by Romancing the Crown Series (13-in-1 bundle) (v1. 0) (lit)
Pain seared through her scalp as she could feel her hair being pulled out. The pain radiated all through her, down to her arm and her chest. Something felt as if it had burst into her shoulder.
Her vision blurred again as she saw Max leap over a table and throw himself at Salim. The gun had fallen to the floor.
So had she, Cara realized. Crawling over to the weapon, fighting an almost paralyzing feeling with fire streaming all through her, she managed to grab the gun and struggle to her knees.
The two men in the room were locked in mortal combat. Salim was behind Max. His powerful arm locked around Max's neck, the terrorist was choking him.
"Let him go!" she ordered Salim.
Suddenly Max sank down to one knee and threw the man over his head. Salim crashed to the floor just as the king's personal guard came rushing into the room. The king was right behind them.
"Take him," Marcus ordered angrily. "And this time, see that you keep him. I don't want anything to happen to him until he talks to me." After that, he added silently, the man's fate was in the hands of God and the guards.
Dragging air into his depleted lungs, Max had turned to Cara.
Feeling weaker by the moment, she let the weapon fall from her hands.
"Are you all right?" she asked him.
Wobbly, Cara tried to rise to her feet, but her knees didn't seem to want to work.
"Oh God, you're bleeding." There was blood all over her gown, blocking the source of the wound. Real fear bit into him with numerous, sharp, pointy teeth. Max quickly picked her up into his arms before she could fall the rest of the way to the floor. "The bastard shot you."
"All in a day's work," she managed to mumble before her head fell back and the world, and Max and the room melted away.
* * *
The sensation of motion surrounding her penetrated Cara's fuzzy brain a second before she came to moments later.
Her eyes were almost too heavy to open, but with superhuman effort she managed to push the lids up.
Max was rushing down the long hallway with her. There was someone with him, a man she thought, but she couldn't be sure.
"What...?"
Thank God she was conscious. He was afraid she'd lapsed into a coma.
"Don't try to talk," Max cautioned. "We're taking you to the hospital."
"I don't need a hospital," she protested. She tried to get struggle of his arms. Or thought she tried. But there was no strength to draw on. Her arms felt absolutely useless. Both of them.
The woman brought new meaning to the word stubborn. Max took it as a good sign.
"You've been shot and you fainted, you need a doctor," he told her firmly.
His voice echoed in Cara's head, as if they were both standing in some kind of cave. But it was too bright for a cave. Caves weren't bright, were they?
"I didn't faint," she protested, using up all her available breath for the few words.
Beyond stubborn, Max thought, angrily. But alive. Thank God, alive.
"All right," he allowed, "you took a short nap. But you're still going to the hospital." Outside now, he looked around. Someone behind him said, "Over there," pointing to the limousine. Max rushed over to the king's car. "I'm not about to lose you just because you're too pigheaded to admit you need help."
"You...can...help if...you...want," she breathed, each word an effort. "But I don't...need...it."
In the back seat of the limousine, Max sat, holding her on his lap, his arms wrapped around her as he cradled her against him.
He'd just said something to her. What was it? Her brain was having trouble holding onto things. Something about losing her.
Was he trying to lose her?
Or was he...
Nothing made any sense so she stopped trying to make it. All she was aware of was the pain licking its way through her body and the strong arms that were around her. Trying to keep her safe.
Sighing, she curled into him.
"See, I told you. It's just a flesh wound." Cara shifted impatiently on the gurney, wanting to get going already.
"A deep flesh wound," he reminded her of the doctor's diagnosis.
Forced into a hospital gown, Cara reached down for the dress that had gotten ruined. She looked at it a little remorsefully.
"A deep flesh wound," she echoed indulgently. "Nothing that won't heal." She pressed her lips together, trying to organize chaotic thoughts that refused to hold still for the process. She hated admitting this, but she hated not knowing more. "I'm a little fuzzy, did we get him?"
"Yes, and this time, he's being kept under heavy guard. There won't be any repeat performances of tonight, I promise you." He'd almost lost her tonight. Max found the thought unbearable.
"Good." She began to nod her head and thought better of it. Even the slightest movement seemed to echo in her brain. "Because I'm not sure how much more blood I have left to give to this cause." She didn't feel like moving. Cara looked at him. "I guess you saved my life."
He inclined his head and then smiled. He didn't want to think about what would have happened if he'd been just a little slower.
"And you saved mine."
She blew out a breath. "They cancel each other out, then."
He knew what she was doing and he wasn't going to let her get away with it that easily. "Not quite. In the Chinese culture, a life you save is yours forever."
He was stretching things. "But you're not Chinese and neither am I."
Max shook his head, refusing to let her shrug this off. "Doesn't matter."
Okay, she'd play along. "I guess that means that your life's mine."
He resisted the temptation of drawing her to him. Not yet. "And yours belongs to me."
There was one logical approach to this, she thought. "Trade you."
He laughed. "I don't think so."
Cara pressed her lips together, afraid to let her mind go beyond the immediate moment. "So what are we going to do with these two lives we've got on our hands?"
He tread slowly, testing the waters. Not wanting to scare her away. "Perhaps it means that we'll have to spend them together. I wouldn't want to see you misusing 'my' life."
Her face was starting to lose its pale pallor. A twinkle entered her eyes. "Or you mine. Exactly what is it that you had in mind?"
"A partnership." He watched her face as he spoke, wrapping his fingers around a small paper band in his pocket. "I've got more cases at my agency than I can handle and I could use a good investigator on the staff."
He was offering her work. This was about work. Well, all right, she thought, making the best of it, trying to ignore the very real pang she felt because for a second, she'd thought, hoped, it was about something more. She was due for a change and she'd bet that his line of work paid better than hers.
"Not staff," she reminded him. "Partner."
Max nodded, knowing that she'd catch him on this. "Right."
She blew out another breath, still struggling to steady her bearings. Her shoulder where the bullet had been dug out was beginning to throb. The medicine was wearing off. She knew it would get worse. "So we'll be working together."
He could hardly contain himself, but because of the ground he was covering, he had to. "Yes."
Her eyes looked into his. What would she have done if that dirtbag would have killed Max? She didn't think she could have borne it. "And living together?"
His baby steps had decreased into half that. "Is that what you want?"
She huffed. She'd been shot, and he was trying to play games with her? "I'm asking you what you want."
Cara felt like punching him for the grin that curved his mouth. He was laughing at her, having fun at her expense. Maybe he didn't even mean that bit about being partners.
"I thought you were a liberated woman who did whatever she wanted."
"Yes, I am." Her patience, never at a premium, was beginning to disintegrate. "And what this liberated woman wants is to hear what's on your mind."
The smile rem
ained, but his eyes grew serious. "How about what's in my heart?"
She realized she'd stopped breathing and took in a deep breath. "I'm flexible, you can start with another part of your anatomy."
He cupped her face gently. "Cara—"
Her pulse began to go into double time again. "Oh-oh, it's getting personal."
He didn't want to dance this strange, guarded dance any longer. "It has to get personal. I'm not about to say I love you to a stranger."
Her eyes widened at the revolution that came out of nowhere. "You love me?"
"Yes." He didn't see why he had to spell it out for her. "Haven't you figured that out yet? I thought you were a good investigator."
"I am," she protested, "but I never claimed to be a mind reader."
"Then read this." Taking her hand, he opened it and placed her palm against his chest.
Her breath was growing short in her lungs again. She licked her lips nervously. "It's beating."
"For you."
And then she smiled. Really smiled.
He could have gotten lost in her smile, but he knew that was probably her plan. To decoy him. "Don't you have something you have to say to me?"
"That's nice?" she offered innocently. When she saw the storm clouds gathering in his eyes, Cara became serious. Nerves rose up within her, colliding like butterflies that had had too much to drink. "All right, all right, this isn't easy for me. Every time I've gotten attached to someone, they've pulled away from me, given me back."
She was afraid, he realized. Maybe that made two of them. He took her into his arms. "I've already unwrapped you and taken your tags off, Cara. I can't give you back." His eyes caressed her face. "I don't want to give you back."
Oh God, he was going to make her cry. She hated to cry. "Then what do you want?"
Instead of answering her, he reached into his pocket and took out the small paper band. Taking her left hand in his, he slipped the band on her third finger.
She stared at it, afraid to pull her thoughts together. "What is this?"
"A cigar band. I got it from my uncle while the doctor was working on you." Maybe the wound had given her amnesia. "Like in that story you told Sheriff Adler's wife, remember?"
"I remember," she whispered, emotion choking off her voice.
"I want you to marry me, Cara."
More than anything, she wanted to believe that it was possible. But she was a realist and she knew that there was no place for the mountains and the flatlands to meet.
"And what, live here?" She looked away. "I don't fit in."
He raised her chin with his hand and forced her to look at him. "No, back in California. I already told you, I want you to work with me and that's where my agency is. And you fit in everywhere," he told her firmly. "You just have to give yourself permission to believe that."
There was a place where the mountains and the flatlands met. At the very junction. Maybe, just maybe, this could work. God knew she loved him enough to make it work. "You're serious."
He raised his hand as if he were taking an oath. "Every word."
She smiled, relaxing a little. "Then I guess it's safe to love you."
But Max shook his head. "It's never going to be safe," he told her. When she looked confused, he explained, "You thrive on excitement, remember?"
After tonight, she'd had enough excitement to last a very long time.
"Having you love me is exciting enough," Cara assured him.
He let go of the breath he'd been holding all along. "Then it's yes?"
If she were any happier, she thought, she'd probably light up like a beacon. "Yes. How can I resist the man who holds my life in the palm of his hand?"
There was only one thing left out, one thing to make this perfect. He looked into her eyes. "Tell me," he coaxed.
She knew what he wanted. The words hovered on her lips, refusing to come out. They'd been beaten back so many times, she could get over the last hurdle. "You already know."
Yes, he knew. He could see it in her eyes, feel it in the way she touched him. But that still didn't change things.
"I want to hear the words, Cara." He took her left hand in his. "You're not the only one who needs them."
Cara looked at him, suddenly becoming aware of something that hadn't occurred to her before. That perhaps this son of royalty needed love as much as she did.
Her heart swelled as she realized that after all these years, she had found her soul mate. And she'd only had to come halfway around the world to do it.
Slipping her one good arm around his neck, she looked up into his eyes. "I love you, Ryker."
"Max," he corrected. "It's always been Max."
"Yes," her smile lit up her eyes just before he brought his mouth down to hers, "it has."
* * * THE END * * *
Secret-Agent Sheikh
LINDA WINSTEAD JONES
ROMANCING THE CROWN
Once enemies, the proud countries of Tamir and Montebello have come together to find Montebello's missing crown prince. Now Tamir's second-born son steps into the role he was born for and goes in search of the missing Montebellan heir...
Sheikh Hassan Kamal: The Tamiri prince will do his part to mend the rift between Tamir and Montebello and bring peace to his people. But he never expected duty to be so pleasureable... or so dangerous to his heart.
Elena Rahman: The spirited CEO has fought hard to attain her position in a man's world. Now she must resist the one man who makes her feel all woman.
Yusef Rahman: Will Elena's father put his hatred for Tamir aside and take a chance on an alliance that might end years of strife?
Kitty: Elena's assistant is not about to let her boss - and friend - pass up a chance for true love.
El-Malak: The terrorist known only as the Ghost is one of the Brothers of Darkness's most dangerous - and most elusive - members.
Dear Reader,
Like many of you, I was raised on fairy tales and the promise that one day my prince would come. He would come with a castle, ever-constant sunshine and the required white horse. When I grew up, I was told that there was no prince, I didn't need a prince and if I had a prince, he was very likely to turn into a toad at any moment.
I did manage to find my own prince, of sorts, and he hasn't turned into a toad yet. (Though I have seen the occasional wart, through the years.) Hassan, the hero of Secret-Agent Sheikh, is a true modern-day prince, with all the attributes one expects of such a man. Elena is a woman who expects toads at every turn. I came to love them, and I hope you do too.
Happy reading,
Linda Winstead Jones
Prologue
Hassan hurried down the corridor toward the study that adjoined his parents' chambers. The thud of his heavy work boots on ancient tile resounded off the walls. His shadow, cast by soft lamplight that lined the hallway, followed him, dancing over the colorful mosaic that depicted the opulent palace lifestyle of another time.
He had been summoned, and because he had spent the afternoon at the refinery on Jawhar, the southernmost island of Tamir, it had been several hours since his father had sent for him. Their meetings were usually tense enough, without Ahmed Kamal's agitation being heightened by his having to wait.
As Hassan approached, the guard at the massive engraved door of Sheik Ahmed's study opened it for him, nodding silently as Hassan stepped inside. Ahmed Kamal was seated at his long mahogany desk, imposing and impatient as always. Hassan's mother, Alima Kamal, sat in her favorite place, a padded chair by the arched window that looked out over the sea. Silently stitching on her latest embroidery project, she paused long enough to lift her head and give Hassan the welcoming smile of a loving mother. She returned to her work without saying a word.
Sheik Ahmed did not remain silent long. As soon as the door behind Hassan was closed the old sheik stood, looked his second-born son up and down and snarled in disgust. "You look like a common laborer."
"I was told this meeting was urgent," Hassan replied sharply. "If y
ou'd like to wait a while longer, I'll bathe and change..."
"We do not have time to wait."
His mother surreptitiously lifted a finger to her own face, pointing to her left cheek. Hassan raised his hand and wiped away the smudge of grease there. Thirty-four years old, and still he had to explain away something so simple as evidence of a day's hard work!
"There was a small accident," he said as he glanced down at his stained tan coveralls.
"Was anyone hurt?" his father asked tersely.
"No."
"Good." The old sheik retook his seat, and indicated the leather chair on Hassan's side of the desk.
Hassan gratefully approached the desk and took that seat. It had been a hard day long before his father had summoned him.
"A proper wife would make you behave as a member of the royal family should behave," the old man muttered.
"Then I am doubly glad I do not have a proper wife," Hassan responded.
His father clenched his jaw. "Zahirah Shunnar is a lovely young woman, and her father has political connections..."
"She laughs like a hyena," Hassan interrupted.
His father's nose twitched, just slightly. "Well, that might be true. Baraka Asad's family also has useful connections," he said insistently, "and for all I know she has a lovely laugh."
Hassan's own laughter held no humor. "How will we ever know? I don't think she laughs at all. Or speaks. Look at her the wrong way and I'm quite sure she'll faint dead away."
"Tahirah Boulus..."
"Has a nose longer than yours," Hassan interrupted, annoyed that his father's urgent summons was about this tired old subject. They'd had this conversation before, and it always ended badly. On this subject, as well as many others, they would never agree. "I have no desire to marry, Father. And if I ever do succumb to the temptation, I will not choose a bride based on her family's political connections."
"It is your obligation."
Hassan shook his head and pushed back his mussed hair with both hands. "Women have their place." In his bed, though since his mother was present he would not offer that assertion aloud. "If I ever meet one who does not bore me after a day or two, perhaps I will consider marriage." He doubted such a woman existed. While he adored women—their beauty, the softness of their skin beneath his hands, the warmth of their gentle smiles— he could not imagine spending his life with just one.
