Captive of the Desert King

by Donna Young

  Restless, she stepped toward a bank of blue blossoms nearby. “Borage. The starflower.” She cupped the soft triangular petals in her palm, let the sweet scent drift over her.

  “I’ve walked past these flowers a million times and had no idea.”

  Sarah ignored his teasing. “My mother is a gardener. And although I don’t share her passion, I do share the appreciation.”

  A quiet sense of longing seeped into her bones, undermining her anger, catching Sarah off guard.

  “What is it?”

  “A flash of homesickness,” she admitted warily.

  “Understandable,” Jarek replied. “We are a long way from Las Vegas. And from what I’ve seen, you are very close to your parents.”

  “How? Oh…my file,” Sarah remembered. Not wanting to think about his research, she thought about her own. “Your parents were killed in a car accident, weren’t they? Right before Rashid was born.”

  “A personal question?”

  “A personal interest,” she countered with a quiet dignity. “One that I promise to keep off the record.”

  “This is personal, isn’t it, Sarah? What’s happening between us?” He broke off a blossom and tucked it behind her ear. “No matter how much we try to deny it, I think.”

  Uncomfortable, she reached for the flower. But his hand caught hers. “Let it be,” he said, drawing her hand to his chest. “It suits you.”

  “Tell me about your parents, Jarek.”

  “My father was a passionate man. About his people, his country, the land. He was a good man. Fair, honorable,” Jarek told her, the love evident in his tone. “But my mother was the true diplomat—the quiet strength behind my father. Theirs was an arranged marriage that eventually became a loving marriage.”

  “They sound a lot like my parents.” Not once did Jarek mention his father the king, only the man.

  “There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t miss them.”

  “I don’t know how you survived losing so many, Jarek,” Sarah wondered out loud.

  “Bari and Quamar are my family. Anna and their children, also,” Jarek replied. “And of course, Rashid.”

  “Bari is your father’s brother, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. Bari is the oldest son, then my father, Makrad, and then Hassan,” Jarek explained. “But Bari fell in love with a Christian woman—Theresa Bazan. You might have heard of her. Quamar told me she had worked with your father many years ago.”

  Sarah frowned. “I’ll have to ask him. I don’t remember her.”

  “When Bari’s father objected to Theresa, Bari abdicated the throne to my father.”

  “So Quamar would’ve been king?”

  “At the time, no. He is illegitimate. Bari never married Theresa.”

  “At the time? Do you think his illegitimacy wouldn’t matter now?”

  “Taer is changing,” Jarek replied, his thumb absently stroked her wrist. “For better or worse, it is catching up quickly with the modern world and ideas.”

  “It must be hard to watch the change that’s coming to your people, the country.” Unable to deal with the flutter and heat from his caress, Sarah tugged her hand away and hugged her arms to her chest. More for protection than the chill of the air, she turned away.

  The desert was no more than a black sea of shadows beyond the lights of the city.

  “There is something almost magical about Taer, isn’t there?” she wondered out loud. “I’ve lived near the Mojave Desert most of my life. But I couldn’t describe a single landscape to you. But the Sahara is different, isn’t it? It’s almost as if it’s a living, breathing thing.”

  Jarek slipped off his dinner jacket and placed it over her shoulders. When he pulled the lapels close, masculine fingers brushed across the hollow of her throat, lingered just long enough for her breath to catch, her knees to tremble.

  As if sensing her momentary weakness, he pulled her back into his chest and tightened his arms around her.

  Because she loved, because she needed—Sarah accepted, and allowed her body to soften.

  “There is a belief in my family that the Sahara is a woman,” Jarek murmured.

  “Anna told me.”

  “Did she tell you the Sahara fascinates the men of Taer?” His warmth seeped through the jacket, taking the chill away, thawing the rest of her resistance. “With a female’s scent, textures and temperaments.” His lips skimmed the nape of her neck.

  “Serene. Unpredictable. Dangerous. She draws men in.” His fingers followed his mouth, kneading the tense muscles for a moment. Slowly, he turned her around, taking his time as he pulled her back to him. “She tests their endurance, tempts them to do things they wouldn’t do normally.”

  “Does she tempt you?” she whispered. Her hands moved up his chest, over thin material of his shirt until his heart beat beneath her palm. Strong. Steady.

  “Yes.” The word rolled over her in one, long, raspy drawl.

  Desire hit, a flash of heat that set her skin sizzling, her insides churning.

  “With her scent,” Jarek whispered next to her ear. His breath hot against the delicate shell. Her fingers curled into his chest.

  “And her softness.” His thumb skimmed the smooth skin just under her jaw, traced the slender curve of her neck. “Her taste.” His mouth hovered over hers, their breath mingling. Warm, moist.

  His kiss wasn’t gentle. He’d teased them both too long for gentle. Made them suffer too much.

  Deep, wet, blistering, his mouth took hers.

  The jacket fell to the ground, forgotten. His arms tightened, bringing her up to his chest—not satisfied until her breasts pressed against him.

  His hands moved over her, kneading her shoulders, tracing her spine, sliding his fingers beneath the material at its base. Giving into the urge from the dance floor, his fingers dipped to the soft curve of her bottom, stroking the lace beneath.

  Sarah gasped against his mouth. Suddenly, she stretched, then shifted. On tiptoe, she snaked her arms around his neck, insistent. Her mouth was wild, erotic. Her body moved against his, restless and throbbing.

  When his hand cupped her breast, she whimpered as her desire wound to a fever pitch. Suddenly, his mouth broke from hers. It moved nipping, then soothing, first down her neck across her shoulder then back to the hollow of her collarbone.

  Sarah shifted back, giving him more access. He tugged at her bodice, freeing her breast to the night air. Sarah shivered, the clash of heat and cold almost too much to bear. She yanked his hair, urging his mouth down to her breast, craving relief to her torment.

  “Your Majesty.” Trizal’s voice cut through the night air. Jarek stiffened against Sarah, his body instantly tight, a steel band coiled way beyond its breaking point.

  Still, he held her close, hiding her nakedness in the garden shadows. He forced his hands to soothe, rather than incite.

  “What is it?” Jarek snapped out the words, the harshness more from desire and self-directed anger than from the other man’s timing.

  “My apologies, Your Majesty. But they need you at the hospital. It is Bash. He died less than an hour ago.”

  MURAD STUDIED THE CONVERTIBLE as it turned into the construction site and parked a few yards away. Floodlights spilled from the warehouse docks. Their glare cast a jaundice hue over the labyrinth of steel beams and columns that shaped the first phase of his high-rise.

  Anticipation had his eyes lingering over the steel supports that rose above the warehouse district, but it was vanity that made him count the floors. With sixty in all—including the corporate penthouse—the Qassar building topped the tallest high-rise in the city by more than forty floors.

  Murad had to give Jarek credit. He’d moved Taer into the 21st century and put their small country on the international map. As the overseas interest increased, trade expanded, high-rises would soon be the norm—forcing the city boundaries out and international magnates to take notice.

  A man could get rich, if he played his money right
and got in at the ground.

  And Murad had already hit the ground running.

  “Don’t you ever get tired of looking at this damn building?” Oruk stepped out of his car and shut the door.

  “No.”

  “Dreaming about the logo on top?”

  Murad’s lips twisted into a rare smile. “Actually, I was dreaming of Taer’s gross national product increase over the next twenty years.”

  “I hope that’s not why I’m out here talking to you and freezing my best parts off.”

  “No, you’re out here because you sliced a man’s throat—a man who you insisted I put on my payroll—then dumped his body at Jarek’s front door.” Murad leaned back against his car and crossed his arms. “I want to know why.”

  Murad’s voice was crisp, business-like, but Oruk wasn’t fooled. He’d worked with Murad long before anyone had ever heard of Al Qassar Shipping. Hell, most of the money that Oruk paid him in illegal arms shipment fees started Al Qassar Shipping.

  “Don’t act like you’re upset that Roldo is dead. He failed to kill the king and the prince.” Oruk waved a hand, dismissing the other man’s fit of temper. “He was becoming a liability, shooting his mouth off at the Cathouse. I was left little choice.”

  “You could’ve tossed him into the desert for the buzzards. Never to be seen again,” Murad argued, then jabbed his thumb at the framed building behind him. “You could have even given his body to me and I would have buried it in six feet of concrete and steel.”

  “Yes, but then Jarek’s people would be knocking on your door, hunting for Roldo and we would risk them uncovering something else. Something more damaging to our plans. This way they have him already and all they can do is ask questions.”

  “Of me,” Murad snapped.

  “So you provide the answers on whatever you might know,” Oruk indicated. “It’s not like you’re involved in the day-to-day business of the drill site. You have more than enough employees—use them to bog things down a bit.”

  “And the guard’s death? The man called Bash?”

  “Consider him at the right place. At the right time.”

  “What the hell is that suppose to mean?”

  “Bash has no connection to you, so why are you worried? His death will just throw off the investigation on Roldo.”

  “Roldo had better be the last loose end, Oruk,” Murad stated. “Ever since the plane crash, Jarek has more than doubled the palace and the drilling site security. Killing him now would be suicide.”

  “Not if we have a person to take the fall.”

  “Who?”

  “The woman reporter,” Oruk suggested slyly.

  “You’re out of you mind,” Murad retorted. “When the news came of Bash’s death, Jarek’s secretary found them out in the garden together. Alone.”

  “My spies tell me Jarek still suspects her over the tracking device found in her purse,” Oruk commented. “You and I both know he has no reason to trust a woman. A few more pushes in her direction—”

  “You’re willing to bet a billion dollars on Jarek’s hatred for women?” Murad scoffed.

  “No.” Oruk pulled a small digital tape recorder out of his pocket and stroked the bullet crease in its side. “Just this woman.”

  SARAH STOOD AT THE BEDROOM window, watching the driveway just past the courtyard.

  Periodically she caught glimpses of her reflection in the glass. The pale skin, the dark smudges beneath her eyes—eyes that glistened with tears when she lost her grip on the worry and fear that ebbed just beneath the surface.

  Time bled through the night, until one hour became four. In the first hour, Nashemia came in with tea and soup. Once the servant assured Sarah that she was holding up in spite of the news of Bash’s death, Nashemia urged Sarah to eat. But soon the servant gave up after she realized Sarah’s only interest lay outside the window.

  Sarah wrapped Jarek’s coat tighter, hugging her arms to her chest, taking comfort in the scent of leather and spice. Behind her, Sarah heard the hiss and crackle of the fire that Nashemia lit before she’d left. But the heat of the flames did little to take the chill from Sarah’s bones.

  The news of Bash’s death had traveled quickly through the palace. Ivan had returned to his post outside her door, but the young man’s shoulders weren’t as steady, his stance not as tall.

  She wanted to be at the coroner’s office with Jarek, asking questions, demanding answers. But it wasn’t her country, her people, or her right.

  Jarek wasn’t even her man.

  The soft muffle of voices drifted through the door. Questions were asked, then answered in unintelligible murmurs.

  Sarah stood by the window, her eyes locked on the handle as it turned, her breath tight in her chest.

  The door opened. She caught a glimpse past Jarek’s shoulder, enough to see that Ivan was no longer posted outside.

  Jarek stepped through, turned around and quietly shut the door. When he turned back his gaze was level, the shadows in his eyes, haunted. He waited with his hand on the lock, giving her plenty of time to object.

  Never before had he looked more like a warrior. His stance wide, his body rigid, his features set. Beneath hooded eyes, his black irises glittered, sharp with need, desire and, she thought sadly, fury.

  “Bash?”

  “Later.” He shook his head, visibly pushing back the rage. “I need it to be later.”

  When she nodded, Jarek almost sighed in relief.

  Then, with the snap of the bolt, the demons of the past and present receded to their dark corners. And with them they took his uncertainties, his questions and his responsibilities.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come to me.” Slowly, she slid his jacket from her shoulders and tossed it on a nearby chair. “I’m glad you did.”

  Jarek forced himself to stand still.

  She wore the ball gown from earlier. The satin shimmered in the firelight. The color of dark, liquid emeralds, the dress flowed over her, the material sheathing her body like a second skin.

  She’d taken her shoes off. From where he stood, he could see her toes peeking out from beneath the gown.

  Slowly, she slipped the straps from her shoulders and pulled her arms through.

  “Stop.” The word broke from his throat, low and husky—vibrating with forced control.

  “All right.” The nerves were gone from her voice, replaced with a feminine confidence. Barefooted she walked toward him, the dress clinging to every curve, covering all but the graceful slope of her shoulders.

  Sarah stopped when less than six inches separated their bodies. Passion darkened her eyes to a turbulent green—wicked and sultry, they drew him in.

  “We’ll do this together.”

  Jarek hissed. Desire rippled through him, tremor upon tremor, and with it the balance of power shifted from him to her.

  She took his right hand in both of hers and brought his fingers to her lips. Gently, she kissed each knuckle, little butterfly kisses that made his hand clench, his body tighten.

  Laughing softly, she took his middle finger and stretched it out. The green of her eyes darkened wickedly as she drew his finger into her mouth, running her tongue up, then down its length, nipping, soothing, sucking.

  Desire exploded into molten lava. It raced through his veins, nearly brought him to his knees.

  “Ready?” Not waiting for an answer, she guided his fingers to her heart. It beat once, twice beneath his palm before she took both of his hands and slipped them over her breasts.

  His thumbs brushed her nipples, slick and hard beneath the satin. Her breath deepened, her breasts grew heavy.

  Of their own accord, his hands leisurely slid down her body, peeling the satin dress from the silk of her skin. Using his knuckles, he traced the contour of her ribs, her side, the soft hollow where her hip met thigh. His thumb snagged the wisp of lace. With a short tug he snapped the thin material and left it to pool with her dress at their feet.

  Sarah swayed into him
, and just that quick the balance of power shifted once more.

  No longer happy with distance, Jarek slipped his arm beneath her bottom and lifted her up against his chest.

  “You’re still dressed,” she whispered, even as her arms slipped around his neck, her finger buried themselves in the thick of his hair.

  He caught one of her nipples in his mouth and suckled until pleasure purred at the back of her throat.

  Suddenly, she broke free and slid down the length of his body, arching against him when his hands stroked the base of her spine, the sensitive spot between her shoulder blades.

  “My turn.” One by one, she undid his shirt buttons, leaving little kisses along the taut skin beneath.

  She slipped the shirt just past his shoulders, only to stop when his hands caught her wrists.

  “Don’t,” he whispered, his voice raspy.

  “Shh…” She kissed his lips softly, her breath sweet against his mouth. Then with a single tug the shirt fell to the floor.

  She kissed his chin. Slid her lips over his collarbone. His hands slipped behind her head, until his fingers tangled in her hair and brought the thick locks tumbling to her shoulders.

  The ends brushed his chest as she trailed her mouth across a flat brown nipple, stopping only a moment to tease, before moving on.

  Slowly, she kissed the rigid muscle between his neck and shoulder.

  Jarek waited, his breath held in check. On her tiptoes, she worked her way around to his back, leaving butterfly kisses across his shoulder, then nape of his neck.

  Her hands drifted over his arms, held him tight as she pressed her chest to his back.

  Jarek groaned against the bittersweet pleasure that rocked him to the core. It had been a long time since anything other than his shirt had touched the scars.

  With lips and fingers, Sarah caressed each ridge, imprinting herself, keeping the demons from seeping back.

  Finally, Jarek could take no more. He turned, slid his arm under her legs and picked her up. He cradled her once again against his chest.

  His mouth found hers in a slow, sweet, healing kiss that left them both breathless.