Lord of the Desert

by Diana Palmer

  She remarked on one, a device that could pick up the sound of an ant walking outside on the concrete beside the fountains and videotape its every move. Even Marc didn’t have anything quite so sophisticated.

  “Oh, we’re thorough,” the blond man, “Dutch,” told her with a grin. “That’s how we’ve lived so long.’

  “You all have families, don’t you?” she asked him.

  He nodded. “My wife and I have two sons and a daughter. Laremos and his wife have a son and daughter, and Brettman and Gaby have a daughter. Our former boss, Apollo, and his wife Joyce are expecting their second child this coming spring.” He chuckled. “None of us ever expected to marry at all.”

  “Neither did I, really,” she mused, her eyes going to her tall husband who was speaking with his press secretary and two members of the media.

  “I suppose you know that your husband has been the subject of some interesting gossip over the years,” he murmured dryly.

  She grinned. “He’ll be the subject of a lot more when I start wearing my maternity clothes,” she told him.

  He pursed his lips. “Well!”

  She laid a protective hand over her still-flat belly, and smiled.

  He finished a connection and glanced toward Philippe. “I thought Laremos was lying when he said your husband could back down terrorists. Amazing, how cosmopolitan he looks until you see him over the barrel of a gun.”

  She eyed him curiously. “How do you know how he looks over the barrel of a gun?”

  “Didn’t anyone mention that we were part of the team that came in to liberate Qawi from Brauer in the first place?” he asked. “We were in the first assault, right alongside Philippe and his personal guard.” He whistled. “He walked right into the damned bullets,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it. He went for the commander of the group, the one he later said had killed his house servant Miriam on the government’s island of Jameel. I won’t tell you what happened, but even some of the career soldiers backed away from him afterward. He’s a man you don’t want to ever see in a temper.”

  Gretchen pursed her lips and flushed. “Well, I have seen him in a temper,” she remarked, and wasn’t quite brazen enough to add that her husband had ravished her twice, ripping her clothes off in the best tradition of bodice-ripping heroes from the silent films. Of course, temper notwithstanding, he’d been tender and exquisitely loving with her.

  Dutch was reading between the lines. He chuckled. “No wonder he takes strips off guards who look lax around you. One of them, I understand, is on extended sick leave. It seems he was injured…”

  “Oh, my gosh!” she groaned, hiding her face in her hands. “I didn’t think I kicked him that hard!”

  “It wasn’t exactly a kick that injured him, I hear,” he murmured dryly while he fiddled with minute adjustments on his equipment. “It was a very hard fist in his jaw. Several teeth were loosened and he was reduced in rank and reassigned to guard the single elderly camel your husband keeps in his stables. It belonged to his father and was used in the coup that drove out the Europeans and put the Tatluk family back in power in Qawi.”

  “Philippe hit him?”

  “Several times, I believe,” he chuckled. “That’s one soldier who will never question your married status again, much less be insolent to you.”

  “The things we learn about people we think we know,” she murmured absently, and grinned.

  He glanced at her amusedly. “Yes, we’ve learned a few things about you, too. Especially about you riding to the rescue with your trusty Colt .45,” he said. “I wish you could meet my wife. Dani helped me foil an air-jacking some years back. And J.D.’s wife, Gabby, actually shot a man who was trying to kill him in a Guatemalan jungle.”

  She was impressed. “They aren’t from Texas, those women?” she teased.

  He smiled and she moved on, feeling safe and protected.

  The prewedding traditions were fascinating to Gretchen, who threw herself into them with pure delight. Leila and the other women in the palace helped henna her hands and feet and conduct her to the endless parties and conversational feasts that were a prelude to the elegant, ancient ceremony that would see her traditionally married to her handsome husband.

  The guest list, like the preparations, was formidable. Gretchen almost shuddered when she read some of the names on it. She wasn’t too happy to discover Brianne and Pierce Hutton at the top of it, but she was learning that Philippe really did love her. When he spoke of Brianne now, it was respectfully, but not with any lingering desire.

  Along with the Huttons, Tate Winthrop and his wife Cecily had been invited, and his parents, Matt and Leta Holden. Matt was a senator from South Dakota and Leta was his wife. There was quite a story there, which Philippe had told her at length and with some amusement. It seemed that the new Mrs. Tate Winthrop had actually baptized her then-guardian Tate with a tureen of crab bisque at a widely televised live fund-raiser. Gretchen couldn’t wait to meet her.

  As the wedding day dawned, preparations for security became tighter and more efficient. Metal detectors were set up unobtrusively. Listening devices and cameras were put in place. Philippe’s bodyguard was abundantly in evidence, along with quite a number of American men in suits—among them, Russell.

  Gretchen, in her wedding finery, caught a glimpse of him darting around a corner to avoid an encounter with her handsome brother. She tried not to grin at the consternation on the agent’s face. Her brother had a reputation, much-deserved, for making life difficult for people he didn’t like.

  The morning seemed to crawl by as limousines ferried guests from the airport. Then, suddenly, cameras were set up and rolling. The ceremonial band was playing. Dignitaries were gathered in the grand cathedral that had been built by the Spaniards four centuries ago. A robed pontiff waited at the altar as Marc escorted elegant Gretchen down the red-carpeted aisle to the altar where Philippe, in his ceremonial robes of office, waited for her.

  Incredibly, Gretchen had forgotten all about the threat of Kurt Brauer. The security was so tight that a fly couldn’t have managed to get through it. She was certain that everything would go perfectly. She stood by Philippe and spoke her vows in a strong, clear voice and smiled dreamily as he repeated his own with equal fervor. It was much like the ceremony in the desert, because he took his scimitar once more and cut a small loaf of bread in half and handed part to Gretchen. They were pronounced man and wife, but he didn’t kiss her at the altar. He smiled at her and turned her to the audience to be presented as his queen.

  The sound of the bomb exploding behind them was like something out of time and place. Gretchen heard it and didn’t even realize what it was until Philippe pushed her to the floor and spread his powerful body over her.

  She felt the carpet rough under her cheek and she coughed as tiny particles of debris crept over the church like a gray cloud. There was gunfire and the sound of hysteria. People ran, being pushed and shoved out of the building as Philippe’s personal bodyguard, armed to the teeth and bristling with protective instincts, swarmed around him and Gretchen.

  Philippe cursed roundly as he helped Gretchen to her feet and turned to see about the priest, who was just managing to sit up.

  Gretchen moved forward to help him. “Oh, dear, are you all right, Father?” she asked, concerned.

  “Yes, my child. And are you?” he asked at once.

  “I’m fine.” She looked at her husband, recognizing the cold fury in him that sent chills down her spine as he tossed orders to his personal bodyguard.

  Dutch van Meer vaulted over a wrecked pew and halted beside them, a small automatic weapon in one hand. He looked nothing like the kind, friendly man she’d come to know. He looked as dangerous as her husband, and eyes like cold steel met her husband’s.

  “Brauer sent one of his spies in with a C-4 charge,” Dutch told Philippe, grim-faced. “He concealed it in the baptismal font, of all places, and it was the one thing we didn’t check. I’m sorr
y. I must be getting older than I realized.”

  “None of my bodyguards thought of it, either, including Bojo,” Philippe told him.

  “We caught the man who planted the charge and interrogated him,” Dutch continued. “He says that Brauer and about thirty men are on their way here in two high-tech military helicopters. They’re going to sneak in under radar and land on the helipad, with the intention of kidnapping you in front of the international press.”

  “A bold plan,” Philippe said coldly. “And I need no magic ball to know where he got the funds. My uncle will wish he had never heard of Qawi! As will Brauer, when I finish with him.” He shot an order at Hassan, who was always nearby, and went to see about his father, who was waving his hands and shouting.

  “Watch yourself,” Dutch told her before Philippe and his father joined them. “You can’t underestimate this man Brauer. I think you’re in more danger than Philippe is.”

  “Why?” she asked, shocked.

  “Because Philippe would do anything to save you, and Brauer knows it. The wedding is proof of his intentions, and his preference for you over Mrs. Hutton.”

  Gretchen bit down on a curse. “I’ll be careful.”

  Marc came up beside them with a gun in his hand and fury in his eyes. “You okay?” he asked his baby sister with sharp concern.

  “I’m fine. Are you?”

  He nodded. He hugged her quickly, while Dutch excused himself and went to speak to Philippe. Marc reached into a holster under the leg of his slacks and pulled out a snub-nosed .38 Smith & Wesson handgun. He slipped it to Gretchen.

  “You know how to use that,” he said.

  She nodded grimly. “If he gets into the palace, he’ll be sorry. How dare he mess up my wedding!”

  Marc smiled gently. “Don’t get yourself shot.”

  “The same goes for you,” she instructed. She studied his drawn face and reached up to smooth his cheek gently. “My poor brother,” she said tenderly. “I’m so sorry about the way things worked out for you.”

  The strain was showing on his face. He averted his eyes. “Life is hard.”

  “She didn’t blame you,” his sister said.

  He glanced toward Philippe. “I blame myself. And now this isn’t doing a lot for my self-esteem. I should have checked the baptismal font.”

  “I’m sure every other federal agent in the place is thinking the same thing. You’ll notice that the chief of Philippe’s personal guard is trying to look invisible. It won’t help.”

  “Your new husband is a character,” he told her with a smile. “I like him.”

  “You like him because Russell’s afraid of him,” she accused.

  He chuckled and hugged her again. “Here comes the media wading back into the rubble,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Hide that pistol and get out of here. You don’t need to be in the spotlight right now.”

  “Neither do you.”

  “Stay close to the bodyguards anyway.”

  She nodded and made her way through the broken masonry and shattered wood, still shaky from the explosion and the aftermath of relief at finding herself alive.

  Philippe came back to her. He checked her carefully for damage before he sighed and kissed her forehead tenderly. “Hassan will stay with you, as will Leila. I must go.”

  “Go where?” she asked, horrified.

  “To catch Brauer before he can swoop down on the palace,” he said, motioning to his men, including the three mercenaries, Bojo, and Marc.

  “I want to go with you!” she exclaimed.

  He took her firmly by the shoulders. “You carry our child,” he said gently. “This risk you must not take, for his sake. You understand?”

  She touched his mouth with her fingertips, worried and unable to hide it. “I can’t live without you!” she said huskily

  The very simplicity of the statement made it profound. He ground his teeth together as he brought her palm to his mouth and kissed it hungrily. Life became precious. Terribly precious. He looked at her with fear and torment. He didn’t want to leave her, but there was more risk in staying here and waiting for Brauer and his lunatics to attack. “Take care of her, if you value your own life!” he called to Hassan, and whirled on his heel.

  “He’ll be all right,” Dutch assured her grimly just before he followed Philippe. “A man who could unite ten of the most warring Bedouin tribes in all of the Middle East is more than capable of dealing with a terrorist.”

  She looked up at him miserably. “Oh, I hope so!”

  He chuckled. “You really should read a history of this country, Mrs. Sabon,” he mused. “I think you don’t quite know your husband yet.”

  “I only want time to get to know him,” she said, and meant it.

  The palace was like an asylum for the next hour. News media were everywhere, talking to anyone who seemed to understand English or any one of twelve other foreign languages. Gretchen escaped with Leila to the women’s quarters, with Hassan close behind, his hand on the automatic weapon he always carried as he looked cautiously from one side of the corridor to the other, pausing to check closed doors.

  “He is worried,” Leila said quietly. “So am I. This man Brauer is like a cobra, quiet and shrewd. The man who told them about his approach is not trustworthy. I have known him to do many wicked things for money, and I was told that they didn’t have to do much to make him talk. They were much too upset and angry to think rationally about what he said.”

  “You think he gave them false information?” she asked Leila, worriedly.

  Leila nodded. “I think it is possible. And while a whole force of men might not be able to invade the palace, one or two men with bribed guards could accomplish much.”

  Gretchen felt the cold metal of the pistol against her thigh where she concealed it under her wedding robes and narrowed her eyes as she considered what to do.

  “We should lock ourselves in your rooms, Lady,” Leila said firmly. “There, at least, you will be safe.”

  Gretchen turned toward her, still frowning. “No. That’s the last place we’ll be safe,” she murmured. “If I were Brauer, it’s where I’d be right now. It’s the last place anybody would search for him.” She turned to Hassan. “I want you to go and bring that guard I kicked from the stables where the camel is kept.”

  Hassan’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon, ma’am?” he drawled.

  “The rest of the sha-KOOSH are with my husband,” she reminded him. “He is the only man of the bodyguard left here. And bring Philippe’s father with you when you return. His safety is no less important than mine.”

  Hassan, to his credit, didn’t ask questions. He did immediately as he was told.

  “You and I are going to bait a trap,” she told Leila. “I want you to go to the laundry and bring back men’s clothing for you and me. But I want women’s clothing in a size to fit Hassan and that tall guard who was looking after the camel.”

  Leila’s eyes lit up with mischief. “You are bad!”

  Gretchen grinned. “I am a Texan,” she said glumly. “And even international terrorists should know better than to mess with us!”

  The punished guard was uneasy around Gretchen at first and full of apologies. She held up a hand.

  “I never meant for my husband to knock your teeth out, just the same,” she said firmly. “But I’m giving you a chance to save all of us, and I promise you, my husband will be very pleased if we can pull this off. I think Brauer is in my suite. Leila and I are going to dress as men and patrol outside my rooms. You and Hassan are going to walk into the room unexpectedly and let yourselves be found by Brauer. The surprise is going to be his, because Leila and I are your backup. And we’re going to both be armed.” She showed her pistol and pulled one from the guard’s belt to hand to Leila. “Can you shoot it?” she asked the other woman.

  “But of course,” Leila told her. “My own husband belongs to the sidi’s sha-KOOSH.” She grinned.

  “Okay, then, we are going to
walk in there and give Kurt Brauer the unpleasant surprise of his life. Then we’re going to give the international media outside the palace a much bigger story than my wedding! Now let’s change into our disguises and get moving!”

  A few miles away, a furious Philippe was sitting beside Dutch and Bojo in a small helicopter talking to his other military vehicles.

  “Brauer’s helicopters are nowhere in sight, if they even exist,” Philippe said angrily. “But one of the border patrols found evidence of recent movement, and a satellite picked up two Jeeps moving toward the palace. We have been out-flanked. I knew I should never have trusted that informant!”

  “We live and learn,” Dutch said quietly. “I’m sorry. None of us are exactly standing out as defenders of the innocent right now.”

  “Gretchen,” Philippe groaned. “She and my father were left behind for their own protection. Even now, they may be dead! Turn around,” Philippe told the pilot harshly. “Go back to the palace, as fast as you can!”

  “Yes, sidi,” came the respectful reply, and seconds later, the helicopter was on its way back.

  The men had changed, in another room of course, into their wispy gellabias with the hijabs pulled carefully over their faces. The old sheikh, fuming at being left out of the action, was coaxed into remaining in one of the empty rooms for the time being.

  The young guard gave Gretchen, in her flowing robes and igal, an accusing look.

  “If anyone says a word, I’ll swear that I ordered you to dress like that, I promise,” she told him. “Think of the mission, not the means.”

  “You sound like my army sergeant,” Hassan drawled. He looked very large, for a “woman.”