Dear Reader,
I have always been attracted to the exotic, and no book I’ve written is more exotic than this one. Power and passion and love gone awry—I threw them all into this story of Sheikh Damon El Karim and Cory Brandel. Sheikhs are decidedly out of fashion now days but my Damon may just bring them back.
He’s a little arrogant, a bit savage, but he has a sense of honor and responsibility, and he’s sexy off the charts. Then you have Cory, who is independent, wary of Damon, and yet unable to resist the fiery combustion just waiting to happen. But both Damon and Cory had experienced that passion before and it might not be enough to bind them together. Perhaps this time they need to probe deeper or have their relationship be lost forever.
Enjoy Damon and Cory, and enjoy living a little while in their exotic world.
Iris Johansen
PRAISE FOR IRIS JOHANSEN
“Iris Johansen knows how to win instant fans.”
—Associated Press
“Iris Johansen is a powerful writer.”
—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“[Iris Johansen is] one of the romance genre’s finest treasures.” —
Romantic Times
“A master among storytellers.” —
Affaire de Coeur
“Johansen serves up a diverting romance and plot twists worthy of a mystery novel.”
—Publishers Weekly
“[Iris] Johansen has … a magical quality.”
—Library Journal
“[Johansen is] a consummate artist who wields her pen with extraordinary power and grace.”
—Rave Reviews
“Iris Johansen is a bestselling author for the best reason—she’s a wonderful storyteller.”
—CATHERINE COULTER
“Iris Johansen is incomparable.”
—TAMI HOAG
Strong, Hot Winds is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1988 by Iris Johansen
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BANTAM BOOKS and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Originally published in mass market in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., in 1988.
eISBN: 978-0-345-53953-3
www.bantamdell.com
Cover design: Scott Biel
Cover image: Julia Savchenko/Vetta/Getty Images
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Contents
Cover
Author’s Note
Title Page
Copyright
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Other Books by This Author
ONE
“DID YOU FIND her?” Selim asked as Damon was stepping out of the jeep. Then, as Damon took off his hat to wipe his brow, Selim had his answer; it was in the bleakness of Damon’s expression, the emptiness of his eyes.
“Too late,” Damon said wearily. He snapped his fingers. The driver of the jeep pressed on the accelerator and the vehicle took off toward the garage across the courtyard. “She was already dead,” he muttered, closing his eyes. “So small. Dear God, she was so tiny lying there in the sand. I never want to see anything like that again.”
“Perhaps you won’t have to,” Selim said gently. “Perhaps it won’t happen again.”
Damon’s lids lifted to reveal eyes that glittered with moist brilliance. “And perhaps it will, if I take no action. Perhaps there will be another life thrown away as if it had no value.”
Selim hesitated, wanting to give comfort and yet knowing there was none he could give. What Damon said was true. He was the only one who could prevent another death, but the effort to do so might cause him even more pain than he was experiencing now. “Did you render judgment?”
“No.” Damon gazed out at the shifting dunes of the Sedikhan desert that were now painted blood-red by the rays of the setting sun. The sky was blood-red too. It was as if the entire world were covered in blood, Damon thought numbly.
“Damon, you have to render judgment.”
Damon whirled to face him. “Do you think I don’t know that?” he asked harshly. “But not now, dammit. I keep seeing—” He turned abruptly and climbed the steps leading to the palace. “I’ll wait. Raban isn’t going anyplace. Marain says the tribe will be content to stay put right now. I need to get away and try to get some perspective.”
“But you know even now what your judgment will be.”
“True. However, I don’t have to give it. Not yet.” An edge of desperation mixed with the weariness and pain in Damon’s voice. “Not yet.”
Selim caught up with Damon as he reached the front door. “Not yet,” he agreed quietly. “But soon.”
Damon paused before the twelve-foot double doors, the crimson light illuminating the strong, almost brutal planes of his face. “Soon.”
A servant threw open the brass-studded mahogany doors and they entered the mosaic-tiled foyer.
Damon rubbed the back of his neck to ease the tension constricting the muscles. “Dear Lord, I’m tired. I feel as if part of me drained out and into the sand back there.”
“Go to bed. There’s nothing important you have to attend to before …” Selim’s words trailed off. “Damn! I forgot about Updike. He arrived this morning and has been waiting to see you. Do you want me to put him off?”
“What’s it about?”
“He wouldn’t tell me.” Selim shrugged. “But he says it’s important enough to warrant the bonus you pay for special information.”
Damon grimaced. “Then I guess I’d better see him.”
“Now?”
“There’s no need to make myself particularly presentable,” Damon said sardonically. “Updike’s not very good at hiding his belief that I’m something of a barbarian. Give me ten minutes to splash some water in my face and fix myself a cool drink. Then bring him to the library.”
Selim nodded and started to turn away.
“Thanks, Selim.”
Selim glanced back over his shoulder. “For what?”
“For not reminding me of my duty.”
“Why should I rake you over the coals when you do such a good job yourself?” Selim asked lightly. “I just give thanks every day that I’m not the sheikh of the El Zabor.” He started down the long hallway.
“The sheikh will see you now.” Selim Abol made a face. “But there had better be something damn interesting in that briefcase you’re carrying. He’s not in a very good mood at the moment and might prove difficult.”
“When isn’t he difficult?” Updike asked sourly as he followed the slim young assistant down the gleaming corridor. “I’ve gotten used to him.”
“Have you indeed?” Selim murmured, glancing back over his shoulder with distinctly skeptical eyes. “But then, you’ve never seen him in a really bad mood. As I recall, he’s been very patient in his dealings with you, Updike.”
“Patient?” Raymond Updike’s tone was incredulous. “If you call it patient to demand we gather information in one day that generally takes weeks …”
“The sheikh pays you exorbitant amounts to get the information he needs.” There was a hint of steel in Selim’s tone. “Your detective agency has profited enormously in the last few years and he’s asked relatively little
of you—only that you keep an eye on certain unstable personnel in his companies and occasionally investigate some of the sleight of hand going on in the stock market. He just doesn’t like to wait.”
“I know that.” Updike was suddenly conciliatory. “I didn’t mean to be critical of Sheikh El Karim. It was a long flight from New York, and I guess I’m tired.”
“So is the sheikh. He just drove in from one of the El Zabor encampments and hasn’t slept for forty-eight hours.” Selim again glanced down at Updike’s briefcase. “As I said, it had better be interesting.”
“It will be,” Updike said confidently. “Do you think I would have flown halfway around the world if I hadn’t believed it would be worth my while?”
“No, which is the reason I’m letting you see him before he rests.” Selim paused before an elaborately carved door and smiled faintly. “But if I find you’ve had me disturb him for nothing, you’re going to wish you’d never heard of Kasmara.”
Silky menace shimmered beneath the softness of Selim’s voice and caused Updike to shudder. Lord, he thought, for an instant he had actually been afraid of this handsome kid who looked more like an elegant male model than an executive assistant. He had met Abol only twice before and both times had been in the presence of the sheikh, a very commanding man. He should have paid more attention to Selim. Now that he could judge Selim on his own merits, he wasn’t sure he liked what he saw. The young man’s easy charm and good humor appeared to be a mere front to hide an underlying hardness and his smile held an element of ferocity. He had seen that same fierce protectiveness in the other servants and followers of the sheikh, but he had assumed Abol was too westernized to be fanatically devoted to El Karim. It seemed he had been mistaken. Selim was obviously ready to tear him apart if he wasted the time of his precious employer.
“He won’t be disappointed,” Updike said before frowning impatiently. “Now, can I see him?”
Selim opened the door and entered the library ahead of him. “Updike. Will you need me, or shall I go make those calls to Marasef?”
“Stay. This won’t take long.” Damon leaned back in the big executive chair and propped his dusty brown boots on the mahogany desk, crossing his legs at the ankle. His cool green gaze fastened on the detective. “Will it, Updike?”
“Not long at all,” Updike assured him quickly as he came into the room and shut the door. “I understand you’re tired and I’ll make this as brief as possible.” He came forward and laid his briefcase on the desk. He noticed with distaste that the sheikh looked even more like a brigand than usual. His khaki shirt was sweat-stained in places, his dark curly hair rumpled, and he smelled of brandy. He’d probably been out carousing for the two days that Updike had been forced to cool his heels here at the palace waiting for him. “You did say there would be a bonus for any information you found of real interest.”
“You could have phoned it in,” Damon said dryly. “I suppose you’re planning on billing me for the flight from New York?”
“Only if you find the information is worth it.” Updike’s tone was smooth. “But I’m not worried.”
Damon gazed at him with narrowed eyes. “What’s this all about? The IBM stock purchase?”
Updike shook his head. “It’s in regard to the Brandel surveillance.”
Unreadable emotion flicked across Damon’s face and was gone almost before Updike registered it. “I doubt if any news regarding that particular matter would warrant a bonus. I ordered a very casual surveillance of Cory Brandel.”
“Casual” surveillance, Updike thought cynically, meant to the sheikh the unearthing of every detail of the woman’s personal and professional life. Yet, Updike reminded himself, he, too, had considered the surveillance casual until he had run across one choice bit of information. “Bear with me,” he said, drawing out a large manila envelope from his briefcase. He placed it on the desk in front of the sheikh and then took out a black videotape box. “May I use your videotape recorder?”
The sheikh nodded. “Selim.”
Selim took the videotape from Updike and crossed to the media center on the far wall of the library.
“You understand this information would have turned up much sooner if you’d asked for an investigative report instead of merely a surveillance,” Updike said.
Damon shrugged. “It was really only a whim that led me to order the surveillance. Cory Brandel is nothing to me.”
“Right.” Updike carefully kept any hint of irony from his tone. “Still, I think you will find this tape interesting.”
Damon glanced down at the envelope on the desk and his hands tightened with unconscious force on the arms of the chair. “I’m not interested in seeing the woman in bed with Koenig, if that’s what you call a scoop. It’s nothing to me whom she sleeps with, so if one of your men planted a camera in Koenig’s bedroom, you can take your obscene little tape and shove it.”
“Koenig isn’t involved in this matter. I don’t think he even knows about it.” Updike was experiencing a spurt of excitement. “She’s kept this very confidential. It’s really amazing how she’s managed a successful career as a television news correspondent and still— But you’ll see for yourself.”
“If you ever decide to show me,” Damon said caustically.
Selim crossed back across the room and handed the remote control to Updike before dropping onto the visitor’s chair beside the desk. “Just press the play button.”
“In a moment,” Updike said. He was beginning to enjoy the prospect of rocking the sheikh off his high horse. “I’d like to review the history of the surveillance so you’ll better understand why we didn’t—”
“For heaven’s sake, get on with it,” Damon said wearily.
“As you know, we began the surveillance three years ago, and had no problem. Miss Brandel leads an exceptionally open life. She works very hard at her job and travels extensively. She does have this one relationship with a fellow reporter, Gary Koenig.”
“I know that,” Damon snapped. “It was in your reports.”
“Yes, and so were her frequent visits to her friend Bettina Langstrom in Meadowpark, Connecticut. She seemed to spend every free moment there. We didn’t find it surprising she enjoyed being in the Langstrom home. Carter and Bettina Langstrom seem to be your average attractive, outgoing couple with two children, a three-year-old station wagon, and a thirty-year mortgage. It probably was a great relief for Miss Brandel to visit the Langstroms and get away from a career as fraught with tension as hers.”
“Is this leading somewhere?” Damon asked impatiently.
“Yes.” Updike smiled. “We’re moving right along. Where was I? Oh, yes, the Langstroms. Carter Langstrom was the manager of a textile mill until a few years ago, when it shut down. Since then he’s had a number of supervisory positions, none of them as lucrative as the one he had in the plant that shut down.” Then, as Updike noticed Damon’s impatience increasing, he hurried on. “I’m not meandering. This all has bearing.”
“Get to the bare bones,” Damon ordered tersely.
“Just one more item. It’s the custom of our agency to make a superficial study of our clients.”
Damon’s position didn’t change, but his muscles tensed as if readying to spring. “Are you saying you investigated me?” he asked softly.
“Nothing confidential,” Updike said hurriedly. “Just a general profile so that we could serve your needs better. But there were pictures in the file …” Updike trailed off as he met Damon’s gaze. He’d better move quickly or the damn savage would probably have his head lopped off. He wouldn’t put it past him. He hurriedly pressed the play button on the remote control. “I was leafing through the file the other day and ran across the pictures, and something clicked.”
“Clicked?” The sheikh’s voice was ominously cold.
“I made a connection. I’d had some videotapes made at the Langstroms at a Sunday barbecue and—”
“Home movies?” Damon asked sardonically.
<
br /> The static on the television screen suddenly cleared and Updike gave a sigh of relief. “There’s Miss Brandel sitting on the grass talking to Bettina Langstrom.”
“I know what she looks like,” Damon said.
So did Updike, but he still found it a pleasure to gaze at Cory Brandel. Her face had always held a fascination for him as well as for millions of TV viewers. Her jawline was too long and her lips too full to be considered classically beautiful. Yet those lips were both sensitive and exquisitely formed and her enormous brown eyes sparkled with vitality and intelligence.
“She’s too thin,” Damon said abruptly. “Has she been ill?”
“No, but she just got back from another trip to Nicaragua. She may have lost a few pounds down there.”
“A few! She’s lost at least fifteen pounds. She wasn’t that thin when—” Damon broke off, gazing even more intently at the woman on the screen. The strong sunlight shone on Cory Brandel’s ash-blond hair, highlighting the streaks threading the mop of wild, careless curls that fell almost to her shoulders. “And her hair was longer and smoother.”
“She’s worn it like that for over two years.”
Damon was silent, his gaze fixed on the television screen. She had changed in other ways, he thought. The nervous vitality and restlessness that had charged her every movement were still present but seemed more under her control now. There was a new maturity about her. Before she had sparkled, now she shimmered. He could feel the tension building within him and he quickly blocked it. Hell no, not again. “Updike, I don’t—”
“Here,” Updike interrupted, pointing. “This is the part I intended you to see. The kid …”
A dark-haired little boy had thrown himself into Cory Brandel’s arms and was chattering excitedly to her. Cory was laughing at him as she pulled him onto her lap and rocked him back and forth, nodding every now and then as she listened.
The restlessness had suddenly vanished from Cory’s face and it was radiant with affection. It was a moment before Damon could pull his gaze away. “So she’s fond of children,” he said gruffly.
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