Книга - The Sheik’s Safety

The Sheik's Safety
Dana Marton


INTERNATIONAL AFFAIRHe demanded to know her identity after she felled his attacker with deadly precision. But Dara Alexander feigned amnesia rather than reveal the truth to this blue-eyed Bedouin: she was an American soldier…behind enemy lines. For all she knew, this man was her greatest threat.Sheik Saeed ibn Ahmad was no nomad, she would learn at his desert encampment, but a powerful royal, the target of assassins. Suddenly, his protection became her assignment–an arrangement Saeed refused. Because she was a woman, Dara assumed. And she was right. But Saeed wanted her…to cherish and defend.









“You should not be here. I shouldn’t have brought you.”


Dara wasn’t in the mood for any chauvinistic garbage. “Because women are weak?” she challenged him.

He looked at her for a long moment. “Women should be cherished.”

She stared back, unsure what to say to that.

Her father used to say women had to be toughened up to be fit for the military. He hadn’t meant it disparagingly. He merely saw the difference between the sexes as a weakness. He was forever frustrated by her mother’s inability to hold up under pressure, suck it up and stick it out.

She glanced at Saeed. Cherished. It fell so far outside the realm of her experience, she couldn’t even picture it. Was he for real?


Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

This July, Intrigue brings you six sizzling summer reads. They’re the perfect beach accessory.

* We have three fantastic miniseries for you. Film at Eleven continues THE LANDRY BROTHERS by Kelsey Roberts. Gayle Wilson is back with the PHOENIX BROTHERHOOD in Take No Prisoners. And B.J. Daniels finishes up her MCCALLS’ MONTANA series with Shotgun Surrender.

* Susan Peterson brings you Hard Evidence, the final installment in our LIPSTICK LTD. promotion featuring stealthy sleuths. And, of course, we have a spine-tingling ECLIPSE title. This month’s is Patricia Rosemoor’s Ghost Horse.

* Don’t miss Dana Marton’s sexy stand-alone title, The Sheik’s Safety. When an American soldier is caught behind enemy lines, she’ll fake amnesia to guard her safety, but there’s no stopping the sheik determined on winning her heart.

Enjoy our stellar lineup this month and every month!

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue




The Sheikh’s Safety

Dana Marton





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


To Gail Neeves, a wonderful writer and treasured friend.


With many thanks to Kim Nadelson and Allison Lyons,

the best editors a writer could wish for, and Jenel Looney

for sharing her expertise on Middle Eastern customs

and life, and Anita Staley for her friendship,

help and tireless support.




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Dana Marton lives near Wilmington, Delaware. She has been an avid reader since childhood and has a master’s degree in writing popular fiction. When not writing, she can be found either in her large garden or her home library. For more information on the author and her other novels, please visit her Web site at www.danamarton.com.

She would love to hear from her readers via e-mail at DanaMarton@yahoo.com.




CAST OF CHARACTERS


Dara Alexander—Third-generation military, Dara followed her father’s and grandfather’s footsteps to the air force before joining a top secret antiterrorist unit, the SDDU. But the desert operation she ends up in this time is more dangerous, with stakes much higher than ever before.

Sheik Saeed ibn Ahmad—Once he was in line for the throne. Now the past is haunting him as he survives one assassination attempt after the other.

Nasir ibn Ahmad—Saeed’s brother. He is not happy with Saeed’s desire to preserve peace at any cost. Trouble is brewing in the background. Is he the source of it?

King Majid—He came to the throne under suspicious circumstances and would do anything to retain power. But does he want it badly enough to kill his own cousin, Saeed?

Jumaa—The Prime Minister of the country is supposed to hold the real power in a constitutional monarchy. But does he? Is he the king’s puppet, or an insidious schemer with his own agenda?

SDDU—Special Designation Defense Unit. A top secret military team established to fight terrorism. Its existence is known only by a select few. Members are recruited from the best of the best, SEALs, FBI and CIA agents, elite military groups.

Colonel Wilson—He’s the leader of the SDDU, reporting straight to the Homeland Security Secretary.




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue




Chapter One


They flew below radar, although not as invisible as they would have liked to be.

Dara Alexander took in the starry sky from the cockpit of the MC-130. Not a cloud in sight to cover the moon, no such thing as a pitch-black night here. That was one of the drawbacks of desert missions, and an annoying inconvenience for anyone trying to sneak around.

But the full moon was the least of their worries. They needed only a matter of minutes—fly in low, pop up to safe height for jumping, drop the team, then the plane would go back to base to wait for the pickup signal. Once they were on the ground, being invisible was their specialty.

Dara scanned Beharrain’s alien landscape below them, the expanse of rocky plateau broken up by giant boulders every so often, some a couple of hundred feet high. She might as well have been looking at video transmitted back by the Mars Rover. Except that somewhere ahead, a convoy of arms smugglers was heading south, hoping to cross the border to Yemen.

Not today. She rolled her shoulders. Not if her team had anything to do with it.

The pilot looked up from his display—symbology overlaid with sensor video. “Five minutes to drop zone.”

“See you in a couple of days.” Dara stood and clapped the man on the shoulder to thank him for the ride up front, then smiled at the copilot who was checking the situation data on the instrument panel.

She didn’t exactly miss the air force—her current job in the Special Designation Defense Unit, or SDDU, had more than enough excitement—but there was something about sitting in a cockpit that came as close to feeling “home” as she’d ever gotten. She glanced at the navigators and the electronic warfare officer, all three men busy at their console on the aft portion of the flight deck, then she moved on to the back, to the temporary team to which she now belonged.

Joey Scallio flashed her a grin. “How ’bout a kiss for good luck?”

“In your dreams, Scallio.”

His grin widened. “Babe, in my dreams we do a hell of a lot more than that.”

She shook her head and bit back a smile as she walked on, stretching her legs.

Harrison, their team leader, gave her a thumbs-up and a smile as she walked by him, his perfect white teeth gleaming from his ebony face. He was talking to Miller. “It gets easier after…”

She didn’t catch the rest over the noise of the plane. Judging from the proud fatherly smile that spread on the younger man’s face, they were probably talking about his newborn son.

She was almost at her seat when the cockpit alarm went off. The shrill tone froze her limbs for a split second.

“Incoming. Surface-to-air missile. Brace for impact,” the warning instructed through her headset.

Dara grabbed for one of the belts secured to the wall, twisted it around her arm, and hung on for all she was worth as the plane lurched to the side, the pilot taking evasive action.

Too late.

The plane shook the next second when the SAM hit.

Her right shoulder felt as if it were being ripped out of the socket. More alarms came on, deafening her. She lost hold of the belt and slid across the floor toward the front of the plane. Damn. Fear and adrenaline raced through her veins. She grasped at anything that might hold her, hoping she’d manage before she slammed into the metal crates by the cockpit door and broke a leg. The cargo net. She reached for it and succeeded, coming to a halt at last.

She tried to pull up, ignoring the ache in her shoulder, her gaze focused on her nine-millimeter Beretta that had snagged on something and gotten loose as she’d slid. She sought purchase on the floor with her feet, managed to get some leverage and pushed forward.

The plane straightened. Finally. Dara got on her knees to stand, but then the nose of the aircraft lifted and she lurched backward. Her pistol flew out of sight, disappearing behind the guys’ feet in the back. Thank God, she’d still had her fingers locked around the net.

She held on tight, her insides trembling.

“They got the left wing.” The pilot’s voice echoed in her ringing ears. “I’m going to try to pull up. Prepare to jump.”

Harrison unbuckled and came for her, helped her parachute on as he hauled her to her feet, opened the door and pushed her out just as she got the last fastener secured. Cold wind hit her in the face, but she barely noticed, floating weightless in the air.

She yanked hard on the rip cord, and the next second the harness bit into her shoulders as the canopy opened and broke her fall. The parachute needed five hundred feet at the minimum to properly operate. She looked down, gauging the distance between herself and the ground. Hard to tell in the dark.

She glanced back at the plane and saw someone else jump, Miller perhaps, then Scallio, then another. Under optimal circumstances the MC-130 could drop ten men every five seconds. She hoped that would be fast enough.

The second SAM hit.

She stared, a scream of denial frozen on her lips, as the plane exploded. The impact shook the air, the wind of it pushing her back, tangling her suspension lines for a second. She pulled at them frantically as flaming scraps of metal fell from the sky around her to land on the sand and burn on, lighting up the night. Her fall slowed again as the lines twisted free.

She drew a deep breath into her aching lungs and looked up because she couldn’t bear to look down. Hers was the only parachute in the air. The other jumpers had been too close.

She rode the slight breeze, numb, her mind struggling to catch up with her eyes. They were dead, all dead. The five officers and four enlisted men of the flight crew, and eleven of the twelve-member SDDU team.

Grief hit her hard, robbing the air from her lungs. But she couldn’t afford the luxury of giving in to it, of getting distracted even temporarily.

She was in the middle of hostile territory, alone.

She floated like a lost feather out of the sky, a hundred unrelated thoughts flying through her head. She had no radio contact. Harrison was gone, Miller was gone, and the others…

The ground was coming up to meet her fast. She bent her knees ready for landing, thumped onto the sand, then walked forward to allow her canopy to fold to the ground behind her.

Her gaze hesitated on the faint light on the horizon where the plane was burning. The beacon. Her best chance for rescue was if she stayed as close to her last known location as possible. But the men who had shot down the plane were bound to be there. They had to have seen her jump, which meant they would be looking for her.

Dara glanced at her compass in the moonlight, thought of the map they had studied on the way over.

“Come up with the best plan you can, then give it your best effort. Failure is not an option,” she muttered Harrison’s favorite mantra aloud.

There was a small village fifty to sixty miles north from where she was now, seventy, tops. Once there, she could sneak in at night to get some water and food, get her hands on a phone or radio and call for help.

She buried her parachute, saving a two-by-four strip to shade her head once the sun came up, then, ignoring her throbbing shoulder, she moved forward at a good clip, away from the plane. She pretended she was on an exercise, that food and water would be waiting for her just beyond the horizon, the guys ribbing her about coming in last.

The guys.

Tears of grief and frustration clouded her eyes. Wouldn’t be a problem for long, she thought as she blinked them away. Pretty soon she’d be too dehydrated to cry.



SHEIK SAEED IBN AHMAD IBN Salim ben Zayed scanned his surroundings from the mouth of the cave before he stepped outside into the sunset, careful to note every dune. Two assassination attempts in two weeks had made him cautious.

His sharp whistle brought his black stallion trotting over. “Time to go, Hawk.”

He vaulted himself into the saddle, grabbed his flask, and drank the last of his water. He could refill at the oasis halfway between here and camp. He capped the flask and glanced back at the opening of the cave, anger still at a slow boil in his gut. Whatever it took, he would find the thieves.

The treasure belonged to his tribe, the knowledge of it passed down through the centuries from sheik to sheik—father to son. In times of dire need, when the livelihood of the tribe was threatened, the sheik would take enough to last them until the drought lifted and famine passed.

The cave’s secret had been their thousand-year-old disaster insurance. Allah be thanked, they hadn’t needed it in the last couple of decades, not since oil income from the tribe’s southern territories became dependable. They made it through the twelve-year drought of the eighties and early nineties without having to touch the gold. But it was theirs just the same, their heritage. No one knew what the future might bring.

At least the thieves hadn’t taken everything. The cave, continuing for hundreds of meters underground, had many crevices, the treasure carefully concealed. Only a small cache had been broken into, close to the entrance. Not a significant loss, a million dollars’ worth or so.

But once it was spent, they would be back hoping for more. And that he couldn’t allow. He couldn’t let them find the passageway leading underground. He either had to figure out a way to guard the treasure or move it.

A sudden squall threw sand into his face, and he leaned forward in the saddle as Hawk flew across the distance. He had to come up with a plan, or his enemies would bury him faster than a windstorm. He watched the desert for any sign of danger as he rode. And then he saw it.

A man lying ahead to the right in ambush.

Saeed ducked in the saddle and turned Hawk, urged him faster, but no shots rang out. He rode on until he knew he was out of sight then circled back, sick of the game and ready to bring it to an end.

The previous assassins had been killed by his angry tribesmen before he’d had the chance to question them. He needed one alive. He had a fair idea of who had paid the men, but he needed proof—a confession he could take to the Council of Ministers.

He left Hawk out of sight and bade him to stay, came in on foot, then on his belly over the last dune. The man wasn’t moving. At all. Nobody who knew anything about the desert would have lain down in the sand like that, exposed to the elements, to sleep. And stranger yet, no sign of how he had gotten there, no camel or horse or car.

Saeed crept closer, his gun ready as he made his way over to the prone figure with caution, all the while watching out for more of them, for any sign of ambush. When he came within twenty feet or so, he stood and shouted a greeting. The man, lying face down in the sand, didn’t move. Dead, he thought and went closer yet. The stranger’s back rose and sank, the slight movement barely noticeable.

“Get up.”

The man didn’t move a muscle, made no attempt to even look at him.

With rifle in hand, ready for any surprise, Saeed flipped him over with the tip of his foot. The stranger made no sound, nor did he open his eyes. He was unarmed, save a knife he kept in a holster on his thigh, of which Saeed relieved him at once. He wore a camouflage uniform with no military markings, his face wrapped against the sun. A lone bandit, probably a mercenary. His proximity to the cave was more than suspicious.

Was he one of the thieves who had stolen the gold? Or was he another would-be assassin? He reached down to pull off the frayed headdress, but the knot in the back was too tight. Time enough for that later. Saeed whistled for Hawk, and when the stallion trotted over, he lifted the listless stranger in front of the saddle then mounted the horse. He had to make sure the man lived long enough to answer his questions.

The stallion rode as if sensing the urgency, paying no heed to the extra weight—not that the man was heavy, rather the opposite. Must have been out in the desert without food and water for some time. He was lucky. Weather had been mild and temperate this January so far. Had it been summer, he would have been already dead.



THEY REACHED THE OASIS in two hours or so, a couple of stars already visible in the sky. The place wasn’t much more than a seasonal watering hole with a handful of scraggly date palms and a smattering of grasses.

Saeed slid out of the saddle, caught the stranger when the man nearly fell after him, and lowered the limp body to the sand. He used the man’s knife to slice through the knot of the headdress in the back, wanting to free his mouth to get some water into him.

He turned him with his left hand, the knife in his right. Then stopped in midmotion.

His left palm, having tried to brace the stranger’s chest, was filled with a mound of flesh, soft and round. He was old enough to recognize a female breast, especially one that filled his palm to perfection as this one did.

Allah be merciful…

She was beautiful in the moonlight, despite the grime that had found its way under the fabric. Her hair, the color of rich, spiced coffee, had half escaped from the braid that had once contained it. For a moment the face of another woman appeared before him, her black curls streaming to the ground as she lay dying in his arms.

He blinked away the memory and focused on the foreigner. Her feminine, delicate features stood in puzzling contrast to the uniform she wore.

A female soldier? Israel had women in its army; so did the U.S.A. But what would one be doing here? Judging from her exotic features, she was a westerner. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of her shirt and reached inside.

The back of his hand brushed against velvet skin. He hesitated for a moment before continuing.

No dog tags.

His first assessment had been correct. She did not belong to the military. But then who was she? He had a hard time believing her proximity to the cave was a coincidence. She had to be there either for him or for the gold.

He walked over to the well, shook the bucket clean and lowered it, relieved when he heard the unmistakable sound of it hitting water instead of mud. The water was full of sand as expected, but better than nothing at all. He used the woman’s makeshift headdress to strain water into his flask, then went to settle onto the sand by her side.

He dribbled water onto her parched lips, and when she moaned, he sloshed some into her mouth, massaging her graceful neck, helping her to swallow. “Drink.”

His eyes settled on the small triangle of skin between her collarbones revealed by the top two open buttons. Her pale skin shone in the moonlight. If she was a mercenary, a hired assassin, they had picked well this time.

This one could have gotten to him.

He helped her drink some more, folded the wet cloth and placed it on her forehead, then went back to the well to draw water for Hawk and considered whether to unsaddle him while they rested.

“Sorry, friend.” He patted the stallion’s neck, deciding he could not afford to give the animal that comfort. “We might have to leave in a hurry.”

He strained the water for the horse as carefully as he had for the woman, but still when Hawk tasted it, he shook his head a couple of times.

“You’ll get a cleaner drink when we get to camp.”

Hawk bent to the bucket as if understanding, but looked up after a few moments, his ears turning. He picked up his head and neighed.

Saeed listened to the night. Nothing. Then he could hear it too, a low rumbling sound. He stood and searched the desert until he spotted the source: a black SUV coming at them from behind, flying over the sand. Moonlight glinted off the rifle barrels that hung out each window.

Here we go again. By Allah, he was tired of this game. And he had no choice but to play it out to the end.

He pulled the woman under the cover of two palms that grew side by side, their twin trunks offering sufficient protection.

He glanced at Hawk, out in the open, and let out a sharp whistle that sent the stallion galloping off into the desert to safety just as the first series of shots rang out.

He peered from behind the palm and took aim. The rifle flew out of the driver’s hand the next second. Somewhat of an improvement, as now only three of them were shooting, but the SUV picked up speed, the man’s full attention on driving now.

Saeed had his great-grandfather’s bolt-action Remington, a finely made piece, but still only eight rounds, no more. He had to pick his aim carefully. The next shot shattered the windshield, the one after that hit the radiator. Steam rose from under the hood but the vehicle didn’t halt.

It didn’t even slow.

He aimed again and hit the man in the passenger seat, then squeezed off another round, trying for the driver. The SUV veered to the left as it came to a slow halt on the sand.

The two men in the back got out and hid behind the open doors for a minute before throwing themselves to the ground.

Using the tufts of grass for cover, Saeed crawled along a natural indentation in the sand, moving as fast as he dared toward the well. Its raised stone edge, about half a meter high, offered more substantial protection, and if he managed to reach it without being detected he might be able to pick off the men from the side.

He made it—a miracle—squeezed off a shot, ducked down again. Return fire came swiftly. He kept quiet, waiting for them to get closer. He could not afford to miss. No margin for error. Zero. He was down to his last two bullets.

He peered from his cover then ducked back when they shot at him. The men had separated, circling the well one on each side. He would be in the line of fire soon. He rolled into the open, aimed, shot, rolled back.

One attacker remained.

Saeed lay low to the ground, waited until the man came into sight—rifle first, holding the AK-47 extended before him. With his last bullet, Saeed shot at the right arm then pulled back immediately. A shout of pain and rage flew across the sand. Good. He wanted him incapacitated but alive. He wanted answers.

He took off his kaffiyeh and wrapped it around the Remington’s barrel then lifted it above the rim of the well.

No shots.

He stuck his head out. The man was rolling back and forth, grasping his wrist.

“I will pay the blood price in gold,” Saeed said as he walked to him. “For the name of the one who sent you, I will pay double.”

The man looked at him with death in his eyes and lifted his rifle with his good arm.

Even though the assassin was too far, Saeed grabbed his dagger and charged forward, prepared for the bite of bullets, knowing the certainty of death but wanting to go out fighting. He was the sheik, he would not shame his people by dying from a bullet in the back that he’d gotten while running from his enemy. He thought of his family and hoped he had time for a quick prayer for them.

He could clearly see the man’s finger on the trigger, the small movement of the last two digits as he began to squeeze it. Allah be merciful.

Something hissed in the air. The next thing he knew, the man was facedown in the sand, a knife sticking out of his back.

Where had that come from? Saeed drew up short. Movement by the palm trees caught his gaze, and he stared at the moonlit figure of the woman standing with her feet braced apart. Her long hair streamed around her shoulders, flitting in the strengthening breeze.

His captive was awake.



SHE HOPED TO HELL she had made the right decision. Because now that she had thrown her spare knife, she was officially unarmed. Dara rubbed her right shoulder as she took in the surprise on the man’s face, visible in the full moon even at this distance.

They were at an oasis, although she had no clue how she’d gotten there. She had come to in the middle of a gunfight and her first thought—after she’d pushed back the sudden rush of memories of the crash and the onslaught of grief—was to sneak off unseen. Then she spotted the SUV.

The vehicle was worth staying for. But she couldn’t make a beeline for it with three men filling the air with bullets. She contented herself with watching the fight, hoping they would kill each other and save her the unpleasant trouble.

The one with the blue headdress wasn’t half-bad, but woefully outmatched by the two with AK-47s. The decision to save him hadn’t been conscious. Instinct had whipped her arm forward when she threw the knife, instinct honed by years of combat experience.

She watched, wary now, as the man started toward her, his heavy dark robe parting to show a long white shirt that reached almost to the bottom of his white pants. He finished rewrapping his headdress as he walked, leaving only his eyes free. She assessed him, trying to determine how much of a threat he was.

His figure trim and muscular, he walked steady and didn’t appear wounded. He looked to be in his midthirties, a couple of years older than she was, a man in his prime. None of her observations pleased her. Least of all that he was armed.

She locked her trembling knees as he came nearer. Under no circumstances did she want him to know how weak she was. She glanced at the vehicle. Too far. She didn’t have enough strength to run. She looked around for a makeshift weapon and came up empty. Great. She really hoped the guy felt some gratitude for her saving his life, because judging by his size and the state she was in currently, no way she could wrestle him down.

Ah, hell. She wasn’t supposed to come into contact with anyone except for the arms smugglers they were here to pick up. The Colonel had high hopes they’d talk if put under enough stress, and lead him to Tsernyakov, the elusive businessman who was responsible for eighty percent of the illegal gun trade in the region.

No one was supposed to know about the unauthorized U.S. military operation in the country. From the look of him, the guy striding toward her had a couple of questions. She wracked her brain for a logical explanation on what she was doing in the middle of the desert in a camouflage uniform.

He stopped a few feet from her, a silver-studded antique rifle slung over his shoulder. He had her two knives tucked into his belt, his sinister curved dagger still in hand. The light of the full moon glinted off the dagger’s golden sheath that looked like a museum piece.

She raised her gaze to the man’s face, hoping to read his intention. “Where am I?”

The cobalt blue of the headdress matched his eyes that appraised her with curiosity and distrust. What little skin she could see looked tanned by the sun, his eyelashes and eyebrows the blackest black. He looked fierce and proud, a warrior from another time.

“Jabrid,” he said.

She hoped that was the name of the oasis and not Arabic for “prepare to die.”

The intensity of his gaze was unnerving. Scenes from a long-ago-seen movie floated through her mind, about a desert prince coming upon an English woman, the sole survivor of a caravan attack, throwing her over his horse and carrying her off to his sumptuous tent. She could swear the man in front of her was the guy. Except, no horse, she noted with relief. And then, without taking his eyes off her, he whistled.

The brief series of notes was not earsplitting, but high-pitched and swift, carrying over the sand. She turned in the direction of a soft sound coming from behind her, and what she saw took her breath away.

The magnificent black stallion coming toward them was straight out of the film. His long mane and tail swept through the air, his saddle covered with a richly woven blanket—red and white, she could just make out the colors in the moonlight—the tassel fringe bobbing like so many tiny bells. A white mark, in the distinct form of a bird spreading its wings in flight, graced the animal’s forehead.

“Do you have any more knives?” the man asked with a British accent, drawing her attention from the horse, which came to a stop next to him and was now nuzzling his wide shoulders.

The muscle cramps in her legs were strong enough to make her knees buckle, but she bit her lips and thrust out her chin, refusing to fall down. She lifted her hands a little, palms forward. “Fresh out.”

He looked her over then nodded, slid his dagger into its sheath. “Who are you?”

“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” She widened her smile, trying to look innocent.

His eyes narrowed. “You want a million for the answer?”

She laughed. Never let them see you scared. “I meant I’d give a million if anyone could tell me.”

He took a few seconds to digest that. “You don’t remember?” he asked with a hint of incredulity, one ebony eyebrow cocked.

“Nothing before I woke up under this palm to the sound of shooting.”

“Nothing?” The second eyebrow joined the first.

Her lips pressed together in mock consternation, she shook her head. Shouldn’t have done that, she realized as the landscape swam around her. Three days of forced march through the desert without food and water had left her severely dehydrated. She swayed a little, but caught herself. He must not know what an easy prey she was.

He made an unintelligible sound as he looked her over again. “You sound American.”

No sense in denying that, since her unmistakable accent had already given her away. “Yes, I think so.”

“Why were you armed?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where did you get the second knife from?”

She glanced down and pointed at her boot.

“And you’re sure you don’t have any more?”

“I don’t think I do.”

“I’d like to check.”

She thoroughly resented the suggestion. Could be worse though—he could have demanded a strip search. In her current condition, she was pretty much obliged to do whatever he asked. Well…within reason. She plopped onto the sand, grateful to be off her feet. A few more minutes and she would have fallen. Maybe if she played nice, he would let her have some food and water, not to mention the SUV. He didn’t need the vehicle anyhow. He had his horse.

She took off her boots and tossed them to him, then while he looked them over, she took off her socks, too, enjoying the air on her feet, reluctant to put her footgear back on when he returned it.

“Any water in that well?” She nodded toward the stone circle with her head. Her tongue felt swollen, her lips painfully chapped.

“Too much sand in it,” he said as he pulled a flask from the saddlebag and handed it to her, his eyes narrowing once again, as if he were trying to decide what to do with her.

She gulped the gritty liquid, holding onto the flask with both hands, prepared to fight for it if he tried to take it away.

“We’re a few hours ride from camp, plenty of clean water there,” he said.

Tempting, but no. She met his dagger-sharp gaze. She was definitely not going to some desert bandit camp with him.




Chapter Two


“I need to get to the nearest town.” She drank the grainy water to the last drop, smiled at him as she laced up her boots. “I’d like to get in touch with the American embassy. Do you think I could take the car?”

“You’re not well enough to go anywhere alone.”

“You could…escort me?”

He waited a while before responding. “Tihrin is too far. I’ll take you to the camp, then when you’re better, I’ll take you to Tihrin.”

“I’m really pretty good.” She stood, and prayed he didn’t notice the slight wobble. She had to get to a phone. She had to tell the Colonel what had happened to the team.

“In a few days.” He whistled for the horse again, lower this time as the animal was nearby. “Right now, we’ll be safer at the camp.”

Right. Because he looked safe. Not. “Why don’t you ride the horse and I’ll drive the car and follow you?”

“We leave the car.”

She needed some time to come up with a plan. “Mind if we rest a little before we go? I’m not sure I’m up for horseback riding yet.”

He glanced at the bodies behind him then back at her. “A few minutes,” he said. “There might be more of them coming.”

He was just full of good news. She wondered if the four dead men were in any way connected to whomever had shot down the plane. Where was an M4 when she needed one? “Can I have my knives back?”

“No.”

Not very accommodating, was he? “In case there’s another attack?”

He shook his head. “I will protect you.”

For a moment she considered reminding him who had saved whose life, but decided against it. No sense in appearing too contrary, no point in raising any suspicions.

He took a few steps toward the bodies on the sand, stopped and turned back. “What is your name?”

“I don’t remember.”

“I’m Saeed,” he said, and left her.

She watched him as he went from one body to the next, checking them over, coming up empty-handed as far as she could tell. It took all her strength to make her way to the horse a few short feet away.

“Come on, boy.” She let the animal smell her, patted his head. “What a fine horse you are.”

Purebred Arabian. She remembered her grandfather’s horses on the reservation, a couple of pintos and a half dozen wild mustangs he’d bought through the government program. They were all beautiful in their right. But this one—this one was a prince.

“Here we go.” She moved to his side and checked to make sure the cinch was good and tight. When she tried to put her foot in the stirrups the animal danced away.

“You’re not scared of me, are you?” She kept on talking, utter nonsense in a calming voice, as she tried again. Same result. Horses were supposed to be in her blood. Apparently, someone forgot to tell this one. The stallion had been trained, and trained well. Figured.

“Tayib, hoah.”

The deep voice coming from behind startled her, but seemed to calm the horse. Saeed stepped forward and grabbed the bridle.

“You can get on now,” he said, four AK-47s slung over his shoulder.

For a split second, she considered fighting him for the guns.

His gaze was sharp on her face, steady. She could barely stand. If she didn’t succeed, what would he do? Kill her, leave her to die in the desert or tie her up and take her to his camp anyway? She had to face the truth—she could not overtake him. To try would accomplish nothing but tip her hand and make escape more difficult later.

She mounted, and as soon as she was in the saddle, he vaulted up behind her. His arms, one on each side of her now, held onto the rein and set the horse going with a gentle flick.

As if the moving animal had unbalanced her, she slid to the side, testing Saeed. His arm barely moved, although she’d leaned her full weight against it.

He was strong and in control of his strength. In control of her, too, for the moment. As temporary as it was, she didn’t like the feeling. Dara straightened herself in the saddle. He was taking her, whether she wanted to go with him or not.

Fine. She would ride to his camp, eat, get her hands on a few flasks of water, then sneak away at the first opportunity. Shouldn’t set her back more than a day.



SAEED KEPT HIS EYES on the desert, constantly scanning the horizon, unsure when or from where the next ambush would come, knowing only that they weren’t done with him yet.

The woman in front of him had made a valiant effort of staying upright when they’d first mounted, but was now sagging farther back in the saddle, losing her strength rapidly. Her back touched his chest and she jerked forward, but soon was slipping again.

He let go of the rein with his left hand to pull her fully against him, leaving his arm around her waist to hold her in place, unsure how much longer she could do it on her own. “Rest.”

“I’m fine,” she said, but didn’t pull away.

She felt frail in his arms, but he knew better. She had survived several days in the open desert, taken out an armed assassin with a knife from forty meters. Helpless she was not.

And yet, despite knowing she was probably part of whatever band of thieves had robbed his tribe, he could not quench the surge of protective feelings inside him. Probably because she was a woman, in his arms.

It had been a while since he’d held anyone. Although her head was covered with her makeshift headdress once again, it would be some time before he would forget her face and the way she had looked at him. Her eyes shone like jewels—black onyx with freckles of gold.

She felt soft in all the right places, all sinuous muscle in others. Her shapely behind wedged between his thighs moved against him slightly to the rhythm of the horse, bringing thoughts to his mind the likes of which he had been too busy to think for far too long.

He brought his focus back to more pressing issues. “Where are the rest of your people?”

She stiffened. “I don’t remember anyone.”

Hard to say if she was lying or not. He would have expected a foreign woman who found herself in the desert in the middle of a gunfight with no idea of how she’d gotten there to be a little more frazzled. Maybe she was in shock, too numb for hysterics. No. Not shock. She had thrown that knife with precision, good and steady. And she appeared fine, save her weakness from exposure and lack of food and water. And of course lack of memory—if she wasn’t faking that.

With his attackers dead, once again she was the only possible source of information he had. As much as she wanted to reach Tihrin, he could not let her go until he found out for whom she worked and what her purpose was here.

She shivered in his arms.

“Here.” He slipped off his kaffiyeh, wrapped it around her head, neck and shoulders as best as he could. “Before today you don’t remember anything?” He tried again.

Her response came slower than before. “Nothing. I think maybe I got lost.”

He chewed on that for a while.

She wasn’t an assassin. She could have let that man shoot him or, for that matter, she could have buried that knife in his chest just as easily as she’d done in the attacker’s back. But if she wasn’t in league with the assassins, chances were she was in league with the thieves. Her proximity to the cave when he had found her certainly pointed in that direction.

She had come to steal from him, then had a fallout with her partners in crime who’d left her in the desert for dead. If that was the case, she could hardly reveal her identity to anyone. But with time, if she came to trust him… For a suitable reward she might be willing to give up those who had betrayed her.

But not anytime soon. She was completely limp in his arms. He tightened his hold on her to make sure she wouldn’t slip out of the saddle now that she was out again.

The wadi they rode in deepened, until he could no longer see out. He didn’t mind. If someone drove across the sand at a distance they wouldn’t see him, but he would be able to hear the noise of their motor. And they were close to camp now. That, too, made him more comfortable.

Soon he would be able to see the small rocky jebel, not even a hill but more of a tall outcropping of stones, that protected the encampment from the wind on the east side. A small path led down, steep but doable. Hawk could manage just about any terrain.

He turned the horse up the familiar incline when they reached it. Another few feet and they were high enough so he could see over the bank. And saw the men. He pulled on Hawk’s rein, and without a word, made the horse retreat, then stopped him when he was sure they were back out of sight again. There were people on the ledge above the encampment, two Jeeps with seven men that he had counted.

Not his people.

Had he been alone, he would have crept closer to investigate; as it was, he had to go around, miles out of his way, to get all the way behind the camp without being seen.

He managed, pushing Hawk more than he should have, worried he might lose the stranger in his arms.



DARA STARED at the enormous weaving to her left that hung from the black ceiling of the opulent tent, dividing it in half. Willing the pain in her shoulder to go away, she let her gaze glide over the vibrant colors that made up the slightly off, ornate pattern in the badly woven material. She had fleeting memories of a woman, wrapped in black from head to toe, bending over her. What happened to her?

Sunlight filtered through the cloth panels, the voices of distant chatter coming from outside. Déjà vu. She shook her head to clear it of the memories of summers she had spent on the reservation when she was young. She had loved her mother’s Lenape heritage as a small child, hated it as a teenager, denied it as an adult. Maybe if her mother hadn’t abandoned her father and her when she was twelve, it would have been different.

She sealed off the thought and the feelings it brought with practiced ease and sat up, noticing for the first time the indigo dress of fine linen that reached to her ankles. And panicked. Somebody had dressed her, which meant she’d been undressed first. The voices rose outside. Women. There were women around. She relaxed and straightened her dress, letting her fingers glide over the soft material. It had been a while since she had worn one. She was used to army fatigues.

Because she was a soldier, she reminded herself, annoyed because she liked the dress. She didn’t miss that kind of stuff. Didn’t need it. She stood and looked around. She had the skills to get out of here with or without help, trained for not only fight but escape and evasion. Other than her shoulder and a mild burning sensation around her right eye, she was fine.

Kilim carpets covered some of the sand; colorful bags hung from the tent posts; a handful of large pots and pans lay around the ashes of the cooking fire. A strange loom stretched to her right, a half-finished black-and-red cloth on it. She looked for a weapon. A small kitchen knife would have done. Nothing.

She rubbed her right eye, her stomach growling. God, she was hungry. And thirsty. She glanced at the plastic containers in the corner and hoped they held water.

Some kind of funky butter in the first, tea leaves in the second, an aromatic spice in the third. She popped the lid off the last one and sighed in relief.

The water going down her throat felt like heaven. She drank as much as she dared and stopped far from being satisfied. She was in the middle of the desert. When she left, she had to take as much water with her as she could.

She remembered the men at the oasis, the fight, Saeed. She needed to figure out where she was, get her hands on some food and water, borrow or steal a car, or at least a horse. She wasn’t sure she could manage a camel, but if it came to that, she’d sure as hell try.

Voices rose and fell outside like music. She could make contact and hope they were friendly and would help her with supplies, or sneak away before anyone realized she had come to. She looked through a small gap in the outer panel of the tent where time had loosened the threads of the weaving.

She could see another dozen tents from her vantage point, a couple of men around an open fire, armed as if for war, with bullet-studded belts looped over their shoulders and rifles lying across their knees or in the sand next to them.

A sudden noise behind her made her spin around into a crouch, ready to fight.

A small boy of five or so stood by the tent divider, wearing a colorful dress, his large brown eyes rounded at the sight of her. She straightened and smiled, not wanting to scare him.

He watched her with open curiosity, unruly black curls framing his head, gold glinting at his ears. After a few seconds of perusal, he spoke in Arabic.

Dara smiled and shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m Salah. Are you my new teacher?”

“No,” she said.

His big brown eyes rounded even larger. “Is my father going to marry you?”

“Absolutely not. I’m just visiting.”

He visibly relaxed. “That’s what Fatima said. She says Father will marry for alliance between the tribes. He can’t marry a foreigner. It wouldn’t be any use at all.”

Dara blinked at so much practicality coming from such a little person. Who was Fatima? Probably one of the boy’s father’s wives.

“Is your father Saeed?”

The boy nodded.

The fact that there were women and children around set her at ease. She didn’t think it would be so at a renegade terrorist camp. Saeed had saved her life by carrying her out of the desert. And he had said he would help her to get to the city once she was better. She would just have to convince him she was better now. She had no time to waste.

“Can you take me to your father, Salah?”

The child shook his head. “He’s with the elders. I’ll call Fatima and Lamis and then he can talk to you when he comes back.”

Of course. Although Beharrain was a progressive country, in most regions the old traditions held fast. Women did not keep company with men unless they were related. She had read the culture advisory report, all twenty pages of its dos and don’ts before deployment.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’d like that.”

The child ran off, and Dara stepped to one of the tent poles, felt around inside the woven bags that hung from it. Clothes, yarn, some funky tools she couldn’t recognize—maybe for cooking or weaving—none of them suitable as a weapon. Damn it. She needed to be ready in case she couldn’t bring Saeed around to take her to Tihrin right away. She needed food and water, transportation, and weapons for self-defense.

She stepped away from the bags a split second before two young women came in, one around twenty, the other a year or two younger, introducing themselves as Fatima and Lamis. They wore beautiful dresses, one purple, one dark green with gold thread designs. They brought food and water, and set it in front of her.

“How are you?” Fatima, the older one, asked with a pronounced accent. She was stunning. Her ebony hair reached to the middle of her back, visible through the sheer black scarf that covered it. “Please let me know if you don’t like this.” She pointed to the tray of food. “I can bring something else.”

Dara sat by the plate when the women did, and gave herself points for not tackling them and diving for the food as soon as they’d come through the flap. “Thank you.” She reached for a piece of fruit first, a thick slice of melon, wanting to ease her stomach into eating, trying to avoid being sick.

The melon juice tasted like honey, its aromatic flavor flooding her taste buds. Tears sprung to her eyes at the relief of having food again. Until this moment, no matter how much she had refused to let herself think of it, she hadn’t been sure she would survive. And still, it was a long way to the city yet. She reached for a boiled egg. Protein. She needed that to regain her strength.

When she finished eating, Fatima rummaged through one of the woven bags and brought over a black scarf and handed it to her.

“Thank you.” Dara ran her fingers through her hair, surprised to find it washed and combed. “When did I come here?”

Fatima looked at her with surprise on her face. “Yesterday. Our brother found you in the desert.”

Our brother. They were Saeed’s sisters. She wondered where the little boy’s mother was. She fumbled with the scarf. A mirror would have helped.

Lamis came over, took the sheer material from her and secured it with ease. “It is our custom to cover our hair.”

“But not your face?” Dara thought of the images she’d seen on TV.

“Not our tribe. It is different in every region. When we’re in the desert we follow the tribal customs, when we’re in the city, we follow the customs of the city. There we cover everything. Wahhabism.” She made a face as she said the word, then leaned back to survey her handiwork. “Very pretty.” She smiled.

“Thank you.”

The little boy ran in, stared at Dara for a moment, said something in Arabic, then ran out.

Fatima rose. “Our brother is ready to see you.” She stepped to the divider, parted it and stepped through first, holding it for Dara.

She followed, ready to make her case, to bargain or manipulate, whatever would be needed. Then she saw Saeed. He sat cross-legged in front of the glowing embers of a fire.

His headdress rested in a relaxed loop around his neck now, his face uncovered. Kaboom. His cobalt-blue eyes shone from his tanned face, above the straight nose and masculine lips. Strength and power radiated from him like heat and light from the fire. He had a paralyzing effect on her. She could hear blood rush in her ears, loudly like a waterfall. She was not going to faint. She pressed her short nails into her palm. God, this was ridiculous. Her reaction to the man was absurd.

Fatima and Lamis sat, and she sank onto the carpet next to them, the air leaving her lungs with a whoosh as a strange sensation sucked in like quicksand every coherent thought in her mind. The rest of the tent dimmed then began to spin slowly. The food, she thought. She had eaten too much too fast. She held fast to his piercing gaze, clear and steady.

“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.” His deep voice filled the tent as well as her chest cavity.

She nodded, unable to form words. If only he knew.

“Exposure can tax the body,” he said.

Of course. That was why she was feeling so discombobulated. She needed to drink more, eat enough to regain her strength.

“Have you remembered anything?” His gaze was mesmerizing.

“No,” she croaked out her first word at last, and hoped to hell it sounded convincing.

He nodded. “You will stay here until you do.”

“No.” The protest flew from her lips. “Thank you for your hospitality.” She tried to temper it, to give him a good, logical reason. “I need to contact the embassy as soon as possible. There might be people worried about me.”

He gave her a long, hard look.

She pushed on. “How far are we from Tihrin, the town you mentioned?”

“About three hundred kilometers. What is your name?”

“I don’t remember.” He’d asked her that before. Was he trying to trip her up?

“I can help you hide from those who seek to harm you.”

His words sounded sincere. Too bad she had no idea what he was getting at. Did he know about the plane crashing? Was whoever shot it down hunting her? All the more reason to get to Tihrin fast. “Thank you,” she said. I think.

“There are those who seek to harm me. A friend who might lead me to my enemies would prove a good friend indeed and would be well rewarded,” he went on.

Huh? The oasis. Did he think she knew the men who had attacked him? “I would help you if I could.”

This much was true. She did not wish to see him dead.

Voices rose outside the tent, men yelling.

“When your memory returns, I want to be told at once.” He sat without moving, his gaze not leaving her for a second. Indeed, it had not left her since she had come in.

A woman called out and Dara glanced in the direction of the voice, realizing for the first time that the entrance flap of the tent was open to the outside. Saeed responded in Arabic and the woman stepped in, carrying a pail.

“This is Shadia. She took care of you when you arrived,” Saeed said. “She wishes to take care of your eye infection.”

Dara rubbed her eye. Eye infection. Great. Damn this stupid sand that got in everywhere and irritated everything.

The woman, her clothes worn but clean, settled down next to her, dipped a scrap of wool into the dark yellow liquid in the pail.

And then Dara got a whiff of it. “What’s that?”

The intensity on Saeed’s face relaxed into watchfulness, with some humor glinting around his eyes. “Camel urine. It’s a very strong disinfectant.”

Okay then. She came to her feet startling the woman. “No, thank you.”

“She already treated you with it several times when you were unconscious.”

Dara made a note not to pass out ever again as long as she lived. People did weird stuff to you, abusing your weakness.

“Thank you.” She bowed to the woman. “I’m much better now.”

Shadia looked confused, then shook her head with disapproval when Saeed translated, but picked up her bucket and left the tent.

Dara sat back down. Close call with camel urine averted. What else had they done to her while she was out? She had a feeling she didn’t want to know.

“Shadia is a very competent servant,” Saeed said. “You can trust yourself to her. If the eye gets worse, you will have to do something to treat it.”

“I’ll make sure to see a doctor in Tihrin.” She stared at the hint of a grin that hovered over his masculine lips. The man had a mouth to die for.

He looked toward the tent’s opening and she followed his gaze, watching a man approach. His brother, she knew without being told. Saeed looked like some ancient Bedouin warlord, terror of the caravans. The younger man who entered the tent looked smoother, boyishly handsome instead of ruggedly so, like an actor Hollywood would choose to play Saeed’s role in the movie made about him.

He greeted Saeed without taking his eyes off her. That was different, too—his irises were golden brown instead of blue. They shone with intensity as he took her in.

Saeed said something to him. He didn’t respond.

“My brother, Nasir,” he said then.

Nasir nodded to her, said something to Saeed that made him stand.

“I must leave. Welcome to our tent. If you need anything, you need only to ask one of my sisters.” He stepped through the flap and after a few moments called back for Nasir.

And then, the younger man finally dropped his gaze from her face and reluctantly left.

Phew. Double whammy. Dara took a giant breath and felt the air flood her lungs. She had barely breathed while the men were in there. Fatima and Lamis stood, so she did, too, registering for the first time this side of the tent. The divider looked stunning from here. It wasn’t badly woven as she’d first thought, but had the good side toward the men’s section.

Carpets covered most of the sand, except for around the fire. An ancient curved sword hung from one of the poles. She made a mental note of that. Better than nothing.

A strange contraption sat in the corner. A camel saddle, she realized after a moment. She spotted two ammunition belts as she turned, but no guns. Then she didn’t have the chance to gawk any longer as both Fatima and Lamis were already on the other side of the divider, expecting her to follow them.

She went straight to the carpet and blankets she’d woken up on, sat and ate the remainder of her food, drank some water and lay down. She had to regain her full strength then get to town. If an opportunity didn’t present itself, she’d create one.

She kept her eyes closed, pretending to sleep, not wanting to be bothered, and especially not wanting to be asked any questions she was not at liberty to answer.

The women chatted on in the corner, paying little mind to her. Good. She needed time to think up a plan.



DARA OPENED HER EYES and peered around in the dark tent, listening to the sound of gentle snoring somewhere nearby. A moment later when her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see the lone sleeping figure by the outer wall of the tent. Shadia, the servant woman.

She better not have—Dara rubbed her eyes with her fingers, sniffed them. No suspicious odor. Good. Shadia hadn’t done anything disgusting to her while she’d slept. Which was fortunate for everyone around. Because although she’d shown amazing restraint and politeness this afternoon, not wanting to offend her host, if somebody came near her with a bucket of camel urine again, she was ready to defend herself.

She sat up, careful not to make a sound. Now that her body was rehydrated and she had food in her stomach, she was close to being back to her full strength. The rest helped, too. She was ready—if not for leaving, at least for a small reconnaissance mission. Although, if she came across a vehicle she could grab, she was out of here.

She rose little by little, arranged the blankets to show a lump in case Shadia woke and looked her way. Barefoot, she crept toward the spot where the wall carpets overlapped, separated them silently and peeked through to Saeed’s side. The flap was closed, this section of the tent as dark as the other.

The sword was gone from the pole.

Saeed didn’t trust her. She couldn’t blame him.

Her eyes settled on a briefcase by the tent’s outer wall. It hadn’t been there before. She moved forward silently, stopped and listened before squatting down. She pressed her palm against the lock to muffle the sound as she pushed the button. The metal clasp sprang open against her skin with a barely audible click. She let it up slowly.

The briefcase’s lid opened without a sound, and she rummaged through the contents, identifying them as much by feel as sight in the dimness of the tent. Files, a couple of letters—their envelopes previously opened—a satellite phone. Her fingers closed around the latter. She stopped to listen for anyone approaching from outside. Nothing.

She flipped the phone open and turned it on, dialed the Colonel’s number, held her breath at the series of beeps, but the servant woman’s snoring remained steady. The phone rang on the other side. What time was it there? Midafternoon, she guessed. Then finally the Colonel came on the line.

Cupping her left hand around the phone and her mouth, she whispered her identifying number for this mission.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The others? We’ve had no contact.”

“No, sir.” She swallowed, and told him about the crash.

“What is your location?”

“I’m not sure, sir. I’m at some kind of a Bedouin camp, three hundred kilometers from Tihrin. The clan leader is someone by the name of Saeed.”

“Sheik Saeed ibn Ahmad?”

Sheik? She swallowed again, pulled an envelope from the briefcase and held it up to the meager light the phone’s LCD provided. The addresses were in Arabic. She picked up another, the same. The third had come from England, bearing careful lettering she finally recognized. Sheik Saeed ibn Ahmad ibn Salim ben Zayed. “Yes, sir,” she said. “He’s the one.”

And the name clicked at once: the man the U.S. sought to support to take over the throne, the man who refused all outside assistance.

“How did you find him? He disappeared three days ago.”

“He found me in the desert, sir. He was under some kind of attack.”

A moment of silence on the other side. “You must stay with him. It is imperative for the region’s stability that he remains alive. As of now, your number-one objective is to ensure that. Your mission just changed, soldier. You’re now assigned to his personal protection.”




Chapter Three


The camel dung would hit the fan when Saeed found out about this.

“Yes, sir,” Dara said, no matter how much she hated the idea. She had the feeling Saeed would have a few words to say about her being his bodyguard. She was a woman, her new role hardly acceptable in his culture. Plus she was an outsider, and he was famous for resisting all cooperation with foreigners.

“I will try to get in touch as soon as I have anything else to report.” She clicked off, put the letters and the phone back and closed the briefcase, then turned to sneak back to her bed. Before she made it two steps, she was enfolded in a viselike grip, one arm around her waist holding her hard, a hand over her mouth.

She jammed her elbows back into her attacker, threw her full weight to the floor, hoping to slip from his grip, trying to get him off her back without killing him. Couldn’t chance that, considering that most likely “he” was Saeed, not recognizing her in the dark and taking her for some kind of an intruder.

Damn. If he let go of her mouth, she could explain. No such luck. And he was strong. Fighting him off without harming him appeared increasingly difficult.

They tumbled to the carpet together. She could not shake him. His elbow came into hard contact with her ribs, sending a bolt of pain up her side. Fine. The gloves were coming off. She kicked, missing him narrowly, her feet getting caught in the tent flap. It opened a few inches, letting in some moonlight.

They rolled. She kicked again, hit flesh this time. The narrow shaft of light fell on the man’s head. His face was wrapped in a black headdress that showed small, vicious brown eyes glinting with predatory hunger.

She stared into the stranger’s gaze, surprised for a split second, then she began to fight in earnest. He was thin but strong. She twisted, kicked with both feet. He rolled back. She jumped up, ready to push her advantage, wishing she was running on full steam. He lurched at her before she could reach him, and sent them both sprawling again.

Damn. This time she landed on her bad shoulder, with his added weight on top of her. Hot pain shot down her arm, and she sucked in her breath, blinked to clear the stars from her eyes. The next second, she felt the blade at her throat.

Then the tent flap flew open and a vision stood outlined in the opening: Saeed, his long white shirt cascading from wide shoulders, the moonlight glinting off the curved dagger in his hand.

The attacker jumped up and charged at him, the two men coming together with a battle cry.

She sprang to her feet. Why was she the only one without a weapon? How the hell was she supposed to protect him?

The men fought, then separated to circle each other, then lunged into a clash again. She watched them, waiting for an opportunity. The attacker staggered back, blood gushing from his arm. He extended his hand as if to drop his knife in capitulation, but in the last split second he threw it instead—with force.

She didn’t have time to think. Instinct pushed her forward. She caught a glimpse of surprise on Saeed’s face before he propelled himself at her to knock her out of the way, taking her to the ground. He had already thrown his own dagger.

It hit its mark.

She stared at the attacker’s limp body not ten feet from them, then noticed that Saeed, on top of her, wasn’t moving either.

Was he hit? She turned her head to look at him.

His blue eyes stared at her with such intensity she couldn’t breathe. His muscular body pressed into hers. The adrenaline of the fight still pumped through her veins, every nerve ending alive. Having the prince of the desert lying on her did nothing to settle her down. “I—”

Voices filtered in from outside. A dozen or so men poured into the tent with guns drawn. The first few pulled up short, looking from them to the dead man.

After Saeed came to his feet, she sat up, grateful for the air that was slowly returning to her lungs. Any minute now and her brain would start working, too. She hoped.

One of the men said something she didn’t understand. Must have been a joke, because the rest of them laughed.

Saeed talked to them in Arabic, and they quieted. One of them responded before they backed out, taking the body with them.

“We will talk. Now.” He closed the flap before he stepped to her and extended a hand to help her up.

She ignored it and stood on her own.

He lit a lamp.

Oops. She stepped forward. She’d been lying in his bed. They’d been lying in his bed.

He flooded her senses. And he wasn’t doing anything, just standing there, looking at her. She had to get a grip. He wasn’t the first handsome man she’d come across. In the SDDU, men outnumbered women twenty to one, all of them well-built, powerful, in their prime. But none of them had ever unnerved her the way this one did.

And she couldn’t put it down to adrenaline. Not all of it.

She had experienced attraction at first sight before, but never this strong, and her rational mind had usually talked her out of it. At the moment, her rational mind wasn’t functioning.

He was a hairbreadth from her. She didn’t recall either of them moving.

He touched his lips to hers and she fell into his kiss. Plummeted.

And it was like silk, and honey, and going home. Familiar, as if she’d known him before and they had kissed like this, perhaps in a dream that she had long forgotten.

The tent disappeared from around them, and the desert, and their countries. They had no separate identities, but a man and a woman joined together as one, floating under the stars.

And after an eternity, she felt a nudge of conscience and drew away.

“Don’t do that again,” she said, realizing her protest was too weak and too late. She hadn’t exactly kicked and screamed when the prince of the desert had had her in a lip lock.

It helped that he looked as stunned as she felt. Took a little off the edge of her anger, though not enough to let it go.

“Just because you saved my life, it doesn’t mean that you can take liberties with my body.” Better make that clear now if they were to work together.

He inclined his head. “I apologize.”

“I do, too.” The bluster went out of her all of a sudden. She was here to do a job. What she had just done fell miles outside the borders of professional conduct.

Better focus on the task ahead. She drew her spine straight and tall.

“I haven’t been completely honest before. My name is Dara Alexander. I work for the United States government. My orders are to protect you.”

His face hardened as he stepped back. “Absolutely not.”



SAEED SWALLOWED HIS ANGER, damning his rising lust that proved to be harder to control. So she was military. He wasn’t surprised. Her camouflage uniform; her skill with the knife; the efficient, in control way she moved supported her claim. “You don’t have a dog tag.”

“I’m in a special unit.”

“And what unit would that be? The kind that engages in unauthorized missions in foreign countries?”

She remained silent, but from the carefully blank look on her face he knew he had hit close. “You must leave.”

The woman folded her arms. “I have my orders.” Her body language made it clear she had no intention of going anywhere.

As skeptical as he had been about her amnesia, he believed her now. The picture slowly forming in his head fit her.

“You have to leave us,” he said again, trying to be patient. “After you recover, of course.” She was a guest in his tent and, in the desert, hospitality to strangers was the law of the land. Three days was customary. Required. Even if the man who walked into your camp was your worst enemy. A Bedu breaking the custom would have brought shame to his family for generations. A sheik who did not offer hospitality brought shame to his whole tribe.

“You’re welcome in my tent until we leave for Tihrin. Then I’ll take you to your people.”

She nodded, but he didn’t think she was really agreeing. Stubbornness was written all over her beautiful face, apparent in the stiff set of her shoulders. She was buying time.

“In the meanwhile, I’m going to need some weapons,” she said with an easy smile, confirming his suspicions.

“You are not my bodyguard. You are my guest.” The sooner she accepted that the better.

“No offense, but it looks to me like you aren’t exactly Mr. Popularity these days.” She gave him a pointed look. “Even if I didn’t guard you, I would still need something to protect myself. We’ve been attacked twice in two days. Sharing your company could be hazardous for my health.”

She had a point there. She had come into danger because of him. He watched her face for a few moments. “You were attacked in my home. I apologize. It is my duty to protect my guests.”

“You’ll give me a gun then?”

She was tenacious—a most unbecoming trait in a woman. “No.”

“You know, you’re a real piece of work. Can I at least have my knives back?”

He watched her eyes, trying to read her true intent. Could she be trusted?

“If any of my people come to harm at your hand, you will answer to me.” He reached under one of the pillows and pulled the knives out, handed them to her. “It will matter not that you are a woman.”

She nodded.

He hoped she was smart enough to heed his words. “Tell me what you are doing in my country.”

“Fighting terrorism.”

“And your presence here is authorized by our government?” He waited to see if she would lie. King Majid had turned his back on his foreign allies as soon as they first began to criticize his methods of ruling.

“I’m a soldier. I’m not privy to government negotiations. I get an order, I follow it.”

“You think I have ties to terrorists?”

She shook her head. “But I think the people who are trying to kill you might.”

He had considered that. And as much as he wanted to deny it, he couldn’t. Majid was determined to keep power. He would support anyone who supported him, never realizing what harm he might do in the long term.

“So you were dropped in the middle of the desert without food and water to find and protect me?”

“I was on another mission at the time.”

“But you got reassigned?”

She nodded.

“How fortunate for me.”

“I’m here to help you.” She stood, obsidian eyes flashing. “You should be happy.”

“I did not ask for help.”

“Look, I’m here anyway. Maybe I can help, maybe I can’t. What is it going to hurt to let me hang around?”

Plenty, he thought. It would hurt plenty. He could not afford to be distracted now. And he didn’t need another person to feel responsible for. He didn’t need to be thinking about kissing her again, wanting it so much he had a hard time focusing on anything else, like explaining to her how impossible her long-term presence would be here.

“I’m going to check the perimeter of the camp.” She moved toward the tent flap. “I have to start thinking about how to make it more secure, ASAP. Your guys are going to be okay with me walking around, right?”

She was going to secure his camp. The thought was as laughable as exasperating. An affront, really, but he decided not to take offense. He nodded and followed her out, instead of forbidding her to leave. Because he couldn’t be sure if they stayed inside he wouldn’t again taste her lips. And he wasn’t sure if he could stop there.

He shook off the weakness. He could not afford to let her foreign beauty get to him. Not now. Not ever. Not this woman.

She had no place in his life, not on the professional level and certainly not on the personal. She was of a different people. There could never be any understanding between them. He had too many principles to take her as his mistress and to consider her as more was unthinkable. The only choice open to him was to ignore whatever insane attraction existed between them.





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/dana-marton/the-sheik-s-safety/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.