A Sulta's Ransom

by White, Loreth Anne

  The soldier moved right next to her, his horse’s hooves clacking over cobblestones. He slowed. Her pulse quickened. Then his horse snorted and Paige jerked back, her nerves already shot. The suddenness of her movement caught the soldier’s attention. He stopped, ran his eyes slowly over her.

  Her heart jackhammered. She averted her eyes, stared hard at the blackened cobblestones. But the soldier didn’t move. Time stretched. Perspiration dampened her chest. Still he didn’t move. Raw fear strangled breath from her chest, squeezing logic right out of her brain. Paige was so used to maintaining mental control that the sheer terror of suddenly losing it compounded the violence of her reaction. Every molecule in her body screamed for her to flee even as she tried to force herself to stay still.

  Then she felt Rafiq’s hand under her chador, seeking hers. She clasped it quickly. It was firm, solid, an anchor. Relief punched through her and emotion welled sharply through her body.

  She held on to him tighter, and her mind began to clear. She needed this man right now. How could he feel so right when everything was so wrong?

  He squeezed her hand reassuringly, and she slid her eyes cautiously up to meet his, acutely aware of the Land Command officer still looming over her like a shadow.

  Rafiq gestured with a small movement of his eyes that they move to the left. She closed her eyes briefly in acknowledgment, and he led her calmly back into the crowd.

  Rafiq kept a check on the Land Command as he moved Paige well into the crowd. The soldiers had split into several groups and were working their way through the market stalls. They eventually stationed themselves in small groups at all four main entrances to the market square.

  Why? Had someone alerted them? Or was this routine procedure? Whatever it was, he and Paige were going to have to pass them again on their way out. And she wasn’t ready to pass the test. Yet.

  He placed his hand at the small of Paige’s back and steered her toward a cluster of small stalls wedged into a shadowed stone alcove at the very back of the square. She moved without resistance, responsive to the slightest pressure of his fingers.

  She was clearly terrified and was trusting him to protect her. It nourished the male in him. And it heightened his desire for her. Her reminded himself of the need to keep her at a distance, knowing at the same time it was not going to be possible. Not after he’d held her like that.

  He led her up to a table laden with local cosmetics and silver jewelry. Paige shot him a questioning look, her pale eyes even more startlingly beautiful framed by the black veil.

  He squeezed her hand again. “Trust me,” he whispered.

  He greeted the woman behind the table and pointed to some sticks of kohl, packets of henna, several ankle chains and two loops of bracelets. She began to wrap his selections in a piece of indigo cloth, but he held up his hand, gesturing that she should wait. He glanced over his shoulder quickly, turned back and lowered the fabric of his head cloth away from his cheek.

  The woman didn’t even blink at the sight of his tattoo. She just nodded, her eyes fixed steadily on his.

  Rafiq leaned forward over the table. “Can you do her hands and feet, and her eyes?” he asked, his voice low.

  The woman didn’t hesitate. She picked up the henna packets and a stick of black kohl, and held a wrinkled hand out to Paige.

  Paige stiffened.

  Rafiq nudged her forward. “Go with her. She’s one of us, she won’t say anything about your skin color, and by the time she’s done, no one will notice anything different either.”

  Her eyes searched his. “You sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “How…how do you know she’s safe?” she whispered.

  “She was at the carpet dealer’s house. Now, go. And here, take these, put them on when she’s done.” He flipped the cloth over the jewelry, handed her the parcel, and he watched the old woman lead his captive to a chair hidden behind a white bolt of canvas. There was no way Paige was going to blow his cover now. She was in just as deep as he was.

  Rafiq browsed over the tables as he waited for Paige, the sun warm on his back, the sounds of the market stirring dormant synapses in his brain, awakening old pleasurable memories, linking them to the present. He realized with sudden shock that he was humming, an ancient Hamnian tune he hadn’t thought of in years. It stopped him dead in his tracks.

  A cocktail of emotion churned through him. Shopping at the Na’jif market with a woman—a woman he was actually beginning to care about—was tugging at sensations that he’d buried somewhere deep in his soul.

  He used to come to this market with Nahla. He used to hold her hand as they browsed through these stalls, and he would look into her expressive dark eyes and dream of the day they would marry, and make love. The day he would make her his queen—Queen of Hamn.

  Hot anger speared through his memories. He gripped the side of a table with both hands, trying to ground himself, trying to stay only in the present.

  But coming back to this place with a woman at his side was like stepping right back into the past. It was cracking through the emotional armor he’d barricaded himself behind for the last fifteen years, releasing the volatile side of his nature—the side that got him into trouble, the side that could love as passionately and obsessively as it could hate.

  Rafiq cursed violently under his breath.

  This was now. This about his mission. This was not about him or his past. He was a soldier of fortune. He fought the battles he was paid to fight—not the battles of his heart.

  That was not who he was anymore.

  But he wasn’t so sure. He was slipping.

  “Only ten rials.” An old woman’s voice jerked him sharply back.

  “What?”

  “That oil you’re holding, I’ll give it to you for only ten rials.”

  Rafiq looked numbly down at the bottle of scented bath oil in his hand. When had he picked this up? What in hell was wrong with him?

  He turned the bottle over slowly in palm. He used to buy gifts like this for Nahla. He looked up sharply. “I’ll give you nine.”

  Crinkles fanned out around the woman’s eyes. She took the oil from him, began to wrap it. “She will like it.”

  “Who will?”

  “Your woman, yes?”

  “She’s not my—”

  “You would like anything else, maybe some lotion, like this one?” She held out her hand, palm up, over a jar of almond butter.

  “Ah, yeah, sure.” Paige needed lotion. The desert was dry. This was not about buying gifts. He’d abducted her and she’d been able to bring nothing with her. “And I’ll take that, and that, and that there.” He pointed to a bottle of shampoo, then another vial of perfumed oil, a piece of silver ribbon and a hairbrush.

  The woman took his handful of gold coins and handed him his package. Rafiq felt a rush in his chest as he took the bundle of goods. And he had to convince himself that he had not drifted with the moment. That it was not about gratuitous presents for Paige, or about making amends for his actions.

  This was about need.

  He knew even a cool-headed scientist like Paige Sterling was not above wanting to feel desirable. And he wanted to make her feel that way.

  He tucked the package under his arm and blew out a breath. Then he looked toward the stall where he’d left Paige.

  She was coming around the table. He could tell it was her by the way she moved. He could hear the chink of bells as she approached.

  “Hey,” she said, a soft smile in her eyes. They were lined with black kohl that made them look hauntingly silver. Luminous. Just looking into them made him feel as if he’d been punched in the gut.

  “What’s in the package?” she asked.

  “Ah…nothing,” he said, his gaze falling to her feet. They were covered with an intricate pattern painted in rose-brown henna, and she was wearing thonged sandals. The bells that hung from the silver ankle chains he’d bought peeped out from under the hem of her chador.

>   She held out her hands for him to see, turned them over. They, too, had been expertly darkened with henna patterns, and her fingers were adorned in silver rings. Rafiq swallowed. He hadn’t made this woman disappear—she’d been reinvented. And he wasn’t quite sure what to do about it.

  “Do you approve?” she asked in Arabic, her haunting eyes searching his.

  “Ah…yes. She, um, she did an excellent job. You look like the real deal.”

  “And now?”

  “Now what?”

  “Where do we go from here?” she asked softly.

  His pulse quickened and he felt his mouth go dry. I really don’t know where we go from here, Paige. Then he snapped himself together. “We should head back to the apartment, see how the download is going. This new look should get you past the Land Command at the gates.”

  Her eyes flickered nervously.

  “Come.” He held out his hand, palm up, and she placed hers in his. He closed his hand around her fingers and looked once more into her eyes. And he just knew he was going to keep her safe—no matter the cost.

  This time he’d get the woman out of Na’jif.

  “You’ll be fine,” he said. “Just walk like you belong with me, okay?”

  They moved out of the market area, through the stone archway at the north end. The group of soldiers stationed at the base of the ancient arch stopped laughing and fell silent. They turned their eyes on her.

  Her legs suddenly felt wooden. Each time she took a step, the bells at her ankles chinked, making her even more self-conscious. She felt as if she may as well be wearing a banner on her back that blared Imposter! Her heart began to race again.

  But Rafiq, sensing her unease, slipped his arm around her waist and moved her body closer to his. She took her cue from his steps, felt herself move in concert with him, drawing from his confidence.

  They cleared the arch, and the men resumed talking.

  Relief punched out of her, making her slightly giddy. But Rafiq did not let go of her waist, and she didn’t move away, either. He felt good. She liked the way he touched her, the way he moved with her. She liked his smoldering self-assurance, and the way he made her feel safe, and feminine.

  She’d never known a man like this.

  Rafiq guided her to a busy intersection and they waited for the traffic to pass. Paige watched the carts, trucks, camels and bicycles through the slit in the fabric of her chador, her new window on the world. The garment restricted her peripheral vision even more than the helmet on her hazmat suit did, but she also felt protected from her enemies, and because of it, strangely free to relax and be herself inside.

  She watched a group of women, floating spectral figures in black, approach the intersection on the opposite side of the road. They stepped off the curb and the traffic stopped. In awe, Paige watched them drift across the cobbled street and she heard the soft chorus of bells as they moved.

  Men turned to look and the street sounds almost became hushed as people listened to the sound of the women walking. One of the women angled her head, said something, and the others laughed. Paige realized with a start that they were young, perhaps in their late teens, and clearly aware of the attention they’d attracted, enjoying it.

  Even under all those black veils, these young women had found a way to look sexy and stop traffic. Their layers of hidden mystery and whispering fabric only served to pique sensual interest. She shook her head and smiled to herself.

  She could only imagine the depth of a man’s enjoyment at finally seeing a woman’s naked thighs, her belly, the curve of her shoulders.

  The thought of sex made her glance at Rafiq. She was shocked to realize he’d been watching her, his black eyes intense. She felt her cheeks flush, her body heat. She flicked her eyes away, relieved he couldn’t see under her veil.

  The traffic light changed, and Rafiq increased the pressure of his hand on the small of her back, escorting her proprietarily over the street. Paige couldn’t help but notice men glance her way, and she wondered if she, too, looked as if she were floating.

  Rafiq realized too late that he’d turned into the street. He hesitated.

  Paige threw him a questioning glance. “Are we going the wrong way?”

  No. It was the right way, just the wrong time. He stared down the twisting street with its ornate lampposts and wooden shuttered windows…and it took his mind back, drew him down over the worn cobblestones…toward her house.

  He began to walk, his feet operating of their own volition, his heart a slow, steady thud against his chest. The world, the present, morphed into a blur around him. He was barely conscious of Paige at his side.

  The shutters were still painted green. The iron lamppost still stood under her window.

  Rafiq stopped.

  In a distant part of his brain, he could feel the tension in Paige’s body, feel her eyes on him. But he’d gone beyond it now. He was back.

  And he couldn’t tear himself away.

  Fifteen years.

  A decade and a half since Nahla had blown him her last kiss from that window, her hair burnished black in the gold light of that lamp. His throat burned. His vision blurred. And a wave of blinding rage slammed into his heart. His grip tightened on Paige’s arm.

  “Rafiq?” she whispered. Concern, he could hear it in her voice. His captive was showing concern for him. For his anguish. He didn’t want her concern.

  He wanted revenge.

  “Rafiq!”

  Her voice jerked him back. “What is it? What the hell’s going on?” She spoke in Arabic, her voice low, urgent with an edge of fear.

  But he couldn’t answer. He couldn’t talk at all. He stared at Nahla’s house and the years unraveled in a string of memories. He could recall exactly how he felt that night he came back here, the night he’d returned from Paris. Eagerness had lightened his step and his heart, and he’d felt the ring burning a hole in the pocket of his robes.

  But it wasn’t Nahla who’d greeted him at that door. It was her brothers, grim and gray and bent with the news. It had sunk through him like a rock; he’d steadied himself with a hand on that doorjamb. He could feel it now, against his palm. And in his mind’s eye he could see her mother, crumpled over the kitchen table in grief…and her father, pacing, worried about the shame brought on his family.

  Paige’s hand closed over his arm. “We should go, Rafiq. People are watching.”

  He blinked as the door of the house opened and an old woman stepped into the frame. She stared at him. His heart began to jackhammer, his skin turned hot. She wasn’t just staring at him, she was looking right into him. Could she know? Could she see beneath his turban and cheap burlap robes?

  Seconds, minutes ticked by. But he could not tear his eyes away from hers, an unspoken communication stretching tautly and vibrating across the stretch of street between them.

  Then the old woman slowly lifted her veil, exposing her face, her eyes to him, showing him exactly who she was. Even from here, he could see the wrinkles cleft by years of pain and sadness. The string of memories tightened around his neck like a noose. He couldn’t breathe.

  “Rafiq!” Paige shook his arm, trying to pull him out of the death grip of the past. “Rafiq! I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I’m getting the hell out of here before you attract the attention of the police.”

  She jerked away, her movement yanking him back. And with a jolt, he realized he’d completely lost it. He glanced once more at the old woman, but she was gone, dematerialized like a sepulchral figment of his past.

  Had he even seen her? Panic kicked at him.

  This had been a terrible mistake. They had to lie low until they could get out of town. Because if she’d recognized him, and he was sure she had, the mission would be scuttled. The whole bloody country would blow.

  The Cabal would unleash the plague.

  He swore viciously under his breath, turned on his heels and ran down the street, Paige in his wake, her black robes flying out behind her.r />
  19:02 Charlie, Nexus Compound, Thursday, October 2

  The man stood on the edge of the cliff, hot wind flapping his robes about his ankles, the tail of his turban flaying against his shoulder. His eyes narrowed into the bite of salt off the sea.

  He’d already seen the puddle of brake fluid, the vehicle tracks. Most of it had been made by emergency personnel, but he was a tracker, a hunter, and he could read what few could see. And he’d seen something—footprints that had been brushed over with deft and hurried flicks of a hand, tracks through flinty ground, a patch of uneven sand under the compound fence.

  He lifted his chin, nostrils flaring to the wind. Then he spun abruptly on his heels.

  He had work to do.

  Chapter 7

  20:05 Charlie, Na’jif safe house, Thursday, October, 2

  Paige reached for a falafel, dipped it in cucumber sauce and took a bite. She chewed, watching him work at the desk, tension rolling off him in waves.

  She’d bet her last dollar that he didn’t have to be fiddling with that equipment right now. It was a displacement activity, his way of avoiding whatever it was that had come back to haunt him in the streets of Na’jif.

  Rafiq Zayed may be an FDS merc, but he definitely had ties to this place. He had a serious history here.

  She took another bite, chewed on both the food and the mystery. She knew she would not be able to let it rest until she unearthed his story, or discovered who that old woman in the doorway was. Lifting a veil to a man like that was blasphemous and literally criminal in this culture. That woman knew him. And he knew her. Paige was certain of it.

  She reached for another falafel. “This food is good,” she called out to him. “And it’s going to be all gone soon if you don’t come and help me eat.”

  He didn’t turn around.

  “You not hungry?”

  He lifted his head, loose hair gleaming on his shoulders under the light of the lamp. He sat like that for a second, his back to her, as if composing himself. Then he stood, came over, lowered himself to the cushions beside her, and reached for a flatbread.