Lord of the Desert

by Diana Palmer

He walked over to her, drew his hand back, and slapped her so sharply that she fell. But she got right up again and swung on him with her fist, hitting him hard enough to break his balance. But he hit her back, and with his fist this time. She went down with a cry, rubbing her sore knuckles and her jaw.

  Furiously angry, her hand went to the slit in the side of the aba and she felt in her waistband for the Colt .45—only to find that it was missing.

  “Is this what you search for?” he asked, picking up the pistol from his writing table. The box of cartridges was there beside it. He aimed the gun at her and cocked it. “Perhaps I should spare you the desert and just put a bullet in you.”

  It was the closest to death she’d ever come. But she wasn’t afraid. She lifted her chin and stared at him, her jaw throbbing. “Go ahead,” she invited with icy green eyes. “It takes a big brave man to knock a woman around, doesn’t it? I guess it takes an even braver man to shoot one!”

  He cursed furiously. He put the pistol down and yelled for someone to come inside the tent. He and the man, the redhead who’d hoisted Gretchen into the saddle, spoke quickly in what seemed to be German, and he gave the man a note. The redhead nodded, gave Gretchen a strange look, and went back outside. Seconds later, there was the sound of an engine revving up.

  “My helicopter,” Brauer told her. “I am sending my man to the Palais Tatluk with a ransom note.”

  “Philippe’s father will barbecue him over an open fire,” she said with pure menace.

  “Unlikely. The old sheikh has no stomach for a fight. He will tell Philippe what I wish him to be told—that I have you and am willing to bargain for you. Then Philippe will walk into my trap and be dealt with.”

  “You seem very sure of yourself,” Gretchen said harshly.

  “I am. Philippe is a sophisticate, not a fighter. It will hardly be worth my time to subdue him at all, but I want him to suffer before he finds you.” His eyes narrowed with perverted pleasure. “Perhaps I will turn Eric loose on you with the bowie knife and let him find you skinned alive.”

  She didn’t even flinch. She just stared at him. “And when my brother finds out,” she said softly, “there won’t be one place on earth you and your cutthroats can hide where he won’t find you.”

  “Your brother,” he scoffed. “And what is this brother?”

  “A former Texas Ranger,” she said, watching his expression flicker. “Someone might have mentioned that once a ranger starts tracking you, he’ll follow you to hell to get you. That’s my brother.”

  “You will be dead by then,” he assured her.

  “And you will follow me in short order,” she assured him.

  “You are a woman of rare courage,” he said. “I had heard that my stepdaughter was being brought here. It was she I hoped to kidnap. Philippe’s feelings for you are unknown to me, but I know he would die for Brianne. She is the only woman he ever loved.”

  Brianne again! She lifted her chin. “Mrs. Hutton isn’t even in the country. Looks like your intelligence network needs updating. Or wasn’t working for the skeikh’s uncle close enough for your spy?”

  His eyes widened. “What do you know of that?”

  “I know a lot about your intelligence network,” she replied cautiously. “I have friends who are professional mercenaries. I knew you had spies in the palace.”

  He chuckled. “I doubt you knew about the head of security,” he mused. “Or the cook’s assistant. But that knowledge will do you no good now. You have hours to live.”

  “Enjoy your own last few hours,” she tossed back.

  He glared at her. “Do not leave the tent or I will have you tied and gagged. In this heat, in that—” he indicated the thick aba “—you would probably smother to death.”

  “Don’t you wish!” she shot back, infuriated at her helplessness.

  He shrugged, opened the flap of the tent, and went out. Gretchen dragged to her feet and looked around for anything she could use as a weapon. There wasn’t a gun or a knife nearby. She heard Brauer speaking to someone outside the tent. On the writing table was an instrument like the one Philippe had used, a GPS cell phone. She grabbed it up, fumbled Philippe’s number, which he’d had her memorize days ago, into it, and waited for someone to answer. Someone did, but in Arabic.

  “It’s Gretchen. I’ve been kidnapped by Brauer!”

  She quickly closed the phone, cleared the number, and put the device back in exactly the spot and position it had been in, moving to lie down on the pallet as if she was hurting too badly to get up.

  She closed her eyes and prayed that Philippe or his men had heard her. Brauer came back in seconds later, glanced at her, retrieved the cell phone and went back out.

  “Where did the call come from?” Philippe was raging at the tribesman who’d picked up the phone when it started to ring. “Never mind!” He pressed buttons on the sophisticated instrument, got the number, then was able to fix on the location where the call had originated. He motioned to his men and gave a spate of orders.

  He’d just had a phone call from the palace, from his chief of security, informing him that Brauer had Gretchen and wanted to make a trade. Philippe told him to do nothing, that he would make decisions and then notify the man. He wasn’t certain that it was worth paying ransom for a social secretary, he told the security chief in a deliberately careless tone, even if she was his wife. It had been a business arrangement only, he added craftily, not a love match, so Gretchen was more or less expendable. The other man sounded surprised and asked if the American government might step in, since she was a U.S. citizen. There was, after all, a border dispute.

  Philippe nodded to himself. So it was like that. Brauer would enjoy starting a war. It would set him up in the arms business with a client like the neighboring country, not to mention embroil Philippe in a vicious war just as his country was becoming prosperous from oil. It was the same plot that had put Brauer away in the first place. But now he had nothing to lose, apparently, and he was determined to carry it through to the end, whatever the cost in lives. He was not, Philippe thought, a man with many original ideas, and that would be his downfall.

  Philippe told the security chief that he’d have to have time to discuss this with his cabinet ministers. He was on his way back to the palace, he added, and they could discuss it then. He hung up and tossed the cell phone to two of his men, indicating that they were to take it and travel back to the palace. If anyone traced it, they’d notice that it was en route to the city, not the border. He grabbed another cell phone from the pocket of the Land Rover before it left and pondered his next move.

  The security chief had been hired by Philippe’s uncle and desultorily approved by the old sheikh. Philippe didn’t trust the new security chief, and had been having him watched for several weeks. It had proved useful, because the servant who’d run away had had many secretive conversations with the security chief. The man was probably a direct conduit to Brauer, so anything he told the man would get back to Brauer. Good. Brauer would think he was on his way back to the palace to undertake a diplomatic solution to the kidnapping. Brauer had never seen Philippe on his home ground. Not yet. He was in for a surprise.

  Meanwhile, Gretchen had taken a huge risk to get those coordinates to him. He mustn’t waste time. Kurt was crazy for revenge and with the grapevine on the desert, he would know by now that Gretchen was Philippe’s wife. He’d kill her. He’d kill her in the most horrible way he could think of, and then he’d phone Philippe and tell him where to find her. It was the sort of thing Brauer did. Philippe groaned aloud, just thinking of that sweet, gentle woman in the grip of such monsters. He couldn’t lose her now. He couldn’t!

  He motioned a shame-faced Hassan to him and told the man in biting tones just what he thought of his efficiency as a bodyguard. The man apologized profusely and offered to do anything to make reparation.

  “Pray that she lives,” Philippe told him, his black eyes glittering with fury. “If she doesn’t, pray for yourself!” />
  He whirled furiously, still in his flowing robes, and went out to his men. He ordered the tribal chiefs to go to their villagers and bring back every able-bodied fighting man available. He phoned the chief of staff of his small air force and gave him the target coordinates, cautioning them not to begin shelling until he gave the order. It would take time to organize an attack, and every second would count. He was furious that Gretchen had permitted herself to be captured. Hassan had sworn that he hadn’t seen her leave the tent. But Leila had. She threw herself at Philippe’s feet, wailing, as she imparted what had happened. She’d tried to stop the young, headstrong woman, but it had been impossible.

  “She had a pistol, you say?” Philippe asked, aghast.

  “Yes, sidi,” she replied. “And cartridges. She stayed up all night, watching to make sure no one harmed you. I think it was the old sheikh who gave her the pistol,” she added. “She had it concealed in a small bundle of cloth.”

  He knew immediately what she meant, having seen the bundle when Gretchen came out of the palace. His teeth ground together. “Then why did she follow me?”

  “She said that she must protect you,” she said simply.

  He laughed curtly. “Protect me!” He threw up his hands and turned away. “Against a force of professional mercenaries led by a vengeful madman with state-of-the-art weapons? And she meant to protect me with a Colt .45?” He was still muttering when he swung into the saddle of his big, swift Arabian and motioned his men to follow. Leila watched, her eyes troubled, her heart heavy. If the lady was not found alive, she feared for everyone who would be blamed for it—including herself.

  Gretchen was waiting, biding her time for one chance to save herself. Her brother, Marc, had always told her not to ever try to struggle with an armed man. But she knew self-defense. If she could get close enough to Brauer, she might have a chance of escape. She wasn’t up to his weight, but she might not have another opportunity. Once his men returned, it would be impossible to get away.

  It was early afternoon before Kurt came back inside the tent, accompanied by three other men, armed to the teeth.

  “Your husband is nothing if not persistent,” he told Gretchen. “But it will do him no good. I can’t imagine how he thinks he can attack me with a handful of tribesmen on horseback. Perhaps he thinks we are still living in the last century.” He said something to two of the men. They left and an engine revved up. The other man, the redhead, stood rigidly next to Brauer’s writing table.

  “Where are you going?” Gretchen asked as Brauer searched through the contents of the writing table.

  His eyebrows arched. “You think I would tell you? You are an optimist, madame.”

  “If I’m going to die anyway, who can I tell?”

  “Eric is going to escort you out to the desert while my men and I prepare a nice surprise for your husband,” he told her coldly. He spoke to the other man in German. “It has been an interesting experience to meet you, madame,” he mused. “A pity that we have so little time to become better acquainted.”

  “Doesn’t bother me,” she muttered.

  He only laughed. He gathered up some papers from his desk and stuck them into the pocket of his safari vest. He said something to Eric, who looked at Gretchen in a way that made her skin crawl.

  Brauer went out, and Gretchen eyed her new companion. He was thin and scarred, with receding red hair and freckles and intensely blue eyes. He had a knife in one hand.

  Gretchen forced herself to breathe normally, and wait and hope for an opportunity to get away. The man was obviously her superior in strength, and he was armed. She tried to remember everything Marc had taught her about self-defense. Let the enemy come to you, she thought, it gives you the advantage. Use his own strength against him. Never try to fight if you can get away.

  Outside there was the sound of a vehicle leaving.

  Eric twisted the knife in his hand. His eyes narrowed and he smiled coldly. “Kurt said to leave you in a condition that your husband won’t forget. But he didn’t say I couldn’t enjoy you first,” he added in a tone that made nausea rise in her throat.

  She sat very still on the cushions, hands folded in her lap. Her mouth was as dry as cotton. Her palms were sweaty. Her heartbeat was shaking her. Think, she told herself, think what Philippe would do, what Marc would do.

  The man, put off guard by her docility and lack of movement, shrugged and tossed the knife onto the writing table. He approached her with a slow, methodical gait, his hot eyes already anticipating pleasure.

  She waited, trembling, until he bent over to catch her arms. Instantly, her booted foot came up and she threw him right into the wall of the tent. Without hesitation, she grabbed up the bowie knife and ran out of the tent toward the mountains.

  She could hear him behind her, cursing and raging for her to stop. The heavy black aba was slowing her down, but it would take precious seconds she didn’t have to rip it off. She kept running, her heart bursting. If she could get into the mountains, perhaps…

  But distance was deceptive on the desert. The mountains seemed farther away as she ran. The heat was stifling her lungs. She could hardly breathe. There was a wind and it was forcing sand into her eyes, her nostrils, her mouth. She felt covered by it, whipped by it. Eric came closer. She could hear his harsh breathing. Any minute now, she was going to give out, and he’d have her. Oh, Philippe, she called silently, in anguish, if only I’d done what I was told and stayed in camp!

  She stumbled and turned her ankle. Tears of frustration and anger burst from her eyes. She went down, holding the bowie knife close in front of her, waiting. He might get her, but she was going to get him first!

  He was laughing. He slowed his pace and came toward her with a mocking, victorious smile. She was done for. He could do what he liked, now, and he was anticipating all sorts of perverse pleasures when he felt something thump him in the chest…

  The expression on his face puzzled Gretchen. He stopped and his eyes seemed shocked. In the same instant, she heard a loud crack, like a firecracker. Blood issued from the soldier’s lips and he suddenly pitched headfirst to the desert floor.

  Gretchen saw a cloud of dust, and riding out of it was a tall man on a creamy Arabian stallion, yelling orders. He was holding a rifle and even as he yelled, he sighted it and shot an armed man running toward them. The camp was instantly in an uproar. Mercenaries poured out of tents, firing as they came. The party of Arabs rode like gods on their exquisite horses, standing in the stirrups to fire on the run. Gretchen had never seen anything like it. The mercenaries, though better armed, were routed almost at once and running for their vehicles.

  She managed to get to her feet, thrilling at the way those men rode, at the very primitive rampage of native tribesmen against modern guerillas. That tall Arab on the stallion fascinated her. One of the mercenaries charged him. He leaped from his horse to meet the man, taking him in and throwing him with exquisite grace. The man came up with a knife, which was immediately kicked from his hand, and a hard blow from a big fist put him down for good. The Arab picked up the man’s automatic weapon and swung back into the saddle as gracefully as any Texas cowboy. Gretchen couldn’t take her eyes off him. He took her very breath away.

  He wheeled the horse, still holding the weapon in the other. He rode toward her, not even breaking speed when she stood up. He leaned down and a long arm caught her around the waist, pulling her up in front of him. He never even slowed down, wheeling the horse back toward his men. His face was covered with a white fold of cloth, his head was in the traditional headdress with black ropes securing it. He looked like every dream of heroism Gretchen had ever had. A sheikh on a stallion, saving the heroine from great danger in the desert…

  He looked down at her, and the black eyes that met her own were glittering with rage.

  “You little maniac!” came a familiar deep voice from the fold of the flowing white cloak. “I should have given you to that German dog and let him show you the consequences for
disobeying orders!”

  She thought she might faint. “Philippe?” she asked, aghast.

  He tugged down the fabric to reveal his angry face. “Reckless fool of a woman!” he shot at her. “As if I need protection in the first place…Achmed!” he yelled, and added a stiff command in Arabic. He waved his hand, motioning his men out of the camp and back the way they’d come.

  “Why are we in such a big hurry here?” she asked, gingerly handing Philippe the bowie knife, which he stuck in his belt next to his ceremonial dagger.

  “I called an air strike on these coordinates,” he told her through his teeth. “Where was Brauer?”

  “He rode out of camp before you rode in,” she said, still fascinated by this rugged warrior who’d been hidden in a camouflage of expensive suits and city sophistication. “I’ve never seen anybody ride like you.”

  “I learned to fight and ride before I learned English.” He glared down at her. “Leila told me you came to protect me. How kind of you,” he added icily. “Your concept of me is less than flattering.”

  “I didn’t know!” she said, flushing. “You always wore suits and I thought you were a city man without any survival skills. Your father said you needed protection, what was I supposed to think? I wasn’t sure you’d let your bodyguards close enough to do the job, and I knew I could. I’m a dead shot.”

  “I had half a regiment of seasoned veteran warriors with me, didn’t you notice?” he demanded furiously. “In fact, I trained them myself! I was one of the few heads of state ever to go through the SAS training course in one attempt! I united the warring tribes in Qawi when they fled under Brauer’s attack and organized a counterrevolution here. And you think I need protection?”

  “All right, I did a stupid thing! You don’t have to go on and on about it!”

  He drew in an angry breath as he urged his horse to go even faster as he raged on, “If I’d been five seconds later getting here, that redheaded lump of horse excrement would have raped you!”

  “I almost got away,” she said with hurt pride, trying to hold on and keep her seat at the breakneck pace of the powerful animal under them. “And I did throw him into the tent wall! That’s how I got outside.”