworldly beasts on the sand ahead. Most had their flaps open—giant, yawning mouths getting ready to swallow their prey whole. She shivered despite the heat that had to be nearing a hundred degrees already.
She halted at the entrance of the largest tent, looked inside with quick, darting glances and kept her head down to make sure her gaze wouldn’t directly meet anyone else’s. Most of the bandits were in there, lounging on worn carpets and sipping spiced coffee.
“So your country cares not if you live or die.” The contemptuous voice was Umman’s.
As far as desert bandits went, they looked the part—Ali Baba and all that—missing teeth, savage faces, murderous weapons. They smelled the part, too.
“The money is coming,” she said with false confidence, knowing the U.S. never paid ransoms. She’d always thought that a reasonable policy—until now. “Today. It’s a lot of money.” Five million dollars.
The men didn’t appear to be impressed with her promise, nor did any of them look like they might be sympathetic to her cause. She was nothing to them, less than nothing—an annoyance, a reminder of a business plan that didn’t work out.
“You think me a fool.” The leader’s voice was low, yet it seemed to thunder across the tent. He was the oldest of the men, his face crackled with scars, his scraggly beard blending into gray as it fell to his worn brown robe.
She had no doubt he would cut her throat without thought, as he would cut a goat. As he had cut one of his own men not two weeks before for some minor insubordination.
“Your people show me great disrespect,” he said.
Her carefully crafted speech had sounded reasonable and convincing in her head in the quiet of the night, but now, faced with a tentful of bandits, the arguments she had prepared suddenly seemed laughably feeble.
“I’m a doctor. You might need me. A few more days—”
“Do not bargain with me.” Umman’s voice rose, thick with anger. “We do not need your kind of medicine. You think I would trust you?”
Apparently not. At first, when she had been kidnapped from the hospital, she’d been convinced they’d taken her to heal some bandit chief and would let her go once she was done. It had taken her days to realize the true severity of her situation.
There had to be words she could say to convince him to do just that. Think. Think!
Something shifted in the darkest corner—a man she hadn’t noticed, sitting away from the rest. She swallowed as she recognized the man she feared the most. Nasir. The sight of him scattered her few gathering thoughts.
Something in the man—an indefinable hardness, a dark purpose to his heart and murder in his eyes—made her get out of his way every time she’d found his gaze on her.
He was new to camp, had prodded in on his small camel two days after she’d been kidnapped from the field hospital. He had quickly gained the respect of the other men. There had been a fight or two at the beginning, testing the newcomer. Since then, most knew enough to steer clear of him.
His full attention was on her now, his dark gaze burning her.
Umman set down his cup and spoke in Arabic to the guard who’d brought her in while he dug through a wooden crate and tossed the man a new-looking digital camera.
He wanted her execution documented—probably so the next time they asked for ransom, everyone would know they were serious.
Her heart beat against her chest so hard it hurt. This can’t be happening. It isn’t real.
Things like this happened to other people, strangers on the evening news. Her hands trembled at the thought of her lifeless body on some Web site.
Run! her brain said, but before she could react, she was grabbed, rough fingers digging into her arm.
“Another day. The money will be here,” she begged, her lungs drowning in panic that seemed to swallow her whole.
“Out.”
The guard obeyed, pulling her from the tent into the merciless light, into the killing heat. He dragged her behind the tents, up the first dune, barely slowing as she struggled against him.
How much did she have left? Ten minutes? Five?
He held her tight, his gun aimed at her as he yanked her along. If she could pull away, how long would it be before a bullet slammed into her back? Even running couldn’t save her now. Nothing could. Her body went slack with resignation.
She’d chosen the wrong course of action, staying in her prison in hope of a rescue instead of trying to run away in the night. The realization made her light-headed, dizzy. She’d thought the ransom would come, that the bandits wouldn’t be so eager to discard their ticket to the money. She had no supplies. She’d been afraid the desert would kill her if she ran, but now even that seemed a preferable choice—death on her own terms.
“Let me go. Please.” Her voice was high-pitched, weak. She hated it. Now that she realized there was no way out, she wanted to at least die with dignity.
If he understood her, he showed now sign of it.
She glanced at his gun. He’d use that. It would be quick; she wouldn’t feel a thing. Almost over now. She didn’t think they would go far. Umman just hadn’t wanted the inconvenience of her blood on his carpets.
NASIR UNCLENCHED HIS FIST. In another five minutes the woman would be dead. Anything he could do to save her would jeopardize his hard-won cover, might make the other men realize that he was less than the ruthless killer he had purported himself to be.
And yet, he couldn’t sit still and allow her to be gunned down in cold blood.
“I take her.” He kept his voice hard, setting his face into an expression that bore no challenge.
A moment of silence passed, confusion underlining it. Most of the men were looking at him puzzled; Ahmed, the youngest, with burning hatred.
“I said she would die,” Umman said, reacting just as Nasir had expected. The leader could not allow his authority to be overruled, especially not in front of his men.
No time to wait for a better opportunity, though, or to try to manipulate the situation.
“She’ll be dead to her people. She’ll be mine.” Nasir stood, but inclined his head toward the man to make sure the action wasn’t interpreted as a challenge.
Umman looked at him with blossoming anger and suspicion. He had every right. Nasir had been the one who had argued against allowing the men to rape her, and now here he was, claiming her as his own.
“She has no place here, no usefulness. If you changed your mind and want to use her before she dies do so.” The camp leader glanced around, indicating that went for everyone.
“I claim her for my own. She’ll be taken by no other,” he said fiercely, then added on a more subdued voice the first good excuse he could come up with, “She might carry my child.”
A low murmur rose from among the men, some of amusement, some of outrage.
“She came to me.” Nasir went on with the lie, unperturbed. If words could save her, he was willing to make up a tale. He did not want to start a fight, not yet. “Maybe she thought it would gain her favor. It does not. But I would have her birth the child. After my son is weaned, you may do with her as you please.” He shrugged. “Once she’s no longer useful, I’ll kill her myself if you want.”
Thick silence hung in the tent as one second passed, then another.
“Are you certain?” Umman asked, his face dark.
Nasir nodded.
Even among bandits, children were taken seriously. Most of the men had families in one of the many villages at the edge of the desert.
“If the child lives, if it’s a boy, he would be my first son,” Nasir added for emphasis.
Everybody understood the importance of that.
Tension thickened the air in the tent.
He listened for any sound from outside, willing the silence of the desert to remain unbroken, aware of every second that passed as he waited.
“She is your trouble.” Umman gave his verdict after a few moments, visibly displeased.
Ahmed hissed. “She’ll run away if he sets her up in a village. She knows where we are. Who we are.”
The leader shot him a glance that shut him up and had him looking away, but did not berate the young man for his hotheaded outburst. He seemed to share Ahmed’s concern.
“She stays with us,” he said. “There’s fire in that one that’s not broken yet.”
One of the men made a suggestion as to how Nasir could manage that, and others laughed, the tension suddenly broken.
“Shukran.” Thank you. Nasir nodded to the leader and gave proper respect, then hurried out of the tent to save the American doctor’s life.
ANGER WAS SLOWLY replacing her fear.
Sadie tore her arm from the man’s grasp, nearly toppling to the sand before she caught her balance and swirled back, hoping to catch him by surprise and ram him hard enough to make him drop the rifle. Screw dignity.
She was too freaked to pull it off anyhow, to stand there in the middle of the desert looking all noble and unperturbed, to think of some profound parting words her executioner wouldn’t understand in any case. Following orders and being suitably submissive not to rouse anyone’s anger hadn’t gained her freedom. It was time she started to fight.
She wasn’t doing well at it, she thought as the guard knocked her to the ground.
Keep coming up.
That was the key. She struggled to her feet and charged at him again.
He wasn’t taking her too seriously, hadn’t even bothered to call out to the others. He seemed undecided on whether to be annoyed or amused. She rammed her head into his stomach, hard enough so he staggered back.
Then his rifle barrel was pressed to her temple as he shouted at her in Arabic. Game over. Looked like he’d had enough entertainment.
Another shout came from behind her, then was repeated in English. “Stop.”
She swallowed at the sight of Nasir striding over the sand, his long black robe billowing ominously behind him like a giant hawk descending on its prey. Fearsome. His face was unscarred, his nose straight, unbroken, unlike most of the rest of the men’s. He was the tallest and toughest bandit in camp, but that wasn’t what made him seem the most dangerous. He had something cold and hard within that showed in the set of his strong jaw, in his intense sable eyes. She found the overall effect chilling.
He yelled again, and she realized with surprise that he was yelling at the guard and not at her. Had the camp leader changed his mind? Hope rushed to her head.
Then Nasir reached her, and his long fingers closed around her arm. Without another word to the guard, he dragged her off—not back to the main tent, nor to her makeshift shelter-slash-prison… She slowed and dug her heels into the sand when she realized their destination was his black tent.
“No,” she said like she meant it, as if her knees weren’t trembling under the worn abayah they made her wear. “No, please.” She feared Nasir more than she feared execution. At least a shot in the head would have been quick.
Some of the men leaving Umman’s tent stopped to watch as Nasir dragged her on effortlessly, paying no attention to her struggles. One shouted something in Arabic. Nasir didn’t respond.
Then they were inside the tent he alone occupied—he did not share like the others—and he let her go so suddenly that she sprawled onto the carpets.
He stepped toward her, but she scrambled away, looking frantically for a weapon. She dashed for the rifle that hung from the tent pole.
He got there first.
Her breath lodged in her throat. Fear raked its sharp talons down her skin.
“Take it easy,” he said in near perfect English. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Her body went still as she stared. Other than a few grunted words, he’d never spoken her language before. A few seconds passed before she gathered enough courage to address him, moving slowly as far from him as the tent allowed.
“You’ll wait for the money? How many days?” Even if all they gave her was a single extra day, she’d have tonight to escape.
“I wouldn’t recommend running away,” he said as if reading her thoughts, and sat to block the tent’s opening, his rifle laid across his knees. “It’s safer here. Nobody will hurt you now.”
What part of her hostage-waiting-for-execution position did he consider safe? Surprised, she looked into his face, then quickly away when she realized her mistake. She’d been beaten by one of the other men for that in the beginning. She was to speak when spoken to and keep her eyes on her feet when not on her work.
But Nasir didn’t become outraged. After a moment, she glanced back, hoping to read his true intentions in his expression.
“Why?” she asked cautiously.
He held her gaze for a while, his sable eyes burning into hers, his features hard with a large dose of displeasure. “Because you’re mine.” The words fell from his lips slowly, distinctly.
“Ah… What?”
“I claimed you in front of the others.”
Mother of God, help me now. She could only imagine what he’d claimed her for.
“No.” She squared on him, prepared to fight. If she could disable him, maybe she could stay hidden in his tent until nightfall then take off—provided that he didn’t have any visitors in the meanwhile.
“It’ll buy you time,” he said mildly.
“For what?” Was he playing with her? Was it some sick game he wanted before he pounced?
“To find a safe way out. I’m here for some information. As soon as I have it, I’ll take you to the nearest village.”
Was he lying so later he could catch her off guard? She watched him cautiously and weighed his words. He hadn’t hurt her, not once. Her fear of him stemmed from watching him with the other men. Emotions ran high in camp, and the bandits were often at each others’ throats. Nasir hadn’t started any fights, but he finished many.
“Are you—” She sat back down, trying to put the pieces together. “Are you an undercover policeman or something?”
“Hardly.” He gave a rueful grin that softened his face.
She stared, a second or so passing before she said, “But you’re definitely not going to hurt me?” She wanted to make sure that was nailed down.
“You are safe in my tent.”
She would consider believing that if she was still alive and untouched by the end of the day. She eyed the curved dagger tucked into his sash. “So, who are you exactly?”
“Nasir.”
She’d been hoping for something beyond that.
“A spy?” The question slipped out as it occurred to her. He had said he was here to gather some kind of information.
“I’m here on my own business.”
And she would just bet his business wasn’t the good kind. She hadn’t been mistaken when she’d seen murder in his eyes. But as long as it didn’t involve her and he would help her out of here, she was willing to overlook it.
“How long before you leave?”
“As soon as I have the information I came for.” He stood, set down the rifle and pulled up an extra carpet, fastened it to the poles so it neatly divided the tent.
He moved like a warrior, unhurried, efficient. Who was he? Who had he been before joining the desert bandits’ camp?
In some ways, he was very much like the others, just as tough and better in a fight, but a thin veil of civilization clung to him that set him apart, which was especially noticeable now that he let his guard down in front of her.
“Where did you learn English?” she asked.
He worked on fixing the partition without answering. “You may use this side,” he said politely when he was done.
He was confusing the hell out of her. He would allow her out of his sight?
He surprised her further by handing her his dagger. “In case you need to defend yourself. Your continued stay does not make everyone happy.”
She pulled the sharp blade from its sheath with hesitation and stared at it. Why arm her? She could kill him in his sleep.
“You could try,” he said, guessing her thoughts again, and she could swear she saw a hint of a smile hover above his lips. “I wouldn’t recommend it,” he added before turning on his heels and ducking out of the tent.
She spent a couple of seconds staring after him before springing to action, realizing she was wasting a precious opportunity. For the first time in weeks, she was truly alone. Nasir’s tent sheltered her from prying eyes as her prison never had with its wide gaps between the rough boards. She took a quick inventory. Two large water skins hanging from the main tent pole, several bags that looked like they’d been made of carpet remnants and a few bowls that were neatly lined up by the tent wall next to a stack of clothing.
She went to the water first and drank as much as she could without making her pilfering obvious. Then she rummaged through the bags and found food, small canvas sacks that held dried figs and some kind of jerky, probably goat. She hurriedly ate a couple of each as she conducted a thorough search of the tent. She found a cell phone and hope shook her hands as she tried to turn it on, but the battery was dead. It would have been too good to be true.
Still, for the first time since she’d been kidnapped, she had free access to food and water. And she had a weapon. Here, in front of her, was everything she needed to escape.
The more she thought about trusting Nasir’s offer, the worse the idea of waiting for him to get her out of here seemed. She would be a fool to hang around to see if he would keep his word and take her to safety. He could change his mind. Umman could change his mind. Ahmed, who’d been after her from day one, could finally find an opportunity to do her real harm. She would never be safe as long as she was inside this miserable camp.
The only person she could trust was herself. She would save herself. As soon as night fell. Whatever she had to do.
I could kill if I had to. The thought came out of nowhere and took her by surprise. Yes, she could kill, although at a price to herself, both as a doctor and a human being. But she could. When backed into a corner, all living things fought for life.
She hadn’t realized that, not until today when she was dragged from Umman’s tent to be executed. Tonight she would do whatever it took to get away, even if it meant taking another life to save her own.
She tucked the dagger into the waistband of the pants she wore under her long robe. For the first time in her life, the presence of a weapon made her feel better. She stepped out of the tent with caution, intending to go no farther than the semisecluded spot behind the area where the dozen or so camels usually lounged, the place she’d been using to relieve herself.
She’d gone only a few yards from Nasir’s tent, dodging the men who were going about their business, when Ahmed spotted her and strode over, his fat mouth set into a thin line of displeasure. He marched his pudgy body through the sand with jerky steps, keeping his small, dark eyes on her, yelling from afar. “Woman! Whore!”
She stopped, hoping he wanted nothing more than to give her some small, humiliating task as usual, like scraping goat dung from his sandals. She would quickly do whatever he required. Tonight she’d be free. She couldn’t allow anything to get to her.
“You feed camels. Water camels,” he said.
Taking care of the animals was his responsibility—every man had his own task to keep the camp running. He was probably angry that Nasir had stopped her execution. He was probably looking to reassert his authority over her, to show her that as long as she was in camp, she would remain their slave.
Sadie nodded, the very picture of obedience, and cast a worried glance toward the camels, making sure she looked fearful, hoping that would be sufficient. Ahmed usually left her alone once he figured he had tortured her enough for one day. If he thought the task left her trembling, he might be satisfied with that and not think up any further ways to distress her.
The animals were twice the size of camels she’d seen in Yemen at the market where the local Doctors Without Borders liaison had taken the group of international physicians she was a part of the day after their arrival at the small field hospital.
The trip to the market had been the first and last that she’d been able to participate in. Three days later, the hospital was raided, the supply room robbed. She had the misfortune of being inside it when the bandits had come.
“Work,” Ahmed shouted at her and shoved her forward.
She moved obediently, semisecure in the knowledge that now that Nasir had claimed her, Ahmed could only demand work from her and nothing more. He had come to her during the night once before, insisting on another kind of service. By putting her body weight against the door of tightly tied branches, she’d been able to keep him out. Her prison, devised to prevent her from escaping during the night, had saved her.
He was yelling at her in Arabic, and she picked up the pace, walking toward the tent Ahmed shared with three others and the large bags of camel feed. She hadn’t seen Nasir’s shorter, leaner camel among the rest of the beasts. He’d probably ridden out of camp.
Her instincts prickled when instead of going off to enjoy having passed on his morning chores, Ahmed seemed intent on following her inside the tent.
“I feed the camels,” she said as she stepped through the flap, keeping her head down in an attempt not to anger any of the other men she’d expected to find inside.
The tent was empty.
She couldn’t step back. Ahmed was right behind her.
Get the work done, get out. Fast.
She went to the sacks, filled the bucket, moving purposefully, ignoring the bad feeling she was getting from the man who watched her.
He made his move as she was about to head back outside, blocking her way, looking at her with so much heat, so much hate.
“I’ll feed the camels,” she said and stepped forward to pass by him.
He wouldn’t have it.
She was close enough now to smell his breath, the sour sweat of his body. Several weeks’ worth of dirt was ground into his patched-up, faded camouflage uniform. She stole a glance at the look of determination in his face.
He was not going to let her go.
The dagger. Since she had the bucket in her right hand, she bent to set it down slowly, as if giving in to his will. But in a sudden move, he knocked the camel feed from her and had both of her hands pinned to her side. She struggled against him. He was strong, stronger than she’d thought.
“Stop.” She fought back with everything she had, kicking, trying to smack her forehead into his face, doing anything and everything to make up for not being able to use her hands. “Let me go!” Desperation gave strength to her voice.
The carpets tangled under their feet, making it harder for her to find her balance. She twisted and kicked backward, got him in the knee by pure chance. His hold loosened at last. Almost clear. Then she tripped on her robe just as he grabbed for her, and they went down together with a solid thud that stole the air from her lungs.
Chapter Two
“Civilian casualties will be significant.”
Majid glared at the man who dared to voice his ridiculous concern. When a sculptor created a beautiful piece of art, was he criticized for the marble chippings he left on the floor? “If anyone dies, it’s the usurper’s fault. The people will understand that.”
And once he was king again and the media was under his thumb, he would make sure everyone would see it his way. Casualties. Of course there’d be casualties. Bismillah! He was reshaping his country.
Those who committed treason should suffer. How quickly they had jumped to the usurper’s side, forgetting their lawful king. They should be punished. The leaders of the traitors would be rounded up and taken care of—certainly his cousin’s family. The others he would let live. He needed people if he wanted to collect taxes. He needed workers for the country he was even now preparing to birth.
“How many men do we have?” he asked his temporary council.
His secret advisors consisted of a few sheiks whose tribes were involved in weapons smuggling and as such benefited from his venture. Also those to whom he had promised land, and two semiinfluential industrialists who hoped for sizable oil contracts from his government once he was restored to the Beharrainian throne. All were enemies of the current false king, people he had angered by interfering with their business and limiting their income.
Today they all gathered to talk war in the large cave Majid was using as his headquarters at the moment.
“We have ten thousand men,” the oldest of the sheiks said.
“That’s enough.” Saeed had less than that when he’d stolen the throne four years ago from Majid. He would pay for that. “Once that devil’s spawn of a cousin of mine is dead and the palace is ours, the army will switch sides and follow their rightful king.”
That’s how it had been before—a lesson he had learned well. His entire army had deserted in a single day, seeing Saeed’s rising power, fearing for their worthless hides. They were disloyal to Majid before. They would be disloyal now to Saeed.
“The time is here, my friends,” he said as a calm settled over him. To rule was his destiny. “We will cut off the head of the snake and stomp out his nest.”
Saeed, the false king, would soon be executed and so would his whore, his American wife.
He would spare only Salah, Saeed’s son, eight years old now and fancied to be heir. For him, he had other plans.
His three-year-old twin daughters couldn’t be allowed to live, either—they might have sons when grown. Nobody who could ever claim any connection to the throne and come back to haunt him would be left alive. That included Nasir, the king’s brother. He was the more dangerous of the two. Had he taken any wives yet? Had he sired any children? He would have to be looked at carefully.
Majid took a sip of spiced coffee, then set the cup onto the stone ledge by his side. The first time he took the throne, he’d been lenient with his cousins. He would not make that mistake twice. This time when he was finished, they and everyone they held dear would be dead.
WHERE WAS SHE?
Nasir scanned the small camp. Her prison cell was empty. So was his tent. Of all the other tents, only one had its flap down. He strode toward that, fairly certain that he would find her inside.
She couldn’t have run away, not yet. The desert was void of life around them as far as the eye could see. She couldn’t have passed out of sight in the short time since he’d last seen her. And somebody would have noticed her walking away if she’d tried. Not that he didn’t think she would attempt to escape. But she wasn’t stupid. She would wait for a better opportunity.
The first sounds of struggle reached him when he was a few meters from the tent. He broke into a run, threw the flap open when he reached it and saw the desperate struggle on the floor.
“Ahmed!” Rage flooded him as he lifted the hefty bastard off the woman, threw him aside and stepped between the two, willing the man to fight.
“You had no right to her.” Ahmed spat the words and charged, his face red with effort and fury.
Nasir was ready for him, his body braced. Ahmed had the advantage of weight, but the disadvantage of inexperience. Nasir ducked his blow.
Ahmed would be trouble over and over again until dealt with. Over the past weeks, he had developed a deep-seated hatred for Nasir. The man was way too hotheaded. Nasir relaxed his limbs and focused on the fight. He could not allow anyone to put his mission in jeopardy. He watched his opponent, noticing the way he shifted his weight and planned his next attack to come in low.
The only way to stop him for good was to kill him, but Ahmed was a distant relative of Umman, and Nasir couldn’t afford to turn the camp leader against him until he got what he had come for.
“Son of a whore.” Ahmed charged again.
Nasir turned, twisted so the man missed with the second punch and stumbled outside through the flap, pushed by his own momentum. Nasir stepped after him, waited for the next attack and dropped the bastard, nice and clean—with admirable restraint—in front of plenty of witnesses.
Without checking whether Ahmed was getting up or not—he wouldn’t be…not for a while—Nasir stepped into the tent, grabbed Sadie by the arm and dragged her outside, making a show of it.
He couldn’t find a single look of disapproval among the men who were gathering around. Good. They understood his actions and accepted it.
“Come.” He pulled Sadie behind him roughly. They would expect that, for him to assume her guilt in the matter without questioning. Punishing her now for being in a tent alone with another man was his responsibility, his right, even if he deemed the necessary punishment to be death.
He shoved her inside his tent with great show but a gentle hand, then closed the flap behind them. Plenty of light filtered through the thinly woven side panels to see, the tent having been made to allow for the circulation of air.
“How bad did he hurt you?”
Her eyes brimmed with mistrust and fear. She pulled away from him a little too abruptly and backed into one of the tent poles, causing her headscarf and attached veil that had loosened in her fight with Ahmed to slip down now, coming to rest around her neck.
He was stunned by her short blond hair, barely covering her ears.
He didn’t like it.
It seemed indecent—long hair was Allah’s adornment for women. Still, for all that, the exotic color and shape suited her face.
She scrambled to cover herself, her eyes cast down, her fingers trembling.
“Leave it,” he said. She belonged to him now, his tent was her home—an odd and uncomfortable thought. But it meant that even according to the strictest customs she was allowed to go unveiled as long as it was just the two of them.
She hesitated in midmotion, the fear and mistrust on her fair face undiminished.
It annoyed him. Bismillah, he’d never given her a reason to fear him. “I had to act firmly.” He realized that he’d begun to pace, and stopped. “Umman’s men would expect you to be punished.”
Beharrain was on the path of progress, but in the outlying areas many people lived according to the strict rules demanded by Wahhabism. Majid’s supporters, in particular, claimed themselves to be staunch conservatives, although their backward ideas had little to do with old customs or the words of the Prophet. Because of them, one could still hear news of women killed for tarnishing the honor of their families. They considered rape a woman’s fault.
The American doctor lowered her arms and her head with them. And for some reason that defied logic, her supplication annoyed him.
“They expected me to be mad,” he said, wondering if she could truly understand. And he was mad, although not at her. He would have gladly strangled Ahmed. “Are you hurt?” he asked again.
She nodded and said after a brief pause, “Minor bruises. Thank you for getting me out.” But still, she wouldn’t look at him.
From a woman of his own culture that would have been a sign of respect. From her, that she was still afraid of him felt like an affront.
What did it matter? Whether she feared or despised him had no significance. He could and would see her to safety all the same. They had no business beyond that.
“The dagger?” he asked.
She fumbled with her robe and produced it after a few moments. “Couldn’t get to it.”
He could see why and cursed himself for not thinking of it before. The task was cumbersome. She had to gather up the folds of her long abayah first. He fixed the problem by stepping up to her and grabbing the black material, ripping a four-inch hole in the side where her hand could fit through if she needed to access the dagger in a hurry.
“That should do.” He hadn’t anticipated Ahmed to go this far this fast. At least the humiliation of his public loss should keep him in check for a few days. Nasir stepped back and prayed to Allah he wouldn’t need any more time than that.
In another day or so, the convoy they were all waiting for would be coming. He would do whatever it took to get Majid’s whereabouts from them. There was a connection between Umman and Majid, he was sure of it.
“Stay clear of Ahmed. As much as you can, stay in this tent.” He could not look away from the golden hair that curled at her nape and around her ears. He’d seen western women before—he’d been abroad on occasion and didn’t much care for it—but she was in his tent. “If you must step outside—” She would have to, if nothing else than to relieve herself. “Cover up.”
“How long before we go?” she asked, everything about her hesitant.
But he’d had a few glimpses of another woman, one that he suspected was the true Dr. Kauffman.
She’d been different when he’d first arrived to camp. And when she’d fought her executioner this morning, she’d fought like a tigress.
“A few days,” he answered her question.
Her gaze was cast at her feet, thick, dark-blond lashes shading her eyes. Perhaps so he wouldn’t see in them that she had no intention of staying that long. He said nothing, knowing it would be pointless to warn her.
She would do what she thought was necessary.
Then he would do whatever needed to be done.
NASIR LAY IN THE DARK and stared at the ceiling of the tent. It had to be past midnight.
The American woman, Sadie, had been gone for about two hours.
He didn’t blame her—he would have done the same—but neither could he let her go to her death. What did she know about the open desert?
He would wait another hour or two before he went after her—enough time for her to realize the mistake she’d made. She was on foot. She would be exhausted by then and lost. She would know she had failed. He had to wait that out—he couldn’t afford to watch her every second of the day. For her own sake, she had to accept that staying with him was her best chance for survival.
In general, he believed that the fewer foreigners in the country, the better. Most of them came to his part of the world for gain, at the expense of his people. He trusted only one, Dara, his brother’s wife, another American. Dara would want him to look after Sadie, but it wasn’t his only reason for doing so. He was Bedu and he lived by the code of the Bedu, the sharaf, part of which was protecting women.
There were some religious fanatics who considered only Arab women worthy of protection, not even the women, really, but their virtue. And if they deemed that lost, they thought it just and right that the woman should be killed, that they were worthless without it. Anger boiled in his blood at the thought. Never had the Prophet, blessed be his name, required the killing of the innocent.
He was conservative and proud of it. There was much in his culture he wished to preserve. But he had nothing to do with this new breed of religious devotees who sought to rule by terror, preach purity in the streets, then engage in the vilest acts of immorality behind their walls. And these fanatics who’d had free reign under the previous king were now plotting against the new ruler, Saeed, Nasir’s brother.
Nasir looked up to the ceiling of the tent and swore to Allah he would stop them. As long as there ran blood in his veins, he would protect his people and his family. And beyond them, he would protect all who needed his help. He was Bedu.
SADIE WALKED FORWARD in the sand, pulled her headscarf from her pocket and mopped her forehead that beaded with sweat from the effort. She’d decided to leave it off until the sun came up and grew hot enough to necessitate cover.
Her small pack of food and water seemed to weigh thirty pounds. She adjusted the sack over her back. She was thirsty, but was determined to ration what little water she had. She was tired, but resolved not to stop until sunup, to use every minute of cool air for walking. She moved forward toward a bright star she could not name. By keeping to it, she made sure she would go in a straight line instead of in circles.
Other than that one precaution, she was pretty much lost.
When she’d started out, she’d walked in the direction Nasir had rode in from a few weeks back. He had to have come from somewhere.
She hoped it wasn’t another bandit camp.
God, he confused her.
He was some grade A badass, to use an expression she’d learned from a ten-year-old boy she’d once treated for a broken leg in the ER. And yet, Nasir had saved her from execution, and then saved her from Ahmed. Why? For himself? He had claimed her. God, did he know what century this was?
He would see her to safety, he’d said. She wasn’t about to trust anyone who had anything to do with the people who’d kept her captive.
She glanced behind her as she had from time to time, although if the bandits came after her, she figured she would hear the motors of their pickups before she saw them. The moon provided enough light to walk by, but she could see only a fraction as far as during the day.
She yanked her right foot as it sank into the sand. The foot came up, her sandal didn’t. She leaned her weight on the other foot to search for it. The fine sand seemed to be crumbling around her, flowing like water. She tried to brace herself, waiting to touch solid bottom, thinking it a windblown spot where the soil was looser. She was in up to her knees before she realized the seriousness of her situation.
Quicksand.
“Help!” The terror-filled cry tore from her lips without thought, dousing her with desperation once it was out. Who could help her here? Nobody. There was none.
She tossed her bag clear, tried to tug her feet free, no longer caring about the sandals. But as soon as she made headway with one foot, the other sank deeper. She squirmed. No. She had to stop that.
Spread the bodyweight. She remembered some childhood advice on what to do if the ice cracked on the pond she and the neighbor kids had used for skating in the winter. The same principle should apply here. She lowered herself onto the top of the sand, hoping she could somehow crawl to safety.
But within minutes, she was in to her waist and knew there could be no way out.
Stop. Stop. She forced herself to stay still instead of madly scrambling like instinct pushed her. She held her breath, watched the sand. She was still sinking, but slower now.
How long did she have? She had sunk up to her chest in about fifteen minutes. If she hadn’t moved at all, could she gain another fifteen? What would be the use? What were the chances that someone happened along? Yet the instinct to survive would not let her give up. She grappled desperately for an idea as she held her body in iron control, utterly still, to buy herself as much time as possible.
Fifteen minutes.
She wouldn’t think of what would come after that. She was a doctor; she knew what it meant to die by suffocation.
She tipped her head to look at the stars.
The sand squeezed her, held her tight. She kept her arms above it, her neck stretched once she sank to her chin. A few more minutes. She took deep breaths to keep the panic at bay. Then the sand came over her mouth. The desert sand had the consistency of fine dust, unlike the gritty beach sand she’d known all her life, and it felt like drowning in talcum powder.
When the sand covered her nose, panic kicked in and she could hold still no longer. She thrashed, made it to the surface for another full breath, called out again, her subconscious mind flashing a name, “Nasir!” before she went completely under. She couldn’t stop struggling now even knowing each movement took her under faster.
Her lungs burned, stars growing and exploding behind her closed eyelids.
She clamped her mouth shut against the reflex to open and try to gulp nonexistent air.
As her hands, the last of her, went under, she clawed at the sand. She thought she heard a shout. Hard to tell over the blood that rushed loudly in her ears. Maybe the voice had been nothing but a trick of her oxygen-deprived brain. Then something solid brushed against the tip of her fingers, and she jerked to get back to it. She desperately searched around, clinging to the last few seconds of life she had.
A hand wrapped around her wrist and heaved hard. She started to come up little by little, her lungs ready to explode. She was barely aware now what was happening, focused with the last vestiges of consciousness on the strength of the hand that was pulling her back from death.
WHEN HE’D BEEN A CHILD, he’d had nightmares about quicksand—torturous dreams that had seemed to go on forever. He used to wake in terror, covered in sweat, gasping for air in the night.
Reality was worse, Nasir thought, and hung on to the slim hand, holding his breath under the sand. He jerked his right foot—he had dove in headfirst and his right foot was the only part still above ground—and yanked on the rope again, urging his camel to a faster walk. Ronu obeyed and pulled he and Sadie up, inch by slow inch.
Soon his head was free, and he took his first breath of air, coughed out the sand that had gotten into his mouth.
“Faster!” he yelled at the camel in Arabic and yanked the rope again.
The arm he held under the sand had gone limp.
He pulled with all his strength and once the hand was up, he let it go and reached below, hooked under her armpits. As soon as her head appeared, blue-faced and barely recognizable, he stopped and reached into her mouth with his fingers to clean out the sand.
He put his ear to her lips.
Nothing.
Ronu kept pulling. He paid little attention to the animal now, barely registering as they reached solid ground again after a few seconds. He called out to the camel to stop, then turned all his attention to the woman in his arms. He wiped his hand then reached deep into her throat with his fingers to clear it, flipped her over his arm, thumped her back to dislodge anything else that might be in there. When he turned her once more, he sealed his lips to hers and forced air into her lungs. He was probably blowing some sand into her air pipe, but he had to take that chance. If he succeeded in reviving her, she could cough that out.
He pulled away and pressed his ear to her chest. A second passed then another. He breathed for her again then swore as he waited for signs of life.
You should have come after her sooner.
He would have, but he had run into Ahmed, who’d been lurking around her old shack, and they’d had words. He had to make sure Ahmed was settled before he could ride off into the desert.
He pressed his lips to hers one more time, ignoring the sand between them, and pushed air into her.
And then she coughed, al hamdu lillah! Praise God.
“Sadie?” He called her name, shook out his kaffiyeh and used it to wipe her eyes, then pulled the flask off his belt and poured some water on her face. Drop after sandy drop rolled off her eyelashes, her cheeks, her lips.
Her eyelids fluttered and she raised a sand-covered hand on reflex to rub them. He held her down and used more water instead to keep her from rubbing in sand.
She was coughing in earnest now, a terrible, choking sound, but a sound of life nevertheless that filled him with relief.
He helped her sit. “Sadie?”
She drew wheezing gulps of air and looked dazed and lost. “What happened?” She could barely get the words out, but her face was turning a healthier color.
“You walked into quicksand.”
Her expression changed as she remembered. Her hand clamped on to his arm and wouldn’t let go.
He’d seen Dara like that with his brother, Saeed, when something was wrong with one of the children. Bedu women comforted each other. Western women seemed to require this also from men.
He considered putting his arm around her, but it didn’t seem honorable to touch a woman like that who was neither his sister nor his wife.
She solved his dilemma by having another coughing fit and collapsing against him.
His back stiffened in surprise, but he found himself reluctant to pull away. He tapped her slim back a couple of times, gently, awkwardly, giving thanks to Allah when her coughing quieted.
She didn’t have much of a body under the long, ample dress. He hadn’t realized that, her fragility. She had stood up to every hardship she’d encountered since he’d met her, endured whatever Umman and his men had thrown her way.
She pulled away after a few seconds—too soon. She wasn’t nearly steady. He hadn’t minded offering her comfort. The contact seemed to calm him, too. Having her that close, touching, was a good reminder that she hadn’t been lost. He had gotten to her in time.
He would never forget the sight as he rode over the last dune and saw her head break free from under the sand ahead, her last breath used to call his name.
He cleared his throat. “Rest. We have time.”
She rubbed the sand off her hands then did her best to clean it out of her neck, her hair.
“In a few days,” he said to reassure her, “I will see you safe. You can’t walk through the desert alone.”
“I think I figured that one out.” She coughed briefly, looking at him fully in the face again, for the first time since their short initial talk in his tent.
A long minute of silence passed, then another.
“Why did you save me?” she asked.
He looked back at the round indentation just a few feet away, the patch of ground that could have taken the both of them.
“My father was swallowed by quicksand,” he surprised himself by saying instead of trying to find an answer to her question.
She seemed to pale, although it could have been a trick of the moonlight. “I’m sorry. That’s— It must have been terrible.”
He untied the rope from his ankle at last, ignoring the burn on his skin, and stood. He unhooked the other end from Ronu’s saddle and rolled the rope up, put it away. He brought back more water for her, picked up his rifle from the sand and swung it over his shoulder, then stuck his handgun into his sash while she drank. He sat cross-legged in front of her, at a respectable distance.
“Can you not tell me who you are?” she asked between gulps.
“I’m not a bandit,” he said, and hoped she would believe him this time.
“THEN WHAT ARE YOU DOING with them?” Sadie shot back. “How do I know you’re not going to sell me for my kidney to some rich oilman on dialysis?”
She wasn’t entirely joking. She had treated just such a patient at the field hospital the day before she’d been taken by the bandits. The young man, not yet eighteen, had been kidnapped from the streets of his village, taken to a private clinic where one of his kidneys had been removed for an illegal transplant.
He was treated until recovery, then dropped back off at the same spot, his pockets stuffed with money.
Not that this kind of thing happened every day, but the point was, it did happen. Then there was the sex slave industry and other lovely possibilities she didn’t care to find out about up-close and personal.
“I’m Sheik Nasir ibn Ahmad ibn Salim ben Zayed.”
“Sheik? As in king?” Whatever she’d speculated about him over the past weeks, she wouldn’t have guessed that.
“No, no. Sheik of my tribe,” he said modestly.
His olive skin seemed darker in the moonlight, his black eyelashes speckled with sand. How far under had he gone into the quicksand to get her?
“My brother is the king,” he added.
She gaped. “King of what?”
“Beharrain.”
That explained a few things. Nasir’s excellent English for example. Beharrain’s queen was an American woman. Dara somebody. She would be Nasir’s sister-in-law.
“Are we in Beharrain?” The possibility occurred to her suddenly. Had the bandits crossed the border with her to the small kingdom to the north?
“As a Beharrainian, I would say yes. If you ask a Yemeni, they would say we’re in Yemen. If you ask a Saudi, they’d tell you we are most certainly in their country.”
Oh. They were in the desert where Beharrain, Saudi Arabia and Yemen met, a vast area where borders were sometimes fluid, sometimes nonexistent. To indicate this, they were drawn tentatively with dotted lines on the map.
“We’re in no man’s land—no army, no police—a haven for bandits, smugglers and the odd terrorist training camp,” he confirmed her thoughts.
She pressed her knuckles against her eyelids for a long moment. In hindsight, she might have been a tad optimistic thinking that she was just going to walk out of the place. She shook her head and muttered, “I suppose I’ve been embarrassingly naive.”
“Courage is never worthy of embarrassment.”
“How about foolishness?” She looked at him.
“You’re safest with me.” He held her gaze.
And she wondered if it might not be best to try to believe him. “So what are you doing with the bandits?”
“I’m looking for someone. It’s personal.” His face hardened into his fierce warrior look.
“And when you find him, you’ll kill him?” she asked, then added in a more subdued voice, “I’d prefer the truth, even if it makes me uncomfortable.”
“Yes.” He said the single word without looking away.
“You can’t leave him to the law?”
“The law had him. He escaped from prison.”
“What did he do to you?”
He took a slow breath. “He killed my father.”
Confused, she tilted her head. “I thought you said he was swallowed by quicksand.”
“He was shot. His horse, with him still in the saddle, was forced into quicksand to cover it up. Then my enemy stole the country and murdered my people,” he went on.
Was he talking about the previous king? She remembered something vaguely from the media. “Wasn’t he made to stand trial?”
“Once my brother took power, yes. But he escaped from prison and now he is gathering followers, planning on assassinating the rest of my family and taking back the throne.”
“So your brother sent you after him?”
His lips stretched into what might or might not have been a reluctant smile. “Saeed has infinite faith in the laws he restored, in the system, in his army. He still does not fully realize how far Majid will go to regain power. My brother thinks I’m on vacation in Paris.”
“Paris?” She blinked.
With his headdress and tattered black robe, a rifle slung over his back and a handgun tucked into the sash at his waist, he didn’t look like the typical sightseer around the Eiffel Tower.
He caught her glance skipping over him and tipped his head, the expression on his face, the look in his sable eyes hardening. “All Arabs are not thieves and murderers. We are like any other people. Sometimes, we even go on vacation.”
“I didn’t mean to imply—” Had she offended him? She forgot whatever she was going to say and came up with another question. “Why are you looking for the old king here?”
He watched her for a moment before answering. “Majid is using the area to recruit. I followed his trail. He has some connection to Umman. A smuggler’s convoy is coming in any day now. They will bring guns Majid is sending. I’m going to talk to the men on the convoy and find out where he is now. Then I’ll go to him. I will take you to safety on my way.”
“Thank you,” she said and shook the last of the sand from her hair, then realized her headdress wasn’t anywhere around.
The quicksand had swallowed it. A shiver ran down her spine as she glanced at the spot. “And thank you for coming after me, for saving my life again.” When she turned back to Nasir, she found him watching her.
“We should go,” he said.
She stood at once and went for her pack a few yards away while he called to his camel. Ronu, she remembered his name. He was sleek and beautiful, different from the camels Umman kept that were twice as tall and several times as bulky.
She petted the animal’s neck before Nasir talked him into lowering himself to the ground. She got on without trouble. She’d never had any fear of animals. In her experience, men were far more dangerous.
“Well done,” Nasir said when he was up behind her and Ronu was standing. He sounded surprised.
“I used to ride horses,” she explained.
“He usually spits at strangers who come near him.”
“Is he bad tempered?” She leaned forward so she could pet the animal’s neck again. “He seems nice to me.”
Nasir’s response was a single grunt as he nudged the camel to walking. After a few minutes, once she got used to the swaying caused by Ronu’s uneven gait, she settled into her spot and enjoyed the ride.
“He looks different from the others,” she said.
“A different breed. Umman’s camels have been bred for smuggling.”
“That’s why they look like tanks?”
“They can carry extreme loads over long distances.”
“What was this one bred for?”
“Racing.”
She could picture Nasir flying across the desert like some angel of vengeance, his dark robe billowing behind him. The sight would be fit for a movie screen. “How fast can he go?” She half turned in the saddle.
He looked at her with a dangerous glint in his sable eyes. “Would you like to see?”
She nodded, trusting him to know what he was doing.
He’d saved her from execution, from rape and from quicksand. Knowing who he was—the Beharrainian king’s brother and not a bandit—set her at ease. And that he spoke her language helped, too.
She was alive. The thought hit her out of nowhere and a sense of giddiness came with it. How many times had she faced death in the last twenty-four hours? She didn’t want to think of it. She was alive!
As Ronu gathered speed, she bobbed perilously, until she stopped fighting it and let her body slide against Nasir’s. His solid bulk behind her had a steadying effect. Many Arab men she’d seen so far had a slight build. Nasir didn’t. He was strong and tall, wide-shouldered. And he was on her side.
She was going to make it out of here. A few days, he had said. That was all his business would take. This time next week she would be home.
Chapter Three
“It’s amazing,” she shouted over the pounding of hooves.
He had thought she would be scared once they got up to full speed, but she seemed thrilled. By the ride, or simply happy to be alive. He had never ridden with a woman before and with a man only when he was a child. Camel saddles didn’t accommodate two people well. She was practically sitting on his lap. Nasir kept his eyes on the horizon.
“Do you ride horses?” she shouted back the question.
“Sometimes.”
His tribe bred some of the finest horses in the country. But there was a thrill in a good old-fashioned camel race that those who participated in found addictive.
The animals could take on long-distance races that lasted several days across the desert, arid terrains no horse could have handled. Not every contestant made it to the finish line, nor every animal. These races tried a man. There was something primal, uncivilized about them, and often made him imagine his grandfather racing madly on a raid.
And that image brought to mind the bandit camp and Umman, even though they were a far cry from the honest raiders of the past.
“Your people did not pay your ransom,” he said. “Why?”
“Policy. If one kidnapper got money, everybody would start hunting for Americans.”
He could see the truth in that. If someone close to him got kidnapped he wouldn’t pay, either. He would hunt down the kidnappers and kill them, take back what was his. “Your people are looking for you?”
“I’m sure they are, but Umman moved the camp after they took me. I kept hoping somebody would find me…”
“I found you,” he said. “You’ll be fine.” He would see to it.
Her body was covered in her black abayah, her head wrapped in his plain white kaffiyeh against the rising sun. When she half turned, he caught a glimpse of golden hair escaping at her temple. “Why are you helping me?” she asked.
He owed as much to his sister-in-law. Sadie was from the same country as Dara. “You are a woman in need, alone. In our culture, every man owes his protection to such a woman.” Both of those reasons were true, and yet even together they didn’t explain the protective urge he felt for her.
“Could have fooled me,” she muttered.
“Umman and his men are criminals.” He did not want her to think ill of the country and culture he was so proud of. He could explain, he supposed, about the honor of the Bedu, but he wasn’t sure she would care. “You do not have enough sick people in your own country?” he asked. “Why did you come to Yemen?”
“Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Dangerous.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “I underestimated that. I thought I knew the risks and that the probability that anything would happen was slim enough to be acceptable.”
“And your family?”
“No time for one. I don’t need a man to be happy,” she said.
Happiness was beside the point. “You need one to be safe,” he explained.
“Not in my country.”
That might have been the case, but she certainly needed one in this part of the world. He wasn’t married, but he had sisters. He knew what kind of responsibility that brought to a man. Sadie had no one in this country. “I will protect you while you are here.”
He should be able to do that—see her safe at a friend’s house while he hunted Majid. Then when he was done, he would come for her and take her back to the palace with him where she would be truly safe until her return to her own country. Dara would be happy to receive her, he was sure.
She stayed quiet for a long time before she said, “Thank you.”
He took a deep breath, satisfied in the knowledge that he was doing the right thing. For the next few weeks, Sadie Kauffman would be like a sister to him.
He fixed that thought in his brain and ignored the way her lithe body felt as she rode in the circle of his arms.
SADIE WATCHED THE CAMP and forced herself to stay on the camel that was taking her closer. Now that the tents were near, her euphoria of having been saved from sure death was wearing off quickly. Coming back went against all her instincts. She’d escaped. For a few hours, she’d been free.
And she would be dead by now if not for Nasir, she reminded herself. She had to trust him.
“We’ve got visitors,” he said and slowed Ronu to a walk.
A few seconds passed before she, too, spotted the beat-up Jeep that she hadn’t seen before. Once they were close enough, she could even make out the license plate—Yemeni.
She scanned the camp for strangers, but couldn’t spot any among the men who were out and about. One of them yelled over to Nasir.
She felt him stiffen in the saddle behind her. “What did he say?”
“The convoy is arriving today. A messenger rode ahead.”
The sudden hardness in his voice made her turn to him. He was looking toward Umman’s tent, the fierce intensity back on his face, darkness shadowing his eyes, tension tightening his mouth.
For a man who’d waited over a month for this very opportunity to gain information he needed, he didn’t look happy. Sadie, on the other hand, felt full of hope all of a sudden. As soon as he had his information, they could get the hell out of here. “You think we’ll be able to leave soon?”
“As soon as I can get my cousin’s whereabouts out of them.” Nasir made the camel lie down and slid off his back then helped her to the sand.
She stood aside, giving him room to unsaddle the animal. “How big do you think the convoy is?”
“I don’t expect more than a dozen men.”
She didn’t look forward to having more scary-looking, battle-hardened bandits and smugglers in camp. “Will they stay long?”
“A few days, probably. Long enough to rest for the return journey. It would be best if you stayed in my tent as much as possible while they are here.”
“No problem.” She wasn’t going to argue with that.
“Stay behind me,” he said, his voice laced with annoyance all of a sudden.
She soon saw the reason. Ahmed was strutting toward Nasir’s tent, derision on his face as he waited for them.
He said something in a hissing, hateful tone.
Nasir responded coolly and passed by him as if he weren’t even there.
“What was that about?” she asked once they were inside and Ahmed had strode off.
“Envy.” Nasir shrugged. “Because I have you and he can’t.”
She watched him in the dim light—his dark shape that dominated the tent, his noble features—and for a moment she wondered what it would be like to truly belong to a man like him. And then it occurred to her that there might be some woman somewhere who did belong to him.
“Do you have a family? Wife and children? Wives?” She corrected herself when she realized he might have more than one. The thought boggled her mind.
“I’m alone,” he said, and something in his voice made her think the statement went beyond his marital status.
“You have your sisters and your brother,” she said. At one point during the ride back, she’d asked him about the royal family.
“I have taken the path of revenge.” He tucked the saddle in the corner of the tent. “My brother will not understand it. He’s grown up with your western ideals, went to school in England. Forgiveness and reconciliation are his best friends, leaving the law to deal with the lawless.” He didn’t sound bitter as much as resigned.
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Dana Marton
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: POWERFUL SHEIK PROTECTS GORGEOUS DOCTOR IN THE DESERT HEATShe′d been stranded in the desert and held captive by a band of kidnappers. Then Sheik Nasir ibn Ahmad, one of the most menacing men she′d ever seen, promised to lead her to safety–Dr. Sadie Kaufman had little choice but to follow. Before long the sheik′s promises of protection played a vital role. For once they arrived at his palace it seemed someone beyond the walls still wanted her dead. The sheik insisted on keeping her close or Sadie would become another bandit′s bargaining chip. But could this sexy and indomitable man really be as good as he seemed…?