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Captured By A Sheikh
Jacqueline Diamond
HE'D COME TO CLAIM HIS CHILD…For Holly Rivers, giving her sister's baby a home and a father were her only priorities. So a marriage of convenience seemed the only solution–until a sensual stranger stole her and baby Ben and conquered her body and soul!The red-haired siren raising his son wasn't what Sheikh Sharif Al-Khalil had expected, nor was the white-hot passion that consumed them both. But love was a luxury he couldn't afford–Sharif's enemies had followed him from his homeland, threatening Holly and his child. Now Sharif was in a race against time–but could he save his son at the expense of Holly's life?


Sharif lifted the baby against his shoulder.
Ben’s little head came up, and two shiny eyes peered into his.
Love flooded through Sharif, so powerful that the breath caught in his throat. He could not deny the power that his child held over him. He had thought he could produce a son and then simply entrust him to the women in his family. The child had been intended as a gift to his homeland. Now he knew he would protect the child at any cost.
The bathroom door opened. The fragrance of Holly’s hair and the brightness of her spirit filled the room.
She tossed her borrowed shirt onto the bed. “I can wash that by hand….”
“We have a more important matter to—” He stopped, on catching sight of her changed appearance.
“Well?” she asked. “Is it that bad?”
Bad enough that he wanted to resume where they had left off, with a kiss that deepened into something that no man should contemplate with another man’s bride….
Dear Intrigue Reader,
A brand-new year, the launch of a new millennium, a new cover look—and another exciting lineup of pulse-pounding romance and exhilarating suspense from Harlequin Intrigue!
This month, Amanda Stevens gives new meaning to the phrase “men in uniform” with her new trilogy, GALLAGHER JUSTICE, about a family of Chicago cops. They’re tough, tender and totally to die for. Detective John Gallagher draws first blood in The Littlest Witness (#549).
If you’ve never been Captured by a Sheikh (#550), you don’t know what you’re missing! Veteran romance novelist Jacqueline Diamond takes you on a magic carpet ride you’ll never forget, when a sheikh comes to claim his son, a baby he’s never even seen.
Wouldn’t you just love to wake up and have the sexiest man you’ve ever seen take you and your unborn child into his protection? Well, Harlequin Intrigue author Dani Sinclair does just that when she revisits FOOLS POINT. My Baby, My Love (#551) is the second story set in the Maryland town Dani created in her Harlequin Intrigue book For His Daughter (#539).
Susan Kearney rounds out the month with a trip to the wildest American frontier—Alaska. A Night Without End (#552) is another installment in the Harlequin Intrigue bestselling amnesia promotion A MEMORY AWAY…. This time a woman wakes to find herself in a remote land in the arms of a sexy stranger who claims to be her husband.
And this is just the beginning! We at Harlequin Intrigue are committed to keeping you on the edge of your seat. Thank you for your enthusiastic support.
Sincerely,
Denise O’Sullivan
Associate Senior Editor, Harlequin Intrigue
Captured by a Sheikh
Jacqueline Diamond


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A former news reporter, Jacqueline Diamond has covered the police beat in several cities of Orange County, California, where this book is set. The author of more than twenty-five Harlequin romances, she’s married and has two sons.
Books by Jacqueline Diamond
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
435—AND THE BRIDE VANISHES
512—HIS SECRET SON
550—CAPTURED BY A SHEIKH
HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE
79—THE DREAM NEVER DIES
196—AN UNEXPECTED MAN
218—UNLIKELY PARTNERS
239—THE CINDERELLA DARE
270—CAPERS AND RAINBOWS
279—GHOST OF A CHANCE
315—FLIGHT OF MAGIC
351—BY LEAPS AND BOUNDS
406—OLD DREAMS, NEW DREAMS
446—THE TROUBLE WITH TERRY
491—A DANGEROUS GUY
583—THE RUNAWAY BRIDE
615—YOURS, MINE AND OURS
631—THE COWBOY AND THE HEIRESS
642—ONE HUSBAND TOO MANY
645—DEAR LONELY IN LA…
674—MILLION-DOLLAR MOMMY
687—DADDY WARLOCK
716—A REAL-LIVE SHEIKH
734—THE COWBOY AND THE SHOTGUN BRIDE
763—LET’S MAKE A BABY!
791—ASSIGNMENT: GROOM!
804—MISTLETOE DADDY



CAST OF CHARACTERS
Holly Rivers— She’s a dead ringer for her missing sister. Blood may be thicker than water, and so may deception.
Sheikh Sharif Al-Khalil— He doesn’t hesitate to take what he believes he’s entitled to, by whatever means necessary.
Jasmine “Jazz” Rivers— She took the sheikh’s money to have his baby, then disappeared. Is she an extortionist, or a murder victim?
Zahad Adran— Dispossessed of his own inheritance, the sheikh’s trusted aide might be looking to replace it with someone else’s.
Tevor Samuelson— Attorney, old friend and would-be bridegroom, he invites trust. But does he merit it?
Noreen Wheaton— Director of a surrogacy clinic, she’s been known to tamper with client files.
Manuel Estrellas— He risked his job and his life to tell Holly the truth of baby Ben’s parentage. Does he have a hidden agenda?
Yusuf Gozen— He’s sworn revenge on Sharif for the slaying of his despotic brother. Do his targets include the sheikh’s son and the woman he loves?
Special thanks to Gary Bale and Kelly Millard

Contents
Prologue (#ub9e89b76-fe7a-58ef-8c56-1c55feed4ef9)
Chapter One (#uce3f2d1c-eb68-5c95-a232-6acd53866853)
Chapter Two (#u31666bb6-693f-59bc-a1aa-10957015c19e)
Chapter Three (#ufd9f9487-fa64-540e-9a95-ce00baa362ee)
Chapter Four (#u299fa2f2-af11-5016-acc9-cd2fbda25d33)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue
October
Bahrim City, Alqedar, in southern Arabia
The surrogate mother was gone. And, with her, the baby due to be born in a few weeks.
Furious on hearing the news, Sheikh Sharif Al-Khalil clenched his fists. “The police in California—will they not help?”
Zahad Adran, the sheikh’s cousin, aide and chief of security at the palace, spread his hands in frustration. “They have found no signs of foul play, so there is no criminal investigation.”
The sheikh stared at his aide over the papers stacked on his broad desk, the contracts that would bring money for hospitals and schools. “I will fly to America at once. I must find my son!”
Beneath his red-and-white-checked kaffiyeh, the traditional headdress of his country, Zahad’s scarred face was wise beyond his years. “Cousin, let me deal with this situation. Our people need you, now more than ever.”
“The longer we wait, the harder it will be to find her!” Sharif could scarcely think beyond the need to retrieve the woman who would bear his child.
“If you approve, I will fly to California tomorrow and investigate,” Zahad said. “The director of the surrogacy clinic, Noreen Wheaton, has promised to cooperate. However, we must remember that the mother has many rights under American law.”
Angrily, the sheikh turned away. Mirrored in the glass of an arched window, his eyes glittered with rage. His sharp-featured face, hardened by warfare, was softened only slightly by a short beard and mustache, and by the white, banded headcloth that fell across the shoulders of his business suit.
Nine years ago, while Sharif was away fighting to free their country from a dictator, his wife, Yona, had died in childbirth. He would not risk the life of another woman he loved, but he had done his best to produce an heir.
Beyond the window sprawled Bahrim City, the second largest community in the Arabian nation of Alqedar. Its people depended on him. And he, apparently, had depended on the wrong woman. “She has sold herself already. Perhaps she now intends to raise the price.”
“If we must bribe the girl, so be it,” Zahad said. “Let us hope it is only money she wants, and not custody.”
Sharif swung back to face his cousin. Although he had read of custody battles when he was a college student in New York, this personal betrayal outraged him. “She signed a contract and accepted one hundred and fifty thousand dollars!”
“Of which the clinic has received only half pending the child’s birth,” Zahad reminded him. “In any case, my friend, we cannot ride in like warriors and take what is ours. Please allow me to handle this matter in your stead.”
Reluctantly, Sharif yielded. “Very well,” he said. “You will advise me the moment you learn of her whereabouts. I’ll join you there if this matter cannot be quickly resolved.”
Zahad bowed, although no such formalities were necessary between the two men. “Of course,” he said, and retreated.
Sharif reminded himself that his cousin was a capable man. It was, after all, Zahad who had found the Crestline View Clinic in the first place.
Southern California was one of the world’s few locations that offered high-quality medical facilities, lax laws regarding surrogate parenting, and a population of liberated young women. Even so, it had taken Mrs. Wheaton many tries to find a surrogate who met the sheikh’s high standards.
From the top desk drawer, he withdrew a photograph. It was the woman he knew as H. J. Rivers.
Her face riveted him, the hazel eyes strikingly intelligent within a heart-shaped face. She had dramatic dark-red hair and a gentle mouth that reminded him of Yona.
The accompanying description was spare. “Age twenty-five, never married, Ms. Rivers works as a manicurist at a beauty salon and lives with her older sister. She has sung professionally.
“She wishes to help Your Excellency secure your people’s future, and plans to use the money to make a demonstration recording to further her singing career.”
Mrs. Wheaton’s one qualm was that H. J. Rivers had never previously given birth. Sharif, however, preferred that his son have a virtuous mother. A woman who lived an apparently chaste life, sharing quarters with her sister, suited him well.
Now he wondered whether anything had been omitted or misrepresented. Above all, why had this beautiful woman disappeared with his soon-to-beborn son?
From the desk, he drew the other photograph, the one he had received four months ago. A blurry ultrasound image formed the shape of a baby boy, a son who would enrich his father’s life, and those of their people.
Sharif had fallen in love with this child from the moment he saw the picture. How could he bear to lose him?
Suddenly finding it hard to breathe, he threw open the window. Outside the palace, October sunshine baked mud-brick houses, and a breeze carried the aromas of coffee, spices and frankincense from an open-air marketplace. It was a poor city, although rich in tradition.
The entire Arabian nation of Alqedar had its share of economic woes, but it was the fifty-thousand residents of Bahrim City and its environs who concerned Sharif, because they fell under his family’s protection. For the first time, prosperity lay within reach.
The region’s twisted, pale Jubah trees yielded a silklike fiber prized for its softness and durability. Recently, the fiber had been synthesized under Sharif’s patronage.
He owned the patent jointly with chemist Hakem “Harry” Haroun, who was married to Sharif’s cousin Amy. Soon large-scale production of Jubah cloth would fund badly needed public works. Then no man, child, or woman of Bahrim would die, as Yona had, for lack of a modern hospital.
All was not secure, however. Other regional leaders eyed the project enviously. Also, Sharif had received death threats for his role in overthrowing the late dictator, Maimun.
The future of Bahrim could not rest on his shoulders alone. He needed an heir. The love he felt for his unborn son had been an unexpected bonus.
The creak of hinges snapped Sharif to attention. Pivoting, he reached for his gun.
“Jumpy as a cat, aren’t you?” His aunt Selima glided into the room. In her late sixties, she had a strong, watchful face and black hair distinguished by a shock of silver fanning from a widow’s peak. A gold-embroidered crimson dress skimmed her ample figure.
“Has Zahad told you what happened?” he asked, withdrawing his hand from within his jacket.
“Yes, but we must hope for the best.” His aunt whisked aside piles of paper to clear a space on his desktop. “You requested my instruction and you shall have it.”
“Aunt Selima, this is no time for such matters!”
Ignoring his frown, she unrolled a pad and, from her woven shoulder bag, produced a cherubically naked plastic doll. “Well?” she demanded, holding out a thick, folded cloth. “You won’t learn anything standing over there!”
There was no point in fighting the inevitable. With a rueful smile, the sheikh went to take his first lesson in diapering.

Chapter One
Three months later
Harbor View, California
Where had the baby gotten those dark, piercing eyes? Holly Rivers wondered as she gazed down at the child in her arms. Whoever the father was, if he had eyes like those, he must exert a hypnotic appeal.
Little Ben blinked, and the impression of ferocity vanished. When he stretched his tiny arms and yawned, her heart clenched.
She had thought she knew what love was, until the first time this baby was placed in her arms. Then she’d discovered, in a burst of wonder, the true depth of the human heart.
Did he have to be such a chunky fellow at three months, though? Although her arms were beginning to hurt, Holly hesitated to position him any closer against her for fear of spoiling her antique lace wedding dress.
She hoped Alice Frey, her matron of honor and her employer at the Sunshine Lane Salon, would return soon with their flowers. She needed Alice’s help to feed Ben before the four-o’clock ceremony, and they only had half an hour left.
“Hey, can I come in?” The question was followed by a belated knock on the partly open door of the church’s dressing room. Without waiting for an answer, in marched Trevor Samuelson.
Her groom. The man she was to marry for all the kindness and caring he’d shown over the years, and for the secure home he was offering her and Ben.
Although black and white weren’t the most flattering colors for a blond, blue-eyed man, the tuxedo looked handsome on Trevor. “You look terrific,” she said, smiling.
“It’s not exactly comfortable.” With a wry expression, he tugged on the bow tie.
At forty-eight, Trevor, a successful attorney, was eighteen years older than Holly and a longtime friend of her late parents. Until recently, she’d thought of him as a kind of uncle.
Then, during the past year, his friendly manner had shifted into courtship. At first, she’d kept him at arm’s length.
But after her pregnant sister Jazz disappeared, Trevor had been her mainstay, offering emotional support and spending his own time and money on the search. It had been a relief to share her burden.
Just before Christmas, one of Jazz’s scruffy musician friends, Griffin Goldbar, had showed up with Ben. Astonished at being handed a baby, Holly hadn’t questioned him forcefully, especially after Griff assured her that Jazz would return in a few days.
When she didn’t, Holly had worried all through Christmas. She’d begun to fear that her sister might not return at all.
Two weeks ago, when Trevor assured her that his love was big enough to include the child, Holly accepted his proposal. Maybe his kisses didn’t set her on fire, but she needed him.
She was in no shape, financially or emotionally, to raise a child alone. Besides, he made her feel safe and cherished.
His eagerness had persuaded her not to delay the wedding. Fortunately, she already had her mother’s wedding gown.
“Did I mention how stunning you look?” Trevor brushed his thumb across the wing of dark-red hair that fell to her collar. “Honey, I’m just bursting with pride. I can’t wait to see you walk down the aisle.”
She blushed. “Have many of the guests arrived?” Holly’s parents were dead, and she had no other close family. Neither did Trevor, whose childless first marriage had ended in divorce five years ago.
The guests included her co-workers and some of Trevor’s colleagues. Many couldn’t attend, however, because courts were in session. The wedding had been scheduled on the salon’s afternoon off, a Monday, which was also one of the few days the church had been available.
“They’re straggling in.” The crease deepened in his cheek. “I’m nervous, can you believe that? It’s not as if I’ve never done this before, but it feels like the first time.”
“For me, too, Trev,” teased Holly, and startled a laugh from her fiancé.
He looped his arm around her and Ben, and angled for a kiss. At that moment, an armful of flowers swept through the door and a penetrating female voice rapped out, “Don’t you know it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the ceremony? Out! Out!”
“Yes, ma’am.” With a sigh, Trevor executed a mock bow in Alice’s direction, and withdrew.
“How’s our darling?” Alice asked, placing her bouquet on the conference table.
“He said he’s nervous.”
“I don’t mean Trevor! I mean the baby!” Alice clucked at Ben, who cooed back at her. “My goodness, I feel as if you’re my little grandbaby! I wish my son would get married, but it’s beginning to look less and less like he ever will. This may be the only grandchild I ever have, and I don’t want to lose him just because you’re getting married!”
“Don’t worry, Alice. You’re as close to Ben as any grandmother could be.” Holly meant every word.
The short salon owner, who at fifty fought a never-ending battle against gray hair and a thickening waist-line, had adored Ben from the first moment she saw him.
When Holly’s finances were strained by the search for her sister, the salon owner had even offered to let the two move into her small house. Thanks to Trevor, however, that wouldn’t be necessary.
“You know I like Jazz,” said Alice, who had put up patiently with the aspiring singer’s occasional absences from her manicure duties. “But if she doesn’t care enough about this baby to come and get him, she’s an idiot.”
“If only she’d told me who the father is!” Holly said. “Maybe he knows where she went.”
“Yes, well, it’s your wedding day, Holly Jeannette Rivers-almost-Samuelson, so let’s forget Jazz, for once.” Lifting a circlet of flowers, Alice placed it expertly atop Holly’s thick hair. A gauzy veil turned the world blurry until the salon owner tipped it upward. “It’s hinged, thank goodness. So you don’t have to stumble around until your final march.”
“You make that sound like the march of doom!” Yielding her nephew to Alice, Holly picked up her bouquet. The tightly bound flowers had a light, refreshing smell.
“Oh, I like Trevor,” said her friend. “I just think he’s too old for you. And too much like a familiar pair of shoes. Where’s your romantic spirit? Don’t you want to meet someone exciting?”
“Apparently my sister met someone exciting, and a lot of good it did her!” Holly rejoined. “Oh, Alice, I miss her so much. What if something bad’s happened to her? She’s so talented, so intense—”
“And so unreliable,” her employer pointed out as she retrieved a bottle of formula from the diaper bag. “Any day now, she’ll breeze back as if she’d never been away.”
“I hope so.”
The older woman settled onto a chair and positioned the baby for feeding. “Why don’t you get a breath of fresh air? Just make sure Trevor isn’t lurking around stealing glances at his bride.”
“I think that’s romantic,” Holly returned. “He loves me, Alice. He may be an old friend, but he’s got all the qualities of an ideal husband.”
“Rich, handsome and boring.” Her friend sniffed.
Suddenly Holly did need a breath of fresh air. Anyway, it was obvious her friend wanted to be alone with the baby.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, and went out through a short hallway into the courtyard. It separated the Sunday school building, which housed her dressing room, from the Spanish-style stucco chapel.
The air was January-crisp, with thin sunshine straggling through the clouds. Last night’s drizzle had darkened the high stucco wall that blocked her view of the street.
In back, an alley separated the chapel courtyard from a vacant lot filled with wildflowers. In the courtyard, the flowers were more refined: rose-colored camellias, pale pink azaleas and white calla lilies. Still, the predominant fragrance was wet earth.
As usual when she was alone, Holly’s thoughts returned to her sister. People said the two of them looked alike, but she knew better. Jazz was more dramatic in every way: two inches taller, with brighter red hair, darker brown eyes and a more vivacious manner.
Abruptly, she realized she was being watched. Startled, she stared at the man standing across the alley. Where had he come from? The fact that she hadn’t seen or heard him approach gave her a creepy sensation.
He stood motionless, regarding her the way a cat watches its prey. Tall and dark, with a short beard and mustache, he had a muscular build beneath his sweatshirt and jeans. He wore a California Angels baseball cap, turned backward.
The most striking thing about the man was the intensity of the eyes. They burned at her from his chiseled face, disturbing her with their open expression of dislike.
Annoyed, Holly reached up and lowered her veil. Not a twitch of the stranger’s lips betrayed a reaction.
She hurried inside, but an impression of alert tension stayed with her. And of fierce eyes that seemed oddly familiar.
“YOU ARE certain it is she?” asked Zahad. To Sharif, the turtleneck sweater and cap gave his cousin a collegiate air.
“She covered her face when she saw me, but yes,” the sheikh replied. “I am certain.” The resemblance to the photograph of H. J. Rivers was unmistakable.
The two men sat in the front seat of a rented sedan, next to a small shopping center on the far side of the vacant lot. Through binoculars, they had been watching the churchyard for more than an hour.
Although, following Zahad’s advice, the sheikh was dressed in casual American fashion, something about him had distressed Holly Rivers. He should not have stared so hard, he supposed, but he had wanted to see her face clearly.
How innocent she looked, and how lovely, her youth and vivid coloring flattered by the ivory gown. He knew her true nature, however. She had stolen his money, and now she was trying to steal his child.
“They are all snakes,” he muttered. “Her, and those people at the clinic.”
Beside him, Zahad nodded. “I am sorry I steered you to that place. It received many recommendations on the Internet, so I trusted Mrs. Wheaton, but she has deceived us. I am only glad we had not yet paid her the full amount.”
A month ago, the clinic owner had stopped returning Zahad’s phone calls. When he finally reached her, she had nervously declared that there were some unforeseen complications but that they could be handled. Any precipitous action might create legal problems, she had said.
With his usual thoroughness, the aide had checked recent legal records concerning H. J. Rivers. That was how he’d learned that Holly Jeannette Rivers had taken out a marriage license with Trevor Samuelson, an attorney.
Amy Haroun, who had grown up as more of a sister to Sharif than a cousin, had surmised that Holly Rivers must have decided to keep the baby. A poor manicurist couldn’t afford a legal battle, but marriage to an attorney would guarantee her an inside track. No doubt the older man had been bedazzled by this manipulative young woman.
Zahad had flown to America at once. Sharif, who’d arrived yesterday, didn’t know the full extent of his aide’s preparations, but there was a safe house, and this car had been rented through a business subsidiary. Zahad had also stashed a backup vehicle somewhere.
They had brought no weapons, at the sheikh’s orders. He didn’t want to risk being arrested with a gun.
The plan was to snatch his son and fly him back to Alqedar, using any of several sets of tickets purchased from different airlines. Then let Holly Jeannette Rivers twist and scheme as she might. American custody orders were not recognized in his country.
It had not been easy to catch Ms. Rivers alone with the baby, however. That short woman, who must be her older sister, seemed to be with her whenever the fiancé was absent.
But they had to make their move soon. The Rivers woman had seen him. Even if she didn’t already suspect Sharif’s identity, any further sightings of him would raise the alarm.
Adrenaline surged through him. Despite the gravity of the situation, this was the moment when he felt most alive: on the verge of action.
“Let us take our positions,” said Zahad.
The sheikh nodded. His palms itched and sheer energy pumped through his arteries. To strike at last, after so much delay, would be a pleasure.
INSIDE HER dressing room, Holly found the baby watching wide-eyed as Alice mopped a white milky stain from the shoulder of her blue dress. “The receiving blanket slipped while I was burping him. What a mess!”
“I’ll take him.” After pushing up her veil, Holly reached for the warm bundle. “You go put some soap and water on it.”
“How could I be so clumsy?” fussed her friend as she hurried away.
In Holly’s arms, Ben yawned, ready for a nap. She decided to go in search of Marta Vasquez, the salon’s other manicurist, who had volunteered to hold the baby during the ceremony.
When she stepped through the outer door, a sharp breeze tugged at her veil. With her bouquet tucked in the crook of her arm and Ben in the other, she didn’t have a hand free to steady the veil.
She forgot about the wind, however, when the baby gurgled happily. Holly beamed down at his small pink face.
A scuffing noise, very close, startled her into looking up. It was the dark-haired man. Right there, towering over her, so close she could see the hard purpose in his face.
“Wh-what do you want?” The words came out in a whisper.
She hadn’t realized anyone else was present until, from the other side, a pair of hands seized Ben. The second attacker frightened her even more. His marked face and cold expression were terrifying.
Things were happening too fast. It took forever to reach out for little Ben, and when she did, he had already been snatched out of reach. She tried to scream for help, but her throat clamped down.
Where was everybody? Why didn’t Trevor come? What did these men want with her baby?
They turned to flee. With a sob, Holly leaped after them.

Chapter Two
The sheikh had thought himself prepared for any development. But he had not anticipated that this woman would throw herself into the car through its half-open rear door when it was already beginning to move.
“Push her out!” cried Zahad, who had thrust the baby into a basket on the floor, and was stepping on the gas. “Close the door!”
The veil and attached circlet of flowers fell to the pavement as the woman clutched at Sharif. “Give me my baby! Give him back!”
“We will not harm him!” Didn’t she realize who they must be? “Zahad, stop and let me remove her.”
“No!” The woman held fast to Sharif’s arm. “I won’t leave him!”
“You must close the door!” said his aide. “We are attracting attention, and I cannot drive properly.”
As a veteran of many battles, the sheikh would not hesitate to attack a foe. He saw no justification, however, for shoving Holly Rivers from a moving car.
Instead, he yanked her onto the seat beside him, reached past her and slammed the door. Immediately, his cousin whipped onto a street to their right. He swerved again, setting a complicated course in case of pursuit.
As the woman beside him straightened herself, Sharif got a better look at her face. The amber eyes were wide with alarm, and the dishevelled red hair tumbled around her shoulders as if she had newly arisen from bed.
A stunning woman. In spite of himself, he could not help wishing she were his.
Perhaps he had been unfair. In his anger, Sharif realized, he had not considered how strong the surrogate’s attachment to the infant might be. Under other circumstances, such mother love would be admirable.
“We do not intend to harm you,” he said. “We can release you here if you like.”
The woman ignored the offer. “What do you want, a ransom?” Her voice trembled. “I don’t have any money but my fiancé does.”
“You think we are kidnappers?” She had no sense at all. “You insult us!”
“In a sense, you must admit, we are kidnappers,” Zahad said with his usual maddening exactitude.
“You exaggerate!” Sharif returned.
“It is a point of fact,” his cousin replied, and snapped the sedan around another corner so abruptly that the surrogate fell onto the sheikh’s lap.
It had been a long time since Sharif held a woman in his arms. Perhaps this long abstinence explained why he found himself so keenly aware of every soft curve pressed against his body. Of the pulse of Holly’s throat, and the sound of her breathing, and the light sweet scent of her.
He reminded himself that this woman had cheated him and still posed a threat to his people’s future. And to his right to share his son’s life.
“Let me go!” she gasped.
“I am not restraining you,” Sharif replied.
Scrambling onto the seat, she said, “Of course you’re restraining me! You’re holding my child hostage!”
“Hostage?” He raised an eyebrow. “You should not be surprised that I expect you to make good on your bargain.”
“What bargain?” She scooted as far from him as the space allowed. “No bargain gives you the right to assault me at my wedding and snatch Ben! Where have you put him?”
“The baby is in a basket on the floor beside me,” Zahad said. “He is smiling. I think he will like to drive fast when he grows up.”
“He should be in a car seat!” Holly said. “It’s the law!”
Her outrage startled a chuckle from Sharif. The woman certainly had spirit! “And you have observed that we are great devotees of the law?”
From her tightened fists, he got the impression she would like to teach him respect, for the law and for a few other things as well. What a splendid bride she would make for a desert warrior! But not for him.
As Zahad slowed, the sheikh saw that they had reached a broad thoroughfare. Without stopping for the red light, he turned right and accelerated ahead of a bus.
Holly flinched. “You’re going to get us killed! There’s a reason why you’re supposed to stop for red lights, even if you don’t care about the law!”
“As a point of fact, we do care about the law,” said Sharif. “And about civil contracts. It is unfortunate your concern does not extend to those.”
“Contracts?” She blinked at him. “What are you talking about?” Some of the fight evaporated from her bunched muscles. “Does Jazz owe you money?”
“Who is Jazz?” he asked.
“My sister.”
He remembered the stocky woman at the church. “I know nothing of your sister.”
The woman swallowed. “You haven’t hurt her?”
This conversation made no sense. The sister had not even come outside, so how could he have hurt her? “Of course not.”
“Then—then you’re not in any real trouble yet. Just give me the baby and let us go.” Tears glittered in Holly’s eyes. With her full lips parted, she looked vulnerable and very desirable.
She was a fool if she believed he would part with his son because of a woman’s tears. “You are wasting your breath.”
“Get down!” shouted Zahad, and the car veered. Without waiting for an explanation, the sheikh grabbed Holly and flattened them both on the seat.
The left-hand passenger window exploded. Bits of glass sprayed across the exposed skin of Sharif’s neck.
“The boy?” he demanded. “Is he hurt?”
“He is fine,” his cousin said.
“Someone’s shooting at us?” Judging by the pitch of her voice, Holly Rivers teetered on the edge of hysteria.
He doubted the police would be so reckless, with a woman and child in the car. “Perhaps this is how your groom thinks to reclaim you.”
“Trevor wouldn’t do that!”
“I agree, it is not him.” Zahad sped through traffic. “The attorney drives a new Cadillac. We are being chased by an old sedan with dark windows.”
“It seems my enemies have tracked us,” Sharif muttered.
“What enemies?” Holly was shaking. “Who are you guys, anyway?”
It was an odd question for a woman who had agreed of her own free will to bear his child. “We will discuss that later,” said Sharif. “By then, I think the answer will come to you.”
A series of furious zigzags climaxed in a swift ascent and rapid acceleration. They had entered the freeway.
Zahad checked his rearview mirror. “Our pursuers are dropping back. There is a highway patrol car… They have turned back.”
Cautiously, Sharif helped Holly sit up. “How is the baby now?”
“Sleeping,” said his cousin.
A moment later, he discovered that he should not have taken his attention from the woman. The combination of a shattered window and an approaching highway patrol car proved irresistible.
“Help!” she screamed, leaning out. “I’ve been kidnapped!”
The wind tore away her words. From his pocket, Sharif pulled a dampened cloth that Zahad had provided for such an emergency.
Clamping it over the woman’s face, he hauled her back into the car. She struggled briefly, then sagged.
When he was certain she slept, Sharif removed the cloth. Although his cousin had promised the dose was not harmful, he was relieved to hear her steady if shallow breathing. A check of the patrol car showed that it had surged ahead in the fast lane, paying them no attention.
“I will pull over at the next exit,” Zahad said. “We must leave her.”
“Lying by the road, unconscious?” The sheikh shook his head. “Not unless we can find a hospital.”
“So you will walk in there and say, ‘Excuse me, please take this woman, goodbye?”’ His cousin grimaced in the rearview mirror. “We have problems, my friend, and we do not need to add to them.”
“We have no problems that will not be solved by flying home,” Sharif said.
His cousin passed a slow-moving panel truck. “Think, my friend. Maimun’s surviving zealots are not stupid. They found us near the church. That means perhaps they can find us again.”
Reluctantly, Sharif conceded the point. “They must have learned of Ms. Rivers’s marriage, as we did. So they know about her, and therefore about my son.”
“Someone has been tracking our comings and goings,” his aide said. “Possibly an employee of the airlines or the airport in Alqedar. They must have tracked me on my last visit here.”
“Then they also know of our return reservations.” Sharif shook his head, impatient with these obstacles. “So we simply take a circuitous route. Fly from Los Angeles to, say, London. Then to Riyadh…”
Zahad grimaced. “I advise that we do our homework first. We have no idea how many of them there are, or how well-placed. We need more information before we dare to appear in public.”
Sharif started to argue. But he knew his cousin was right. They were stuck here, at least for a while.
Another thought hit him. “Then we must keep Ms. Rivers in our custody until we leave. Otherwise, she would give the police too much information.”
“Unfortunately, you are right.” Zahad punched the radio controls. “Let us see if we have yet made the news reports.”
As they listened to sports headlines, Holly snuggled against Sharif’s shoulder. The scent of flowers clung to her, along with a trace of baby powder. She seemed less a woman than a nymph, dozing in a cloud of red hair.
A newscaster’s voice broke through the sheikh’s thoughts. “Police in Harbor View say a bride has been kidnapped moments before her wedding. This happened less than fifteen minutes ago outside the First Community Harbor View Church.”
“They are quick with their news,” Zahad observed.
“The police no doubt want the public to watch for us,” Sharif said.
“The woman, whose identity is being withheld, has collar-length auburn hair and is wearing an ivory wedding gown,” said the announcer. “A witness reported seeing her forced into a tan car driven by two men with dark hair and short beards. We’ll keep you posted as this story develops.”
When a commercial came on, Zahad smacked the steering wheel. “What witness? I saw no one! Americans are too nosy.”
“We made a spectacle of ourselves, as I recall,” the sheikh said. “Well, we will need to change our appearance as soon as we reach the safe house.”
“That is so.” Zahad drove for a time in silence.
Sharif wondered if, once Holly awoke, he could persuade her to admit that he was entitled to his son. Perhaps, in exchange for her immediate release, she would help them settle the matter with the police.
Then he could focus on the would-be assassins. And on forgetting a clear-eyed woman with fiery hair and flower-scented skin.
On the radio, the announcer returned. “Here’s an update on that kidnapping of a bride in Harbor View. Apparently her three-month-old nephew was also abducted. Police are already investigating the earlier disappearance of the child’s mother.”
A cold chill swept over Sharif. Holly Jeannette Rivers wasn’t the mother of his child. He had taken the wrong woman.
HOLLY’S HEAD felt as if someone had stuffed it with wool, and her wrists chafed. Through the thin mattress, springs and crossbars dug into her back.
She struggled to connect the scattered images in her brain. Alice and the flowers. Trevor, giving her that familiar lopsided grin. The church courtyard, with clouds gathering overhead.
A man stood in the alley, his hands thrust in pockets set into the front of his sweatshirt. Despite his jeans and baseball cap, his beard and his intensity made him seem foreign.
And then—a madly swerving car. And the man, holding her.
The hardness of his body had imprinted itself on her memory. In his grip, she’d felt a reluctant stirring of something she didn’t want to name. Something she’d never felt for Trevor.
Then had come the shock of being yanked onto the seat. Had she hit her head? Had she been shot? Anguished, she tried to force herself awake, but her eyelids stuck.
She felt the bite of winter air, tinged with waves of warmth and laced with the aroma of burning wood. Not far off, a low voice murmured in a language she didn’t understand.
Then something erased all other perceptions. It was the sound of Ben gurgling and cooing.
Frustrated, Holly tried to sit up, and discovered that her hands and feet were tied. When she managed to open her eyes, moisture blurred her vision until she blinked twice to clear it.
Her first impression was of a rustic cabin. She lay on a fold-out couch in an alcove, beyond which she could see a wood-paneled room with blinds on the windows. A table lamp was augmented by the flickering of an unseen fire.
She inched along the mattress until a large stone fireplace came into view. On a small table nearby, a blanket had been spread. Atop it lay the tiny figure of Ben, his arms waving.
One glimpse of the man towering over him made Holly go rigid.
Although the beard and mustache were gone, the piercing gaze belonged unmistakably to the man who had attacked her in the churchyard. Instead of jeans, he wore a white headdress and robe that made him look utterly alien.
Her first, confused reaction was that a sheikh had ridden out of some old movie. Reality was much more terrifying. The man who had her and Ben at his mercy must be some kind of delusional maniac.
She prayed that he wouldn’t notice she was awake. Surely she could find a way to untie her hands and rescue her nephew.
Holly studied the cord binding her. There was no slack, and no apparent weakness in the rope, either.
Cautiously, she twisted her wrists. The cord bit harder. Holly pressed her lips together to keep from crying out.
Her captor paid her no attention. But he must be doing something that Ben didn’t like, because the baby began squalling.
“Don’t hurt him!” she called. “If you have to torture someone, do it to me!”
The dark man looked up, and she noticed a white object in his hand. A diaper. For heaven’s sake, he was trying to change the baby!
If Holly hadn’t been so frightened, she might have found his expression comical. It was the kind of befuddled expression Trevor had worn once when she thrust Ben into his arms so she could answer a phone call.
“So, you are awake,” he said. “I am sorry I was forced to drug you. Do you have any pain?”
“I’m just…sleepy.” Her voice sounded hollow. “What time is it?”
“A little past seven.”
Holly groaned. Her wedding was ruined. The guests, Trevor, Alice. What must they think?
“Believe me, I have no intention of torturing anyone.” Her captor indicated her ties. “The sooner I can return you to your bridegroom, the better, but in the meantime certain precautions were regrettably necessary.”
Holly had to admit that, clean-shaven, his face was handsome in a thoroughly masculine way, and his expression not unkind. But what about the outlandish costume?
“Why are you wearing that?” she asked.
He smoothed down his robe. “I would not go outside dressed this way, not in your country. But I wanted my son to see me as I really am.”
“Your—?” She didn’t need to finish the question. Not when she’d finally realized why those penetrating eyes looked so familiar.
They were Ben’s eyes.
“You’re his father,” she whispered. “Oh, Lord.” Through the lingering effects of medication, her brain churned over this disturbing discovery. She’d found Jazz’s secret lover, or, rather, he’d found her and Ben. “What have you done with my sister?”
The man returned his attention to the baby. “Nothing. I thought you were her.”
“What?” Holly made the mistake of trying to push herself up. The cords tightened again, making her wince. “How could you?”
“I know her only from a photograph. It was arranged through a clinic. She did not tell you?” He put one hand beneath the baby’s backside and tried to raise his bottom while sliding the diaper beneath it.
Free-spirited Jazz would never have agreed to bear this child for pay! “I don’t believe you. Why would my sister want to be a surrogate mother?”
“I was told she wanted money to make a demonstration recording.” He broke off as Ben kicked lustily, flinging one of his booties into a corner and dislodging the diaper from the man’s grip.
“You’re doing that wrong!”
“Evidently.” Keeping one hand on the baby, the man leaned back and squinted at the child. “It appears to be a problem of structural engineering.”
“You’re an engineer?” Holly needed to make sense of this situation, and to learn anything she could.
“I am many things,” the man replied enigmatically. “But I am not an abuser of women. I will release you from your bonds if you will care for my son. As you have pointed out, I don’t seem to be doing very well at it.”
His accent sounded Middle Eastern. “Where are you from?”
“Your sister told you nothing of me?” Wrapping the fussing baby in the blanket, he carried him, along with the diaper, to Holly.
“Nothing at all. And believe me, I tried to find out who the father was.” She started to reach for Ben, and stopped with a gasp.
The man set the baby on the center of the bed. “My cousin Zahad must have tied the rope too tightly. He was in a hurry.”
At close range, she could see small cuts on the man’s neck from where shards of glass had hit him. Other than that, his skin had a smooth olive cast, with some roughness where he’d recently shaved.
The man smelled of shampoo, and his thick hair, what she could see of it, was damp, so he must have showered since they arrived. Yet there was an under-current of wild musk about him that no soap could wash away.
From inside the robe flashed a knife. Holly scarcely had time to register the danger before the man sliced the cord between her wrists, then the one at her ankles. The knife disappeared into the folds of cloth.
Prickles of agonizing sensation shot through her hands and feet. “Your cousin—that would be the driver? Is he here?”
“He thought it best to stay in a different place.” The bed dipped as the man sat beside her. With a shiver, Holly saw the smoldering fire in his gaze as he watched her. “Although this canyon is remote, if he and I were seen together, it might draw suspicion.”
“You mean from the police?” Although her captor spoke calmly, she reminded herself that law-abiding men didn’t go around snatching brides and babies.
“Yes. Among others.” Before she could query further, the man said, “I don’t think it is good for the boy to lie here in only his little shirt. Do you know how to put on a diaper?”
“I should hope so.” She flexed her stinging limbs. “But it might take me a minute to get full sensation back in my hands. Thanks to your overeager cousin.”
“He takes pride in his thoroughness,” the man said.
“He should take a little more pride in showing consideration for others!” she flared.
Her captor smiled. Pure white teeth gleamed against his tanned skin. “You sound like my cousin Amy. She finds fault with Zahad also.”
The prickly sensations eased. Skillfully, Holly caught the baby’s ankles in her left hand, hoisted up his bottom and slid the diaper into place. Ben chuckled and reached for her.
“Amazing,” said the man in the sheikh’s robe. “You do that with such ease. And he is clearly attached to you.”
“He knows I love him.” Holly cradled the baby in her arms.
The man watched them, his expression unreadable. “I, too, love him.”
“How can you, when you don’t even know him?”
“And you think you do?” The man unfolded himself from the bed and began to pace, his restless energy filling the room. “What do you know of this boy’s history? Of his heritage or his future? To you, he is a tiny baby, but someday he will be a great man!”
“He’ll be whatever he wants to be. You can’t force a child to meet someone else’s expectations.” Holly held Ben close. There no longer seemed to be any point in safeguarding her wedding dress, which was thoroughly rumpled and flecked with blood from Sharif’s injuries.
“Your sister understood my son’s importance, according to the clinic’s director,” said her companion.
“The clinic,” she repeated. “This is so unlike Jazz.”
“Jazz?”
“My sister. It’s short for Hannah Jasmine,” she said. “We’ve called her that since she was a kid. She hated going to the doctor. And she wasn’t even close to what you might call maternal.”
Outside, something thwacked against a window. Holly’s heart skittered into her throat.
Moving quickly and silently, her captor switched off the lamp. As its circular glow faded, scarlet fire-light crept eerily across the walls.
“Lie down!” the man whispered as he edged toward the window.
Holly obeyed, shielding Ben with her body. Had the people who’d fired at their car found the cabin as well? Or could it be the police?
The scraping noise returned, following by a pattering on the roof. Her captor lifted a slat of blinds and peered into the night.
Finally, he turned the lamp back on. “It was a branch in the wind. The rain has started, as you can hear. It should be quite a storm.”
Holly swallowed her disappointment. She had hoped it was the police coming to rescue her and Ben. But at least it wasn’t armed assailants, either.
“Who shot at us earlier?” she asked. “And who are you? I don’t even know your name.”
The man drew himself up proudly. Somehow his confident air made his robe and headdress appear less outlandish. In fact, Holly could have sworn they suited him better than the jeans and sweatshirt he’d worn that afternoon.
“I am Sheikh Sharif Al-Khalil of Alqedar.” He delivered this bizarre information without a trace of self-consciousness. “That is a small nation in south-central Arabia, in case you do not know. Although my son has been born in America, I have every right to take him home.”
The words “sheikh” and “Arabia” seemed like phrases from a fairy tale. “Who are you really?”
An eyebrow lifted, and then he laughed. “You do not believe me? I’m not surprised. But it is true.”
She tried a different tack. “Ben was born here. That makes him a U.S. citizen. You can’t just whisk him off, not if his mother opposes it.”
The man shrugged. “It seems that his mother has found better ways to occupy her time.”
“I’m his next closest relative!”
“And you would have married yourself a lawyer to defend your so-called rights,” he observed with a trace of sarcasm. “How very American of you.”
Although the implication infuriated Holly, she wouldn’t stoop to debate it. “What’s between Trevor and me is none of your business. And even if you are a sheikh and Ben really is your son, nothing gives you the right to hold me prisoner!”
“You chose to jump in the car with us. That was your decision.” The man regarded her with what might have been sympathy, or merely irony. “I am afraid I cannot let you go yet, Ms. Rivers, even though it was to be your wedding night. Perhaps I can make it up to you.”
Her throat tightened.
He regarded her with amusement. “I did not mean that literally, but it could be arranged.”
He was a sheikh, but more importantly, he was a leader from a foreign country. If he possessed diplomatic immunity, Holly thought in a burst of fear, he could do anything he wanted, and get away with it.

Chapter Three
Sharif did not understand why, after all these years, he was suddenly seized with the desire to possess a woman. Why at this perilous time, when he needed to stay alert, and why this defiant woman?
From the moment he’d held her in the car, Holly had aroused a response like no woman since Yona. And now, in the rise and fall of her breasts as she stared at him, he read a rising passion that matched his own.
She was fighting her desire in vain. He knew from his younger days what it took to seduce a woman, and this one lay within his power. All it would take was the touch of his lips against her face and throat, and the hard commanding movements of his body, and he could bring them both to ecstasy.
Holly’s eyes widened. With fear or longing, or both? “Don’t,” she whispered. “Please.”
She was, the sheikh reminded himself sharply, another man’s bride. She was also a threat to his ability to take his son back to Alqedar.
Stiffly, he drew back. “You have nothing to fear. I told you, I am not an abuser of women.”
“And you really don’t know what’s happened to my sister?” Even at this tense moment, Holly Rivers was more concerned for the missing woman than for herself, he saw with reluctant admiration.
“I wish I did.” Sharif bent and ran one finger along his son’s cheek. “It would be easier to straighten out this mess if she were here. Unless she intended, as I feared, to seek custody.”
“I don’t know what she intended.” The young woman brushed back a wave of red hair that had fallen across her temple. “I haven’t seen her in three months, since before Ben was born.”
“Then how did you get him?”
“A friend of hers brought him, a musician named Griff Goldbar. He said she would come back in a few days. That was over a month ago.”
About that time, the clinic owner had stopped taking Zahad’s calls. Such a coincidence must be meaningful. “Do you know a woman named Noreen Wheaton?”
“No, why?”
“She’s the head of the clinic that hired your sister,” he said. “If you’ve been searching for Jasmine, surely you found some record of the surrogacy arrangement.”
Holly’s expression grew troubled. “Jazz must have taken her contract with her. I cleaned out her room, but there weren’t any papers from a clinic.” The baby began to squirm. “I think he’s hungry.”
“I’ll get the formula.” Sharif went to fetch the bag that Aunt Selima had packed.
As he crossed the cabin, he wondered why the clinic director had been reluctant to talk to Zahad. Had there been threats against the clinic and, if so, from whom? With the police after him, Sharif could hardly contact Mrs. Wheaton to ask her directly.
Or perhaps he was looking in the wrong direction. The woman, Jasmine, might have enemies of her own. Her disappearance might bear no relationship to Sharif or to the clinic.
On his way back to the alcove, he tuned the television set to an all-news station, grateful that, in California, even remote cabins came equipped with TV service. At the moment, however, the report concerned local politics.
“My great-aunt provided these supplies.” He set the bag beside Holly on the bed. “She and my cousin Amy will care for the child when I get home.”
“You’re not married?” In the filtered light, the woman could have passed for a teenager.
“My wife died many years ago.” To cut off further questions, he presented her with a can of formula. “Is it necessary to heat it?”
“Not really,” Holly said. “Do you have a clean bottle?”
“I would scarcely bring a dirty one!” He handed it to her. “How long will that last?”
“There’s enough for two feedings, so maybe half a day. Is this all you’ve got?”
“There are two more cans.” Obviously, it would not be enough. “Zahad will get more.”
After filling the bottle, the woman settled the baby at the same angle Selima had demonstrated. Sharif wondered whether women did these things by instinct, but he knew better than to ask an American woman.
“You have a phone?” she said.
Sharif patted his robe.
“I wondered if I could call my fiancé,” she said. “Trevor must be going crazy.”
Trevor. Ah, yes, the athletic blond man in his forties who had crossed the courtyard that afternoon. Sharif no longer believed Holly had manipulated her groom, yet she didn’t speak of him as if she were in love. Her reasons for marrying were, however, none of his business.
“I am sorry to put you both to this inconvenience,” he said. “However, the police will be monitoring his telephone and might be able to locate us.”
“Even through a cell phone?”
“It is possible,” he said. “The technology is developing rapidly.”
From the TV, the word “kidnapping” drew his attention. A picture came on screen, a blurry angled shot taken from overhead. It showed Sharif, Zahad and Holly getting into the car.
“A security camera in a strip mall captured this scene earlier today in Harbor View, where a bride and her nephew were abducted minutes before her wedding,” said a woman announcer’s voice.
“The victim has been identified as Holly Jeannette Rivers, a hairstylist from Harbor View. Her sister, Hannah Jasmine Rivers, vanished three months ago. Hannah Rivers is the mother of the kidnapped baby.”
A security camera! Sharif cursed under his breath. Neither he nor Zahad had considered that possibility in such a small row of stores.
The picture changed to computer-enhanced closeups of Sharif’s and Zahad’s faces, side by side, like a wanted poster. He realized the camera must have taken numerous shots during their hour-long surveillance.
“Police say the men in the photograph have been tentatively identified as Sheikh Sharif Al-Khalil and his aide, Zahad Adran, from the small Arabian nation of Alqedar.”
How? he wondered, and then realized the camera must also have captured the license plate on the rental car, which could be traced to a subsidiary of the Bahrim Corporation. With that information and those pictures, it wouldn’t take long to make an ID.
“A spokesman for the State Department told our station that the sheikh is not in the country on official business and has no diplomatic immunity,” the announcer said. “It is unclear what connection he has with the Rivers family.”
Sharif had known he ran a security risk four years ago when he relinquished his powerful post in the central government to devote himself to the well-being of his province, but he had never anticipated such a situation as this.
Alqedar’s president, Sheikh Abdul Dourad, was an old friend. In his fifties, the president had fought for freedom alongside Sharif and Zahad. However, even he could not retroactively grant diplomatic immunity.
On TV, the anchorwoman sat at her desk beside a blond man in a business suit. “We have with us Trevor Samuelson, the fiancé of kidnap victim Holly Rivers.” She turned to him. “Mr. Samuelson is an attorney in Harbor View and would like to say a few words to the abductors.”
“Just don’t hurt Holly or Ben.” The man stared into the camera. “Whatever your quarrel is, if you want money or whatever, we can work this out.”
His expression was earnest but restrained. Like a soldier stoically facing battle, Sharif thought.
“Thank you, Mr. Samuelson. Now for a look at how long this rain is going to last and how much accumulation we can expect…”
Holly wore a guarded expression as she fed the baby. During Trevor’s appeal, she’d showed no sign of longing for her betrothed. What was she thinking?
And why did she keep sneaking sideways glances at Sharif? Did she too feel this urge to touch?
Her tenderness toward his son formed a bond between them. A man and woman who shared a baby usually also shared the intimacy of their bodies. But she was not the mother, the sheikh reminded himself. And she was not, and never could be, his woman.
The mobile phone rang. After muting the TV, he answered it.
Zahad spoke in Baharalik, an ancient language that survived only in Bahrim. “Did you see the newscast? Yes? I am angry with myself. I should have spotted the camera.”
“We may still be able to resolve this matter,” Sharif said. “Since the mother is missing, I doubt we face a custody battle.”
“Only charges of kidnapping!”
Holding the baby against a cloth laid over her shoulder, Holly was rubbing his back with circular motions. She appeared to pay him no notice.
Into the phone, he said, “I hope to persuade the woman to drop charges. She has accepted that I am the child’s father, and she did leap into the car of her own free will.”
“I doubt she or the authorities will see it that way,” grumbled his cousin. “I do not think it wise to trust her.”
Zahad was a genius at intrigues, but sometimes, Sharif had learned, the shortest distance between two points really was a straight line. “Nevertheless, we need to get my son home quickly. If I can persuade her to plead our cause, it might help.”
“She will lie to you,” warned his aide.
“Perhaps,” he conceded. “I will have to use my judgment.”
“I would rather you used your wits,” Zahad said. “Although, I admit, you have reason to doubt my advice, now that we have been shot at and photographed all in one day.”
“I do not doubt you,” Sharif said. “You are my other self.”
“As you are mine. I will call as soon as I learn anything from my sources in Alqedar. So far, they have uncovered no rumors of a plot.”
The sheikh rang off with a silent prayer of thanks for his faithful relative. Although they had attended different universities while exiled during their country’s dictatorship, they had trained together at a military camp, and they had both shed blood in the war of liberation. There was no one he trusted more than Zahad.
Perhaps the man was right about Holly. Perhaps she would lie in order to liberate herself, then betray him. But he had to try to win her over, for his son’s sake.
HOLLY WISHED she were an expert at languages. If only she knew what the men had been saying!
At least, according to the newscast, Sharif had told the truth about his identity. He really was a sheikh, and he’d given her his true name.
Did that mean he was being honest about Jazz? That he hadn’t harmed her, and that her sister really had become a surrogate to raise money for a demo recording?
It was, Holly supposed, the kind of impulsive scheme that Jazz might get involved in. But surely Sharif knew more than he was telling about her sister’s disappearance.
She bit her lip. Nothing in her quiet life had prepared her to deal with this brooding, complicated man.
At least the effects of the medication had worn off. She felt tired and sore, but her brain was functioning.
“You must be hungry.” Lamplight etched shadows into the man’s face.
“I guess so.” She tried not to think about Trevor and the wedding reception he’d planned at his favorite restaurant.
In the corner kitchenette, the sheikh opened a refrigerator. His broad shoulders blocked Holly’s view of the contents.
At last he swung around. “We have plenty to eat, if you like Middle Eastern food.”
“That’s fine.” Holly had eaten at several exotic restaurants with Trevor, although she couldn’t remember much about the food. “Do you know how to cook?”
“Only over a campfire.” The sheikh removed a platter. “Fortunately, this can be microwaved.”
A sense of unreality teased at Holly. Was she really about to eat dinner with an Arabian sheikh in a robe and headdress?
As he moved around the kitchen, the white fabric molded itself to his powerful build. She wished she weren’t so aware of Sharif’s leashed strength and the smoldering way he studied her when he thought she was unaware.
For one traitorous moment, she wished that, for one night, she could be someone other than prosaic Holly Rivers. That she could yield to instincts that she didn’t understand and couldn’t possibly justify.
No, she must not think that way. She must set her mind to escaping.
The man had said they were in a canyon. Even in paved-over Orange County, there remained wilderness areas with thick undergrowth inhabited by coyotes and mountain lions. Did she really dare to take the baby out there?
Gazing down at Ben, Holly saw that he’d dozed off. Gently, she settled him on the center of the queen-size bed.
The bell on the microwave indicated their food was ready. Her mind still mulling the dangers of an escape, Holly stood up. Without warning, the world began to spin, and she groped shakily for support.
Swiftly, Sharif reached her side. As he caught Holly’s arm, her knees went weak and she had to lean against him.
“The drug must be affecting your balance,” he said. “It will help if you eat something.”
“I thought I was over it.” Glancing up, she found his face close to hers, his gaze filled with concern. She knew she ought to be frightened, but instead she felt relaxed. Trusting.
“Stay in bed. I’ll bring the food here.” His low tone vibrated through her.
“No.” Holly didn’t dare fall asleep again. They needed to talk. The more she knew, the better her chances of getting out alive. “I want to sit at the table.”
“I’ll help you.” One arm encircled her waist. As the sheikh steered her across the room, she detected other thicknesses of cloth beneath the white fabric. So he was dressed under his robe. The realization highlighted how little she knew about him or his culture.
“At home, do you live in a tent, or a palace, or what?” she asked. “I don’t know much about Alqedar. Or about sheikhs, either.”
His jaw worked, and she realized he was suppressing a smile. Okay, she probably did sound like an idiot, but how was she to know?
“I live in a palace, and we have all the comforts of home.” Supporting her with one arm, he pulled out a chair at the wooden table. “Most of Alqedar’s leaders are educated in the West. We must be able to bridge two worlds, preserving our traditions while meeting the industrialized nations on their own terms.”
“You certainly speak English well.” She sank onto the chair, and immediately missed the comfort of his nearness. “Where did you go to school?”
“At Columbia, in New York.” He took a seat opposite her. “So I am familiar with your country.”
“New York is only one small part of America.”
“I have traveled through most of the states,” he said. “The dramatic landscapes of Utah and Arizona are like nothing else I’ve seen. And some of your cities exert a unique charm.”
Holly felt more provincial than ever. She’d seen less of her own country than this foreigner.
He dished some food onto her plate. Inhaling the aromas, Holly found that she really was hungry.
For a while, they ate without speaking. Under the table, the sheikh’s legs brushed hers. Although he moved them away, she was left with an impression of muscle and sinew.
“Tell me exactly why you kidnapped Ben,” she said. “You were afraid of a custody battle?”
“Exactly. The practices of your legal system do not always tally with those of my country,” he said. “We hoped for a quick getaway.”
“But now that your plan has failed—”
“It hasn’t failed, it has suffered a few setbacks,” he replied. “We incurred what you Americans call ‘the double whammy.’ We got shot twice, first by a camera and then with a gun.”
“You never explained who was firing at us,” she said. “Do you know?”
“Not for certain.” As Sharif ate, she saw that the backs of his hands bore thin, straight scars, as from knife wounds. “I have enemies, from my country’s fight for freedom. It is also possible that your sister has enemies.”
“Jazz hangs out with some strange people, but as far as I know, they don’t carry weapons.”
“What kind of strange people?” From a plastic bottle, he poured mineral water into two glasses.
“Musicians.” With their long hair and disorderly life-style, Jazz’s colleagues had little in common with most people Holly knew. “Maybe they only seem strange in Southern California, because they’re more interested in making music than money.”
“Your sister was interested in money, to make a demonstration recording,” Sharif reminded her.
“I wish she’d told me,” Holly said. “I would have loaned it to her. Or Trevor would have. He manages my parents’ estate, not that it’s worth much. But he’s always come through in a pinch. How much did you pay her?”
“A hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” Sharif said.
She choked on her food, and had to wash it down with water. “A hundred and—? Jazz got that much?”
“No, only half was paid in advance, and the clinic took a share,” he said. “I presume she received something in the order of thirty or forty thousand.”
“She left eleven thousand dollars in her checking account,” Holly said. “I’m sure she spent some money on living expenses and maternity clothes. She must have taken the rest with her in cash.”
“And you truly have no idea why she left?”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t know why she sent Ben to me, either.”
“Perhaps that musician friend of hers was involved,” he said. “Ten or twenty thousand dollars would be a fortune to him.”
Holly pictured Griff, whom she’d known casually for years. An easygoing, talkative fellow, he played drums in an alternative rock band with which Jazz sang.
He’d had a minor drug conviction a few years back, and he’d managed to avoid being questioned by the police since she reported Jazz missing. Nevertheless, she couldn’t imagine him hurting her sister.
“If he were up to something, why would he give himself away by bringing me the baby?” she pointed out.
The sheikh finished eating. “I do not know. I am grateful that at least he put my son in good hands.”
Holly’s cheeks warmed, and she hurriedly changed the subject. “I think she left of her own free will, but then something prevented her from coming back for Ben. I’ve been so worried.”
“I share your concern that something has gone wrong,” he said slowly. “This Noreen Wheaton, the director of the clinic, might be afraid of someone, or she is playing a game of her own.”
He pushed back his chair and walked to a leather suitcase. From a side pocket, he drew some papers. “Here is a copy of our contract with the clinic. I brought it to prove that the baby is mine. Perhaps you will see something in them that I have missed.”
The papers bore the name of the Crestline View Clinic. The legal terminology covered such issues as privacy and liability.
Holly studied the signatures at the bottom: Sharif Al-Khalil, witnessed by Zahad Adran, and Noreen Wheaton, witnessed by someone named Manuel Estrellas.
“Do you know anything about this man Estrellas?” she asked.
The sheikh took a seat beside her. “A clinic employee, I presume.”
She scanned the contract again. “Why isn’t Jazz’s name on here?”
“We were told she signed a separate contract with the clinic,” Sharif said.
“But she knew about you, right?” Holly returned the document to him. “I mean, that the baby was going to be raised by your aunt and your cousin?”
“You make it sound as if there were something wrong with my arrangements.”
Holly plunged in. “I just don’t believe Ben will be happy growing up without a mother.”
A tightening of the sheikh’s mouth indicated that she’d overstepped her bounds. “I would not have arranged to have a son if I could not provide him with a proper home.”
Tears pricked Holly’s eyes. “I just don’t want to lose him.”
His harsh expression softened. “Have you considered what will happen when your sister returns?” he said. “By your own account, she is unreliable, and you could not prevent her from reclaiming the child. What kind of life would he lead then?”
“I’ve been trying not to think about that.” Staring down at the table, Holly took a deep breath.
She reminded herself that Trevor wanted to marry her, and there was no reason they couldn’t have children of their own. But those children wouldn’t be Ben. They wouldn’t be the baby who’d opened the floodgates of love inside her.
The sheikh brushed a tear from her cheek. “To lose this child would hurt you very much.”
All she could do was nod.
“You are a woman who lives for others,” he murmured. “What then is left for yourself?”
“I don’t need anything for myself.” It seemed so obvious that she was surprised she had to explain it. “What more could a person want than to ensure the happiness of the people she loves?”
His hand cupped her chin. The roughness of his palm testified to a hard life, and yet his fingers stroked her jawline as lightly as a whisper. “Let us reach a sensible agreement, Holly Rivers. One that is truly best for all of us.”
“An agreement?” She allowed herself to meet his gaze.
“I propose that, tomorrow, you and I go together to the authorities,” he said gravely.
“You mean you’ll turn yourself in?”
“As soon as I find a lawyer, yes.” He studied her. “Will you promise to explain that you entered my car of your own free will?”
She nodded. “Of course. It’s the truth.”
“I will present the contract and show that I have only taken my own son,” he said. “It is a gamble, but I doubt they will press charges. It would be the fastest way to resolve this situation. And for us to get away from whoever is trying to kill me.”
“Then what happens to Ben?” Tears threatened again, because she knew the answer.
“You must admit that he will be better off with me than with your sister,” said the sheikh. “Also, in compensation for spoiling your wedding, I will pay for a private detective to search for her.”
For a crazy moment, Holly contemplated offering to go to Alqedar and take care of Ben. Just to keep him close, this child of her heart. To give him a mother, after all.
But what place could she have in a land so unfamiliar she doubted she could find it on a map?
Doubts tore at her. What if Sharif was tricking her in some way? The contract might have been altered. Maybe nothing was as it seemed to be.
She’d never had to deal with such a situation before. If Trevor were here…but, of course, he wasn’t.
She needed this man’s trust. And her deepest instincts told her that he would never, under any circumstances, harm Ben.
“All right,” she said slowly, still not certain she was making the right decision. “If everything is as you present it, I agree not to fight for custody.”
Outside, the rain settled into a steady, lulling pattern. The long day, the full meal and the lingering effects of medication must be taking their toll, because Holly found herself fighting a yawn.
“You need sleep.” Taking her hand, the sheikh pulled her gently to her feet.
At the bed, Holly curled beside Ben. She was only vaguely aware of Sharif tucking the covers around them.
SHE AWOKE to semidarkness and the scents of wood-smoke and baby powder. Rain pattered on the roof while, across the room, the TV glimmered, its sound turned low.
A flash of lightning showed Sharif dozing at the dining table, his head cradled on his arms. Sleep appeared to have caught him unexpectedly.
Beside Holly, the baby murmured and nestled closer. Slowly she began sinking back into slumber.
A quickening in the TV announcer’s tone barely penetrated her consciousness until she picked out the words “body” and “woman.” The fears of the past few months returned in a flash.
Sliding from the bed, Holly hurried to the set. Cool air nipped her shoulders above the crumpled wedding gown, and the wooden floor chilled her stockinged feet.
“The victim, believed to be in her mid-twenties, was found by off-road bikers in the desert,” said the announcer. “Police haven’t released her identity.”
On the screen, paramedics loaded a blanket-covered body into an ambulance. When they tilted the stretcher, the blanket fell back to reveal a bare arm.
The camera zoomed in on a small tattoo, a botanical cluster of four-petaled blooms.
Holly recognized them at once. They were jasmine flowers.

Chapter Four
Jazz had come home late one day from high school, proudly displaying the tattoo to which her boyfriend had treated her. It was her namesake, a little bunch of jasmine flowers.
“…appears to have been dead for several weeks,” said the announcer.
Several weeks. Holly’s head buzzed. If she could believe Griff, Jazz had been alive a month ago and had planned to pick up Ben in a few days.
She must have been killed in the interim. All this time that Holly had been searching, and jumping with fear at every ring of the phone or doorbell, her sister had been lying dead in the desert.
Who had done this? Had Jazz taken up with the wrong set of friends? Had Griff gotten greedy?
There was one other possibility she had to face. That Jazz had purposely sent her son to Holly because she was going to meet the one man who could take him from her.
Sheikh Sharif Al-Khalil.
Holly’s throat tightened until she could barely breathe. Could Sharif have done such a thing?
At the table, still in his robe, he lay sleeping harmlessly. Yet she could see the powerful thrust of his shoulders, and the strength in his arms. This was not a man to be trifled with.
She didn’t want to believe that the man who had gazed at Ben with such adoration, and treated her with such kindness this evening, might have killed Jazz. He’d spoken so rationally about hiring a lawyer and going to the police tomorrow, that she wanted to believe him.
But a calm facade could hide a lethal temper. Maybe, if crossed, he exploded into an uncontrollable fury.
In Holly’s mind burned an image of Jazz’s inert body, lying on a stretcher amid the glare of police lights. She’d been cast aside in the desert as if she were nothing. Only one little tattoo announced to the world that this was an individual, a person with friends and dreams of her own.
Through Holly’s grief, one point stood out: Her life might be in the same danger as her sister’s. Danger rose like woodsmoke, filling the cabin and obscuring every thought except that of flight.
When thunder rumbled, she caught her breath. Would it wake Sharif?
At the table, he muttered softly and shifted position, then stilled. His silence felt like a reprieve.
Gently, she lifted the baby. Since she had no coat, she made a cloak of the bedspread and draped it over them both.
She hated to take the baby into the rain, but she couldn’t leave him. If Sharif had a violent temper, he might unleash it on anyone at hand.
To reach the cabin door meant crossing the room. At the moment, it looked as wide as a football field.
Adrenaline and fear powered Holly out of the alcove. One noiseless step followed another.
A board creaked beneath her satin wedding pumps. Holly froze.
The man didn’t stir. She moved forward, acutely aware of the weight of the baby in one arm and the swish of fabric audible above the rain. Outside, the wind rose, and a branch scraped the window so loud that it sounded, to her ears, like a bomb blast.
The door. She turned the knob and pulled. It held stubbornly in place.
There had to be a bolt. She just hoped it didn’t require a key to open from the inside.
With Ben resting against her shoulder, Holly clamped the bedspread beneath one elbow to keep from dropping it as she probed with her free hand. Was the lock above or below the knob?
Next time I get kidnapped, I’ll make sure to check out the door while there’s enough light.
The grim humor steadied her, and she located a small slide-lock about six inches above the knob. Struggling against the stiff device while trying not the jolt the baby, she tugged on it.
The metal rasped, halted, then slid the rest of the way. Breathing hard, Holly grasped the knob.
Icy wind hit her in the face. Ben squirmed beneath the spread.
Trying to let in as little cold air as possible, she edged outside and closed the door. From beyond a small overhang, rain gusted into her face.
Holly could see nothing except sheets of water and the outline of black trees against a charcoal sky. It was as if she stood on an island surrounded by a raging sea.
A flare of lightning showed her a muddy, unpaved clearing overhung by low branches. A rutted path led away through the brush, with no lights or traffic noises to indicate how close a road might be.
Tightening the makeshift cloak, Holly stepped off the porch into the full force of the storm.
A RAW BLAST of air woke Sharif. He came awake instantly, his warrior’s training jolting him to full alert.
The door had opened. Someone had come in or gone out.
Cursing himself for falling asleep on watch, he ducked and dodged in case of attack. Nothing moved, other than a flicker of light from the TV screen. Except for him, the cabin was empty.
The woman had taken his child.
He had promised to deliver her safely to the authorities. She had agreed to tell them the truth. Now she had betrayed that agreement.
He knew better than to assume she was unarmed. Although there were no guns in the cabin, she might have found a knife in a drawer.
A pat of his robe confirmed that the phone was in place, so she hadn’t been able to call for help. She wouldn’t be able to travel fast on foot, either.
If she blundered into the woods, however, she might easily get lost. A few hours of exposure could prove fatal to the child.
Sharif did not wish to injure Holly. Despite his anger, he couldn’t entirely blame her for fleeing. But he must retrieve his son at any cost.
The overriding need to reclaim Ben drove him to action. He yanked open the door and leaped out, to give the woman no chance to react.
Another long step carried him beyond the porch to the dark cloth-covered shape struggling away from him. Their bodies collided, hard.
In the darkness, Sharif must have misjudged the distance, because he shot way over balance. Grabbing Holly, he managed to twist partway beneath her as they fell, to shield the baby from hitting the ground.
A gasp from the woman blended with the squalling of the bundle in her arms. The impact knocked the breath out of Sharif, but he had no time to waste.
Grasping the child, he rolled away through the mud. Raising himself on one knee, he kept the child tight against him and the woman in sight.
Rain poured over them. The sheikh ignored it as he watched for the flash of a blade.
Instead, he found himself staring into a pair of terrified eyes. From the looks of her, Holly was so frightened she couldn’t even scream.
“What on earth are you doing?” he demanded. “I agreed to take you back tomorrow.”
Finally, words choked out of her. “You killed her!”
“Who?” Had lingering traces of Zahad’s medicine given her a nightmare?
“My sister!”
“I’ve never even met her. I told you that.” He stood up, sheltering the baby beneath his robe. The boy was surprisingly wiggly, and he found it hard to support his head as Aunt Selima had taught. “Besides, for all we know, she is sitting in a bar somewhere, having a laugh at our expense.”
“No! How could you…?” As she scrambled to her feet, Holly still didn’t seem capable of finishing a sentence.
“You’re not making sense,” he told her. “I’ve been sitting in the cabin all night, not out marauding!”
“She’s dead.” The pain in her voice convinced him, finally, that she wasn’t referring to some dream. “It was on TV.”
Sharif had left the set on so he could keep track of what information the police were giving out. “They found your sister?”
Beneath the mud-streaked bedspread that half-covered her, Holly nodded. “In the desert. She’s been dead…a few weeks.”
Wind whipped the wet tendrils of her hair, giving her a half-drowned appearance. In a flare of lightning, he saw that she was shivering.
“You’ll make yourself sick,” Sharif said. “Let’s continue this conversation inside.”
“Let me go. Let us both go!”
“We don’t have a car,” he pointed out. “Even if I wanted to, I have no way of taking you anywhere on a night like this. And you certainly can’t walk out of a canyon in your condition.”
Without waiting for a response, he carried the baby up the steps. The woman followed as far as the porch, then stopped in the open doorway.

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