Книга - Bodyguard Confessions

Bodyguard Confessions
Donna Young


On a diplomatic mission to Taer, First Daughter Anna Cambridge never expected the royal palace would be attacked.But as the rebel army took the king and queen hostage, Anna fled into the night with the baby prince in her arms– and the enigmatic Quamar Bazan Al Asadi at her back. A former U.S. agent with ties to the royal family, the bold Arab had returned to his country to make peace and found only war.But leading Miss Cambridge and her ready-made family across the fiery desert meant engaging in a life he had already given up on. A life Anna wouldn't let him just throw away– without a fight.









Bodyguard Confessions

Donna Young











www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To my family, you are my heart




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue




Chapter One


They called themselves Al Asheera. The Tribe. Revolutionaries with crimson veils that masked all but the bloodlust in the deepest black of their eyes.

Like desert locusts, they poured from the darkness, swarmed over the palace walls. Consuming. Destroying.

Some carried the poisoned spears and the tapered broadswords of their ancestors, while others—the youths—held the submachine guns and grenades of their allies.

But all were intent on one objective: to kill the Royal Family of Taer.

Quamar Bazan Al Asadi pressed his fingers to his eyes, while a litany of screams pierced the darkness around him. Their mounting pitch taunted him with their unrelenting rhythm. They were the cries of the scarcely living—souls lost somewhere between terror and death.

He thought of the servants, the guards. His cousin, King Jarek, and Jarek’s wife, Saree. Their baby son, Rashid.

All dead.

Rage rose in his throat, forcing Quamar to draw short, bitter breaths through his mouth. The wind had stopped. Its strength bogged—first by the familiar stench of blood and battle, and now by the sweeter scent of hashish and cremated bodies.

A handful of Al Asheera soldiers swaggered around the palace grounds in small groups, confident in their success. Some patrolled, others stood watch from the palace’s silk-draped windows while most celebrated in a drug-induced euphoria.

Quamar moved, half-crouched, to a nearby abandoned jeep. From his position, he observed the courtyard. Bodies littered the ground, strewn about like blood-spattered rag dolls among the marble statues and mosaic-tiled fountains.

Men. Women.

His gaze stopped on a dead Al Asheera soldier, who lay slumped in the jeep’s passenger seat, his crimson scarf torn from his face. Quamar noted the acne that spotted his cheeks and the soft, youthful jawline that hadn’t yet touched the sharp edge of a man’s razor.

A boy. One who wasn’t a day older than fifteen, Quamar realized. His gaze rested on the knife tucked in the boy’s belt, the sword propped under his hand. Shaving wasn’t a prerequisite when it came to butchery.

The Al Asheera recruited the young. Not surprising, considering the promise of riches and rewards appealed mostly to those born poor and who hadn’t suffered the horrors of war.

Frustration filled him, fed his anger. Only cowards made war against women and recruited children to kill. For that atrocity alone, Al Asheera would pay.

A dull throb started at his right temple, but Quamar ignored it. Instead, he shifted deeper into the shelter of the darkness, monitoring his surroundings. He was a big man, wide in the shoulders, with the broad, hard-boned features of the Arabic, the muscle and meat of the Italian.

Still, he was born from the desert, his body carved from its wind, sand and heat. He was a soldier by fate, not choice—a man hardened but not cruel, dangerous but not treacherous. His beliefs were his own—this by his choice—deep-rooted in faith, tradition…

And justice, Quamar thought with grim satisfaction.

More than half of the palace guards had secretly joined the Al Asheera ranks. Traitors who attacked from inside, catching those loyal to King Jarek unaware. Several had died for their betrayal, but not near enough for Quamar’s liking.

A stretch of ground lay between the courtyard’s rear entrance and the palace itself. A few hundred feet. Half a football field.

In the middle lay a cluster of olive trees. Just beyond, fires burned in horrific pillars, their greedy flames fed by the dead.

It was a contemptible testament from Al Asheera. Muslim law forbade cremation—considered it abhorrent—and in doing so, Al Asheera denied the people of Taer their rightful place with Allah.

In the distance, curses mingled with loud bursts of laughter. Quamar leaned forward, his gaze shifting until a circle of Al Asheera soldiers, six in all, crossed his line of sight.

At their feet lay an older man, his worn, leathered features barely distinguishable under the blood that coated his dark skin.

A servant? A soldier?

The Al Asheera bound the man’s hands and stripped him down to a pair of mud-stained linen pants. Even from a distance, Quamar saw his arms were thick. Yet, where once there was strength and sinew, the muscle now slackened with old age. But it wasn’t until they ripped off his turban that he saw the shock of gray hair, the deep-set brow.

Arimand.

In the flickering light, the Al Asheera soldiers dragged the old man, Jarek’s Captain of the Guard, into the middle of the courtyard, then shoved him against an aged, gnarled olive tree.

Quamar edged closer, shifting toward the jeep’s front tire, careful to hide from the glow of a nearby fire.

A rebel tied the rope to Arimand’s secured wrists, then threw the loose end around a branch overhead. Within moments, they hoisted the guard off the ground and left him suspended mid-air with his arms stretched above, his shoulder sockets straining under his weight.

The smoke blended with the night, making the air thick and murky. For a few moments the Al Asheera poked and prodded Arimand with hot sticks and knives. But soon they tired of their game and drifted to the nearest fire for warmth.

Quamar flexed his fingers, felt the reassuring rush of blood to his hands. One against twenty was never good odds. But with every passing moment, the rebels’ hashish slowed their reflexes, dulled their thoughts.

If the number equaled fifty, it would not matter. First and foremost a soldier, Quamar had come to terms with death long before.

He grabbed the boy’s turban and scarf. His home had been assaulted. His family decimated. And because of this, he waged his own personal war. Quickly, he secured the material over his head, then around his face.

A war that took no prisoners.



ANNA CAMBRIDGE STAGGERED through the underground channel. Cobwebs snared her hair, covered her face. She shoved them away. The first two or three had frightened her—along with the rats that scurried and screeched. But no more.

How long had it been since she’d escaped through the passageway? An hour? Maybe two. It seemed a lifetime.

Her steps were slow, cautious by necessity, not preference. Mud oozed between her heels and her slippers while the coarse sand clung to her pajamas, saturating both her tank top and bottoms. The cotton—useless against the cold edge of the tunnel’s draft—adhered to her skin like a moist, sticky cocoon.

Her only warmth came from the baby snuggled low in a sling against her belly. Prince Rashid Al Asadi.

There had been no time to change clothes. No time to prepare. Al Asheera had laid siege too quickly.

Using her hand, she guided herself through the pitch-black, sliding her palm over the wall’s damp, jagged grooves, which cut and tore at her fingers.

The carrier acted more as a small hammock swaying with the cadence of her body. The material looped around one shoulder, then down Anna’s back to her waist, allowing the baby to hang semi-curled against her body.

Her free hand tightened protectively over the wide strip of woven linen. The baby lay quiet in his sling. There had been no whimper, no movement for over two hours. Alma, his nanny, had warned her he’d possibly go six. Anna frowned. He’d been drugged for his own protection and hers, long before Alma had found her. Still, Anna slipped her hand between, felt the soft beat of his heart beneath her fingers.

“Not much longer, little man,” she murmured, knowing the words were more of a hope than a pledge. Alma’s instructions had been desperate but insistent. Hide the baby until his father, King Jarek, or Anna’s father somehow rescued them.

Then Alma had shoved a knife into her hand. “Protect His Highness,” she had whispered, and was gone.

No problem, Anna thought derisively. All she needed to do was find her way out of this underground maze, slip past the soldiers, over the wall, then through the Al Asheera–occupied city.

The scent of stale earth and decayed rodent slapped at her, enough to make bile rise in her throat. Her heart pounded in fear. Another dead end?

She continued along the passageway, cursing herself and the darkness. She’d made so many missteps already—wrong turns, impasses. Still, she couldn’t turn back until she was sure.

A little boy—only months under ten, blond and slightly built—flashed across her mind. Her brother, Bobby, with his blue eyes wide with trust, his face pale with fear.

“I love you, Anna,” he whispered against her ear, tears he’d bravely held back getting the best of him, dropping his voice to a hoarse whisper. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me.” Anna pushed the memories away. But the echoes of his voice remained, riding a familiar wave of anxiety that rolled deeply within her.

She had left him. And her brother had died.

Cautiously, she shifted her foot forward, searching for the dead end with her toes. Anna stopped, steadying herself. The air had turned, sending a faint breeze skittering across her ankles.

A mist—more fog than light—crept across her path.

Blinking hard, she forced her eyes to adjust in the semidarkness, then used the soft haze to guide her.

At the base of the stone, no more than two feet square, lay a vent, its opening blocked by a wrought-iron grate.

Anna braced her back against the wall and slid downward, ignoring the burn of the sandstone against her bare shoulders. “Don’t worry, Rashid, we’re going to make it.” Or die trying, Anna added silently. She looked down at the baby, using his warmth to ease the knots in her stomach.

With a free hand, she tugged on the grate. “Looks like they sealed it with cement,” she murmured. After sitting back on her calves, she nestled the baby across her thighs. “I’m going to need both hands, handsome, so we’re going to have to make you comfortable.”

Outside, bushes flanked the vent, but nothing blocked the hole itself. Anna exhaled, not realizing until then that she’d held her breath.

She pulled Alma’s knife from her back waistband, noting how the cold steel felt foreign beneath her fingertips.

“Here we go.” After stretching across Rashid, Anna set her shoulders and began to scrape between cement and iron. Her movements were awkward and slow as she tried to keep the baby protected from bits of flying mortar. “If we’re lucky, this stuff has been decaying for a hundred years.” She dragged the knife around the four edges, applying pressure until her arms shook, her muscles ached.

As the daughter of the United States president, Anna had been around politics her whole life. At twenty-seven, she understood that greed undermined the rebels’ strike on the royal family. Al Asheera would fail. She had to believe that.

But not before hundreds more died.

At every pass, she dug the blade farther in, scraping and jabbing, trying to separate the grate from cement. The wind picked up, drying the film of perspiration into a tight mask, making her skin itch.

A chunk of cement fell from the top of the grate. With a small cry, she dropped the knife, wedged her fingers between the metal and wall, uncaring when her nails broke. She tugged at the metal until, noiselessly, the grate fell into her hands.

Trembling, she tossed the grate to the side.

“Okay, sweetie, time to run.”




Chapter Two


Arimand was dying.

Before he reached the tree, Quamar had seen the flash of the blade as the insurgent slid it below Arimand’s ribs.

The rage came to Quamar, savage and swift. But death would take its time with the old man. Slow and agonizing. Just as the rebel soldier had intended.

Most of the Al Asheera drifted away, not interested in the ragged breaths of a dying man. But one remained, the one whose knife still dripped with Arimand’s blood.

The guard’s eyes skimmed the darkness while his feet shuffled. From cold or fear, Quamar did not know. Nor did he care. The rebel had sealed his fate the moment he had slid his blade into the old man.

Quamar shifted his weight back, his shoulders forward, while his knife’s blade lay balanced between his fingers. He waited. The ache in his head had morphed into a battery of hammers beating a cadence on his temples. Having lived with the pain for many months, Quamar pushed it away, knowing from experience he had limited time before the pounding increased.

But by then, his objective would be completed.

The guard strapped his machine gun over his shoulder and with long, thin fingers reached for a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket.

Quamar let loose the blade, heard the familiar thunk as steel impaled skull. He spared no more than a glance when the body crumpled to the ground.

After snagging the guard’s machine gun, he pulled his knife free. He wiped the blade on the dead man and slipped into the darkness. Scanning the courtyard, Quamar noted that the killing had gone unnoticed. Instead, all stood watching the pillar of flames lick at the midnight sky.

“Arimand.” For safety, he covered the older man’s mouth with gentle fingers. The papery skin flexed beneath. “Be silent, and I will cut you down.”

Arimand shook his head, forcing Quamar to release his mouth. “No, leave me. I am well beyond help now,” the old guard rasped, pain etched in all the grooves of his face. “Anna Cambridge, the prince. Find them. Save them.”

“Anna Cambridge?” He pictured her long, blond hair, her depthless blue eyes. It was not hard—for months the woman had haunted his dreams. “If she is here, she is dead,” he said flatly. Another life to avenge.

“No. Hassan leads the Al Asheera.” The dark eyes bore into Quamar. “He ordered them to hunt her down. Go now, find her and the child. Take them to your father.” Arimand inhaled sharply. “Promise me,” he said after a moment, his voice harsh, unyielding.

“I promise you.”

Arimand nodded, then closed his eyes against the gut-wrenching pain. “You and Jarek…you both were…. If I had sons…” Arimand stopped, his eyes blinked, opened, their focus softening. “One more promise…”

Quamar nodded, stopping the words he knew hovered on Arimand’s lips. Agony ripped through Quamar, forcing him to tighten his jaw. He’d spent half his childhood with this man, had grown to love him as a son would.

“Go with Allah.” Quamar leaned forward and kissed the old man’s lined cheek. Without a sound, he slid his own knife between Arimand’s ribs and into his heart.

Arimand gasped, his heartbeat stopped beneath Quamar’s hand—and with it his suffering. Quamar dropped his forehead to Arimand’s. “May he keep you always.”

It took most of his will, but Quamar stepped away, knowing Arimand died a warrior. With honor, dignity. Courage.

Quamar moved back toward the tree, his gaze searching for danger among the shadows. Suddenly, a burst of laughter drew his attention. His eyes narrowed on the trio of men, their interest focused past the jeep to the wall beyond.

Curious, Quamar followed their line of sight, then froze. He swore silently. If he hadn’t been watching so closely, he would have missed the rustle of the bushes, the movement of shadows.

The flash of pale, blond hair.



WITH HER KNIFE IN HER side waistband, Anna hugged Rashid close and lay on her back. Her stomach churned under the baby’s weight, sending the bile back to her throat. She’d come too far to lose her nerve now. Using her heels, she pushed herself headfirst through the hole and into the courtyard.

Blood pounded in her eardrums, its rhythm a fast staccato that matched the beat of her heart. Anna dragged in a long breath, then made it two, fighting off the wave of weakness that seeped into her limbs. “Just a bout of nerves,” she whispered and rose to her feet. I can do this, damn it.

Anna forced herself to take first one step, then another. She had started the third when a hand fisted her hair and yanked her back. Anna screamed and struck out, blindly trying to gouge at the unseen features. When she found bare skin, she dug in her fingers.

A string of curse words spewed from somewhere above her head, but the hands locked tighter around the back of her neck, squeezing until the pain took her breath, forced her to her knees and into the light of the courtyard.

While another laughed, Anna bit back her cry of fear and instead concentrated on the cold steel of the knife hidden in her waistband.

From her position, she saw three of them. Identical, with their masks of red, their swords unsheathed.

War cries sounded in the distance. Soon, she knew, there would be more. She snaked her hand to her side, then gripped her knife.

No warning came. No noise, no scent, not even the ping of a bullet. One moment, a soldier held Anna, the next he froze, his features stiff with disbelief as he fell dead beside her—a knife embedded in the back of his neck.

The other two turned in unison, but neither had time to do much more. Anna saw the flash of a sword, heard the slap of steel against skin, then the screams of pain. Both men fell next to their friend. They, too, were dead.

“Get up.” A large, meaty hand grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet, jarring her knife free. With a thud it hit the ground. Her captor’s eyes strayed to the blade, then back to her.

“Pick up your weapon,” the man ordered, leaving his own in the dead soldier. “Now.” While his hand remained tight on her arm, he allowed her to stoop and grab the knife. For a moment she hesitated, gripping the handle.

“Do not be a fool.” His words were clipped, his tone annoyed. The man was a mountain of gloom towering over her with the crimson scarf draping most of his face. At five-six, her head came midway to his chest. His black robes caught in the wind and flitted against her in a devil’s dance, setting off a shiver of trepidation. By sheer willpower, she forced her fear back and stood her ground.

“I am your only way out, Anna Cambridge.”

The Al Asheera closed in, fanning out in a half circle and forcing the giant to shift his back to the tunnel’s vent.

“For now,” she answered, her chin raised, but the fear grew at his mention of her name. Quickly, she put the blade in her waistband, but left her fingers hovering over its handle.

Her action, while subtle, didn’t go unnoticed. Anna heard the grunt of surprise, then caught the giant’s gaze. His dark irises flickered with something—approval, maybe—before he shuttered the emotion closed.

Anna counted more than a dozen Al Asheera, some with swords raised high, others with guns leveled.

A spray of bullets peppered the ground in front of the rebels, kicking up dirt and forcing them to stop within feet of Anna and the giant. So close she caught the sour scent of their bodies, felt their excitement ripple through the air.

Her skin crawled with revulsion. Anna cradled Rashid with her free arm, for the hundredth time grateful he slept.

“Come any closer and die.” Her captor’s voice was pitched low, while the words he spoke were French. The language second only to Arabic in Taer.

The nearest soldier, older than most, with a scar that reached from his temple to nose, hesitated only slightly before he stepped toward the baby.

Her captor’s rifle discharged. Anna stifled a scream as Scar Face jerked, then stumbled while his hands grasped at his chest. Men shifted out of the way, let Scar Face fall, ignored him as he writhed on the ground in agony.

“Anyone else wish to come forward?”

“You cannot kill us all,” came the reply. A chorus of grunts followed his remarks.

“Move one more inch and you will be the second to die, Zahid,” her captor responded.

Anna gasped, recognizing the name. Zahid Al Asadi, cousin to King Jarek Al Asadi of Taer. The betrayal knifed through her.

Zahid salaamed, his black eyes flickering first over Anna, then Rashid. “We meet again, Miss Cambridge.” Anna’s gaze shifted toward the middle of the half circle until it rested on the man who spoke. Dressed as the rest with black robes and his red headgear, he wasn’t large in size. A good head beneath most of the men, with shorter legs and a fairly broad upper body. So large in fact it made him look top-heavy.

Before Anna could answer, Zahid turned toward the stranger. “And you are?”

The giant shook next to her. But when she spared a quick glance, she saw the set of his shoulders, the narrowed eyes and knew it wasn’t fear that caused him to vibrate, but rage. “I am a man holding an M4 assault rifle,” the giant rasped. Anna heard the click of the weapon, saw the Al Asheera shift back before he continued. “The bullets will cut most of you down in three seconds. Starting with you, Zahid.” Without hesitation he grabbed Anna by the scruff of the neck and brought her forward.

“You, in turn, will be firing at me and this woman.” When she cursed him and struggled, he tightened his grip. “Be quiet,” he snapped, his gaze not leaving the mob. “This is the daughter of the president of the United States. In her arms she holds Prince Rashid Al Asadi. What do you think will happen when they die in the cross fire?”

Zahid’s stance shifted, but not before Anna noticed the tight fists at his sides. “All right.” Zahid’s words were slick with oil, his tone cajoling. “You have made your point.”

The stranger released Anna. “As of this moment, they are my property. But I am more than willing to…sell them for a price.”

“If you care about our cause, you—”

“I have no allegiance to your crusade. I care only about their worth in ransom.”

Surprised, Anna glanced up. So the man wasn’t Al Asheera. He might work for another faction of terrorists, but it did not matter at this point. Escaping from one man would be much easier than escaping from a dozen.

“We will escort you into the palace,” Zahid responded. “And I will personally see you are rewarded.”

The man’s laugh was no different than his words, low and raspy. He nudged Anna behind him. The temptation to run prodded her, but she managed to quiet the urge. If she ran now, they would have no alternative but to shoot.

“I will find my own way to the palace.” Steadily, they backed away, the giant’s body now shielding her and the baby, his gun never wavering on the mob that followed. “Tell your father, Zahid, I will be in contact.”

The giant swung his machine gun toward the jeep and let go a burst of gunfire. An explosion shattered the air, the jeep burned in a ball of fire, putting a wall of flames between them and the soldiers.

Two of the rebels screamed in rage and rushed through the fire, but their robes caught the sparks and ignited. Some tried to save them, while others cried out and ran from the blaze.

The giant fired into the remaining Al Asheera even as he pushed her back toward the vent.

“Go through,” he ordered. “Now.”

Zahid grabbed a man, using him as human shield. Bullets struck the man’s chest. Still Zahid held him.

“Go!” When the giant’s weapon jammed, he threw it to the ground.

Anna hit the dirt, clutching Rashid. She slid back through the open vent, losing her slippers in the process.

For a big man, the giant moved with an eerie swiftness. She hadn’t risen to her feet before he stood beside her. Once again looming over her.

Desperate, Anna kicked the back of his knee and sent him crashing to the ground. Without waiting she started running, dragging her hand along the wall to keep her balance. His curses filled the air, but she didn’t let the viciousness deter her. Adrenaline pumped through her system. Her chest clenched, the panic swelled, threatening to collapse her already shaky legs.

While the walls were brick, the ground was still dirt. Sharp pebbles bit into her feet, causing her to stumble more than once, but sheer willpower kept her from crying out.

Suddenly, she was grabbed and pushed toward the wall. The giant’s body, hard and immovable, covered her and Rashid.

Behind them an explosion hit the air, the tunnel shuddered and the earth trembled. The wall collapsed in a roar of rocks and dirt.

Before she could gather her thoughts, he jerked away and grabbed her arm. “Grenades. Go!”

They ran through the obscurity—him leading the way with unnerving accuracy.

Only after long minutes did he stop.

A cloak of darkness surrounded them, its air clogged with dust and smoke. Anna tried to draw in a breath, ease the weight of fear in her chest but there wasn’t enough oxygen in the air.

“Shallow breaths.” The whispered order brushed her ear while his body pressed closer to her, its hard lines, the breadth of chest defined against her naked shoulders. A shiver of—what?—anticipation, fear—ran through her.

“We are safe for the moment. I detonated the grenades to stop them.”

“You’re sure?” She struggled to find his outline in the pitch-black, unnerved by the detached voice floating above her head.

“Yes, I am sure,” he answered with derision. “We are under the city. Far enough away to rest a moment. But only a moment.”

“Good.” She snagged her knife, jabbed the point into his stomach, backing him up a step. “Now, if you don’t let me go, I’ll kill you.”




Chapter Three


“You are being foolish,” came the irritated reply. Anna couldn’t see him, but she felt him, his body vibrating with barely suppressed anger. “Without my help, you risk yourself and the baby.”

“I have no reason to trust you or anyone else.” Another jab. This time the giant hissed. “So back off.”

“I am Quamar Bazan, Miss Cambridge. Do you remember me?”

“Quamar—” Her jaw snapped shut.

Of course she recognized the name. Quamar Bazan had worked as an agent with Labyrinth, a black ops organization connected with her father. One she hadn’t found out about until recently. “I’m supposed to take your word for that? When I can’t see your face?” She jabbed at him again for emphasis.

Quamar quickly grew impatient. “I can prove it, if you will allow me.” It was one thing to distrust him, quite another to keep poking at him with her blade. “But I must reach into my pocket.”

“All right. But slowly or you’re going to lose some fingers.”

Quamar heard the tremor in her voice, then the bite as she clamped down her fear. She was terrified, yet she maintained her stance.

She has courage, he admitted silently, almost reluctantly, as he pulled his light out of his pocket. And she would need it to see her through the next few hours.

He thumbed the switch, igniting the lighter. The dim fire cast an amber glow between them.

Beautiful, he thought, before he could stop himself. Even the streaks of mud over her brow and across the soft curve of her cheek didn’t detract. She studied him with blue eyes that were big and set apart, wide enough to balance the feminine cut of her chin, soften its stubborn edge. Her lips were full and wide with the balance toward top-heavy. Enough to entice most men, he imagined, to taste.

Slowly, she lowered her knife.

“Quamar.” There was no relief in her voice or fear. Just anger.

And his name trembled with it.

Since he’d expected the relief, her anger surprised him. But it shouldn’t have. He had been critically wounded a year ago while on an assignment to protect Anna’s grandmother from an assassin. And he had failed.

He, more than most, understood that past transgressions were never forgotten.

“You could have told me earlier.” She brushed her hair out of her face. Mud-splattered, it spilled down her back in a stream of blond tresses that curled between her shoulder blades. Thick enough to bury a man’s hand under its weight.

When his fingers itched to do the same, he tightened them on the lighter. “When was I supposed to tell you?”

“Outside, where I could’ve seen you.”

He growled, a harsh grinding of his vocal chords. “If I had, I would be dead. And you would be Zahid’s prisoner,” he snapped with more abruptness than intended, resenting her anger and the connotation behind both. “Or dead, too.”

“I could have killed you,” she said, her tone matching his. With jerky motions, she sheathed her knife in her waistband.

So, he thought, that is where the anger came from. Her fear of almost hurting him.

Not from their past.

“No, you could not have,” Quamar responded, his mind back on their position. It had been years since he’d explored the tunnels. Erosion could have weakened the passages for all he knew.

“In the future, do not warn your enemy before you strike,” he said, deepening the tone to soothe, allowing his words to settle before he pushed the blade away. “Strike to kill.”

“You’re damn lucky I didn’t.”

“It was not luck,” Quamar answered with forced equanimity. Quamar was a patient man by nature. The desert life killed those who weren’t. But somehow with Anna Cambridge the edge of his patience became slippery, making it difficult to hold on to.

“Where did you come from, Quamar?”

“The desert,” he answered abruptly.

“I see,” she said, frustration underlining her response. But when he wasn’t willing to give more information, she asked, “Where in the desert?”

“Where I was before does not matter. What matters is we are here and cannot stay.” His eyes ran over hers, checking her for injuries. “Rashid did not cry over the explosion.” He pulled open the sling, allowing the light to shine on the boy. “Is he dead?”

Anna felt his body tighten, the only give of emotion.

“Only sleeping,” she said, sensing rather than seeing him relax at her explanation. “His nanny drugged him for his own protection.”

“I understand,” he said, and let his hand drop.

“So, where do we go from here?”

“We get you both out of Taer safely.” He motioned toward the baby. “And to do so, you will need to trust me, Miss Cambridge.”

“Trust you? When just minutes ago you were talking ransom to Zahid? I’ve only met you once, and you were unconscious at the time. That isn’t a foundation for trust.” The harshness was gone, but wariness kept her eyes wide, the bow of her lips tight and pale.

After her grandmother’s murder, Anna had visited Quamar at the hospital. He remembered the cool flutter of her fingers on his hand. The brush of a kiss against his lips—an act of forgiveness that he did not deserve.

Over the past months, he had thought of that one kiss a thousand times. “I was not unconscious,” Quamar remarked. “Tell me now, do you ever do what you are told? Or do it without argument?”

“Do you?”

This one wasn’t startled easily. Cool, collected. But he had surprised her. He saw the flush rise over the pale cheeks.

“Yes, I do,” he lied without qualm before his eyes moved to the baby.

“Quamar,” Anna said with impatience. “I have promised to see Rashid to safety. I do not make promises I can’t keep. So I will trust you. Only because I have no other choice. But do not expect me to follow you blindly. Not with Rashid’s life at stake.”

Her jaw tightened, hardening the stubborn lines. Still, the trepidation was there in the shadows of her eyes.

Something pulled at him, deep from his belly. A familiar tug, one he’d felt before and many times since.

The threads of fate.

Quamar pushed the feeling away. “Agreed.” He shut off the lighter and pocketed it.

Catching her elbow in a viselike grip, he urged her forward. “We have wasted enough time. We must go.”

They traveled in silence, occasionally stopping to listen and wait. The air turned dank and the chill seeped through the soles of her feet, making her bones ache, her body shiver. The sling bit into her neck and shoulders. Without thinking, she shifted the baby, relieving some of the pressure.

“How is he?”

He must have sensed her movement. Instinctively, Anna’s arm tightened over the baby. “He hasn’t woken yet.” Her hand went to Rashid’s nose, felt the tickle of his breath against her skin. “But his breathing is even.”

“You have done well protecting him,” Quamar acknowledged. But before Anna could digest the compliment, or the warmth it invoked, he asked, “What are you doing here, Miss Cambridge?”

“Running for my life, it seems.”

“In Taer,” he corrected, but she heard the sigh in his voice. “What are you doing here in Taer?”

Without warning, his hand slid down her arm and snagged her hand. The meaty palm engulfed hers, warmed her chilled fingers.

“Saree invited me. We went to college together. I have known her for years. Since my father was getting ready to negotiate with Jarek over Taer’s new oil discovery, I figured I would visit for a few days. See Rashid. Take in the sights.” Anna didn’t comment on why, because this was not the time to release inner demons. “Sort of a diplomatic vacation.”

Suddenly, Quamar turned a sharp corner, pointing them in a different path. Which direction, she wasn’t sure, having lost all bearing hours before.

She paused, wondering. “How do you know these tunnels so well?”

“Jarek and I are cousins. As well as Zahid. We played in them as children.”

“Cousins? You tried to kill your own cousin?”

“Yes.” Quamar’s answer was matter-of-fact. No explanations. No justifications.

“You would have killed him if I hadn’t been there.”

“Yes.” It was a rhetorical statement, but Quamar answered anyway.

“Your family reunions must be real fun,” Anna muttered.

“They will send men to cover the entrances. We need to be gone before.”

“They?”

“Hassan and Zahid.”

“Hassan? Zahid’s father?” Anna asked, unable to stop the disbelief in her voice. “You’re saying your uncle is behind the attack?”

“He will benefit the most. But he had help. A traitor among Jarek’s ranks. Hassan could not have disabled the palace security from the outside, not long enough for the attack. Only someone from inside could have made them vulnerable.”

“How many people had access to the codes?”

“Half a dozen. Maybe less.”

“Quamar, a good portion of the palace soldiers turned on Jarek and his men,” Anna said. She’d seen it herself. Men killed with swords or bullets in their back.

“Something Jarek would never have expected,” Quamar acknowledged. “Jarek innately believed most people of Taer loved the country, honored it as much as he did. Were loyal to his father and the crown. It was a flaw I had warned him about. And now it has cost him his life.”

In the few short days she had known Jarek, she had come to respect him and his views. He epitomized royalty. Not just in looks, although his features were defined in a mixture of the sharp angles and broad planes of his ancestors. But more. Jarek wore his royal heritage like one wore an expensive suit—custom-tailored to fit the long, thin lines of his frame. And he had worn that heritage well.

“We must hurry. A short distance from here is a fork in the tunnel that leads out into the city,” Quamar said, his voice grim.

“And once we escape to the city? What are we going to do?”

“Survive.”




Chapter Four


Farad Al’ Neyum was a man driven. Not by honor or faith.

But greed.

Above him, he could hear the distant rap of a machine gun, the bellows of the soldiers as they hunted their enemies. Farad grunted with disgust. All fools who believed in an empty cause—to rid the people of Taer of antitraditionalists.

A cause brandished like a sword from a wealthy man who wanted no more than power and further riches.

Riches he had yet to see himself, Farad admitted while he pushed against the sewer grate above his head. With caution born from years on the street, he poked out his head and scanned the alleyway surrounding him.

Empty. Pleased, he set his gun out on the cement and levered himself out of the drain hole. He could taste the rot of sewage, feel the sludge stick to his skin, soak into his robes. But the stench didn’t bother him. Hadn’t in years. In fact, he’d become accustomed to the more fetid scents of the city. It wasn’t every man who owned his kingdom, even if it was the sewers of Taer. For even the rich needed somewhere to wash their garbage away.

Farad was a small man. In truth, no taller than the hind leg of a camel, and rather plain with a sharp nose, pointed ears and gaps between his teeth.

But he wasn’t one to dwell on his lot in life. He placed the grate once again over the drain.

With his size came an above-average intelligence—a quality lacking in the local law enforcement. One he used to his advantage.

Quickly, he moved down a nearby alley. Every so often he stopped and listened. In the distance sporadic gunfire sounded, but not close enough to be dangerous.

Feeling better, he stretched the tight muscles in his back. It had been a long evening, but a profitable one. With a smile, he lifted the leather pouch at his waist, tested its weight, heard the jingle of coins. Jewelry and money he had found on the dead. Paltry, considering. Not enough to last through the week.

His gaze skimmed over the rooftops of the souq—Taer’s marketplace—until it rested on the golden crest of the palace in the distance, still lit in all its glory. A glut of treasure waited beyond the long line of its columns and archways, protected just underneath the rise of its domes.

Praise Allah, he thought with derision.

Even an above-average thief didn’t risk the loss of one’s hands or head for palace riches. Especially during a revolution. Too many people would be suffering before the dawn broke over the horizon again.

No one ever cared about a thief’s lot in life. And Farad wouldn’t lose any sleep over others’ woes. He sighed and scratched his armpit, wondering if he’d picked up a flea or two from bedding down with the camels the night before.

Tonight, at least, he’d have money for a mat on a warm floor. And some hot mint tea.

Abruptly, a rock bounced, its sharp rap echoing off the cobblestone. Farad froze mid-scratch. He grabbed his rifle from the ground and edged to the corner of the building.

Blond-white hair caught in the yellow wash of the streetlamp. A woman adjusted the bundle in front of her, her fingers fumbling in her haste. Suddenly, she glanced over her shoulder and Farad caught the full image of her face.

Her features—delicate, with the traditional lines of the Westerners—were now pinched with fear, her body covered only in flimsy attire, her feet bare.

Leaving his rifle, Farad slid along the pavement, careful to stay down within the shadows of the street’s gutters. Deftly, he shuffled forward on elbows and knees, stopping twenty feet from the woman. Excitement set the hairs on his neck straight. Anna Cambridge. He had seen her many times on television, in the newspapers.

Within seconds, a man—a true Goliath—caught her arm and pulled her into the shadows. The man’s warrior stance, his panther-like quietness, seemed familiar. Instinctively, Farad shifted farther into the sewer’s trench.

Patience, he reminded himself.

The couple slipped into a nearby alley. Farad followed them even while excitement bubbled within, forcing him to resist the urge to clap with pleasure.

The giant posed a problem, but not so big a problem Farad couldn’t resolve it profitably.

After all, he had waited a lifetime to find the treasure beyond all treasures. And now, it stood less than twenty feet away.

His thin lips twisted with satisfaction.

Praise Allah.



THE CITY OF TAER WAS NO MORE than a tangled network of narrowed lanes and tightly compressed buildings.

“Where are we going?” Anna whispered.

Intermittent streetlamps glowed dully throughout the streets. Each block contained pastel-colored shops with apartments of white stone squeezed sporadically in between.

They had stopped, cloaked by shadows and a doorway. The pungent smell of cumin and stale grease permeated the air, telling Quamar he should have chosen something other than a bistro for rest.

The pain in his head increased, a chisel scraping between skin and skull. He closed his eyes for a moment, hoping for a little respite, but the heavy scent of spices antagonized the ache. He thought about the pills in his pocket, knowing they’d bring temporary relief. But the relief would come at a price. Slower reflexes, impaired judgment.

“We are going to a friend’s,” Quamar answered, the censor obvious in his tone. He scanned the area, searching the shadows for danger.

“Your friend or mine?” Anna muttered under her breath, but not low enough for Quamar to miss.

“Mine.” His eyes flicked over her, daring her to make another comment.

Anna frowned, her hand patting the baby’s back for courage. “Why not the airport? Or maybe steal a jeep?” She kept her words low, doing a damn good job at imitating his censured tone.

“The airport will be guarded and all the roads shut down. A vehicle will only be a hindrance where we are going. Do not worry, Miss Cambridge. I will get you to safety. But first, you need clothes.”

Her chin lifted at the insult. “I’m not worried,” she responded in a harsh whisper. “Just uninformed.”

She didn’t bother hiding her annoyance. And somehow she managed to look down her nose at him, even though he towered over her by a good foot.

Maybe later, that trick would impress him. Right now it only irritated him.

Quamar had spent most of his life keeping his thoughts and emotions hidden. But it took most of his control to bite back the snarl that rose in his throat.

He understood her fear, better than she did. The more information she had, the more she believed she controlled the situation. Uninformed, as she put it, kept her balanced on a precipice of fear. He didn’t have time to alleviate her fears now. First, he needed to get the two of them off the street.

But even terrified, the woman wasn’t easy to intimidate.

And she was definitely a woman. The sling covered most of her chest and abdomen, but not enough to disguise the fact that Anna Cambridge had soft, feminine curves and a waist no bigger than the span of his hands. Desire bit at him with sharp, jagged teeth, annoying him further. “If you must know, we are going to my father’s camp. But first we need a satellite phone. And supplies.”

Sirens sounded—announcements blared from loud speakers warning the citizens to stay in their homes or risk being shot.

He grabbed her hand, engulfing it once again in his own. “Come.” His command was clipped, leaving no room for argument while he pulled her along. “And be quiet.”

Her immediate gasp told him she’d been insulted, but she didn’t respond. Instead, she tried to yank her hand away. He caught her wrist, this time in a firmer grip.

The rumble of engines grew in the distance. “Trucks,” Quamar murmured. “More soldiers to patrol the streets. We must hurry.”

He picked up his pace, pleased when Anna did the same and did so quietly. After several minutes, Quamar stopped near an apartment building. Larger than most, it stood at the end of the street—ten floors of modern steel and glass towering over the shops in the souq.

An Al Asheera soldier sat on the front stoop, his scarf lowered to allow a cigarette to hang from his mouth. His rifle rested nearby, propped against the door.

“Wait here,” Quamar murmured, his lips brushing against the soft shell of her ear. When she shivered against him, his muscles tightened in response. Biting back a curse, he jerked away.

Quamar snagged a rock from the ground. He tossed it once in his hand, testing its weight, then threw it at a nearby garbage can. The soldier shot to his feet, his eyes darting back and forth. With hesitant steps, the Al Asheera approached.

Quamar waited with his back tight against the wall, the corner only inches from his face.

The man stepped past, his rifle raised. Quamar knocked the weapon away, heard it clatter on the street. He grabbed the man’s head and twisted. The sound of bone cracking split the air.

Anna cringed, fighting back the bile that rose to her throat. Quamar snagged the man’s turban, handed it to her along with the rifle. “Hold this.” He picked up the body and tossed it toward the back of the alleyway as if it were little more than garbage.

After he placed the dead man’s turban on his head, the scarf over his face, he grabbed back the rifle. Hesitating, his eyes bore into hers. “Are you going to faint?”

“I don’t faint,” she responded, swallowing back more bile. Her legs wobbled for a few moments, but she stiffened her knees to stop their shaking. She’d be damned if she gave in to the weakness.

She expected to see anger but she saw nothing but a dark void in the giant’s irises. No emotion. No regret.

Like most weapons, Quamar was clear, concise, cold.

And, God help her, right now she was grateful for it.

He led her through a lobby, decorated tastefully, if not minimally, with scarlet drapes, Persian rugs and the occasional potted plant.

Automatically, Anna moved toward the elevator only to be pulled short by a hand on her shoulder. “Stairs,” Quamar murmured close to her ear.

With quiet feet they climbed each flight of pristine-white steps—the vague scent of ammonia still clinging to its tiles.

Quamar stopped them mid-step. A door creaked somewhere beneath. Someone coughed and Anna’s nerves snapped and sizzled, like live wires beneath her skin. The slap of shoes echoed throughout the stairway only to fade seconds later when another door banged open.

Perspiration beaded at her temples while her muscles remained tight. Only when he tugged her forward again did she dare breathe.

When they reached the seventh floor, Quamar stopped and cracked open the door. A bright light pierced through the semi-dark stairway. Anna squinted until her eyes adjusted.

Quamar studied the hallway with care, noting one Al Asheera at the end of the corridor. The man sat cross-legged on the floor, his back against the wall and a rifle across his lap.

His eyes were closed.

A decoy?

A dozen doors stood between them, six on each side. Each door potentially hiding more Al Asheera.

Quamar studied the doors, looking for any jarred open or for fresh foot tracks by their thresholds.

Anna shifted behind him but otherwise remained silent. The woman was astute and learned quickly. That simple fact might save her life, he thought grimly.

In the stream of light, Quamar placed his forefinger to his lips, then pointed to Anna’s feet. “Stay,” he mouthed.

One short nod told him she understood, but her frown told him, once again, she wasn’t pleased about it.

Soundlessly, Quamar crept down the hall, picking up the light scent of polish, the stronger scent of sweat and tobacco.

The guard’s eyes flickered, then opened. But when he caught sight of Quamar, he scrambled to his feet rather than firing his rifle. A fatal mistake.

Quamar’s knife hit, sinking into the guard’s forehead, his surprised features a death mask as he slumped to the floor.

Expertly, the giant searched the man. Finding nothing, he shoved the body into a nearby utility closet, grabbed his knife and the rifle, then waved Anna forward.

Quamar tapped on the door.

Seconds ticked by. Quamar tapped again.

“Who is it?”

Quamar spoke too low for Anna to hear, but after a few words, the door opened.

A woman, no more than thirty, petite with feathered black hair just past her shoulders, waved them in.

“Quamar.” Relief underlined his name.

Quamar placed a finger to her lips, gave her one of the rifles. With silent steps, he made his way through the apartment, searching the adjoining rooms. A few moments later, he returned and motioned Anna into the apartment.

Tentatively, she glanced around. Luxurious by any standard, the apartment still managed a homey appearance. Muted, jeweled colors of sapphire, emerald and ruby draped the walls, covered the floors. A balanced blend of patterns and solids, mixed with the darker mahogany of the furniture, did more than relax—it soothed the senses.

“Your mother will be out in a moment,” Quamar said, before placing both rifles on a nearby dining table. “I caught her by surprise.”

For the first time, Anna took a good look at her rescuer.

Oh, he was tall, she’d known that. Even in the hospital bed, the blankets and bandages hadn’t been able to hide the height of the man. But they certainly hid the massive strength beneath.

The romantic in her recognized his stance as that of a warrior—taut, tense but poised. To protect, to rescue those he stood guard over—those he deemed defenseless. Her. Rashid.

Broad shoulders and bulging muscles were well defined under the flow of his black robe. Bare-chested, his rich, bronzed skin glistened with sweat and golden undertones where his robe parted into a V, framing the rigid abdominal muscles. He wore his dark pants loose and low on lean hips. But the cotton did little to conceal the firm, tight-muscled thighs beneath.

The woman in her took him in with one, slow stroke of her eye, recognizing instantly the attraction that fluttered in her stomach.

He’d taken off the turban, giving her an unobstructed view of his face. Dark eyebrows framed onyx eyes and long, thick lashes. Their arch, concealed now with a frown, she imagined appeared with a vengeance once his humor surfaced. If he had one.

He kept his head and face clean-shaven, adding a smooth texture to otherwise masculine features. His jaw was chiseled with a slight cleft in his chin—cut from the same stone that carved his high cheekbones, the straight slant of his nose.

His mouth, beautifully sculptured from the Greek gods—hard and sexy, with just enough give to hint at something softer beneath.

“Miss Cambridge, are you all right?”

Startled, Anna looked up to catch Quamar studying her. The black deepened enough to indicate he’d been watching her awhile.

“I’m sorry.” Heat flushed her cheeks. “Yes, I’m all right.”

“How about you, Quamar?” the woman asked, frowning as she glanced between the couple.

“I am fine, Sandra.” Quamar’s half smile only brought a raised eyebrow from his friend. He bent down and kissed the woman’s lips. A brief kiss, one of reassurance. Not passion.

Sandra’s leather-brown irises narrowed with concern. “I’ll just make sure you all are. If you don’t mind.” She walked across the room and grabbed a large black bag.

“Anna, this is Doctor Sandra Haddad,” Quamar stated when the woman returned. “Her father, Omar, is the physician to the royal family. Sandra is Taer’s coroner.”

“My father? Is he…” Sandra paused, unable to go further.

“The Al Asheera won’t harm your father, Sandra.” An older woman stepped from a nearby hallway. Her accent placed her as British. Older by at least thirty years, her skin showed little of her age. She was trim and petite, barely passing Anna’s shoulder. A glance from mother to daughter showed they had the same hairline, the same brown eyes. “He is too valuable. There is need of him.” And, Anna noted, the same stubborn line in their brow.

The woman paused long enough to caress the top of the baby’s head.

When Anna took an instinctive step back, the older woman smiled. “I’m Elizabeth Haddad. A friend.”

Before Anna could answer, Elizabeth addressed Quamar. “Prince Rashid is not safe here. Nor is Miss Cambridge.”

“The baby, he has slept through everything?” Sandra asked, already reaching for her flashlight.

“Yes,” Anna answered, trying to keep her concern at a minimum. “His nanny drugged him.”

“How long has he been out?” Sandra asked, checking the baby’s pupils.

“Over three hours now.” Anna’s arm tightened, protecting.

“Not the best way, but it served its purpose.” Sandra opened the sling and snagged the bottle from the baby’s lap. She unscrewed the lid and smelled. “Passiflora Incarnata. Not harmful but concentrated. When he wakes, he’s not going to wake happy. She had to give him quite a bit to keep him out this long. He might even have a slight headache, not all that different to a hangover.”

“But he’ll be fine?” Anna asked.

“Yes. He’s fine.” Sandra stroked Rashid’s forehead.

“But you aren’t.” Elizabeth’s gaze took in Anna’s mud-caked clothes, her bare feet. “You’ve been injured.”

With a frown, Anna followed Elizabeth’s gaze to the floor. For the first time, she noticed the blood-smeared footprints behind her.

“You are bleeding?” Quamar noticed the red marks on the floor. “Where are your shoes?”

“Slippers. I lost them running in the tunnel. Going back for them would’ve slowed us down.”

Quamar swore. He opened the door, gave Anna a hard stare, then disappeared into the hallway.

“What was that about?”

Anna sighed. “That’s his ‘Don’t you dare move while I’m gone’ look.”

“Really?” Elizabeth mused. “I’ve known Quamar since he was a child, and I’ve never seen more than a ‘I’m not going to let my feelings show’ look.”

Anna would have laughed, but she couldn’t figure out if Elizabeth was being serious or not.

Before she could ask, Quamar stepped back in and shut the door. “The rug is red, which covered your marks. But the stairs are a different matter. One that worked in our favor. I cleaned them down to the fifth floor.”

He glanced at Sandra. “Who placed the guard outside your door?”

“Hassan,” Elizabeth replied with derision. “At least that’s what the guard said. Under the ruse of protecting us, of course. He is keeping us safe in order to force Omar to help his soldiers.”

“The guard is dead. We have very little time before he is discovered. I had no choice, he saw me. But I took him down to the fifth floor also.”

Sandra nodded toward Anna’s feet. “We’ll clean up our floors, too.”

“All the communication lines are down.” Quamar walked to the bay window, eased the curtain barely an inch and studied the street. “I am taking you to my father’s camp.” He turned back to the women. “But first I need your satellite phone, Sandra.”

“I don’t have it,” Sandra replied. “It’s at my office. I only use it for my field research.”

“Then we go to your office,” Quamar stated. “Right now, I need you both to get ready.”

“No,” Sandra said. “I have a better chance of retrieving the phone if I stay. If people are injured or dead, they are going to need me and I am going to need my office. Just tell me who to call.”

“You are not staying.”

“Yes, Quamar, we are. If they come to our door, I will tell them the guard never reported to us. The worst they will do is assign another man,” Elizabeth argued. “I’m not leaving my husband.”

“Quamar,” Sandra said. “Hassan won’t harm us. He needs us too much.”

Quamar looked at her for a moment. “All right, I will give you the number to an associate. And a message. Memorize both.”

Sandra brought him a pen and paper. Quickly, he wrote the information. “Roman D’Amato. Talk to no one else,” Quamar added.

Anna didn’t recognize the name. “Will your man be able to contact my father?”

“Yes.”

“Tell him to say ‘no worries’ when he reaches my father.”

Quamar’s eyebrow arched. “A code?”

“A confirmation.”

“When were you going to tell me about this?”

“It’s not like I didn’t mention it on purpose, Quamar,” Anna retorted. “I’ve been a little preoccupied.”

Anna turned to Sandra. “When I refused having a Secret Service detail, my father devised this alternative,” she explained. “It will confirm you are a friend.”

Sandra nodded. “That’s easy enough.”

“Tell us, Quamar, how many have died?” Elizabeth asked.

“Many Taerians. Not near enough of the Al Asheera,” Quamar commented with a chilling finality.

“Your responsibility is to the prince and now, Miss Cambridge. Not revenge, Quamar,” Elizabeth advised.

Quamar’s features hardened. “First one, then the other.”




Chapter Five


“Yes. It is always that way, isn’t it?” Elizabeth commented.

Quamar’s features hadn’t changed, but the set of his jaw moved, tightened ever so slightly.

Watching, Anna understood. Quamar Bazan was enraged. He just did a damn good job hiding it.

He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want the responsibility of her or the prince. What he wanted was to destroy the Al Asheera. To avenge the dead. His family.

But wasn’t Rashid his family, too?

“Sandra, you take care of Quamar while I tend to Miss Cambridge.”

“Please call me Anna.” But as she made the request, Anna’s eyes flickered over Quamar. Fate had tossed them together, taking the decision of survival away from both of them. Prince Rashid came first.

“She stays with me, Elizabeth. They both do.” Quamar crossed his arms over his chest.

“I have been a doctor’s wife for thirty-five years and have learned something during that time. She won’t come to any harm. We’ll just be down the hall, Quamar,” Elizabeth said, the hard line of her statement leaving no chance for argument. “I will keep the door open.”

Elizabeth led her down the hallway to the last bedroom. “I have met your mother, Anna. You are very much like her.” Elizabeth’s lips tilted ever so slightly, but her voice softened. “Smart, diplomatic. But be careful, don’t underestimate Quamar. Now—” she walked to the adjoining bathroom “—let me help you and the prince get cleaned up. We do not have much time. And we’ve wasted too much already with talk.”

“The airports will be controlled, so will all the main roads,” Quamar stated grimly from behind. Anna jumped. The man moved like a jungle cat.

“See what I mean?” Elizabeth murmured to Anna. “He does like his way.”

“We’ll be crossing the Sahara, Elizabeth. To my father’s camp.”

“And the baby?”

“He is Taer. He will be fine,” Elizabeth said. “Quamar will make sure.”

Sandra entered the room with her medical bag. She caught Anna’s eye and smiled. “Looks like we’ve moved to the bedroom also.”

Anna took one look at Quamar and shook her head. “You’re worse than the Secret Service.”

Quamar merely lifted an eyebrow over the insult.

“Let me have a look at you, Quamar.”

Without argument, Quamar sat on the corner of the bed.

“How bad is the headache?” Sandra asked, before flashing the light at his right eye.

“Bearable.”

“Do you have your pills?”

“Yes. But it does not matter.”

“No. I guess it doesn’t,” Sandra responded somberly.

Sandra’s light slid from one eye to the next. “You need rest. The headache will only worsen.”

Quamar caught her hand, pulled it away from his face. “I am fine.”

Sandra said nothing, only held his look for a long moment. “Do not worry,” he added.

“I can’t help it,” Sandra retorted softly, then tugged her hand free. “I’m a doctor. It’s my job.” Her voice hardened on the last word. “I just wish I was better at it.”

“Sandra—”

“Just take your medicine when you can, okay?”

“Okay.” Quamar’s smile, while brief, took his features from attractive to heart-stopping handsome.

Little pinpricks of warning skittered down Anna’s spine. She groaned silently.

Featherlight fingers touched Anna’s arm. “Come, Anna.” Elizabeth glanced at her daughter, then to the giant. “I’m assuming that you will allow Anna to close the bathroom door?”

Anna automatically held the prince tighter. “Rashid can stay with me,” she said, not realizing until she spoke that her statement was almost identical to Quamar’s earlier one.

“You might just understand Quamar better than I thought,” Elizabeth responded.

“Put Rashid on the bed, Anna,” Quamar ordered. “I will watch him.”

Anna started to protest, but knew it was a waste of time.

“You can change his diaper, then, too.”

Quamar grunted. But whether it was a yes or no, she couldn’t decide.

She pulled Rashid out of the sling that held him close, then placed him down in the middle of the bed. At six months, his hair had grown into a thick mop of pitch-black. She touched it with trembling fingers.

This time, Elizabeth placed her hand on Anna’s shoulder lightly—a mother’s comforting touch. “He’ll be fine.”

Without waiting for Anna to respond, Elizabeth eyed Quamar. “You don’t look like you need clothes, which is a blessing. Omar is shorter than you by a few inches. And leaner. His robes wouldn’t fit.” Elizabeth glanced at her daughter. “Sandra, find Anna some clothes from Jamaal’s room.” She turned back to Anna. “He is my son. Studying also to be a doctor in the United States. He is built smaller—like my family—so his clothes should fit you better.”

“Men’s clothes?” Anna asked.

Quamar answered for Elizabeth. “They will be looking for a woman with a baby. Not two men.”

Elizabeth paused, considering. “Of course, we’re going to have to hide your figure.”

Anna felt Quamar’s gaze run over her, and she looked down. Her body wasn’t svelte, but curvy with a small waist that flared into rounded hips and thighs.

Now with the sling off, the pajamas stuck to her like a second skin. She wore no bra under the tank top, something she did only at night. Her breasts were too large to go braless any other time. Heat rose in her face.

“And hide your hair.” Elizabeth ran a hand over Anna’s blond locks. “Maybe cut the length shorter so you appear more masculine.”

“No,” Quamar answered, abruptly enough to raise the older woman’s eyebrows. “The turban will cover her head. If it comes off, they will see it is blond and it won’t matter whether it is short or long. It cannot be helped.”





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